Chapter Three As Time Goes By
Lunchtime is as busy as we anticipated and we don’t stop, but the buzz of sending customers away with smiles on their faces sustains us until just after two, when we finally get some breathing space. Patty has been worth her weight in gold during this rush. When Charlie and I have been occupied with one customer, she has sat and talked to others about where they’re hoping to go and generally kept them entertained. She’s been gushing over their holiday plans and telling them she wishes she was going there, so that by the time the customer gets to booking something with me or my partner, they’ve been nicely warmed up and the sale goes much smoother.
‘We should hire you,’ Charlie tells her as he accepts a coffee. That’s the other reason she’s been a godsend — endless hot drinks delivered to the desk.
‘I doubt you could afford me,’ she says with a coquettish flick of the hair.
The phone rings with Josie telling us that everyone for the Finland trip arrived at the airport and they’re just getting ready to board.
‘Can you even imagine how cold it’s going to be?’ she says.
‘I’m trying not to.’ I unconsciously rub my arms warm even though it’s toasty in here.
‘I can’t anticipate what it’s going to feel like. I mean, I’ve seen movies with deep snow, but they say there’s gonna be at least two feet of the stuff.’
Josie is Australian by birth and came over here in search of love and adventure. She found both after snagging Matt at a speed dating event we went to last year. Inevitably I came away empty-handed. I tell her to enjoy it and to send lots of pictures. A big part of our success is our social media posts, and being practically half my age, Josie is the best at them.
Charlie looks up as I end the call so I tell him that all is okay with the Finland trip. We decide that now is as good a time as any to have a lunch break, and before the words are out of our mouths, Patty has her coat on and is out the door. She returns with a selection of sandwiches, crisps and chocolates, which after that morning’s biscuit binge really isn’t ideal for so early in January.
‘Are you deliberately rebelling against the healthy-eating brigade or something?’ I ask, tucking into a crusty ploughman’s roll, which is absolutely delicious.
‘There is more than one way to health,’ she tells me, wagging her finger. ‘You get serotonin from chocolate and serotonin makes you happy. Happiness is good for the soul, ergo chocolate is actually a healthy food.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ says Charlie, raising his coffee mug, ‘but I really do need to shape up a bit. Peter works out all the time — he even went for a run on Christmas Day and I don’t want to risk losing him to some Olympian.’
‘I don’t think that would ever happen, and besides, running on Christmas Day is just not normal,’ Patty says. ‘You should have tied his laces together and told him to get back into bed. Morning delight is the very best way to start the day. That’s how Jack and I exercise.’
‘Waaay too much information,’ says Charlie. ‘Nope, I’m thinking of signing up for one of those January challenges — you know, run a hundred miles or do a hundred press-ups for charity, that kind of thing. I know I’ve already missed the beginning of the month but would you sponsor me if I started soon?’
I tell him I will as long as he doesn’t try and make me take part too. I really don’t like starting things in January (and very much doubt Charlie will start anything now). I think they’re doomed to failure as it’s such a long, miserable month. Why would anyone deny themselves pleasure when it’s consistently cold and dark? I start any resolutions in February, which is usually three days shorter and means that I nicely avoid even having to contemplate Dry January. I shudder at the thought of coping with Patty without a glass of wine in my hand.
The lunch things are tidied away as a customer comes into the shop to discuss a surprise getaway for his anniversary and Charlie leaps at the chance to talk romance. It’s far more his bag than mine. I’m about to use this moment of calm to call one of our hotel chain partners when an ear-piercing screech and the window-rattling crash of the front door sends our romantic customer cowering behind Charlie while Patty and me duck under the desks.
‘ANNNNNGGGGIE, you have to see this!’
I decide to take one for the team and raise my head above the parapet — well, I raise one eyebrow first, but on seeing it’s only my mother in full meltdown mode, I declare the territory safe and one by one the whole shop slides out from their hiding places like a scene from an action movie. If Private Benjamin had emerged from the stationery cupboard in full combats I wouldn’t have been surprised.
‘Mum,’ I say when my heart rate returns to normal, ‘what on earth is the matter? I thought we were being raided.’
‘Why on earth would anyone raid you?’ Mum asks, plonking herself down on the chair opposite. ‘What’s here to steal?’
‘We have an almighty stock of half-price biscuits,’ says Charlie. ‘Your daughter and her friend have them stashed but won’t give away the hiding place even under torture.’
Patty and I turn in unison and tut at his crazy scenario — neither of us could ever withstand torture.
‘Sometimes, I swear you two are like those twins from The Shining,’ he says and gets back to his customer.
‘Morning, Mrs Shepherd — what’s got you so excited on this January afternoon?’ Patty pulls up a chair beside us.
‘And whatever it is,’ I say, ‘can this crucial news possibly wait until the travel agency closes? We’ll probably have more customers in soon.’
‘Absolutely not.’ Mum adds that any customer would want to hear what she has to say. I shrug. There’s no point resisting when she’s in this mood.
‘Go on then,’ I say with a sigh. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m going to die,’ she says, placing her phone in front of me, but the screen is blank.
‘What’s your pin code?’ I pick it up.
‘1234 — it came with that and I thought it was very easy to remember.’
‘Mmm.’ Typing the number in, I get a screen showing a gravestone. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s called a death clock,’ Mum replies. ‘Jackie was telling me all about it when I had my roots done. You put in information and it tells you when you’re going to die.’
Jackie has been Mum’s hairdresser for an eternity and Mum visits her every month without fail even if it doesn’t need doing. There are definitely weeks when I swear Jackie just makes scissor sounds behind Mum’s head as you really cannot tell the difference.
‘Jackie put in all my details and look — I’ve only got four thousand days left!’
I’ve never heard of this website before but it seems pretty grim. You enter your age and some health details and it basically calculates when you’re going to pop your clogs. Patty takes it out of my hands and reads the information.
‘But you’re going to live until you’re ninety,’ she says to Mum. ‘That’s not a bad innings.’
‘I want to get to one hundred.’ Mum looks annoyed rather than distressed. ‘Tell the website it’s wrong.’
‘Don’t think it quite works like that,’ I say. ‘It’s just making a guess anyway — based on general statistics. They can’t possibly take into account your robust constitution.’
Patty is typing in her own information.
‘Woohoo,’ she says. ‘I beat you — I’m making it to ninety-four. But I’ve only got twelve thousand days left, that’s no time at all. Blimey, if I have four bottles of wine a week, how many do I have left in my lifetime?’
‘Nearly seven thousand,’ pipes up the customer from the other side of the room. ‘Which sounds far too much for one person.’
‘Oh I never get a bottle to myself,’ swipes Patty, adding in a loud comical whisper, ‘Angie always takes more than her fair share.’
I snatch the phone from her. Patty’s result has a helpful clock counting down the time she has left on earth. I toggle back to where you input the information, snort and start typing.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Patty.
‘Putting in your real information,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve said you have a BMI of less than twenty-five and never drink? Let’s see what happens when we tell the truth...’
I finish typing, look up at her with raised eyebrows then stand and pick up my coat.
‘Where are you going?’ asks Patty.
‘I’m going to need a black dress sooner than we thought,’ I tell her, then can’t hold back the giggle. I sit back down and tell both her and Mum to ignore this website as it’s only a bit of fun.
‘What did it say with... you know, more up-to-date information?’ ventures Patty.
‘Up-to-date? Do you mean accurate? I’ve put in those four bottles a week you mentioned instead of your original “teetotal” answer. And I’m not telling you — suffice to say it estimated that you wouldn’t make it to ninety.’
‘Wow,’ she says. ‘So less time than I’ve already had? I suppose that’s obvious really, but it’s a bit shocking to see it in black and white. I need to get on with life, don’t I?’
‘We both do,’ pipes up Mum. ‘We need one of those bucket list things and we need to get on with them quickly.’
‘Good idea — Angie could book us one of those trips to go swimming with dolphins,’ says Patty.
‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ says Mum, as I guessed she would. ‘And why would dolphins want to swim with us?’
‘They’re supposed to be very intelligent creatures and they like human interaction,’ Patty tells her, sounding like an authority on the subject.
‘If they were that intelligent then they’d organise a petition and stop people bloomin’ swimming with them,’ replies Mum. ‘We’re intelligent creatures and we like interaction — how would we feel if a bunch of crocodiles suddenly turned up to go swimming with us?’
The dolphin debate is becoming ridiculously heated considering how, well, ridiculous it actually is. I raise my palms to signal them to calm down.
‘Okay, no swimming with dolphins,’ I say. ‘Mum, if you decide there is something that you’d like to do then let me know and I’ll try to book it for you, although I have to say that you both have more adventures than most people I know.’
Mum looks placated and tells me that she’s going home to think about the rest of her life.
‘No matter how short it’s going to be,’ she adds with dramatic mournfulness.
She leaves the shop at the same time as Charlie’s customer, who despite all of the interruptions has settled on a stunning resort in St Lucia for his romantic retreat.
Now that the three of us are alone, Charlie and I cannot resist doing our own death forecasts and are delighted that we’ll both outlive Patty. While we laugh and joke about creating the Mercury Nursing Home, Patty is actually silent for a moment and you can hear the cogs whirring. That’s never a good sign.
‘What are you thinking?’ I ask, hoping that our jest hasn’t upset her.
‘About those numbers.’
‘I’ve told you, don’t take them seriously — you’ll still be on stage way after we’re gone.’
‘No, I was just calculating — if I stop drinking and go on a diet to reduce my BMI I get a couple more years, don’t I?’ says Patty.
I nod at her.
‘Two or three years,’ she says contemplatively, ‘and they’ll probably be bedbound with someone feeding me blended food. Not really worth the sacrifice, is it? Better to go out with a bang — shall I stop off and pick up a curry and some wine for tonight?’