Chapter 42
Rose
‘The apostrophes are in the wrong place,’ she said, looking at it in disgust. ‘Friday Night’s are Singalong Night’s. Uggh.’
Apostrophes, to be fair, were the least of my concerns. Mother dearest had simply written on top of the paper, in bright-red felt-tip pen: Go To This!
You really can’t knock her sick sense of humour.
At least it was something we could do at night, which gave me the whole day to try and make myself presentable. I cracked open one of Mum’s many toiletry gift sets, and given my hair a deep conditioning treatment to try and tame the frizz.
I plucked my eyebrows so I looked a bit less like a werewolf, and managed to squash myself into my jeans instead of my usual trackie bottoms. I fear my legs now resemble giant walking sausages, but there’s not much I can do about that in the timeframe.
Poppy took one look at me and decided to give me a mini-makeover, which I endured silently, and with what I like to think of as a great deal of dignity. She trimmed my hair, and opened a few buttons on my top to flash some boobage, and did my make-up.
‘You were always so much better at this than me,’ I said, as she shaped and blended, a look of utter concentration on her face.
‘I had to be. Spotty Poppy, remember?’
I do remember – not only that other people used to call her that, but that I said it to her myself the night before. I feel a blush of shame at the memory – she really had suffered.
When Poppy finished creating her masterwork of make-up, she gave my nose a little tap with the powder puff, just like Mum used to do, which threatened to tear me up and ruin all her magical mascara work.
I have to admit, though, that she did a good job, and I look better than I have in … well, years. She, naturally enough, just slipped into a tiny leather mini-skirt and swooshed her shiny hair out and became a supermodel. The cow.
Now, we are parked up outside the pub, and I really don’t want to go in.
I’m driving, as I am temporarily off the sauce after recent excesses, and Poppy is checking her lipstick in the passenger mirror.
The mirror that is held on by silver duct tape.
I keep several rolls of it in my boot, like a serial killer.
‘Your car is a mess,’ she says, once she’s satisfied. ‘It’s like being trapped in a McDonald’s recycling bin.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, unhooking my seatbelt, ‘we aim to please. God … I really don’t want to do this.’
‘Why not?’ she asks, frowning at me. ‘It’s better than sitting in the cottage crying about the ghosts of traumas past, isn’t it? Besides, you have a nice voice. It could be fun.’
‘It’s not that … I just don’t want to see these people again. Look at this car park – it’s packed. Everyone in the village will be here. And they’ll all be, like, “look at those two little madams”, and “they’re only back now she’s dead”, and “God, she’s put weight on, serves her right”, and—’
‘And I think you’re overestimating how interesting we are, Rose. They have their own lives to worry about, without judging ours. And even if they do, who gives a shit? Once this is all done, we never have to see them again, do we? Now come on. Get into the groove, girl. It’s show time.’
She gets out of the car, and teeters across the gravel with way too much ease for a woman in those kinds of shoes. Frankly, they look like she stole them from a prostitute.
I pull a face at her, but follow on behind, grimacing as we open the door to the pub.
This is a place I’ve been to so many times.
A place where I spent large chunks of my childhood, eating a bag of crisps and drinking a lemonade while Mum had grown-up chats and the odd gallon of G the ancient wooden bar; the horse brasses hanging from the wall.
It’s been painted, and it smells a lot less of smoke, but other than that, it’s like stepping into a time machine.
I almost expect to see my mother holding court in the corner that she always sat in, waving us over and sending us to the bar to get her a top-up.
Much to my relief, there’s not suddenly a huge silence as we enter, while everyone in the village stares at us with hostility. In fact, all that happens is that a few people wave, and some of the farmers give their traditional effusive greeting of one single nod.
I head for a free table, and Poppy goes straight to get drinks.
I sit nervously, twisting my hair around my fingers, and watch her.
There’s an exceptionally good-looking young man behind the bar, and they seem to be giving each other far more attention than it requires to order a white wine spritzer and a Diet Coke.
The mangled rendition of Whitney Houston finally comes to a stop, and I see as she steps from the makeshift stage area that Whitney was actually Tasmin Hughes, my old school friend from a million years ago.
She’s all dolled up, wearing a flimsy white frock that makes her look like Marilyn Monroe after she ate all the cakes in the entire world.
She’s a big woman, but carries it in that proud, sassy way that makes her sexy – something I’ve never quite mastered.
She pauses as she walks past, does a little double take as she sees me, and breaks out into a huge grin.
I smile back, secretly hoping she’ll move on, and struggle to keep it on my face when she sits next to me instead.
‘I was hoping I’d see you around again!’ she says, fanning herself with a beer mat to cool her karaoke sweat. ‘How are you, Rose? God, it’s been an age, hasn’t it?’
She doesn’t wait for my reply, but instead reaches out and takes hold of my hand.
‘I was so sorry about your mum,’ she says, genuine sympathy on her face. ‘She was a lovely woman, and we all miss her. Especially here.’
‘Here? You mean the Farmer’s, or karaoke night?’
‘Both – she did a fabulous version of “Big Spender” every time. Had the old coots in fits, it did – she was one sexy mama when she wanted to be!’
I am momentarily thrown by this image, but once I squint at the stage, surrounded by disco lights, I can almost see it: Mum hamming it up, giving it some bump and grind, channelling her best Shirley Bassey and nailing it every time.
I burst into sudden and unwelcome tears, partly at that image, and partly at Tasmin’s unexpected kindness. I’m not sure I’ll ever get to grips with this emotional rollercoaster – one minute I’m coping, and the next I’m drowning in loss and regret.
Tasmin immediately produces a tissue from her cleavage, which I accept with a snotty gurgle, and says: ‘It’s all right, love, don’t worry – I’ve been where you are, and I know it hurts like buggery.
It’ll get better, I promise. Just don’t try and control it too much.
Let it have its way with you and it passes quicker. Like sex when you’re drunk.’
‘Your mum died?’ I ask, frowning as I try and remember if I’d been told.
I remember Tasmin’s mother well – she was big and brassy and managed a team of macho men at the chicken plant.
She was what my mother always called a for midable lady, one of her highest compliments, usually reserved for Dame Joan Plowright and Queen Victoria.
Tasmin nods, making both her blonde curls and her chins wobble, and replies: ‘About eight years ago. Breast cancer. They’ve told me I should think about getting mine lopped off as a precaution, but I’m still not sure I can bear to part with them.’
She gazes down at her glistening cleavage with adoration, and I find myself following her eyes and staring at her chest.
‘Anyway. Losing your mum is a killer, no matter how old you are. Still stings. I still get those fits of tears like you’re having now, only they come less and less often. Still miss her, always will.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I blubber, her gentle words only serving to make me cry more. ‘I’m sorry your mum died. I’m sorry I’m crying. And I’m sorry I never visited you when you got pregnant.’
‘Oh lord!’ she says, throwing her head back and laughing.
‘Don’t worry about that one! You were only a kid yourself, and you weren’t the only one – it was like everyone thought it was catching!
Worked out all right, though, see – that’s my Jake there, working the bar. Assistant manager, he is, la-di-da.’
I follow her finger, and see that she is pointing towards the good-looking guy Poppy is flicking her hair at. Jesus. He must be, what, 26, 27? Unbelievable.
‘Are you still with … what was his name, Sean?’
‘Miraculously I am, yes. Few ups and downs. The odd divorce, and the occasional death threat. But yes, still together, against all the odds – we have two younger ones as well, but obviously they’re over at the Tennyson’s. Is that your Poppy over there, talking to Jake, by the way?’
‘I think “talking” is a kind word for what she’s doing,’ I reply, feeling my face flame up on my sister’s behalf. ‘She looks as if she’s about to eat him for dinner. I’m sorry for that as well.’
‘Again, there’s no need to be sorry – do you ever do anything but apologise?
Jake is a grown man, and I gave up worrying about his sex life a long time ago, once I’d drummed it into him that we didn’t want any repeats of my circumstances.
He lives in a soundproofed flat over the garage, and what I don’t hear doesn’t hurt me.
What about you? You have a lad, don’t you?
Joe, isn’t it? Your mum was so proud of him. ’
‘Yes. Joe. He’s sixteen – so I suppose I’ll need to start worrying about his sex life soon. And … thank you. For being so nice.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she asks, looking confused.