give her the shits alright,” Auntie Trisha grinned. “You ok there, Bifana?”
“Napalm,” Biffa gasped, spluttering into a napkin. “It’s stuck to the roof of my mouth.”
“The turds are a bit on the warm side, aren’t they?” Myra commented, a little smugly, I thought. We spooned the icy dregs of my milkshake onto Biffa’s tongue until her eyes stopped watering.
“What do you want for Christmas, Foggy?” Auntie Trisha asked. “And don’t say Halfords vouchers again, for Christ’s sake, think of something original for a change. Something for you, not for running repairs on that bloody bike.”
“Oh, er,” I really wanted Halfords vouchers! “Perhaps a gift card then, from the Outdoor Warehouse-”
“Do they sell bicycle bollocks, by any chance?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, for f-”
“Are you coming to see us in the Wizard of Oz on Boxing Day?” Myra asked them. “You know I’m playing Dorothy?”
“Is that officious little tit directing it again this year, you know, the one with the ridiculous door knocker beard?”
“Tom’s an extremely talented director,” Myra said, defensively. “And clearly an excellent judge of talent, seeing as he’s cast me in the leading lady role.”
“Has he tried you in many other positions, Myra?” Biffa slurred.
“We’d better let you crack on,” cut in Auntie Trisha quickly, getting to her feet. “Lots to do and all that. See you both on Christmas Day; we’ll bring stacks of booze, of course and some chloroform for your Gran. Shame we couldn’t afford to send her to that clinic in Switzerland for Christmas, but still, we’ll start saving for next year. See you!”
Myra and I didn’t get much Christmas shopping done, in the end. Myra got into an argument with one of her old colleagues in Superdrug when she overheard her say “the facial hair remover is that way” and it all became very heated. Everyone was staring and I didn’t know where to put my face, so I stood and examined the feminine hygiene products until the store manager came over and broke up the argument. Myra didn’t feel like shopping after that, so we took the bus back to Shodsworth and I walked her home. She turned on the doorstep, looking very sad and said, “I’ve got something to tell you, Foggy.”
“Oh dear, what is it? Did you get another rejection from Shipwrecked?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Was it from The Voice, then? You mustn’t be too downhearted you know, Myra - you’ve just got to keep trying! I thought your entry video was wonderful and I bet none of the other girls thought to sing a Barry White classic. Have you heard back from Big Brother yet?”
She sighed and shook her head, forgetting to say goodbye as she went into the house and shut the door. Poor Myra. I’d have to get her something extra special for Christmas to try and cheer her up a bit. I looked up ‘Chucky: The Killer DVD Collection’ on Amazon when I got home. It was a bit pricey but it was guaranteed to put a smile back on her face. That’s the magic of Christmas!
Baby Talk
Myra hadn’t felt like rehearsing, so I practised on my own, trying to perfect a powerful wizard’s voice by booming into Mum’s cooking funnel. She had called upstairs to ask me to stop at one point as she said it was putting her client off his stroke - they were having to do a lot of rolling, apparently. I had tried to make pastry once myself when we did sausage rolls in home economics, but Barry had accidentally knocked my oven temperature down and I don’t think mine cooked properly. Mum, Dad and I were dashing in and out of the loo all night, with poor Dad having to squat over the drain in the garden when Mum took too a bit too long in the bathroom.
I arrived for work at Smokey Joe’s on Sunday to find everything shiny and spotless; even the white dog poo had been removed from the doorstep. Joe was in the kitchen, chipping burnt bits of bread out of the toaster. “Morning Chef!” I called. “Are we having a winter spring clean?”
“Bloody health inspectors,” Joe snarled, savagely hacking away with his screwdriver. “Been all over this place like a dose of the clap. Had to close for three whole days! Bleeding jobsworths; we never had this sort of shit at Claridges, Gordon just saw them off with a blow torch.”
“Why did they come here?”
“Just because some anal busy body accused us of attempted murder. Attempted fucking murder! Hardly anyone dies of campylobacter these days. Some parents are so bloody over-protective - how does she even know it came from us? It can live in the body for bloody days! Probably had too much sushi at the fucking country club.”
“It couldn’t have come from us!” I exclaimed, astonished. “We’ve got a top hygiene rating - it says so on the board in the window.”
“My mate Ron made that for me,” said Joe. “He learnt all about computers and shit in Wandsworth. He’s the one that writes our five star reviews on Tripadvisor.”
“When are the inspectors coming back?”
“Tomorrow. So get your marigolds on and go and scrape that piss-paste off the toilet bowls. Use one of the steak knives. Shit!” He leapt backwards as a blue spark shot out of the toaster at him; he really should have unplugged it first.
I was absolutely exhausted by ten o’clock, scrubbing and wiping and polishing in between serving customers. Joe wanted every single utensil and piece of crockery cleaned, so I tried to reduce the workload by asking customers to share tea spoons and cake forks. Freckly Girl was very considerate, lifting her legs up out of the way with a friendly smile as I swept and Flashed the floors, not tutting and sighing like the other customers did.
Myra came in at twelve-thirty, when I should have been struggling with the lunchtime rush, but it was strangely quiet today. “What can I get you, Myra?” I asked, remembering Joe’s instructions to push the prawns, which were past their sell-by. “A nice prawn and mayo baguette?”
“I can’t have shellfish in my condition.”
“Oh, are you constipated again? What about a piece of Joe’s mushroom quiche, then? That should do the trick.”
She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I had a sausage and egg McMuffin at Maccy D’s on my way here, so I’ll just have a cheese toastie, I think. With extra pickle. And a piece of that chocolate fudge cake; just a small bit mind, I’m still being really careful. Can’t you take a break for a minute? I need to talk to you.”
I took her order through to Joe, who was down on all fours, his head and shoulders inside the large oven. That must take some cleaning! “Order for you, Chef!” I called cheerfully and went back to make Myra her cappuccino. I sat down opposite her and watched her suck the froth up through her teeth. “What did you want to talk about Myra, the rehearsals? I think they’re going really well, apart from all the fisticuffs of course, but I’m sure-”
“No, it’s not the rehearsals.” She stirred her coffee and didn’t look up. “It’s something else. Something very important, Foggy. And you’re not going to like it.”
My stomach lurched. “What is it, Myra?” I asked in alarm. “Are you ill?”
“No, not ill exactly.” She stopped stirring and looked up. “Can you smell gas?”
“Gas? No, I can’t. It’s probably bleach fumes, we’ve been using gallons of it.”
“Oh, right. Well, look Foggy, there’s just no easy way to tell you this.” She took a deep breath and looked at me, her eyes all watery. What on earth was wrong? “I’m pregnant.”
I gaped at her in astonishment. “Pregnant? You’re pregnant? But, but, but, how? I mean, er, well, how?”
“The usual bloody way, Foggy! How do you think?”
“But we’ve always used two condoms!” I blurted. The little old lady sitting at the next table spluttered into her teacup. “You always make sure I’m double-bagged!”
“Yes.” Myra was staring into her coffee again. “I do.”
“Gosh.” I sat back in my chair, totally stunned. A thought struck me and I put my hands to my face in horror. “Oh no! Oh no, no, no!”
She swallowed. “I’m really sorry
, Foggy-”
“It’s because I changed to Co-op’s own brand, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Their own brand condoms! I thought I’d try and economise, you know; theirs work out at just nineteen pence a go, which I thought was really good-”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Foggy!”
“I’m so sorry Myra!” I clutched her hands. “It’s all my fault! I should have known; Mum’s always saying you get what you pay for - why didn’t I listen to her? I could have cut back on Clearasil and got the more expensive condoms, you know, like the Mates blueberry muffin flavoured ones!”
“Foggy, I-”
“I should have been more careful!” I couldn’t believe it - Myra was pregnant; I was going to be a father! And Mum was going to be a granny at last! She’d been dreading being the oldest grandmother out of her friends when she turned forty-five next year. But what a shock; if only Dad was here to advise me - what would he say to me right now? He’d say, “Gotta man up, son”, just like he’d done when Rolo, my guinea pig, ran in front of the strimmer.
I squeezed Myra’s hands reassuringly. “Don’t you worry, Myra; don’t you worry about a thing - I’m going to take care of you. Of both of you. I’ll be here for you, every single step of the way. I’m going to stay right by your side; I’ll never leave you, not for a moment.”
Myra seemed lost for words and, overcome with emotion, burst into noisy sobs. I leapt up to fetch a napkin but before I could return to the table,