Same Time Next Week

Chapter 27

Mel didn’t know where to put herself. Usually she loved the weekends, Saturday was her favourite day of all. She’d go up to the farm shop in the morning and buy two steaks for their tea, and treat herself to a slice of cake which she’d eat while reading the newspaper. A nice lazy day. But this Saturday was awful because she hadn’t a clue where she was mentally – or where Steve was physically. She finally rang his brother, who obviously did know what was going on because she’d got no further than ‘Hiya, Dave’, only to be cut off with the words, ‘Look, Mel, I know why you’re ringing and it’s none of my business. I’ve to keep out of it so I’m sorry. And please don’t ring my mum or dad because it wouldn’t be fair dragging them into it either.’

And with that the phone went down. She wouldn’t have rung them anyway. She’d known Steve’s father thirty-odd years and still found him impossible to converse with, and to his mother she had no value other than being attached to her precious elder son. But it sounded from that call as though Steve had already warned his brother she might be ringing and not to entertain her, which hurt her – if she could be hurt any more.

Nothing held her interest and she’d exhausted the internet trying to find something out about Chloe Cardinale. She put the TV on but she couldn’t concentrate. She contemplated opening up the bottle of Jack Daniels she’d bought Steve for his birthday and throwing it down her neck until she found oblivion. A stupid, temporary thought, but she could understand why people did it.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink when she went to the loo and saw she looked a mess. Her eyes were flat and bloodshot through constant crying and she’d grown a cold sore overnight that was big enough to have its own nervous system – and no wonder. She hadn’t washed her hair for days. Her mum used to say that ginger hair was the most special of all because it reflected what mood you were in. When you were happy, it shone and when you were sad, it looked dull and no other colour did that. She’d said that when a lad at school had decided to target her for her hair colour. Armed with the fact that she had ‘superhuman hair’ she’d refused to be a victim and he’d moved on to someone with a different vulnerability to be exploited. Today, however, her hair looked as shit as she felt. As shit as her whole life.

The doorbell went and her heart kicked. Though it was unlikely to be Steve, since he’d just walk in, like he had two days ago. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have gone to the door with unbrushed hair, puffy eyes and a zit on her lip that astronauts in the International Space Station could have seen, had they looked down in a Barnsley direction, but right now she couldn’t have given a toss.

She opened the door to a postman with a parcel that had to be signed for. She knew what it was: a silver money clip, with mother-of-pearl inlay, that she’d had engraved with Steve’s name for their upcoming anniversary. Just a small, daft thing. Their thirty years anniversary .

It took her a couple of seconds to realise who the postman was holding out his machine, even though he was in exactly the same place he’d been standing the last time they’d had an encounter: the foul-mouthed Mancunian with the Oasis head. The man she’d presumed was Saran Sykes’s husband. She signed her name quickly and took the parcel from him, saying nothing because she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Then she shut the door and leaned her back against it and a million things zoomed into her brain of what she could and should have said to him. The bell rang again. The same postman was standing there.

‘You all right?’ he asked, quietly, not shouting now.

She didn’t really know how to answer that, apart from ‘I’m fucking fine, mate. Never better’, and doing a bit of swearing of her own. But not even that would come out of her mouth.

‘I presume he’s not back,’ he said.

She took immediate umbrage, she couldn’t help it.

‘What makes you think that?’ She waited for him to respond with, because you look as if you’ve just crawled out of a skip.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the postman, sounding as contrite as his twangy accent would allow. ‘I shouldn’t ov come round that night. I didn’t really know what else to do. I was so angry. And I shouldn’t ov sworn. It’s not what I do in front o’ women.’

She saw him swallow, watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall.

‘I’m just covering this round for a mate who’s on holiday. I nearly knocked yesterday in case you were… but I was… wanting to say… I didn’t know what to say.’

He still didn’t from the sound of things.

‘I’m Pat,’ he then said and held out his hand. She looked at it as if it were a thing unrecognisable. Her own didn’t even twitch up to meet it and his slid downwards as if weighted, then travelled at speed up to his forehead to scratch it. Then into his trouser pocket where it pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

‘I’ve written my phone number on here in case you wanted to talk about fings . I don’t know if you do.’

Her eyes focused in on it, then, she took it from him, an automatic response rather than a chosen one.

‘I’ll get on then,’ said the postman. ‘Busy day.’

She didn’t know why he was hanging around her doorstep as if expecting her to say more. She had no words to give, she was scooped out of them, scooped out of everything.

She closed the door. It was only then she realised: Postman Pat. It was like a comedy without the humour.

The video doorbell alert on her mother’s house went off and Amanda temporarily abandoned cooking her pasta to view who was calling on her phone. Even though she’d put a ‘No cold callers, no canvassers, no salesmen’ notice up, cold callers invariably thought they were an exception. Amanda always tried to see them off by talking through the speaker before her mother got to the door.

On this occasion, though, it was her brother. He was trying to use his key, but Ingrid must have dropped the latch. Eventually the door opened and she heard her mother’s shriek of delight at finding him on her doorstep.

‘I’m doing your tea tonight,’ he said, giving her a kiss and Amanda thought, So much for taking her out for tea as you said you were.

She saw Ingrid reach up and place her hands on his cheeks.

‘It’s lovely to see you. Did you have a nice time on holiday?’

‘You’ve seen me since, I’ve told you all about it. Remember I brought you that dish for trinkets,’ he replied.

Amanda opened up the camera app on her phone so she could see what was happening in the hallway.

Bradley was sniffing the air. ‘Smells nice in here.’

‘It’s one of them things that you walk past and it squirts out scent,’ said Ingrid. ‘Our Amanda bought it. It’s a bit strong for me.’

‘Shall I switch it off? She’ll never know,’ said Bradley, conspiratorially.

Yes, she fucking will, said Amanda to her screen, watching Bradley fiddling with the back, taking out the batteries. Behind him, Ingrid giggled like a little boy hearing a fart joke.

‘I’ve got a proper treat for your tea tonight. Kerry’s plated you up some pie and peas. I’ll just put it in the microwave. You finish watching your programme and I’ll call you through.’

Amanda switched to the camera in the kitchen. As the pie was heating up, Bradley opened up the cupboard under the sink and poked around in it. Then the one next to it. What on earth was he always looking for? It wasn’t Mr Muscle to give the place a wipe down, that was for sure.

‘That’s not long enough,’ Amanda said, talking to the screen as Bradley took the plate out and set it on the table. Ingrid came to sit down and Bradley brewed some tea.

‘Is it okay? She makes a good pie does our Kerry.’

‘It’s a bit cold, but it’s nice,’ replied Ingrid.

Had that been her, her mum have moaned to high heaven about it, Amanda thought. Bradley, lazy twat, didn’t put it back in for another blast. And he poured the tea out from the teapot too soon, it would be as weak as witch pee. Rush, rush, rush to do what he had to so he could go back home.

‘Now then, what’s this I hear about you wanting to move,’ he said, pouring himself a cuppa.

‘My friend’s got a lovely little bungalow. Our Amanda said I might be able to get one as well. I—’

‘Mum, we talked about this,’ said Bradley, cutting her off. ‘This is your home for life. Do you really think you could settle anywhere else? Bungalows aren’t easy to find and if you did want one, you might have to move right out to Great Houghton, Darfield, Ponty.’

What the hell are you saying, you manipulative cock ? Amanda was furious. He was putting their mum off because a move would be too much trouble for him. Right, she was on her own here, obviously. But she’d win.

‘Just going to the toilet while you’re eating,’ he said.

Amanda switched to the camera at the bottom of the stairs which captured the full moon of his arse going up them. He stumbled and she thought, good. Let his heart jump into his mouth and feel the fear of a potential fall. He didn’t walk into the bathroom, though; he went left into the bedroom and started poking around again. She saw him open the drawer where her mother kept her pants and then the one below where all her tights were. Then he crossed to the bed and lifted the mattress up from the frame to inspect underneath. He was searching for something significant or valuable, but what? Her mother’s jewellery box sat on top of the chest of drawers and he didn’t go near that. If he had and she’d seen him take something, she’d have ripped out every one of those big ugly teeth with her bare hands.

He walked over to her whatnot and scanned his eyes across the knick-knacks quickly, at one point looking directly into the camera, but he hadn’t spotted it. He left then and went downstairs. Amanda saw him whisk away his mother’s plate before she’d swallowed the last mouthful and dump it in the sink without even washing it for her.

‘I’m going now, Mum, it’s just a quick one tonight. My pie’s waiting for me. You’re honoured, you got yours first.’

‘Tell Kerry it was lovely.’

He picked up her hand and sandwiched it between his own.

‘I hope you always trust me to know what’s best for you, Mum.’

He called her ‘mum’ then, when he was talking fondly to her – or when he wanted something from her.

‘Of course I do,’ said Ingrid. ‘You’re my little boy. However old you get.’

Bradley smiled, leaned forward and kissed her on her cheek and Ingrid’s arms came out to hold him, but he’d moved and they embraced only air.

Bradley took a choc ice out of the freezer and handed it to her.

‘Here you go… I’ll see you in the week. Kerry sends her best. Love you.’

‘Love you.’

Then he left and the sight of her mum on the camera screen sitting there at the table eating that choc ice all alone twisted Amanda’s gut into a dreadful knot of sadness.