Only Strange People Go to Church (12 page)

After the last singer sings and Marianne has stopped her stop watch, everyone drifts away.

‘Phew!’ says Marianne and wilts dramatically.

She tidies the paperwork and as they are stacking the chairs she mentions Arlene, which comes as a great surprise to Maria.

‘Arlene Lang was your next door neighbour, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes!’ says Maria, stopped in her tracks, gobsmacked. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Oh, a few weeks ago I mentioned you were putting on this show and she said she knew you,’ says Marianne casually.

‘That’s amazing, I was only… thinking of her this morning. How do you know Arlene?’

‘She was my mum’s friend.’

‘Really? Wow, small world.’

Maria goes to continue the chair stacking and stops again.

‘Was?’

‘Yeah, sorry, she died last week. The funeral was yesterday.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry,’ says Marianne again and puts her hand on Maria’s arm.

‘No, it’s okay, I didn’t really know her.’

Once the chairs are stacked Maria and Marianne gather cups and mugs and take them into the kitchen.

‘Oh, just leave those cups,’ says Maria. ‘I’ll pop back tomorrow and wash them.’

‘I’m sure you’ve better things to do with your weekend.’

‘Sadly I haven’t. But I’ll have to get my lot back to the centre now or they’ll miss their buses. I’ll come back tomorrow.’

Marianne pulls on her coat and now Maria notices Dezzie is here too, standing right behind her. How long has he been here? She hopes he hasn’t heard the conversation, especially the bit about her having nothing to do on the weekend. There’s nothing less attractive to a man than a woman no one else wants.

‘Hear that, Dezzie?’ says Marianne chirpily as she exits. ‘Can you believe this young lady doesn’t have a date this weekend?’

Maria presses her chest and concentrates on sorting the blue mugs from the yellow ones.

‘You could come out with me,’ says Dezzie quietly.

‘Well, I’ve got to …’

Maria is pointing at the mugs. For God’s sake woman, get a grip. Try to come out of this humiliation with at least a little dignity.

‘I’ve…’

She’s pointing again. She doesn’t know what she’s trying to say but it seems to be along the lines of: she can’t go on a date with him because she has to wash a load of old mugs.

‘Would you come out with me?’

He’s been put in this embarrassing position by that big mouth Marianne. Under these circumstances Dezzie would feel obliged to ask anyone out, whether he fancied them or not, he’s that kind of guy. But what if he really does fancy her and Marianne has just provided him with the prefect opportunity?

She has deliberated too long.

‘Okay,’ he says, ‘fair enough,’ as he turns to leave.

And she’s blown it. ‘Dezzie!’ she calls, rather too stridently. ‘Yes. Thank you. I’d like to go out. That would be nice.’

Maria is on the phone to her best friend Colette in London. They’ve only been on for ten minutes and already the conversation has dried up. Colette doesn’t talk much about herself. She has two babies. She and her husband are very happy and quite well off. Maria is happy for her but Colette probably thinks talking about
the good things in her life will make Maria feel bad in some way. She’s also has long since stopped asking Maria, probably for the same reasons, what she’s up to at the weekend. This often makes for awkward silences between them.

For once Maria has something to report on that front but she doesn’t want to blurt it out like a schoolgirl. She wants to drop it in casually, and so she must take a rather circuitous route. She does this by giving Colette a blow by blow account of the rehearsal.

‘The Hot Steppers are pretty good but the Golden Belles are amazing. Every one of them can kick their height and they’re all over sixty.’

‘God,’ says Colette, ‘I can’t kick my own arse. I’ve just no energy with running after the kids all day. And not just physically, my brain’s turning to mush.’

This is one subject Colette can talk about for hours: how the kids are draining her, but it’s not on Maria’s agenda today.

‘Ray, the guy who gave us the hall, made tea for everyone and of course nobody thought to wash their cups…’

‘Ray? What’s he like, tasty?’

‘Not bad. So there were all the dirty cups lying…’

‘Boyf material?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Married. Smoker.’

‘Right.’

‘I told Marianne I’d come back and…’

‘You’re lucky, working with tasty men, even if they are married. My libido’s packed in. I’ve shut up shop; Gerry hasn’t got near me for months, he’s stopped trying.’

Colette has everything and yet she moans. Maria knows why: to make her underachieving best friend feel better. Ever since Anna said what she said, all of the Kelvin Street Kids have been doing this: patronising her, overcompensating for the fact that they have husbands and kids and money. Colette’s moaning is getting in the way of Maria’s back door bragging. She was going to talk about what a dufus she was when she didn’t realise that Dezzie was asking her
on a date. She was going to savour the story, throw in some jokes, but Colette keeps interrupting with complaints about how the children have sucked her breasts empty and her brain dry. There’s nothing else for it.

‘I’m sorry Colette, I’ll have to go. I’m off out tonight; a guy in my work has asked me out on a date.’

Maria has plumped for her best bra, a pale blue seamless underwired one with matching pants. The material is unpatterned and silky smooth. She experiments with cupping her breast through her dress, the sensation Dezzie would get were he to get lucky, which he won’t. It feels nice.

The dress is also blue: short but not too short, button-through for ease of access and when she walks the skirt swings nicely accenting her best feature, her high tight bum. She has on wee boxy heels, feminine without being slutty. They are by no means
fuck me
shoes. Rather they are
take me for a nice meal and then ask nicely
shoes.

‘Wow! Miss Maria, what a stunner!’ Dezzie says enthusiastically when they meet outside the restaurant.

‘You look terrific. Your dress is lovely, is it new? It really suits you.’

‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I like your tie.’

She’s not just being polite, she really does like it. It makes him look older and more responsible. As far as she can remember, Dezzie has never worn a tie to work.

The restaurant is in the trendier part of the city. Maria has never been to
Il Trattoria
before but it looks very nice. It’s old-fashioned Italian with posh pink damask table covers and heavy linen napkins. There are bottles of wine in wicker baskets and paintings of old Napoli on a picture rail around the wall. As the waiter shows them to their table by the window Dezzie puts his hand gently on the small of her back, protectively guiding her to the table, although it’s only four yards away and there seems to be no dangerous hazards en route. This is what boyfriends do.

The menu is on huge unwieldy laminated cards. There are no surprises, just all the usual Italian-type dishes.

‘So what do you fancy?’

‘Oh I don’t know, I’m easy,’ says Maria.

She knows what she doesn’t want. She’d already ruled out spaghetti before she saw the menu. It would be embarrassing to get sauce on her face or spill it on her dress and to avoid that she’d have to wear her napkin like a bib.

‘Yeah, I know you’re easy, but what do you fancy to eat?’

Dezzie snickers at his own joke and it is a moment before Maria can join him. She’s never heard him use this suggestive kind of banter before, but then again she’s never met him outside of the centre before. She’ll have to readjust her impression of him to accommodate this, but it’s fine, it’s fine.

‘So what’s it to be?’ he says.

The waiter is hovering.

‘I’ll have the veal, thank you Dezzie.’

‘No starter?’

‘Eh…’

She breaks a mild panic as her eyes rove across the menu. Maria’s hand is pressing down on her chest, restricting her breathing. Relax, relax. She hasn’t thought about a starter, hasn’t even looked at them.

‘No thanks, just the veal will be fine.’

Veal in a cream sauce, this seems like a safe, knife and fork option. She likes cream and has never tried veal before.

‘Fair enough. No starter for me either, thanks. I’ll have mushroom risotto. And a bottle of Soave, cheers.’

He’s a veggie, she’d forgotten that. She should have remembered. Once, in the staffroom, someone put a sausage on his plate by accident. Quietly, without anyone else noticing, Dezzie had washed his plate before eating from it. The meat must have disgusted him. And now she’s chosen the most unvegetarian thing possible – baby cow, taken from its mother’s womb for the express purpose of being slaughtered for her dining pleasure. He must be offended but he doesn’t show it.

‘I would’ve had the spaghetti,’ he confesses, ‘but I didn’t want to
end up with sauce all over my face. You might not fancy me then.’

Maria laughs in recognition of that dilemma. It’s little things like this that make her sure that she and Dezzie are made for each other. Won’t it be fun to have spaghetti for their first anniversary dinner? For every anniversary for that matter; it could become their tradition. They can eat and kiss and mush tomato sauce into each other’s faces, even when they’re over forty.

Really she should turn veggie too, and sooner rather than later. She might as well, when they’re married she’ll have to, it’s too much hassle cooking separate meals. She should change her order and join him in the vegetarian option but she’s thought about it too long; the chef will have started cooking the veal by now. She doesn’t want the baby cow to have died in vain; she shouldn’t waste the nutritional value in it.

Dezzie is pouring big ones from the bottle of Soave but the second time Maria puts her hand demurely over her glass.

‘That’s enough for me, thanks.’

She sips at this glassful until the end of the meal. She wouldn’t mind getting a bit squiffy, it is a special occasion, but she doesn’t want Dezzie to think that anything she might do she might do because of drunkenness. The fact is that anything she might do she might do because she wants to. She
really
wants to. And she might do anything.

‘I managed to scrounge the car off my sister tonight, so I can give you a lift home if you like,’ he says.

Of course, she hadn’t noticed, he doesn’t have his motorbike helmet with him tonight.

‘That would be great.’

‘By the looks of it, it’s going to pour down any minute now.’

A few moments later drops of water hit the window beside them. Dezzie gently takes her hand and, smiling, says ‘Look.’

He was right, it’s raining now. It’s raining and he’s holding her hand as they sit warm and cosy in the restaurant looking out on the dark rainy night. He’s even borrowed a car to take her home. They’ll soon be sitting in the car listening to the windscreen wipers and Dezzie will kiss her. Really this date couldn’t be any more perfect.

When the bill comes they tussle over it and Maria eventually lets Dezzie win. But this will have to stop. She had accepted his generosity graciously this time but if they are going to be going out on regular dates she’ll have to pay her way.

It’s still raining when they leave the restaurant.

‘You wait here and I’ll bring the car across. We don’t want your pretty blue dress getting ruined, now do we?’

He heads across the road while Maria shelters in the restaurant canopy.

Dezzie goes towards a car and then stops and speaks to a man who, despite the downpour, is standing in the street. It’s hard to see what’s going on through the thick curtain of rain but after a few minutes it looks as if Dezzie has put his arm around the man. They are engrossed in conversation, both nodding their heads.

Amazingly, Dezzie unlocks the passenger door and appears to invite the man into the car. Maria wants to call out and remind him that she’s here; he seems to have forgotten her. Surely he’s not going to drive off and leave her?

‘Maria!’ Dezzie calls.

He waives his arm, beckoning her to come across the road. He isn’t going to bring the car to her after all. What about her pretty blue dress?

She has to dodge puddles and passing cars to get to them. As she approaches she sees that Dezzie’s friend is an old man. He’s tall and thin, stooped with the weight of his wet clothes.

‘Maria, this is George,’ Dezzie says.

‘Hello George.’

Maria uses the voice she uses when meeting a new client at the centre: warm, accepting. George grunts a reply but doesn’t look at her. He seems unaware of how wet he is and stares straight ahead, even when replying to Dezzie’s questions. His hands are basketed together in front of him, collecting rain, until Dezzie gently unclasps them.

‘You’re freezing, George. How long have you been here?’

George reminds Maria of a faithful old hound that’s been given the command
stay
by his master and then been abandoned. The rain has found paths through his wispy white hair which lies in clumps. It drips off his brow and the end of his nose. He shivers convulsively from the toes up, spraying fine droplets that fly out horizontally. George isn’t wearing socks and his shoes are without laces. The rain bubbles through some of the vacant eyelets of the old shoes.

‘Have you had something to eat?’ asks Dezzie.

George mumbles. Maria can tell that Dezzie hasn’t understood the reply but he doesn’t repeat the question. She and Dezzie are now almost as wet as George is. Rain drips down the back of her neck and inside her dress.

‘Hang on a minute,’ says Dezzie to George, and George nods.

He takes Maria aside and whispers.

‘Do you mind if we give the old fella a lift? He’ll never make it home on his own.’

The downside with nice guys, Maria is now realising, is that they’re undiscerning in their niceness; they’re equally nice to everyone. But it’s a small price to pay for such a lovely boyf and so she tries, and succeeds, in pushing uncharitable thoughts out of her head.

‘No, of course not.’

Dezzie doesn’t ask her twice. He returns immediately to George for another huddled conversation. After some convincing he helps George into the front passenger seat, pushing the seat back and carefully folding the old man’s thin legs into the tiny space. He crosses to the driver’s side and signals for Maria to get in behind. Dezzie has jumped in and closed his door before Maria can push
herself into the confined space of the back seat. She squashes in, her legs wetting her chest, and feels the damp spread out across her back.

It’s warm and dry in here at least. Being inside the car is better than being outside, except that there’s a bad smell. It’s one that Maria is well acquainted with: the sharp fizzy smell of fresh urine. Less familiar but nonetheless unmistakeable, there is also a top note of stale wine. When Dezzie starts the engine and turns on the de-mister, the rank potpourri of urine and alcohol intensifies to noxious levels. The windows quickly mist and the air in the small car is fuggy with it. She would open a window, lashing rain is preferably to this, but it’s not her car. It’s not even Dezzie’s. Maria wonders what Dezzie’s sister will have to say about her little car being doused in wino piss.

As he drives, Dezzie keeps up a cheery one-sided conversation with George. Maria would like to take part but leaning forward fills her nostrils with George’s stench and she fears she may chuck up her veal dinner. Then the baby cow really will have died in vain and Dezzie’s sister will have the smell of vomit to contend with as well.

She notices that they are travelling in the opposite direction, away from where she lives. They ride for about fifteen minutes, by which time Maria has stopped noticing the smell and is now worrying that it has permeated her good blue dress. Finally Dezzie slows the car.

‘Okay George, Wilson Street. Where do you want me to drop you?’ George continues staring ahead.

‘I’m saying we’re here, George,’ Dezzie says, this time much louder. ‘Where d’you want dropped?’

With great effort, George shakes himself to attention. He points towards a block of flats they have just cruised past.

‘No problem, mate. I’ll turn and go back.’

It is a good five minutes before the traffic allows Dezzie to turn the car.

They pull up outside a dilapidated block of flats on the main road next door to a late night Spar shop.

‘Here?’

George nods.

‘Here,’ says Dezzie again, this time with relief in his voice.

But George has returned to his catatonic state.

‘Hang on a second, George,’ says Dezzie, although it’s obvious that George isn’t trying to get out. From the back seat Maria can’t see what’s causing the delay. She feels the weight of the car shift slightly as Dezzie lifts a bum cheek and checks his back pocket. It shifts again as he tries the other one.

‘Actually Maria,’ he says, ‘you couldn’t lend us a couple of quid, could you?’

Embarrassed by her slowness of understanding, she rushes at her bag. She frantically scrambles for her purse and pulls out a ten pound note. There then follows a fast cash transfer where Maria, somewhat rashly, she later considers, hands the money to Dezzie who immediately hands it on to George.

Almost resignedly, George discreetly palms it with the dignity and practised ease of a regular recipient of kind deeds and small change. It’s only then that he fumbles for the door handle. He weakly claws at the door while Dezzie springs from his seat to help him. When he gets him upright the old fellow is a little unsteady on his feet. He begins to totter off in the wrong direction until Dezzie corrects his trajectory back on to the path towards the flats.

‘Now, mind what I said George, a nice hot bath and you’ll be right as rain tomorrow,’ Dezzie calls as he climbs back in.

To Maria’s relief, he doesn’t ask if she wants to change and sit in the front. There is probably a residual pool of piss on the seat and her dress is ruined as it is.

The road is quieter now so Dezzie begins to negotiate a three point turn.

‘How do you know George then, Dezzie?’ she asks innocently.

Perhaps he’s a friend; she hopes he’s not a relative.

‘I don’t,’ Dezzie says, laughing, ‘I’ve just met him.’

Maria chastises herself, humbled by his compassion for a poor old soul. She doesn’t deserve a man as good as Dezzie. Thank God he’s not party to her snooty internal monologue. He thinks she’s a nice person.

As Dezzie turns the car Maria sees George taking another wrong turning.

‘Dezzie, Look! He’s not going into the flats.’

The old man has wandered back towards the Spar shop. Dezzie stops the car and they watch George, with surprising energy, pull open the door. The shop door bangs closed below a neon sign advertising Tennant’s lager that flickers intermittently in the rain.

Dezzie is open-mouthed. He lifts both hands from the steering wheel and leaves them in the air.

‘Ack,’ he says.

His hands come back down on to the wheel and then he lifts and bangs them down hard.

‘He promised me he’d go straight home.’

Maria looks down.

‘D’you think maybe George is an alcoholic?’ Maria offers.

‘Yeah, obviously he is, but he promised me he’d go straight home.’

They sit in silence for a few moments while Dezzie leans back and lets a breath escape slowly from closed lips. He doesn’t start the car. Maria’s keen to get moving; she wants to be gone from this street before George emerges with a bottle of cheap wine and a couple of cans paid for with her tenner.

‘Ack,’ he says again, this time more philosophically. ‘What are you gonna do?’

Dezzie catches Maria’s eye in the rear-view mirror and gives her a sheepish smile. She eagerly returns it. She doesn’t want George to completely ruin their evening. Then she reaches forward and squeezes his hand.

‘Let’s go home.’

Dezzie looks back at the shop but George still hasn’t come out.

‘Yeah,’ he says as he returns her squeeze and starts the engine.