Chapter 4
? Sentimental item from childhood
Frannie was an early riser, and I was a light sleeper, so a lie-in at
Elle’s was never an option. But, hey, that’s what Saturday afternoon
naps were for.
I lay in bed for a while, checking my work emails to see if there’d been any developments on ‘all-staff-email-gate’ since yesterday (there hadn’t), before pulling my clothes on, having a major falling-out with the ridiculously unfoldable futon in their home office box room and making my way down to the kitchen.
As expected, Elle was nowhere to be seen – Saturdays were her lie-in days and Rory got Sundays.
Though looking at Rory’s hungover pallor as he attempted to coax Frannie to eat her gluey Ready Brek, I was surprised he hadn’t managed to negotiate a swap this weekend.
‘Morning, little one. Oh, and Frannie,’ I said, with perfect comedic timing. Dad humour is the best humour.
Rory groaned at the classic gag. ‘Very funny, Auntie Mally. Say good morning, Fran.’
‘Nor-nin, Nally!’
‘Big night, then?’ I asked.
‘Ha. You could say that.’
‘What time did you get in?’
‘Only a few hours ago. We haven’t woken you, have we?’
‘Nah, you’re good. So where did you go?’
‘Oh God, it was this awful bar near the hospital. The food was dire. Honestly, come and look at this.’ Rory unlocked his phone and opened up his photo gallery, swiping to the relevant image.
‘What am I looking at here? The only thing that’s even vaguely recognisable is a plate.’
‘Believe it or not, Mally, residing upon said plate is – allegedly – Christmas pudding.’ Rory’s face had turned worryingly green.
‘I’m sorry – what?!’
I looked at the image again – the pudding resembled an ungenerous slice of malt loaf that had been drizzled with watered-down salad cream, and then punched by a very large fist.
‘Did you eat it ?’
‘Course not. Look at it! Honestly, though, the whole night was a total shambles. We had no choice but to drink our way through it.’
‘Sometimes it’s the only way. I’ll get some coffee on.’
‘Mally, you fucking—’ Rory glanced down at Frannie and exaggeratedly clapped his hand to his mouth. She giggled. ‘I mean flipping legend. Yes, please. I swear you know your way around this kitchen better than I do. You’ll stay for breakfast?’
‘Ah, thanks, but once this caffeine’s coursing through my veins I’m going to head off and grab something en route.
’ A perfect 3D image of a Greggs Steak Bake popped into my head, spinning seductively to show me every greasy, oozing angle of deliciousness.
I reluctantly dismissed the meaty mirage: there was an unacceptable absence of a conveniently located Greggs branch between here and my flat.
‘Hey, Mally.’ Rory glanced at the kitchen door behind me and lowered his tone before continuing. ‘I wondered if Elle’s said anything to you about this stuff going on at work?’
‘Well, just a little. But I probably know as much as you do, to be honest.’
‘Which is…?’
‘Oh, just that – like the whole online media industry, really – we need more clicks and more revenue. Same old story.’
‘Cool. And, er, she hasn’t mentioned anything else to you that’s on her mind?’
I knew better than to mention the pending office closure. Rory had always been a natural worrier and I knew Elle would tell him what he needed to know and when.
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, nothing in particular. She just seems extra-stressed at the moment and I know she sometimes confides in you.’
‘Nope, all good.’
His shoulders slumped a little. He knew something was up, deep down.
‘Right, I’d better be off. See ya, munchkin,’ I said to Frannie, taking a gulp of my coffee before kissing the top of her head.
‘Do you have your baby, Auntie Nally?’
Rory’s brow contracted in confusion. ‘Baby? Is there some news you’d care to share with me?’
I reached into my coat pocket and showed him a clump of moss she’d proudly handed me when Elle and I had picked her up from nursery the evening before. I winked at Rory before crouching down to conspire with my goddaughter.
‘Of course I do, poppet! I’m going to take him back to my place and find a lovely cosy spot for him. I’ll send your mummy a photo later so you can see his new home.’
‘Yay! Look, Daddy, Nally has a baby!’
I chuckled, but her words cut deep. Let’s be honest, taking care of this crumbly green lump would probably be the closest I’d ever get to starting my own family.
The journey from Bounds Green in North London to Hither Green in the south-east of the capital was rarely a straightforward one on weekends. With various Tubes and trains to contend with, engineering works could easily scupper the entire trip.
As my final mode of transportation pulled into Hither Green station – thankfully not a rail replacement bus this time around – I was reminded how at ease I always felt in this village-esque pocket of the borough of Lewisham.
Especially at this time of year, when the community-funded Christmas tree greeted me at the bottom of the station ramp, its branches proudly bearing the colourful, laminated handiwork of the local schoolchildren.
As I wandered past the ranks of independent stores, I admired their festive window displays, breathing in the comforting scent of mulled wine wafting from the pub on the corner.
In the many years since I’d lived here, the pubs had gradually all been renovated and gastronomised, the greasy spoons and old-school carpet shops giving way to craft beer bars and brunchy cafes.
Shame, really – I missed my weekly full English breakfast with fried slice.
Almost all the rat-run residential streets were now cordoned off with bollards that the local residents’ association had transformed into well-maintained planters as part of the local council’s ‘low-traffic neighbourhood’ scheme.
Property prices had soared accordingly. These days, there’d be no way people like me would be able to afford to live in this pleasant Zone 3 conservation area – which was practically gated off from the surrounding A-roads – if they were trying to get on the property ladder as I’d done all those years ago.
In fact, the only reason I’d been able to get a mortgage back then was thanks to the credit crunch, an unexpected inheritance from my grampy and the guaranteed rental income from Elle as my lodger.
Elle still treated my place like her second home, letting herself in every so often with the set of keys she still had.
I entered the draughty communal hallway, which I shared with the flat upstairs.
Their enormous running stroller always took up most of the space to save them lugging it up the staircase to the first floor of our converted Victorian terrace.
I glanced down and spied two little be-wellied feet poking out of the buggy’s blackout blanket: often Sophie or Kay had to walk or jog little Oscar around the nearby Manor House Gardens to get him to nap.
Then they’d park him at the foot of the stairs with their flat door open, one of them perched on the stairs to keep an eye on him.
I bent my head down low enough to see who’d drawn the short straw today and mouthed ‘Hi’ to Sophie, who looked up from her phone and smiled through her obvious exhaustion and waved back silently.
I’d been trying to pluck up the courage to speak to them about the increasingly loud pre-dawn noises that woke me up every morning – at the very least a rug on the wooden floors would absorb some of Oscar’s toy-throwing antics – but I figured they already had enough on their plate without having to factor in a fussy downstairs neighbour.
I let myself into my flat as quietly as possible, which wasn’t easy given the stiffness of my ancient lock.
I’d been meaning to get it replaced for a while now, but the prices I’d been quoted had been ridiculous.
If only the hardware shop on the corner of my street was still there.
They used to stock everything – from rat poison to rat food – and they would’ve popped up the road and replaced my lock in a jiffy for next to nothing.
But these days the shop was a high-end ‘concept store’ where every ‘carefully curated’ item of clothing and homeware appeared to have had its saturation colour level dialled right down until it was almost – but not quite – greyscale.
I’d only been in there once, but had swiftly left when one of the owners had flared her nostrils in the direction of the bottle of 7UP I’d been swigging from at the time.
I headed straight for the mantelpiece in the living room to open today’s advent calendar window.
Mum still sent me a calendar every December, though she’d stopped sending them to Josh a few years back after he’d taken her aside to ‘impart his wisdom’ about single-use plastic and the plight of the world’s cocoa farmers.
But she knew my weakness for anything that contained that heady mix of chocolate and countdowns, so they’d kept on coming.
I peeled back the sixth cardboard door of the Doctor Who -themed calendar and dug through the foil to reveal a Dalek-shaped milk chocolate treat.
As it melted on my tongue, I wondered whether anyone had ever thought about developing a Dalek-shaped ice lolly.
I subconsciously composed a message to Livvie in my mind:
Idea: Dalek-shaped ice lolly called ‘Dalick’. Or maybe
‘Licksterminate’. Preference?
I pierced the pointless thought as I kicked off my boots and dumped my coat on the bed of the spare room, carefully removing the moss from my pocket before I did so.
I’d been thinking about converting Elle’s old bedroom into a fancy living room ever since she’d moved out when she and Rory got engaged.
It was the largest room in the flat – square and light with a stunning original fireplace and beautiful bay window.