Another Night, Another Day (7 page)

‘Making biscuits,’ says Abby, hoping he won’t notice she’s been crying. ‘You can lend a hand if you like.’

‘You’re OK.’

‘Of course we are,’ she mutters under her breath. ‘You carry on, leave us to it.’

‘Have fun,’ says Glenn once he’s made a coffee, and he ducks back out of the room.

However busy he is, Glenn could easily work in here if he wanted, she thinks. We’ve got a wireless connection and he could set up his laptop at the other end of the table. Just being in
the same room as Callum would show willing. She bites back a surge of anger. Since when did I agree to look after our child 24/7?

‘Well, it’s his loss, isn’t it?’ she says to Callum, unlocking the cupboard by the cooker. ‘Hey, sweetheart, look, it’s sugar.
Sugar
.’ She
grabs the packet.

Her son likes sugar, but he likes flour more. He sees the red-and-white-striped box beckoning and stretches up eagerly. ‘Eeee!’

‘Wait a minute, love.’

‘Ah, ah.’ Callum’s fingers ping, impatient.

‘No, this bit next.’ Abby removes the bowl from the mixer and grabs a wooden spoon, determined to give this a try. ‘Go ahead, that’s good . . .’ Together they tip
in the sugar, and Abby stirs while Callum watches, mesmerized.

‘Want a go?’ She hands him the spoon.

Callum picks it up, gives the mix a cursory stir, then drops the spoon and leaves her side.

Abby finishes and turns back for the flour.

‘OH NO! CALLUM!’

Somehow he has climbed onto the cooker and is standing on the hob, reaching into the cupboard . . .

He flips open the plastic lid, peers inside, scoops a handful of flour and stuffs it into his mouth –
Mm, delicious,
his expression declares. Then
POOF!
there’s a
splutter, and he coughs a white cloud. Before Abby can take in what is happening, he’s down in one leap and off, running down the hall with the box in his hands. By the time she catches up
with him, he’s reached the first-floor landing.

‘You . . . You little monkey . . .’ she says, grabbing one of his ankles to waylay him and gathering him into her arms. Maybe because the packet is empty, he allows himself to drop,
relaxed, onto her lap.

Abby pauses to catch her breath and they sit together on the top step. Then she looks back down. There’s a powder trail all the way along the hall and up the stairs. On some steps
it’s only a thin film of dust; on others giant blobs spray out like stars. The carpet is peppered with footprints. Her son’s face is a ghostly mask of white; there’s even flour in
his hair.

She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Well, I certainly experience things differently to other parents, don’t I?’ She laughs. ‘You’ve created our very own art
installation.’

* * *

After the stifling heat of the care home, it’s a relief to be in the fresh air, thinks Karen.

‘This cake is delicious,’ she says. ‘How’s yours?’

‘Good. Want to try?’ Without waiting for an answer, her mother loads a large piece of gateau onto her fork and leans over the beach cafe table.

Karen eyes the layers of cream and chocolate sponge. Never mind her father’s insult; she’s earned this treat. She opens her mouth and Shirley feeds her directly from her own
fork.

Mum’s never been squeamish about sharing germs, reflects Karen as she savours the sweetness. For this she is glad. Shirley was a post-war child, used to making do and mending, and her
no-nonsense approach ran through Karen’s early years like an underground stream, invisible and nurturing. My mothering mirrors Mum’s, she thinks. Molly and Luke share bathwater just as
my brother and I did when we were small; they each have sections of our allotment where I encourage them to grow their own vegetables from seed just as we had in our garden . . .

Shirley interrupts her thoughts. ‘I do worry about George in that home.’

Oh dear. Karen braces herself. Here we go. I should never have criticized the staff for not getting him up. It only fuels Mum’s guilt. ‘You had no choice, Mum. It was impossible for
you to carry on the way you were.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ Shirley sounds uncertain, and her hazel eyes are troubled, but then she smiles. ‘I do love being nearer you and the children.’

‘And we love having you closer too.’ Though having you down the hall might be a bit too close, Karen thinks, then flushes with guilt for even having the thought. Don’t be so
selfish, she reproaches herself. It would be great for Molly and Luke to have their grandmother on hand.

‘I think it was the rosemary that made me realize,’ says Shirley. ‘Did I tell you that story?’

Karen shakes her head. ‘What happened?’

‘Your father went out with a bag of rubbish to the shed and he must have got confused and picked up the garden shears. In any event, he ended up decimating that bush I’d grown by the
back door. And he was so proud of himself! “Got rid of that awful weed, Shirley!” he said. The air smelled of it for days. I was so upset; that was when I admitted defeat. Especially
sad, when you consider rosemary is supposed to be the herb for remembrance. I should have brought some sprigs back with us, given them to you today . . .’ Her voice trails off, and she puts
down her fork.

For a few moments they sit in silence. The cafe itself is a charmless prefab building, so they’ve angled their chairs to face the sea. Straight ahead the light on the water is so bright
it’s dazzling; to their left is a stretch of neatly cut grass and beach huts which look to have been recently painted white; to their right a broad sweep of shingle, broken by a sculptural
array of rocks and crags.

Eventually Karen says, ‘Simon would have loved it here.’

‘And George. Perhaps I should try and bring him . . .’ But Shirley’s tone lacks conviction. They both know George wouldn’t manage it.

Again they fall quiet. The screech of seagulls and clatter of waves on stone mingle with the yelps of three teenagers trying to outdo each other balancing on the posts of one of the groynes.

‘You know something else Simon would have liked?’ Karen smiles. ‘This cake. If anyone was partial to a giant slice of gateau, he was.’

Presently a waitress comes to collect their plates, shaking them both from reverie.

‘Come on then, Mum, let’s take that walk before I have to pick up the children,’ says Karen, standing. ‘We’d better work off those calories somehow.’ And she
holds out a hand so Shirley can steady herself as she rises from her seat.

It’s 3 a.m., two days before Valentine’s, and Michael is heading for London. He usually likes driving at this hour: the road is wide and empty and he knows the
route well – the westerly sweep round the bypass; due north up the A23 with the shadowy downs behind him, slowing a touch to handle the bends past the garden centre where they’ve added
a lane recently; the sign for Pease Pottage Service
s
which always reminds him of ‘Pease Porridge Hot’ – a nursery rhyme he used to chant to Ryan and Kelly whenever they
passed en route to his parents in Croydon. But tonight he is glum. Throughout January, trade lived down to his expectations. His credit card is up to the limit, and his current account is seriously
overdrawn; he’s been lying awake next to Chrissie night after night, silently panicking. Still, he urges himself, with any luck Bob can help when I get to the other end.

To buoy his spirits, he reaches for the zip-up case containing his CDs, fumbles through the plastic pages with one hand and slips
The Cure’s Greatest Hits
into the stereo. Ryan
scoffs at his inability to master downloads – ‘If you got an MP3 player, Dad, then you’d only need a lead to put it through the speakers in the car, it’s easy’ –
but Michael still misses vinyl, so the thought of switching from CDs to digital is more than he can bear.

The strains of ‘The Lovecats’ remind him of Chrissie. He can still picture her with her backcombed red hair, sitting in an alcove of the Batcave nightclub, doing a funny little dance
in tandem with her mate while all around them New Romantic types tried to look cool and mysterious. Hands curled like paws held up on either side of their cheeks, heads bobbing to the
plinkety-plonk of the piano. He recalls going up and asking if they were professional dancers – talk about cheesy – and Chrissie leaning into her friend and giggling. She fancies me,
he’d realized. Result! ‘You’re better than the girls in The Human League,’ he’d said, directing his gaze at Chrissie. And that had been the start.

Fingers crossed I’ve still got a bit of that magic, he thinks, glancing at himself in the car mirror to check. In the dim light he can see crinkles round his eyes, the salt-and-pepper of
his hair; even his eyebrows are threaded with thick strands of white. In the old days he only had to look at some women to make them blush. Not that Michael is excessively vain – he goes to a
barber, not a salon, and wouldn’t dream of buying moisturizer for his skin – but nonetheless he enjoys a bit of a flirt.

I hope they don’t respond merely to humour an older fella, he thinks.

Soon he’s in what would be the familiar territory of Croydon, had the entire infrastructure of Purley Way not substantially changed. Watching superstores take over is a transformation
Michael wouldn’t relish anywhere, but the effect on his home town has been catastrophic. One only has to look at the riots of 2011 to see the damage they do, he reckons. That unrest
wasn’t prompted by poor race relations and police brutality like the uprisings in Brixton and Tottenham during my youth; the rioters were thieves looting outlets for wide-screen TVs, phones
and the latest trainers, then torching the properties afterwards. He shudders, recalling the horror of watching his old stomping ground become a war zone of flaming buildings and fleeing families.
It made him want to weep to see so many small businesses suffer.

There’s something wrong about the way megastores generate profit, he thinks, because at the same time that they encourage greed, they reduce customers’ respect for the staff serving.
When I started out, people appreciated floristry skills like mine; now they’d rather buy a cheap bouquet with their supermarket shopping.

The A23 weaves on through Streatham High Street and down Brixton Hill, then it’s into Stockwell and Vauxhall with their mix of tower blocks and Georgian terraces. Finally, a sign welcomes
him to his destination:
New Covent Garden Flower Market.
There’s a queue for the car park, as Michael expected, but tomorrow will be worse. Buying stock for Valentine’s Day is
an art; on the 13th and 14th prices go crazy, yet if he had come here too far in advance, the flowers would be wilted by the day itself.

The bright fluorescent lights and the loud cries of sellers contrast with the dark and quiet of the suburbs so it takes him a moment to get his bearings. Beneath the corrugated roof of a vast
shed are dozens of wholesale traders, each with their own patch. Everything is on a massive scale compared to a regular market; vendors boast trolley after trolley of cut flowers, foliage and
bedding plants, not to mention sheets of cellophane and tissue paper, vases and ribbon in every style and colour, plus wires, floral foam, scissors . . .

Michael scratches his head, trying to work out the best way forward. He’s sure there is everything he needs, but here cash is king. He’s only got fifty quid, so although buying in
bulk can help negotiate a better rate, he has little bargaining power.

No cause for alarm, he persuades himself as he collects a trolley; if I get everything else with my cash, then Bob can sort me out with some roses.

He makes his way slowly along the first aisle, appraising. At the back of one of the stands he spies some scarlet berries – long stems make them perfect for Valentine’s arrangements.
‘How much for a couple of trays of hypericum?’ he asks the stallholder.

‘Forty,’ says the guy.

‘I’ll give you twenty.’

The trader shakes his head. ‘I’ll take a credit card?’ he offers, eyeing Michael’s thin clutch of notes.

‘Thanks, but no.’ Michael moves on to the next stand. Ah, gypsophila – now there’s an idea. Never mind those pretentious florists who say the tiny white flowers are
dated; his Valentine’s Day purchasers will mainly be men who won’t give a monkey’s.

‘What’s your best price for the gyp?’ he asks the young woman in a trader’s apron bending over a bucket of tulips.

‘Tenner,’ she says, barely looking up.

Total rip-off, thinks Michael. I should have come yesterday. He recalls the Hotel sur Plage incident with a flash of resentment – after so many years in the business, it’s unjust
that he should be floundering.

Bite the bullet, he tells himself, or they’ll go. The trip cost a fortune in petrol – he has to make it pay. ‘I’ll take three for twenty,’ he says, and they do a
deal.

It doesn’t take long to get through the rest of his cash – a couple of wraps of white oriental lilies, some sweet-smelling eucalyptus, a tray of red anthuriums for the customers who
prefer something more blatant, three rolls of brown paper, and it’s gone.

He edges his trolley, now laden with purchases, across the hall. Bob has had his stall in the same spot – at the end of the furthest aisle – for the last thirty years.

I’m not looking forward to this negotiation, thinks Michael. Usually Covent Garden traders won’t countenance any kind of loan, but Bob has been doing Michael a favour as they go back
three decades. Convention is he should settle last month’s bill before buying more, which lately he has not been able to do. Still, he tells himself, what choice do I have? And a few boxes of
Bob’s splendid red roses will help set me back on my feet . . .

But when he reaches the end of the aisle, his heart drops like a stone.

There’s not a bucket or box or tray or wrap of flowers in sight.

Bob’s stand is completely empty.

* * *

‘Well, well. Fancy seeing you here.’

Abby is standing alone at the bar when she feels a finger run slowly down her spine. She starts and turns – it’s Jake.

‘How are you?’ he murmurs, as if they were intimate only yesterday.

‘I’m OK.’ She drinks in black hair, bad teeth, a leather jacket, attitude.