Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (29 page)

‘Do you need a hug?’ Joe King says, when I’ve finished reading.

I nod. He lays his guitar down on the floor then moves over to me on the sofa and he scoops me into his arms. I appreciate that he doesn’t ask me what it says. I don’t want to start talking about how my dad isn’t really my dad at all, but some bloke called Lawrence is instead. There’ll be plenty of time in the future for me to discuss all this with him. Right, now, I just want to be held.

Jack Taylor always seemed an unlikely partner for my mum. He looked too tanned, too smooth, too a lot of things for her somehow. A little bit smug with it as well, a little bit ‘didn’t you do well, darling’. But not today. My dad – even though our blood is different I can’t stop calling him my father overnight – my dad, Jack, is broken. We stood next to each other in the crematorium and I don’t think he could see, his eyes were so wet and swollen. All I could hear throughout the service was him trying to breath through his blocked nose. We left the crematorium together, walking side by side into the bright sunshine to the sound of the Rolling Stones’ ‘Ruby Tuesday’. There in the entrance he suddenly grabbed me and clutched me to him. The other guests had to walk around us. It wasn’t quite the hug I had imagined, what with it being at my mother’s funeral and all. But… well, I don’t know actually. I don’t know what to feel. He couldn’t speak when he released me.

‘Let’s meet up next week,’ I found myself saying to him. ‘To…’ I stopped there. To what? To have dinner? A drink? A coffee? To reminisce about Mum? But I found myself saying, ‘Let’s meet up next week and talk.’

I don’t know how you go about rebuilding tattered relationships like ours but talking seemed to be the only place to start.

He nodded.

And so, here we all are. A group of people sitting on the grass in the sun. Me wondering if I could manage some hummus. The ache is still there, obviously. But there’s also another feeling, one I can’t quite put my finger on yet. My Mum left me her love. She spent her last months with me and now I have her love. Something I didn’t really feel I had before. And that love is such a gift – I can’t help but feel that it’s changed everything, most of all the way I feel about myself. I’m all right, you know. Jenny Taylor’s all right. I no longer feel terrified that everyone’s going to leave me or start hating me. Maybe having my mum’s love is making me love myself. Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I can’t be relied on to make sense today. And I probably shouldn’t try. But I’ve decided I’m going to go to college. I hope I can go part time at the surgery and study performing arts somewhere. I want to grow and learn now. I’m ready and I think she’d be pleased and that makes me smile.

‘Hey, beautiful,’ Joe King says, squeezing my hand.

I’m wearing my wedding dress. I did ask him if he thought it was weird, but he said that I looked beautiful and that I had to wear it. He hasn’t left my side since he reappeared. We haven’t said much to each other, to be honest, and we haven’t done any sexy stuff. His hand simply seems to appear in mine, or I feel his arm around me when I need it. I feel lucky, and like Mum said, I’m going to cling to this and defend it. I’m not going to be afraid this time. Nope, no more fear.

I squint my eyes at the sun blazing down upon us. I’m not complaining, I’m glad the sun is smiling today for Mum.

‘Do you want my shades?’ Joe asks.

I shake my head and pull out the Dame Edna ones that Mum wore the day she had the hangover to eclipse all others. At least that’s what I thought. I always assumed the headaches were hangovers; it never occurred to me they’d be anything else.

‘Ah, I remember those!’ Al exclaims, when he sees me putting them on.

‘Yeah, do you remember that day? She got all overcome that you’d made a frittata. “He’s a man and he made frittata, why does that make me so happy?”’ I say. I love sharing stories about her.

‘There are so many people here,’ Philippa whispers. ‘I think there’s well over a hundred.’

I nod. ‘I think most of them must be from the hospice where she used to work. I should go and introduce myself.’

‘Do you want me to come?’ Joe squeezes my hand.

‘No, I’ll be fine. But thank you.’ I smile. That nice Joe King, my mum said. ‘You should play a song on your guitar.’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘Why not? She loved a festival, my mum,’ I say.

It makes me think of my dad, my real dad who doesn’t know I exist. I wonder if I will ever meet him. I wonder whether I should search for him or whether perhaps Mum was right and some things really are meant to stay lost.

I stand up, wipe the grass from the backs of my legs and start visiting the clusters of picnicking people. Debbie Diamond jumps up and hugs me. She’s hugged me a few times already today, she’s insisting that Joe and I go and stay with her for a few days. We said we’d like that very much. I leave her and walk towards Dr Flemming, in his very fitted purple suit from the seventies, so tight in the trousers I don’t know where to look. He’s talking with Marge, who’s wearing a kaftan. She’s draped over her beau from Reading. I say hello and hug them. I think Mum would have liked to have gone out with Dr Flemming really. But I think she was frightened that being a GP, he’d suspect she was ill. That’s my theory anyway. When I move on, Simon the Plasterer stands up, he holds out his hand for me to shake, but I smile and hug him instead.

A kindly faced lady reaches out and taps me on the leg when we are finished. I bend down.

‘Your mother was a wonderful woman,’ she says emphatically. ‘When we lost half our funding at the hospice, it was your mother that came up with the plan that got us through. She saved the day for us.’

She briefly introduces me to the group she’s sitting with, nurses who knew Mum, other fundraisers and even some families who had loved ones at the hospice and met my mum. I feel so very proud as I leave them to carry on with my other greetings.

‘Oh, Mum, I wish you were here,’ I whisper. But then I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun tempered by the breeze on my face, and I realise that it’s a foolish thing to say, because again, I feel that she is here.

When I open my eyes again, I notice a man on his own, he is standing up and staring at me. He looks very familiar. I push my sunglasses onto the top of my head and look at him. He’s stepping towards me. It looks like Larry Lemon, the comedian. The comedian’s comedian no less. I look about me, he is definitely walking towards me.

‘Jenny Taylor?’ he says. It is him. I recognise his voice.

I nod and smile. ‘You’re… you’re Larry Lemon. You are, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. Guilty to that, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, my goodness. Your
I Probably Shouldn’t
DVD is one of my favourite things ever. My best friend bought it for me years ago. I still watch it regularly.’

‘Oh, ho, thank you.’

He looks genuinely chuffed. Larry Lemon is here. I look about for Philippa, because I’m sure she’d like to meet him too, but I can’t get her attention because she’s talking to Dave.

‘Did you know my mum then? From the hospice?’

‘Oh, no, no, I didn’t.’

‘Oh.’

‘I, er, your mum sent me, well my company, a DVD of you doing something called the The Tiddlesbury Tour.’ He chuckles.

‘My mum sent you —’

‘I manage acts now. I haven’t done the stand-up for years. Now I look after a little select group of comedians and presenters.’

‘And my mum sent you…’ I can’t seem to close my mouth.

‘Yes, she was quite the agent.’

‘My mum sent you…’

‘She was very proud of you.’

‘Wow.’

‘She called me first and told me all about you.’ The way he laughs indicates that my mum went on and on and
on
about me to Larry Lemon. ‘She said she thought you were very talented and she asked me what I recommended. Then she sent the DVD and I thought that you were great so I called her back.’

‘Wow.’

‘I really did think it was a great tape. I’d like you to take my card and call me, we can have a meeting with your friend Philippa. The camera loves the pair of you. I’m sure I could find you work.’

I really should shut my mouth.

‘Jenny, I am so sorry. Forgive me. I got carried away, now is certainly not the time to be talking business. I came along because your mum and I got on so well on the phone that I was going to ask if she wanted to meet face to face.’

‘Like a date?’

‘Well, I suppose so, yes. But then I received the note about the funeral and well, I’m so sorry. But I just… I just felt I should come today.’

‘Oh,’ I say, feeling sad for him and sad for Mum and a bit sad for me too, my mum dating Larry Lemon would have been pretty incredible. ‘That’s rubbish.’

‘Hmmm. Hmmm,’ he agrees. ‘So, anyway, I’ll leave my card with you; when you’re ready and if you’d like to, call me.’

‘Oh, yes, yes,’ I say, taking it. ‘I will, thank you.’ I look down at the card – LL Artist Management. Who’d have thought? I will definitely call him. No more fear. I look up and it’s funny because my gaze instantly finds Joe King and he’s looking at me too. I smile. Not a big beam, because that isn’t in me at the moment, but a little smile that says I’m so glad you are here.

‘Just one thing,’ Larry Lemon says, rousing me from my Joe King thoughts. ‘I just wondered whether… oh, it’s stupid, really…’ He halts, shakes his head, and places his hand in front of his chest as if to stop himself doing something instinctive.

‘What?’

‘Ridiculous question, but your mum, Pam, didn’t… no, no, I’m sure she didn’t… but… your mum, she didn’t ever mention seeing the Rolling Stones at the Reading Festival, did she? By any chance? Years and years ago. So silly looking back on it, but I met a girl there called Pam… and I lost her… silly fool… and I’ve always regretted it because, well, I thought she was wonderful. It only took me a minute to fall in love with her.’

Some humungous THANK YOUs are in order! As ever, a big one goes to my amazing dad, for all the time and advice he gives me, from the first ideas to the last edit. Another to Rowan Lawton, my brilliant and lovely agent. And a big fat thank you also goes to Rebecca Saunders, a very special editor and person. The journey of this book has been unconventional, shall we say, which meant that I was a bit (really quite a big bit) of a nightmare for her. I am very, very grateful for all the kindness she showed me.

I had a glorious stint in Bamburgh writing about Jenny Taylor; the warmest of thanks go to Barbara and Charles Baker-Cresswell for putting me up and putting up with me.

Sincere thanks go to a host of amazing people at Sphere/ Little, Brown: Adele Brimacombe, Sophie Burdess, Louise Davies, Charlie King, Carleen Peters, Thalia Proctor, Jo Wickham and Emma Williams.

And last but by no means least, so much gratitude and love to my amazing friend, Dannielle, who helps me through my own dark days with her brilliant advice, irreverant wit and frigging incredible cake.