6. The Way Too Many’s
The Way Too Many’s
My ex-husband Franklin has left the cracker factory where he had been promoted to foreman, and is now a Gas Engineer. Well almost, he has to finish his training but he’s two-thirds of the way through and he’s loving it.
This is the news in from Chloe. She went out for dinner with her dad and his new girlfriend Mousy. She’s actually called Minnie, but because she has a squeaky voice Chloe is calling her Mousy. I’m not making any comment. The longer I can keep my mouth shut, the more information comes my way. I can’t help but want to know. I feel a mixture of relief and a burning resentment. He’s doing something– really? Great news. At last he’s doing quite well for himself, so why couldn’t the work-shy arse do that for us? He’d stayed here for months, mooning around, eating us out of house and home, not lifting a finger– until I had to ask him to leave.
Let it go, Janet, I urge myself. Let it go. After all, it’s nice to think he might be able to help me out with my boiler if it plays up. I wonder if he gets discount on new ones... I’m sure I heard mine groan last November when I switched the heating on.
It’s weird to be penny-pinching whilst I’m still sort of seeing Miles, who thinks nothing of spending two hundred pounds on a meal. We were out last Friday at this new posh place called Heather’s on the tops, and the food was lovely– so pretty, so flavoursome, so bloody small a portion. We came back to mine, as Miles’s flat in Hebden has nothing in it, as per usual, and had three rounds each of tea and toast. I tried to say it was a waste of money eating out so often but Miles was having none of it. He doesn’t skimp on anything. He showed me an electric bicycle he was looking at– sooo much money. I kept my face straight, but really I’m thinking, That’s nearly my salary for the whole year!
I’m on a savings push. I wonder if Miles will notice I’ve worn the same dress three times now? I’ve put a filigree metal gate I’ve had in the back garden on Facebook marketplace to see if I can raise a few quid. ‘Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves,’ my dad used to say. At the farm, he never spent a penny on anything. We girls and our mother had to put up with holey shoes, holey tights, no holidays, no windows that didn’t have icy draughts, no curtains, nothing. It’s no way to live. I do try to look after the pennies but the pounds don’t seem to have got the message yet.
At least I’ve stopped offering to go halves on bills with Miles; he always says no and looks a bit offended if I get my purse out. I’m trying to just enjoy things as they are and not project into the future. It’s hard. I don’t think we’re remotely compatible really, but we have a good time together and the sex is pretty bloody fabulous. He’s fun, is Miles, and lively and he does like to go out quite a bit. Though trying to be a let’s just have a fun relationship-type of person is an effort when you’re secretly quite old-fashioned.
I remind myself that it’s a blessing to get out of the house. The building work in the attic has come to a standstill now that Carl is full-time over at Laura’s. She moves into Lavander Cottage on Monday. This is my one last weekend of peace. It does mean there’s an arctic breeze from the attic, where Carl had optimistically created a hole in the roof for a new velux window. It’s currently taped up with fabric and gaffa until he has a moment to fix it in. Mitzi is hardcore and has taken to doing her yoga and shamanic stuff in the half-realised attic space, still only accessible by the stepladder on the landing. I’ve no idea what her shaman stuff involves. There’s chanting, dried flowers, full-moon rituals. I’ve had to have words about the incense as the smell of it drifting into my bedroom at night has me gipping, it’s so strong. She swears she’s incanting and needs it permanently on burn. I’ve bravely climbed up there during the day on the quiet, when I know she’s not in, and stubbed it out, stolen a few of the sticks and cones and thrown them in with the food waste hoping she won’t notice.
She’s up there chanting away when I notice three cars reversing and nudging past each other on the driveway outside our house, and out of them are pouring a lot of people and a lot of luggage.
Oh Gawd. Flashback. I was in a rush, a week or two ago. I was racing about as I was due in to cover reception, but had agreed to drop Chloe off at work and Mitzi at Job Club. She must be their longest-running member– do they give out medals for long service? Now I remember, I was parked in the Job Club car park when I opened the app on my phone and clicked accept booking. I didn’t really think. Or read it properly. I just said yes to a booking for this weekend. Damn it. What exactly did I say yes to?
I throw open the laptop with shaking hands and frantically scan the messages. I’ve set up a template with the address on so I’ve obviously sent that to them. Panic sets in with the grinding sound of wheelie cases making their way up the drive. Thank God I cleaned Lavander Cottage this week and set it up with fresh bedding. The message reads: Bernard and guests, here for a wedding, might be up to eight of us, possibly nine. NINE? Oh dear God no.
I dig out a loaf from the freezer, my fresh milk, ten of the mini-butters and a bottle of wine and sling it into a So Hebden Bridge jute bag. I am gingerly opening the patio door when one of them, a short rotund guy in a snazzy waistcoat and expensive shiny brogues, notices me and waves.
‘Hi darlin’, you Janet? I’m Clive. Which way to Lavander Cottage?’
I paste a smile on my face. ‘Hi, Clive. Just head straight down the drive, and it’s the door in front of you. You’ll see the sign.’ I hand over the key with the jute bag.
‘Oh nice, ta very much, darlin’.’
He strides off, and I cringe as the parade of people passing by begins. They are all middle-aged Londoners, friendly, slapping each other on the back, up for a good time and very noisy. The amount of luggage they’ve brought will fill the downstairs entrance. I don’t know what to say to prepare them, or what to say once they’ve explored the cottage and found it inadequate for seven people never mind nine! I make myself a giant cup of tea and hide behind the kitchen island. I’m slowly demolishing a pack of Maryland Cookies when Mitzi peers around the island at me. She is expertly shuffling a pack of Tarot cards.
‘Where have they parked the coach?’
‘Ha ha. Don’t ask. There’s so many of them. And I’d forgotten all about them.’
‘I counted eight.’
‘Nine. There might be nine.’ Why did I agree to take them, when the cottage only sleeps six maximum? I’ve really screwed up here.
‘Where are they all going to sleep?’ Mitzi wants to know.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Hmm.’ My sister throws down three cards onto the floor beside me, then expertly flicks them over one by one.
She gives a nod. ‘It’s going to be fine.’
I seize on her words. ‘How do you know?’
‘One of them is a Coin card.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘The cards are all positive. Their message is: just take the money and run, Janet.’
There’s a knock on the patio door and I nearly jump out of my skin. I am glued to the lino. I shake my head frantically at Mitzi.
‘I can’t face them.’
Mitzi sighs, gets up and strolls over to the patio door, opening it to reveal a handsome silver fox-type gent. He is in casual pale chinos with his shirt unbuttoned a bit further than you might get away with normally. Unless you were in Benidorm or, say, Essex. Mitzi seizes the opportunity and hits the charm button.
‘Well, hello, how are you? I’m Mitzi, and welcome to Hebden Bridge and to our Lavander Cottage. Everything OK? There’s quite a few of you. Are you going to all fit in there? The cottage does say “sleeps six maximum” but I could make room over here if there’s a bed-shortage crisis.’
I can just picture the flirtatious look on her face.
A shout of laughter greets this.
‘That sounds great, love, but there’s no need for you to put yourselves out. By the way, my name is Bernard, and yes, we do seem to be a bed short. We’re wondering if you can organise a folding bed and maybe a duvet? Our mate Tommy was in the SAS– he’s a tough geezer, hard as nails and can sleep anywhere.’
‘Thank God for Tommy, eh? Well, I’ll leave my offer open. Janet, you’ll sort an extra bed, won’t you? Will one be enough, Bernard?’
I crawl out from behind the island pretending to be looking for something.
‘Hello there, Bernard. Of course I can take over a spare Z bed and duvet for Tommy. Apologies that there’s been some misunderstanding about the size of the group. I’ll get that organised for you as soon as possible.’ I give him a nervous smile, wondering how fast I can get to Argos? At least I have some single fitted sheets, and duvets with matching pillowcases that Chloe uses. And I’ve loads of spare pillows.
A voice pipes up. ‘Maybe two might be better if there’s eight of you.’
Shut up, Mitzi.I feel the profit drain from my bank account as I react like a nodding dog with a fake smile on my face. What will two top-quality Z beds cost?
‘You’re right, mate. Yes, there’s eight of us so two would probably be a good idea. Here, are them your actual Tarot cards?’
‘Yes, I’m a professional Tarot reader,’ my sister lies with a smirk.
‘Are you really? Oi, Trudi, TRUDI!’ Bernard bawls and I nearly jump out of my skin.
A glamorous-looking pink-haired woman teeters over from the cottage on high heels and sticks her head in the door. The first thing she says is: ‘We need more wine glasses, dear.’
I reach into my cupboard and pull out four and hand them over.
‘Ta, love.’ She takes them, and I can’t help noticing her nails, which are about an inch long and covered with bright pink varnish to match her hair and which glitter with tiny stuck-on jewels. ‘And prosecco glasses if you have them?’
I’m scrabbling in the back now, to find four non-chipped prosecco glasses. I’m sure there are four already in the cottage. I give them a swipe with the tea-towel.
‘Trudi,’ Bernard intervenes, ‘you’ll never guess. Mitzi here is a bona fide professional Tarot reader. What d’yer make of that, eh, gel? Fancy a go? Get yer fortune told?’
Trudi is dead excited. ‘Oooh, yes, you must pop over and do mine. What do you charge?’
Quick as a flash my sister switches to sales mode. ‘Usually forty-five cash on a traditional spread, but if I’m doing more than one I’ll take it down to thirty-five.’
‘Come on then, let’s do it. Have you got some cash on you, Bernie?’
‘You know I have, you minx. Lovely jubbly.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘Well, thanks for the glasses, missus,’ addressing me then turning to my sister. ‘Will you have a glass with us, Mitzi?’
‘Yes, I most certainly will, Bernard. Alcohol is an ancient and revered technique to encourage the lubrication of the third eye to smooth our journey to the universe.’
Bernard guffaws. ‘Get that, Trudi! I thought we was in Yorkshire but we’re heading to the universe.’
I can’t help but smile as I watch Mitzi walk across to the cottage arm-in-arm with Bernard, who herds Trudi like a sheepdog into the cottage. At least one of us is going to benefit from this stay. I’m still in shock from the surprise arrival of the group. Where am I going to go to buy these folding beds? And how would I get them home? Plus, am I fit to be seen anywhere in sweatpants and a too-tight Back to the Future T-shirt that belongs to Chloe? At this point, Harvey pads into the kitchen, mewls at high volume with a gagging sound I recognise, and throws up at my feet. Back to the future? If only. It’s Back to Reality here.
By the time I’ve dug out two duvets and the rest of the bedding, found one decent Z-bed stored away and been to Argos for another, then delivered it all to the guests, it’s getting on for teatime. I’ve a lovely recipe for a suet herb-crusted vegetable tagine but I keep being interrupted by requests from the cottage. More towels, more milk, more little soaps, takeout advice (it’s all there on the leaflets, you lot), taxi numbers, more chairs, tea-towels, do we have a dartboard? This is a definite downside of being so close to your guests: they have easy access to bother you. Why look in a guestbook for the information you need when you can knock on next door and annoy the owner?
After what must be the sixth interruption, I give up on a herb crust and get on with just making a tagine. It turns into more of a healthy chunky soup and all a bit boring, and I end up soaking up half of it with a sourdough loaf.
I flick through the TV trying to settle down, but nothing is catching my attention. Emergency in AE, Motorway Emergency, Emergency Sea Rescue. What is it about emergencies? I want to relax, not worry about some other poor beggar. I pray I am never in an accident, because more than likely a camera will be shoved in my face and I’ll be too poorly to say, ‘No thanks, I don’t want to be famous for having a mini-stroke on the pirate ship off Bridlington.’
I’m feeling worn out and ready for bed when I notice I have some notifications on Facebook marketplace.
King Louis
I’m interested in your gate, where are you based? Is it heavy? Will it go in my car?
I’m about to respond when I notice another message underneath.
BobbyB
Remove my gate from your For Sale items, it is NOT for sale.
I can’t quite get my head around this and have to read it again. Eventually I respond– I mean, I have to.
JanetJ
It’s not your gate, it’s mine and it is for sale.
Immediately there’s a response.
BobbyB
It is NOT your gate to sell. Remove this ad immediately or I will report you to the site for selling stolen goods.
I’m proper fuming now.
JanetJ
The gate has been in my back garden for the last five years. I am perfectly at liberty to sell my own gate, and the fact that it looks a bit like yours does not give you the right to accuse me of stealing. I’ve never stolen anything in my life and I will report YOU to the site for going around making public accusations that are completely unjustified and frankly libellous.
King Louis
I’ll leave the gate.
Seriously. The rage. They need to come up with a new show. Internet Anger Emergency. All the people getting wound up by idiots online. I’m thinking about what a great show that would be when Chloe comes in and collapses head first on to the sofa.
‘Fourteen hours I’ve worked today. I am wrecked. Feed me, Mum.’
The tagine does not go down well so I’m rustling her up a mini-baguette pesto mozzarella panini-type thing when Mitzi staggers in through the patio door.
‘I’ve been talking to Grandma Irene.’
‘Who?’ Chloe perks up.
‘Have you been in the cottage the whole time?’ My turn.
‘Did you hear me? Grandma Irene.’
‘Who is Grandma Irene?’ Chloe demands as Mitzi slumps into a seat at the kitchen table.
‘She was our grandmother,’ I explain. ‘Our mother’s mother.’
‘Oh. Right. What was she like?’
‘We don’t know, Chloe. We never met her.’
Mitzi props herself up on the table. ‘Irene’s happy on The Other Side.’
‘Good to know,’ I say briskly, followed by, ‘But how about the guests– how are they?’
Mitzi grins. ‘They’re the real deal– proper Eastenders. Friendly, got all the chat.’
‘I gathered that, and they’re nice with it, aren’t they? So... they’re comfy, no complaints?’
‘We did a séance,’ Mitzi confides. ‘They have a lot of relatives in Sweden.’
At this point, Chloe does a very loud burp and it feels like the perfect moment to encourage everyone to go to bed.
‘Right, I’m locking up,’ I say firmly. I’ve had enough.
‘What is a séance?’ my daughter wants to know.
‘It’s not a chat for bedtime,’ I reply, giving my sister a warning look that she ignores.
‘Communing with the spirits that have gone before us,’ Mitzi tells her.
‘Oooh, sounds spooky. Can we have a séance?’
I’m literally pushing them both out of the kitchen and up the stairs, turning lights off as we go.
‘No, thanks,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve enough on dealing with the people turning up who are alive, never mind encouraging the dead to visit.’
‘Janet?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mum also came through. She sends her love.’
My heart does a teeny tiny sigh. All I can say is, ‘Are you going to be all right, climbing that ladder in your merry state?’
‘Perfectly fine, thank you.’
Mitzi makes her way precariously up the ladder. When twenty minutes later I hear a loud bang, my worst fears are realised. I leap out of bed and onto the landing, where Mitzi is lying at the foot of the ladder.
‘Are you hurt?’ I’m really worried.
‘I needed a wee. I think I’ve broken something.’
‘Well, don’t move, OK? Stay perfectly still and I’ll call an ambulance.’
Four hours later in A E, it turns out that Mitzi is not seriously hurt. She has minor bruising, having bent back her thumb, causing cartilage to strip a tiny bit of bone. She needs to wear a thumb casing for the next six weeks and avoid further damage.
*
The next day, the London lot pile out of the cottage en masse dressed up to the nines in wedding-guest outfits. I offer to take a photo and it turns into a free-for-all; can I do singles, pairs, this trio, these four, more endless group variations. It gets so convoluted I’m grabbing phones as they come at me, posing their owners and shouting at them to change position, readjusting hats and buttonholes. I even bring out chairs for them to sit on.
One of them, granted one of the most elderly there, is constantly going, ‘What’s she saying?’ in the most irritating way. I make sure we get a shot of her with her gob open and her eyes shut. Mean Janet, stop it. Eventually they pile into taxis that I had to order because they couldn’t pronounce Mytholmroyd, and off they head to the wedding. That’s another hour of my life gone that I won’t get back.
Mid-afternoon, Carl turns up with a spiral staircase in his truck, to replace the step ladder that was going up into the attic space. It makes the landing a little more snug but still accessible and is the best solution to not eat up much of the attic bedroom. Our house is alive with drills, banging and sawdust. Mitzi sits in the garden in dark glasses resting her poorly thumb on a large wine glass. Chloe moans about the noise and threatens to go back in to work to avoid it. I’m vainly attempting to enjoy my Sunday, supposedly a day of rest, but there is a huge list of chores in preparation for Laura coming in tomorrow. I cannot get rid of the London posse soon enough.
I go to bed early and am having a very confusing dream about Laura reorganising my fridge into good and bad shelves, when I get woken up at 2.30 a.m. by the sound of taxi doors crashing open and shut, and the chorus of ‘Parklife’ being belted out at the tops of my guests’ very drunken voices. The combination of food fascist Laura and the very merry loud Londoners all feels pretty surreal to me, Janet Jackson, half-awake in my bed in Yorkshire, and I struggle to get back to sleep.
*
The smell of bacon coming from the cottage starts at 7 a.m. The visitors are eventually all out by 11.40. Lots of dark glasses. Bernard, looking sharp in a tan ankle-length Crombie and matching flat cap, winks and blows me a kiss as he strolls past the patio propping up a fragile-looking Trudi. I’m blowing him one back just as Chloe and Mitzi walk into the kitchen.
‘Mum! Janet!’
I don’t know what comes over me, lack of sleep probably, as I then attempt to do a twerk, saying in a muffled voice, ‘Mi Yorkshire Puddings bring all the cockneys to mi yard.’
Mitzi immediately joins in with a dance move Beyonce would be proud of.
Chloe is horrified by us both.
‘Ugh, stop it, please, stop, you’re hurting my eyes and giving me a headache.’
We take no notice. I refuse to be outdone and Mitzi and I end up bum to bum in a twerk-off that Chloe refuses to judge. Eventually she puts her coffee down and shows us both what an actual twerk looks like.
Oh, to be young again . . .
**** Four Stars from Trudi
Janet is a lovely very Yorkshire host. Cottage bit small for 8 of us. Tarot reader service excellent.
Don’t accept bookings when you’re in a rush.
Avoid the phone app. It’s too easy to forget what you’ve done when you’re in the supermarket ticking off frozen peas from your list on Notes, whilst responding to a text from your kids asking for Little Moons. Before you know it you’ve said yes to a coachload of pensioners from Anglesey.
Like I said, worth repeating, avoid the phone app. The writing’s so small you might miss the request for 20 wine glasses and the chance to really think, Do you want the sound of a bunch of raging alcoholics in the cottage on Sunday afterCountryfile?
The internet is full of nutters. I’ve no tips to offer. Please send me your ideas for dealing with this one.
It’s tough. There are no guarantees, no obligations, nothing is safe. Tune into your inner Rizzo, be cool and enjoy the ride