183 Times a Year (34 page)

‘You will be there to watch him?' Simon asks.

‘Course I will.'

‘You okay babe? You don't seem yourself lately?'

‘In what way?'

‘Dunno, just sort of … distracted?'

I look at Simon's concerned face.
If only you knew!

‘I'm fine, honest.'

He
smiles. ‘Really?'

‘Really. Now go on, bugger off and let me get ready. I heard Andy's voice downstairs so I know you're itching to go.'

‘You sure, coz I'll wait if you want?'

‘Bugger off!!!'

‘Okay,' he says kissing the top of my head. ‘We're taking Maisy with us because she's pleading poverty, again.' I roll my eyes. ‘And, well …' Simon pauses at the door, ‘are you sure you don't want me to ask Andy to ask Ruby to come …?'

I shake my head. ‘No!'

Simon sighs. ‘I wish you two would bloody work this – whatever it is – out.

You've been friends for years, since you were kids. Surely…' ‘Leave it Simon,' I snap. ‘Not now, okay?'

Simon shrugs his shoulders and holds his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, okay. You're the boss.'

And with that he is gone. The house is quiet.

The truth is I'm happy to let Simon go for a while. I need time to apply my mask, and I'm not just talking about make-up. And it's still cold out. The snow's cleared but its bitter, which only adds to my misery. Besides, it won't be the same without Ruby. Mum and Dad will be about but they'll probably watch Connor then go home. There'll be plenty of other people for me to join in with though, to follow the procession of the bear; stopping off at most of the town's drinking houses along the way, but I'm not feeling it this year.

I feel so betrayed by Ruby. Why? How could she do that to me? The anger that has fuelled me over the last few months has subsided and I'm now left with a desperate pain that won't heal. Why did Ruby tell me? She'd kept it quiet for all those years, so why tell me at all? Ignorance is bliss. I've been through enough. So why? WHY hurt me like that? Was it to ease her conscience, make herself feel better? But look at the cost, look
at
the devastation she's caused me! Sometimes honesty is NOT the best policy. She should have kept her fat mouth shut. I loved and trusted her and now that's all gone. Ruined. Forever.

My thoughts are spiralling out of control. I need to get out of here. Me and my thoughts are not a good combination. I need Simon. Not that he'll even notice if I'm there or not today. It's the one time of year Simon becomes quite blokeish. There's something about a group of men, real ale and a pagan festival. It's like watching a load of bullocks, talking bollocks. And where, or why for that matter, do they find the smut in everything? But, when the herd convenes, rules and codes must be adhered to – apparently.

I drag my malaise and myself to the bathroom and shower. Thank god I'm not working today. I felt totally deflated after Amber's outburst yesterday afternoon. It's not enough both my daughters appear to blame me for everything wrong in their lives, but Amber does too.

‘That's what yoos gets for helping,' Raj had said rather unhelpfully.

That's all very well, but don't those of us who can help ourselves have a duty to help those who can't? Amber is part of a system set up to fail her. What a sad indictment for one so deprived, born and raised in the thirteenth globally prosperous country in the world.

Temporarily employed for Christmas, Amber was thriving. I saw a change in her, we all did. She worked hard and enjoyed earning her own money. She knuckled down, gracefully accepting any training or criticism, the first to accept extra hours to cover the Christmas rush. She worked her bloody butt off. And, what did she get, after Christmas, in return for her positive work ethic? The offer of a nine-hour a week contract, that's what. How in god's name is anyone supposed to support themselves on nine bloody hours spread across the week? And,
not
even the same days from week to week.

She wasn't deterred though and with a little help from yours truly used her experience to apply for other jobs. And what is her reward for her diligence and application? Zero hour contracts that's what. I can't blame the girl for exploding.

‘You lied,' she screamed. ‘I did everything you told me, everything I was supposed to and it's all just gone to rat shit. Why? Why would you get my hopes up like that? Don't you realise there's no hope for losers like me?'

It's just a pity Amber felt the need to share her distress with not only me but every other patron in the library and was therefore consequently thrown out. Thankfully I pleaded Amber's corner – again – and managed to persuade Amira not to ban her completely. I hope Amber didn't mean what she said about getting pregnant?

I step into the shower. The water feels good. More grey hair discovered, including pubes – not good. Must make an appointment with the hairdressers. I step out of the shower and dress in a hurry. I give my hair a few blasts of the hairdryer then stick it under a woolly hat; at least it'll cover the grey.

With twenty minutes to spare before Connor's performance I step outside. The snow's gone but there's still a painful chill in the air. Grey hair or no, the hat, which I pull further down, is staying on regardless. A cold tremor shoots up the back of my spine causing me to shudder. I instinctively spin round almost expecting to see someone watching me. Ruby maybe? The street is overflowing with people but I don't notice anyone in particular. I shrug it off. Must just be the cold weather.

I stick my gloved hands into my coat pockets and make my way towards the centre of town. The sky is dirty dishwater grey and a slight wind nips on contact carrying an unwelcome sting. I've only been out the house for a couple of minutes and, despite my many winter-proof layers (thank god for thermal vests), I'm
already
cold. Slowly but surely the warm blood running through my veins begins to cool and harden like ice. It's one of those red nosed, runny eyed, straight to the core, bone cold days.

I think of Connor and instantly feel bad. Hello guilt my old friend. Why is it some of us are pre-disposed to carry tons of the stuff yet others like Scott, and even Ruby for that matter, are blissfully unaware of its existence? I should have got up earlier, made sure Connor was warm enough, wished him luck. God, I hope he wore his vest.

Poor Connor, he never really gets a look in with the girls. I wonder if he'll hate me as much as they do one day. Must give him lots of praise today.

My self-indulgent melancholy is temporarily hindered as I push my way through swarms of people gathered along every street. Our small and usually quiet town is bustling and bursting at the seams. An infestation of locals and visitors alike follow the bear made of straw, enthusiastically entertained by an entourage of story tellers and street acts. Musicians provide a melodic din across an eclectic sound of instruments. Bagpipes, harmonicas, mandolins and hurdy-gurdys intertwine with the heartbeat of base and side drums to well-known songs such as the
The Curly Headed Ploughboy
and the
Old Drove Road
. Flamboyant costumes of the Morris, Molly, Rapper and Long Sword dancers inject a welcome relief of colour into the drab and dreary backdrop. Technicolor tatter-coats dazzle the eye, as do some of the more eccentric waistcoats, rosettes and neckerchiefs. Others sport flashing, neon armbands and some wear straw hats; while others show off black bowlers or top hats. Women predominately fashion layered, ankle length skirts that rustle with every twist and turn whilst men prefer knee-length breeches. White handkerchiefs are waved ceremoniously and whoops and cries of varying voice are thrown up and caught on the wind. There is rhythmic clash of metal from the
Long
Swords complimenting the hollow collision of clay pipe wielding Morris dancers.

‘Liz, Lizzie love, over here.' I look across a flock of faces and pick out Dad's. I continue to push my way through the throng of good spirits, hoping some of it may actually rub off. Enticing smells of mulled wine and roasting hog hangs heavy amongst the atmosphere of pagan abandonment. Joyous escape from fuel bills, job losses and pay cuts. A brief but hedonistic trip into carnival and Mardi Gras.

I surreptitiously snake my way around a team of Molly dancers in the full throes of the Molly Broom. Clog dancers in wooden soled shoes provide percussion to the jangle of Morris bells and sweet echo of whistles and flutes.

Dad stretches out a hand. We're within touching distance of each other now. I reach out to grab him but out of nowhere a Molly dancer with his blacked out face snatches both my hands and spins me violently. His laugh is low and jolly. He pulls me towards him and cat-like rubs his cheek against mine, his voice booming as he wishes me health and happiness. He spins me once more before finally releasing his grip and moving on to his next victim. I stick one arm out to regain my balance whilst the other instinctively reaches for and begins to rub at my one black cheek.

‘Whoa ho! Steady there gal,' Dad says, his strong arm securing me from my dizzy tryst. Laughing he leads me over to our waiting gaggle. Connor looks up and spots me, waving his sword enthusiastically. His face beams with pride. Simon and Andy, engrossed in conversation are chewing the cud with a couple of other bullocks, clutching plastic pint glasses of something, no doubt, piquant and intoxicating. And, despite her alleged embarrassment, I spot Cassie with Honey and a few other familiar faces, ensconced in a corner with a clear view of Connor.

Maisy's
gothic aspect doesn't look out of place with the Molly dancers. She pretends to listen to Mum who is jabbering at her side, nodding politely here and there, but every now and again checks her phone and smiles.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and clumsily attempt to swipe the screen but it doesn't work with gloved, fat fingers. Reluctantly I pull my glove off. The cold air immediately wraps itself around my hand; joyful in its discovery of yet more exposed flesh to attack. Frozen fingers stab at my phone screen to reveal a text from Jodi.

Hey hun. Sorry I missed you. Twins were freezing so had to go. You up for the cinema next week? 12 years a slave looks good? Xxxx

Twelve years a slave – he's lucky, I've spent the last 17 years a slave to kids! I text her back and Dad nudges me. Connor is poised ready to begin.

‘This is what it's all about ain't it gal?' Dad says. I turn towards him, the exposed parts of my face now uncomfortably numb as the cold continues to gnaw its way down to my bones.

I smile and wish I meant it. ‘Yeah, I guess it is Dad. I guess it is.'

Chapter 31

EPHEMERAL THOUGHTS

CASSIE

It's April 17th, 2014 and Nan's first official year free of cancer. Yay! Four more to go then we can breathe a proper sigh of relief. Today is also, I'm like well sad to say, the day the world lost a musical legend – Cheo Feliciano, a Puerto Rican composer of salsa and bolero. After successfully fighting and beating liver cancer last year, he died in a car crash this morning. It's like soooo sad and just goes to show how freaky life (or death) can be.

I know he was like one of the biggest, most influential singers of Latin music ever but I was like well chuffed when I discovered him for myself. He had a sick baritone voice and like so owned Salsa and Bolero but he was also an amazing sonero singer too. That's the great thing about studying music at college; it's teaching me things I didn't know. I just thought singers were just … well … singers. And studying music also challenges us all to seek out different sounds. One minute I can be playing Beethoven's
Moonlight Sonata
, the next it could be the Arctic Monkeys
I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor
and the next Cheo's
Anacaona.
It's sick. College is waaaaaayyyyy better than school.

I love music. Nearly as much as I love Joe. In fact, I think I'd die without music.

I'd definitely die without Joe. I suppose I get my love of music from Mum. She's always dancing round the kitchen (although
not
so much lately?) to something, has done for as long as I can remember. Simple Simon thinks he's a bit of a musical expert too. He does have a huge vinyl collection (including a lot of 80s stuff – eeeek!). And even though they're like
really
old I swear Nan and Grandad know more about music than me.

Joe's not really into music, neither is Dad. In fact, what exactly is Dad into? I give it some thought for a minute. The only things I can think of are expensive cars, his big house (that doesn't have room enough for two more) and designer clothes and furniture. Knob. He traded me and Connor for that shit. Oh great, now I feel like well angry again. Time to write another song.

Mai … I mean Mania, is saving to go to Australia in a couple of months. I still can't believe she's going. She's nearly finished her Art course (which she's like well sick at) and recently started working for free a couple of hours a week at a Tattooist's called Rebel Yell. Maisy says the name of the shop reminds her of us coz she's the rebel and I yell – a lot. Idiot. She says she wants to be a tattooist in Oz. No worries there then eh Simple Si, about work and tattoos eh? She can bloody have as many tattoos as she bloody wants.