The Yorkshire Pudding Club (5 page)

Laurence hoisted her up with his eyes, chewed her up and spat her out again.

‘Get out, you’re sacked,’ he said in a whispered scream.

‘Sorry, I’ve already resigned,’ she said, then stabbed a finger at Laurence. ‘As for you, you’ve gone through more staff in this department in the last six months than the average family goes through bog rolls in a year. You should be ashamed. All those decent kids turned away for no reason at all.’

‘If you had a problem you should have come to me to discuss it
privately
,’ Laurence said, his voice a covered growl, aware of the unwanted attention. With his eyebrow in a deep V in the middle, where on humans there would have been a gap, he looked very much like a big bad wolf. But Elizabeth was Red Riding Hood with attitude.

‘Oh yeah?’ She laughed with a mix of bitterness and amusement. ‘Would you truly and honestly have listened? I think not! You’re as bad as she is. You can stick your precious job, Mr Stewart-Smith. I saw what was on that note you wrote about those women being old scrubbers, so don’t you tell me you’d listen to what
I
would have had to say! Twenty-two years I’ve worked here, without anything but positive feedback. Suddenly not only do I need a “supervisor” but I’m back filing and making coffee for a living and having to ask permission to go to the toilet!’

‘Well, doesn’t that tell you something?’ said Laurence, his mouth twisted in a half-smug, half-furious curve.

‘Yes, it does. It tells me that I should have exchanged my brain for a big pair of knockers!’

‘Get out!’ said Laurence.

‘It will be an absolute pleasure!’ She grabbed her coat and bag and stormed forward with her head lifted in dignified defiance. Julia and Laurence parted for her like the Red Sea did for Moses, and eyes everywhere glittered with hungry excitement although no one in the office spoke or moved. Every single second seemed as sharp as if the scene was being played in slow motion, and the only sound was Elizabeth’s stomps across the
super-bouncy executive carpet. She felt like Neil Armstrong walking across the surface of the moon as she strode on.

She looked straight ahead, ran down the swirl of back stairs (down which she had often fantasized about kicking Julia), swept past Rasputin, out of the rotating door and into the busy Leeds street. There in the cold, unforgiving air Elizabeth did something she hadn’t done for many years–she sobbed her guts out.

The train journey home was a blur. Elizabeth was only conscious of one point between getting on the train at Leeds and picking up her car at Barnsley station, and that was when the conductor asked her for her ticket. She wanted to ring Janey but she would still be at work. Helen would have finished now, but she didn’t think it was fair to worry her in her condition, and on the actual day of her birthday as well, so she sat with a cup of tea at her kitchen table and let the events of the day whirl around in her brain. Bits were starting to warp already and even though she was sure she had not sworn at Laurence, her distorted recall implied she had let loose at him with a peal of choice language. Then she tortured herself by imagining she had turned to go and tripped up and everyone had started laughing at her. Her head flung unwanted questions at her. What would people say about her when they got home? What would Laurence demand they write on her personnel record? Would she ever be able to find work again after this? If she didn’t speak to someone soon, would she go totally bonkers?

She tried Janey’s number as soon as the clock had
crawled around to the time when she usually landed home. Thankfully, she was in.

‘You’ve done what?’ was Janey’s response, but she didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ll be there in about five minutes,’ she said and put the phone straight down.

True to her word, within a short space of time, a car had pulled up outside Elizabeth’s neat little end terrace with the shiny, postbox-red door and the iron cat for a door knocker, but to Elizabeth’s surprise it was Helen’s black sleek number and not Janey’s ancient Volvo. Both women got out.

Janey had intended to storm in there and ask, ‘What the bloody hell is up with you!’ until she saw how red Elizabeth’s eyes were. She never cried, so this was serious. Consequently she kept her trap shut and let Helen soothe the way first with fussy comfort and much putting on of kettles, and exuding her usual golden air of calm. Although in the end it got too much for her, and she burst out: ‘You silly cow, whatever possessed you?’

Elizabeth’s head swung slowly from side to side. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It was like someone else was at the driving wheel to my mouth.’

‘Aye–Stevie Wonder. You can’t talk to people like Laurence Wotsit-Wotsit like that and get away with it.’

‘Well, I didn’t, did I? I lost my job.’

‘Yes, you did, you daft bat!’ said Janey, although her tone was more concerned than exasperated.

‘Tea or coffee?’ said Helen.

‘I’m easy,’ sighed Elizabeth.

‘Yes, we know,’ Janey said, loosening the button on
her work skirt. Either it had shrunk in the tumble drier, or she needed to cut even further back on her carbs.

‘You’ve moved your coffee, you naughty woman,’ said Helen, foraging in vain around in the cupboard where it was usually stored.

‘Oh sorry, I ran out,’ said Elizabeth, who had lost the taste for it recently and not replenished her stocks. ‘There’s plenty of tea-bags though. Look, Hels, this isn’t right, you being here on your birthday, and in your condition. I thought you were going out for a meal anyway?’

‘I’m pregnant, not ill, so don’t you worry about me,’ said Helen. She was not going to admit to feeling less than sparkling. She had just called in at Janey’s en route home from work on the pretence of saying, ‘Hello and thanks for the flowers.’ In truth, she had felt quite nauseous and wanted to use her loo. Nevertheless she had insisted on driving them both down the road without a second thought.

‘Anyway, the table isn’t booked until nine and I doubt Simon will be home before half past eight,’ Helen continued with a soft smile. Even on her birthday, she didn’t expect to take precedence over Simon’s workload.

‘Okay, so what’s done is done,’ Janey conceded. ‘So what are you going to do next?’

‘Christ knows. Get another job, I suppose, and hope they don’t need references.’

‘Mmmm, that could be a problem.’

Helen was swirling the teapot behind them to hasten
the brewing process. ‘Surely they won’t just let you go like that after all these years?’

‘Oh yes they will,’ said Elizabeth with an accompanying pantomime laugh. ‘I mean nothing to the likes of Laurence Stewart-Smith. I upset his “baby” and that’s tantamount to treason. He’d have had me beheaded if this was the sixteenth century. Slowly, with a blunt sword.’

‘Yes–well, it’s not, thank goodness. Can you go on the dole for now?’ Helen suggested, adding a wry: ‘I presume you don’t have thousands of pounds-worth of savings to rely on.’

Elizabeth shook her head quickly. ‘I wouldn’t get dole. And to be honest I don’t fancy going up there and announcing to all and sundry at the DHSS, or whatever they call themselves these days, what I’ve done to make myself jobless.’ Elizabeth made a strange animal noise of frustration. ‘I don’t believe it! I mean, how could I let a little bitch like Julia Powell burrow into my marrow, eh?’

‘You tell us!’ said Janey, who was just as puzzled.

It was unheard of for Elizabeth to get screwed up over anything, especially over making a flaming pot of tea. Elizabeth was the coolest person she knew; in fact, she made the Ice Queen look like Ma ‘Darling Buds’ Larkin sometimes. That wild streak was obviously still lingering in there somewhere, and there they were, thinking that Elizabeth had settled down nicely these past few years, despite the fact she still could not pick a decent bloke to save her life. Then when one picked her, she sent him off packing. However much she and
Helen both thought of Elizabeth, they could have taken turns in wringing her neck sometimes. She didn’t need enemies, not when the worst of them all was herself.

‘Can’t you just say you resigned?’ suggested Helen, as she poured.

‘She definitely wouldn’t get dole then,’ said Janey. ‘There’s always temping, of course.’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘I don’t
want
bloody dole. But I’ll be honest, I’m scared. I’ve been at Handi-Save since I left school. I’ve never worked anywhere else.’

‘There you go then,’ brightened Helen. ‘That shows your loyalty and tenacity.’

‘Not very loyal telling the boss to shove your job up his arse, is it?’ Janey added with a grunt. There was a short silence and then, despite the seriousness of the situation, they all burst into a loud bout of some well-needed laughter. Then Janey clicked her fingers as an idea came to her.

‘Do you know what I would do if I were you? I’d take a couple of weeks off and give yourself a break. I don’t know–do some of your arty stuff or decorate your bedroom or something. God knows it could be doing with it!’ she added in her straight-talking Janey way. ‘That’ll give your mind a chance to wander and relax. I’ve never seen you so wound up. In fact, I’ve never seen you wound up full stop, come to think of it. You’re run down, Collier. Maybe you should go and see a doctor?’

‘Naw, he’ll only say it’s my hormones. Don’t they go a bit loopy at this age? Don’t we start growing moustaches and buying Tena-Ladys?’

‘Can you afford a couple of weeks off?’ said Janey, serious again.

Elizabeth nodded. ‘I should have some holiday money to come. Bloody witch wouldn’t let me take my full allowance last year. They can’t deny me that, surely?’

Janey sipped at the tea, even though she had gone off drinking it recently. It had started to taste ‘tinny’.

‘Look, don’t fret, I’ll be fine. Really!’ Elizabeth gave a positive little laugh. ‘Now I’ve had the chance to talk things over with you two I feel a lot better. At least there’s no mortgage to pay so I won’t get chucked out of my house, and there’s just me and Cleef to worry about.’

Big black Cleef, sleepily occupying the fourth chair around the table, acknowledged his name by lazily opening one eye. Helen gave him a fond stroke; she would always think of him as hers.

‘Look forward to the moment of karma,’ Helen said.

‘There won’t be any,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Types like them always drop into horsecrap and come up smelling of roses.’

‘Not always,’ mused Helen. ‘Sometimes they get their just deserts.’ She looked to Janey for affirmation, but Janey didn’t say a word.

‘Okay, then, here’s to karma!’ said Elizabeth, raising her mug in the general direction of where she imagined karma might be hanging out, but not believing in its existence for a second.

Helen got home minutes after Simon, it appeared, as he still had his overcoat on. He’d had an extremely
profitable day and was looking pleased with himself. Last night was all forgotten, and they were friends again.

‘You’re early,’ she said, with a big pleased smile.

‘Where have you been then?’ he said, kissing her on the forehead.

‘Elizabeth’s. She’s a bit depressed.’ She didn’t tell him why. She always felt very disloyal telling Simon anything about her friends. He seemed to enjoy any misfortune that befell them. Especially Elizabeth.

‘Like I care,’ he said, wafting the subject away with a wave of his hand. ‘Anyway, never mind about her. I’ve bought you an extra present. Sorry it’s not wrapped, didn’t have time.’

He held a large box out. Helen took it from him, put it on the table, opened it and lifted out the long, beautiful vase inside.

‘Isn’t it gorgeous? Should be too–cost a fortune and I got these to go in it.’ He presented her with an enormous bouquet of flowers. He took the new vase from her hands, marched into the dining room and set it on the vacancy where Elizabeth’s sunflower vase had stood.

‘Happy Birthday, darling.’ He smiled proudly and gave her an affectionate hug and she daren’t spoil the rare moment by asking where the lovely vase and flowers were that her best friends had bought her.

In bed alone, Elizabeth found there was nothing remotely delicious in the mental recall of telling Laurence and Julia where to go. The whole day had
soured like milk in her head and made her feel physically nauseous. She made sure she would not be plagued by unwelcome visitors by texting Dean and telling him not to come over as she was feeling sick, and then she snuggled down under the quilt with a book and some Horlicks, suspecting she was probably set for another sooper-dooper night of insomnia.

Helen found her lost presents the next morning, when she was taking a black bag of rubbish out to the wheelie-bin. Elizabeth’s vase was buried under Janey’s flowers; miraculously it wasn’t broken. She lifted it out and wrapped it in some newspaper from the nearby recycling bag and put it in the secret place in the garage along with all her other favourite things that Simon didn’t like displayed in the house, but that her heart would not have her throw away.

Elizabeth woke up on her first day of being unemployed, feeling that she had been properly asleep for no longer than five seconds in the whole night. She dressed, went downstairs, made a long job of a forced piece of toast and then went back to bed again where she slept solidly for three more hours. She felt a lot better for being able to give in to her bodily demands, but she wasn’t used to sitting around doing nothing, and once she was up she was soon twiddling her thumbs and trying to think of something more positive to do than watch reruns of
Quincy
on the telly. Janey’s suggestion that she decorate her bedroom was becoming more and more attractive by the minute. At present, it was boring magnolia with an old, past-it beige carpet. It needed warming up and some interest of colour–maybe a nice strawberry carpet and creamy pink walls, she thought. She had seen a room decorated like that in a recent magazine and it looked lovely.

Screwing her unruly hair back tightly into a scrunchie, she changed into an old T-shirt and a pair of baggy black leggings, which were going along the
inner-thigh seam but were perfectly adequate for painting in. Then she went hunting for sandpaper in the small storehouse in the garden, which had once been an outside loo. Halfway through roughing up the skirting boards, she had to go and change her bra for an old comfy one because the one she had on seemed to be rubbing her raw in strategic places. She put it down to the new washing powder and carried on priming the bedroom, then when it was done, she set off into town to buy some paint.

It was unexpectedly relaxing, wandering up and down the aisles of the decorating giant’s store ‘Just the Job’, and her head emptied of everything but the task in hand–buying brushes, white spirit, undercoat, non-drip gloss and masking tape. It was as she was deciding between the nuances of
Candy Floss
and
Lollipop
emulsions that she saw
him
cross the top of her aisle. Commonsense told her it couldn’t possibly be him because he was in Germany, but her eyes were seeing the indisputable evidence for themselves and there was no mistaking who it was, even after all this time. The sight of him winded her. Her whole body locked. She didn’t know what to do. Yes, she did. She had to get out and find some oxygen to breathe. She pivoted around so sharply that she went the full 360 degrees and ended up back where she started. It appeared the small chemical factory that had blown up inside her had temporarily disabled her ability to co-ordinate.

From time to time, she had wondered what she would do if she saw him again, and presumed she would be totally indifferent to him after all these years, maybe
even ignore him or at best give him no more than a second glance. Yeah, right! Her head was swirling, memories were bombarding her as fresh as the day they were made, and the overwhelming effect of it all was making her stomach so jittery that she wanted to vomit.

All the things she had told him. Everything…

She edged round for a second look but he was gone. Where? She dumped her trolley and crept across the top of the aisles, checking down each one like a crap actor in a cheap spy film. Where the flipping heck was he? She felt someone come up behind her and she jumped back, flattening herself against the Black & Deckers, but it wasn’t him, just someone who looked at her as if suspecting she might have escaped from a secure mental hospital. She doubled back, looking out for the sight of his black leather jacket and hoping that no one was watching all this on CCTV. A pulse was throbbing in her ears that totally drowned out the tinny tones of the Musak that was struggling out of the overhead speakers.
Where the bloody hell had he gone?
She did another thorough check and decided he must have left the store. Her heart was bouncing like a mad ping-pong ball inside her and she needed the loo again–and fast.

It then occurred to her that she was nearly forty, not twelve, and that at this age she should have the maturity to bypass such a ludicrous scenario. On the offchance he did not ignore her, what on earth was wrong in saying a normal, ‘Hello, how are you? What are you doing back from Germany then? How is Lisa?
Does she still cling to you like a brain-damaged limpet?
’ Therein lay the problem with ‘normal’. Not only did her indifference gland need a major tweak, but having felt the Full Monty effect of how her body reacted to a mere flashing sight of him, she knew there was no way in heaven or hell that she could act ‘normal’ with John Silkstone in a face-to-face encounter. Not in a million years.

There was still no sign of him as she stealthily recollected her trolley and wheeled it slowly towards the checkout. She wasn’t in touch with her own feelings enough to know if the adrenaline coursing through her inner motorways was sourced in excitement or relief or fear. What she did know was that she just wanted to get out of there and to the safety of her car as soon as possible. Satisfied that he had left the building, she joined a queue and allowed herself to relax a little. She was halfway through paying for her goods when up he popped again, two tills down, faffing about with his wallet. Her heart started galloping again, but it didn’t look as if he had seen her.
So far so good.
She whipped out her Switchcard and signed her name on the receipt quickly before pushing the trolley victoriously out towards the exit.
Done it.
Then the metal arch thing at the door went off, didn’t it, because Mr Efficient Just the Job till operator hadn’t swiped something properly. Then the customer two tills down lifted his head at the commotion and saw her at the centre of it.

Elizabeth didn’t know what was making her blush more–the fact that she’d alerted the stares of everyone
in the shop when the spotty stringbean cross between Sebastian Coe and a Los Angeles cop rushed over, or that
he
saw her in her finest gear–no make-up on, a Barnes Wallace bra and crotchless decorating gear. He hung around until Harry Callaghan had cleared her for bombs and drugs and reswiped her non-drip gloss, and then she waited for the inevitable.

She did a really bad acting job of pretending to spot him for the first time as she watched him out of the corner of her eye slowly approach her.

‘My goodness, it’s you! How are you?’ she said with a pathetic attempt at casual, whilst pulling the back of her T-shirt down over her bottom. There was an incredibly awkward exchange of plastic smiles and head-nodding of the like that was only to be seen between animals squaring up against each other in Chester Zoo.

‘Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘How are you? You look…good.’

The pause before the complimentary word was telling, she thought.

‘Oh yeah!’ she said. ‘A regular catwalk queen in my decorating gear.’ Pleased to get that in just in case he thought this was her normal garb these days and that she had gone really downhill.

‘So, how’ve you been?’ she said.

‘Good–and you?’

‘Smashing,’ she said. ‘And you?’

‘Good. And yourself?’

Flaming hell, this loop could go on for years if she didn’t break it.

‘Holidaying?’ she said.

‘No, I’m home for good.’

‘Oh, both of you?’ She tried not to sound nosy. Even though she was.

‘Both? Lisa, you mean? No, we aren’t together any more.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ she forced herself to say. ‘So…er…how will you cope without German beer then?’
Ha, you prize-winning conversationalist you, Elizabeth Collier!

‘I think I’ll manage,’ he said.

She tried to think of something witty and incisive, but was already desperately scraping around the bottom of her mental barrel of ‘things to say to a bloke you haven’t seen for seven years’ and he wasn’t helping, standing there like a mountain range just looking at her. If she did not get away soon she would faint, she felt uncomfortably h-o-t.

‘Well, I best get on,’ she said, doing a nervous little dance-step as she started to trundle out the trolley.

‘What are you painting?’ he said, looking at her wares.

‘My bedroom,’ she said.

‘You still at Rhymer Street?’

‘Yes.’

‘On holiday from work, are you?’

No, actually, I told my boss to stick his job up his jacksey.

‘Er…yes. So what are you doing these days then?’

‘Me and the bank have bought some land. I’m knocking up some houses and hoping to sell ’em off.’

‘Oh great,’ she said, as the danger alarm on her bladder started to throb red.

‘Well.’

‘Well.’

‘Well.’

‘So, this is…’ she said, trailing off because she had absolutely no idea of where the sentence was going.

‘Yeah. It’s been nice seeing you,’ he said, looking as if he had just snapped out of a trance. An interesting silence followed in which he might have said, ‘We could catch up and go for a drink or something,’ to which she wasn’t sure how she would have reacted. Not that she got the chance to find out because what he actually said was, ‘Well,’ bye then, take care,’ and he was off without so much as a backward glance.

Her knees were knocking across that car park. She was as wobbly as the trolley wheels.
John Silkstone.
It felt like November the Fifth in her head, with his name all lit up in fireworks, which was pretty ironic really considering the last time she saw him, she told him to piss off and leave her alone for ever because she hated him.

As usual, there were no interesting jobs on the
Situations Vacant
board. Janey was vaguely aware of some man hanging behind her looking over her shoulder but she presumed it was just some hopeful other, like herself, looking for his overdue chance to shine. It was not though, it was Barry Parrish, the Head of Personnel, and he had been waiting for her to finish reading before interrupting her.

‘You’ve saved me a trip, Jane,’ he said in a silky voice that belonged to James Bond. ‘I was coming up to see you this afternoon.’

‘Oh?’ she said, taken aback.

‘Have you time for a coffee?’

‘Y…yes, of course,’ she stammered, suddenly wondering if the excitement building up in her boots was misplaced and this was actually P45 time.

He bought her a cappuccino from the machine and they went to sit behind a big plant.

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ he said. ‘There’s a vacancy to be posted on the board in the next couple of days and I think you should apply for it.’

‘Er…oh?’ she said, hoping the position wasn’t Head of Devastating Wit, judging by this performance so far. It was not, though–it was much, much better.

‘Manager of Customer Services,’ he clarified.

It was a good thing she didn’t have a mouthful of coffee just then, because she would have spat it all over him. There she was, waiting for a step up the ladder courtesy of Old Coughing Lungs, and all the while Personnel were sending her up in a gold-plated lift to the top of the Empire State Building.

‘I…I…don’t know what to say,’ she said. Well, she did, but she didn’t think all those Fs would have gone down too well.

‘You could do it, Jane. You have just what that Department needs–stability, maturity, efficiency and organization. I–that is,
we
–happen to think you’re our girl for the job.’

He pulled a sheet out of the folder he had with him and set it on the table.

‘Here’s the job description that will go up on the board. By law I have to advertise it but I’m taking it
as read that you’ll be called up for interview. The salary is commensurate with the position and there’s a car, private health insurance and profit-sharing at that level.’

Janey read the sheet. It sounded fantastic, and yes, she knew she could do it. This was the chance she had been waiting for all her life to show what she could do. ‘Slow But Sure’ was what it said on all her reports–not ‘Natural Clever Clogs’ like Elizabeth and Hels. Not that it had done them much good: Elizabeth might have moved through the secretarial ranks at Handi-Save, but she had enough brains to run the place if she wanted to. As for Helen–part-time legal secretary after quitting a Law degree at University? What a waste! Janey had always followed what her mam and dad told her: she took care over everything she did, she did not make mistakes, she watched and learned and she had worked hard. Now it could all pay off.

‘Yes, I want to be considered, Barry,’ she said calmly, even though her heart was as busy as a drumkit on a Cozy Powell LP.

‘Good,’ he said, and the Head of Personnel himself lifted up his coffee to her and said, ‘Cheers!’