Perhaps my fall is making me hallucinate.
Yes, that must be it.
But the lights definitely flashed on and off. Three times.
Just like last time.
It can’t be a coincidence.
Can it?
Okay, so supposing – just supposing – I choose to believe in this ‘three messengers’ lark, which, of course, I don’t. It’s all completely absurd …
Suddenly, a booming voice from the other side of the curtain says, ‘She ought to be shot!’
We both jerk upright with shock.
Bunty?
Then another voice, softer and far less scary, says, ‘Well, she’s not that bad!’
Mum.
Carol puts a finger to her lips, slides off her heels and tiptoes over to the gap in the curtains.
‘Come on, get on the stage!’ I hear Bunty order. ‘Look lively! This is far too good an opportunity to pass up!’
‘No! Someone might come.’ Mum, sounding worried. ‘We’d better go.’
‘Look, you’re frightened you won’t be heard at the back, right?’
‘Well, yes—’
‘Well, bally get up here, then! Otherwise your first time on stage will be in front of the entire am dram group, what!’
I join Carol at the gap and we peer cautiously out.
‘What a bossy old witch,’ Carol murmurs.
Bunty is standing in the middle of the stage in her typical hand-on-hips ten-to-two posture. Mum, looking hot and flustered, is clambering up the narrow steps at the side.
‘I told you my Steph says all the cleaning staff call her ‘Vinegar Tits’! VT for short, if she’s in the vicinity! Absolute twat of a boss!’
I freeze with horror.
‘And the way she treats your Bobbie! It’s bloody diabolical! If you ask me, she ought to be horse-whipped! With every one of her overworked, badly-paid employees taking a turn! Icy-veined, vicious old Scrooge!’
I stare rigidly ahead, not daring to look at Carol.
‘Ah, but you see,’ Mum, the voice of reason, says, ‘I knew Carol when she was younger. She was so much nicer then and very supportive of Bobbie. A better friend you’d never find.’
‘Ha! Well, not any more, it seems!’
‘No.’ Mum sounds sad. ‘Not any more.’
‘Has Bobbie ever had a pay rise?’
‘Never.’
‘Does she get paid for putting in all those extra hours?’
‘No.’
‘Does Bobbie’s ‘supportive’ friend ever do anything to help Tim? Does she even ask about him?’
Mum shakes her head.
‘Well, there you are, then. Diabolical, I tell you! Absolutely diabolical!’
‘I know, Bunty, I know, you’re right. She can be horrible to Bobbie sometimes.’
Mum’s growing flushed with agitation and I want to rush over and fling my arms around her and tell her it’s okay. But I’m also aware of Carol standing silently beside me, white-faced and frozen like an alabaster statue.
Oddly, my loyalties are torn.
‘In fact, if I were Bobbie,’ says Mum. ‘I think I would have snapped long before now.’
‘Would you, by George!’ roars Bunty, striding to the centre of the stage and flinging her arms out dramatically. ‘Say it again! Louder! Practise throwing your voice!’
Mum looks unsure.
‘Come on. There’s no one else around! What would you say to Carol if she was listening right now?’
‘I’d say – er – I’m not sure,’ stammers Mum.
‘You’d tell her to stuff her job, wouldn’t you? And that Bobbie deserves so much better!’
Mum nods. ‘I would!’
‘Go on, then! Tell me what you’d say!’ Bunty swings round and gestures. ‘To our audience out there!’
‘I’d say … I’d say … ’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d tell her – I’d tell her to take her poxy job and shove it up her jacksie!’
‘Yes!’ yells Bunty and punches the air. ‘And again!’
‘Take your poxy job and shove it up your jacksie!’ shouts Mum obligingly.
Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!
‘And again!’ enthuses Bunty. ‘Louder this time!’
Mum strides to the centre of the stage and flings out her arms at the imaginary audience.
‘TAKE YOUR POXY JOB… ’
She glances back at Bunty to see how she’s doing and Bunty nods eagerly. ‘And shove it up—?’
‘AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR JACKSIE!’
Bunty starts applauding and totally without thinking, I start clapping, too. Then I remember Carol and quickly shove my hands behind my back.
I swivel my eyes sideways. She’s staring stiffly ahead, lips pressed tightly together.
‘Shall we go?’ I whisper.
Carol gives her head a tiny determined shake and stays there, riveted.
‘That’s it, standing tall, breathing from the diaphragm!’ Bunty is doing both with huge enthusiasm. ‘And again!’
‘TAKE YOUR POXY JOB AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR JACKSIE!’
‘Excellent!’
‘TAKE YOUR POXY JOB AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR JACKSIE! TAKE YOUR POXY JOB AND SHOVE IT RIGHT UP YOUR JACKSIE!’
I cover my mouth with my hand. Mum’s really getting into it now. She’s even experimenting with her inflection.
‘You go, girl!’ shouts Bunty. ‘Oh, I say, look at this!’
She goes over and starts fiddling with something at the side of the stage.
There’s an odd high-pitched electronic sound and Bunty shouts, ‘Marvellous! A microphone that works! Let’s practise en-un-ciation! Dia-boli-cal! Disa-gree-able! Dia-boli-cal! Disa-gree-able! Now you.’
She passes the microphone to Mum, who takes up the challenge, eager to learn.
‘Dia-boli-cal! Disa-gree-able! DIA-BOLI-CAL! DISA-GREE-ABLE!’ I half-close my ears by clenching the muscles. She’s really going for it now, her inhibitions flying right out of the window.
‘Good, good, excellent,’ says Bunty, reclaiming the microphone. ‘Now let’s have a tongue twister! Nothing like a good tongue twister to exercise the oral capacities!’
Beside me, Carol exhales; a long, shaky breath that she must have been holding in for ages.
‘Mum doesn’t mean it.’ I try to reassure her.
‘Yes, she does.’ She looks as if she’s about to throw up. ‘That’s what she thinks of me?’
‘Not really.’ I try to sound soothing. ‘You heard what she said before, didn’t you?’
‘What?’ Carol peers at me intently.
‘Well,’ I say, scrabbling frantically for something positive to say. ‘I’m pretty sure she said you ‘weren’t that bad’! I mean, that’s good, isn’t it? Plus, she said you used to be – er – ‘much nicer’ … ’ I tail off.
Carol gives me a contemptuous eye flick.
But her chin is wobbling.
And all the time, Bunty’s voice is booming in our ears. ‘I am not the PHEASANT PLUCKER, I’m the PHEASANT PLUCKER’S MATE! I am only PLUCKING PHEASANTS because the PHEASANT PLUCKER’S LATE!’
I glance at Carol, hoping this might cheer her up.
But she’s staring into space, looking utterly stricken.
Oh God, this is an absolute nightmare. We have to get out of here, for Carol’s sake, even if I have to drag her by the hair.
I mean, how absolutely humiliating for her, standing here listening to her character being completely trashed! Hearing the most awful truths about herself and never having realised that’s what people were actually thinking about her.
I can’t imagine what that must be like …
‘You know,’ calls Mum conversationally. ‘Try as I might, I’ve never managed to get to the bottom of why those two fell out.’
‘Won’t Bobbie tell you?’
‘I daren’t ask her.’ Mum sighs. ‘I love my daughter to bits. But I get so exasperated with her. She’s choc-full of hang-ups and fears. I have to tiptoe around her just in case I touch a nerve and open up a Pandora’s Box I can’t close again.’
‘Fears? What’s she frightened of?’ demands Bunty.
‘Oh, well,’ says Mum, crossing her arms and inadvertently talking into the microphone she’s still holding. ‘Fear of confronting Carol and asking for a pay rise. Fear of being penniless. Fear of applying for other jobs.’
My insides have gone icy cold.
‘Fear of actually getting another job.’
I really don’t want to hear this. But my feet seem to be nailed to the floor.
‘Fear of challenging her landlord on the state of that flat.’
Oh, well, she’s got a point there. But that’s only because—
‘Fear of her own creativity,’ she says, dipping closer to the microphone. ‘You know, she used to paint and do glass sculpture. Incredibly well. But now she’s shunted herself into a safe little backwater where she can just blend into the furniture.’
I feel sick. This isn’t me. I’m not a fearful sort of person. Am I?
Mum lowers her voice. ‘Fear of men.’
Okay, enough now.
But no, she’s practising throwing her voice again.
She stands in the centre and addresses the back row. ‘Fear. Of.’ Pause for dramatic effect. ‘Socialising.’
‘Really?’ says Bunty.
Mum nods. ‘She uses any excuse she can think of to turn down an invitation. I think—’ She stalls and looks down at her feet. ‘I think she’s afraid of falling in love.’
‘Good grief!’ barks Bunty. ‘She’d better get a move on if she wants to breed!’
There’s a brief silence. Then softly, so I can barely hear her, Mum says, ‘I honestly doubt she’ll ever find a nice man and settle down. She puts up far too many barriers.’ She pauses. ‘He’d have to be a Chieftain tank.’
‘Plus, of course, she dresses like a bloody nun!’
‘I know, I know. But what can I do? She’s far too young to give up on life and I can’t bear to think of her wasting the years. But she’d be so hurt if I ever said anything.’
Bunty snorts. ‘A short, sharp shock might be just the job. Bring her to her senses.’
‘Well, maybe.’ Mum sighs. ‘But do you see? Everyone says Carol’s an ogre. And I agree, she’s a complete witch at times. But Bobbie doesn’t exactly help herself, does she?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, she just takes the flak and never stands up for herself.’
Mum sounds utterly defeated and tears prick my eyelids.
‘She puts every last ounce of energy into saving money and getting Tim his op. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love her for that. But the sad thing is, I think she does it so she doesn’t have to think about her own life and how – I don’t know – how sad it’s become.’
‘Hmm.’ Bunty frowns and thinks hard. Then she raises the microphone to her lips like a gameshow host. ‘Sounds like that girl of yours could do with a large delivery of spunk from somewhere!’
Mum laughs nervously. ‘Well, yes … er, quite.’
‘Exasperating and excruciating!’ says Bunty. ‘Great words!’
She hands the mic to Mum. ‘Come on!’
‘What? Oh, right. Exasperating and excruciating,’ she mumbles.
‘No, no, no!’ remonstrates Bunty. ‘EXAS-PER-AT-ING and EXC-RUC-IA-TING!’
‘Exas-per-at-ing and exc-ruc-ia-ting! Exas-per-at-ing and exc-ruc-ia-ting! EXAS-PER-AT-ING and EXC-RUC-IA-TING!’
I feel as cold as ice. Big shapes like black snowflakes are floating across my vision.
‘I’m going,’ I mumble to Carol, and before she can stop me, I burst through the curtains and run down the steps at the side of the stage, not even looking at Mum or Bunty.
Escaping outside, I gasp in some enormous drafts of icy cold air. Then, before anyone can think of dashing out and apprehending me, I run for home, dodging astonished passers-by on the High Street, not caring how I must look in my Red Riding Hood costume with tears streaming down my face.
I don’t stop until I’ve reached the sanctuary of my flat and slammed the door shut behind me.