Lydia
Lydia
Lydia had a full house, and a full heart, again. Sophia and Ellie were back from university, and it was her turn to take care of Maggie. She looked around the breakfast table and felt a wave of contentment. Jeremy sat at the head, laughing over one of Sophia’s stories of student antics, the perfect picture of the fond, benevolent father. How could she possibly have suspected him of betraying her? It was the empty nest, the menopause, and the acres of time on her hands that had made her temporarily lose the plot.
“Sit,” she said to Maggie. Maggie sat. “Lie down,” she said, more out of interest than expectation. Maggie lay down. “Roll over,” she said, just for fun. Maggie rolled over.
“Wow, Mum!” said Sophia. “You’ve trained her really well!”
“Have I?” said Lydia. Perhaps the effect of being in such a happy, well-run home was having a positive impact on Maggie’s behavior? If only Lydia could get her to eat properly. Maggie seemed to have completely gone off her dried kibble. Whenever Lydia poured it into her bowl, she just stared at her, as if she’d been badly let down. Yet, strangely, she seemed to be getting fatter. Lydia made a mental note to ask Art and Daphne if they’d had the same problem. Maybe a trip to the vet was in order.
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Lydia’s job had transformed, as well as her home life. The social club had joined the nursery next door for the afternoon, so they could help with the final nativity rehearsals, scenery painting, and wardrobe fittings. It was a hive of happy activity, interspersed with the occasional temper tantrum. Mainly, but not entirely, by one of the children.
Art was sitting in a canvas chair with DIRECTOR written on the back. He was taking his role frightfully seriously.
“OK, Joseph, you need to go up to the door of the inn, leading Mary on the donkey!” said Art through a megaphone, despite the children being only feet away from him. Zack, dressed as Joseph, with one of Lydia’s checked tea towels on his head, was holding a short rope which was tied to Anna’s mobility scooter. The scooter was covered in a donkey costume knitted by Ruby, and on it sat Noah as Mary, in an adapted Snow White outfit .
“Stop, Noah! Before you run over Kylie!” shouted Art. “Then we’d have no baby Jesus. And who would save mankind then?”
Janine had her head in her hands and was muttering something about Health and Safety and P45s.
“Right, knock on the door, Zack, and say your words. Can you remember them?” said Art.
“Uh. Hi. Can I have a room?” said Zack, which must have been more or less what Art had in mind.
“Brilliantly done, Zack! Do you want to be an actor when you grow up?” said Art.
“No, I’m going to be a bay leaf,” said Zack, confidently.
“A bay leaf?” said Lydia. “That’s more an ingredient than a career, surely? Why?”
“Bay leafs get to go into other people’s houses and take all their best things home with them,” said Zack.
“Ah, I think you mean a bailiff , Zack,” said Lydia.
“Why not go the whole hog and be a Tory politician?” mumbled Art. “Now, innkeeper—Tabby, it’s your line!”
“No, sorry. We’re full up, up, up, to the tippedy-top,” said Tabby, who Lydia suspected was improvising a little.
“OK, Zack, now you need to say: ‘If Thatcher hadn’t sold off all the council housing in the eighties, we wouldn’t be in this sorry mess,’?” said Art.
“Art!” interrupted Lydia. “I think your own agenda is less hidden than it might be, here. Anyhow, that line is way too challenging for Zack. He’s only four.”
“Four and a quarter,” said Zack, with righteous indignation.
How lovely it must be to be an age at which you wanted to add quarters rather than subtract decades.
“Lydia,” said Art. “What other opportunity will we have to influence a captive audience of council members?”
“I don’t think anyone from the council is coming, Art,” said Lydia. “I’ve invited them all, obviously, but they’re busy.”
“Busy!” shouted Daphne, who Lydia hadn’t even realized was listening. Despite her age, Daphne seemed to have the hearing of an adolescent bat. “What do you mean, busy ?”
“Uh, as in they have something else on?” said Lydia, wondering if she’d misunderstood the question.
“And you just accepted that, did you?” said Daphne, narrowing her already narrow eyes.
“Well, yes. What else was I supposed to do?” stuttered Lydia. The rehearsal seemed to have ground to a halt, the whole room had gone silent, and everyone was staring at her.
“Lydia, you need to stop taking what irritating, self-important men tell you as the gospel truth,” said Daphne. Lydia wondered whether she was referring to the council or Jeremy. Possibly both. “You are not a doormat for them to wipe their feet on. You are a grown woman, at the height of her powers. You just need to channel them.”
“Uh, how?” said Lydia, feeling a hot flush coming on. She could probably power a kettle, even if she couldn’t stand up to the council.
“You and I are going to the town hall. Right now, with Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, and the donkey,” said Daphne. “No, no, don’t get changed, Zack! We need you and Noah in costume!”
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They caused quite a stir, progressing down the high street, handing out copies of the flyer William had made, using the children’s drawings, to advertise the nativity. Lydia and Zack (Joseph) walked alongside the mobility scooter, which was still decked out as a donkey, while Daphne and Noah (Mary) rode on top. Kylie (baby Jesus) was strapped to Lydia’s chest in a baby carrier, facing outward, grinning enthusiastically at everyone they passed.
“Zack and Noah,” said Daphne. “You know how good you both are at acting?” Mary and Joseph nodded enthusiastically, sending both of their headdresses slightly awry. “Well, I thought we could give a little demonstration to the council. So, if I tap you on the shoulder, I need you to cry. As if someone’s just kidnapped your siblings at gunpoint and set fire to your house.”
Zack and Noah looked as stunned as Lydia felt, but rallied quickly.
“Can you do that?” prompted Daphne.
“Yes,” said Zack, looking at Daphne slightly nervously. Lydia felt a huge affinity with this small child.
“Should I show them my pirouettes, too?” said Noah.
“Not this time,” said Daphne. “Best to keep something back for a possible encore, don’t you think?”
The receptionists at the town hall, who were usually ferocious gatekeepers, were so taken aback by the sudden arrival of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus in their lobby that they waved them through the barriers, directed them to the right office, and even offered to keep an eye on the donkey.
Mr. Dixon, Lydia’s council representative, was—for the first time since she’d met him—entirely lost for words. After several seconds of staring at them, open-mouthed, he said, “I’m afraid I’m all out of stables till the next financial year.” Then he laughed so hard at his own joke that his chins flowed like a wave, up and down his neck.
Lydia felt Daphne poke her in the back, and realized that she was, at this moment, more scared of the septuagenarian standing beside her than she was of standing up to Mr. Dixon.
“We don’t need a stable, Mr. Dixon,” said Lydia. “We just need to ask you to reconsider coming to the Mandel Community Center nativity on Friday, with the rest of the council.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Mr. Dixon, one hand rifling through a huge leather desk diary.
“We must insist you come, actually,” said Daphne. She kept looking over at the industrial-sized stapler on Mr. Dixon’s desk. If Lydia hadn’t known her better, she’d have assumed that Daphne’s subtext was: Do as I say, or I’ll staple your hand to that desk . “It’s an important community event. The local media will be covering it,” she continued, staring from Mr. Dixon to the stapler and back again.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t make it then. None of us can,” said Mr. Dixon, prodding at the date in his diary with a corpulent index finger. “It’s our Christmas lunch, you see.” He rested his hands on his heaving belly, as if preparing it for the task. If any belly was primed to receive a plateful of cholesterol-busting food, it was this one.
“How lovely for you all,” said Daphne. “Where is it?”
“At the Taverna Portabella, on Brook Green,” said Mr. Dixon.
Daphne pulled out her phone. Her fingers flew over the screen in a manner more like Lydia’s daughters than a regular pensioner. Then she passed it to Lydia. Lydia knew exactly what she was suggesting, and something about Daphne’s presence made her feel courageous, as if she were leeching off Daphne’s invisible force field. She pushed back her shoulders and inhaled slowly.
“Hello. I’m calling from Mr. Dixon’s office,” she said, hearing her initially shaky voice building in confidence. “Our booking for Friday…yes, that’s right, eighteen people in the function room…Is it possible to start a little later? At one thirty p.m.? We have an extremely important appointment beforehand…Thank you. See you then.”
She handed the phone back to Daphne, who gave her an approving nod. She’d never done that to Lydia before. Lydia felt like she’d been nominated for a Nobel Prize. Or, at least, a Blue Peter badge.
“But…but…” spluttered Mr. Dixon.
“You’re not going to let these children down, are you, Mr. Dixon?” said Daphne. “They’d be so terribly upset if none of our most special guests came to their show.” She tapped Mary and Joseph surreptitiously on the back of their shoulders, and both of them started weeping, exactly as if someone had just kidnapped their siblings at gunpoint and set fire to their house. Baby Jesus, whose tiny face—peering out from the baby carrier on Lydia’s chest—was precisely at the level of Mr. Dixon’s head, began wailing in sympathy.
“Argh! OK, OK! Just get everyone out of here and we’ll see you on Friday!” said Mr. Dixon.
They left before he could change his mind, or Daphne could do any serious damage with the stapler.
“Daphne,” said Lydia, as they processed with the donkey on their triumphant return journey down the high street. “You were spectacular! Thank you.”
“As were you, my dear,” said Daphne. “I wasn’t sure you had it in you, to be honest. But it’s not so hard, is it? You just need to take a deep breath, and channel your power.”
Lydia stood just a little taller, feeling a tingling in her fingertips. Was that the power Daphne was referring to, or just poor circulation?