Women on the Home Front (82 page)

‘One civic dinner,' said Tom holding up a single finger, ‘followed by a trip to the local brewery, a prize-winning vineyard, and a newly opened flying school … Oh, and the area is famous for its cognac.'

Jason could feel himself being reeled in. ‘But would they really want someone from the Parks department,' he began.

‘Just give me the word and I'll wangle it somehow.'

Yeah, that's about right, Jason thought. You could wangle just about anything.

He'd gone, and of course, Tom was right. It had been a blast. He'd loved every minute of it; the scenery, the hospitality and the locals. After his painful break-up with Tanya, it had been exactly what he'd needed. It was even better when he'd got back. Tanya had contacted him and they'd made it up. They were back together again now, and once they'd saved enough for a deposit on a house, they'd get married.

Tom was getting married tomorrow. This was his stag night. Why did the letter have to come today of all days? Jason didn't want to spoil anything but he had to know. He turned it over in his hands and looked at the name on the back of the envelope … Emilie Grosjean, followed by the address. He had a hard job remembering her. Yet if what she was saying was true, he must have been there. How could he have forgotten doing a thing like that? And more importantly, how was he going to explain this to Tanya?

Bringing it up in the pub probably wasn't the best idea, but Tom might know something. Jason glanced at his watch. The others would be here soon but there was still time to quiz his brother.

Tom came back from the bar with two brimming pints. ‘Get that down your neck,' he said, spilling one glass as he downed his own. ‘My last night of freedom and I intend to get plastered.'

‘Do you remember when we went to Niort last year?' said Jason, wading in.

‘Was that the place with the Roman dungeons?'

Jason nodded.

‘I remember you getting trolleyed.'

Jason cringed. He didn't recall how he got there but they'd found him the next morning, fast asleep and curled up on the lap of a big statue in the town's square.

Tom roared at his discomfort. ‘Wish we'd had the camera.'

Thank God you didn't, thought Jason. If Tanya had seen … he frowned. Was that why he couldn't remember being with Emilie? Was it because he was too drunk?

Tom leaned towards him. ‘Why do you ask? What's up?'

‘I've had this letter,' he began. ‘From a girl called Emilie.'

Tom sat back in his chair and took a long swig from his glass. ‘Emilie. Emilie who?'

‘Emilie Grosjean. Do you remember her?'

‘I might do,' said Tom.

Tom was stalling and that's when it struck Jason. He'd never been with Emilie had he? It was Tom. Tom must have spent the night with her. And afterwards, when she said, ‘Comment vous appelez-vous?' Tom, suddenly remembering his fiancé back home, had said his name was Jason.

Jason's eyes narrowed. ‘Tom, this is important. Did you go with her?'

His brother shrugged again. ‘Dunno, might have done. Can't remember.'

‘Come on Tom,' Jason insisted. ‘It was only nine months ago.'

Even though the light in the pub was dull, he could see his brother had gone very pale.

‘Why do you want to know?'

‘Like I told you, I've had this letter,' said Jason. ‘And…'

Tom leaned forward again. ‘Listen Jase,' he interrupted, ‘this is my stag night. I'm getting married tomorrow. Whatever she says it's nothing to do with me, OK? It was only a bit of fun. Don't mess up the rest of my life, please.'

The door burst open and the rest of the lads came in. There was a lot of shouting and plenty of distraction as they hustled their way to the back of the pub where Jason and Tom were sitting, and from then on, the drinks flowed like water.

Tom was almost legless when they handcuffed him, just in his boxer shorts, to the lamp post outside the police station. As the rest of the lads made their way noisily down the high street, Jason came back.

Tom rattled his chains. ‘Don't leave me here, Jase,' he slurred helplessly. ‘They'll come out and arrest me. If I spend the night in the cells, they'll take me to court in the morning.'

‘Answer my question then,' said Jason.

‘What question?'

‘Did you tell Emilie your name was Jason?'

‘You're a hard man, Jase,' said Tom, his teeth chattering with the cold. ‘Yeah, all right. I was with her. Proper little goer she was and all.'

‘You had a good time with her then?'

‘Oh yeah.'

‘So,' said Jason, the relief sweeping over him. ‘You've had your fun and left me with the consequences.'

‘Just forget her, Jase,' said Tom.

‘I can't do that, Tom,' said Jason unlocking the handcuffs. He threw his coat over his brother's shivering body. ‘You see,
you
gave her such a good time, she entered
my
name in the town lottery. I've just won a fortnight's holiday in a chateau in the Poitou-Charentes.'

Dee couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when she decided to take the suit back. It could have been when she saw the creases in the back of the jacket after Mark had sat down for a ten second photograph. Or maybe it was when she hung it up and saw the state of the trousers. Each leg looked like a dance band concertina. How could she let her one and only son get married looking like that?

Mark was back on duty and not at home until three days before the wedding so there was no chance to discuss the matter with him and she could hardly ask Sally what she thought about it. If it was considered bad luck for the groom to see the bride's dress before the big day, surely the same thing applied in the opposite direction? She searched for the label. Lion Stores, the most expensive shop on the High Street. Dee folded the suit carefully and took it back to the shop.

‘I'm afraid,' said the assistant, a rather overly made-up woman of uncertain age, ‘that I cannot change the suit. You've no receipt. How do I know the suit is ours?'

‘The label,' Dee pointed out. ‘Your store is unique isn't it? At least you claim you are when you advertise.'

Reluctantly the assistant called the Manageress.

‘Madam,' said the Manageress, a snooty woman who held her head back and peered at the offending garment as if it had a very bad smell, ‘there is nothing wrong with the suit. It's the material.'

Slightly confused, Dee frowned. ‘But surely that's the same thing?'

But the Manageress was implacable. ‘We never have complaints. There is nothing wrong with the suit,' she repeated.

‘A suit is made of material,' Dee pointed out. ‘Without material there would be no suit and this material is very creased.'

But the Manageress refused to budge. Dee could feel herself getting quite cross. How dare they look down their noses at her? She gritted her teeth and stood her ground.

‘Give me the name and address of your head office,' she said, raising her voice for the first time.

The Manageress was reluctant, but it was obvious she didn't want a scene. A scrap of paper was pushed into her hand and Dee was escorted to the door.

Back home, Dee composed a letter. She explained the problem very carefully. It took her the best part of the afternoon to work out what to say and she used three quarters of the Basildon Bond she kept for best.

‘If the suit creases this much,' she wrote politely, ‘what will it look like when he poses for the wedding photographs?'

Dee enclosed a self-addressed envelope with the letter to ensure a speedy reply. All she had to do now was wait for the cheque.

A week later, Dee recognised her own handwriting on the envelope as it fell on to the mat. She sat at her kitchen table with her coffee to savour the moment.

‘Dear Madam,' the letter said. ‘We regret you are dissatisfied with our merchandise. However, as Mrs Gambol, the Manageress, pointed out, Lion Stores' suits are second to none. The cut and style are immaculate and the colour is the very latest fashion. We suggest to avoid further creasing, your son should wait until the last minute to put on his suit.'

Dee almost choked on her digestive biscuit. Then she reached for her notepad once again.

The local paper made her simple request a generous headline. ‘Crumpled suit good enough for local hero?' certainly captured everybody's attention and sold a lot of newspapers.

The Manageress was given the opportunity to put her side of the story in the next issue. She repeated her first edict and posed outside the front door of Lion Stores. The photograph was a little unflattering, especially with her arms folded over her ample bosom, and everyone agreed that the unfortunate smudge under her nose made her look like somebody else entirely.

It was after that, that the national press began to show interest and ‘there's nothing wrong with the suit, it's the material' became the new buzzwords.

Dee was alarmed when she was asked to give a TV interview, but she was quite excited to be sitting on the sofa with Sophie on the Beeb and then with Lorraine over on the other side.

‘Surely they can't expect,' she asked innocently, ‘my son to arrive at the church in his boxer shorts and shirt and then to put his suit on in the car park?'

The TV presenters agreed that it was ridiculous to ask any man to do that. Lorraine seemed positively appalled, and when she held up a picture of the tearful bride holding a photograph of her fiancé, the whole nation was stirred into action.

Clothwise Fabrics were none too pleased when their shares suddenly plummeted on the stock market. A furious Board of Directors met to consider legal action against Lion Stores, and when the local MP bumped into the Lion Stores MD at their golf club, the intransigence of the managerial department was suddenly reversed.

When he came back home on leave, Mark was stunned to find he had a five star wedding all lined up for him. Everything, the cake, the reception, the cars, the photographs, had all been generously donated by those who wanted to make sure that ‘one of our boys' had a day to remember. Everyone agreed that his designer suit, personally paid for by the owners of Lion Stores, Clothwise Fabrics and the local MP, was superb. Bride and groom were happy to be photographed, videoed and filmed for all the glossies … for a small fee of course.

The world cruise honeymoon was a terrific surprise and the Brigadier (who went to the same golf club), made sure the groom had enough leave to enjoy every minute.

Satisfied at last, Dee kissed her new daughter-in-law and son goodbye as the honeymoon car waited to take them to the airport. One hundred yards down the road it stopped and reversed back.

‘Mum,' said Mark, ‘do us one more favour will you? Could you take the suit back to the shop for me? I got it from “Seconds for Hire” on the high street.'