Jim laughed. ‘We’re all allowed off days.’
‘I guess.’ She gave a wry smile, deciding not to share that she had more off days than on at the moment, and happy to have made him laugh and maybe restored a little of the ease with life he had felt before knocking on her door.
She wanted nothing more than to close the front door and make her third coffee of the day, but Jim stayed put, looking back down the street as if he wanted to say something. Embarrassment ticked in her veins.
‘You know I think you should enjoy your birthday, Mrs T, and I think you should treasure every day. My wife . . .’ He swallowed. ‘My wife passed away at forty-two, and I swear—’ He shook his head. ‘I would give anything – anything – to be handing her a birthday card each year, marking the time that I got to spend with her, and if she had lived to be a hundred it wouldn’t have been enough. She was my world, you see.’
‘Oh, Jim . . .’ There was a thump of guilt in her stomach – what right did she have to feel low? ‘You always seem so . . .’
‘Happy? Joyful?’ he sniffed. ‘What’s the alternative, Mrs T?’
‘I guess you’re right.’ The words were easy, but her sadness seemed to sneak up and catch her unawares.
‘I am right, and if losing her has taught me one thing, it’s that you need to value every single day.’ He handed her the bundle of cards. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Thank you.’ Bess’s gaze danced over the postmarks. ‘I think she was very lucky, Jim, your wife, to have someone who felt that way about her and who misses her so.’
‘Oh no.’ Jim wiped his face and coughed. ‘It was me that was the lucky one. She was absolutely smashing.’
His words, so sincerely offered, took her breath away, and she was almost jealous of this woman who had lost her life so young.
Out on the street again, Jim called out a cheery ‘Morning, guv’nor!’ to whichever neighbour he had spotted next. Closing the door, Bess felt a jolt of affection for this man, who seemingly made it his mission to brighten everyone’s day.
Mario jogged down the stairs in his pants and long-sleeved T-shirt, with his zip-up top in his hand. ‘Have you washed my work trousers?’ he asked.
She looked up at him and blinked. ‘Do you think I’m smashing, Mario?’
‘What?’
‘Do you think I’m smashing?’
‘Smashing?’ He narrowed his lips and seemed to consider this. ‘I think we have a lot of smashing history. A lot of smashing memories.’ He made his way to the kitchen and the back of the kitchen chair, where his washed and dried work trousers awaited.
‘But it’s not the same, is it?’ She followed and watched him wrestle with the bulky bottoms with the padded knees that made plastering in cold empty houses a little kinder on his body.
‘No, it’s not the same, Bess.’ He held her gaze briefly before looking away, a little embarrassed, as if aware of the impact of his response. And while not a surprise to hear, her heart nevertheless sank at the confirmation. ‘But there we are. See you tonight. I’ll go to the chip shop after work. Shall I call you when I get there to see who wants what?’
‘No, Mario, it’s easier if I text you with who’s here and what everyone wants, surely?’
‘Yep, surely.’ He gave the hint of a smile, which disappeared as quickly as it had flashed. ‘Enjoy your birthday, Bess.’ He held her gaze for a moment before grabbing his flask and sandwich box from the kitchen table.
‘I will, and maybe my card might turn up!’
‘Maybe it will,’ he said, without looking back.
‘Do you have cash?’ she asked. ‘They don’t take cards at the chippy.’
Mario shut the front door with a little more force than she thought seemed necessary.
‘Well, Chuts, just you and me then.’ She looked down at the dog and was sure she saw him sigh.
CHAPTER FIVE
August 20th 1984
Bessie stood at the end of the road, trying to plan what and how she would tell her parents about her dire performance. It sounded so alien in her head she couldn’t even practise it. Fierce nerves raged inside her; she felt sick and her legs, plasters and all, were like jelly. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that Philip had done very well in his O levels only the year before, gaining a clutch of A grades and a very impressive forty-seven in the year ranking.
Three hundred and sixty-one.
Three hundred and sixty-bloody-one!
She walked past Gary Bradshaw’s house, where his bike now lay abandoned on the front path, and heard his dad yelling, ‘Bloody brilliant! Moira! Moira! He’s only gone and done it! Wahey! That’s my boy!’
The sound of Mr Bradshaw’s celebrations only added to the sinking, hollow feeling in her stomach. She thought she might actually throw up.
Drawing close to home, she caught sight of the very large home-made banner strung across the front door:
CONGRATULAYTIONS!
It was a funny thing, but pre-exam results, she would have asserted with self-assurance that this was not how you spelled CONGRATULATIONS, but now? With her confidence tank entirely drained, she wasn’t sure she was right and would not say a word for fear of being wrong.
The banner was edged with crudely drawn hearts and flowers – no doubt the handiwork of Judith, Mrs Hicks’s young granddaughter, who liked to hang around. The sight of it made her heart and spirits sink even further, if that was possible – with absolutely nothing to be congratulated on, and suddenly aware of just how many people she had let down. She wanted to tear it down and rip it into a million pieces.
Before she had the chance to fish for her key in the front pocket of her dungarees, the door was flung open and the smiling, expectant faces of her parents greeted her. Her dad had the harmonica in his hand.
Oh, please God, no!
Her prayer fell on deaf ears as her dad brought the instrument to his lips and began to toot out an almost passable version of Cliff Richard’s Eurovision-winning ditty while her mum did her best to sing along, including a false start.
‘Con . . . congratulations, and celebrations . . . doo-doo doo!’ Stepping from foot to foot, her mum waved her hands in a crappy dance.
Bessie looked down and shook her head as her tears broke their banks.
Her mum stopped singing. ‘Shut up, Eddie!’ She elbowed her husband, who stopped playing abruptly, and stared at him as if he were all alone in his musical endeavours and she were not the driving force behind the whole welcome idea.
‘You can’t cry on your birthday!’ Her mum’s words only made Bessie cry harder. She had completely forgotten it was her birthday.
‘What’s the matter, love?’
For the love of God – what do you think might be the matter? I’ve just got my results and they’re shit! But she pulled herself together enough to talk softly and slowly, with a veneer of calm, other than the odd gulping breath.
‘I messed up, Mum,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I messed up really badly.’
‘Oh, come on inside, love. I bet you haven’t! It’ll all be okay. No need for tears.’
Bessie stepped over the threshold, and as she saw the three round plasters on her shin, they reminded her of Michelle’s words earlier and another layer of worry now settled in her gut – Michelle liked Liquorice Popcorn? How had that happened? Michelle knew how she felt about him and now she would have to come clean about the whole sex thing and have to deal with the fallout of her friend’s confession . . . on her birthday. It was all a bit much and she slumped down in one of the chairs at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. Her elbow stuck to a lurking residue of gluey lemon juice, a reminder of the pancake fiasco of earlier. No good day started with bad pancakes, not even a birthday.