The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!. Fiona Gibson

       Chapter Five

       Salami Coasters

      In fact it does, next day, in the Hare and Hounds’ sun-dappled beer garden. I’ve been festooned with gifts from my three favourite friends and I’m feeling extremely treated. ‘So what did Morgan give you?’ Ellie wants to know.

      ‘Nothing yet,’ I say, ‘but he’s out shopping in York with Jenna so he’s probably choosing me something.’ I pause. ‘I mean, I don’t expect much. He’s not earning at the moment—’

      ‘At the moment,’ Kim adds with an eye roll.

      ‘I know, it’s ridiculous really. He needs to find something so he can think about getting his own place, especially now Jenna’s virtually living with us …’

      ‘Still picking up her pants?’ Cheryl asks with a wry smile.

      ‘Well, sort of subtly kicking them to one side.’

      Kim grins, tucking her sharp auburn bob behind her ears. ‘You don’t actually want him to move out, do you? You’ll be clutching at his ankles, pleading with him to stay …’

      ‘No I won’t,’ I exclaim. ‘I’ll be back in my old room, playing the music he hates, guzzling champagne …’

      ‘Nah, you’ll never get rid of him,’ she sniggers. ‘The years’ll scoot by and before you know it, you’ll be like an old married couple …’

      ‘Jesus.’ I shudder and gulp my prosecco.

      ‘… going on day trips to Scarborough,’ she continues, clearly warming to her theme, ‘with little greaseproof-wrapped packets of cheese sandwiches and saying “we” all the time, like, “We might try Bridlington next summer …”’

      ‘Stop it!’ I’m aware of a niggle of unease as we all peal with laughter. While Cheryl and Ellie are friends from the school gate years, Kim and I go way back to secondary school. We were united in being shunned by the bright, shiny netball team pickers who excelled at everything. I’ve seen her slogging away at dead-end jobs until she kick-started her make-up artistry business and bought a natty little mint green Fiat 500 and had Bridal Make-up by Kim painted on the side. She now leads a whizzy single, child-free life with a gorgeous flat (two roof terraces) and more holidays than I can keep tabs on.

      Cheryl sips her drink. ‘For God’s sake, Kim. He’s only eighteen. Still a kid really. There’s so much pressure these days to have your whole future sorted, some grand career plan all mapped out …’

      ‘Like you, Aud,’ Ellie points out. ‘I mean, being a dinner lady wasn’t what you planned to do, but look at you now! You’re the best one in Britain …’

      ‘… by some kind of fluke …’ I cut in.

      ‘So what did Morgan think of you winning?’ Cheryl asks.

      ‘Um, he seemed pleased. I mean, he glanced up from his phone for about a second, although that might’ve just been a tic.’ I shrug. In fact, I had expected a slightly more enthusiastic response and sloped off, dejected, like a scolded puppy. How pathetic, I mused, to expect rapturous applause – or even a ‘well done, Mum’ – from a teenage boy. ‘It’s no big deal,’ I add. ‘All it means is that I’m good at being pleasant to five-year-olds …’

      ‘Stop putting yourself down,’ Kim scolds me. ‘You always do this, you’ve got to stop—’

      ‘Oh, imagine the kids writing those lovely things about you,’ Ellie exclaims. ‘You were made to work with children, it’s obvious …’

      ‘Maybe,’ I say, heading into the pub to buy a round, despite their protests that I mustn’t, and that today’s their treat. In fact, I did have a plan, as a little girl. At nine years old, just after Mum had left us, I got the chance to borrow a clarinet from school. By some mistake or mix-up – or, I suspect now, an act of kindness on the part of Mrs Sherridan, the music teacher – no one ever asked for it back. I took to it easily and played in my bedroom with the door firmly shut, so I wouldn’t be distracted by Dad bashing around in the kitchen.

      At first, playing those rudimentary pieces was just an avoidance tactic, in the way that I start busily tidying when Mrs B waggles the crossword at me. Back then, it was maths I was keen to avoid, as Dad – appalled by my shoddy numerical skills – had appointed himself as my unofficial tutor. ‘We’re doing some long division,’ he’d announce. We’d sit together at the kitchen table, with the numbers making no sense and Dad’s irritation rising because anyone can do this, what’s wrong with you, Audrey? What are you going to do with your life if you can’t even manage a simple sum? I’d be trapped there for an hour at least. It felt like months, as if the seasons were changing, the trees shedding their leaves and sprouting new ones as Dad scribbled angry numbers in a raggedy exercise book. While Mum had never been terribly involved with me, her presence had softened the atmosphere somewhat. She’d been kind enough in her own way, when she was still with us, showing a vague interest in my homework assignments and occasionally plaiting my hair. But after she left there was no softening. In fact, Dad’s moods grew darker, my very presence seeming to irritate him, as if the Brian Bazalgette thing had been all my fault. ‘I need to do some music practice now,’ I’d announce, once the whisky bottle had joined the jotter and angrily crumpled A4 paper on the kitchen table. ‘School concert’s coming up and we’re doing a full rehearsal tomorrow …’ As I lost myself in the music I’d stop wondering what Mum was doing, and whether Dad had poured another whisky, and whether I’d ever be a normal girl who could invite friends round after school, as everyone else seemed to do.

      I started secondary school and was pinged straight into remedial maths. By now, Dad had given up on me, and himself, or so it seemed: while he’d once worked as a carpenter he rarely left the house these days. Mum’s letters had dwindled to one every few months, and in my replies I was careful to stress that everything was fine at home, that I was happy and doing well at school. I’d passed grade 6 with distinction on my clarinet – Mum sent a rather wonkily drawn congratulations card which I treasured for years – and spent every spare moment playing. See, Dad, I can concentrate. Give me a piece of sheet music that’s so crammed with notes it looks like a swarm of ants dancing all over it and I’m fine.

      Better than fine, in fact. While practising really hard pieces I’d stop hearing him stomping about downstairs.