Break Point (12 page)

"I ain't got
no bloke, me. I'm gay, duck."

SECOND
SATURDAY

"Rise and
shine, Gwen. Your early morning cuppa." I open the grim curtains,
not sure whether I'm supposed to be on this morning or not. Me and
Shari are getting muddled about who's meant to be doing what
when.

Traditional
order of play has gone to seed this year.

I can see how
the confusion's come about. Shari's replaced Karen who replaced
Anne who used to do weekends, sometimes, often. But Shari's not
fully-versed or properly initiated yet, not to mention these
niggles I'm having about her ability and experience. So I've put
myself on standby to do some extra hours if needs be.

"Some fresh
air and exercise will do you the world of good, Gwen.
Eh?"

"Eh? Eh? Why
don't people talk properly any more?"

"It's not too
bad out today," I carry on, trying to lift her from her grumpiness.
"Looks like the sun might shine later."

"And you
needn't think that'll make me budge either. I'm staying
put."

"That's up to
you, duck."

"Duck? Duck?
We're not in a farmyard. You don't even care if I get up or not, do
you? Well, I'll get up when you've stopped watching that infernal
tennis."

She can try
all she likes but she's not going to spoil it for me. Not with only
two days left to go because it's started, that feeling, that
crackle in the air you get as you look forward to the Semi's,
though normally it'd be the Ladies' Finals today, Second
Saturday.

I feel the
crackle as I do the weekend shopping, for the last time, because
I'm leaving on Monday and going back to Elliot's. That's definite.
Wafers of ham and plastic gloves and fresh haddock and Mrs Parrotty
cakes and green toilet roll and dusting round bags of humbugs and
the sound of that stick rapping on the chest of drawers and the
sticky white globule on the lip won't be my concern no more. It'll
all be Shari's.

*

I was hoping
to watch Wimbledon on my own but Shari flutters by and asks if she
can join me watching Graf and Lucic slog it out for a place in the
finals.

"What are
seeds?"

"A sort of
ranking."

"They've got a
good view right up her dress those men, haven't they? Not that
their drawers are at all sexy."

"They used to
wear big frilly ones in the old days."

"Yeah, I saw,
in that match the other day."

Bang bang
bang. There go the chest of drawers. Bang bang bang. Robina!
Robina! Always bloody Robina!

Shari gets to
her feet. "Oh someone take her off the hook. It's OK, Bobbie. I'll
go."

Sharivari off the hook
.

"And while
you're at it, duck, remind her that you're on duty, will you? I'm
off duty till after the Men's Semi's, OK?"

Shari slithers
out, like a sidewinder, and I wonder who's more distracting: Gwen
with all her demanding or Shari with her iffy interest in the
tennis. I don't know why they don't just get on with some game of
their own down there, just for a couple of hours, some cards or
crosswords or the like, but Shari is back while the same point is
still being played.

"D'you know
what?" she says, with a coy giggle. "I'm wearing frilly drawers
under this uniform."

"What did Gwen
want?"

"Her cassette
radio thingy ... did you hear what I just said?"

"I'm trying to
watch the tennis, duck." I feel my cheeks getting the red squares
on them.

"D'you like
that sort of thing?"

"You're in the
way of the telly. Just sit down if you're watching it."

Suddenly, the
Wimbledon commentary is lost in the strains of Dvorak or some such
composer, blaring through the floor. Babs would know which. Babs
knows her Dvoraks from her Mozarts.

Shari says
she'll deal with it. Shari has her uses, the flirty little twat.
And I'm dead annoyed with the lust spreading in my groin, moist and
swollen and warm, wrecking my concentration. Friction causes the
spark. The music below goes quiet, gets loud, goes soft again, and
the match is reaching its climax. There are some brilliant rallies
but Graf's back in charge and the last of the blond teenagers is on
the brink of defeat.

And there it
is. Game, set and match to Miss Graf.

When Shari
comes back up, she opens the dark wardrobe and pulls out one of
Gwen's dresses that's not been touched in years, something with a
tight waist and full sky-blue skirts, like an elongated tutu. "God,
was she ever thin or beautiful enough to fit into this?" She holds
it against herself and then pulls out the yellowing wedding dress
in its plastic home on the satiny hanger. "Or this? Can you
imagine? Oh I forgot. She wants you to go down, Bobbie. When the
matches have finished."

"Well, she'll
just have to chuffing whistle, won't she? Did you not tell her
they're having the Men's Semi's next? Switch the channels. Let's
watch Agassi. I like him."

*

Gwen's got a
little yellow chunk of foam in each ear. "Can I take these out now,
Robina? Is it over?"

"It's not that
intrusive."

"Not
intrusive? It's been dominating this house every day. I'm fed up
with it. I want to
do
something."

"What d'you
want to do then?"

"I don't know.
Write a letter or something."

"What, to
Rosemary?"

"Well, maybe
we could just draft one. There's some writing paper in the
bureau."

I'm now all
Gwen's, post-Wimbledon, as I unlock the bureau in the sitting room
and take out the Basildon Bond. When I return I sit down on the
bedroom chair. "Right. Do you want to write it or should
I?"

"You write,
I'll dictate."

"OK, fire
away."

Gwen looks
blank. "Dear Rosemary, I know it's been a long time and I don't
even know if you'll get this ... she might have moved, mightn't
she? She was living near Brighton somewhere but people move such a
lot these days, don't they? Not like in my day. We only moved when
we got married or when our husbands needed to move with their
careers ... now where was I?"

I read back
the sentence. "No, scrub that," she says. "That isn't my style at
all. Dear Rosemary, I'll come straight to the point ... But I don't
know what the point is that I'm coming straight to."

"Your first
version sounded OK, Gwen. Sort of friendly, like."

"Friendly?"
She shakes her head. "That's not the tone I want ... Back to
Basics. That's the point I wish to make. I could say that in the
first sentence, couldn't I?"

"It's a bit
old hat now."

"Is it? But
it's what our good Prime Minister said, didn't he?"

"A few year
ago. Anyway, he's not Prime Minister no more. He's been and
gone."

"Oh, I can't
keep up with them. Harold Wilson. Margaret Thatcher." The sticky
substance stretches like gum each time her lips meet. "Of course it
was that dreadful Barbara woman ... it was all her
fault."

"Barbara?"

I'm racking my
brains trying to think of a politician called Barbara. Then it
clicks. Babs! She means Babs.

"She led my
Rosemary astray."

(And
me, duck. But I loved every minute
.)
"Astray?"

"Let's leave
it for now, Robina. I'm tired. We can write it tomorrow. We've got
all the time in the world now that the tennis is dead and buried at
long last."

"Not quite,
Gwen. Just one more day. It's the Finals tomorrow."

*

At six o'clock
I leave Shari in charge because I have to talk to Babs. I know I
should have phoned first but then Tash might have answered. Me
calling round is going to upset Tash even more but I can't be
tiptoeing round her forever.

I pay the taxi
driver outside their council flat on the other side of Newminster,
and Babs answers the door. "Bobbie! Come in! We were just talking
about you." She gives me a hug. "I was just saying how it's been a
while since we heard from you."

"You sure it's
OK for me to come in?"

"As OK as it's
ever going to be."

I sit down on
one of the chairs in their flat. Sort of minimalist you'd call it.
Yeah, minimalism is the latest Ism. Everything looks dead white and
light compared with all that dark clutter at Belvedere
Road.

"We were just
wondering if you were still at your brother's."

"Not
we," says Tash, her insecure eyes disguised behind her round
glasses. "
You
were wondering."

"No, you were
too. How's tricks anyway? Been watching the Wimbledon?"

I nod. "Seen
any yoursen?"

"A few of the
women's. I've tried to catch that gorgeous Venus Williams. Tash
love," says Babs, placing a hand on Tash's leg. "You couldn't
stretch that risotto to three, could you?"

"Oh, don't
worry about me, duck. I'm not stopping long."

"There's
plenty. Tash'll fix it, won't you? What about a drink? Pils do
you?"

"Yeah, go on
then."

Tash, dressed
in her pale trouser suit, all sharp and chic, doesn't budge. She
wants Babs to go to the kitchen, not left alone here with me. Babs
gives her a friendly prod. "Go on, Tash. You're on cooking tonight,
aren't you?"

Tash slopes
off to the kitchen in an undercurrent.

"I'm here for
a reason," I say, not looking at any of Babs too long. Her sweeping
brown eyes, that gelled black stubble, those solid thighs under the
pinstripe of her trousers. "It's about the old woman I'm working
for." I start telling her all about Gwen and Rosemary and the old
letters and photos. Her mouth is hanging open. You could drive a
bus through it. The Number 25!

"You're
working for Gwen
McMahon
? Oh my god! How can you
stick it?"

"I know she
can be a bit bolshie sometimes - "

"A bit? She's
an embittered old shrew."

"Who is?" Tash
wanders in with apron and spatula.

"No
one."

Tash storms
off in an even bigger undercurrent and slams the door. Unfazed,
Babs says, "Does she know you know me? No. Daft question. She
wouldn't have you in the same house if she did."

"You had a
thing with Rosemary years ago, right? I know she's not had contact
with Rosemary for years ... "

Babs lowers
her voice. "I still get the odd card from Rosie ... she was in Hove
when she last wrote."

"When was
that?"

"Last
Christmas, I think. Why?"

"Well, that's
why I came over. I thought you might have her address. Gwen wants
to get in touch with her."

"Oh, she does,
does she?" Babses eyes are reeling. "Poor Rosie's better off
without her."

"I think
Gwen's ready to patch things up ... "

"You haven't
heard Rosie's side of things."

"No, I don't
know much about her at all. Except that she's done a bit of
teaching."

Babs leans
towards me. "Rosie told me she had to fight to leave home to do her
teacher training and she did manage to teach for a number of years
but then her mother got so ill - " Babs makes quote marks in the
air when she says the word ill - "that Rosie had to give it all up
to look after her. There was nothing wrong with her. Well, not her
body anyway. But then if Rosie hadn't have come home I wouldn't
have met her."

"So Gwen knew
about you and Rosie?"

"Oh she was
pure poison." Babs runs her fingers through her stubble. "I was
working at a children's home at the time and she told one of the
trustees, who just happened to be a personal friend of hers, all
about me. How I shouldn't be working with vulnerable young people
who I might corrupt. That sort of thing."

"They didn't
bin you off, did they?"

"As good as. I
resigned. They made my position untenable. I mean, you need the
support of your colleagues, don't you, but they were all very
traditional and when push comes to shove ... but the point is I
liked my job and I was bloody good at it." She lowers her voice
again. "Anyway I'd rather change the subject before Tash comes in.
No point in fuelling the fire, eh? But here, I'll give you Rosie's
address. I'm only thinking of Rosie, mind. I can't let it stand in
the way, just because I detest her mother."

"Whose
mother?" Tash hands us a plate each of stodgy risotto.

"Ah Tash,
darling. You're an angel. Get stuck in, Bobbie. I was wondering,
have you heard from June at all?"

"She rang our
Elliot's the other day. She's going to ring me at Gwen's this
weekend he said."