‘Think you’ll be back next week?’ he asked.
‘Definitely. Especially if you’re going to give out lines like the fairy one.’
She chuckled, a sweet airy sound like the bell above the teashop door, Pete thought. A laugh that would have suited a fairy.
He shook his head. ‘I really shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Oh you should, you so should.’
‘Making fun of the woman like that was bad form. Who am I to cast scorn on anything that works for someone in the same situation as we are?’
It was obvious he felt genuinely bad about it, which endeared him to Laurie. What would he have made of the news that her direction in life was presently being dictated by vibes she’d implanted in a crystal ball and a spent match, she wondered.
‘I’m sure that you’re just one of many sceptics, but if the lady is going into supermarkets wearing a large pair of wings, then she must have developed a wonderful resilience,’ replied Laurie, taking her goldfish of keys out of her bag.
‘She must indeed,’ said Pete. ‘It’s obviously good for her mental elf.’ He immediately apologised, even though Laurie burst into a fresh peal of laughter. ‘Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t resist.’
‘Will you be back next week?’ said Laurie, recovering.
‘I will,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll take any help on offer. I might even—’ he cut off his words. ‘No, I can’t say that.’
‘Have your ears fashioned into points?’ Laurie supplied.
‘Oh, don’t. I’ve infected you,’ said Pete.
‘You have a good week,’ said Laurie, zapping her car open. ‘Hope you get gnome safely.’
‘Stop now,’ said Pete. ‘We’re like naughty kids.’ He smiled at her. ‘Hope you get home safely too.’
He gave her a quick wave when she set off and thought, as he followed her out of the car park, that it was people who formed the guide rope out of grief. The company of those with generous hearts, like Molly and Mr Singh who led where they had once followed, because they could. There was real magic in kindness.
The Daily Trumpet apologises unreservedly to Mrs Amy Cliteroe after police were called to her house on Tuesday after we wrongly printed that she had a bright red Vulva for sale and not a bright red Volvo. The Vulva was said to have had four owners from new, a snug interior and was a real head-turner when out on the street.
Chapter 21
17 September
‘I’m thinking about having you in two days a week,’ said Alan Robertson the following Tuesday. ‘Have you seen the size of the backlog? It’s like bleeding Everest. Luckily nothing about the mayor, so that’s on our side at least. He has threatened us with legal action if we’ – Alan drew two little wiggles in the air – ‘ “target” him again. But as my old great gran, God rest her sweet soul, used to say: “He can fuck right off”.’
Alan’s great gran, if he was to be believed, said that phrase quite often about a lot of folks.
He put a coffee down on the table in front of Laurie and slid over a tin of biscuits.
‘We finished the Fortnum and Mason ones, these are Fox’s best,’ he said. ‘You should take a handful. You’re looking a bit thin, missy.’ There was concern in his voice. He liked Laurie a lot and he knew how grief could strip away an appetite and the sense to look after yourself because he’d been there. ‘How are things?’ He gave the final word a weight of its own.
Laurie lifted a jam and cream ring from the tin.
‘Your friend Molly is wonderful,’ said Laurie, presuming he was angling for an update on how ‘things’ were going with her. ‘I have my third session tomorrow. I’m quite looking forward to it.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Alan. ‘What do you talk about? I might have another go at persuading her to do a feature.’
‘Well . . .’ Laurie gave a small laugh, ‘. . . past subjects include: feeling guilty that you haven’t murdered your mother with a cushion, how you can’t stop eating cake and smiling because your husband has passed away and the healing power of fairies.’
Alan raised a brace of shaggy eyebrows. ‘I might not, then,’ he decided.
‘I’m being slightly facetious. In context, everything we talked about was pretty heartfelt stuff, which is the point of it all I suppose. No one felt any awkwardness about contributing experiences which outside the group might sound a bit weird.’
‘Yep,’ said Alan, scooping up a handful of biscuits like a claw in an arcade game. ‘I can see how wanting to smother your mother should be kept within a circle of confidantes.’
‘What’s Molly’s story?’ asked Laurie.
Alan scratched his head with the hand not holding a clutch of Viennese fingers.
‘Molly was a vulnerable soul when she fell in love with a man called Harvey Hoyland. It didn’t work out and he left her. A few years ago, he turned up on her doorstep hoping to make amends with her because he was a very poorly man and he’d never stopped loving her.’
‘Then Harvey died?’
‘He did,’ said Alan. ‘But he died in the arms of the woman he adored. True love always finds its way home, with or without a compass, my great gran used to say. It took Molly a long time to get over Harvey, and she didn’t want to waste what she’d learned on the way to acceptance, which is why she set up her club. You won’t find many people who know more about love and loss than she does.’
‘Is she now with the Sikh gentleman – Mr Singh?’
‘Pavitar Singh? No, they’re just friends. Pavitar’s a widower, Molly’s a widow so the pair of them go on holiday and out for meals together. Friends without benefits, I suppose is what you’d call it these days. Just friends is what old bastards like me would say.’
‘That’s sweet.’ Laurie smiled.
‘Molly’s sister is a case. Margaret sees dead people.’ Alan leaned in close as he imparted this nugget in case he was overheard. ‘She was a matron in hospitals and when anyone was near the end of their life, she’d find relatives sitting by the patient’s bedside that no one else could see. If you knew Margaret, you’d think she was the last person on the planet to entertain such nonsense.’
‘You’ve never run a story on that, then?’ asked Laurie after a long whistle of astonishment.
‘Margaret would kill me if I did. And I’d rather the mayor came after me with a cohort of armed Spartans than cross Margaret Brandywine, trust me. I just threw that into our conversation because I trust you to keep it to yourself. I’m glad you’ve taken the plunge and gone to the group, I really am, Laurie.’
‘So you think some proper psychics do exist? That they’re not all charlatans?’ Laurie asked as something inside her reared its head, keen for acceptance.
‘If Margaret Brandywine is anything to go by, yes. Even a hard-bitten old git like me would believe there’s something in all that supernatural bollocks,’ said Alan.
That would do nicely as a commendation, thought Laurie.