Break Point (7 page)

"Gordon can't
make it."

"Gordon can't
make it? When did he tell you this?"

"Earlier. I
phoned him when I was out."

Gwen's
gobsmacked. "I've told you, you may use this phone."

"Anyway, the
good news is, Elliot can come, so you'll still be getting your
garden done."

"Elliot? Who's
he?"

"You know, my
brother. He knows his turf, his PH levels, everything!"

Gwen huffs and
puffs. "What time is he coming then?"

"About nine
o'clock if that's all right."

"It'll have to
be."

MIDDLE
SUNDAY

On Sunday I
find myself going through the same routine with Gwen as Saturday.
The tweezers, the bath, and today she wants her hair shored up with
clips, as well as the smear of lipstick. She wants perfume and her
brooch with the ceramic flowers because she's having a male
visitor.

And I'm
thinking, It's only our Elliot, for God's sake.

Just after
nine o'clock his red van pulls up. He comes trudging up the path in
his muddy wellies, mobile phone in hand, jeans on his hips making
his legs look all stubby. I could have pretended Elliot was me
bloke come to think of it. He's got more the look of our dad: with
that red glow to his wavy hair. Mind you, he gets the flushed
squares on his cheeks, same as me, so that might have been a dead
giveaway.

"How lovely to
meet you," says Gwen. "And how kind of you to come. There's so much
to do out there - the grass, the weeding and pruning, and the hedge
needs trimming. Mrs Parrott said something about the fence at the
end as well."

"Oh, no
problem. I'll get stuck in straight away, Mrs M," says Elliot. "Bit
fresher today, ain't it? Looks like we could get a few showers." He
sets to work whistling and I hang about while he fills up the
wheelbarrow.

"She's all
right your Gwen, ain't she? Funny her calling you Robina. Bobbie
too much for her?"

I do love
Elliot lots, he's all I've got really. He's a big softie and right
cuddly. Like June was. I love people with flesh. I always felt
cold. Dead thin and small I was back then. June used to hug me by
the fire at Wimble Den, sharing her flesh. She was like something
to wear, something to wrap around your shoulders on cold
nights.

But June
lulled me safe. "I never wanted to buy into all this," I said,
shooing away all the natural pine, the dado rails with a brush of
my hand. "You might like all this - setting up home, listening to
your k d lang CD's, but my politics are pink." And off I would go,
wearing my pink triangle, loud and proud, around our estate. Me and
Colin stood outside the community centre, our faces whipped pink in
the raw wind, woolly hats on our heads. We stood outside, drumming
up support for our latest cause - lowering the age of consent for
young gay men. "Why don't you stand up and be counted, June?" I
said. "You're acting so much like a straight, these
days."

Now it's me
stuck here in Gwen's back garden filling up the barrow while June's
off having her foreign adventures.

*

"Oh, I can see
it's looking a lot better already," says Gwen later as Elliot
scrubs away with the soap before shaking his hands and wiping them
on the tea-towel. "Have you much more to do?"

"Just the
fence and a bit more tidying up. Shouldn’t take too
long."

"Well, now, I
think you've earned yourself a spot of lunch. Ham salad and new
potatoes do you?"

Elliot rubs
his hands together with glee.

"Robina's the
one you have to thank. Now sit yourself down. Help yourself to
lemon, won't you? Robina bought it yesterday
especially."

"Cheers." Gwen
holds her lemon barley shakily aloft, and then squints as she
silently compares us. "Who's the older?"

"I am," says
Elliot, folding up a sliver of ham on his fork. "But she's the
boss."

"Not married
either?"

"No, I'm a
bachelor boy." He grins. "Pass us the pickles, could you,
Bobbie?"

"I don't know.
What do your parents think?"

"I dunno, Mrs
M." Elliot prongs a large pickled onion. "Our mum's passed
on."

"Well, as long
as you pleased her when she was alive. As long as she was able to
go to her grave with proud memories ... "

Elliot
crunches on the pickle and looks across at me as if to say, Funny
woman, your Gwen, but nice grub this.

Gwen frowns.
"What's that noise?"

"Oh heck, I
forgot to turn off me mobile. Excuse me ... Oh Gord, hi. Yeah, I'm
having me lunch at the moment. Can I phone you back later?" He lays
the phone on the window sill. "Sorry about that. I've switched it
off now. That's Gord, a mate of mine."

"Gordon?
Robina's Gordon?"

Advantage Mrs
McMahon.

"Oh yeah. He's
my mate too. We work together. That's how you met him, ain't it,
Bobbie? Through me."

Deuce
.

"Well I never.
He's never once phoned Robina here and here he is phoning you. It's
none of my business of course." Gwen's now looking at me, pity in
her eyes. "But I think he's being darned casual with you, Robina,
if you ask me."

Advantage Mrs
McMahon.

"Oh, he cares
about our Bobbie very much. He's just, well, he likes to do his
bachelor bit when I'm about, it's like a machismo
thing."

Deuce
.

"They're
trying to save up for a home of their own Robina was telling me ...
though if Robina wanted it, I would even let Gordon live here with
her. So they could both save up."

Advantage Mrs
McMahon..

Elliot's only
just noticed the napkin and wipes his hands on it, his face flushed
with lies. He's a terrible liar. Worse than me. "Well, that's
filled a hole," he says, rubbing his mound of belly.

Deuce
.

"Don't get up
yet," says Gwen. "There's peaches and ice-cream to
come."

I ladle the
tinned peaches into Gwen's china bowls and scoop a hat of ice-cream
on each. As I pass them round, Elliot says, "Are you both enjoying
the tennis?" He hasn't noticed Gwen's disapproval and strides
forth. "I see they had rain yesterday evening. Thank God. Wimbledon
just ain't Wimbledon without the rain."

Advantage Mrs
McMahon.

"It usually
rains in the first week then settles down in t' second, don't it,
Bobbie? And two of the British hopefuls are through to the second
week," he goes on. "Henman and Rusedski."

"Ru
sedski
?
Ru
sedski
?" Gwen
is sparking peach liquor. "He can’t be British with a name like
that!"

Game to Mrs
McMahon.

"Anyway, tell
me, Elliot," says Gwen, suddenly sweet as the peaches. "Is Gordon a
follower of the tennis too?"

"Gordon? No,
he's more your football sort." He's all red now, as he looks across
at me.

"It's a pity
he can't share the tennis with Robina."

"We find it
works better having our own interests." I start clearing away the
dishes and, I hope, any more mention of Gordon. "Coffee
everyone?"

*

By five
o'clock, I'm back in my room after taking Gwen for a walk. We went
to her father's memorial seat on the cliff top over the bay and
watched the waves frilling below. Gwen clasped her hands over her
stick and a frown came over her well lived-in face. People don't
work at relationships any more, she said, shaking her head, and
with all her might she twisted round a half-turn and stroked the
little plaque that said, In Loving Memory of Walter Fry. My father
was devoted to my mother, she said, but nowadays it's all too easy
to throw relationships away and get another, like a record player
or washing machine, nowadays people have too much choice and walk
out of the shop with nothing, like spoilt children, and then we
came home. Mrs Parrott called by to report on the leukaemia
fund-raising efforts at the church hall and dropped off a lamp
she'd won in the raffle, which she thought Gwen might like. I must
apologize again, Gwen, she said, for not offering to take you out
anywhere this weekend but I know you've been ill and I didn't want
to step on anyone else's toes. Now you do remember that next
weekend we'll be going away to Lincoln, Richard and I, so the next
outing will have to wait until the week after.

Mrs Parrott
away during the Wimbledon finals? That's a bit of a worry. I hope
Anne will keep Gwen occupied next weekend because I don't want
interruptions. Well, there's no point watching it if you can't see
it right through, is there? I mean it's like TV serials where you
know you're going to miss the final one where they slot all the
pieces into place, and you think to yourself, I wish I hadn't
started watching this.

Mrs Parrott is
still fizzing about downstairs when a car pulls up outside. From my
window I see that it’s Anne. She’s not in her white overall today.
I don't know why she wore it yesterday when she was meant to be off
duty. I suppose you never know when Gwen might ask you to do a
messy job and anyway on duty and off duty are blurred in Gwen's
head. But Anne's now in beige slacks and a matching blouse with
short sleeves. I was nearly right then about her off-duty clothes
except for the colour. She does the central locking on her car, and
swings her handbag over her shoulder as she passes Mrs Parrott
coming out. They don't say much to each other. Anne looks skilled
at cutting Mrs Parrott off mid-witter, and I'm feeling a little
frisson.

What's she
doing here today anyway?

To see
me.

I
wish.

I creep across
to the bathroom and leave the door open a strip, so I can earwig on
their talk. Dead serious talk.

I'm sorry ...
told you yesterday

... the room,
is it? You can have the room and I'll get Robina to ...

With respect
... not the first time this sort of thing has happened.

You can't go
... my best worker ...

... not just
that ... my mother needs ...

... can
massage my joints like you? ... knock spots off ... make you an
attractive deal ...

My mind's made
up ... the keys ... sort out wages ...

Anne doesn't
suffer fools gladly by the sounds of it but I was looking forward
to having her around. Feeling the frisson. The friction. Because
it's friction that makes the sparks. Like the sort I found with
Babs. Though if we'd have carried it on, me and Babs, we might have
lost it. Friction loses its rough edge after a while, it smoothes
down and becomes all gentle, like me and June.

But it's not
just the frisson. Anne can't leave. She can't leave me up a gum
tree, working twenty-four seven. Not just before Week
Two.

*

Gwen raps the
bannister with her stick. "Robina? Robina? Come
downstairs."

I catch up
with Gwen on her way to the sitting room where there's a whiff of
brandy floating about. She parks herself in her chair and with both
her hands takes hold of her glass from the ledge under the standard
lamp.

"Anne's gone.
She’s abandoned me."

I pretend to
look surprised. "Gone? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm
sure."

"I'm sorry
about that. What are you going to do?"

She starts
giggling. "I'm going to sing. Let's be happy. Come on, Robina, sing
me a song."

"I'm tone
deaf, me, when it comes to singing." (I wish I had June's
voice).

"Sing,
sing!"

"What shall I
sing then?"

"Heavens
above, girl, you must know one song."

"It's been a
hard day's night and I've been working like -"

"No, no.
Something I can sing along to."

"
The Skye Boat
Song
? D'you know that?"

"Speed bonnie
boat? That one? Oh yes. OK, give me the note and I'll sing along
with you."

"Speed ... are
you ready ... one two three ..."

"Speed bonnie
boat like a bird on the wing

Onward the
sailors cry

Carry the lad
that's born to be king

Over the sea
to Skye."

"Don't let us
stop there, Robina."

"I don't
remember what comes next, Gwen."

"Och, pour me
another brandy. Come on, don't be frugal. A big Scottish
dram."

"No,
Gwen. You can't have no more." But Gwen snatches the decanter from
me, forgetting all about her arthritic grasp. She pours herself
another slug and sings
The Skye Boat
Song
over and over, scrambling the words a
bit more each time until I'm sorry I ever suggested it. I try to
steer her onto another but she wants to stay on the Skye Boat.
"Och, let's not go home yet, Rosemary. Let's sing a bit more. Speed
bonnie bird like a boat on a wing ..."