Whiskey tango foxtrot, p.16
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, page 16
The gentle hum of guests attending the open evening, was accompanied by the clinking glasses of champagne and the occasional clatter of high heels on the wood block flooring in the reception area. Bob was desperately trying to remain professional, whilst feigning an air of indifference to the array of pop-up boards that advertised everything from liposuction to upper eye blepharoplasty and breast augmentation and reduction.
I executed a discreet but hefty dig in the ribs to bring him back to the task at hand. “So, what’s actually gone on Ms Brooks?” I gave her my full attention.
She bristled with indignation. “She knocked on the door, I said ‘come in’, which she did, then she just sat down and popped them out, virtually bouncing them on my desk, just like that! I told her she didn’t have an appointment, but she won’t leave.” She pointed to the door to our left. “She’s still in there with her breasts splayed out on my William Morris diary, it’s just appalling!”
Bob moved quicker than I’d seen him move in the last ten years. I hooked my fingers into the back of his utility belt and yanked him backwards, bringing him to a juddering halt. “Think this is one for me to deal with, don’t you?” I glared.
“But Mave, she could be violent… anything, I really do think you need me to come in with you!” he blustered.
“I’ll soon let you know, now you just keep Ms Brooks company and I’ll be back in a minute.” I quickly disappeared through the door marked Room 12 and came face to nipples with a pair of humongous boobs that were indeed cossetting what remained of August and most of September of the floral diary. A nice rose gold designer pen poked out from underneath.
“Oh, errr… I’m… oooops…” I stood rigid, trying not to stare, but failing miserably as the very pretty blonde stared back at me with a quizzical expression, her blue eyes sparkling.
Concentrate on the eyes Mavis, concentrate on the eyes….
“I think there seems to be some sort of misunderstanding Miss… errrr…”
She smiled, totally unabashed by the current presentation of her appendages. “Molby… it’s Mrs Molby but please call me Mandy, sounds so much friendlier don’t you think?”
Mmmmm, yep, I did think… but considering what was draped across the twin pedestal mahogany desk and ink blotter, I wasn’t too sure as to how friendly I actually wanted to be just at this particular juncture.
“I’ve got an appointment. I saw the Surgeon down the corridor about my eyes and then I came in here to see about these...” she jiggled and animatedly pointed to her chest as though I needed help in locating them, which was hardly likely as they were almost poking me in the eye.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Well, the lady outside, a Ms Brooks, states quite the opposite, she is adamant that you don’t have an appointment with her.” I waited for Mrs Molby’s response.
She dragged her ample boobs from the desk and swung them over the side of the chair, bending down to delve into her handbag. After rummaging around for a few seconds, she pulled out a sheet of paper with a flourish. Carefully unfolding it she spread it out on the desk whilst pulling the edges of her blouse together to finally cover herself up. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Here you go, proof of my appointment, 6.45 pm Mammoplasty….” She jabbed in defiance at the sheet of paper. “…if you get that woman in here I can show her.”
“So, as you can see Mrs Molby does actually have an appointment for a Mammoplasty consultation.” I handed over the appointment letter and waited. Mrs Molby remained seated, a look of delight spread across her face as she watched Trudi Brooks digest the typewritten information.
“Well, shall I get them out again then, don’t you have to mark them up with felt pen or something before you give me a price?” Mandy started unbuttoning her blouse just as a pair of eyes, that without a shadow of doubt belonged to Bob, appeared over the modesty screen in front of the door. I gritted my teeth and hissed in his direction. Quickly taking the hint, he disappeared.
Trudi, aghast, expertly held up her hand to stop her from disrobing any further.
“Please, I really don’t need to see them again...” she gasped, “… you might very well have an appointment Mrs Molby, but it certainly isn’t with me!” She sniffed the air and purposely retrieved her William Morris diary whilst checking it for anything untoward. “I am the clinic’s financial advisor not a doctor, this is my office, not a consultation room. The last time I saw a pair of bare breasts that weren’t my own was on a holiday in Ibiza in 1978 and if you spread your creased letter out….” she deftly handed it back to Mrs Molby and waited.
Mandy sat rigid, her lips mouthing the words as she read them, a pink glow spreading across her cheeks. “Well, roger me sideways, it’s a 7 not a 2 isn’t it? That explains it all, I should have been in Room 17, shouldn’t I?”
Trudi stood up from her desk, a look of unadulterated glee on her face. “Exactly, I rest my case.”
There was a palpable silence that enveloped the whole room. As the seconds ticked by, Mandy shrugged her shoulders, screwed up the letter and shoved it into her handbag. “Don’t suppose now you’ve seen them in all their glory, you still fancy giving me a quote then?” she grinned.
Trudi rolled her eyes. “Madam, I don’t think two years forking out in instalments would pay for those to be brought successfully under control, do you?”
Mandy edged past Bob who was dithering in the doorway, pausing momentarily as she fastened her top button, she purred. “Lady, if being in control made me as anal retentive as you, then all I can say is … let them swing and hit me kneecaps, darlin’!”
With a flick of her beautiful blonde hair, she was gone, leaving Ms Brooks somewhat deflated and Bob gurning with bitter disappointment.
38
Potato, Potahto…
“Thank you for coming to visit me, I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but I haven’t got a bloody clue who you are...”
Dad turned and shuffled away from the front door and bent down to pat Alfie on the head. Alfie took the opportunity to roll over in excited expectation of a belly-rub. “… if you want to hang on for a bit, Mavis will be here, you can talk to her if you want. She’s a feckin’ nuisance, always interfering, her cooking’s shite too but she sometimes brings biscuits with her, chocolate ones at that.”
I threw my jacket on the back of the sofa, Alfie’s moment of loyalty to Dad gone as he jumped up resting his front paws on my legs. I gave him a vigorous rub behind the ears.
“It’s me, Dad.”
“Who?”
“Mavis. I am Mavis!” exasperated, I checked my reflection in the 1940’s mirror just to make sure I hadn’t changed too dramatically since I’d cleaned my teeth and brushed my hair that morning.
He grumbled and sucked the top set of his false teeth making them momentarily push out and drop. His hand reached up to grab them. Inspecting the shiny pink plastic gums and regimented pegs, he wiped them on his cardigan and quickly pushed them back into place as he peered at me over his glasses. “Jesus Mavis, you look like crap, long paper round, was it?” Clicking the kettle on, he chuckled to himself.
“Thanks, you sure know how to make a girl feel good.” I dropped a couple of apples into his fruit bowl and put the fresh milk and margarine into the fridge. “Eeeew, bloody hell, what on earth is this?” I held up a mouldy, shrivelled carrot that had welded itself to the bottom shelf.
Kicking hard on the pedal of the nearby bin, I made an over- exaggerated action of dropping it in. “You’ve really got to be careful, you could make yourself sick Dad. You can’t just carry on keeping old food ‘just in case’. You’ve got a home, regular food shops, me looking after you, you don’t need to hoard stuff. Why are you still doing it?”
He stood in open defiance, hands on his hips. Looking at how baggy his trousers had become and noticing the tomato ketchup stain on his shirt, gave me a sudden pang of sadness. He glared at me, stared fondly at the carrot in the bin and then returned his gaze to me.
“You just don’t know when your next meal’s coming, being on the streets Mave my girl, gotta make sure you’ve got something to get your gnasher’s around when the guts grumble.”
Letting the bin lid drop, I ran my hands under the tap. “You’re not on the streets, you’re here in your own home, with Alfie. You’re never going to be on the streets again okay? It’s just not going to happen, I’ll….”
My encouraging attempts to reassure him were cut short by his finger wagging at me, almost poking my eye out. I flinched.
“Okay Mavis, but let’s just play Devil’s avocado for a minute…”
“Advocate, the word’s advocate…”
“No, it isn’t, it’s avocado, I should know I used to drink it all the time on board ship!”
“That’s Advocaat Dad…” I tried not to giggle, fearful of upsetting him.
As he droned on and on, the realisation hit me that although mum had gone…. she’d clearly left Dad to carry on tormenting me with one liners and malapropisms.
Maybe they had been much better suited in those early days than I had originally thought.
Maggie clattered the pots and pans into the sink as the steam from the tea urn sent out clouds of moisture. It hit the glossy painted magnolia wall, and dribbled down, pooling on the countertop. The station canteen was pretty much full, almost all the tables occupied. A visiting crew from Copperas Hill nick, in our area for a warrant, had commandeered the first two tables in the corner.
“Bacon bap, beans on toast and a full English….” the serving hatch became a clutter of plates as Maggie shoved them onto trays like a conveyor belt. “… one scrambled, two fried and if you don’t get ‘em in five, they’re going in the bin!”
Degsy grabbed the bacon bap, closely followed by Bob with his full English. Petey followed up on the rear tentatively taking the scrambled egg on toast.
“Budge along Brainless, make room for the old arses.” Bob positioned himself in the seat nearest the window as Petey juggled his plate, his toast making a daring appearance over the edge before teetering and dropping onto the table taking dollops of rubbery scrambled egg with it.
“Full English! Bloody hell Maggie, don’t think this lot’s seen North Wales let alone feckin’ England.” Bob stabbed at the plump sausage with his fork, it slipped and caught the side of the skin, sending it skitting from his plate across the table, where it came abruptly to a halt next to Don’s sleeve. Don picked it up, inspected it and before Bob could reclaim it, he shoved it into his mouth.
“You twa….”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, I think we should curb our language in front of our lovely Mavis, don’t you?”
Clifford’s slimy voice cut through the banter, bringing the high jinks to a grinding halt. Not one of us had heard him enter the canteen, let alone slither his way to our table. My stomach lurched as the first beads of perspiration began to form in the small of my back.
Petey, sensing my unease, suddenly and unexpectedly jumped up from his seat, using himself as a barrier between Clifford and me, he wedged his thigh against the table and jutted his jaw out as if to say, ‘try me’.
Clifford strained his head around Petey, his neck elongating out from his shirt collar like a wrinkled tortoise from its shell. “When you get a minute Mavis, perhaps you’d like to discuss your potential for promotion…” flicking an imaginary speck from his epaulet with his carefully manicured fingers, he tilted his head waiting for a response. “Sergeants’ exams are coming up soon, something you should really consider, I’m always happy to help with extra tuition if needed,” he leered.
The silence that had enveloped our table was interrupted by Bob choking on the mouthful of bacon he hadn’t had chance to swallow before Clifford made his offer. As the chewed-up bits of Maggie’s Piggy’s Porker Rasher sprayed from his mouth, they hit their target, giving Clifford something real to frantically wipe from the front of his shirt. He flicked a large dollop from his sleeve, curling his lip in disgust as it slapped onto the table in front of Don. Don, using his thumb and middle finger, purposely flicked it along the grey melamine table towards Degsy, who deftly intercepted and flicked it back. I watched as it skittered between the salt and pepper pot and disappeared over the edge of the table.
“Goal!” Degsy clenched his fists and punched his arms up in triumph. I was half expecting him to do a lap of honour around the canteen which made me snigger, but I stopped abruptly when I saw the look on Clifford’s face.
“I’m a little disappointed in you, Mavis.” Leaning towards me, his eyes narrowed. “Thought you were better than canteen banter and silly games!” His fingers caressed the back of the chair in front of him, his hot sickly breath touching my cheek. I watched his knuckles lose colour as he squeezed his fingers down on the blue plastic. I shuddered.
“Don’t disappoint me again Constable Upton, I really don’t like being disappointed...” He deftly turned and silently skulked out of the canteen.
As the brown double doors slowly swung shut, the ensuing stillness was broken only by the faint tapping of Clifford’s metal heeled shoes as he disappeared along the corridor towards his broom cupboard.
…I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo…
39
Mother Of The Year
I passed another tissue over to Ella. She snatched it from me pausing long enough to say, “Oh Mum, why?” for the umpteenth time in the past hour before dissolving into tears again. It had been like this for the last six months, and with no sign of a reconciliation with Luke in sight, I didn’t think it was going to get any better. She would have dreadful lows, like this one, followed by a desperate attempt to bring normality back to her life, but she hadn’t, or more to the point wouldn’t, move on. I hugged her closer, noticing the hole in one sock and the dried-up cornflakes on her Betty Boop pyjama bottoms.
“I don’t know sweetheart; these things just happen …” I swept a section of wet hair from her face revealing a pair of very puffy red eyes. “…. sometimes it’s for the best.” I soothed. She nuzzled back down onto my chest as another sob caught in her throat.
I tried again.
“Hey, just look on the bright side, it’ll be cheaper at Christmas, one less pressie to buy!” I pulled my funny face, the one that always stopped the tears when she was little, a mixture of Quasimodo and Marty Feldman. No giggles were forthcoming
Oh dear. Why on earth do I always feel the need to do that?
Locker room humour never transposes well to domestic life.
Ella slowly lifted her head, her tangled hair falling across her face with just one red puffy eye peering out this time. She was doing a pretty good impression of Carrie; I was half expecting the door to bang shut, flames to roar from the fireplace and the windows to rattle in their frames.
“How could you Mum, how could you? My heart is broken and you think it’s funny,” she wailed.
My mind desperately raced to find the right answer, to salvage the moment. “No, of course I don’t think it’s funny, I just thought I could make you smile.” I looked at her expectantly, “Just a teeny-weeny bit.” I held my thumb and forefinger a millimetre apart. Not even a quiver of a smile graced her lips. I held my breath as she flounced out of the room waving her arms in a fit of pique, her toe making a desperate attempt to escape through the ever-widening hole in her sock, which unfortunately made me want to laugh even more.
Nice one Mavis – Mother of the Year - not!
“Here you go, tea, no sugar, Sarge.” I pushed the mug across the table towards Beryl, momentarily horrified when the 1950’s Marilyn Monroe look-alike on the side suddenly lost her black evening dress as the heat penetrated the white ceramic, revealing a set of very skimpy undies.
“Remind me to have words with Degsy at scoff break…” she took a small sip from the side that didn’t have ‘Marilyn’ exposed “…. think it’s about time we laid down a few ground rules without knocking their sense of humour, don’t you?” she smirked.
I nodded, distracted with Ella’s woes, not sure if I had the heart to encompass a full-on conversation on sexist behaviour and inappropriate jokes from the lads. I’d hardly slept the night before. Dad’s increasingly erratic behaviour was a worry on its own, let alone Ella’s abject misery at missing Luke and the added pressure with the lack of progress on the investigation into the Dodgy Doughnutter just compounded my feelings. It was almost four years on and we were no further along in identifying him and although spasmodic, going months without offending, he was still active and the file still had my name on it.
“Are you okay Mavis? You know you can always talk to me in confidence, I’d like to think we’re a little more than just colleagues.” I gave her what I thought was the best smile I could muster under the circumstances. “Dad’s not good and poor Ella is still beside herself over Luke, and this flasher job is frustrating the hell out of me.” I ran my fingers through my fringe, pushing it away from my eyes. “I mean, how can he still be at large after all this time? It’s like he’s one step ahead of us, each time we put something together he either goes quiet and stops committing or moves to another location, it’s just … well, it’s shit, isn’t it? I can’t give any of the victims a result, it’s a big fat failure so far!”
Beryl shoved an open packet of digestives towards me, jiggling them to entice me. “You take things far too much to heart Mavis. We do the best we can with what we’ve got, you can’t always be the rescuing angel, the one giving them the good news, it doesn’t work like that and deep down you know it.” She fished around in the top drawer of her desk, carefully placing the box of Kleenex tissues in front of me as my eyes began to brim with tears. “It’s not a failure, it’s an ongoing investigation and if the public are reluctant, or just simply can’t give us the evidence we need, we just have to pull up our big girl combats and keep working on it.”
