Читать книгу The Old Girls' Network - Judy Leigh - Страница 12

Barbara stretched out on her bed, breathed in steaming coffee from her mug and stared at the open page again, but the words blurred. She’d read the same sentence three times without realising it. The room was still chilly despite the creamy midday sunshine that shone through the window and left a buttery yellow slice of light on the Buddha duvet.

Pauline had gone off to yoga again, promising to do a bit of grocery shopping afterwards in Winsley Green. Barbara hadn’t felt at all sociable; she’d decided she’d stay in the privacy of her own room and read her book, an interesting sensible piece of non-fiction by an intelligent man called Malcolm about how to achieve success. Barbara had been attracted to the idea that it took ten thousand hours of dedicated practice to become really good at something. She sighed and closed the book, the hard cover enclosing the pages with a soft thud as she dropped it on the covers of the bed. She’d had much more than ten thousand hours of life and she still hadn’t worked out how to make it a success, not really.

Bisto slept for most of the time. He’d been here for over a week now and it was only yesterday that he’d made an effusive apology to the disgruntled neighbour whose roses he had violated. Natalie had prescribed lots of bed rest, fluids and pain relief for his concussion, and he’d certainly been resting a lot, although Pauline had limited his fluids to water and tea. He was probably still in bed now, at almost one o’clock in the afternoon, although he’d appeared for a dinner of bangers and mash last night, but he’d seemed quiet and he hardly ate anything. Barbara was puzzled: it may have been her fault, his reticence. Perhaps she’d asked too many questions over dinner: where he lived, why he was a tramp, if he had any family.

He’d told her he was seventy-six years old, from Dublin; that he had a son, and she certainly thought she’d overheard him talking on his mobile phone to someone after dinner in his room. She’d heard a few words: ‘I’ll be leaving soon,’ and, ‘not so great,’ but she wandered away from his door when she heard Pauline’s footfall on the creaky stairs. Barbara still felt a little guilty; Pauline’s face had been disapproving when she’d told Bisto that people were tramps because their mother hadn’t shown them enough love during childhood. Bisto had turned away, and she felt she must have struck a nerve, something that rang true for him. Perhaps no one had ever loved him at all.

Barbara wondered if she should try harder to be more like Pauline, but she’d never been one to offer sympathy. Her own mother had been straight-laced and strict, never hugging the girls and rarely praising them. Barbara had idolised her mother, copied her in all respects, down to her severe hairstyle and sensible clothes.

Pauline was Daddy’s girl, cuddling up on his knee, babbling about trivia, kissing his wonky nose and laughing, but Barbara had kept herself busy, well-ordered, at a distance. She’d neglected Pauline even then, pulled away from her sister’s gentle embraces and sweet-natured chatter. Emotions were pointless; they were for weak and foolish people. Love was one of those things that blinded everyone: you thought you were deliriously happy and then suddenly you weren’t. Barbara decided it was the same for Pauline now. Even though Douglas had been far too thoughtless, too sociable, too obsessed with his own hobbies to give his wife his full attention, Pauline had clearly been shocked by his death; it had shaken her routine and left her alone. And Bisto was clearly alone too. Barbara wondered again if she’d hurt his feelings and resolved not to do it again.

Perhaps if she’d spent ten thousand hours trying to connect with her emotions rather than seal them up and hide them away, she’d have been better at relationships and therefore happier. But she doubted it. She’d tried once, tried very hard for several years, to capture and keep the elusive happy-forever-after feeling that had made her skin tingle beyond belief, with a man she’d been very much in love with, who’d said he loved her too. She remembered their secret times together, him sitting on the edge of her bed at the bedsit, his arms around her, the beautifully strange shape of his feet and his knees, the comforting smell of his warming flesh next to her own trembling body.

Barbara instantly felt cold; loneliness wrapped its arms around her now, hugged her too close so that she shivered and shrank into herself, staying separate, safe. Perhaps she should apologise to Bisto, try to be pleasant to him. She thought of his shrunken frame in her nightgown the morning after he had arrived, his stubbornly hairy chest peeking through the fabric, and the swollen purple of his injured ankle. She recalled the way he looked at her, the curling of his lip. He clearly disliked her. And he’d be gone soon, so it was pointless attempting to be too agreeable or to form some sort of friendship. Barbara didn’t form friendships as a rule. She had herself, and that was all, and it was all for the best. She picked up her book and stared at the merging words on the page, wondering if she should observe Pauline’s behaviour more. After all, Bisto had taken to her sister very quickly.

The click of keys in the door and the sound of cheerful voices at the bottom of the stairs made her sit upright. It was Pauline and someone else, a woman. Barbara listened carefully to the excited babble, then she heard Pauline raise her voice. ‘Barbara? Are you in your room? Come down, will you please – I’m making lunch. We have a guest.’

Barbara saw Pauline at the bottom of the stairs, the front door closing behind her. She was wrapped in a warm jacket, her cheeks gleaming. The woman with hair in various bright colours was with her, a wide smile on her face, carrying a shopping bag. Barbara could hear the annoying woman’s voice ringing out, too brash. ‘Such a shame he wasn’t cleaning the windows again this week. I was hoping we’d get a glimpse of his gorgeous Greek god body. He’s called Kostas, you know. He’s from Crete.’

‘He’s certainly handsome.’ Pauline patted the younger woman’s arm. ‘I think most of the class were craning their necks throughout the entire yoga session in case he came back. I wonder what he’s doing, Dizzy, in Milton Rogus?’

‘He’s doing odd jobs, staying in lodgings. I spoke to Yvonne in the Post Office. She had him round to do her windows and found out about him. Apparently, she and Tamsin spent the whole time watching his bottom go up and down the ladder.’

‘How silly. He’s just a man.’ Barbara stood firmly on the bottom step. In her roll-neck jumper, dark slacks and sensible shoes, she towered over the other two women.

Pauline giggled. ‘It’s harmless fun. And he’s very classically good-looking.’

Dizzy agreed. ‘Yvonne was saying she hopes Tamsin and he might get to know each other. Yvonne said she’d love to have him as a son-in-law.’

Barbara grimaced. ‘It’s not the wisest criteria to select a relative, is it? By how good their posterior appears as it bobs up a ladder?’

Dizzy ignored her. ‘The thing is, Pauline, Tamsin needs someone besides her mum to help her look after the baby. He’s six weeks old and keeps them both up all night with his yelling.’

Barbara guffawed. ‘Sounds like any sensible man would steer clear of that situation. Who’d want to take on a woman with a child?’

Dizzy gaped at Barbara. ‘No one knows who the father is. Tamsin won’t say. I don’t think even Yvonne knows.’

Pauline smiled. ‘Well, it can’t be the handsome Kostas. He’s only just arrived in the area.’

‘I’d love to know who little Harley’s father is though.’ Dizzy’s eyes were wide. ‘I don’t know who Tamsin was going out with last year, but the child is blond, like Tamsin and her mother, so it’s hard to tell who the father is. Unless it’s Hugo Garrett – he’s blond. Tamsin spent a lot of time last year at the manor cleaning and doing various jobs. It could be Hugo. He’s young, and handsome – and rich.’

‘Well, Hugo seems to be away a lot, in London on business.’ Pauline ignored her sister, who was becoming more irritated, gazing around the hallway at cobwebs and making an intrusive tutting sound. ‘I doubt it’s Hugo. He’s very dignified. But I suppose it could be.’

Dizzy’s face shone. ‘Perhaps Harley was the result of an uncontrollable night of passion. I mean, maybe one night when Tamsin had been up there cleaning or something, maybe Hugo lured her into one of the many chambers in the manor house and had his wicked way… or maybe Tamsin appeared in the doorway in an apron and white cap… and not much else.’

Barbara sighed loudly, her face screwed up with irritation, and prodded the woman’s arm that carried the shopping bag. ‘I can’t remember your name.’

Dizzy ran her hand through her long scarlet and orange fringe. ‘Dizzy Blackstock, mobile hairdresser. I do everyone’s hair around here. You should let me do yours. You have a very simple style at the moment and the colour could do with sorting out. If I had my way, I’d soften the shape; maybe run a little streak of burgundy through the fringe.’

‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Barbara’s hands flew to her face. ‘I think there are enough people around here looking like Christmas trees as it is. You have a funny name – Dizzy. Is it a nickname, something the locals call you because you’re empty-headed?’

Pauline opened her mouth to protest but Dizzy merely giggled. ‘No, not at all – It’s short for Desiree.’

‘Well, that completely clarifies it. There is no way I’d let anyone touch my hair who’s been named after a potato.’

‘Barbara,’ Pauline took a deep breath. ‘I’ve invited Dizzy for lunch. It’s just beans on toast but—’

‘I’ve brought us all cream cakes too…’ Dizzy breathed.

‘You’re welcome to join us, Barbara.’ Pauline frowned. ‘Where’s Bisto?’

‘Still asleep, I think. I’ve really no idea,’ Barbara sniffed.

‘I’m longing to meet him, Pauline.’ Dizzy clutched her shopping bag to her chest. ‘Is he handsome?’

‘If you’d find a stunted decomposing gargoyle handsome, then I suppose he could be.’ Barbara brushed past the women. ‘And yes, I’d like lunch.’

She led the way to the kitchen and shoved the latched door open. Bisto was standing with his back to them at the Belfast sink in jeans and a t-shirt. His feet were bare. He had a spanner in his hand and was intently manipulating something over the draining board. He turned around and beamed at the women. ‘Oh, I’ve got three lovely women today. Which of yous would like to give me a hug first?’

‘Are you drunk?’ Barbara sniffed the air in the kitchen suspiciously.

‘I haven’t touched a drop.’

Dizzy offered her widest smile and extended her hand. ‘It’s so nice to meet you, Bisto. I’m Dizzy.’

‘And so am I, with love. You’re a looker. Well, I could certainly get used to the craic here. So many lovely looking women.’ He winked at Pauline and she smiled back. ‘By the way, Pauline, I couldn’t stand the noise of the ould tap dripping, so I fixed it. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘I’m delighted. It’s been in need of a good screw for ages.’ Pauline caught Dizzy’s twinkling eyes and blushed. She leaned over and patted Bisto’s arm. ‘How’s the ankle and the head? You were so tired yesterday. I was worried about you.’

Bisto lifted his foot and inspected it. ‘The head’s completely better. My rainbow-coloured ankle is coming along fine. A few days’ more rest now and I’ll be out of your hair.’ His eyes shifted to Barbara. ‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see the back of me.’

‘Not at all, Bisto.’ Pauline intervened, turning towards the cupboard, searching for cans of beans. ‘In fact, talking of hair, Dizzy here is a superb hairdresser. I’ve asked her if she could sort you out – give the curls a trim. What do you think?’

Bisto beamed. ‘Maybe she can sort the whiskers out for me while she’s at it? What do you say, Dizzy? Can you make me look even more handsome?’

Dizzy moved over to Bisto, rubbed a flat hand over his chin and through his white mane. ‘I’m pretty sure I can. Yes, we’ll have you looking like George Clooney by the time I’ve finished with you.’

He chuckled. ‘I’d rather be Bisto Mulligan again, but maybe that’s another story.’

He thought for a moment about the man he’d been, his good reputation, a respected professional; a man who was liked, who was once loved deeply, and how the events of the last few weeks had gone so badly wrong he’d let it all slip away. He’d never imagined he could sink so low, but grief had hit him hard again.

Now here he was, looking like a vagrant, imposing on the kindness of a good woman like Pauline Pye. He saw Barbara frowning at him. She clearly had no idea how his life used to be. She’d seen only the man he’d become. Bisto drew himself up to his height and winced, then adjusted his balance to the good ankle.

‘I’m looking forward to a spot of lunch, Pauline. That’d be grand.’ He glanced at Barbara, who was standing with her arms folded and her jaw set. ‘Babs, me ould love, you wouldn’t get me a chair to sit on, my ankle being so badly bruised and sore? And I’d love a cup of tea, if you could see your way to wetting the teapot.’

Barbara turned her back and found him a hard-backed chair which she dragged in his direction, a frown on her face. She moved over to the Aga and tested the weight of the kettle, shifting it onto the hottest plate, reaching for the big brown teapot. Dizzy was already chattering to Bisto, flirting, telling him how she’d make the most of his lovely curls by layering the cut and how she’d like to leave him with a bit of hunky designer stubble. Bisto chuckled; Barbara could hear Pauline joining in, laughing, calling for the cream cakes to be placed on a dish. She thought they were all silly, giggling about nothing, but a thought rattled in her mind: it would be nice to be popular. Barbara’s shoulders rose until they were level with her ears.

She realised she was grinding her teeth. She was the odd one out again. She decided, even if it took her another ten thousand hours, she’d never learn to indulge in the pointless social chit-chat so many people seemed to find so normal, so pleasant. She breathed out slowly. Everyone else’s conversation seemed so silly, so superficial. So why was she feeling left out and unwanted? She almost wished she could be like Pauline: happy, confident, easy in others’ company. Her ears filled with the sound of the whistling kettle and she lifted it carefully and poured hot water onto the tealeaves for all she was worth.