The Tea House on Mulberry Street (33 page)

“You’re very kind, Mum. But that’s all behind me now.”

“Nonsense. You’re only a youngster.”

“Mum, that was two years’ work that went up in smoke. Two entire years of my life.”

“So? You can’t throw in the towel over a few paintings. Just now, when you were starting to get the recognition.”

“I know that, Mum. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this last couple of days. It’s time to move on. That fire was an omen.”

“You and your auld omens! What if Nicolas Cage writes back to you?”

“Listen, Mum, you’ve got to promise me one thing.”

“Anything, love.”

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone where I’m going. Not the bank, or the landlord, or The Blue Donkey Gallery, or Clare Fitzgerald, or Penny Stanley even, or Nicolas Cage himself. I must have been out of my mind when I sent him that painting. I’m never writing to him again. I’m not a genuine fan, Mum. I’m a crazy-head. That’s what I am. A stalker. Stars laugh at people like me. We’re pathetic. Why would someone like him contact a dole-ite loser like me? I’m damn lucky he didn’t get me lifted.”

“Now, don’t be saying that. Where’s the harm in a few fan letters?”

“You don’t understand, Mum. People that famous don’t write to their fans. For all he knew, I could have been hiding in his dustbin with a bread knife. I’m in pieces about the fire, but in a way, this is my chance to begin again. You know, I might even give up alcohol – I think it makes me reckless.”

“Are you sure about this job, pet? It doesn’t sound like your type of thing at all.”

“Yes. I’m sure. I’ll write to you, and I’ll get in touch with Dad and my sisters when I’m over all this. And I’ll pay back what I owe when I’m on my feet again. But you’re the only one who knows where I’m going, and I want you to promise you’ll not tell anyone where I am. No matter what. Promise me, now.”

“I promise. Now, you should get some sleep. You’re worn out. Go on, I’ve put a hot-water bottle in the bed for you.”

Brenda put on her pyjamas and lay down under the quilt in her old room. She lay awake for a long time. She wrote a poem to pass the time, on blue paper, this time. Her red-letter days were over.

A POEM FOR BRENDA

Goodbye to The Big Smoke
.

This IS my last day.

I’ve bought my bus ticket

And I’m on my way.

Goodbye to my flat
.

Have you not heard the news?

It burned down last week.

(There were 3 fire crews.)

Goodbye to my dream

To be Ulster’s Van Gogh.

My paintings are ashes.

The big show is off
.

Goodbye, my career,

I had so much to give.

Now, I’m tired of giving.

I just want to live.

Goodbye to the bills,

The police and the shrink.

The dreams and the music.

The dole and the drink
.

Goodbye to the flags

And the kerbs painted bright,

And the bonfires that burned

Long into the night.

Goodbye to the labels,

I don’t want them on me.

Single, white female.

Non-voter. RC.

Goodbye, the job-market,

With prospects so sour.

And grim little jobs,

Paying £4.00 an hour
.

Goodbye, Bradbury Graphics,

You were my favourite shop.

Your glass fountain-pens,

Thirty-five quid a pop.

Goodbye, all my letters.

Every single, red page.

I thought you might love me,

My sweet Nicolas Cage
.

Goodbye, house in Hollywood.

Goodbye, turquoise pool.

I thought I’d be famous,

But I was a fool.

Goodbye, Clare Fitzgerald,

You were my only sale
.

Goodbye, ’Tricia Caldwell,

You put me in jail.

Goodbye, Penny Stanley,

You were my only friend.

Goodbye to the tea house,

For this is the end.

When Mrs Brown looked in on Brenda, later that evening, she was fast asleep with a smile on her face. She kissed her daughter on the forehead and pulled the covers up to her chin. Maybe Brenda was right, she thought. It certainly seemed to be a very stressful occupation, this whole art carry-on. Maybe it was time for Brenda to grow up and get a proper job.

Brenda slept for eighteen hours, and woke up ready for her journey. The two women hugged each other in the sitting-room, when it was time to part. Brenda wanted to walk all the way to the Europa Bus Station on her own, taking in the sights as she went.

“Don’t worry about me, Mum,” she said, as she set off for the bus station, with a small suitcase under her arm. “I’ll be all right.”

Chapter 43

S
ALESMAN OF THE
Y
EAR

When the day of the party arrived, Arnold had a lie-in, so that he would look well rested for the occasion. He checked and re-checked his suit for missing buttons, and spent one hour polishing his shoes. There was a rumour going round the company that the chairman was going to give him a gift of some kind, as well as the trophy. He went to the barber’s for a proper shave and a haircut. He spent all afternoon rehearsing his speech. Sadie kept out of his way by going to the cinema to see a double-bill matinee. She sipped cola and munched popcorn in the dark, and steeled herself for the night ahead.

There was a light drizzle as the guests began arriving in taxis. The hotel foyer was brightly lit with thousands of fairy-lights. Glasses of chilled white wine were served. The guests stood around the marble entrance hall and stairs, talking in small groups. Sadie thought she saw boredom on the faces of the other wives, as their husbands discussed light-sensitive glass and electronically-controlled blinds. She went to the Ladies’ Room and checked her lipstick.

When they were all seated in the function room, Mr William Walley, the chairman of the company, said grace, and the meal was served.

“Don’t over-do on the roast potatoes,” Arnold hissed at Sadie. “People are watching. You big, pink elephant! What possessed you to buy a suit that colour?”

“Oh, shut your bloody face,” hissed Sadie. “You’re only in a mood because that dirty little trollop is giving you the runaround!” Arnold’s face turned cerise pink with impotent rage.

“What did you say?” he said, through gritted teeth.

“I know all about it,” she said, cheerfully. “I’m not an idiot, darling. Pass the gravy, would you?”

Arnold’s appetite suddenly died.

At last the plates were cleared away, and the speeches began. Mr Walley spoke gravely, from a small podium, of the dwindling number of Irish homes which still did not have plastic windows. The market for new windows was shrinking fast, he warned.

“I wish you were,” muttered Arnold to Sadie.

“And so we have to change our marketing strategy,” went on the chairman. “We have to promote our extensive range of conservatories instead. A good conservatory adds to the appearance and to the resale value of a home. It is an investment, in other words. The Walley company is leading the way in Ireland, with our state-of-the-art, double-height model and full range of low-energy heating appliances.” There was a smattering of applause. Some of the women yawned.

“And so we come to the presentation of our award for Salesman of the Year. Or should I say, Sales
person
of the Year… ha, ha, ha! This is the moment when we recognise the efforts of all our hard-working employees, and one in particular. This year the award goes to a man who has done more than any other to promote replacement windows. Not only has he sold more windows and conservatories than anyone else, he also came up with the idea for our new brochure featuring a Christmas tree. And I’m happy to say that the new brochure is proving very popular with the consumer. Congratulations to you… Mr Arnold Smith!”

There was lots of clapping and cheering as Arnold made his way to the front of the room. Mr Walley gave him the trophy, and shook his hand warmly.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “This award means a lot to me. And I would just like to thank –”

“Before you get started,” interrupted Mr Walley, “I want to tell you about our new idea to motivate the staff. This year, and every year from now on, the best salesperson will receive a luxury holiday for two, as well as our prestigious award. Arnold Smith, here are two tickets for a three-week cruise, for you and your good lady wife to enjoy. Raise your glasses, everyone. Here’s to Arnold Smith, and Walley Windows! Merry Christmas, everyone!”

Arnold was too pleased with himself to carry on with his speech, but he didn’t have to. Sadie had left her seat, and was making her way to the front. She took the microphone from Mr Walley’s hand. The guests were intrigued. They sat up and strained their necks to get a good look at the plump little lady.

“I’d just like to say a few words myself, if that’s okay,” said Sadie, as the applause died away. “My name is Mrs Sadie Smith. I used to be very proud of that title, and of my clever husband. But nowadays, unfortunately, Arnold calls me Sadie
Sponge
, on account of my rather generous waistline.”

A gasp of shock was heard from the women in the audience. The men giggled nervously. They sensed Sadie was going in for the kill.

“Well, it wasn’t Arnold’s idea, exactly. That was the brainwave of his rather nasty mistress, Miss Patricia Caldwell, manageress of Davison’s Gift Emporium, on Lavender Street.”

Arnold rushed across to Sadie and tried to take her away from the podium, but she held on tight and he couldn’t budge her. Thirteen stone of scorned womanhood was impossible to shift. He tried to laugh it off, but the audience were wide-eyed with fear and delight.

“Oh, yes,” Sadie continued. “My husband is a bit of a dark horse, don’t you know? He loves to travel. In fact, he’s just been to Paris, where himself and Patricia had a lovely weekend! He brought me back a sweet little cone of pink bonbons! He’ll love this cruise. Yes, indeed. And so will Patty-Pat!”

There was silence in the room, but all eyes were on Arnold, who had taken a couple of steps backwards. This time Mr Walley himself decided it was time to bring the proceedings to a close. But Sadie was ready for him. She’d heard a few other interesting things as she lurked behind the cupboard in Arnold’s office.

“I’ll tell you all another little secret about my husband. He’s planning to leave Walley Windows and set up on his own. He’s been pinching prospective clients for weeks now, doing deals with suppliers. Oh, he’s very clever!”

“Is this true?” asked Mr Walley, quietly.

“Not at all, the woman’s crazy with jealousy,” stammered Arnold.

“So, you’re admitting to this other relationship, are you?”

“Would you all like to know what he calls you?” continued Sadie. “You see, it’s a little game of his and Patricia’s to think of funny nicknames.”

“Sadie, I’m begging you, don’t do this!”

“Well, Arnold, I think I
will
do it. Seeing as you were planning to throw me out of my own house and leave me destitute.”

Angry chatter filled the function room.

“Where’s Charlie Drummond, from Omagh? They call you Dummy Drummond, because you’re too quiet, apparently. Where’s Nora Kennedy? Or should I say, Nora New-Nipples? I believe you’ve had a boob-job? And Brett Garson? Poor Brett, you should see your doctor about that flatulence. Then, they might stop calling you British Gas! Now, let me see… oh yes, Mr Walley!”

“Sadie! No!”

“Great Big Walley! That’s you! Ho, ho, ho!”

Sadie wracked her brains to think of some more. But it wasn’t necessary. Dummy Drummond was climbing onto the stage, and he had his shirtsleeves rolled up. He might be a man of few words, but he had never liked Arnold Smith, and now seemed as good a time as any to give him a good thump.