Five French Hens. Judy Leigh
They had arrived at Pam’s front door, a little terraced cottage in the middle of the street. Tess had two more streets to cross then she’d be home. They hugged, feeling the warmth of the other’s cheeks, then Pam said, ‘I’ll ring you. We’ll sort out a great night to celebrate Jen’s engagement.’
Tess nodded, pushing her hands deep into her coat pockets, her voice trailing back to Pam as she strolled away. ‘I think we could use one. It might cheer us all up a bit.’
Della was peeling plantains. Sylvester’s favourite. He had such a sweet tooth. He’d be home soon from the snack van on the seafront, which he managed most days at lunchtime and sometimes into the evening. Oil was sizzling in the pan. She was thinking about marriage. She and Sylvester had married in a tiny church in Stepney, forty-nine years ago. She’d worn a lacy gown she’d made herself. Sylvester was all done up in a second-hand suit and his pork-pie hat. He’d looked so handsome. She diced the plantains, throwing the pieces into the oil, listening to the fizz.
Linval had been born less than a year later; Aston one year after that. They’d never had much money as a family. Sylvester had worked hard, two jobs sometimes, but they’d been happy. Throughout their marriage, laughter had kept them entwined. They’d talked together, tucked up in bed on cold nights, about going back to live in Jamaica. Sylvester had left St Ann’s Bay at sixteen. Della had arrived in the UK earlier, as an eight year old, her parents leading her by the hand from the boat onto the bleak windy quay. She’d never known such bitter cold weather and she’d never got used to it.
But their love had kept her warm, Sylvester’s embrace, his cheerful smile, his kisses. She didn’t want for much else. She put a hand to the ache in her lower back. The oil spat and hissed in the pan as she flipped the golden plantains over. She hoped Jen and her Eddie would be as happy as she was.
Rose sat at the piano and stretched out her hands. Bertie Small would be here in ten minutes for his lesson. He was quite good, a chirpy ten year old, but Rose suspected that his mother was keen for him to progress at a faster rate. Apparently, Bertie’s grandfather had been a good pianist. Rose wriggled her fingers. She had neat hands – they could fly across the keys nimbly. She was glad she’d never inherited the arthritis her poor mother had to endure, fingers twisted into brittle claws at sixty-five. Rose was seventy-five and, despite or perhaps because of the constant use, her fingers were as deft as ever. She began to play, Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto No 1. She loved the way the notes filled the room with resonating sadness. It was somehow pure, soothing, as if the rest of the world could understand and share her melancholy.
Rose smiled sadly, regret curving her lips, as she watched her fingers move lightly, the fluttering left hand, the finger with the gold wedding band. She missed Bernard terribly but, more than that, she hated the cold ache that filled her body when she was alone in empty spaces and silent rooms. She hoped Jen would be happy with Eddie, but she, Rose, was feeling more alone than ever, unwanted, dowdy, someone who would spend solitary days playing beautiful music for herself until her last hour. She felt a single tear roll down her cheek.
Her fingers thrummed on the keys, more and more heavily until she was making the notes reverberate. Suddenly, the melody lifted into the air and the room was filled with energy, with powerful music and a new strength and direction. A thought popped into Rose’s head: things only became stronger if you made more effort. Perhaps her life should be about making more noise and demanding to be heard. Her jaw clenched; she pressed down firmly on the keys and felt the music soar and it lifted her spirits. Perhaps it was time for a change.
4
It was almost eight o’clock. It was dark outside and a wind was buffeting a branch against the panes. The taxi would be here soon. Jen squinted in the mirror, fidgeted with her hair and glanced at the clock again. She wondered what everyone else would be wearing and whether the pretty blue dress she’d chosen would be too formal. Pam would be in jeans; Della would look glorious whatever she was wearing and Rose would have picked something sombre, preferring plain colours.
Jen couldn’t guess what Tess would wear: for a woman whose marriage was so dull, she always seemed full of surprises and was guaranteed to be colourful and bubbly. She’d probably wear something stunning. Jen wanted to shine tonight, as bright as the three diamonds on her finger. It was only going to be a simple meal in a restaurant, cocktails first in some trendy bar, but the girls had organised it for her to celebrate her engagement. They were becoming closer as friends – this was their first real night out together, if she didn’t count the drink in the Olive Grove on Christmas Eve, and she wanted it to go well. It was as if a good girls’ night out would lead to a good engagement between her and Eddie, a great wedding and then a successful marriage. She had to admit she felt nervous. The doorbell rang. Jen grabbed her handbag and plastered a smile on her face. No pressure, then.
Pam, Tess and Della were already in the taxi, which was filled with the heady aroma of too much perfume. Jen took her seat next to Della and fastened the safety belt. The taxi driver mumbled something about going to Jubilee Road next then they’d head for Exeter. The women paid little attention to him, the back of his head a dark silhouette of bristly hair. Tess was already outlining the cocktails available at the Havana Bar from the menu on her phone. She cackled. ‘I don’t care what’s in it – I’m definitely up for a Drunken Sailor or two tonight.’
Della chortled. ‘Dances with Wenches… I wonder what that is…’
‘I’m going to have a couple of Cement Mixers.’ Pam waved her hands to show how the alcoholic drink might be whirled around in the glass. The taxi slowed down to a stop and the door was pulled open. An anxious looking Rose climbed in, wearing a heavy coat.
Tess waved the phone and called out, ‘Hello, Rose. We’re just contemplating our orders for the night. How do you fancy a Screaming Orgasm or two?’
Rose’s face froze in horror. Pam helped her to her seat and patted her hand. ‘It’s Irish cream, vodka and amaretto. A really sweet cocktail. I might have to try one.’
Tess burst into peals of laughter. ‘It’s going to be a fabulous night, girls. And it’s all down to Jen, our awesome bride-to-be. Congratulations to Jen and Eddie.’
Five voices whooped and screamed. There was a round of applause and someone started singing Queen’s ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’, almost in tune. The taxi driver, a man in his forties with designer stubble, glanced in his rear view mirror at five women in their seventies, mostly dressed to the nines, hooting with laughter, and he shook his head and glanced back to the road.
The Havana wasn’t full; there were one or two couples at tables and a group of several young people who were possibly students in the corner, but the place seemed quiet. Pam led the way to the bar and grinned at the barman, a tall young man whose name badge proclaimed that he was called Sam. ‘We’re celebrating tonight, Sam.’ Pam rummaged in her purse and handed over a twenty pound note and a ten. ‘Will that get us five cocktails?’
Sam seemed a little perplexed. ‘It’s happy hour until nine. So, if you order two each, buy one get one free, that’s twenty-five pounds.’
‘Righto.’ Pam flourished the notes. ‘Five Drunken Sailors and five Dances with Wenches, please.’
Tess screwed up her face. ‘And six Screaming Orgasms…’
‘Six?’ Jen shook her head. ‘There are five of us.’
Tess giggled. ‘Happy hour – three plus three free ones – if no one can drink the spare one, I’ll have it.’
Pam shook her head. ‘I think we should just stick with two each, Tess – we’ll need some space left for a glass of wine over at the restaurant.’
‘You