Losing Me (8 page)

Her mother was tearing up. Barbara reached across the kitchen table and took her hand. For a few moments neither of them spoke.

“Still, what can you do?” Rose said eventually. She pulled her hand away from her daughter’s. “Life goes on. You just have to keep going.” She let out a long breath. Her expression brightened. “You know, you could wear one of these short cardis if you lost that weight round your middle.”

“Mum, please don’t give me a hard time. I know you’ve had a bad day, but mine hasn’t been that good either.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I lost my job. I’ve been made redundant.”

“Heavens. That’s not good,” her mother said. Then she waved a hand in front of her. “But you’re young. You’ll find another one soon enough.”

“What are you talking about? I’m nearly sixty.”

“You want to try being my age? Stop fretting. Something will turn up. You’ve always been such a worrier.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Look how you used to fuss about getting to school on time.”

“Only because you used to make me late every day.”

“Oh, I’m sure I didn’t. Why would I have done that?”

Barbara decided not to go there. Not today. “And for your information, there are no jobs. The government is making cuts right across the public sector.”

“Well, at least you don’t wake up every morning wondering if it will be your last. That old woman from downstairs died last week. You know, the one with the square head. Looked like a toaster.”

Barbara laughed at the image. “Stop it. You are not about to keel over. You just had a checkup. The doctor said you’ve got years left in you.”

“What does he know?”

By now it was nearly six. Barbara decided to order pizza. “Make sure there are no green peppers on mine,” Rose said. “They repeat on me. I’ll be up half the night.”

By the time the pizza arrived, Rose was saying that the big-band music was fading. She started to cheer up, and for once she agreed that they could eat on the sofa so that the children could watch the end of
Mary Poppins
. She even sang along to “Feed the Birds.” Barbara was in no doubt that her mother was so starved of company that this little gathering felt like a party. When the film was over, she started chatting to Atticus and Cleo about what they were doing at school.

“Do you know when my mummy was at school,” Rose said, “there weren’t computers? There wasn’t even much paper. They wrote with chalk on a sort of mini blackboard called a slate.”

Barbara told them to think of it as an old-fashioned iPad, which seemed to confuse them even more.

“And in the war,” Rose went on, “when the air-raid siren went and we knew the bombs were coming, we had to rush down to the shelter at the bottom of the garden. If it was in the night, we had to get dressed as fast as we could and run. But my sister, Freda, could never find her knickers, so she always came without any.”

Atticus and Cleo had heard this story dozens of times, but it still made them laugh.

“Nana Rose, can we get the photograph albums out and look at the pictures of the olden days?”

“Sorry. That’s going to have to wait for another time,” Barbara said. “I need to get you home.”

Rose gave the children bristly kisses. Then, as usual, she handed each of them a two-pound coin. “Buy yourselves a treat.”

“Wow. Thanks, Nana.”

Rose even gave Jess and Ben money when they came to visit—although since they’d gotten older, she’d upped it to a tenner.

“How’s the music now?” Barbara asked her mother as they were leaving.

“Would you believe it’s started up again? First thing in the morning I’m going to speak to the chairman of the management committee.”

•   •   •

When they reached the deli, Jess was swabbing the marble countertop. The shop had originally been a dairy and still had most of its Victorian features: the blue-and-white wall tiles, the mosaic floor, the marble and mahogany counters. It smelled of what the children called posh “pooh cheese” and olives.

Jess came out from behind the counter. She looked flushed and worn-out.

“Hi, guys. Did you have a good time at Nana’s?”

“Great,” Atticus said. “Nana gave us two pounds each.”

Jess gave her mother a kiss hello. “Sorry if I smell of garlic. I’ve been chewing it all day. I think I might be coming down with a cold.”

“You’re working too hard,” Barbara said. “You’re exhausted.” She looked at her daughter. She’d barely changed since she was five: those cute, chocolate button eyes, the wavy chestnut hair. But today her eyes were heavy and glassy. Her long hair was falling out of its claw clip.

“We watched
Mary Poppins
,” Cleo said. “And Grandma let us have chocolate and crisps.”

Jess put her hands on her hips. “Mum . . .”

“Actually, it gets worse. I also let them have undiluted fruit juice and pizza.”

“But why would you do that?”

“I’m sorry, but it was a special occasion.”

“What sort of special occasion?”

“I lost my job today.”

“What?. . . Shit.”

“Mum said shit! Mum said shit!”

“OK, kids—your dad’s waiting upstairs to give you a bath. And then afterwards he’ll help you practice your juggling. Why don’t you go and find him?”

The children raced over to the stairs. “Dad! We’re back!”

The shop had come with a small-to-the-point-of-cramped three-bedroom flat. Despite the lack of space, Jess always said that living above the shop was their saving grace. If she and Matt had needed to commute back and forth to work, she wasn’t sure either of them could have coped. This way, when it was quiet, she could shove some laundry into the washer or—on very rare occasions—put her feet up for ten minutes.

Barbara followed Jess to one of the long wooden tables (reclaimed railway sleepers bolted together).

They each took a stool (reclaimed industrial metal).

The deli was called the Green Door on account of (a) it having a green door, and (b) all its produce was organic and ethically sourced.

“So what happened?” Jess said. “Why did they fire you?”

“Cuts. Sandra had to lose a post.”

“But I thought she loved you.”

Barbara shrugged. “It wasn’t her fault. She was forced to pick the person closest to retirement. And that was me.”

“So what will you do?”

“I’ll work out my notice, but beyond that, I have absolutely no idea.” She looked at her watch. “It’s getting late. I need to get going. Your dad said he’d try to get back at a reasonable time tonight so that we could talk.”

“Sure, but come and say hi to Matt first.”

As the two women climbed the stairs, they could hear the children splashing about in the bath.

“Hurry up, you two,” Jess called out. “Grandma’s leaving.”

Matt was sitting at his desk, staring into the computer and pulling at the hairs of his ironic muttonchops. Hanging on the wall, directly above his head, was a pair of antlers. Barbara went over and gave her son-in-law a peck on the cheek. “Matt, you do realize that you’ve got antlers growing out of your head.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. They need moving. I hung them too low.”

“They’re nice though. Very stylish.”

Not that that the antlers were quite Barbara’s thing. Style-wise she had taken a while to warm to Jess and Matt’s flat. An edgy interiors magazine would have described it as “an homage to upcycling.”

All their friends upcycled. It was the epitome of early-twenty-first-century boho chic. It was also cheap. Once they’d bought the business and paid six months’ rent on the premises up front, Jess and Matt had almost no money left. The flat had a decent kitchen and bathroom, but it was dark. Not only did it need brightening up, but it needed tables, chairs and sofas. Until now Jess and Matt and the kids had lived in a furnished apartment. They owned nothing by way of beds, tables and chairs.

The first thing they did was strip the walls and floorboards and paint them white. Then came the upcycling. They started filling the flat with objects they found in Dumpsters or thrift shops. But not before these items had been “converted.” It worked like this: Jess would happen upon a couple of battered tennis racquets that she thought would make “amazing” wall mirrors. Or she’d pay pennies for a hard-sided fifties suitcase that she “just knew” would work as a small living room table. Her friend Lola, who was an artist and performance poet, did the converting, but she refused to take cash. Jess and Matt paid by barter. In return for turning a couple of bowler hats into lampshades and an old door into a dining table, Jess and Matt would provide Lola and her family with home-cooked vegan dinners for a month and a few bottles of organic merlot.

Eventually, Barbara had to admit that this quirky little flat with its bent-wrench coat hooks and walls of pictureless picture frames had real charm. If the deli failed, they could go into business as interior designers.

Then one day Jess and Matt came over to Frank and Barbara’s full of excitement. Matt had found “the most fantastic sofa” sticking out of a Dumpster down the road. “It’s a bit shabby and stained, but with a bit of work . . .”

Barbara was horrified. There was no way she was going to have her grandchildren sitting on some stinky, flea-infested sofa with horsehair sticking out.

“Tell you what,” Barbara said. “Dad and I haven’t got you a housewarming present yet. How’s about we buy you a couple of Ikea sofas?”

“A couple?” Frank said, the color draining from his face.

“But, Mum, you can’t afford it.”

“’Course we can. Can’t we, Frank?”

“Well . . .”

“Right, that’s settled.”

“OK, if you’re sure.”

After Jess and Matt had left, Barbara and Frank had had a huge fight. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, offering to buy the kids two sofas? Where do you think we’re going to find the money?”

“Take it from the pot we’ve set aside to pay the next tax bill.”

“Excellent idea, and how do you propose we pay the bloody tax bill?”

“We’ll find a way. Anyway, I’d rather be in hock to the tax people than have our grandchildren catch tetanus.”

“What? People get tetanus from dog bites and rusty nails, not old sofas.”

“Well, they could catch something. The thing’s probably infested with bugs and weevils.”

In the end, Frank threw up his hands in defeat.

•   •   •

Matt was still staring into the computer screen. “Jess, I thought you said you’d ordered
late
-harvest olive oil.”

“I did.”

“Nope. You ordered
early
-harvest.”

“Sorry. Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. Our customers are the sort of people who know the difference. You need to start concentrating. You’re just so bloody vague all the time.”

“I’m not vague. I’m just human and overworked like you. I make mistakes.”

“Which I have to sort out. Now I’ll have to send it all back.”

“Ignore him,” Jess said to her mother. “He’s been in a lousy mood all day. . . . So anyway, I have news. We’ve made a decision. . . . We’re giving up loo paper.”

Barbara blinked. “O . . . kay . . . How does that work?”

“You buy this stuff called family cloth.”

“Family cloth?”

“Yeah, squares of fabric—some people like Martha cut up their own. And you wash it and reuse it.”

“What? You’re being ridiculous. Have you any idea how unhygienic that is?”

“It’s not. You soak it in green disinfectant before you wash it.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“Did you know that loo paper is really harmful to the skin because it contains dangerous chemicals?”

“Really? So how many people do you know with arse cancer? Jess, this is madness.”

“Well, it’s all the rage in parts of the US.”

“Rubbish. Among a few loonies, maybe. Do you honestly think Michelle Obama expects her staff to wash her pooh-covered bum cloth?”

“Well, we’re going give it a try. . . . Aren’t we, Matt?”

“Give what a try?” He was still staring into the computer.

“Family cloth.”

“I guess. Hang on. I need to read this e-mail. . . . Oh, fabulous. The olive oil suppliers say they can’t change the order. We’re too late. They’ve sold out of late-harvest oil.”

Matt stood up and bashed his head on the antlers, which promptly fell to the floor. “Shit. That hurt.” Rubbing his head, he bent down to retrieve them.

Jess threw up her arms. “Now look what you’ve done.” A couple of nails and a load of plaster had fallen off the wall along with the antlers, leaving a large hole in the wall.

“I’m sorry. I’ll deal with it, OK? Just don’t go on.”

Jess looked repentant. “No, I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.” She turned to her mother. “Apologies for the bickering. It’s just that we’re both really stressed.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

Matt explained that a few months back they’d catered a couple of big lunch parties—one for a local PR company, the other for an IT firm. The PR company had gone bust. The IT people were ignoring their invoices. Between them they owed Jess and Matt more than five grand.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if this was just a one-off,” Jess said. “But this stuff just keeps happening. We thought small-scale catering was going to bring in a bit more money, but people just aren’t paying their bills.”

“I’m so sorry,” Barbara said. “That’s awful. Do you stand any chance of recouping the money from the PR company?”

“Not a hope in hell. Apparently, they owe thousands in unpaid tax. The Revenue always gets first dibs.”

Just then the children came tearing in, dripping and naked.

“Dad, Dad, can we do juggling now?” Atticus said, launching himself at his father.

“I think you both need to go and get dried off first,” Jess told them.

They protested. Why couldn’t they dry in the air? Their mother shooed them back to the bathroom. There would be no juggling unless they returned dry and wearing their pj’s.

The children disappeared.

Barbara looked at her daughter and son-in-law. “OK, tell me honestly. How serious is this problem?”

Jess shrugged. “Most small businesses are struggling right now.”