Page 51 of The Tapes
The boy fingers the Bakewell, which feels like a good number one pick. His mum catches my eye with a gentle upturn of the lips. ‘Timothy,’ she says, answering my unasked question.
Their twins are called Timothy and Thomas, but I once joked to Faith they were Timothy and Tomothy – and now I can’t think of them in any other way. I certainly can’t tell them apart.
‘Where’s Thomas?’ I ask, just about getting the name right.
‘He had a bit of tummy trouble, so Peter’s gone to drop him at my mum’s.’ Bridget checks her phone then frowns. ‘I thought he’d be back by now.’
Timothy takes a nervous bite of the French Fancy but we all know he’s not giving up the other two cakes without a fight. Bridget catches his eye but is immune to his charms. She snatches the Battenberg and Viennese whirl from the plate and holds them in her hand.
‘We’re putting these back,’ she says.
‘I’ve licked them.’
‘Fine. I’ll eat them.’
Bridget gives me awhat-can-you-dolook as my nephew grins at the pair of us. Before I can ask what my brother brought home from Dad’s house, someone else Bridget knows steps between us. They do an air kiss.
‘Tell Faith I thought her reading was brilliant,’ Bridget adds, before saying her goodbyes, and moving to a different corner. Timothy waits until his mum is out of sight, then makes a beeline for the cakes. He snatches a mini roll, scoffs it in one, then gets down a pair of Jaffa Cakes in record time.
He flashes me a grin and then trots back to his mother.
I do the rounds again.
Oh, are you leaving?Great to see you.Yes, I do remember the time I played Lego on the floor of your living room when I was about five. No, I don’t know someone named Alan. Yes, it’s a great spread. Yes, it was a lovely service. Yes, it’s a shame. Yes, we’ll have to catch up soon. No, I don’t have your number.
And on.
As the food diminishes, people finally begin to drift away. The room thins and it’s only really the egg sandwiches that are left. Anything with meat or cheese has long since gone, not to mention the cakes. Dad would be proud of his friends: the greedy sods.
I’m back at the tea urn, cup number six, when I realise a woman is sitting in one of the uncomfortable school-style chairs watching me. I expect her to look away as we make eye contact but, instead: ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
She’s probably late-fifties, though it’s difficult to know. Anyone older than me is decrepit, anyone younger should be banned.
‘Lorna,’ she says, standing and moving across to me. Her breath is cheap Fosters. We shake hands, though I have no idea who she is. Lorna knows it.
‘I used to know your dad in the old days,’ she says. ‘Think I might’ve babysat you a couple of times, actually.’
Clouds swirl. ‘You had a girlfriend,’ I say – and she laughs.
‘She’s my wife now – but yes.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
The grin widens. ‘I get it, hun. Not many out lesbians back then.’
It’s odd that this is why I know her. I remember her babysitting when I was six or seven, and Mum explaining that she had a girlfriend. Anything other than a man and woman baffled my young mind, even as Mum explained that sometimes women loved women and so on.
Different times.
‘I really am sorry,’ I say – but Lorna waves it away, holding up her hands to indicate the club. ‘Believe it or not, this was a safe space for me and my partner. I’d come after work most days – which is where I met your dad. I ended up doing shifts behind the bar.’ She pauses a moment, then shrugs. ‘I guess it gets us all in the end.’
I assume she’s talking about death, though she seems a bit young for that. We’re already at the dying stage of small-talk and there’s a second of awkward silence before she asks what I do. Before I can answer, she quickly adds: ‘Don’t you work for Mark Dixon?’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘Your dad. I’m not here anywhere near as often as I used to be – and neither was he – but we ran into each other now and then. He’d always talk about you.’
‘Would he?’
