The Armchair Bride (13 page)

She brushes past and links arms with Helen.

My Helen.

‘Is the kitchen through here?’ she says. ‘Most of these little backstreet terraces have the same basic layout, don’t they?’

I can only nod.

Helen’s Mam is next through the door, weighed down with heavy boxes and bags.

‘Hello, Lisa love, how are you? You’ve let your hair grow. It suits you, you’ve got your mother’s bone structure.’

We try to kiss, but a hat box gets in the way.

‘I didn’t realise you were coming tonight,’ I say as I take half of her bags.

‘Ginny’s idea. I was all for leaving things until tomorrow, thought you’d want to catch up with your family first. But her ladyship reckoned it’s best to get things done now in case we have to make changes. You know how it is over Christmas and the New Year, we all put on a few pounds.’

‘We certainly do.’

Ginny is back and looking me up and down.

‘Now come and tell me about this Brian I’ve been hearing all about. I
thought
your husband’s name was James.’

Her face contorts into the sickliest sweet grin as she leads the way back into the kitchen.

Sixteen

In the hallway, I perch on the bottom step and take deep breaths. I’m being silly. This girl poses no threat. I’m a grown-up.

Having pulled myself together, I push open the kitchen door and all heads turn.

Confusion written large.

‘What’s all this about a husband?’ Mam says.

My face glows.

Ginny watches, her face full of contrived innocence. Helen is next to speak.

‘His name is James isn’t it, Lisa? Bit of a hot shot in the legal field? And did I get it wrong or are you trying for a baby?’

Ginny savours every moment. With each word, my shoulders slump.

‘Lisa?’ Mam’s voice sounds heavy with concern. ‘What’s going on?’

My stomach bubbles with fear. Fight or flight.

Flight. Definitely Flight.

I grab my coat and wrench open the front door and run out into the street. The rain is really pelting down and I don’t know what to do next. I reach the end of the crescent.

Across the road is the pub where I managed to spoof the bar staff into selling me bottles of cider at the age of sixteen. Back then, it was a spit and sawdust back-street boozer. Now it’s a gastro-pub, serving over-priced tasting plates to people with more money than sense. I can’t go in. I look a mess with my hair stuck to my face wearing clothes creased from travel.

I shelter under a tree on the wall outside the house that once belonged to Agnes Brown. One of Mam’s friends. She’s long since moved on or died or something. The lawns, once her pride and joy have been paved over. Three cars stand in the drive. How I long to curl up in my armchair and talk to Dad about why I’ve lied to everyone. He’d know what to do.

Maybe I could brave the pub. People go out with wet hair. It’s a thing isn’t it? I’ve seen it often enough on buses and trains. But then I remember all my money is still at Mam’s. I can’t go back there right now. The shame of it.

Fuck fuck fuck.

‘Room for a little one?’ I look up. It’s Helen. I nod and shuffle along the wall.

‘Remember how Aggy Brown used to shout at us for sitting on this wall?’ she says. ‘We must have spent hours here, talking shite.’

I still don’t really know what to say. The two years out of touch gulf has re-opened. She’s almost a stranger. Part of me worried that our friendship was long gone, just like all so many others I’ve let drift. Another part of me blames her for the mess I’m in. If it wasn’t for Helen and her wedding plans, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to cross over from relative sanity to madness. I would never have needed to write all that stuff about being married.

‘Look,’ Helen says and points to where I once used Mam’s front door key to scratch my initials into the brickwork. Years ago.

Helen’s initials are just below.

‘God,’ I say. ‘I remember that day. Dad had found out about Sue’s school report. He hit the roof when he found out she’d been bunking off maths. I came out here to hide until things calmed down.’

‘You bought us TipTops with your pocket money.’

‘Actually,’ I say. ‘I nicked five pence off the kitchen table. Mam blamed Amy. I’ve still never put her right.’

Helen throws back her head and laughs.

‘You know,’ she says. ‘I reckon if you told your mum that now, she’d be more upset about it than this husband nonsense.’

My face burns and I can’t look at her. God, but I feel such a stupid cow.

‘All that stuff about being married,’ I say. ‘I’ll understand if you’d rather Ginny took over the hen night. And if you made her matron of honour. I probably don’t really need to even be there. I mean …’

Helen puts her hand on mine.

‘
You’re
my friend.’

‘But...’

‘No buts.’ She stares at me for a minute. ‘I know how it feels, you know?’

‘How what feels?’

‘Being alone, thinking you’ll never find anyone.’

‘I’m not alone,’ I say automatically. ‘I’ve got friends.’

Even I can pick out the wobble in my voice.

‘Fancy a drink?’ Helen says.

‘I don’t have any money on me.’

‘My shout.’

‘I could murder a vodka and tonic.’

‘Me too, let’s go.’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘What for ? Buying you a drink? I think it’s the least I can do for my matron of honour.’

‘I meant thanks for not making me feel stupid.’

‘You’re not stupid, Lisa, far from it.’

She leads the way into the bar.

The Snooty Fox of old has been consigned to history. They’ve torn out the rickety wooden benches that gave you splinters if you wore too short a skirt. Punters lounge on smart brown leather sofas arranged around sturdy polished oak tables. There’s an open fire and a warm hum of conversation over a backing track of tinkling piano. The last time I was here, I head-banged to Motorhead and drank bottles of cheap cider. The only cider now on sale comes in designer bottles. You’d need a small mortgage to get the sort of moldy drunk Helen and I managed at the age of seventeen.

Every Friday night, we’d rock up, wearing way too much make- up and thinking we were It. Before leaving the house, I’d sneak into the hall with my bag and pick up the phone, letting it ring once before hanging up; my way of telling Helen I was on my way. We’d meet down by the allotments and I’d have lifted the key to Dad’s shed. Inside, we’d spike each other’s hair and change out of sensible jeans into short skirts. Back then, The Fox meant one thing. Boys. Cheap aftershave and hair gel. Sweat and chewing gum.

The clientele nowadays looks more genteel and family-oriented. It’s as if someone ripped the heart out of the place.

Helen goes to the bar, while I find a table in the corner, next to an antique sewing machine and a pewter otter.

‘This place has changed,’  she says and puts down two large vodkas and one bottle of tonic. ‘Remember when you and Jimmy Handling got thrown out for heavy petting?’

‘That was never me.’

I blush and remember how Annie Watts, the landlady threatened to tell Dad about what a floozy I’d become.

‘I miss the old days,’ I say, and the words came as a surprise. ‘Things were easier then.’

‘They only look that way when you put on your rose-tinted specs. We’ve both grown up Lisa, surely you can see that?’

‘Yes, but don’t you ever wish you could go back and change things?’

‘Every single day, but I know I can’t, so I get on with it.’

‘I suppose.’

‘People move on,’ Helen says.

‘Yes I know and still waters run deep, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.’

She looks confused.

‘I’m being silly,’ I say and take a sip of my drink. ‘You know who I heard from the other day? Ian Tyler.’

‘Isn’t he in prison or something? My mum said he’d held up a bank.’

‘It was a toy gun and he didn’t hold up any bank. He was trying to get it back to his kids.’

‘That isn’t how I heard it. And as far as I know his marriage was on the rocks anyway. There were a few whispers down the golf club.’

‘The golf club?’

‘Yes, he was working there a couple of nights. I heard he was getting a bit fresh with a few of the members’ wives.’

I feel my stomach roll. Maybe I’ve been too trusting.

‘Ginny got involved, you know,’ Helen adds.

‘Ginny?’

‘When he was on trial, she started up a petition to have him moved out of the area. She said that he was a menace to society. She even put it about that he used to beat up his wife and the kids.’

‘What was in it for her?’

‘Did she ever need a reason to be a cow? She really went for it though. Ian’s mother ended up on tablets for her nerves.’

I take a deep breath, there’s one question I need answering.

‘Why
is
Ginny helping with your wedding?’

Helen shakes her head slowly and stares at the ceiling.

‘She really wasn’t my choice,’ she says. ‘I can’t stand the woman. She’s sneaky, she’s sly and she’s a bully. If anything, she’s worse than she used to be at school. Remember how she was always banging on about how she was going to be out of this town the second she left school? It looked like we might be shut of her when her father died and she came into money.’

‘From that butcher’s shop, I wouldn’t have thought there was that much money in it. Everyone used to avoid it after they got done for putting donkey meat in their sausages.’

‘That was never proved,’ Helen does a mean impersonation of Ginny. ‘Though I wouldn’t put it past the old sod. Mr Baker was a bit of a shit. Used to knock his wife about by all accounts. But anyway, he’d only been in the ground five minutes when Ginny sold the shop for a pittance, putting six people out of work. She spent every pound she got on clothes and holidays. That’s where she met her husband. He was the one with all the money. He used to manage the golf club and so she started swanning around as if she owned the bloody place.’

‘I still don’t see why she’s involved in your wedding.’

‘She knows how to get under people’s skin. She was a bully at school and she’s a bully now,’ Helen says with a shrug. ‘I suppose I feel a bit sorry for her.’

‘
Sorry?
For Ginny? Why?’

‘You know she’s on her own again? I’m not sure why. I’ve heard she was getting a bit too friendly with other men, but that’s probably just evil gossip. Everything I’ve heard comes second-hand and not from the sort of people I really care to spend any time with.’

‘So what? You can’t go involving her in the biggest day of your life out of sympathy.’

Helen’s holding something back.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘I’m
not
doing it for her. Mum asked Ginny to help with the dresses. The little bitch volunteered her services one morning after church. Mum’s snowed under what with one thing and another. The first I heard of Ginny being on board was when she turned up with a tape measure on my doorstep.’

‘So why don’t you say something?’

‘It’s Mum.’ Helen looks away as she speaks. ‘Dad hasn’t been well, so she needs all the help she can get.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know. What’s wrong with him?’

‘The doctors reckon he had some sort of stroke. To look at him, you wouldn’t know it, but he slurs when he speaks and he gets very tired, very quickly.’

I don’t know what to say. I’ve always been fond of her father. He’s the life and soul of any party, always laughing and telling the same daft joke about a wide-mouthed frog.

‘We’re OK. He’s OK. He’s getting stronger all the time, but this wedding’s draining Mum. Ginny keeps trying to take over, that’s why I need you to help me. I know she wasn’t happy when I said you were going to be matron of honour, but it is
my
wedding. She seems to have a real thing against you for some reason, but I don’t have that many friends, Lisa.’

‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’

‘Why don’t you come around for lunch tomorrow? We can talk about the dress without Ginny looking over our shoulders.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘I’ve missed you,’ she says.

Seventeen

The reception back at the Doyle household is likely to be nothing like as cordial as the one afforded by Helen.

‘I’ll come in with you, if you like,’ she says as we walk arm-in-arm down Grange Close.

‘No, I have to deal with this on my own.’

I put my key in the lock.

‘You need to get home. Your mother will be worried, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Helen laughs.

‘I am nearly 40, Lisa. She does let me play out late.’

We kiss goodnight and I watch her walk away, knowing that however careless I’ve been with friends in the past, I’m determined to make sure that Helen and I will always be there for each other.

The hallway is in darkness, though light floods from under the closed kitchen door. Bev’s Fiesta was nowhere to be seen outside and my sister’s coats have gone. Chances are Mam’s alone.

I take a deep breath and push open the door. She’s still in the same chair at the kitchen table, reading the paper. She looks up and smiles.

‘About time,’ she says. ‘I was about to send out a search party.’

‘I was with Helen.’

She nods and turns back to the local paper.

‘They still want to build a supermarket on the grounds of the old library,’ she says. ‘What would I be doing with another supermarket. There are three of them within ten minutes walk of here. How much shopping do they think I can carry? People only have the same amount of money to spend.’

She’s carrying on as if nothing happened, trying to keep everything normal. I can’t do it.

‘Mam,’ I say.

‘Yes darling?’

‘About what Ginny said.’

She waves a dismissive hand. ‘It doesn’t matter one bit.’

‘But I
want
to explain.’

‘I think what you did was wise.’ Mum says. ‘There are all sorts of strange folk out there. They’re forever after preying on young girls. Look at what they found out about that Jimmy Saville. Tell them you’ve got a husband, that’s the best thing to do.’

I pull out a chair and sit. Mam carries on.

‘When I was young we didn’t have the interweb, but if a fella started acting the maggot, you just said you had a boyfriend or a husband. That soon saw them skedaddle.’

‘Right.’

‘I mean, why else would you make up stories?’

The question hangs in the air.

‘You’ve all the time in the world to find the right young man. Forty is no age. I’m 72 and I haven’t given up hope that one day I might take up with a toy boy.’

She laughs, but we both know it’s not real.

‘Good wine sits on shelves for years. It’s only when someone takes it down they realise what a treasure they’ve been keeping.’

When I finally manage to tear my eyes from the floor and look at Mam, the look in her eyes curdles my breath. Sympathy, fear, worry. All the wrong things. All the things I shouldn’t be bringing home.

‘You’re not a failure, Lisa,’ she whispers. ‘You’re the one I’ve always been most proud of. I’ve lost count of the times Amy and Glen have fallen out. Sue’s more concerned with saving the world and recycling her rubbish than what’s going on with her kids. They’re running rings around her. But you, you’re always there for me when I need you. You went out there and did something with your life. Got away from this place, saw a bit of the world. I’m
so
proud of you. Your Pa would be proud too.’

When affection comes at unexpected times, it can throw you off balance. I’ve stayed sensible for too long, kidded myself that this is the life I wanted. As I ticked off the girls from school, I’d drink red wine and say spiteful things about marriage never lasting. It never crossed my mind that what I’d done with my life would make anyone proud. To me, it’s a mess. Of course Mam’s only saying what any mother should, but her kindness hits like a train.

‘I love you, Lisa,’ Mam says and my body shakes.

‘Don’t cry, sweetheart,’ she murmurs. ‘Please darling, don’t cry.’

I suck in air and bite my lip. I’ll not give way. I’ll not give way.

Mam sets about making us both a cup of tea. It’s the one thing I want most.

‘I’m so sorry about running out on everything before,’ I say when I can finally speak without my voice breaking.

‘Forget about it. If I’d have had my shoes on, I’d have come too.’

‘Did they stay for long after I left?’

‘Well Helen ran right out, did she not find you?’

‘Yes, we went to the Fox for a couple of drinks.’

‘They’ve ripped the heart out of the place.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ I say. ‘It’s nice though. Inside, I mean.’

‘You’re a big girl now. You can take a drop whenever you like. I remember when you used to sneak up there on a Friday night.’

‘You
knew
about that?’

‘You wouldn’t be the first to do it and you’ll not be the last.’

‘Did you ever tell Dad?’

‘What would be the point in that? You three were his little angels. He didn’t need to know you were three little minxes under it all.’

Mam laughs and I join in. It feels good. In the past few weeks, laughter has been in short supply.

‘I miss him,’ I say.

‘Me too, but I don’t let it get me down.’ Mam looks at me. ‘Whenever I worry I might go into a gloom, I think about the good times. Even though he’s gone from this house, he’s still alive in here.’

She taps her head.

‘That way he’ll never die.’

Mam empties her cup.

‘Do you fancy a nightcap?’

I nod and she reaches for the brandy from under the table.

‘I had to hide it when we had company. It’s the last bottle. I’m on a pension these days.’

She pours two huge measures.

‘What I said isn’t entirely true, Lisa,’ she says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, there
are
times when I want to scream at the good lord for taking your Pa away when he did. But what good does it do? It might make me feel better for a moment or two, but then what? It’s more fun to remember his daft jokes or his silly songs. He liked a drink, but in 42 years, he never once came home moldy. I used to love watching him messing around with something in the garden. Do you remember all those jars he used to keep his screws and nails in, all sorted by size?’

Mam’s voice trails off.

‘Don’t cry,’ I say.

‘Why ever not?’

She wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Sometimes I like to cry when I think of him. Not every tear is because you’re unhappy. These are tears of happiness, love, not sadness. Not regret. It helps me remember how much I felt a part of him when he was alive. He lived life to the full and didn’t care what other people thought, if they didn’t like it…’

‘They could bloody well lump it,’ I finish her sentence with one of Dad’s favourite lines and hope a slug of brandy might help wash away my own sadness.

‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘And I won’t pretend that I wish I could be more like that.’

She pours more brandy.

‘The only thing I miss is new memories. He’s still alive in my head, but there won’t be any new memories. He won’t knock any more nails in the fence to stop it falling over in winter. I won’t get to go on about finding his shoes in the middle of the room or tell him off for hiding sweet wrappers down the back of my cushions.’

We sit in silence for a while, Mam watching me, a contented smile on her face.

‘You know love,’ she says. ‘It’s time to give up all this nonsense and stop worrying about what everyone thinks. Why bother? You never see these people anymore. Your friends live somewhere else. They’re the ones who love you now. They don’t care about what happened years ago.’

‘I thought I might move back home.’

‘You’ll do no such thing.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘It’s took me long enough to get the house to myself. The last thing I need is one of you coming back and cramping my style.’

We talk into the small hours and I roll into bed feeling strangely content. I have Andy. When he comes back from filming, I’ll offer him back his job. He might not take it. In fact, he might not even need to take it. If he does well for himself, I’ll be so happy. So often we’ve joked  about how he only wants to be famous to have his pick of the boys. It isn’t true. Well, not entirely. For all his bravado in London, he never went into any audition unprepared. I’ve watched him rehearse his lines and seen how much it matters to do a good job. He would have walked into that room word perfect. They’d have been mad to turn him down.

And as for Brian. So what if he
is
my boss? It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, good friends even. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own little world while his life wobbles.

It no longer matters if I am the Armchair Bride. Or that everyone else seems to have found their special someone. I can be happy on my own. If people don’t like me as I am, they can lump it.

I pull the duvet up around my face and hope, when the drink wears off, I’ll feel the same

Eighteen

After breakfast, I call around to Sue’s to spend time with my two nephews before they go to school. She greets me at the door, looking like she isn’t having the best of days. Her hair is all over the place and she’s still in her dressing gown.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ she says ‘Kenny’s got earache and Jason’s refused to go to playgroup on his own. If you can just distract Jason while I whip Kenny away to the doctor’s, that’ll be grand.’

‘Distract him? How?’

‘Oh I don’t know, tell him one of your boring stories about the theatre.’

Sue stops and looks mortified.

‘Fuck! I’m sorry, Lisa, I didn’t mean that, it’s just that I’ve only had an hour’s sleep and the dog needs a walk.’

I nod, hold my tongue and track down Jason in the kitchen where he’s sitting at the table, arms folded.

‘Hi Jason,’ I trill, but he doesn’t reply.

‘Your Mam’s getting Kenny ready and she said I should come and talk to you.’

He looks unimpressed. Someone curses in the backyard, the door opens and Amy stomps in followed by Bertie.

‘I caught this one going through the perishable waste bag,’ she says. ‘Sue called and it sounded like world war three was breaking out.’

I use whispers and sign language to explain Kenny’s bad ear and Jason’s bad attitude.

Amy understands at once.

I watch with a growing sense of admiration as she sweet-talks Jason into finishing his breakfast, putting on his coat and getting ready. I hear the front door slam and Sue’s car scream out of the drive.

‘We’re going to skip all the way there,’ Amy says. ‘And Aunty Lisa is going to come along too.’

She flashes me a look.

‘Yes won’t that be fun.’ I try to sound upbeat.

When we finally drop an increasingly suspicious four-year-old off at nursery, Amy suggests coffee and I hate having to turn her down.

‘I’ve promised Helen I’d go and try on my dress.’ 

She looks disappointed.

‘Any other time, you know I’d come, but if I don’t get my objection to puff sleeves on the record now, I’ll look like something out of  a box of 
Quality Street
.’

‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘To be honest, I ought to tackle the mountain of ironing or Glen will be going to work in creased shirts for the next ten days.’

‘Go you, domestic goddess,’ I say, impressed that anyone could iron so far ahead. She smiles and kisses me goodbye.

I spend an hour being measured, prodded and poked by Helen’s mother before she sends me on my way.

‘I’ll see you in a week or so then,’ Helen says as we hug our farewells.

‘Don’t let Ginny take over,’ I warn.

When I phone for a taxi to drop me to the station in Birmingham. Mam as good as has a fit about how much money I’m throwing away.

‘I can’t face another long bus journey,’ I say.

‘What use will the buses be to anyone if we all ride round in cabs like the Queen of Sheba?’

‘It’s just one taxi.’

‘Don’t come crying to me when there’s no trains or buses left and you have to pay through the nose to get anywhere. Because once they’ve got their own way, they’ll put the price of petrol up ten times over and then where will you be?’

‘Manchester,’ I say stubbornly.

‘And what about the ozone layer. All these taxis, they’re only making the hole bigger. If the North Pole melts, I stand to loose six foot off my garden. Then what’ll you have to say?’

‘Glug, glug, glug.’

‘You’re not too old for a smack, young lady and don’t you forget it.’

I kiss her goodbye, happy to have everything back to normal with the world.

‘You’ll remember what we agreed?’ she says.

‘Stop caring what other people think.’

‘Not entirely. You still need to listen to me.’

I kiss her again.

‘Bye Mam, see you soon.’

‘Call me when you get in, so I know you haven’t been murdered on the way.’

I pay the taxi and wheel my bags across the swarming station hall to look for the board that tells me where to find the Manchester train.

‘Platform six,’ a familiar voice says and I turn to see Amy.

‘What are you doing here? You don’t need to see me off.’

‘See you off? I’m coming with you.’

‘Since when?’

‘Mam’s idea. She rang first thing. Reckons you’re on your own because your best mate’s making a film and you’d be better off with some company.’

‘What about Glen?’

‘What about him? He’s old enough and ugly enough to cope on his own for a few days. It’ll probably do us good too.’

The smile she manages feels so forced, I have to ask what’s going on.

‘It’s nothing really,’ she says.

‘So why was Mam so vile to him?’

‘She doesn’t know the truth.’

‘Which is?’

She looks around. ‘Fine, let’s go and get a coffee and I’ll fill you in.’

Amy insists we sit right at the back of Starbucks, away from anyone.

‘Glen wears women’s clothes,’ she says before I can stir the sugar into my flat white.

‘He does what?’

‘It doesn’t make him gay. We still have a very active sex life. I’m totally fine with it.’

‘And Mam knows?’

Amy looks at me like I’m mad. ‘Of course she doesn’t.’

She tells me the whole story, about how she came home early from work with a headache and found him sitting in their living room drinking tea from a china cup wearing a red dress. He was with three other blokes in frocks.