CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER

TWO

Sheryl sat in ‘The Stables Café’ thinking about brandy, raw eggs and other morning-after cures, idly wondering what sort of sick person came up with the idea when she noticed Lindsey, her younger sister, standing by the front door with an ”I’ve got something to tell you, which you are going to hate” look on her face.

‘Sheryl’s feeling delicate,’ yelled Beatrice, with a sympathetic face.

‘Oh,’ said Lindsey, with the blank look of someone who had never experienced a hangover before. Lindsey was the sort of younger sister no one would want; she had the same metabolism as Beatrice, a rich amiable husband and an easygoing son. Her main problem in life was what to wear to golf, and how to keep her cleaner from leaving. She ordered a hot chocolate with cream and the ‘gooiest’ cake available, and then looked at her sister. ‘So, what you been up to now, then?’

‘Feeling a bit rough.’

‘Sheryl, I can’t remember a morning when you haven’t felt rough.’

‘Or needed a good puke,’ added Beatrice.

‘You’ve had more hangovers than Mum’s had carers,’ said Lindsey, ignoring Beatrice’s sour look.

‘Ain’t nothin worse than a hangover when your life’s crap,’ said a waitress, appearing from nowhere. She plonked a hot chocolate down.

‘Crap?’ said Sheryl, looking at the waitress, who looked like she had nursed a few herself.

‘When you’ve got nothing better to do than get pissed.’

Sheryl eyed the waitress, still young enough to “pull” even in a slightly soiled apron. ‘I did not get p…’

‘Hanging around ole Rugby again?’ asked Lindsey.

‘I don’t hang around….’

‘When there is no one but your mum to commiserate with.’

‘Cheers, Mum.’

‘When the only way to treat yourself,’ said Beatrice ‘is to get pissed with some old git down the road.’

‘I did NOT get pissed ….’

‘Mr. Rugby did, by all accounts,’ said the waitress, scratching herself. ‘Frances was just in; she said he was still in bed - stinking of whisky.’

‘What’s he playing at, a man his age?’ said Edna from the next table. Edna spent every morning in the café with Mavis, and they had both known Rugby all their lives.

‘He didn’t even want his porridge,’ continued the waitress, acknowledging the two women. They nodded in unison.

‘What did you do to him?’ laughed Lindsey.

‘Not a bloody thing, I told you, I went to the….’

‘There’s no need to shout, Sheryl, or for that matter, wear a face like a smacked arse,’ Beatrice added, with a loud voice.

‘Frances said…’ the waitress continued.

‘You know,’ continued Beatrice. ‘If you just bothered a bit about your appearance, I’m sure you’d feel better.’

Sheryl wondered if the people across the road could hear her.

‘Frances said,’ added the waitress, ‘she was going to sort him out, starting with his so-called “collection”.’

‘Oh,’ said Beatrice, remembering why she didn’t like Frances.

‘And do you know what the old boy said? The only person touching his “collection” was him, and if he wanted to go to bed wrapped in tin foil, he would.’

Beatrice remembered why she liked Rugby so much.

Lindsey nudged her sister. ‘You wanna aspirin or a smoke?’

‘He said he would kill any damn bugger who was going to argue with that! And then he told her where to shove her porridge!’

‘Aye well, he always did have a good imagination,’ said Mavis.

‘That’s Rugby for you,’ muttered Edna.

The waitress moved on, leaving a whiff of fried chips behind, reminding Sheryl that she was still hungry. She wondered why she put up with the Saturday morning shopping, why she was sitting there taking all this verbal abuse. And when did drinking with an old man become a crime? She thought about fish and chips, a smoke and enough beer to make her clothes tight.

‘You heard from Martin lately?’ asked Lindsay.

‘Sheryl knows about the baby!’ said Beatrice, still in loud mode. Lindsey, to Beatrice’s mind was deaf; the truth was that Lindsay had no idea how to listen, or even pretend to.

‘But did you hear about the wedding?’ asked Lindsey, as she took a gulp of her drink. ‘It’s supposed to be a big ‘DO’!’ she muttered through chocolate lips.

‘It’s not that big a do,’ said Beatrice. ‘They’re holding it at the Argyll! That place has Irn-Bru on tap and karaoke on a Friday night. Their idea of a buffet is a plate of chipolatas, cheese and onion dip, and a packet of crisps. ’

‘The Argyll’s been taken over,’ said a voice from the other table. ‘They have a new chef, and they don’t do chips after seven, only potato wedges.’

‘You knew and you never thought to tell me?’ said Sheryl.

‘It’s a rush job,’ yelled the waitress from the back of the cafe. ‘She don’t want to show in her wedding dress.’

‘Show?’ Beatrice exclaimed. ‘She’ll be six months gone by then, the only thing she’ll be feeling on her honeymoon will be heartburn and the small sensation of piles.’

A chuckle ran through the café.

‘They’ve asked everyone,’ said Lindsey. ‘Even you.’ She slid an invitation card across the table.

The card was black with gold writing, some would say arty-farty. Sheryl ran her fingers along the crimped edges, and wondered how long the aspirin would take to work.

‘She made it herself… ’ said Lindsey.

‘Pretentious crap!’ said Beatrice, taking the card off Sheryl. ‘Mind you, that doesn’t surprise me, Martin always was a prat. I mean any man who has a hyphenated name.’

‘SHE MADE IT HERSELF,’ Lindsey continued. ‘Imogene IS a calligrapher.’

‘How wonderful,’ said Sheryl. ‘He’s having a baby with someone who writes like a monk.’