Читать книгу Heading Over the Hill - Judy Leigh - Страница 9

Malcolm’s hands twitched at the curtains in the lounge. Gillian was bustling behind him, adjusting the photograph on the mantelpiece; James in his uniform, his face serious. She sighed and moved across the room, laying the table. Malcolm knew it must be ten to two: they always ate at two, on the dot. On Sundays it was always roast beef or lamb, occasionally pork or chicken, potatoes, vegetables and gravy. Malcolm narrowed his eyes: he was watching two women talking to each other on the street, a tall blonde one and a shorter one with dark curls and gold-rimmed spectacles. They were both in their fifties, in jeans and matching green sweatshirts. Malcolm frowned. ‘I wonder what they’re doing.’

Gillian’s voice chimed from behind him, accompanied by a dull clunk that told him she had polished his knife and fork and was putting it by his polished dinner plate. ‘Who, dear?’

‘Those two mad women from number fifteen. You know, the feminists, the ones who wear jeans all the time.’

‘Audrey and Sylvia? What does it look like they are doing, dear?’

‘They are knocking on his door.’

‘Whose door?’

‘The Hell’s Angel’s door, him with the big bike and the skinny women, the blonde one and the dark one, his two wives.’

Gillian sighed. ‘Are you sure, Malcolm?’

‘They have a cake. Audrey is holding it and they are knocking at number thirteen. I don’t think he’s in though. I saw them go out on the motorbike earlier today, just after lunch. He hasn’t moved that Transit van, though, and I distinctly told him yesterday in the letter that he should move it at once…’

‘What’s it like, Malcolm?’

‘The Transit van?’

‘No, the cake.’

‘I don’t know, Gillian – it’s in a cake tin. But I expect it’s a fruit cake.’

‘It might be an iced cake, with jam and cream. A nice Victoria sponge.’

Malcolm’s voice became louder, irritated. ‘For all I know, Gillian, it’s one of those cakes the hippies make. You know, full of drugs, full of cannabis.’

‘Can of what, Malcolm?’

‘Bis.’

‘Can of bis?’ Gillian caught her breath. ‘Oh, cannabis. They have made them a cake full of cannabis?’

‘They’re turning away. The feminists are going to take the cake back to their house. Oh no – look. Here they are now, on the bike.’

‘The feminists?’

‘No, Gillian, you’re being silly. The Hell’s Angel and wife number two. They’ve just arrived. He’s stopped the bike. They are getting off it and now they are talking to Audrey and Sylvia. Now Audrey has given the dark-haired wife the cake tin and she’s laughing. She’s just kissed her on the cheek.’

‘Who has?’

‘Now that man from across the road has toddled across and joined them and they are all laughing. You know, Vincent Stocker from number fourteen, that lad who lives with his old mother, Dilly.’

‘I’m just fetching the potatoes, Malcolm. I’m just going to get them out of the oven or they’ll burn. Then I’ll bring the veg and the gravy. It’s almost two o’clock.’

‘They are all laughing, Gillian. And Vincent Stocker has given the Hell’s Angel a beer bottle – it looks empty – and they are both having a rare old time talking together. The skinny woman with the dark hair has taken the bottle and now she’s saying something and everyone is nodding their head and the big man looks very pleased with himself.’

‘I’m just serving up the roast, dear.’

‘Oh no! Oh, my goodness me… no!’

‘What, Malcolm? What’s happened?’

Malcolm lurched back from the curtain, alarmed, letting the fabric fall from his fingers, almost bumping into Gillian, who stood behind him clutching a brimming gravy boat as she leapt back in shock. The gravy slopped over, covering the back of her hand and she yelped in pain. Malcolm yelled louder, his face twisted in horror.

‘She saw me, Gillian, the woman with the dark hair. She saw me here, watching her behind the curtains and she waved at me then the big man turned and saw me and waved and smiled. I’ve been spotted.’

Gillian held the gravy boat aloft and, shaking her left hand in the hope that the cool air might soothe the burn, she scuttled to the table. ‘Never mind that now, Malcolm, your dinner is ready. Come and sit down.’

Malcolm tutted at his wife, as if she had irritated him somehow, and then he ambled across towards the table, his slippers making no sound on the carpet. He sat down, picked up his knife and fork and attacked the meat as if it was about to fight back, as if the roast lamb had just driven a Harley Davidson outside his house or parked a Transit van too close to his space. Gillian stared at the reddening patch on her hand, at the plates of food, the grey meat, the grey cabbage, the matching gravy and steaming potatoes, and sighed.

Dawnie turned the beer bottle upside down and shook it. Drops of water leaked onto the concrete, suggesting that Dilys had washed it out properly before sending it back for a refill. Dawnie chuckled. ‘Well, I’m so glad your mother liked the home brew.’

‘We both did,’ Vinnie murmured. He glanced up to the bedroom above, wondering if the blonde sister was upstairs, if she was watching them.

Aude nodded towards the cake tin that Dawnie was hugging in her other hand. ‘I hope you like carrot cake, Dawnie.’

‘We love it,’ Dawnie beamed. ‘It was always my go-to cake for my great-grandchildren. They couldn’t get enough of it. I’d ice it and cover it with little bits of orange jelly sweets, cut in the shape of carrots and little Caleb would—’ She caught Billy’s serious gaze and clamped her lips together. She beamed at the faces around her optimistically. ‘Well, why don’t you all come in with Billy and me now and have some cake?’

‘I made it for you,’ Sylv grinned.

Billy approached the door, holding out a key. ‘Come in, will you all? You’re all welcome. We’d be delighted if you’d step inside for a bite and maybe some of the home brew.’ His eyes met Vinnie’s hopeful expression. ‘Sure, and we haven’t had a housewarming party yet. The place isn’t straight – we’ve hardly moved in – but I’d be a happy man if you’d all join us…’

He led the way inside, followed by his neighbours and then Dawnie. By the time she had reached the kitchen, Billy was already opening fresh beer bottles from beneath the sink. She placed the cake tin on the counter. ‘We’ve got some veggies in, Billy, and some cheese. What shall we make?’

Billy beamed at her. ‘I thought we’d knock up gnocchi with some vegetables and some white sauce. We have plenty of potatoes. It won’t take long, and we’ve enough for the five of us.’ He wrapped an arm around his wife. ‘Dawnie and I, we love entertaining and cooking together.’

‘Gnocchi sounds delicious,’ Aude nodded, running a hand through her blonde hair. Vinnie was hunched over, looking awkward. ‘I don’t know. I left my mother by herself.’

Dawnie was chopping mushrooms. ‘Shall I go over and fetch her?’

‘I could go over to your house and carry her back?’ Billy offered as he mashed cold potatoes in a large bowl for the gnocchi.

‘She might be asleep.’ Vinnie looked around him at the cardboard boxes piled high with utensils and pots. One box contained rusty tools and there were metal shapes that could be parts of a motorbike. Another box was full of clothes. Vinnie stared at a blue lace garment that he thought might be a bra. He shrugged nervously. ‘What’s your sister called, Dawnie?’

‘Lorraine.’ Dawnie thought of her sister who ran a B&B in Blackpool. Lorraine was nothing like her: younger, taller, broader, blonde. She smiled. ‘Ah, she’s a one, our Lorraine. She’s had three husbands and she’s looking out for a fourth.’ She winked in his direction. ‘Do you like blondes, Vinnie?’

Vinnie nodded, feeling his cheeks tingle. ‘Where is she now, your sister?’

‘She’s in Blackpool. But no doubt she won’t be able to stop herself from visiting here, once we’re settled. I’ll have to introduce you.’

Vinnie coughed, his cheeks reddening, and he stared at his hands. Billy passed bottles and glasses to his three guests and began adding flour to the bowl and kneading gnocchi. Sylv took a swig of her beer.

‘So, did you say you’re renting here while you look for a place to buy?’

‘Yes. We’d like somewhere with a nice view of the sea. I saw a lovely cottage in an estate agent’s window this afternoon.’ Dawnie reached for a beer. ‘So sweet. Three bedrooms, a little garden with roses, even a pond for the fish.’

Billy chuckled. ‘I’d never be able to stand up in the place. It has the low beams and low ceilings. It’d make me feel like a giant stuck in a kennel.’

‘Billy likes big houses, farmhouses with huge rooms, space for his Harley, maybe a barn or two and room for his drum kit,’ Dawnie giggled.

‘Do you have a drum kit?’ Vinnie’s mouth gaped open.

‘Oh yes, and it’s all set up in the guest bedroom. Guests will have to sleep downstairs.’ He chuckled. ‘The third bedroom’s not big enough for it and anyway I have the spare bike parts and my photographs in boxes in there.’ Billy noticed Vinnie’s astonished expression and a thought popped into his head. ‘Do you want to see the kit?’

‘Can I?’ Vinnie’s eyes gleamed.

Sylv leaned forward. ‘Me too, please. I was in a brass band when I was a youngster and I played a snare. I’ve never played a full kit though.’

Dawnie began to grate some cheese. ‘Go on, Billy. Take Vinnie and Sylv up and show them the kit. I’ll finish the gnocchi and make the sauce.’

‘And I can help, if you need a sous-chef?’ Aude offered.

‘It’s a deal,’ Dawnie smiled.

Billy wiped his hands on a tea towel, leaned over and pecked Dawnie’s cheek. ‘That’d be grand. Thanks, darlin’. We’ll only be ten minutes.’

Dawnie winked at Aude. ‘Don’t make it more than twenty or it’ll all be cooked, eaten and washed up.’

Billy led the way upstairs two steps at a time, Sylv bustling after him and Vinnie following, his movements hesitant. Aude picked up a knife and began chopping onions. Dawnie was dropping perfect pieces of gnocchi into a pan of bubbling water and heating oil in another, adding onions and mushrooms. Aude’s voice was soft.

‘You seem a very happy couple, you and Billy.’

Dawnie rolled her eyes, her face mock-romantic, and giggled. ‘He’s the best man there is, my Billy.’

‘You have kids, don’t you, and grandkids?’ Aude wiped her eyes from the strength of the onion fumes. Dawnie did the same and nodded.

‘Two grown kids, Lindy and Buddy. A granddaughter, Fallon, and three great-grandkids.’

‘You must miss them.’

‘Oh yes, I do, even though they’re all a handful.’ Dawnie nodded even more emphatically and waved a hand in front of her face, to dispel tears and the steam from the bubbling gnocchi water. She felt she should say something, move the conversation on, so she asked, ‘Have you any kiddies, Aude?’

‘No, sadly.’ Aude pressed her lips together. ‘It’s just me and Sylv.’ She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and grimaced. ‘It’s very quiet up there.’

Dawnie chuckled. ‘Billy will be telling them all about John Coghlan’s cymbal.’

Billy was beaming at Sylv and Vinnie. ‘I’ve had this kit for a long time. I’ve been building it, replacing bits, upgrading it, but this cymbal has been with me since 1977. I remember exactly when I got it. Dawnie and I wanted to treat ourselves to a night out. I’d been away for a while and we’d missed each other, and so we went to Manchester to see Status Quo in concert. I got myself invited backstage afterwards to chat to the roadies and then I got talking to the drummer. Ah, he was a lovely fella, John Coghlan was. We talked about drums and venues and then he gave me one of his old cymbals. And this is it, still good to this day.’

‘Incredible.’ Sylv spoke reverently, touching the cymbal with light fingers. ‘I’ve seen Status Quo five times. I saw them in Torquay once with Aude.’

‘I’ve never seen them live.’ Vinnie was still staring at the kit, his mouth open. ‘I’ve always wanted to play the drums, though. Billy, I was thinking, could I just sit on the seat and hold the sticks up, like a real drummer?’

Billy handed him a pair of wooden drumsticks. ‘Be my guest, Vinnie. Here you are.’

Vinnie eased himself around to the back of the kit, moving the round seat gently and sitting down with care. He bounced up and down on the seat a few times, making himself comfortable, and a grin spread across his flushed cheeks. ‘This is good.’ He held the sticks in the air and felt his confidence swell like a gust of wind. ‘How do I look?’

‘Like Keith Moon,’ Sylv suggested.

‘Or John Bonham.’ Billy thought of his favourite drummer.

‘I’d love to be a drummer,’ Vinnie breathed. ‘Do you know who my favourite is?’

‘Ginger Baker?’ Sylv was confident.

‘No, I know, the Animal one from The Muppets?’ Billy gave a cheeky wink.

Vinnie waved the sticks in the air and shook his head, the curls of the fringe above his eyes shifting from side to side. ‘I like Ringo Starr.’

Billy patted his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you just give the cymbal a quick bash, Vinnie? It’s a nice feeling, playing drums. It always helps me, when I’m a bit wound up, just to play a few licks.’

Vinnie thought about it. He imagined himself playing in a room, bright lights blazing overhead, girls in short skirts screaming adoringly below the stage. One of them was blonde, and looked exactly like Dawnie’s sister. He brought both hands down with a crash. His foot found a pedal and he stomped hard as he thrashed at the cymbals with both sticks. Billy clapped and cheered, and Vinnie launched into a drum solo with all his energy.

Dawnie heard the insistent rapping of the front door knocker over the cacophony of the percussion upstairs. Sylv lifted her voice above the noise. ‘Oh no – I can guess who that will be.’

‘I’ll get it. Can you keep an eye on the cooking? Dinner’s almost ready,’ Dawnie yelled. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and rushed towards the front door, screeching as she passed the stairs, ‘Billy! Billy, can you tone it down a bit up there? I can hardly hear someone knocking at the door.’

The drumming stopped. Dawnie tugged open the front door to meet the gaze of a gaunt man in his seventies, his hair grey-brown and thinning on top. She looked him up and down. He wore a baggy cardigan, grey shirt and trousers, and tartan slippers on his feet. His arms were folded. When she met his eyes, he was grinding his teeth. He spat his words through them. ‘What in hell’s name do you think you are doing, woman?’

Dawnie frowned. She knew it had to be her neighbour from number eleven by his angry expression, and she truly sympathised with him, as the noise level upstairs had been clearly unacceptable, even to her. But she wasn’t about to be addressed as ‘woman’ by anyone, and certainly not by someone she’d never met before who was leaning into her hallway with a seething face, so she fluffed her dark curls and said, ‘What am I doing? I’m making gnocchi. Everyone’s welcome here. Do you want to come in and join us for dinner?’

‘No, I most definitely do not.’ He folded his arms even more emphatically. ‘It’s Sunday afternoon, for goodness’ sake.’

Dawnie offered him a perplexed expression. ‘You must be our neighbour from number eleven. I’m Dawnie Smith. Can I offer you a brew? A pint of beer? Do you want to meet Billy, my husband, and say hello? He’s just upstairs, practising his paradiddles…’

Malcolm actually stamped his foot. ‘I don’t want anything. Just stop that bloody noise, will you, or I’ll be forced to call the police.’

Dawnie reached out and put a hand on Malcolm’s arm. He winced, as if thinking she was about to give him a Chinese burn. She smiled sweetly into his face.

‘Oh, the noise. You should have said. It was probably just Billy letting off steam on the drums.’ She met Malcolm’s eyes and beamed at him. ‘The doctor has told him to bash the kit hard every once in a while, so that he’ll de-stress. It keeps his aggression levels down.’ She patted Malcolm’s hand encouragingly. ‘It stops him hurting anyone. That’s why we moved house. He’s like a caged lion when he’s stressed. You should have seen what he did to our last neighbour…’

Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up, and his frown deepened. Dawnie pushed the door closed so that only her face was peeking out. ‘But I’ll ask him to stop playing now. Don’t worry. He’s probably calmed down. I don’t think he’ll murder anyone tonight. And oh, by the way, it was so nice to meet you.’ She shut the door with a click.

As she turned round, Aude was behind her in the hall, a hand clamped across her mouth to stop the giggles. On the stairway, three figures loomed in shadow, listening: Billy, Sylv and Vinnie had heard every word. Billy rushed down and swept his wife off her feet, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

‘Darlin’, you are a wicked, wicked woman, so you are. No wonder I married you all those years ago.’ He chuckled. ‘But will we go and eat now? I’m starving, and after Vinnie’s drum solo I have a real thirst on me.’

Dawnie squeezed his thick sausage fingers in her hand. ‘It’s all ready now, Billy. Yes, let’s all go and sit down at the table.’ She sighed and murmured to herself. ‘I can’t help thinking, though: I think we might have upset our next-door neighbour, just a teeny bit.’