Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-five
I’m not the only one having a bad day. Prish’s date in Glasgow last night – with a man she’s been talking to for several weeks – was a let-down. ‘He suggested we book into this budget hotel by Central Station,’ she tells us.
‘The kind of place where an eighteen-year-old loses his virginity to an escort?’ Jamie splutters.
‘Oh, God. Stop it,’ she exclaims, laughing now.
Then later, Jamie announces: ‘Well, the outlaws are coming up again. Interested in buying a cottage on Arran!’
‘Why are they doing that?’ I ask. I know they live down in Wiltshire. So it’s not exactly handy for them.
‘You know when people have too much money, and don’t know what to do with it?’ he says. ‘They love their visits up here, and want a place close to their precious boy.’
‘So it’ll still be the spare-room situation, whenever they come up to house-hunt?’ I ask.
‘Yep. But I thought next time, I could move out while they’re staying. Maybe pop round occasionally, pretend to be the Deliveroo guy.’
‘Oh, Jamie. This is unbearable, isn’t it?’
He exhales. ‘What d’you do when the person you love turns out not to be who you thought they were?’
Briefly, I think of how Frank was this morning. ‘I wish I had the answer to that.’ Then, as the last lenders leave, I check the wall clock. The thought of going home causes a sinking feeling in my stomach and, clearly Jamie’s feeling the same. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a quick drink?’ I suggest.
‘Love one,’ he enthuses.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ Marilyn says, regretfully. The only one among us with young children, she’s always off on the dot for the childminder dash.
‘Prish?’ I say hopefully. ‘C’mon. I think we all need it tonight.’
We’re not really a drinks-after-work group. The pubs around here, once bustling with locals and tourists alike, are now pretty faded, frequented mainly by old men and dogs. But right now the Harbour Bar seems like an appealing prospect. So I message Frank, saying I’ll be a bit late back, and can he sort out dinner please?
Sure, comes the one-word reply.
Don’t worry about me, I add. No response to that as, clearly, he doesn’t. So we all leave the library, and on this warm July evening it feels right not to be going home just yet. We head for the Harbour Bar where, as expected, several elderly men and a couple of dogs are gathered. Even on this summer’s evening, a small fire is flickering. As we settle around a corner table, my heart lifts as I look around at my friends.
‘Oh, I needed this,’ Jamie announces.
‘Me too,’ I say.
He takes a big sip of beer. ‘I’m sick of pretending to be a fucking housemate!’
‘Tell Lewis he has to tell them,’ Prish says, leaning forward.
He looks at us, running a hand across his stubbled jaw. ‘What would you do if it was one of your kids?’
‘Who said they were gay? You think I’d mind?’ I look at him incredulously.
‘’Course not,’ he says.
‘Ana’s had girlfriends and boyfriends,’ I add. ‘Jamie, I don’t care. It sounds trite, I know, but I just want them to be happy—’
‘Carly’s right,’ Prish cuts in. ‘Tell him, Jamie. Sometimes you’ve got to grab the bull by the balls.’
‘Erm, I think that’s horns?’ He laughs.
‘Horns, balls, whatever,’ she retorts. We finish our drinks and, rashly, decide to have another, all of us feeling a whole lot better just being together as we take it in turns to talk and listen. More drinks follow, because this is such a treat and the pub offers the perfect view of tonight’s pink and orange sunset. Then the sun slips like a ball of gold over the horizon, and by the time we step outside, it’s a quarter to ten and the light has finally dimmed. Summer days are long here, and tonight has been a special one.
‘I should call a taxi,’ Jamie says reluctantly, checking his phone. ‘Reckon Brian’ll take me out to the sticks?’
To his village, he means. Sandybanks has only two taxi companies, both one-man operations, and Brian is everyone’s default option.
‘Try him,’ I say. ‘If he can’t, you can stay at mine.’
‘ You don’t have room,’ he teases. ‘You’re full to the rafters! Wish we could go on somewhere else, though …’
‘Me too,’ I say, shocked by how very strongly I do not want to go home. ‘We could have another drink at my place. But … y’know. With Frank and Dad and Eddie there …’
‘They wouldn’t approve of three pisshead librarians bowling up?’ Jamie sniggers.
‘We could pretend to be sober,’ Prish giggles. ‘Like teenagers.’
‘How about we all go to yours, Prish?’ Jamie asks her hopefully.
She smiles. ‘You’re welcome but I don’t have anything in. Kids cleaned me out last time they were over. So it’d be cups of tea, I’m afraid …’
Jamie checks the time on his phone. ‘If we hurry up we’ll just make the offy.’
‘We could drink beer on the beach,’ Prish announces, eyes shining in the blue-white light of the streetlamps. ‘Like proper teenagers!’
‘We could.’ I nod. ‘But we’d be freezing our arses off. And actually, I have a better idea.’ I beam at their eager faces. ‘How d’you fancy wine and a load of leftover party food?
*
Eddie did this once. At least, there was one incident I was aware of; there were probably other occasions too. But the time I’m thinking of, he stole two bottles of wine from the house to drink somewhere – probably at the bandstand – then denied it strenuously. You and Dad must’ve drunk it all!
Tonight, like accomplices in a robbery, Prish and Jamie hover on the pavement as I creep into my house. It’s not Eddie nicking booze this time. It’s me. As expected, Frank is out in the shed and Dad is already upstairs in his room. Or rather, the room that should rightly be Eddie’s, apparently. My son is upstairs too, presumably with headphones on. So I sneak through to the kitchen and lift out a bottle of sauvignon from the fridge. Then I open a cupboard and take all the leftover food from Dad’s party: the unopened crackers and crisps and biscuits. Sleepover food really. The kind of stuff I always got in for the kids.
How to let Frank know I won’t be back until morning without telling an outright lie? My eye is caught by the magnetic notepad that’s stuck to the fridge. CANCEL CITROLAX!! is written in huge capital letters on the front sheet. I peel it off, and then take off a fresh sheet and write:
Having a night with Prish and Jamie. Will be back early morning. Don’t worry! Will explain tomorrow. Love C xx.
Frank will think I’ve gone mad because I never stay out overnight. But he’ll assume we’re all staying at Prish’s. Where else would we be? Shrugging off a twang of unease, I leave the note on the worktop, and pack our night picnic into a carrier bag. After padding through the hallway, I close the front door quietly behind me.
The three of us march along quickly, giddy with the realisation that what we’re doing is crazy, but we’re going to do it anyway. ‘There’s no CCTV, is there?’ Jamie asks as the library comes into view.
‘It hasn’t worked for years,’ I tell him. At the library’s main door now, I fish out my big bunch of keys. Heavy rain starts to fall suddenly.
‘Quick!’ Prish commands as I open the heavy door. We step in, pausing to register the still darkness, the orderliness of our workplace. Drip-drip-drip. The only sound is rain plopping into a bucket. Then Jamie clicks on a light and we spring into life, fetching mugs and utilising the meagre selection of mismatched plates in the kitchen for our snacks.
The children’s section is rearranged swiftly as we pull three primary-coloured beanbags close together, and place a low plastic table in the middle. Wine is sloshed into mugs, and on this summer’s night, the three of us have a little party. We drink and eat, and then put on music through the tinny speaker that the toddlers’ singing group uses. We even get up and dance, revelling in the naughtiness of our library lock-in. And we talk about everything: how Prish – a fifty-eight-year-old mother and grandmother – has decided to forget about meeting ‘the one’, and will instead enjoy meeting ‘the many!’ as she puts it. Jamie tells us how he plans to invite himself on a trip to Arran, next time Lewis’s parents are staying. ‘I’ll out Lewis to his mum and dad on the ferry,’ he announces.
‘Yes! What’s the worst that could happen?’ I ask, swigging from my mug.
He pulls a mock-horrified face. ‘He might throw himself overboard.’
‘Or they might?’ I suggest.
‘That’d be a result!’ He grins, then turns serious. ‘I think he’d dump me,’ Jamie adds. ‘But, y’know. Maybe that’s not the worst thing …’ He turns to me. ‘What d’you think?’
‘I think the worst thing we imagine often turns out to not be so bad after all.’
‘Oh, profound,’ he announces, and we laugh. But right now I believe it, because even though I’m going to be a granny soon, and have no idea what to do, or how to help – should I be knitting? I can’t even knit! – I’m with my friends and I’m here.
When Mum was dying I sat at her bedside in the hospice and held her hand. Mostly she’d been sleeping. Her soft fair hair was neatly combed, her thin body very still in a cotton nightie patterned with forget-me-nots. Everything was closing down, yet there was a sense of peace and calm in her little room.
‘Carly?’ she said suddenly. Her voice was soft but still gave me a jolt.
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘You know where I’d like to be?’
Oh God, I thought – this is it. I thought I’d been coping, with Frank’s help. He was living with me, having left his life in Portugal, because I’d needed him. And Mum had been so terribly ill, fading away before my eyes. It would be kinder, I’d thought sometimes. Kinder for her to slip away. But I didn’t think that now. She was my mum! She couldn’t die! How would I ever manage without her?
‘Where, Mum?’ I whispered.
Now I look at Prish and Jamie. ‘You know just before my mum died?’ I start, and Prish grabs my hand.
‘Oh, darling. Don’t be sad tonight!’
I shake my head quickly and smile. ‘I’m not. Really. But she said this thing, about where she’d like to be right at the end …’ My voice cracks and I take another sip of wine, tepid now in the mug.
‘Oh, Carly.’ Jamie squeezes my hand.
‘… I thought she’d say Heaven or something,’ I continue. ‘She wasn’t religious, but what else was she going to say?’ I pause and look at my friends.
‘What did she say?’ Jamie prompts me.
I smile. ‘She said John Lewis.’
‘John Lewis?’ Prish exclaims. ‘Why?’
‘Because she always reckoned nothing bad could ever happen in there.’
‘And she was right,’ Jamie asserts. He looks around at our neatly ordered library shelves, the empty tables. ‘Like here.’
‘Yes, nothing bad could ever happen here,’ Prish agrees.
‘Unless we mess with the Natural History Society’s table again,’ Jamie remarks with a shudder.
‘If we can handle Thelma Campbell,’ I say firmly, ‘we can handle anything, can’t we?’
‘’Course we can,’ Jamie says, and then we hug and finish our wine and doze a little on the beanbags. And when we wake just after six a.m., dawn is creeping in through the stained-glass windows.
We’re bleary and a little shellshocked at what we’ve just done. Jamie stretches like a cat, and Prish jumps up. ‘We’d better clear up,’ I suggest, surveying the cluttered table. So we quickly bag up the leftovers and wash up and put the beanbags back just so.
‘Like teenagers getting rid of the evidence before the parents come home,’ Jamie suggests.
I check my phone, seeing that at some point during the night, it ran out of charge. No one has a charger but it’ll be fine, I reassure myself. I left Frank that note, so he won’t be worried. We do a final check, and then leave the library, locking up and heading off for a quick change and freshen up before our working day begins.
‘See you at nine then,’ Prish says, grinning, as she and Jamie stride away together. She’s persuaded him that, with three adult sons, she’s bound to have a clean pair of boxers kicking around somewhere. I watch them cross the street, my heart skipping with sudden alarm as it sinks in properly, what I did last night.
The bright morning sun beams down onto our seaside town. I inhale deeply, and try to fully engage my core, as I ready myself to face the music.