Vintage Babes (36 page)

‘What about?’

‘The way he arrives any time, morning, afternoon or evening, and expects his mother to keep her garage constantly clear so that he can drive straight in.’

I took a sip of the Earl Grey tea I had made. My father was frowning, grouchy and aggrieved, but, to me, the matter sounded small potatoes.

‘Dilys doesn’t run a car,’ he went on, ‘so, as several of the ladies do, she uses her garage as a store. Keeps all sorts in there; pieces of carpet, old lampshades, suitcases belonging to William – must be at least half a dozen, though I’ve never understood why he doesn’t take them to one of his houses. Everything’s stacked around the sides, leaving space to park a car in the middle. Anyhow, the gardener who cuts the grass here got rained off yesterday and asked if he could leave his lawnmower in her garage, just overnight. Dilys was down filling her washing-up liquid bottle, she buys washing-up liquid in bulk – makes a tidy saving, too – and she told him to go ahead. But later in the afternoon William arrived, without warning, and saw red because when he’d zapped the garage door open – he has his own zapper – there was the lawn mower sat dead centre. So, before he could park, he’d had to get out of his car and move it.’

‘Big deal.’

‘Must’ve taken him all of two minutes, though it was still raining. I happened to be in Dilys’s place when he stormed up to complain and it was not pretty. The chap was effing and blinding, using words I couldn’t repeat. Naturally, I stood up for Dilys and told him to watch his mouth. I said he was lucky his mother let him use her garage and that there were plenty of parking spaces for visitors, and did it really matter if his car stood outside and got wet?’

‘Perhaps he was worried someone might scratch it?’ I suggested.

‘Oh, it wasn’t the Jaguar, his ‘London’ car, as he calls it. Seems he does some dealing in second-hand vehicles and he often turns up in shabby, run-down things. As he did yesterday. Anyway, when I said he was making a fuss about nothing he told me I was an interfering old fool and then – would you credit it? – Dilys tells me I’m interfering, too.’

‘That was unfair.’

‘Unfair, downright rude and ungrateful! Granted we’ve each bought our own train tickets when we’ve gone up to London, but it’s been my petrol that’s taken us to the coast and out for pub lunches. And I paid for the lunches, together with a glass or two of Martini Bianco for her. Usually two, she likes her Martini Bianco. Yes, Dilys cooked dinner for me, but it was my money which bought the food and she often ate with me, so the woman was getting her meals for free and –’

‘Your friendship is over?’

‘Completely.’ He chewed at his sandwich. ‘Thinking about Dilys, I’m afraid I have to admit she is on the common side, as your mother would’ve said. Good company, but some of her language and her jokes –’ he shuddered ‘– they made your hair curl. And when she chose the nightie and arrived at my door that evening to show me –’

‘She arrived at your door wearing the nightie?’ I asked.

‘Yes, though it was beneath a dressing gown. Thank heavens! I’d cleaned my teeth and was in my pyjamas ready for bed, when there was this knock at the door. When I saw Dilys stood there, my immediate thought was that she couldn’t be feeling well. Must’ve taken a bad turn. Indigestion or something. But in she strolls, slips off the dressing gown and poses, hands on her hips and bold as brass. ‘Like it, George?’ she asks.’

‘And you did,’ I said, remembering his comment about Dilys looking good in the black chiffon.

My father lowered his gaze. ‘Well… yes, though her cleavage was a touch withered. But her coming late at night, it was after ten-thirty, and showing me the nightie. Me, a man on my own.’ He had started to mumble. ‘It was forward. Too brazen. Out of line.’

The woman turning up late evening in a semi-sheer nightgown sounded to me as if she had been angling to get bedded.

‘You offered her a mug of Horlicks?’ I joked, eager to know what had happened next.

He managed a smile. ‘I told her the nightie suited her and sent her straight back home. Didn’t want to risk any gossip and, so far as I’m aware, no one heard Dilys knocking on my door or knows she came visiting that night. Certainly, no one’s ever mentioned it. Thank goodness because I would never’ve lived it down.’

‘So you’ll be making your own dinners again.’

‘No, no, pet. There’s a very pleasant lady here called Marie. Don’t think you’ve met her. Refined, she is, used to be a music teacher and plays the piano still. Classical stuff. Chopin and that Russian fellow with the long name. Anyhow, when she heard about Dilys and me no longer being friends, she came to see if she could offer any help in the kitchen. Came round this morning.’

‘That was quick.’

‘We’re off to the supermarket later this afternoon to stock up and –’ he chuckled ‘– I hear she makes a wonderful gooseberry crumble.’

‘The babe magnet strikes again,’ I murmured.

‘Pardon?’

‘Never mind. Will you be coming for lunch on Sunday?’

‘Yes please, pet.’

‘By yourself or would you like to bring Marie along?’

‘By myself. Don’t intend to get too entangled this time. And if we should start going out in my car, I’ll suggest she dollies up for her share of the petrol. I loved seeing you on television last week, pet,’ he went on. ‘I felt so proud and everyone was so complimentary. Gillian recorded the programme and gave me the video, so I’ll be able to show it to folk whenever I want.’

I made a face. Although I had enjoyed seeing the work-out myself – in all modesty, I’d performed well and had looked presentable – I imagined years of visitors being obliged to watch, listen to my father’s fulsome commentary and dutifully admire.

‘How nice,’ I said.

As I sat down at my desk, my hand reached into my bag for cigarettes. And found nothing. The usual packet wasn’t there because, in a dramatic and sacrificial gesture, I had thrown it away. I would, I had vowed, never smoke again. But… I felt worried, nervous. Worried about my little granddaughter who was longing to go back home and live with her daddy – and nervous about my dinner date with Steve. To feel jittery about having dinner with a man I worked alongside day after day was pathetic, even more so when the date was not for real, but I couldn’t help it. I switched on my computer. I could easily nip out to the newsagents, so should I get twenty Marlboro? Just one packet, to calm my nerves? As I dithered, cursing myself for being so weak, I logged on to read my e-mails. There was one from Max.

‘Don’t. Do not. Desist. Yes, it’s hard, but where’s your willpower? Are you going to let a dead leaf dictate your life and maybe cause your premature death? Come Thursday, will you confess to being a spineless wimp needing a tobacco security blanket? Shame on you. You made the decision to quit, so stick with it. Now. Chew gum. Get a patch. Eat raw jelly. Line dance. Be positive.’

I smiled and despatched an e-mail in return. ‘Still sticking, but not dancing, Maxie-boy,’ it said.

The afternoon had been busy. After leaving my father, I had gone to speak to the owner of a pet shop where there’d been a fire and twenty-four guppies had tragically expired. At least, the pet shop owner considered it was tragic. Describing how he’d found them – in a cracked glass tank and without water – the poor man had broken down in tears. Next I had driven out to a marshmallow factory where police had rounded up several illegal immigrant workers. The manager had insisted he had had no idea his employees were not legal and, maybe in the hope of persuading me to write a sympathetic report, had presented me with two boxes of marshmallows. Later, I visited the home of a woman who had discovered, in her loft, paintings of Dursleigh street scenes which her artist grandfather had done in the early nineteen hundreds.

Finally, I had returned to the office. As I entered, Melanie had been leaving to cover a job and Tony was out, too. Like Melanie, Tony’s attitude to work had changed. For years he had done no more than was necessary, but now he was discovering an unexpected drive and keen interest. He had also cut down on his bar lunches and lost some weight.

‘Although Eric was a nice enough bloke, I can’t remember him ever praising me for any report I wrote,’ he had told me. ‘Whereas Steve always says when I’ve done a good job.’

A few words of encouragement and Tony was making suggestions, following up leads, on the alert for stories. He had also brought in some new advertising, including the Italian restaurant.

‘You reckon Tina got the message?’ Steve asked, walking into the general office.

When I’d arrived at work mid-morning, he had been greeting a man who could write a gardening column for the paper and their discussion was still in progress when I had left at lunchtime.

‘I do.’

‘And you’re free to have dinner this evening?’

‘I am. Though it was a big surprise.’ The kiss on the lips likewise, I thought.

‘Sorry, but when Tina talked of me fixing her central heating the idea suddenly occurred.’

‘What you mean is, you panicked.’

‘’Fraid so.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve read your ‘Middle-aged baggage works out on TV’ piece. It’s good. Made me laugh.’

‘Thanks.’

I had finished the article late morning, printed it out and left a copy for him.

‘One problem, the photograph you’ve provided is not of you in your exercise gear, it’s just head and shoulders.’

‘And head and shoulders is all you’re getting. I’m not into self-promotion, plus I’m way too old to be a sex symbol.’

‘Not in my opinion,’ Steve said. ‘In my opinion, you –’ He stopped at the sound of the door being opened. ‘‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, as Debbie came in. A sulky, glowering Debbie.

‘I got home from school and had a bust-up with Mum, so I walked out and hopped on a bus.’

‘Does she know where you are?’

‘Yes, I told her I was coming here. Coming to see you.’

Steve folded his arms. ‘What’s the matter this time?’

‘We’re having lentil burgers again for dinner. Lentil burgers! They’re gross! Vile! I hate them! And you do, too.’

‘True,’ he agreed.

‘We have them so often. Like almost every week,’ his daughter complained. ‘And there’s stacks of the horrible things in the freezer. I told Mum I wasn’t eating them any more and she started to go on about how healthy they are. Healthy? They look like shit and they taste like –’

‘Cool it, Debs,’ he cautioned.

‘Sorry. So can I move in with you? Just me, not Paul. He likes lentil burgers, stupid twit. Can I move in and eat decent food for a change? Please, Dad, I’ll be no trouble. I could bring my stuff round tomorrow after school – I’m going to a disco in the Scout hut tonight – and I promise not to play my C.D.s loud or leave my bedroom in a mess, and I’ll let you watch whatever you want to watch on the telly and not grumble. Give me a break, Dad, please.’

He frowned. ‘Your mother won’t like it. I’m not sure I like the idea, either.’

‘If you won’t take me in, I shall sleep on a park bench,’ the teenager declared. ‘Or in a doorway! I shall go to a hostel for the homeless!’

Steve sighed a weary sigh. ‘I’ll speak to your mother and see if we can sort something out.’

‘I knew you’d agree,’ she said, and wrapped her arms around him.

‘But if you stay it’s a one-off and only for a short time. Just to allow you to see sense. Understood?’

Debbie smiled. ‘Yes, Dad.’

‘Do you like marshmallows?’ I asked her, when she had released him.

‘Love them.’

I passed her one of the boxes I had been given. The other was reserved for Beth. ‘Then enjoy.’