I give her arm a squeeze. ‘Believe me when I say, Annabel, that it is mostly pretty shit.’
A furious Molly interrupts (her eyes are both streaming heavily now). ‘And you, Delilah,you. I expected better from you! Attending a wedding where the bride wears pink? It’s unthinkable. You shouldn’t be associating with such nonsense. And isn’t this the sixth wedding you’ve been to this year? It’s only March, young lady. Can’t you save it for the summer, like we used to?’
‘It’s July, you stupid old bint,’ snaps Franny, always protecting me, even at twenty-eight.
‘How are you affording all this, anyway?’ Molly adds, ignoring Franny and narrowing her eyes at me suspiciously. ‘I expect that stupid job of yours pays stupid money, doesn’t it? I don’t pay my license fee just so you can go off to pink weddings all the time.’
‘Actually, Molly, I make very little mon—’ I start but she’s not interested in any facts.
‘It’s not like in my day when you had to actually do proper work – intense manual labour – to earn a crust. You lot swan about with your internet and your touch screens, and expect everything to be handed to you on a plate.’
‘How much did you pay for your house, Molly?’ Franny says sweetly. ‘About two thousand pounds, was it?’
Molly shuts up.
Just then, one of our more recent additions to the group, Ethel, comes running in. She looks distraught and I can see the gleam of her balding head through white, thinning hair as she passes under the light.
‘Ethel, what’s wrong?’ I ask, standing up, a little relieved for the distraction. She shakes her head, confused and frightened (Category B). Maybe she accidentally caught a few minutes ofEx on the Beachagain. That took three long months to explain.
‘I was trying to use the computer in the office...’ she begins, stuttering. ‘My grandson keeps sending me emails and I was trying to print them out so I could read them. But the phone in there kept ringing, so I answered it and it was this chap with a foreign-sounding name – I think it was Mussolini...’
I feel confident it was not Mussolini. This feels very racist.
Ethel keeps going. ‘And he kept talking about the youth club and had we got his messages.’ She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t know what he was talking about and then he said this building has been earmarked for closure. They’re knocking it down. We’re being evicted! No more Fuddy-Duddies United! He said we’re on notice and they’re giving us a couple more months to make alternative arrangements but then they’re shutting down the building either way!’
Ethel bursts into tears as she finishes her speech and Molly screams at the rest of us, ‘WHAT DID SHE SAY?!’ I don’t know if it’s shock or she really couldn’t hear – Molly only wears her hearing aid about twenty per cent of the time because she says she likes the freedom of not being able to hear people when it suits her.
I replay Ethel’s words in my head. Evicted? How can that be? Shit. This is awful news. Alternative arrangements? What does that mean? This group has been coming here for years. It’s a second home for many of the ladies. We’ve even converted the loos to be old-lady friendly and there’s nothing else like this anywhere nearby. We can’t afford to rent anything. Alternative arrangements? There is no alternative. For a few of these women, it’s the only time they leave their house. It’s brought the community together. They need this.
Ethel is still sobbing and starts talking again through her tears. ‘He didn’t even make small talk when I answered the phone. He just asked me who I was, and then started shouting at me. He was horrible. He didn’t mention how sunny it’s been either. What kind of gentleman doesn’t mention the weather when it’s been so very warm? It’s like he didn’t even care. Do you think it’s my fault this is happening? It’s not my fault, is it?’
Franny puts an arm around her, shushing her kindly. Ethel buries her face in Franny’s shoulder and quietens.
I look around the room at the shell-shocked faces. No one says anything. Everyone is just looking at each other. Franny and I make eye contact and I see fear.
Right. No. No, I’m not having that. I’m not having my grandma scared. I’m not letting my grandma and all her friends be thrown out on the street. No, I have to do something to stop this. We need this building, they can’t just knock it down. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding or maybe a mistake – who knows with Ethel. It might seem like a silly little women’s group to outsiders, but it’s much, much more than that from the inside. It matters.
I feel adrenaline pumping through me and a renewed sense of purpose takes hold.
I’m not going to let this happen. I’m going to ring this bastard council man and talk some sense into him. They can’t do this. I’m going to find a way to make all this go away so these ladies can stay in the place where they feel safe and happy. I’m going to fix this.
Wedding Number Seven:Lindy and George, Gregor House, Lancashire
Theme:Harry Potter – THAT’S RIGHT. All four groomsmen wore different house colours. Bride’s dad grew a Hagrid beard especially. Awful jokes in the best man’s speech about the bride’s ‘wizard sleeve’.
Menu:Smoked salmon starter, followed by chicken and a meringue dessert. Veggie option: stuffed red pepper with goat’s cheese.
Gift:J.K. Rowling-signed framed pic and photo book with all their Potter convention pictures @ £72.50.
Gossip:Groom had attempted last-minute platinum hair dye, to look like bride’s fave character Draco Malfoy. Somehow looked exactly like Myra Hindley.
My bank balance:-£347.12
11
‘And was the pig related at all to the queen?’ Will asks, deadly serious, looking the waiter straight in the eye and holding the menu up. Neither of them blink.
‘Aah, I don’t belieeeeve so, sir,’ the man replies at last, carefully. ‘Because... it’s a... pig. But I do know it was hand-reared by monks off the coast of a Scottish island and fed exclusively plum tomatoes. It is the most tender, beloved pig meat you’ll ever know. It simply melts in your mouth.’
