Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (7 page)

Whenever Philippa and I come across a new arrival in Tiddlesbury we give them one of our Tiddlesbury Tours. We love doing the Tiddlesbury Tour. Hence we are always on the lookout for people who look a bit lost or like they could be new in town. We started doing them because they count as a good deed, which is always a bonus, but the thing I enjoy most about the Tidds Tour is the banter between Philippa and me. Perhaps I should be more mature but bantering with Philippa is one of my favourite ways to spend time, somehow we fall effortlessly into a patter where we finish each other’s sentences, or go off on surreal tangents of conversation. We never really exposed other people to it before the Tiddlesbury Tour, but oddly, really very oddly because we talk complete guff, people seem to quite enjoy it.

We entertained ourselves throughout school like this. We went to Tiddlesbury Comprehensive, or Tiddlesbury Remand Centre as the locals call it. Philippa and I had an ever-expanding Tiddlesbury Remand Tour which we wandered about the school doing, mainly only ever to each other. We would assume lots of different characters but the ones I remember best were Harry and Barry, builders who liked to scratch their balls, and Marion Cleverbottom and Marjorie Knowingknockers, sex-obsessed learned professors who spoke like David Attenborough.

‘Ah, ha, Knowingknockers,’ I would orate, squinting fascinated at a big gouge that had been chipped out of the corridor wall. ‘This indentation here marks a battle, does it not?’

‘Ooooh, I think it does, Cleverbottom. It’s a mark of war.’

‘Ah ha, and someone, some wordsmith, has carved BUM next to it.’

‘Oh, yes, yes, some little Shakespeare,’ Philippa would agree, crouched beside me. ‘It could be from that epoch in 1999, when Michelle Cullet went through a stage of throwing things down this corridor.’

‘Yes, once a month, wasn’t it? She’d hurl a ruler.’

‘Or a pencil case.’

‘Or an empty drink can, down this corridor.’

‘Generally in the direction of someone’s head.’

‘More often than not mine. A bloody good shot!’ I would laugh.

Laughing at the absurdity of bullying was the only way I ever found of dealing with it. And I could never have done it without Philippa. For years, if I sat in the dining room, someone, Michelle Cullet or one of her followers would spit food at the back of my head. I know, it was charming! Either as they walked past me or from a little distance away. But the first time the spitting happened in front of Philippa, she got her umbrella out of her bag and put it up, there and then in the dining room and carried on chatting away. We huddled under it and ate our food. We got a detention for putting an umbrella up inside but I thought my heart would explode with delight that I had such a friend.

‘Bum,’ Philippa, as Marjorie Knowingknockers, would sigh, stroking the word, carved into the wall.

‘I do like a nice bum,’ I would comment.

‘I like a willy,’ Philippa would say with a sigh, and we’d be in hysterics for hours. We were teenagers, we’d never actually seen one, but just the word willy could keep us giggling for ages.

I suppose it was inevitable that once we left school we’d comment upon Tiddlesbury Town Centre in much the same way.

We only ever do the tour on a Sunday and we always start promptly at 5 p.m. We tend to wear our air hostess costumes, which we opted for today. We team them with a lot of lipstick and we try to smile as much as possible when we speak. Today we are doing the tour for Mum and Al. Al is videoing it. He said it was important to have a copy of it for posterity, although I suspect he just wants to fiddle with his video camera because there’s no football on. So, the tour is really mainly for Mum’s benefit, not that she’s very excited, she was far more taken with the idea of staying in and snoozing on the sofa. I could have done with a winch to get her out of the flat. ‘You can’t give in to a hangover for a second day, Mum. You need to get out and get some fresh air,’ I told her. It was alarming, as though I’d suddenly become sensible. I’m not sure I want to become sensible. Now we’re due to promptly start and Mum’s in the newsagents. ‘I just want to pick up a bar of chocolate before we get going,’ she said and off she trotted. My mother eating a chocolate bar. Too weird.

Philippa and I stand side by side, next to the kebab van. Al squints and fiddles with his camera in front of us. Philippa taps her watch. My arms are folded and I hold a whistle between my lips.

Philippa shakes her head. ‘I expected more from your mother. Five, four, three, two, one,’ Philippa counts down on her watch. I blow my whistle when she’s finished.

‘We don’t allow tardiness on the Tiddlesbury Tour,’ I call shrilly as Mum emerges from the corner shop, unwrapping a Biscuit Boost. A very good choice of confectionary, but Philippa and I start tutting and shaking our heads in unison all the same.

‘Whoops,’ she says, quickening her step to get to us.

Philippa and I look at each other and nod. The show must go on. We turn to our audience and smile. We both proudly hold our arms out towards the chip van, Posh Nosh, as though we are glamorous women on a quiz show demonstrating a prize washer-dryer.

Arty, who’s setting up inside the van, stands squinting at us and clutching three bags of burger buns.

‘This is Arty,’ I say.

‘Hello, Arty,’ Philippa says.

‘Magnificent buns,’ I add.

Al mumbles the word arse. I think it’s directed towards the video camera.

‘Arty fries things at night for the drunk people in the area,’ I inform them.

‘Tiddlesbury would not be Tiddlesbury without him,’ Philippa states.

Philippa and I take a moment to shake our heads, sadly contemplating what Tidds would be like without Arty and Posh Nosh.

‘Thank you, Arty,’ we both say, at the same time, with a lot of feeling.

‘We should tell them about Bean Gate,’ I whisper to Philippa.

‘We should,’ Philippa hisses back.

‘Bean Gate was a period in 2007.’

‘A semi-hostile period of time, it must be said.’

‘It must.’

‘Prior to this semi-hostile period of time in 2007, Arty didn’t sell baked beans,’ Philippa states, like a newsreader.

We shake our heads in disbelief.

‘No, but owing to our forceful negotiation tactics,’ I continue in the serious newsreader style.

‘Arty now serves baked beans.’ We both squeal and then clap heartily. We love baked beans.

‘But beans aren’t printed on his menu,’ Philippa says, suddenly seriously.

‘So you have to ask for them.’

‘Another gem of wisdom from the Tiddlesbury Tour!’ we say in a high register together.

‘Now let’s say goodbye to Arty…’ Philippa starts.

‘And his buns,’ I finish.

‘Bubbeye, Arty and his buns,’ we both cheerfully say, and wave.

Next, Philippa and I walk Mum and Al around in a big loop.

‘This here loop we are doing, is known as the Hole,’ I tell them. ‘Al, please look at your mobile phone.’

‘Er, not too easy with this camera thing, Fan.’

‘But Mother doesn’t have one.’

‘Hang about then,’ he pulls it out of the back pocket of his jeans.

‘Al, what do you see?’ Philippa asks.

‘Um, nothing except I haven’t got any service.’

‘Yes, Al, because you are in the Hole,’ Philippa informs him. ‘You won’t get any service in this whole area.’

‘It is what is known as an arse. If, Al, you say to your friend, “Friend, I’m going to Posh Nosh, can I get you anything?”’ I say.

‘And he says, I’d like a lamb doner,’ Philippa continues.

‘Which I’d lay money on will, at some point, happen.’

‘Something for you to look forward to, Al,’ Philippa says, smiling sweetly.

‘Ah ha, but Al, you get to Posh Nosh, and Arty will say, do you want salad, onions, chilli, chilli sauce, garlic mayo?’

‘He’s a very thorough man,’ Philippa interjects.

‘But you don’t know, so you take your phone out of your pocket to call your friend.’

‘But terror has struck,’ Philippa says dramatically.

‘You have no service.’

We both gasp.

‘Then, Al, you must walk to the letter box over here,’ Philippa states. Mum and Al both follow us to the letter box.

‘Now, Al, you should have service. Will you check, please?’ Philippa asks.

‘I do, yes, Philippa,’ Al says.

‘And that, ladies and gentleman, perfectly illustrates why we really should be charging upwards of eight pounds for the tour we are taking you on today,’ I inform them.

Philippa nods as she murmurs her approval of this statement.

‘Now, as we are here,’ I continue. ‘I would just like to introduce you to the letter box.’

‘Useful for posting letters,’ Philippa explains.

‘And resting your chips on top of should you need to make that telephone call.’

‘May we also draw your attention to the error that is printed in black and white before your eyes.’

‘The last post is not collected at five thirty,’ I whisper conspiratorially.

‘No.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘If you are at home and you look at your watch. It says five twenty-six. You leave home in a hurry, not stopping to even put a coat on to protect you from the autumnal nip in the air…’

‘Severely disabled Aunt Daphne’s birthday card clutched tightly in your paw,’ I continue.

Philippa giggles, Aunt Daphne has never been severely disabled before.

‘Panting, you reach the postbox by five thirty. You breathe a sigh of relief. Severely disabled Aunt Daphne will know you care tomorrow.’

‘Well, no she won’t, Al. No, she won’t know you care. She’ll think you’ve forgotten,’ I say.

‘That you’re too busy to remember…’

‘That you hate her. Why? Because Tony, from the Post Office, collects the post at five twenty-three.’

‘Five twenty-three, ladies and gentleman,’ Philippa echoes.

‘At five thirty he is safely in his house up the road, ready for the start of
Come Dine With Me
.’

‘I love
Come Dine With Me
,’ Philippa says wistfully.

‘So the last post is at five twenty-three,’ I confirm.

‘Poor Aunt Daphne,’ we say together.

‘If you doubt us, ladies and gentlemen, then ask Tony yourself,’ Philippa says.

‘He’s the man in Tiddlesbury dressed as a postman.’

‘Say, “Hello, Tony, did you watch
Come Dine With Me
yesterday, what did you make of that starter?” And he will be off,’ Philippa concludes. We move on.

‘And here is the one and only dry cleaners in Tiddlesbury,’ I announce.

‘A word of warning…’ Philippa starts.

‘Don’t give them anything that’s silk,’ I elaborate.

‘Or velvet.’

‘Or velour.’

‘And write your name inside your shirts as you will quite often take in your white shirt and be handed back someone else’s,’ Philippa advises.

‘It will be very well ironed, though,’ I add.

‘And they do do repairs.’

‘Although bring your own cotton,’ I counsel.

‘Mona is colour-blind,’ Philippa explains.

‘Red is green to her. Now, as this tour can be incredibly stimulating, we like to point out that on Sundays this pub, the White Hart, serves a free bowl of roast potatoes when you buy more than four drinks,’ I suggest.

‘So if you would like to rest your legs and mind for the duration of an alcoholic beverage we can accommodate that. We might even be able to introduce you to Damien the Dealer. Damien the Dealer kindly risks his liberty to supply the residents of Tiddlesbury with eighths of weed.’

‘Damien the Dealer uses the term “eighth” loosely,’ I explain.

‘He prefers to sell a ninth of an ounce.’

‘But for the price of an eighth.’

‘It’s not ideal.’

‘But it could be worse. Mother, you’re to keep away from Damien the Dealer. Now, shall we?’

I hold the door open and Philippa and I swap smiles as we walk in. We love doing the Tiddlesbury Tour.

Once we’re at the bar I turn towards Mum. Her mouth is open and there’s an odd faraway look in her eyes.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

‘You girls should be on the telly,’ she says as though she’s in a trance. I raise my eyebrows at Philippa in a ‘my mum’s having a midlife – what can you do?’ kind of way.

Philippa gives me a sympathetic look.

I suspect that the majority of newly engaged women, when they return to work on Monday, have conversations with their work colleagues along these sort of lines.

Newly Engaged Woman: OH, MY GOD! I’m getting married!

Work Colleagues: OH, MY GOD! Let’s see the ring! OH, MY GOD! It’s beautiful! Where did he propose?

Newly Engaged Woman: The London Eye.

Work Colleagues: OH, MY GOD! So romantic.

So far today, my conversations with work colleagues and patients have been thus.

Me: OH, MY GOD! I’m getting married.

Other person: OH, MY GOD! Let’s see the ring.

Me: I don’t have it. My finger was too fat for it. I did get it on, but then my finger started to go purple. I tried to get it off but couldn’t, Matt started to panic but a lady lent us some face cream which I put on my finger and that did the trick.

Other person: Oh. Where did he propose?

Me: The London Eye.

Other person (stunned): Aren’t you… like… terrified even to be on a third floor?

Me: Yes. I was a little bit sick in the pod.

Some might think these bad omens for a marriage. Seeing a rainbow or saying I love you at exactly the same time during a proposal scene must surely be seen as positive symbols of love and posterity, vomiting and nearly ending up having to have a finger amputated, not so much.

I wish I had a book to read. I always feel a little bereft without a novel on the go. But I like to leave a few days between books, so I can let one world go before I get involved in another. Rosie got back with Max and he proposed, just when she’d decided that she wasn’t that bothered about getting married. I cried. Perhaps, next, I should read a book about someone who is about to get married. Although, they’re bound to get besieged by obstacles and tragedy, and that could be a worry.

I wish I had my ring. It doesn’t feel properly official without the ring. And if I’d been wearing my engagement ring on Saturday then Joe King might have seen it, and if he’d seen it he wouldn’t have flirted, with all the smiling and gaze holding and calling me beautiful. And if he had known I was already taken then I would have had two nights of long, contented slumber instead of taking forever to get to sleep because I find my mind being pulled to him, to his name, to how open he was about his childhood when he mentioned that he spent part of his youth locked in his room writing maudlin poetry. And I repeated how he said I was beautiful once or twice too. Jenny Taylor, funny-looking Jenny Taylor, called beautiful by a lead singer in a band. So, yes, it would have been much better if I had been wearing my engagement ring. The girth of my finger has a lot to answer for. A lot.

My mobile phone rings. I usually have it on silent in the surgery. I pull it out of my bag. It’s a number I don’t recognise.

‘Go on, Fanny, take it,’ Marge encourages me.

I pause. As unofficial head of reception I shouldn’t really. But, and this is really utter and complete madness to have as a thought, because he doesn’t have my number and I’m getting married and I don’t want to see him again EVER. But the flicker of a notion that it might be Joe King appears in my mind and I press OK. And then once I’ve pressed OK, I’m committed, so I hold the phone to my ear.

‘Hello, sexy,’ says a male voice. But it’s not Joe King. I already know Joe King’s voice.

Joe King’s voice is lovely. It was deep and delicious when he stood next to me at the bar on Saturday. His voice travelled down my spine. I like the way he speaks as though he’s carefully placing his words. As though he knows that words can hurt and he would hate for his words to do that.

This chap isn’t Joe King and he’s definitely not my Matt, so whoever it is has certainly got the wrong number. I love it when people call me and it’s the wrong number. Once I picked up my phone and this chap on the other end gushed, ‘Baby, I’m so sorry, I hope the swelling’s gone down. I never knew that would happen. It looked like a bit of fun when I saw it in the shop. Babe, I’m so sorry. Is it still really uncomfortable to sit down?’ It was then I said, ‘I’m sorry I think you’ve got the wrong number.’ But I was itching to ask what had happened.

‘Hello,’ I say back to this strange chap.

‘How are you, gorgeous?’

‘Um. I’m fine. Thank you.’

‘I wondered if I could take you out.’

‘Um. Who is this?’

‘Oh. Sorry. It’s Simon. We met on Friday.’

‘I think you’ve got the wrong number.’

‘At Bomber, we had a bit of a dance and a little kiss and you gave me your number.’

‘I wasn’t at Bomber on Friday night. Um… oh, what did this person you were dancing with look like?’

‘Fit, short, blonde hair, leather-type trousers.’

‘I think it might have been my mother in my wet-look leggings.’

‘You’re not Pam.’

‘Pam’s my mum.’

‘Your mum.’

‘Yeah.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘So how old is your mum?’

‘Fifty-four.’

‘Wow, bloody hell. Wow. She was hot.’

Hot. He’s just called my mum hot.

‘This is very weird.’

‘So I guess the question is… can I take your mum out?’

I don’t know. Can he take my mum out? This is a lot to process. I suppose I should ask the usual questions.

‘Um… How old are you?’

‘Thirty-five.’

‘Where do you live? What do you do?’

‘I live in Nunstone. I’m a plasterer by trade. I own my house.’

‘Are you a player?’

‘No. Not good looking enough to be a player, and I’m too soft to mess people around.’

‘Previous relationships.’

‘Split up with my long-term girlfriend six months ago.’

‘Any children?’

‘Yes, a four-year-old boy. I see him a lot.’

‘Right… Star sign?’

‘Cancer.’

‘OK.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘I don’t know, I’ll have to look it up.’

‘No. Not about the star signs. About me taking your mum out.’

‘Well, it’s not for me to decide. It’s up to her. But I’ll tell her you called and she can call you if she fancies it.’

‘Oh, right. Thanks.’

‘Bye, Simon.’

‘Bye. That was strange.’

‘Yes, it was a bit odd for me too, Simon. So, um, cheerio.’

I quickly call Mum on the landline at the flat.

‘Hello,’ she sings.

‘Mum, it’s me.’

‘Jenny, I was going to ask you. Tonight, can we have a night in, just the two of us? I thought we could have a proper chat.’

‘What about?’

There’s a pause.

‘Just, oh, well, truthfully, Jenny, about, about…’

‘What?’

‘Well, there’s some things I want to say about when you lived at home and, you know, when you left home.’

I jolt back in the chair. That was ten years ago and probably the worst period of my life. I hardly want to go dredging all that up.

‘I have to be quick, I’m at work, I just wanted to say please don’t give my number out to random blokes you pick up,’ I say, a little frostily, and hang up, bringing the conversation to a screeching halt. Thank goodness it’s the Nunstone pub quiz tonight and I’ll be out of the house.

Oh, dear. Marge’s mobile is ringing now and, of course, she’s answering it. I should have led by example and not answered mine earlier. All because of an outlandish notion that my call might have been from Joe King, I shirked my unofficial head of reception duties, and now look, Marge thinks we can all be sat behind the desk chatting away on mobiles.

‘ARRRRGGHHH!’

Blimey, Marge has done the rarely seen, she’s stood up from her chair. Wow, now she’s jumping up and down. Serious boobie jiggling. She could have someone’s eye out.

‘OH MY GOD!’

‘Marge, I think you should sit back —’

‘We’re doing it! The documentary! We’re doing it!’ She’s flushed and panting. ‘Me and my Timmy. We’re doing the documentary.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well done.’

I can’t imagine why she’s so excited. I couldn’t think of much worse than being featured in a documentary. People like my father, and Michelle Cullet who bullied me, and Steve Wilmot who broke my heart when I was seventeen, would see me on the telly and say, ‘See, I knew she’d come to nothing.’

‘They’re going to film here too! And they liked you, Fanny!’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, the great girl with the pink hair, they said.’

‘Raspberry.’

‘Oh, I’m so excited. Stardom beckons!’ She whoops.

I watch as she dances about in the four square feet we have behind the desk. I wonder whether if I do end up being in the documentary my head could be smudged, like you see on
Crimewatch
, until I’m distracted by something coming through the surgery door.

‘Oh, Marge, look. Look what Tim’s done,’ I gush, as an Interflora man strides into the surgery. ‘Oh, Marge!’ He’s carrying a huge bunch of roses in a vintage pink colour. They are the most stunning flowers I’ve ever seen. ‘Oh, Marge,’ I repeat, because these flowers are talk-drivel beautiful. ‘Oh, Marge!’ The man places them on the counter so wafts of their fragrance reach me. ‘Oh, Marge, they’re heaven.’

‘Fanny Taylor,’ the man says.

‘What?’ Marge and I say at the same time.

‘These are for Fanny Taylor. Here’s the card.’ He holds it out. I take it and as I open the envelope I have a crazy thought. Perhaps they’re from that chap, Joe King. A ridiculous thought.

Beautiful bride-to-be, Forgive me rushing off. Missing you. Love you. Thank you for saying yes. I’m a very, very lucky man. Matt. xxx