Tony Parsons - One For My Baby

There’s no real reason why she should be at Saint Pancras, apart from the fact that its spires and turrets and lancet windows make it look like something out of a fairy tale, a place where everything works out all right in the end. There’s no real reason why she should be at Saint Pancras apart from the fact that it’s so different from all the rest.

Just like Plum.

Saint Pancras is smaller than the other stations, less inhuman and modern, more the size of a railway station out in the farflung suburbs in places like Bansted than those soulless, secular cathedrals you get in the city. But she’s not here, of course. It’s getting very late now and people are running for the last trains. I am about to call it a day, phone Jackie, tell her to call the police, when I see the photo booth.

Next to a filthy pair of sneakers, there’s a book. It’s the book I gave Plum. Smell the Fear, He-Bitch by The Slab. I knock on the side of the photo booth and pull back the curtain. There she is, sound asleep, her hair falling in her face. I say her name and she wakes up.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“Because of my nan.”

“Oh.”

“Your mum’s really worried about you.”

“I couldn’t stand it anymore. It was too much. It would be too much for anyone.”

“Sadie and Mick. And their little gang.”

“It got worse after you came to the school.”

“I’m sorry, Plum.”

“They kept going on at me. About my old boyfriend. My old, old boyfriend. They said: ‘Where did you meet him, Plumpster? Meals on wheels?’ I told them you’re a teacher and they had a right old laugh about that. Mick said you looked like a teacher who had lost all his faculties.”

“That bastard Mick. I’m not so old.”

“I know. You’re only middle-aged.”

“Thanks, Plum. Thanks a million.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry if I made it harder for you. I never meant to.”

“I know that. You just wanted to tell me about your nan. I’m glad you did. It’s not your fault. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been something else. Any excuse. There’s always some excuse for that lot.”

“So where are you going?”

She shrugs, pushes the hair from her face, and peers out at the departures board as though she actually has a ticket in her pocket.

“I don’t know. Anywhere’s better than Bansted.”

“I’m not so sure about that, you know. You’re loved out there. It’s your home. And it’s not so easy to find another one. Take it from me. Shall we go home? Back to your mum?”

She shrugs, pouts, pushes her fringe in front of her face.

“I like it here.”

“You like this photo booth?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a comfortable photo booth, is it?”

“It’s all right.”

“Really?”

“As photo booths go. Nothing special. Stop going on at me.”

I pick up her book. “Still a fan of The Slab, are you?”

“ ’Course.”

“I’m starting to warm to him myself. He’s not such a bad role model for a growing girl.” I flick through Smell the Fear, He-Bitch, nodding sagely. “Do you like what The Slab has to say about doing the human thing?”

“It’s okay, I guess. But I’m more of a fan of the way he elbow-smashes bad people in the cake hole.”

“Right, right. Well, what would The Slab do at a time like this?”

“How do you mean?”

“If he was getting picked on. What would the old Slab do? Would he run away and sleep in a photo booth? Or would he stand and face the creeps who are bullying him?”

“Come on. I’m not The Slab, am I? I’m just a fat loser. He’s more like a superman. That’s what makes him special.”

“I think you’re tougher than he is, myself. I think you are stronger, better, braver.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’ve put up with a lot of crap in your life. Your parents breaking up. All the trouble between them after the split. Your mum working so hard to support the pair of you. Mick and Sadie and the little creeps who follow them around. You couldn’t have gotten through all that if you were a coward. And I think you’ve got more guts than Mick and Sadie put together. All bullies are cowards. I reckon you’re a lot nicer too.”

“Nice doesn’t get you very far. Nice gets walked all over. Nice gets you a smack in the chops.”

“I don’t know. Look at my grandmother. We didn’t love her because she could beat up all the other pensioners, did we? Because she could elbow-smash her way to the front at the bus stop? That wasn’t why we loved her, was it?”

“I guess not. So how was the-what do you call it?-burial?”

“Cremation. It was okay. As good as it could be. Lots of people. Faces I hadn’t seen for years. Like a dream, really, all those faces I remembered gathered in one place. And people I didn’t know. Neighbors, friends. So many friends, she had, Plum. There was so much real affection for her. Love, even. She inspired a lot of love. And there were flowers everywhere. And ‘Abide with Me.’ Her favorite hymn. And ‘One for My Baby.’ By Sinatra.”

“It’s so depressing, all that old music.”

“What do you expect at a funeral? I’m horny, horny, horny tonight? It worked. You should have been there. You would have seen.”

“I don’t like funerals.”

“It’s a way of saying good-bye.”

“I don’t like good-byes.”

“Nobody does. But that’s life. A series of hellos and good-byes.” I think of pushing hands in the park with George Chang, of learning to move with the changes that are heading your way, like them or not, of finding the courage to become what you need to become. “Look, Plum, you think you’re the only person who ever felt the way you’re feeling now. But plenty of people do. It’s much more normal to be afraid and lonely and sad than it is to be like Mick or Sadie. Or The Slab. You’re not the freak. They are. I know it seems like these days are never going to end. But they will.” I brush her hair back from her face and see the tears. “What’s wrong, Plum? What is it?”

“I miss her. I miss your nan.”

“I miss her too. And you were great with her. You really made her life better. The way you took care of her-not many people of your age could have done that. Not many people of my age. You can be proud of that.”

“I only did it because I liked her. She was funny.” Plum smiles for the first time. “This little old lady who liked sports-entertainment wrestling. She was cool.”

“She liked you too. She saw you in a way that Mick and Sadie and these other creeps never will. She saw you the way you really are.”

“Is that really what you think? Or are you just trying to get me out of this photo booth?”

“That’s really what I think. Listen, shall we go home to your mum?”

“Can we sit here for just a little bit? Just sit here quietly?”

“As long as you like, Plum.”

T HIS NEW ZEALAND GARDENER seems to have taken a shine to my mother. Between you and me, I wonder what Julian-what kind of name is that for a Kiwi who is certainly no fruit?-really has on his mind when he talks to her about bird control and forking borders.

Bird control and forking borders, I think, watching the pair of them out back.

I’ve got your number, mate.

As late spring slowly gives way to summer, Julian is always complimenting my mum on her knowledge of the garden, her expertise in mulching, her way with the tasks of the season.

It’s true that she does know a lot about plants, flowers and all that stuff. And Julian is very respectful. I’ll give that to him. If my mum is sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea with Joyce or me, Julian will not come into the room without knocking first. We will be sitting at the kitchen table and there will be this shy little knock on a door that’s already open. And then there’s Julian standing in the doorway, his suntanned body bulging out of his black rugby shirt and a dopey expression on his face, staring at my mum.