Lemonade and Lies (6 page)

“I can hardly hear you. What’s that noise?”

“I’m in a bar.”

Alice’s voice was muffled, like she had a bad cold. And then I got it. It wasn’t a cold at all.

“Alice, you crying?”

Silence.

“Alice? You okay?”

“Piss off.”

“Keep that up and I will. Now what’s up?”

“The bastards fired me.”

“Ah.”

“Is that all you can say?” she asked. “I thought at least you’d understand.”

It was hard playing Solomon and when you didn’t get it right, they all had a go at you.

“I do,” I said, feeling that life was pretty unfair. “But I’ve had my own small acre of shite to wallow through.”

“You’re my only friend, Jill.”

“Don’t be daft. That’s the booze talking.”

“No. It’s true. Everybody else I know has shunned me. Nobody wants to go down with the ship. I’m a pariah.”

“You’re being a drama queen. And you’re pissed.”

“No to the first charge. Yes to the second. You’d be rat-arsed too if they’d just canned you.”

God, why did I have to deal with this now? Didn’t I have enough crazy stuff of my own to be getting on with?

“Jilly, you still there? Can I come and stay with you for a few days?”

“What!”

“There you are. Even you’ve rejected me. I might as well go off and top myself.”

The words were slurred and I could picture her swollen eyes, red with weepy residue.

She wouldn’t do it, of course. Instead, she’d get even more hammered and I couldn’t face the thought of her drinking her way to a liver transplant. But the slammer was that Alice hadn’t hesitated when I’d needed help.

“Okay, come down for a while. But, Alice . . .”

“What?”

“I’ve got some complications of my own. And the house is a tip.”

I’d been up all night after James had left, getting rid of broken glass and reacquainting myself with the vacuum cleaner. But it still looked like a small tornado had ploughed through the place. No way could I sleep. Someone might still be out there - even though one of the local uniforms had finally been drafted in to keep an eye on the house.

“Now who’s being a drama queen?” she said. “I’m sure it’s not that bad, not anything you and I couldn’t tackle together. The dream team, eh? See you soon.”

The phone went dead. I’d no idea when she was coming, or if she was driving down, but I hoped she’d sleep it off first. And I tried to imagine Alice in her daytime pearls with heavy duty rubber gloves on, hefting black bin bags. For that’s what she’d need to make an impact on the wreck that I called home.

Even though the thought was a sad one, the image dragged out a smile. I wasn’t on my own anymore. My body rippled with an involuntary sob and for the first time I admitted to myself that - even though I had my kids and a life outside these four walls - there were times when I felt utterly alone.

*

I used to listen to music. All kinds of music. I wasn’t an expert or a connoisseur, anything that moved me or made me happy was fair game which meant my collection of CDs was more diverse than Bill’s. He was into metal and said I was a musical snob because of the few jazz and classical CDs that had jostled for space on our shelves. Shelves
I’d
put up.

Now I stood miserably eyeing my collection of CDs piled up uselessly in a corner and wished I’d invested in an Ipod. For Bill’s fancy sound system that he’d been so proud of had been demolished, like everything else.

This wasn’t the way I’d imagined half-term. Sorting out insurance claims and trying to make our home habitable again. I hoped the kids hadn’t been too traumatised by it, but then children surprise you at times, their resilience. I’d have to try and make light of it, set up a few diversions.

One of those diversions had already fallen into my lap. Alice was on her way. Millie and Tom loved their flaky Aunt Alice, and this would be the first time in years that she’d be staying in the house with them. I’d already knocked my bedroom into some kind of post-burglary shape for my friend to use. I could put the blow-up mattress in the front room every night for myself. Not that I’d be doing much sleeping anyway.

“Can we go to the beach?”

My daughter’s arrival pulled my thoughts back to more mundane things like breakfast. Her face glowed with excitement, not a hint of the fear that had haunted it last night. Resilient, like I said.

“It’ll be freezing,” I said, not keen on the idea of going out in public with some maniac still on the loose, targeting my family. Even though we now had our very own one-man protection unit from the local police force on the case.
How would I explain that to the kids?

“Laura’s mum said half-term’s going to be lovely and warm. She says Cornwall gets fifteen hundred hours of sunshine a year and we’re going to have some of it this week. She’s printed off something from Google.”

Millie’s expression said Laura’s mother was nothing short of a genius. I felt like I’d lost some kind of race.

“Ah.”
All right take me out and shoot me! It’s all I could come up with
. But then I’m not perfect – like Laura’s mother.

“And there’s this special beach club down in The Porth for the whole of half-term. Laura’s going. Her mum thinks it’s a good idea.”

Well hoo-bloody-ray for Laura’s mum. It wouldn’t be hard to hate the woman. And maybe she could afford such fripperies, but I was having trouble finding money for the phone bill right now.

“Won’t the places in a holiday club already be booked?” I asked, searching for some foolproof excuse.

Millie gave me one of those looks. Like she could see what I was trying to do. “Duh! It’s not like it’s Disney or anything, is it?”

I winced. And wondered if I’d ever be forgiven for that. They’d been promised Disney World (a few years back when their dad was still here and we could afford it, but he’d been far too occupied to follow through. I guess I knew why now).

“What about your brother?” I asked, grabbing hold of a passing anorexic straw. I didn’t want any more financial embarrassments.

“I should think they take boys as well” she said in a resigned voice, older than her years. “But he can’t hang with us. He’ll have to make his own friends.”

It didn’t sound promising. Still, I suppose I could try a cheque. It would be a close run thing, but it was almost the end of the month and my wages would be going into the bank soon.

“So, can I phone Laura, then?”

“We’ll see how your brother feels first. He’s part of this family as well.”

Millie’s face screwed up with effort and you could imagine the neurons firing up in her brain. “Mu . . . um?”

“What?”

“There’s all kinds of families, right?”

“Sure . . .”

“What does dysfunctional mean?”

God, as if things weren’t bad enough. Head on, that was the only way to hit it.

“Well – it means not working properly, I guess.”

“And is that us? Is that our family?”

“Who said that?”

Millie looked sheepish, as if somehow she’d let me down.

“It’s just something I heard on TV once, when people were fighting.”

“But we don’t fight!”

“I know, but we’re not really
normal
, are we? We’re an odd number.” She looked sad. And it was the first reference she’d made to her missing dad in a long time.

“Now you listen to me – we have a good family here. A family can be any number of people – four, six, three, two. I happen to think three is an excellent number. Don’t you?”

“Yes, Mum,” she agreed.

And my heart was smothered in sadness for her, for I knew she was just being loyal. And that she’d lost some of her childhood innocence. That bastard ex-husband of mine had stripped it away. If I ever saw him again, he’d pay for that.

*

“Say hello to George.”

Alice was wearing huge sunglasses and sporting a baseball cap. Not her style at all, the baseball cap, at least. The Gucci sunglasses were an everyday accessory, sun or no sun. And right now there was no sun, despite what Laura’s mum had predicted. But I expect Alice had the glasses on for another reason. It had been a rough couple of days for her.

I’d heard the car pull up and gone out to make sure she used my parking space and not my neighbour’s. Our parking permits were very specific about that.

“Hello George,” I said.

George waved a casual hand in reply and smiled. He had great teeth, and he looked like a decent bloke.

“George’s a decent bloke,” confirmed Alice, blowing him a casual kiss. “But he’s off back on the train now. Aren’t you, dearest?”

“Am I?”

Apparently he was. She walked him the six steps from my front door to the tiny front gate, the poor man wasn’t even allowed inside the house, it seemed. But with elaborate thanks Alice sent him on his way, putting a wad of notes in his coat pocket, giving his arse a small, intimate pat for good measure.

“Wow!” I said.

“Yummy,” she agreed, “but not Einstein.”

“So, what’s our George’s function then?”

“Decent bloke.”

“You said.”

“Drove my car down overnight. Going back to London now. He’s a dear. Totally, madly in love with me. But we don’t want him hanging around, do we? This is a girly week, right?”

“Right.” I said and wondered how Alice would feel once she’d made it inside and seen my disfigured furniture.

We parked the kids at one end of the seafront with the holiday club. They both looked happy enough and went off to play a game with a multi-coloured parachute.

The two of us headed off to set up a beach-head. To mark out our territory on the sand with windbreaks. At least that’s how we started out, but Alice magically disappeared, leaving me to carry all the heavy stuff.

There was a high surf running, pounding relentlessly away at Chapel Rock. Maybe one day all that collected fury would finally wear away the rock formation. Force it to disintegrate into a million tiny fragments.

The day was crisp, but bright. The weather had turned, the dour sky finally lightening, the un-seasonal sunshine bringing locals out in their hordes to enjoy this bonus of mild, autumn weather. It happened like that when the sun showed its face unexpectedly. Unexpected for most of us, except of course Laura’s smart-arsed mother.

The fine weather had also tempted Trevor from his lair.

Trevor Trebathan was normally in hibernation at this time of year, understandable considering the man was ninety. This impressive Cornishman was in his usual fold-up camping chair in his favourite spot on the seafront, banjo in hand and tiny combi-amp on the concrete beside him.

Trevor was a feature of Perranporth. Just like Chapel Rock. And in the summer awestruck tourists would gape open-mouthed at the bizarre sight of the ancient, wrinkled busker who looked as if one stiff breeze might carry him off. Locals had nicknamed him Banjo Billy.

This morning he was dressed in an odd collection of clothes, the outfit courtesy of either Oxfam or the British Heart Foundation. Those seemed to be his favoured retail outlets. A tan coloured forage cap was parked jauntily on his head. The man wore all his clothes with a jaunty air, and the confidence of eighty odd years of going against conventional wisdom.

Trevor’s repertoire was wide ranging. He massacred modern music and the classics alike, totally ignoring key signatures and time signatures. He mowed down bar lines as if they didn’t exist, steamrollered over them, dropping beats here and there, shoving others in where they shouldn’t be, for extra value.

If you listened carefully, you might recognise snippets of the original tune, but that didn’t happen often. As a music lover, I found his playing unnerving and couldn’t listen to it for long. As a fellow human being, I never ceased to be amazed by his joy, his love of life, his enthusiasm for music, and his dogged determination to keep on doing what he wanted to. Trevor didn’t care what other people thought. He was great. Phenomenal. Astronomical. A diamond parcelled in newspaper and tied up with frayed string. He made me smile.

“Here, catch.” Alice threw the beach bag and all her clothes in my direction.

“Where’d that come from?” I asked.

“Just bought it. You like?” She did the catwalk thing, parading up and down, coming to a halt in front of me.

“Cute. But why?”

Obviously she looked fabulous – not everyone does in a wetsuit, but my friend had a head start. Lots of gym time.

“Hooked up with the surf school dude.” She pointed back up the beach. “Bought some lessons and this sweet little wetsuit.”

“Hell of a sea running out there,” I said. “Why don’t you stay here and read a book?”

“God, Jill. What are you, my mother? You can be a tight-ass-stick-in-the-mud sometimes. The man’s a qualified instructor; he’ll hardly let me drown.”

My friend flounced off back up the beach to join the gaggle of newbies collecting around the surf school hut. Which was fair enough, she was an adult and could make up her own mind.

But I was worried. I always am when people I care about go near water. It’s an old legacy. And Alice wasn’t much of a swimmer, not even in a pool, where the water remained conveniently passive and in the same place.

Here, in the surf break, the force of the Atlantic wouldn’t be so obedient. Here, the ocean was in control and it could roar with fury, demanding respect for its awesome power. Not to give that respect, could draw a heavy forfeit. A life.

I was once a decent open-water swimmer. The sea had held no fear for me. And my younger brother had been a strong swimmer as well, but still the rip had dragged him under and I hadn’t been able to get out to him in time. I think my mother blamed me, in the beginning, at least. But it was something we didn’t talk about now, as if Brian had never existed, for there was too much pain.

I’d insisted my kids learned to swim and never tried to stop them going to the beach (that would be really neurotic). But if they were in the ocean I watched them relentlessly. Like Alice, now. I didn’t take my eyes off her - crashing into waves, losing her board. She hadn’t got the knack of paddling fast enough to catch a wave. Most times she’d miss it, sliding uselessly over its back, forced to wait patiently for the next swell.

But it didn’t stop her excitement. After an hour she ran back up the beach trailing the short-board - and the instructor - with her.
Alice seemed to collect people
.

“Wow, you should try that, girl. Gives you a real high.” Her grin lit up the whole of her face.

“Yeah?”

“Makes you feel alive,” she said, still mugging it.

“How’s that?”

“The freedom. It’s exhilarating – no other word for it.”

“And you’re stoked?” I said.

My friend laughed. “Exactly.” She waved an airy hand towards the bronzed Adonis beside her, towering over people of normal height. “Meet Dave.”

“David,” he corrected her. “David Ovenden.” He stuck out a confident hand, reaching across Alice to shake hands with me, for not only was he was a glorious example of rippling musculature, but he seemed different from Alice’s other conquests. He could speak for himself.

Alice carried on, didn’t seem to notice the interruption. I listened patiently and so did the surf dude. Stopping my friend once passion had taken hold was like trying to turn around a force of nature - one with an attitude problem.

She explained the mechanics of catching and riding a wave. The surf instructor smiled benignly, like she was his latest prodigy. Another one who’d fallen under her spell. After the magnificent total of an hour’s surfing instruction, Alice had become a convert, an expert on the subject, and was ready to start listening to the Beach Boys’ back catalogue.

With evangelistic zeal she tried to recruit others to her flag. But I was a lost cause. I wouldn’t even risk a belly-board out in surf now. The thought of just paddling up to my ankles in Atlantic breakers brought me out in a cold sweat. It wasn’t logical, but then fear rarely is.

“Catch you later,” said David Ovenden.

“Have lunch with us.” Alice beamed at the guy, confident her normal charisma would fasten him to the spot.

“Things to do.” He gave her one of those cool winks - movie star quality.

“Awe come on,” cajoled Alice.

But this guy was different. He patted her neat, wet-suited rear and was gone before my friend could protest.

“Did you see that?” said Alice.

Alice: astonished, intrigued, happy, the light of conquest ablaze in her eyes.

“Yeah, some cheek,” I said.

We laughed. And I noted that she’d forgotten all about being canned by her boss.
And me?
Well, I relaxed too. Alice was good for me. We’d go to the restaurant on the beach, eat barbequed prawns, drink wine (just a glass!) and enjoy the rest of half-term.

Life was good if you wanted it to be.

It was what you made it.

You were in the driver’s seat.

Just how wrong could one person be?