Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson

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      ‘It’s looking a bit peaky,’ Ethel informed her cheerily, ‘and no wonder – it’s bone dry!’

      ‘It’s artificial,’ Harri began, but Mrs Bincham was having none of it.

      ‘No, it’s an aspidistra, Harriet,’ she corrected, tutting loudly. ‘You youngsters don’t know anything about plants these days.’

      Harri gave up and retreated to her desk. She switched her computer on and began to leaf through the morning post, most of which seemed to consist of stationery catalogues nobody could remember requesting and offers of business loans from banks she’d never heard of. As she worked, she was aware of Mrs Bincham surveying her carefully, although exactly how much Ethel could see was anyone’s guess.

      Harri picked up a pile of new brochures and walked over to the display units, wistfully gazing at each cover as she restocked the shelves: azure harbours with dazzling white yachts and jade-green waves lapping against white sand beaches, as smug couples stalked possessively along the shore. A sharp razorcut of longing sliced through Harri’s heart at their blissful expressions. If only she could step into the pictures and leave everything far behind . . .

      ‘Thought you might need this,’ Ethel’s raspy voice said right by her ear, bringing her sharply back to reality. Harri jumped and almost knocked the mug of super-strong tea from Mrs Bincham’s hands as she did so.

      ‘Oh! I’m sorry, Mrs B, I was miles away.’

      ‘I could see that,’ Ethel replied as Harri accepted the mug. ‘Where was it this time, eh?’

      Harri looked sheepish. ‘Grenada.’

      ‘Don’t they do Coronation Street?’ Ethel asked.

      Harri stifled a giggle. ‘Um, no, that’s—’

      ‘No matter,’ Ethel cut in, rummaging in her tartan shopping trolley and producing a large off-white Tupperware box that looked at least a hundred years old. ‘I’ve been baking again.’

      ‘Oh . . . you really shouldn’t have . . .’

      ‘Tsk, nonsense, I love it! My Geoff says I missed my calling in life – should have been a baker, he reckons. Mind you, he also used to fancy Margaret Thatcher, so what does that tell you? Now, clap your chops round one of these.’

      Harri peered dubiously into the fusty plastic-scented depths of the box and selected an overly browned, crunchy square of something. ‘Thanks,’ she replied, hoping she sounded convincing.

      Ethel’s face was a picture of gleeful anticipation. ‘Well, go on then,’ she urged.

      Harri took a bite. ‘It’s – um – different,’ she ventured, uncertain whether the odd concoction of tastes was pleasant or not. ‘What is it?’

      Ethel’s wrinkled cheeks flushed with pride and she patted her recently set blue-rinsed curls. ‘My own recipe,’ she grinned. ‘I love Bakewell tart, see, and my Geoff’s partial to Chocolate Crispy cakes – big kid that he is – so, I thought, why not combine the two? Proper bostin’ stuff, that.’

      Harri swallowed and reached for her tea. ‘So this is . . . ?’

      ‘Chocolate Crispy Bakewells!’ Ethel proudly announced. ‘Remarkable, eh?’

      Harri couldn’t argue with that. ‘Absolutely.’

      ‘Ta.’ Ethel’s smile morphed into solemnity. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what’s up?’

      ‘I’m fine, Mrs B, just a bit tired, that’s all.’

      Ethel’s eyes may have been lacking in physical performance but her perception was as sharp as ever. ‘Don’t give me that, Harriet. “Just tired” my backside. I know a troubled soul when I see one.’ She parked her ample behind on the edge of Harri’s desk and motioned for her to sit down. ‘Now, why don’t you just tell your Auntie Eth all about it, eh?’

      In truth, Harri didn’t quite know what to say. She was tired: her whole body ached from only an hour’s sleep the night before and her eye sockets felt as if she’d been punched repeatedly in the face by a crazed boxer. Added to which, telltale shivers in her bones were heralding the unwanted onslaught of a cold following her late-night soaking by the postbox.

      All night long she had wrangled with her thoughts, her mind abuzz with worry upon worry as she cursed her spontaneity, finally succumbing to sleep curled up on her sofa under a travel rug (which, like its owner, had never actually travelled much further than her armchair).

      Harri wasn’t sure Mrs Bincham would understand (after all, this was the woman who thought an aphrodisiac was a flower, and the giant Egyptian statues in the Valley of the Kings were known as sphincters), but she found herself trying to explain it all anyway. Ethel listened calmly, nodding sagely every now and again as she munched a square of Chocolate Crispy Bakewell, her dentures clicking rhythmically as Harri recounted the events of the past few weeks.

      ‘I don’t know, Mrs B. Part of me still believes this could work for Alex, but since I actually posted the letter I can’t shake the thought of what might happen if it doesn’t. There’s nothing I can do about it either way now: I just have to get on with it, I suppose.’

      ‘I completely get you, chick. It’s very simple, really: you’ve got the Big F at work here.’

      Given her current sleep-deprived mind, Harri blocked out the many possibilities appearing before her and asked the obvious question. ‘The Big F?’

      Mrs Bincham peered carefully over her right and left shoulders as if checking for unwanted spies. ‘Fate, Harriet. You’ve trusted the situation to fate so’s you’re no longer in control. It’s only natural you should be a bit jumpy while you’re waiting to see what’s in store for you. I mean, anything could happen next – good or bad.’

      ‘You think so?’

      ‘I know so, chick. I’ve a feeling about this. My mother always said I was psycho, you know. Swore it blind till the day she popped off. “Your gran was a psycho, your Auntie Lav was a psycho and now the Gift’s passed to you, our Eth,” she used to say to me.’

      ‘Don’t you mean “psychic” . . . ?’

      ‘Now, I’ve never held much with all that mumbo-jumbo rubbish, to tell the truth. But every now and again I get my feeling and I have to say, stuff happens, like.’

      Although Mrs Bincham was smiling, Harri didn’t exactly feel reassured. ‘So what do I do now?’

      Mrs Bincham’s grin broadened. ‘Nothing you can do, our kid. Just got to sit it out, I s’pose. So you have another bit of Chocolate Crispy Bakewell while you’re waiting and I’m sure that’ll take your mind off it, eh?’

      Harri surrendered to the inevitable and reached into the Tupperware box.

      She should have been used to the Big F by now – although she had never really thought about it in that way before. She had become accustomed to the strange mix of joys and sorrows that twisted and twirled her from one event to the next, often unannounced. It was just life.

      She СКАЧАТЬ