Friends Forever! (9 page)

“Nooooooo! It's not old fogey, Mr. Swan!” assures Claude, ever the smooth talker. “It's more
. . . Secret Service
.”

“Ahhh! Secret Service!” beams Paddy. “I like that, Claudette. You can come here again.”

As if he has any choice,
I think. We've practically lived here since Year 7.

At this point Paddy breaks into his very worst Sean-Connery-as-James-Bond impression. “The name's Schwan . . . Paddy Schwan,” Paddy rasps, looking into the mirror while fastening his tie. “On Her Majesty's shecret shervice. Lish-ensh to kill . . .”

Fleur visibly shrinks with embarrassment. “Dad, will you get out?” she moans. “We're calling Harbinger Hall!”

“Very well,” sniggers Paddy, clearly elated at humiliating his youngest child. “You girls can leave the money for that call on my desk.”

“Put it on my bill,” tuts Fleur, dialing the number. “Oooh! Shh, everyone . . . It's ringing! It's ringing!”

The fact that I'm here, waiting to speak to Miss Scrumble, Harbinger Hall's head of personnel, is the freakiest of deakiest turn of events. Ever since our Monday meeting, Fleur has talked and pleaded until she was blue in the face about the LBD going to Destiny Bay. She yaddered incessantly about MTV's August Big Beach Booty Quake. (Psycho Killa, God Created Man and the Scandal Children are all rumored in the tabloids to be playing there, plus there's a surf competition and a massive beach party.) Fleur never shut up about the hot surf dudes, cliff-top parties, sunbathing, snogging and skinny-dipping in store for us if we'd just agree to go.

Fleur's smooth talking certainly paid off. By Wednesday evening Claude was wavering toward “yes” and had even convinced Gloria that Harbinger Hall was a great place for Claude to make some cash.

It was all down to me then. But it just didn't seem right.

I couldn't disappear for a nine-week party when Nan had just died, could I? Not even if a summer in Destiny Bay sounded like the most exciting, fabulous LBD adventure in the entire cosmiverse.

I mean, even if I do agree to go, when is the time to hit Mum with it? Tuesday? When she and I collect Nan's ashes from the crematorium and drive to the town hall to sign some death certificates? Or Wednesday, when we go to Nan's house to close off the gas and electricity (the day Mum spends five hours staring at Nan's very small fluffy slippers and walking stick while crying)? Okay, then, what about Thursday, the day Mum doesn't get out of bed at all and I spend my afternoon talking Seth out of pushing chocolate chip cookies into the VCR?

The fact is, I can't bring the subject up, and that is that.

But on Thursday night, I am sitting in the bar after closing time, keeping Dad company while he closes up, when the subject of summer presents itself of its own accord.

“What is your gang up to then,” Dad asks, “now that you've stopped arguing? Any plans for summer?”

That's when I tell him, in my very best, noncomplaining voice, that Fleur and Claude are planning to go to Destiny Bay.

“Destiny Bay?” Dad says, replenishing the bottled lagers in the main bar's refrigerator. “Isn't that where they hold that Crash Bang Wallop Wobble Your Bottom Party in the summer?”

“The Big Beach Booty Quake,” I say. “Yeah, that's it.”

“Saw something 'bout that today in
The Sun,
” Dad mutters. “That Psychic Billy bloke is coming, isn't he?”

“Psycho Killa,” I correct him. “He's a rapper.”

“That's him!” Dad says. “And that bunch of twerps who always sit on tall stools wearing jackets with no shirts?”

“God Created Man,” I sigh, thinking of the lead singer Sebastian Porlock's oiled chest. “They're a boy band.”

Dad works away in silence for a while, but I can see his brain clanking. “What about you, then? Don't you fancy gallivanting on MTV with your booty quacking then?” he says dryly.

“Pah! Me in a thong bikini?” I tut. “I'm far too short and squat for that.”

Dad gazes into the middle distance, as if he is mulling over something. I feel selfish now for even mentioning Destiny Bay. “You're not short, Ronnie . . . you're perfect,” Dad says sagely, wandering off to collect some ashtrays.
“You're just the right height to rest a beer on.”

 

 

The following afternoon, I'm in my bedroom clunking away on my bass guitar when Mum summons me to the den. She is sitting on the sofa, wearing a chunky dressing gown over a track-suit with her hair scraped into a wonky bun, watching
30-Minute Home Revamp Madness!
with a zombielike enthusiasm typically reserved for the long-term unemployed or the recently bereaved.

She looks terrible.

I don't think she's slept properly for days. Dad said she'd been up all Thursday night because she kept having a recurring dream that Nan was calling to say good-bye but she couldn't find the cordless phone.

“Hey, Ron. How's tricks?” Mum asks. Beside her on the sofa, Seth lies flat on his back in a scarlet rompersuit, his soft little snores punctuating the living room's sad silence.

“I'm okay,” I say. “How are you?”

“I'm . . . strange,” Mum says, shaking her head slowly.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask. All we've done for the last week is make and drink tea. It feels constructive.

“Nah . . . I've had about eighteen cups today,” says Mum, nodding at the mugs strewn all over the lounge table. “My back teeth are floating.”

We sit in silence staring at the TV, watching someone in wacky dungarees going buck wild with a potato printer. Finally Mum speaks. “Oooh, God yeah, that was it,” she says distractedly. “I need to talk to you about the summer. About that hotel job.”

“Oh, Mum . . . forget it,” I blush, feeling petty and self-centered. “It's nothing. I'm cool about staying here.”

“Really?” asks Mum, looking straight at me, furrowing her brow.

“Yeah, really,” I lie.

“Oh . . . well, that's ironic,” Mum says. “Because I was about to tell you to go for it.”

I nearly fall face-first out of the armchair in surprise. “Pardon?” I splutter. “Mother, don't be daft.”

“I'm not being daft,” she says. “You're not hanging around here for a summer being miserable, watching me being miserable. I've been thinking . . . about everything. About the whole point of being here. About this whole stupid life business.”

“What about it?” I say.

“Well . . . It's just over so . . . so quickly! Puff! Gone!” Mum tuts. “So you may as well enjoy yourself.”

“But what about Wacky Warehouse?” I splutter. “What about looking after Seth?”

“Stuff Wacky Warehouse!” Mum says vehemently. “Oh, and as for babysitting, I've decided I'm finding a good part-time nanny for Lord Fauntleroy here.”

“Splghgh?” I gasp. “Really?”

“Yes,” she says, sounding scarily driven. “And I'm going to revamp that menu downstairs in the Fantastic Voyage, start cooking more pan-European and Thai dishes from now on. Experimenting! That's what used to make me happy.
I want to be happy
.”

Mum looks at me and bites her lip. I think she might start crying again.

“Well, Toothless Bert won't like any of this,” I tell her, naming a regular barfly who lives on Mum's burgers and scampi.

“Toothless Bert can go and walk in the River Lees till his bobble hat floats for all I care!” announces Mum defiantly.

I stare at her in disbelief.

“Look, Mum,” I say, grabbing her hand. “Are you totally sure about this? Because if you're not, I'll stay. I'm worried about you, Mum.” My voice begins to crackle too, although after the week we've both had, I feel like I have no more tears left to cry.

“Ronnie, I'm 110 percent absolutely completely sure,” Mum says, grabbing my hand back. “It's what Nan would have wanted. She hated people moping about feeling sorry for themselves.”

At that point, a tear falls down my face. I reach forward and give Mum a big hug. She feels cold and fragile. She gives me a huge cuddle back, just like she used to when I was a little girl. I can't believe it is possible to hate someone and then love them and worry about them so much in the space of a few days.

“Go and have an adventure,” Mum whispers. “Just do it. I packed a suitcase and went to Playa Las Americas in Tenerife when I wasn't much older than you. It was the best summer of my entire life.”

I sit back on the sofa and look at Mum curiously.

Tenerife?

Now, that reminds me of something. I know this isn't the correct moment to bring it up, but I absolutely can't help myself.

“Mum?” I begin.

“What?” she says, playing with one of Seth's tiny feet. He stretches and gurgles a little.

“Y'know when you were at catering college?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“I was just wondering . . . Did you actually
finish
your diploma before you ran off to Tenerife with Dad?”

Mum looks at me, flabbergasted. She shuffles nervously in her seat. “Why?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “Who's been talking?”

“Erm, well,” I say, trying to suppress a smile, “it was just something, er, Nan said the last time I saw her.”

Mum's cheeks flush pink, but then a smile spreads across her face, the first that I've seen for a week.

“I can't believe it!” Mum chuckles, a tiny tear falling down her face. “I can't believe that little old lady grassed me up.”

 

 

“Thank you for calling Harbinger Hall, Precious speaking. How can I direct your call, please?” says the operator.

“Shh!” hushes Fleur. “Personnel Department, please. Miss Scrumble's office.”

“Connecting you now, madam,” says the operator.

Fleur, Claude and I gaze anxiously at the telephone's speaker. “Miss Scrumble,” announces a rather dull, nasal voice.

“Er, good morning, Miss Scrumble,” says Fleur, with a very sweaty top lip. “This is Fleur Swan speaking. Do you remember me? We spoke the other day about a summer vacancy beginning next Wednesday?”

“Ah, yes, Miss Swan,” Scrumble says drably. “Thank you for calling. I'll just locate that application form. . . . You're our new waitress, aren't you?”

“That's right!” beams Fleur.

“With the impressive resume?” Scrumble says, sounding like she's never been impressed by anything in her life. “Three years' waitressing experience with silver service skills, wasn't it?”

“That's me!” smiles Fleur.

“What!?”
mouths Claude in disbelief.

“Shut up!”
mouths Fleur back.

“Fluent in French, German and with some conversational Japanese too?” Scrumble says in her monotone.

“Oui! Bien sur! Zut alors!”
Fleur says. “Oh, I'm like a sponge when it comes to languages.”

“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath. Five years of French lessons and Fleur can still hardly find her way to a Parisian bathroom and back.

“But, you see, the thing is, Miss Scrumble,” Fleur begins, “since I spoke to you, two of my equally dynamic friends, Claudette Cassiera and Veronica Ripperton, have also expressed an interest in working at Harbinger Hall. Are there are any other vacancies coming up?”

After a very long silence, Scrumble speaks. “Hmmm, well,” she grumbles. “There's irony in your questioning. I sacked three waiters this morning. They're being marched off the premises as we speak.”

Miss Scrumble sounds like she really enjoys that side of her job. Her voice turns a little giddy at “marched off the premises.”

“Oh, that's terrible,” Fleur says, giving us the thumbs-up. “I'm so sorry to hear that . . .”

“I've no time for laziness, Miss Swan!” blurts out Miss Scrumble, sounding a little unhinged. “And these three vile articles, Saul, Clemence and Stephen, hmmpgh, well, they tested the absolute limit of my patience! They may have sounded applaudable on their resumes. However, one week at Harbinger Hall and it turns out they're in Destiny Bay only to surf and party. No work ethic whatsoever.”

“Disgusting,” Fleur says, cutting straight to the chase. “So you've not replaced them yet?”

“Er . . . no,” says Miss Scrumble, sounding a little breathless from her outburst.

“Fantastic!” Fleur says.

Claude and I have to stop ourselves from squealing!

“If your friends are interested,” Scrumble drones, sucking the joy out of the air with her voice, “tell them that the jobs are live-in positions. I would be housing you and whoever the other two successful applicants are in the West Turret.”

“The West Turret?” repeats Fleur, trying to muffle her excitement. “Is that like a separate apartment?”

“It's a fully contained three-person apartment with beds, bathroom, TV, kitchen and a sea view,” Scrumble sighs. “It's basic but clean.”

“That sounds . . . great!” says Fleur, going almost purple with glee.

Claude and I can hardly breathe. The LBD sharing our first apartment?

“I'll speak to my friends right now, Miss Scrumble!” Fleur garbles. “And I'll . . . I'll ask them to e-mail resumes to you! And then I'll call you to check you've got them! And I'll do it right away!”

“Not so fast, Miss Swan,” Scrumble interrupts crossly. “Now I've remembered what I needed to say to you. I've made a note here on the last page of your application. There's a problem with your character reference.”