yammering

Margaret spent most of the holidays in Salford with Gloria, who she always refers to as her sister in law, even though it’s now almost five years since she divorced Henry. I have sometimes wondered if they might not one day get back together but the chances of that plunged dramatically recently when Henry was jailed for attempting to steal the genetic code of a certain strain of prize cabbage. Gloria was absolutely distraught at this turn of events and it was in part to support her that Margaret went down for Christmas.

‘Take care of my clocks,’ she said as she left.

‘I will,’ I said, glancing at De Kooning as if to ask him what attention twenty three stopped clocks could possibly require.

Having the house to myself meant I could work on my new painting of Newbiggin as and when I wanted to. I left it propped on the mantelpiece for a fortnight, a jar of brushes next to it. Sometimes you’ve got to look at a painting more or less continuously to know exactly what it needs. I tidied everything up on the night before Margaret came home, of course, and moved all my junk back to my bedroom.

When Margaret came home she told me she’d had a good time. They’d eaten a goose on Christmas day and got tipsy on brandy. Gloria’s present to her was a Pandora bracelet with a collection of charms that means they are eternal friends. She and Gloria had even gone to visit Henry in prison.

‘Oh, did you?’ I said. ‘So how is he?’

‘Bearing up,’ Margaret replied, thoughtfully. ‘But he looked pale, and he’s lost an awful lot of weight, Gloria says.’

‘Must be the porridge,’ I said. ‘Or maybe he’s just not getting his greens.’

Margaret frowned disapprovingly.

‘By the way, what kind of cabbage was it that he tried to steal the genetic code of?’ I asked.

Margaret shrugged.

‘Was it an oxheart?’ I said.

Margaret shook her head.

‘Not an oxheart?’ I said. ‘Okay, was it a colewort or a drumhead?’

Margaret just looked blankly at me.

‘Was it a Savoy?’ I said.

‘I don’t know!’ Margaret said. ‘Why would I know that? Do I look like an expert on cabbages? And for God’s sake what difference does it make what kind of cabbage it was any way? Would there have been a different outcome if it had been a different kind of cabbage?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied, after a short pause. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘So why did you ask?’ Margaret said.

‘Just curious,’ I replied, a little disingenuously.

Margaret spent her first night home cutting up and boiling onions for herself. It had been snowing and because she doesn’t like to drive in the snow she told me she’d brought a present back for Brenda and asked me if I’d take it along for her in the morning.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘What did you buy her?’

‘A Pandora bracelet,’ she replied. ‘It’s really lovely.’

‘Yes,’ I said, nodding like Paul Merton. ‘They’re very popular these days, aren’t they?’

Margaret rang Brenda to tell her I would be coming along. She took the phone into her bedroom and closed the door. The call lasted for an hour.

‘She’s expecting you,’ Margaret said when she came back.

The beach road was a bit slushy as I drove south, but the journey wasn’t difficult. When I got to Brenda’s Tristan let me in. He was just on his way to B & Q at Wallsend to get some Stanley knife blades.

‘Hello, my fwiend,’ he said. ‘Mewwy Chwistmas!’

‘Yes, same to you, Tristan,’ I replied. ‘Did you have a good one?’

‘Yes, vewy good, thanks. Me and Bwenda had a quiet one together and then I was away over the new year seeing my kids. Just got back yesterday, in fact. Bwenda was gweat about it, even gave me a few bob towards the twavel costs. I miss them, you know.’

Tristan and I had a brief conversation about whether there was any evidence that New Labour had ever been or were ever likely to be a party of redistribution. He then asked me if I’d mind if he got away as he was in a hurry. I said I didn’t and I’d just sit in the waiting room until Brenda was free.

I was reading the new copy of Closer magazine when Mrs Byro arrived. She shuffled into the waiting room like a confused armadillo and deposited herself quietly on a chair opposite me. I glanced over the top of my magazine and noticed Mrs Byro was wearing black wellies that were probably several sizes too big for her. Her thick maroon wool socks were folded over the tops of them.

In the article I was reading in Closer it said that Cheryl Cole is planning to dramatically overhaul her hectic lifestyle this year. The article tells us that Cheryl is going to Barbados for a ‘much needed break’ from her husband and that she’s also going to change her diet and fitness regimes. The article also quotes Cheryl as saying she doesn’t like her legs.

‘Hello there,’ Mrs Byro suddenly said, quietly. She took off her floppy purple hat and put it on the table.

‘Hello,’ I said, and smiled. I returned to my magazine, as if deeply engrossed in it.

‘Do you mind if I ask what are you reading?’ Mrs Byro asked me, a minute or so later. ‘It looks very interesting.’

‘It is’ I said. ‘It’s an article about a woman who doesn’t like her legs,’

‘Oh, that must be awful,’ Mrs Byro said. ‘Alien Leg Syndrome – I’ve seen a television programme about that. Enmity towards one’s own limbs is such a cruel and terrible curse. She should come and see Brenda too, shouldn’t she?’

I nodded politely. I looked at Mrs Byro, trying to remember why she comes to see Brenda. I had it in my mind that she came for acupuncture because of an irrational fear of wild deer, but suspected I was probably wrong. Fortunately Mrs Byro herself came to my rescue on this front.

‘I’ve come for some meteor balm,’ she said, smiling nervously.

‘Oh, have you?’ I said.

‘Yes, I have,’ Mrs Byro replied. ‘I did something silly on New Year’s Eve. I came to see Brenda first thing next day but she wasn’t here unfortunately. Her neighbour said she’d been out all night and might not be back for a few days. I finally managed to contact her yesterday and came to see her right away. I hope it isn’t too late.’

I looked at Mrs Byro and smiled. ‘I’m sure it won’t be,’ I said.

Brenda came in to the room at that point. I stood up and she kissed me on both cheeks. It felt vaguely like a scene from Dr Zhivago.

‘How’s Margaret?’ she said, as if she hadn’t spoken to her for an hour not twelve hours earlier.

‘She’s okay,’ I said. ‘A bit worried about Henry, but otherwise fine. And how’s Brenda? Did you have a good new year?’

‘Oh it was all right,’ Brenda said. ‘Very quiet. Just me and Jools Holland, really.’

‘Was Santa kind to you?’ I asked.

‘Yes, he was, thank you. Surprisingly so. I was a very lucky girl this year, I think.’

I nodded. ‘Oh, here’s your extra present from Salford,’ I said, handing her the parcel.

I looked down at Ms Byro. She was sitting like a kitten with tattered fur and swaddled in green and brown cardigans, looking up at a conversation between two giants. I noticed her golden yellow scarf has worn and bobbly. I also noticed she was wearing a Pandora bracelet. I wondered what her combination of charms might mean. They seemed to comprise mostly animals and stars and moons. Something to do with destiny and nature, obviously.

I drove back down to the sea front and north past Feather’s Caravan Site and up towards the Delaval Arms. I was listening to a Josh Ritter CD. As I was going down the hill at Seaton Sluice I decided to go and see my dad for a while. We talked for a while about Eubie Blake. He played me some stuff he’d recorded from the radio in the past few days. Our conversation then turned to politics.

‘Do you think New Labour is a redistributive party?’ I said to him.

‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘Definitely. Campbell is, any way. Look how much he’s redistributed to himself since he became MP!’

It began to snow as I passed the Astley Arms. I drove into Blyth in a line of slow moving traffic. At South Beach we slowed down at the Amersham Way roundabout.  Tristan was coming out of the estate in his PermaPlumb van. He didn’t see me as he passed me on his way south, back to Whitley Bay. Josh Ritter was singing Thin Blue Flame. I sang along and wondered what Newbiggin looked like in the falling snow.

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