Happy Birthday and All That (11 page)

‘She'll end up like us,' said Jan beside her.

‘Oh!' said Posy. It was like a blow to the stomach. She felt her eyes fill with tears but Jan didn't notice. Stupid, stupid, sentimental, disappointed Posy.

‘I brought you that catalogue,' said Jan, and she found it in her shiny brown leather bag. That bag must have cost more than Posy's whole outfit. ‘“Dance Direct”,' said Jan. ‘Really good value.'

‘Thanks,' said Posy. ‘Hours of amusement.' She could read it while she fed Isobel or in the bath.

‘I do love going to the ballet shops, but this will save some time.' Actually it wouldn't; she would spend ages looking longingly at the outfits, the crossover cardigans, ‘practice' tops, trousers that were ‘also suitable for streetwear'. Perhaps a pair of the dance sneakers would have her springing the plod to and from school. Perhaps ‘Premier Dancewear's bi-coloured knitted stripy boot-leg pants' would make her lithe and energetic and young again. There were posters and videos, scrunchies and rolls of ribbon, bags of resin and shellac for hardening pointe shoes. She even found the packets of kirby grips alluring.

She gazed and sighed, looking at the dancers modelling special socks ‘ideal for moving from class to class'. Socks over tights, now that was a great look. These dancers were all that she hadn't been, and now would never be. If only, she thought, if only I could be one of those jolly mums who make jokes about stretch marks and tucking their tummies into their knickers.

She could order tap shoes for herself and Poppy, and they could take lessons together. It appeared that they came in canvas for only £7.95 a pair. She wondered if any of the practice things would fit her, they looked really fluid and comfy … She flicked the pages backwards and forwards, her eyes round and greedy for the images of the beautiful, young, unspoilt bodies. Oh to be like that… ah, here was something for her. Plume's ‘full body sack'. It had ‘tank straps which tie at the front' and was ‘oversized for better comfort'. She might as well flap the catalogue shut and throw it away. She knew that she would look fat and ridiculous in everything.

Oh just give up, Posy, she told herself. She would order the regulation RADA leotard, gauzy skirt and poignant little ballet socks for Poppy. Aunt Is and Aunt Bea provided the cardigans. The only thing Posy would really benefit from
buying herself was a pair of leg warmers as she suffered badly from cramp in the winter; but she probably had a pair of them from the eighties, stashed away in some binbag in the loft. In her early teens she had longed to be one of the ‘Kids From Fame'. She stuffed ‘Dance Direct' into her bag. She would order the stuff for Poppy later.

She gave it one last glance, the outside back cover, she hadn't studied that yet. Books.
Diet For Dancers
by Robin D. Chmelar and Sally S. Fitt. The ‘S' must stand for ‘Super'. It promised ‘A Complete Guide to Nutrition and Weight Control', as well as ‘How to Lose Fat, What to Eat and When to Eat, Fads and Frauds, Menus and Meal Planning, and Eating Disorders'. That was the thing for her.

It was Stir Up Sunday. Posy had heard it on the radio.

‘Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people,' it had said.

‘This is what life is meant to be like,' she told Frank.

Isobel was asleep. The dishes were done, Poppy and Tom were helping her to make Christmas puddings. James had sloped off to watch a video and she had let him go.

‘You have to come and stir it, and make a wish when I call you,' she had said.

‘All right Mum, I do want to help you, it's just that I've made enough bread and stuff in my life.'

‘Go, go! Pudding-making isn't compulsory, but wishing is.'

‘Can I watch
Power Rangers?'

‘No. Something nicer.
Iron Giant
or something.'

It was a Delia recipe, and Posy had made it many times before. This year she was making four puddings, one for Frank's family, one for her aunts, one for Kate and one for themselves. It was really very easy, just a lot of stirring and endless steaming. One by one the children made their wishes.

‘I'm not going to put it in the basins till Isobel is up, so she
can have a go,' she explained. ‘I'm not sure what she'll wish for.'

‘Some bananas maybe,' said Poppy.

‘We'll have to get Daddy for his wish,' said James.

‘Oh yes, I almost forgot him.' Frank had disappeared to his shed. ‘Go and get him, please honey.'

A few minutes later Frank and James came into the kitchen.

‘So I have to make a wish, do I?' he said, as though he hadn't done this every year since James was a baby. Posy passed him the spoon.

‘Smells good.' It smelt of mostly beer. ‘Right, what shall I wish for?' he asked. Then the phone started ringing.

‘I'll get it,' said Posy. ‘You make your wish.'

A few moments later she was calling out, ‘Frank, for you.' She came back into the kitchen. ‘Sounds like one of your pupils. Somebody young. I hope it's not someone giving up.'

‘Frank. It's Melody.'

‘Oh, how are you?'

‘I can't stop throwing up.'

‘Something you ate?'

‘Not really. I have to see you.'

‘We're out at The Oak tonight, why don't you come along? We haven't seen you for ages.' Frank's ‘we' meant The Wild Years, not him and Posy.

‘I have something to tell you. I'm pregnant.'

Silence from Frank.

‘Frank, I said “I'm pregnant”.'

‘Don't tell me that. Not now. Not on the phone. No way. Oh God. No way.'

‘I have to see you. We have to talk.'

‘You know my situation here.'

‘Frank …'

‘I can't talk to you now. Sorry. I have to go.' Poppy was standing in front of him with a wooden spoon. ‘Sorry. I have to
go. I'll call you back.' He hung up before he heard what she called him.

‘Just one of them wanting to change times,' he told Posy.

‘Don't forget to put it on the calendar.'

The gig at The Oak that night wasn't a great success. Melody came but refused to sing. She told The Wild Years that she wasn't feeling well. She certainly looked what Frank's mum would have called ‘peeky'. Her eyes were sticky with tiredness and mascara. Frank had been through this so many times, the signs were unmistakable. During the first set she sat by herself, folding and refolding beer mats or staring deliberately at nothing. When their break came the other Wild Years headed for the bar. Frank sat down beside her.

‘I haven't had a cigarette in two weeks,' Melody told him. ‘I just feel too sick.'

‘Good. I mean not that you feel sick, although everyone always says that's a good sign. I mean good, well done.'

‘Whaddya mean, “Good. Well done.” What's it to you?'

‘I don't know,' said Frank. ‘Melody, I have no idea what I am meant to say or do. I want you to be all right.'

‘But what are you going to do?' she demanded.

‘I don't know. What am I meant to do?'

‘Are you going to be with me, tell your wife? Huh?'

‘I don't know. I just don't know. Are you sure you want to have this?' He couldn't bring himself to say ‘baby'. He was desperately hoping that she wouldn't want it, that she would decide not to have it, that it would be her decision not to. He wondered if it might be possible to persuade her not to go ahead with it, but no. He knew that would be reprehensible. But whatever he did or didn't do now, he was damned.

‘Well that would be bloody convenient for you, wouldn't it?' she snapped back.

‘Melody. I'm sorry. I should never have … Oh God, I'm
sorry. I don't know what to do. I'll help you in any way I can. You know I'm broke, but I'll help however I can.'

‘So are you going to tell your wife?'

‘You used to call her “Posy”,' said Frank.

‘I didn't used to be the other woman.'

‘Look, what can I do? And the kids. I can't tell them yet, anyway. Izzie's not even one …'

‘My mum says that everything comes out some time,' said Melody. Frank bet that she did. Melody's mum would make sure that Melody got what she was owed. He realised that he was now going to have a whole extra set of relatives to deal with. There was no justice in the world. He would have to leave the country.

‘Look Melody. I'll do what I can. I want you to be happy. I'll help where I can. It's so hard to say how it'll all pan out yet. We'll just have to take it a day at a time, won't we?' He placed his hand over hers and gave it a pat. The table was wet and sticky from spilt beer. He realised straight away that his gesture would be interpreted as patronising. It was nearly time for the second set. He could see Al and Rich and Ron standing at the bar, draining their pints, laughing at something. He rolled a cigarette. ‘Hope you don't mind …' The whole pub was full of smoke, one more wouldn't make much difference.

‘Nice of you to ask.'

‘Fancy another?' said Frank. ‘An orange juice or something?' He remembered with a pang how Posy had developed a passion for tomato juice with too much Worcestershire sauce.

‘I'll bloody drink what I like,' said Melody. ‘Why should I listen to you?' The other Wild Years had now joined them. ‘Don't expect me to keep singing with you for ever. You're just a bunch of old losers pretending to be young. You should just grow up. And I don't need a lift home. My brother's picking me up. You might as well tell them, Frank.'

‘Tell them what?' said Al, as Melody left.

‘She's in a foul mood,' said Rich.

‘Not like Melody,' said Ron.

‘Tell them what?' said Al. Frank saw the landlord giving them a nod. He'd like them to start again. The place was filling up with students.

‘That she's pregnant. And it's mine.'

The Parousellis were on their way to a Christmas lunch party at Kate's. Posy had a trifle on her knees. She had always liked it in movies and in episodes of
thirtysomething
when people drove to parties, the woman (usually a mum) balancing a pudding on her lap. What Posy only now realised was that in real life that character would be desperately trying not to let it slop all over her skirt.

Key Lime Pie. That was what it should be. She had made a raspberry trifle. She was hoping that there would be a bit left, and that she'd be instructed to bring it home. Yesterday's trifle for breakfast was her favourite food in the whole world.

‘Hope there's lots of grub,' said Frank. Posy wondered if she could manoeuvre a cough sweet or a few Smints for him out of her bag. His breath was quite something, last night having been Saturday night. Ah well, soon everybody would be drinking, or at least having a chaste glass of wine or a small beer.

‘Hope it's not bloody mulled wine. Hope I don't have to talk to anybody,' he continued.

They stopped at a pedestrian crossing so that a family of four could zoom across on gleaming silver scooters. The sunshine flashed off the shiny metal. Four golden heads bowed in similar attitudes of concentrated enjoyment.

‘You could get me one of those for Christmas, Frank,' said
Posy. She could see herself whizzing back from dropping the children off somewhere. (Quite how she'd manage with Isobel on a scooter she hadn't thought.)

‘What those?' Frank was incredulous. ‘Those sneaky little self-indulgent, pleased with themselves … those symbols of freewheeling consumption?'

‘I just thought that they look fun and zippy, light and free …' Posy trailed on.

‘Three quarters of the world's starving, and you want a fold-up scooter! What is wrong with this society?' He thumped the steering wheel in a futile gesture of road rage against himself. ‘Everything that is wrong with this world is encapsulated by those scooters. Fold it up and put it in your briefcase! Capitalism is fun!'

‘Can things be encapsulated by a scooter?' she asked, trying to calm him down and throw him off the scent. ‘It could be encapsulated by a small spacecraft, or a hamster exercise ball, but a scooter? Don't you think that things have to have some roundness if they are going to encapsulate other things? Anyway, I only thought … I only thought that it would be fun to have a go …' (‘And you wouldn't see me for dust if I had one of those scooters,' she felt like adding.)

She supposed that she would just get more large bags for Christmas. Why was it that everyone always gave her big, practical bags? They must all think that she had too much huge, heavy stuff to lug around.

‘Huh,' said Frank. He was dreading the party. He hated chit-chat, and he supposed that he wouldn't be able to smoke.

‘Anyway,' Posy said, ‘you've got a bike so what's the difference?'

‘There's a bloody big difference and you know it,' Frank snarled.

‘Don't swear in front of us, Daddy,' said James.

Isobel started to cry.

‘Don't make Isobel cry,' said Poppy.

‘Or Mummy and us,' said James.

They pulled up outside Kate's house. The Parousellis were all set for the party. Posy saw that she hadn't managed to keep the trifle from spilling. She had noticed quite an interesting wave action inside the pretty glass bowl. The raspberry-soaked sponges were a similar shade to her skirt, which was having its first outing since she'd ordered it from last summer's Boden sale catalogue. It had been 75 per cent off. It was unfortunate about the cream and custard. Dry clean only, thought Posy, dry clean only.

Kate opened the door with hugs for Posy and the children. Frank managed to dodge his by offering up Izzie for a kiss instead.

‘Mmm,' he said. ‘Something smells good. I hope it's mulled wine.'

Posy headed straight for the kitchen so that she could read as many labels as possible and work out which foods James, with his nut allergy, might and might not eat. Again and again she spotted the tiny warning ‘May contain traces of nuts and or seeds'. Why can't they just put a stroke, she thought. One of the main things that she and Frank had in common nowadays was a shared dislike of sloppy punctuation.