Wake Up Happy Every Day (19 page)

Daniel must realise it too. He watches the barmaid serve absolutely everyone else, including some in the other bar. He watches her go and refill the crisp boxes and when he is finally served he is ridiculously chatty as he gets the drinks. He has Bombardier.

‘Best thing to come out of Bedford since Bunyan,’ he says, his voice unnaturally loud as if he were some kind of town crier. He orders white wine for Polly. ‘Chardonnay? Is that really all you’ve got? Have to do then, won’t it? No strawberries to go with it I suppose?’

‘Is that everything?’ A flat, sullen voice full of resentment at having to get so close to a guy so clearly riddled with Being Old.

‘No, how about some comestibles? A couple of those lovely looking pickled eggs perhaps?’

‘You what?’

‘Two pickled eggs. They’re in that jar over there.’ He points over the barmaid’s shoulder. Her eyes narrow. Is this old fuck taking the wotsit? No one has ever ordered a pickled egg. Even her most regular regulars avoid them. Even the thought of them makes her ill. ‘Pickled eggs?’

‘Yes please, madam. They are full of protein and the vinegary tang . . . well it gives them a certain
je ne sais quoi
. Don’t you agree?’

She jiggles a couple of the off-white ovals out of the jar with a teaspoon. It’s not easy. It’s like a sideshow at the fair. She dumps them onto little saucers.

‘There you go. £8.12.’

Daniel pays with a fifty-pound note. The barmaid sighs. She may not realise it, but her worst fears are coming true. She is visibly catching Being Old. Maybe she was right all along, because dealing with Daniel seems to be activating that latent oldness germ we all have inside us.

Daniel carefully counts his change. And then weaves back to the table where Polly sits. Then he does the trip again for the eggs.

‘Are you really going to eat that?’

‘Of course. I’ll eat yours too if you don’t want it.’

‘You need looking after, you do.’

‘I thought that was your job.’

‘I keep saying, it’s not my job. I’m a volunteer.’

‘Same difference.’

‘Is it? Is it really?’ She takes a taste of her wine. It’s room temperature and sickly sweet just like the previous glass was. She watches Daniel take a deep swig of his beer. Polly is sure that too much alcohol can’t be good for the old vascular dementia.

‘Actually, you’re wrong. Alcohol is good for those with cardiovascular deficiencies of all kinds. It keeps the blood thin. When I had my first stroke the nurses brought me a double scotch every evening. They had a special bottle labelled NHS blend. Rather tasty too. Satisfyingly peaty. Of course that was ten years ago. You wouldn’t get that now unless you paid for it. NHS blend. Imagine that.’ He smiles at the memory. ‘No, what’s bad for you is the drugs they give you. What does you in is the Warfarin. Same stuff that’s in rat poison, you know. No chance of an erection when you’re on that.’

She wonders if she’s heard him right – the pub is quite noisy – and makes the mistake of asking him to say that again. ‘I said, no chance of getting an erection when you’re on that stuff.’ He uses his big booming town-crier voice again and the pub falls silent for a second. A good dozen pairs of eyes fall on the disgusting old perv sitting with the pretty girl. He sounds posh too. What a disgrace. Polly can practically hear the thoughts of the outraged red-faced drinkers all around. Drinkers that haven’t had an erection in years. Drinkers who can’t even see their cocks beneath their beer guts when they go for a wazz.

She takes another nervous sip of her wine. Daniel seems oblivious to the change in the weather of the pub. Takes a deep pull of his dark beer and exhales noisily and with obvious relish. ‘Ah, Bombardier. Best thing to come out of Bedford since Bunyan.’

‘Yes, you said.’ Why, she wonders, would Daniel ever want an erection? And so, amazed at herself, she asks him. Must be drinking in the daytime she thinks. It’s not the sort of thing she’d ever normally ask. And now, suddenly, Daniel seems almost shy.

‘Oh, Polly, use your head – the usual reason,’ he says.

‘But you can’t . . .’ she begins.

Daniel watches her coolly. ‘I wish I still smoked,’ he says. ‘I wish I still smoked and that you could smoke in pubs. Still seems unnatural to me to have a pint and not to have a fag with it.’

‘But who?’ she begins again.

‘Oh Christ, not anybody in Sunny bloody Bank if that’s what you’re thinking. I haven’t sunk that low yet. There’s this marvellous thing called the internet, Polly my love. You should try it. Get to know someone online. Do all the chat there, and then, if they agree to meet, well Robert is your father’s brother.’ He sits back in his chair grinning. Polly feels suddenly cross.

‘I really don’t like your hair like that, Daniel. It makes you look like a criminal, like a murderer.’ They’d managed to get it tidied up in town but the bloody council woman had done too much damage for it to be properly sorted. ‘How many women have you met like that? Through the internet I mean?’

Daniel looks shifty now. ‘Not that many.’

‘How many?’

‘A gentleman never tells.’

‘Bollocks. How many, Daniel?’

A long pause. ‘One.’

‘One?’ Polly laughs. ‘How did it go?’

‘Rubbish actually. We went back to her house and, well, the Warfarin, you know . . .’

‘How did she take it?’

‘Well, she was very kind. But I felt terrible.’

‘I bet you did.’

‘I paid her anyway.’

‘You paid her?’

‘Well she wasn’t going to do it for free was she? Not with . . .’ He tailed off.

Not with someone with Being Old Disease he means, thinks Polly and she suddenly feels sad. ‘This wine tastes like warm wee,’ she says.

‘The beer’s not so great either actually. That’s the trouble with these sorts of places, they don’t know how to keep it,’ he says loudly.

Polly knows that there is something she is meant to tell Daniel, but she can’t for the life of her remember what it is. She can’t think in this stupid pub. She knows she wants to be out of the Banker’s Draft, with its stupid name, with all its stupid men and its stupid barmaid.

‘Daniel, let’s go and find a quiz machine.’

‘There’s a quiz machine here.’

Polly takes a breath. ‘Well, let’s go and find a quiz machine somewhere else.’ But wherever they go the pubs are the same, and the people are the same and the drinks are the same and there’s always a group of idiots cheering by the quiz machine so they can’t get near it.

And then somehow there’s a taxi and then they are back at the farm and her mum is making tea and egg and chips while Daniel makes her laugh and Polly goes into the living room, holding on to the wall to keep herself upright. More eggs. It can’t be good for a man of Daniel’s age to eat so many eggs. Or maybe it is. Maybe Daniel would tell her that the yolks are proven to fill holes in the head or something.

She sinks on to the sofa and she closes her eyes. Everything is spinning. How many drinks did they have? Lots. It must have been lots. And her mum places a plate of eggs and oven chips on the coffee table next to her head. She tells her she should eat. She’s always telling her she should eat. She wants to say, ‘I know I should, Mum, but I can’t. I just can’t.’ But she’s too sleepy and too drunk to speak. And there are lots of calories in wine. Everyone knows that.

She thinks her mum will be cross with Daniel for bringing her back in this state but she doesn’t seem to be. She can hear the murmur of chit-chat. Sounds all very civilised. It’s all ‘Can I get you some ketchup, Daniel? Or brown sauce?’ She hasn’t ever come back home drunk in the day. And then she remembers something.

She struggles upright. ‘A word,’ she says.

She tries to focus. Her mum and Daniel are sitting at the table. Have they stopped talking? Have they stopped eating? Yes. Yes they have. She sees Daniel put his knife and fork down carefully. How come he doesn’t seem drunk? How come he’s got room to eat? He must have had loads of pints. And why isn’t he full up? It’s disgusting to stuff yourself like that.

‘We’ll have a word later, dear. I don’t think now’s the time,’ Daniel says. And her mum chuckles.

‘No, Scarlett. Scarlett.’

‘Scarlett? What about her?’

‘She can speak. She said something. Russell Knox. A message. I got a message. Nicky’s friend Russell sent a message. Scarlett can speak. That was it.’

‘Ah well, that is good news,’ says Daniel. And then to Polly’s mum, ‘My grand-daughter. Handicapped. Never been able to speak.’

‘Oh, the poor mite.’

‘Russell Knox.’ Daniel says it like he’s trying to remember where he’s heard the name before. ‘Russell Knox.’ He gives up, turns back to his chips. ‘I’ve got a hole in the head you know.’

Polly sinks back down onto the sofa. She can just sleep now. She’s done what she said she would, she’s passed on the message. She listens to her mum and Daniel talking.

‘I could show you the pictures. Massive black hole right in the centre of my brain.’

‘Must be a worry.’

‘Well, at least I haven’t got Alzheimers.’

‘That is good.’

It’s like a play, she thinks. She hasn’t seen many plays but it sort of sounds like Mum and Daniel are acting. Like they’re on stage.

Daniel says, ‘Oh yes, Russell Knox. I remember him now. Nice boy. Clever. A bit of get-up-and-go. I used to wish our Nicky could be more like him.’

Polly hears her mum say, ‘Looks like Polly’s get up and go, got up and went.’

Oh, Mum, thinks Polly. Oh, Mum.

‘Ha ha. Very good, Jean. This is delicious by the way. Just what the doctor ordered.’

‘Norwegian semen.’

‘What, dear?’

‘I think she’s dreaming about sailors. Foreign sailors.’

Polly’s eyes open. Oh shit. She knows she’s said something very weird. But she can’t worry about that now. There’s pain in her stomach. Sudden pressure in her guts. Oh shit. Oh hell. And she’s sick everywhere. Oh, oh, oh. She heaves rancid Chardonnay all over egg and chips, all over the coffee table, all over the carpet. The carpet. Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh well. She lies back down on the sofa. She feels better now. She feels her mum’s warm hand on her forehead. Polly loves her mum and she thinks she should tell her.

‘I know you do love.’ Her mum’s voice sounds like it comes from a million miles away. From outer space.

Polly sleeps.

Twenty-one

NICKY

Turns out that unlike Scarlett and unlike me, it is actually Sarah that has no stamina. The plan was that while I was getting rebuilt from the floorboards up, Sarah would have her own regime of Prosecco, chocolate and buying stuff.

Sarah has never spent money on clothes before now. Not really. She has her capsule wardrobe, her six quality pieces she can rotate at work, and the rest of the time she rocks the jeans and the jumpers. People think she doesn’t care about clothes. And they’re wrong; the truth is she’s never really been able to afford to care about them. Never been able to allow herself to think about them.

But anyway, while I start the whole process of losing fat and gaining new muscle, new hair, blinding new teeth – Sarah gets herself fawned over by professionally bored-looking girls in hard-to-find boutiques. She makes the transition from boho scruff to fashionista very easily and very quickly. Sarah was, let’s face it, a bit of a slattern before, often hanging her clothes up on the floor to be picked up and worn the next day. More than once Sarah has worn jeans for an entire morning only to discover that knickers and tights are still bunched at the foot of one of the legs.

And it’s Jesus who is her retail therapist. It is Jesus who negotiates with the gatekeepers of exclusive frock emporia, the places that don’t allow ordinary mortals to sully their hushed, softly lit showrooms if they can avoid it. It’s also Jesus who finds the make-up artists with copious IMDB credits who’ll slum it on Sarah’s face between TV gigs.

And Jesus can talk shoes – and not just Manolo Blahniks upon which any averagely metrosexual bloke can discourse these days, but he is conversant with DVF, with Tabatha Simmons, with Jeffrey Campbell. Names Sarah had never heard before she started hanging with him. And he knows where to get a limited-edition Coach Stewardess iThing bag properly monogrammed.

Jesus finds the spas with their nail architects, their renovators of finger and toe. It is Jesus who discovers Austen, a fragrance made up of essences of ancient love potions that retails at nearly $600 per art deco bottle. It is Jesus who leads Sarah to hidden lingerie booths whose names resemble those of old established London solicitors. The more staid the name, the more the products promise tasteful, top-end, bespoke raunch. Grieves and Sanders, Daunt and Co, Malik, Styles and Mills – these are the places to get your basques, your camisoles, your stockings, your garter belts and all the buttons and hooks of a lost age of sexual glamour. Sarah says she likes it in these places, with their smells of lace, leather and the woody essence of desire.

One shopping session lasts from ten in the morning till ten at night and Sarah comes home drunk. She collapses into bed, and an unusually bashful Jesus makes an attempt at a slurred explanation involving the Hyatt and cocktails infused with real whale skin. Mary leads him away, scolding him affectionately and smiling prettily.