‘Okay let’s try it again, boys! Don’t pull that face, Marcus. It will all be worth it in the end because your mum will love you even more and probably spoil you even more if this goes according to plan!’ Veronica informed them from her wheelchair, her arms waving as if she were conducting an orchestra. ‘Right, so it’ll be you first, Marcus, because of that attitude of yours. Tell me what you’re going to do and then I’d like to see you do it.’
Marcus scowled and tutted like a child. He looked at his notes.
‘I put the clothes in the washing machine.’
‘Is that the first thing you do?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gran! I go get them from wherever we’ve put them and stick them in – no, I don’t! I go get them. Then I open the door by first releasing the catch to open said door and stuff ’em in! Then I get the powder or the tabs or um—’
‘Or?’
‘Or the liquid. We have powder, Gran.’
‘I think liquid is best, actually, but anyway, go on.’
‘Then I turn the dial to Intensive 60 if it’s all our jeans and things, or Quick 30 if it’s stuff that’s not so dirty. And you tell me that the LG we’ve got is easier to use than some of the other washing machines out there. Thank God for that!’
His grandmother nodded, trying to suppress a smile.
‘Very good, my boy. Right, now go find me some of your dirty washing. Troy, do you think there’s a better way of keeping your dirty laundry together or do you think dropping it all over the house is acceptable?’ she said, turning her attention to Troy.
‘Ha, ha, Gran. You and your trick questions.’
Marcus slouched off upstairs looking for dirty washing and finding some in every room; he came downstairs, his arms full. He stared at Troy, now positioned behind his grandmother, pulling a face at Marcus.
‘Piss off, Troy. Can’t wait to see how you fare, cooking breakfast next. God help us; that should be a real laugh!’
‘Yeah, well. If it wasn’t for the fact Gran’s giving us fifty quid each for getting this right I wouldn’t be doing it. But I s’pose it’d be useful knowing how to cook breakfast for some bird on a sleepover?’
‘Oi,’ Veronica said. ‘Language. I don’t like you disrespecting the female of the species. That’s the way your father carried on. But it won’t be the way you two carry on under my roof. Do you hear? Right, now, Marcus. Is all that washing going in together or do you think you should separate the whites from the colours first?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m sure you’ve seen your mother separating the clothes, so the dye from strong or dark colours doesn’t run or seep into the white or lighter clothes? No?’
‘Oh, you’re such a dorkbrain, Marcus. Even I know that!’
Veronica smiled to herself. So now they were even competing for bragging rights as to who could do better than the other.
Now we’re getting somewhere, she thought to herself.
***
Dora slammed the phone into its cradle, then jumped up to get a tumbler out of the cupboard. She liked the sound of alcohol glugging into her glass. She took a long swig. Ah, yes that felt much better, but boy, was she mad.
Nine phone calls in two days, just to get one simple answer. Someone was certainly giving her the runaround.
She returned to her list with a sigh and then crossed a few more names off the sheet. Frustration and aggravation etched her face. Nothing would shift that, she knew. Not even Botox. When would she get her answers? No wonder she needed quick fixes via alcohol, she thought, as she looked at the whisky in her hand. It wasn’t everyone’s tipple. She’d grown accustomed to it, after finding nothing else in the drinks cabinet one time. But it was a hard drink, scorching her throat every time she took a mouthful.
She was getting nowhere fast, doing this. But who the hell else could she call to help her? Or was there someone she could pull in a favour from? Unless— Ah, yes! Tony Gallagher. Well, why not? That might work. Her father used to trust him implicitly and it was one phone call she might just get a positive answer from.
But at least one other nagging problem had been solved at the Arts & Crafts Hotel. Richmond had finally been dismissed. He’d taken one sabbatical too many for her mother’s liking. Dora rang her brother to tell him their good news. Then Stuart had rung his mother to say he was pleased she’d finally done something about him. Dora had overheard them on the phone, as she downed her whisky.
‘Thanks, son,’ Yvonne had replied, sounding relieved at her own decision. ‘But I don’t find it easy firing people, as you well know. Your dad was best at that when he was alive. Anyway, our other news is that I think I might’ve found a buyer for the hotel. Yes, it’s all happening. Well, I rang Roger – oh, you know, Roger – who bought the Hen & Stags? No, he’s not buying it. Well, I knew he wouldn’t be interested, Stuart. It’s not his sort of thing at all. But he’s given me the number of a lady who I hope is. So that’s uplifting news. Oh and Philippa and I are going to try living together. I might just start packing some stuff off to her because I’ve already decided – Dora knows, before you ask – but I’ve already decided if the hotel doesn’t sell for some reason I’ll move out and put a manager in and sign it over to you. I’m too old for all the shenanigans now. And Dora wants out too. Yes, I think she’s going to look for a flat in the city centre and get a little part-time job somewhere. Could be the making of her. Anyway, I want to start putting my feet up and enjoying life. That’s what your dad always used to say, wasn’t it, and he was right. It’s time for that now. In fact, I think Philippa and I might go visit your dad’s sister Emily in Melbourne for a month. She’s always asking us to come and stay with her and we’ve never had the time nor the inclination before. So things are looking up, son. We’ll speak again soon. Love to the family. Bye for now, darling!’