Miss Potterton's Birthday Tea (2 page)

Mrs Coates gasped and swallowed. ‘Is it going to hurt? I mean, I can take the pain, and the treatment, and I'm even prepared to say my goodbyes, but I just need a minute to calm myself.'

Ian gave a tight-lipped smile as he went in with the tweezers. He gave the blob a small tug and dropped it into Mrs Coates' hand. ‘Brown toast and Marmite!' He grinned.

‘Oh, Doctor!' she trilled. ‘I feel so foolish. I hate wasting your time. Thank you! I've been worried all morning. Thank you!'

‘All part of the service, Mrs Coates. See you very, very soon, no doubt.'

As she left the room, Ian sank low in his chair and placed his head in his hands. ‘Give me strength,' he muttered under his breath. ‘Seven years of training and twenty-one years of practice for this – toast and sodding Marmite!'

When his phone rang, he reached out and, still with his eyes closed, gathered it under his chin. ‘Dr Munroe.' His tone was clipped, conveying that he was both interested and harried.

‘It's me.'

‘Oh, hello, love.' He sat up straight and opened his eyes.

‘I've made my decision.' There was no clue in her tone.

He swallowed. ‘And?'

‘I'm leaving you.'

‘Mum! Your programme's on!' Marley shouted into the kitchen from the leather sofa on which he reclined.

Tina bustled in with a mug of coffee and a side plate piled with three slices of Battenberg cake.

‘Moveyrft!' She tried to speak but found it hard to make herself understood on account of the bag of salt and vinegar crisps dangling from her mouth.

‘What?' Marley raised his head and stared at his mum.

‘I said, move your feet!' Her crisp bag fell onto the deep-pile rug that created a cosy patch on the laminate floor. ‘Jesus, lucky for you I'm only tiny, otherwise you'd have to sit up properly.'

The teenager tutted as he bent his knees into a pyramid and scooted his white sports sock clad feet along the cushion.

Tina plonked down at the end of the sofa and her son promptly laid his feet on her lap. ‘Marley!' she screamed, before conceding defeat and placing a cushion on his shins to make a makeshift table for her plate and the crisp packet she'd retrieved from the floor.

‘Is that your breakfast?' He grimaced.

‘Yep.' She kept her eyes on the forty-two-inch curved screen, a present from Marley's dad and Lord only knew how he had acquired it. The vast thing made their tiny sitting room feel more like the local Odeon. She had hated it on sight, but had to admit to rather enjoying watching
'Enders
on the monstrosity.

‘Turn it up.' She nodded as she crammed half a slice of cake into her mouth.

‘Ooh, look, Marl, this'll be good!' The show title flashed up on the screen.
I'll Prove I've Got What It Takes To Be A Dad, Even Though I Slept With Your Sister!
‘They might have your dad on it!' She laughed, shaking her head so her large gold earrings jangled.

‘Very funny.' He blinked. ‘You haven't even got a sister.'

‘Lucky for me or he definitely would have!' She winked at him.

Marley was keen to change the subject. ‘I can't believe you eat that junk. You need a healthier start to the day.'

‘Oh good, does this mean you got that undercover job recruiting for All-Bran then?'

‘Ha ha. I mean it! Just because you're skinny doesn't mean you're healthy.' He tutted.

‘Marley, you've only been at college for three weeks, you're on your first module and already you've turned into Dr Bloody Hilary! And besides, I've done a job this morning, don't forget, so this is more like lunch.'

‘It's just as bad for you even if it's lunch. I just want you to be healthy.'

‘Aww, bless!' She smiled at her beautiful boy, who she knew spoke the truth. She couldn't imagine what his life would be like if she weren't around to smooth his path; they were a great team. ‘Anyway, enough talking.' She sipped her coffee and pointed at the screen. ‘That bloke in the wings looks like fat Barry from the chippy.'

They both squinted at the screen as Jeremy's voice cut through their morning chatter. ‘I'd like to welcome Barry from Hammersmith onto the stage!'

The audience clapped on cue as Tina sat forward and squealed. ‘Flamin' Nora! It
is
fat Barry from the chippy!'

The two of them were transfixed.

‘The dirty bastard!' Tina pulled open her crisp packet and they both laughed.

Cordelia Potterton flexed her fingers as best she could. It irritated her beyond belief that her body no longer did the things she wanted it to and yet also did several things she would rather it didn't. Her mind was as sharp as a tack and for that she was grateful, but the weakness in her wrists meant lifting and twisting was almost impossible, the lack of dexterity in her digits made her feel like a clumsy child and the general softening of her physique was nothing short of maddening.

Eventually, she managed to button her coat over her slender frame, pulling it to straighten the shoulder seams that now sat a little askew on her bowed body. She had known that she would shrink with age, but when your starting point was six foot, this wasn't too lamentable. She had always stood a good few inches above Tom, not that this had mattered a jot, not to them. She'd expected to lose the odd inch here and there, bringing her down to a more average height, but what she hadn't banked on was the curve to her spine, the collapse of her hip and the sag to her shoulders, all of which had increased the shrinkage.

She placed her navy beret over her short, grey, razor cut, twisting it to a jaunty angle low over her right ear, then did her best to keep the slick of crimson lipstick on her lips, despite the wobbly hand that seemed to have a will of its own. Next she arranged her lime-green chiffon scarf in a pussy bow at her crêpey neck and collected her wicker basket, in which nestled a bunch of blue stocks, tied around the stems with a small twist of brown string.

Greta Garbo meowed and pawed at the thick brown tights beneath her mistress's houndstooth vintage Jaeger skirt before finally sitting on the toes of her rather clumpy tan brogues.

‘What a ghastly racket. You sound quite frightful, Greta, and you know how I feel about clinginess. It smacks of weakness and dependency and we all know that for you it's just a ruse – you like your own company! You're only interested in me when I appear to be abandoning you.' She gave a throaty laugh and shifted her foot. ‘I shall be no more than an hour. Nap or play with a ball, or whatever it is you do when I'm not here. You know the rules: no parties, and I've left Jenni Murray on for you for company.'

Bending to give Greta a brief, affectionate stroke, she felt the familiar swirl of giddiness and leant against the wall with her eyes closed. This was yet another aspect of being old that bothered her enormously. It wasn't that she wanted to dance or run again, although both would be fun, but she did want to be able to hear clearly, so that she could keep safe and listen out for burglars or the first crackle of a fire, and she would have loved to be able to bend over without the floor rushing up to meet her and every joint creaking in protest.

The doorbell rang. She turned to Greta Garbo and waggled her finger. ‘Remember! No parties!'

Slowly she made her way along the hallway and opened the half-glazed front door.

‘Morning, Miss P. Lovely day for it.' Len the cabby smiled and offered her his arm.

‘If you say so, Leonard. I'm afraid my day has been rather difficult thus far. My cleaner just walked out without so much as a by your leave! So now I'm high and dry!' She tutted angrily at the memory. ‘Such an inconvenience, and tomorrow is ornament day. I fear they will have to forgo the caress of a feather duster this week.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. People is unreliable sometimes. Mind how you go, now.' He pointed at the steep flight of slightly uneven basement steps as he guided her upwards.

‘I'm afraid you are right, Leonard. People is.' She trod gingerly, with one hand on the metal handrail and the other looped through his crooked elbow. In his other hand, Len carried her basket.

‘Ooh, they're beautiful. Stocks. They smell lovely, don't they?' He smiled.

She nodded and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. It took an age, but the reward was worth the effort. Looking around as her head emerged at ground level, Miss Potterton felt a surge of happiness at the fact that this was her home, this beautiful street in Kensington in the greatest city in the world! For her, the thrill never dulled. Her only sadness was that her advanced years and infirmity stopped her from gallivanting around the way she used to, no longer able to take advantage of the parks, museums and galleries that had been her sanctuary since she was a child. Not to mention all those deliciously bohemian dance clubs that she and Tom had enjoyed so much, the kind referred to in the more salacious social pages, where entry was via a secret knock on a rusting door.

‘You all right for a minute while I get the walking stick?' Len asked, as he always did, before hurrying to his cab and opening the back door. ‘Shan't be a mo.'

‘Yes, Leonard, I promise I shan't run off.' Despite her flippant response, her eyes widened with the fear that, unsupported, she might wobble and fall.

With the special walking stick now retrieved – it was kept exclusively for Miss Potterton's use, as she refused to give in and buy one of her own – Len returned to her side and so began the slow process of manoeuvring her into the back seat and getting her buckled up for the journey.

‘Incredible to think, isn't it, that when I was a girl there were only two cars in this street and one of those was Daddy's. He had a Crossley. Its colour was Atlantic green. I can't recall the model, but it had a darling canvas canopy and studded leather upholstery. Very grand. I can remember street boys coming to leer through the windows and our driver, Mason, shooing them away from the paintwork that he'd spent all morning polishing. It was another world entirely. A man used to come and visit the street with a little monkey in a red-and-white striped waistcoat. He'd whistle and the ugly little thing used to flip over. Quite bizarre. Doubt it'd be allowed nowadays, it'd only want one precocious child to have its fingers bitten off and that would be the end of that.'

‘That's health and safety for you.' Len nodded. He wasn't sure of the relevance but liked to join in. It was hard to think of something different to say when he'd heard the same anecdotes repeated more times than he cared to remember.

Miss Potterton liked that she didn't have to confirm her destination or make unnecessary small talk. Len had been driving her there once a month for the last twelve years, rain or shine.

The cars sat bumper to bumper on Kensington Church Street. ‘It's a shocker on the roads today, world and his wife are out.' He spoke to the rearview mirror.

She ignored him, gazing instead at the shop displays, the people that crowded the pavements, and the sky. This monthly trip was her window on the world and she didn't want to waste a second of it.

‘Good Lord!' She inhaled sharply.

Len followed her gaze until his eyes fell upon a young girl who was covered in tattoos. Even her face was adorned with the stars and stripes of Old Glory.

‘Shocking, isn't it, Miss P?' He shook his head.

She stared at the girl with her big eyes and dainty figure. ‘I've always thought one should leave room in one's life for a small handful of regrets,' she mused. ‘Do things while you can that will keep your cogs turning when your candle has nearly burnt out. But that seems rather drastic.'

‘Can't see her heading up customer services or getting a job as the local bank manager!' Len chuckled.

‘No, you're quite right. Lucky girl! Maybe she's smarter than she looks. Can't think of anything worse than being stuck in administrative mediocrity.'

Len blinked in response. ‘I was just having a think about what you said earlier. One of my neighbours is a cleaner – smashing girl. Do you want me to have a word and see if she can fit you in? She might like the extra cash and it's not too far.'

‘I'll think about it.' She was dismissive and Len wished he hadn't bothered, embarrassed at having made the suggestion.

When they got to Hampstead Cemetery, he indicated and pulled over, leaving the hazard lights on as he opened the door and helped Miss Potterton out.

The two wandered along the path arm in arm and at a snail's pace, with the bright autumn sunshine peeking through the canopy of trees above. Under his other arm, Len carried a lightweight fishing chair – something else that he kept in the cab especially for Miss Potterton's monthly outings. Both of them were silent, as usual, and almost reverent as they made their way between the various Gothic mausoleums, elaborate family graves and featureless statues whose faces and costumes had been eroded by centuries of wind and rain.

When they reached the spreading yew tree in the quiet north-eastern corner to the right of the gate, Len set down the fishing chair and waited. Miss Potterton shuffled forward and dropped the bundle of blue stocks onto a low grassy mound. Then Len took her arm again and eased her into the chair so that she sat facing a small cluster of graves.

‘Be back in twenty minutes, Miss P. If you need me before then, just raise your arm. I'll be watching.'

It was as if she hadn't heard Len, who ambled back to the car with his hands in his pockets. She stared, transfixed by one of the weathered, moss-splashed gravestones.

Then she leant forward. ‘Hello, my darling.' She smiled.

Ian Munroe slipped out of his white coat and hung it on the back of the door before shrugging on his zip-up fleece, which sat snugly over his pale denim shirt. He smiled at his colleagues as he sidled out of his surgery and through the outer offices, avoiding the waiting room, where he would undoubtedly get waylaid by determined stragglers. But there was no escaping the receptionist.