Welcome to My World (17 page)

Harri smiled at the photo of the pretty blonde with pale blue eyes. ‘Well, congratulations, Annie Brookes. It looks like you’re about to meet my mate Alex.’

The next morning, Harri woke early and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast before feeding Ron Howard, grabbing her bag and keys and stepping out into the warm June morning. As she closed the gate, she saw Mrs Littleton, her octogenarian next-door neighbour, who was balancing on an incredibly rickety-looking wooden stepladder in her garden, a rusty pair of shears in hand, attacking a large privet hedge with alarming vigour. Even on the top step she barely reached five foot tall and was truly a sight to behold, dressed in baggy light blue velour tracksuit bottoms tucked into her white sports socks, tartan bobbled slippers and an oversized white T-shirt with the legend ‘I Am The Stig’ emblazoned across it.

‘Morning, Mrs L!’

‘Ooh, morning, chick! Forgive me, I’ve not got my Sunday best on today.’

‘That’s fine. Are you OK?’

Mrs Littleton pulled a tissue out of the waistband of her tracksuit bottoms and wiped her brow. ‘Never better. It’s just this blasted privet – it’s been blocking my view for too long. So I’m showing it who’s boss.’

Harri smiled. If this was how her neighbour dealt with troublesome shrubbery, it was no wonder her eighty-seven-year-old husband always looked so worried. In all the time Harri had lived in Two Trees Cottage, she had never seen Stan Littleton look anything but pale and nervous, following his bustling wife around the shops or trailing behind her as she marched purposefully along Stone Yardley’s streets. She remembered Merv quipping once that, ‘Imelda Littleton may look small and frail but she’s got balls of steel.’

‘How’s Stan?’

Mrs L gave her false teeth a disapproving suck and shook her head. ‘He says he’s sickening for something. Reckons he caught a cold at the market last Wednesday.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Give him my regards, won’t you?’

Mrs L nodded. ‘I will. Even though it’s just a bad attack of the “don’t-want-tos” in my opinion. We’re meant to be going to Ethel Bincham’s for afternoon tea today and he’s trying to get out of it. But I told him, “Stan,” I said to him, “we’ve been invited, so we’re going!”’ She swung the shears and angrily lopped off an offending branch of privet.

Harri stifled a giggle: if the choice was between enduring the dubious culinary delights of Mrs Bincham at her most creative, and staying at home feigning the flu, she was definitely with Stan on that one. The memory of Lemon Meringue Flapjacks was still firmly lodged in her mind. One cake was bad enough; the thought of afternoon tea was enough to put you off your food for
months
.

She was still smiling about the plight of poor Mr Littleton when she climbed the stile from the field opposite her house and walked up the gravel path to St Mary’s. The quietly elegant red sandstone building was surrounded by cedar trees, its large stained-glass windows catching the morning sunlight. Its tall spire rose magnificently towards the heavens as the beautiful sound of bells filled the air – although in reality this sound was not from Stone Yardley’s enthusiastic campanologists, but rather a looped track from a BBC sound effects CD played through speakers in the bell tower: a much safer option as any attempt to ring the church bells could end in the tower collapsing.

Harri paused to take in the view. Closing her eyes, she pictured herself as a small girl, running up the pathway to catch up with her parents on the way to church. At the sound of her footsteps on the gravel, Dad would spin round with a huge smile and scoop her up into his arms, swinging her round and round in circles whilst Mum protested: ‘Put her down, Mick, you’ll make her dizzy!’ So Dad would obediently oblige, winking at Harri when Mum wasn’t looking, and Harri would hold both their hands and walk in through the large wooden doors. Even now, a tiny part of her still expected to turn and find them there, waiting to accompany her into church, despite the fact that Harri knew their graves lay side by side at the western side of St Mary’s, where the afternoon sun warmed the earth. Harri rarely visited the graves – only to replace the flowers when Auntie Rosemary was away. Mum and Dad weren’t in the graves – she remembered her mother explaining that when people die, ‘all that’s left is the empty packet: all the good bits go to heaven and are more alive than they ever were on earth.’ Harri liked to think that Mum and Dad were jumping about somewhere right now – indulging in tickle-fights like they used to do, making up ridiculous word-play games that would go on for hours, or just giggling like a pair of lovesick teenagers as they watched their daughter bumbling through her life on earth. She hoped they would like what they saw . . .

‘Harri! Woo-hoo!’ Her reverie was shattered by the noisy arrival of Viv, arm-in-arm with Merv.

‘Greetings, fair maiden,’ Merv boomed, giving a flamboyant bow. ‘How
doeth
thee on such a fine summer’s morn?’

‘Pack it in, Mervyn,’ Viv giggled, playfully punching his arm and hurting him more than she had intended. ‘Ignore him, Harri. He has some ridiculous notion that the Stone Yardley Players are going to cast him as Shylock in their next Shakespeare-in-the-Park production.’

‘Thinking of giving the Bard a run for his money, eh?’ Harri asked.

Merv’s collection of chins fell. ‘Mock all you like, ladies, but I’ll have you know that Cynthia Eccles was more than impressed with my audition piece on Friday.’

Viv pulled a face. ‘Cynthia Eccles is more interested in auditioning you on the casting couch than she is for any of their productions. Honestly, since she got divorced she’s been like a flipping rabbit on heat. Anything remotely male isn’t safe from her advances.’ She poked an accusing finger into Merv’s ample stomach. ‘So watch out, mister. Or else.’

Merv turned a whiter shade of beige and suddenly bore a startling resemblance to Stan Littleton. ‘Yes, dear.’

Viv hooked her arm through Harri’s. ‘Sit by us, sweetie, and then you can fill me in on all the news with those
lovely
letters.’

The morning service was busy as usual, filled with the jovial chatter of Stone Yardley’s finest as warm sunlight fell in multi-coloured trails through the stained-glass windows to the paved floor below. A gaggle of children scampered from their parents’ grasp and ran up and down the aisle giggling loudly, almost knocking over Pete, the young curate, as he made his way to the front of the church.

‘Blimey, it’s like Le Mans in here this morning,’ he joked with a broad smile. Conversations ceased as a rumble of laughter rolled across the congregation and the service began.

It was all Harri could do to fend off Viv’s urgent whispers throughout the sermon, which served only to intensify her curiosity. By the time the final hymn finished and the blessing was spoken, Viv was so wound up she was in danger of drilling down into the ground like a Laura Ashley-attired Black & Decker.

‘
SO?
’ she demanded, grabbing Harri’s sleeve. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘All sorted.’

Viv’s plum-painted lips fell open. ‘Wait – you’ve been through all the letters? I
told
you I was going to help with those. Really, darling, you shouldn’t have done it all alone.’

‘I didn’t. Auntie Rosemary helped me.’

Viv’s face fell. ‘Oh.’

‘Don’t worry, I told her not to give you too hard a time.

Anyway, I’m contacting the first lucky lady this afternoon,’ Harri replied breezily.

If Viv’s eyes had opened any wider, her eyeballs could conceivably have popped out and rolled down the aisle. ‘Name? Age? Details?’

Harri stood up. ‘Annie Brookes. She’s twenty-nine and works as an office administrator. She’s blonde, pale blue eyes and I’d say she’s quite pretty.’

Viv’s smile lit up the whole pew. ‘Ooh, well, she sounds lovely!’

‘More to the point, she seems relatively sane – and, trust me, that’s the most enviable quality we could hope for with the general standard of replies.’

‘Surely there were a lot of Possibles, though?’

‘Thirty-two, to be exact. And over three hundred Not Likelies.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Anyway, the good thing is that Annie Brookes seems to be the nicest of all of them,’ Harri continued, hoping that she sounded confident in this fact.

Viv wasn’t listening. A wistful expression wafted across her features as her train of thought whisked her away to a town called Improbable. ‘Annie Brookes . . . what a sweet name. She sounds like a
lovely
young lady – and how
odd
that her initials are exactly the same as Alex’s! Annie and Alex
Brannan
,’ she giggled, clamping a hand to her breastbone like an overexcited silent movie heroine. ‘Perfect!’

Merv pulled a face and shook his head. ‘You won’t get any sense out of her for days now, you realise.’

‘Hmm, I know. Looks like
you’re
in for a lovely week, then,’ Harri smiled.

Merv’s shoulders slumped as he made a slovenly exit from the church.

‘They could be perfect with the same initials – like Abba!’

Viv breathed, as Harri took her arm and escorted her out into the sunny afternoon.

‘The couples in Abba got divorced.’

‘Ah, but Alex and Annie won’t be like them,’ Viv smiled, ‘because they’ll be truly in love! I just know they will! Oh, this is going to work like a
dream
!’

Harri groaned. No pressure, then . . .

‘Hello?’

‘Hi – can I speak to Annie Brookes, please?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Oh, hello, I’m calling about your reply to the “Free to a Good Home” column in
Juste Moi
.’

There was a pause at the other end of the line, followed by an audibly nervous sigh. ‘Right . . .’

‘OK, this is going to sound a bit odd, but I’ve been sorting through the replies and was very impressed by your letter.’

Silence.

This was not the response Harri had anticipated. ‘So – um – I was wondering if you’re still interested in meeting Alex Brannan?’

Annie sounded uncertain when she answered. ‘I kind of thought I’d be hearing from Alex . . . Are you from the magazine?’

Mentally kicking herself, Harri realised she hadn’t given her name. ‘I’m so sorry, forgive me. I’m Harri Langton – I nominated Alex for the column.’

There was a tangible sense of relief from the other end of the line. ‘Oh, right, the girl from the article. You said all that nice stuff about him.’

Harri pulled a face at the receiver. ‘That’s right, I did. So, would you like to meet Alex?’

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘OK. I need to meet you before he does, if that’s OK?’

‘Er, sure, that’s fine. Whereabouts are you?’

‘Stone Yardley – how about you?’

‘I’m in Ellingsgate, so not far. I could do tomorrow – it’s my half-day, so I’m free anytime from two thirty.’

Harri’s head was spinning but she managed to claim suf ficient control over her thoughts to answer. ‘Great. How about I meet you at three thirty in the Land Oak, just at the end of the High Street?’

‘Cool. I’ll see you then.’

Ending the call, Harri let out a long groan and flopped back into her sofa, spooking Ron Howard, who leaped off and hid under the table, peering up at her with yellow-green eyes. ‘Why, Ron? Why do I let myself in for this stuff?’

Ron Howard scowled at her and turned his back. ‘Great. Well, thanks for your support.’ Shaking her head, she found a number on her mobile and placed another call.

‘He-ello.’ Alex’s familiar greeting made her smile despite her mood.

‘Al, it’s Harri.’

‘Harriet! How wonderful to hear from you. I thought you’d finally taken my advice and gone travelling – or, more realistic ally, been abducted by aliens. Where have you
been
all week?’

Harri rubbed her eyes and stared at the ceiling. ‘Sorry, I’ve just been snowed under. I was meaning to come to see you.’

His laugh tickled her ear. ‘Yeah, right, whatever. I know how you operate, you fair-weather friend. Just pick me up when you want me and throw me away when you don’t.’ He feigned a pitiful sniff. ‘But that’s – fine, you know. I can take rejection . . .’

Ooh, if only you knew, Brannan.
‘OK, I get it. I’m the worst friend in history. How can I ever make it up to you?’

‘How about coffee in, say, half an hour? I can head over to yours—’

‘No!’ Harri said, a little too loudly and far too quickly. Struggling to back up, she attempted a breezy laugh. ‘The cottage is a mess. I’ll come to you.’

‘Whatever, Captain Freakout. See you in a bit.’

In true Great British summer style, the bright sunlight that had been present all day had given way to murky grey clouds and a wind had sprung up from nowhere, robbing the day of its warmth. Harri shivered as she walked across the playing fields on the way to the High Street. Passing the goalposts, where two young lads were engrossed in a manic battle of ‘keepy-uppy’, she was instantly reminded of Rob.

Until the beginning of this year – when his precious job had rudely assumed centre stage in his attention – Rob’s Saturday afternoon football matches had been a staple of Harri’s life. A star striker for Dynamo Stone Yardley (a serious amateur squad in the local pub league), Rob was a first-choice player, called on for most of the team’s games – something Harri was unbelievably proud of even though she had no interest in football. Consequently, Harri had become very familiar with the soggy sidelines at King Edward VI playing fields. Standing with the other players’ wives and girlfriends, she had witnessed countless matches and even one local cup victory when DSY thrashed the beefy boys from Red Lion United two years ago.

Despite the fact that the football pitch was more often than not freezing, damp or just downright inhospitable, some of Harri’s happiest moments were spent here, cheering Rob’s nifty footwork, booing when the ref’s decision went against them and catching up on the latest shenanigans from the assembled significant others of the team. In truth, the gossip factor was the most enjoyable aspect – not least because it afforded Harri a sense of family that she so craved. But also the twists and turns of DSY’s love lives were more sensational than any soap-opera plotline. During her time as a DSY ‘WAG’, Harri had witnessed several affairs, more than one revenge-hungry bunny-boiler ex, and a very nasty incident that began with a disagreement over a woman, was followed by a hastily wielded football boot and resulted in a brief excursion to A&E. Still, at least it kept the local paper,
Stone Yardley Chronicle
, in suitably salubrious stories – a blessing considering the vast majority of its column inches were given over to adverts for double-glazing and car dealers.