All That Mullarkey Page 5

  Chapter Seven

  Cleo dashed home, tormented by pictures of her father-in-law, George, helpless in a hospital bed, his normally ruddy complexion as grey as his toothbrush moustache, and jumped straight into Gav’s car for the drive to Yorkshire. She was still struggling with her seat belt as Gav flung the car into Cross Street, left into Main Road, straight out of the village past slate and stone cottages and The Three Fishes. ‘How is he?’ she gasped.

  Gav’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. ‘Not good. More than just a warning, Mum said. He’d been having pains in his arm all evening, then in the early hours he began to feel as if his chest was being crushed.’ Jerkily, he fed the car onto a large roundabout.

  ‘Poor George.’ Cleo liked both George and her motherin-law, Pauline. A warm, twinkling Yorkshireman, George had returned to his county the minute retirement had let him; and Pauline didn’t seem to mind where they lived, so long as they were together.

  Their house, normally airy and tall, seemed to have shrunk at the advent of family with weekend cases and neighbours milling between the sitting room and the hall. Squeezing her way through the clutter, Cleo thought Pauline looked inundated even without Gav’s sister, Yvonne, having arrived a minute before them, smothering her with a hug, sniffing, ‘Allen has to work today, he’ll phone this afternoon. How’s Dad? How’re you? Oops, I must sit down.’ Yvonne was three months pregnant and spent most of her time feeling faint, her skin taking on an alarming pallor and her cloud of hair frizzing from the sweat on her forehead.

  Gav kissed his mother’s white cheek, letting Yvonne totter to the hall chair unaided. ‘What’s the news? Can we see him today?’

  Although looking drawn and grey, Pauline managed a smile for her children. ‘He’s “resting comfortably, but not out of the woods”. Which means they don’t know what’s going to happen, of course. I’m OK, a bit shell-shocked. I’ve got to ring after the doctor’s rounds … oh, can you answer the door, Gavin?’

  Another neighbour had presented herself on the doorstep. ‘Not to bother you, love, but I wondered if there was any news. Or if I could do anything to help?’ Gav ushered her to join two other neighbours grave-faced in the sitting room. Yvonne bustled after, no doubt to regale them with accounts of her journey, her condition and how worried she was about her father. Pauline sat down suddenly at the bottom of the stairs.

  Cleo crouched beside her and took her hands, chilly despite the summer’s day. ‘Haven’t you slept?’

  Bags hung under Pauline’s eyes. ‘Not a wink, darling. Everything’s been so … I haven’t even said hello to you, Cleo.’ Her bottom lip trembled.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Cleo piled the bags into the corner under the phone shelf and helped Pauline to her feet. ‘Come sit in your rocking chair with a hot drink.’ In minutes she had a steaming cup of tea at Pauline’s elbow with two digestive biscuits in a saucer, then she loaded a tray for the sitting room, which Yvonne took over, as Cleo had known she would.

  Stomach-growlingly aware of her own hunger, she returned to delve in the fridge for bacon.

  Through the doorway she could hear the neighbours’ voices dominating the sitting-room conversation, though Yvonne wasn’t giving up the arena easily.

  She half listened as she grilled bacon and kept an eye on her motherin-law. Pauline’s head had tipped back and her eyes closed, her half-drunk tea cooling on the table. It was the first time Cleo had seen Pauline grey and beleaguered, her face slack as she dozed. If ever someone needed a bit of peace!

  Cleo gave the neighbours fifteen minutes to drink their tea then marched in, disrupting the debate about whether George had looked well recently. ‘I’ve made bacon rolls for you, Gav and Yvonne. The rest of you will excuse us now, won’t you? Everyone’s upset, Pauline’s asleep and we’ve had no time to eat.’ The neighbours, after an instant’s surprised silence, rose to their feet.

  As Gav saw them out, Yvonne rushed into the kitchen after Cleo. ‘I wish I could make direct requests like that! I’m afraid of upsetting people but you don’t give a bugger, do you? I should be doing the breakfast! I just sat down for –’

  Cleo, finger on lips, indicated Pauline. ‘You’re too upset. Don’t worry. You guys look after George and I’ll do the boring stuff, OK?’

  So, for the next few days, Cleo took on the catering. Yvonne didn’t really like not being Queen of the Kitchen but clung to her condition as an excuse to concede the throne. Pauline continued to look as if she’d been hit by a truck. Gav prowled restlessly, pouncing on any errand that would get him out of the house.

  Cleo visited the hospital only once because she didn’t think that her father-in-law needed to be tired by unnecessary visitors. Waxy and weary, George had been tied to his hospital bed by monitors and drips, looking calm but curiously loose and dishevelled. An oxygen mask was within his reach and the smell of sick people hung on the air.

  Cleo hated the temporariness of camping in her parents-in-law’s spare room. She had only the few clothes that Gav had thrown into a bag for her, and slept in pyjamas because she never knew who she’d meet on the way to the bathroom at night. But she had no real option other than to ring Ntrain on Monday morning and arrange to stay longer.

  Nathan hummed as he consulted the bookings schedule. ‘Let’s see, let’s see …’ Cleo could imagine him wearing his telephone headset, scrolling across the on-screen roster. ‘I can cover your work till Wednesday but is there any chance of you coming back for Thursday? You’ve got Interpersonal Skills at Rockley Image and I just haven’t got another body to fill in. Rockley’s a brand new client so I don’t want to have to reschedule.’

  The Interpersonal Skills Through Effective Communication seminar for every communicator wanting to climb the ladder of success! was a day of quirky exercises, discussion and group activities aimed at encouraging colleagues to communicate effectively with each other and with clients. It was popular with firms who wanted training short and easy on the budget. Their newly aware staff usually emerged chattering and joking, giving the impression that Ntrain had done a great job in helping them to enjoy outstanding working relationships and become people masters and making good the promo material’s promise: Employees will smile.

  Gav looked a bit stony when she told him that she had only three days’ compassionate leave but, as George was making progress, he had no real grounds for objection. So, late on Wednesday evening, she cruised home, having agreed to return at the weekend.

  Stretching blissfully in her own bed, she slept like a log away from the tensions of Gav squabbling with Yvonne and Pauline and George worrying about each other, overslept, and had to rush to get ready and reach her ‘gig’.

  Ntrain employees had a look – a glossy, groomed, flight-attendant look of suits, sharp hairstyles and, for the women, expert make-up. After a lightning-quick shower and drying her hair whilst she ate her toast, Cleo whizzed through foundation and powder, a flick of bronzer on her cheekbones, copper eyeliner to catch the lights in her dark eyes, brown-black mascara, cinnamon lipstick – and it was time to go.

  Rockley Image occupied a business park unit, comprising a large print works with a glossy reception in front and a floor of offices above. As was boringly common, she’d been allocated a staff room. It boasted grey tables, green chairs and armchairs and a little kitchen area. After setting up the portable screen and hooking up her laptop to the projector, she dragged a table and chair to the front for herself and arranged the others informally, facing her. The armchairs she demoted to the back of the room. She loved the familiar feeling of anticipation and excitement as she set the room up. Would today’s group be bright, eager and productive? Sluggish and coy? Or, as occasionally happened, hostile and abrasive?

  Nathan, bless him, had had someone prepare and drop off a bag of name tags, seventeen including her own, which she picked out and clipped to her jacket as the first Rockley Image staff sauntered in. As her mobile rang at that moment, she shoved the list of participants to one side a
nd spread the name tags over her desk for everyone to find their own, while reassuring Nathan that, yes, she was at the venue with no problems, and yes, she’d be able to meet clients the next day to plan a Telephone Etiquette and Customer Communication seminar.

  She clapped the phone shut and launched herself into being a training professional, making connection through a flurry of words that would quiet the muttering and shuffling as the members of her group settled themselves.

  ‘Right, sorry about that, everyone got a seat? Badge? Great. Hi! Nice to meet you all, I’m Cleo Callaway.’ She pointed to her badge. ‘Together, today, we’re going to look at how we need to excel at interpersonal communication in order to succeed, to cheat time and achieve results by effective, focused communication.’ As she spoke she looked around the room, making eye contact, assessing her audience. They were youngish and dress code was casual, which made her, in black skirt and burnt-orange jacket, stand out.

  Though she’d done her homework and knew what Rockley Image did, she liked to break the ice and get everyone vocal before they got used to being silent. ‘Can you remind me what Rockley Image provides for its clients … oh!’ It was very nearly, ‘Oh shit!’ Because her visual check had progressed to the back row.

  And the last person in the back row, slouched in the chair, polo shirt buttoned to the neck, deck shoes sticking out between the chairs in front, was Justin.

  Horror swept the colour from her face.

  By the delight in his eyes he’d been waiting to be noticed and was hugely amused now that he had been. With elaborate co-operation he answered, ‘Corporate logos, stationery, leaflets, brochures …’

  Other voices contributed, ‘… product graphics, multi-media and web design …’

  ‘… posters, banners, design and print.’

  ‘Great,’ she said, weakly, trying to recapture her stride. ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble with the bit of drawing required for our first activity.’ She swallowed and made an effort to put some beef back in her voice. She smiled determinedly at two people in the front of the group – the ones who risked sitting at the front weren’t normally worried about being picked on. ‘Could you be the first to come out here and help me? The challenge is for one person to describe a simple design of shapes and lines and the other to draw it from only the description.’

  Cleo used this ice-breaker regularly; the sometimes outlandish results were always good for a laugh. Positioning a woman called Bernadette to face a gangly, thinning man named Ian, she outlined the rules. ‘No peeking, no repetition and no gestures! If you’re good at Pictionary – well, this is the reverse. You have two minutes.’

  Bernadette flourished her thick black marker pen and started drawing eagerly the instant Ian began, ‘Draw a circle, then a zig-zag … oh, that should be coming from the bottom. Under them draw a triangle …’

  Bernadette looked crestfallen. ‘I’ve run out of space.’

  ‘You should’ve let me finish before you crashed on!’ Ian slouched back to his seat as his co-workers grinned at his lack of success. Cleo broke through the sniggers to select Holly, a pretty, pink-faced girl from the centre at the back – it was always as well to involve those at the rear before they got the idea that they could get away without doing any work. ‘Could you be our flip chart artist? I’ll give each person a different diagram to describe in turn. You just do the drawing.’ When Cleo turned back after passing out the papers, she realised that Holly was heavily pregnant.

  She paused. Morning-after pills and intrauterine devices flashed into her mind. Sod it. Because of George’s heart attack, she’d never made an appointment with her doctor. Her concentration was wavering enough with Justin smirking at her, and she felt hot and fatigued. She forced a smile. ‘Are you OK to stand up and do this?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Holly rubbed her belly through her denim dress. ‘Safe for a while yet.’

  Ignoring the film of sweat that had burst out on her cheeks, Cleo turned back to the group. ‘OK, we’ll work to time limits to keep things moving. Could you begin?’ She pointed at a thin, dark man. He began uneasily. ‘Draw a circle … no, no, wait, about halfway up the page! Draw three parallel lines … oh, I meant vertical …’ By the time a few had taken their turn they were getting it, learning from the errors and inaccuracies of those who went before, making their instructions ever more precise. At the end, each would hold up his or her diagram to compare to Holly’s interpretation while Cleo lobbed in light feedback. ‘Bernadette, succinct and successful … Philip, nearly there but I think you could save time if you spoke more clearly with fewer hesitations.’

  Justin was last. He smiled at Holly. Holly stopped arguing with a truculent Phil and smiled back. ‘Holly, in the centre of the page, draw a circle with a three-inch diameter.’ The marker pen squeaked as Holly drew. Justin continued, ‘Let that circle be a bucket seen from above. Equally spaced, and likewise seen from above – draw four Mexicans peeing in it.’ A gale of laughter. Holly giggled, considered, then drew four more circles with dots in the middle to represent sombreros, joined to the original circle by short, straight lines.

  Justin turned his page round to display exactly the same design.

  Cleo had to raise her voice over the applause. ‘Justin – unorthodox but effective!’

  She found herself smiling into the laughter in his eyes. Oh no, that wouldn’t do! She snapped her gaze away and moved quickly to the next segment, a presentation on her laptop.

  Just before they broke for lunch she began her favourite routine, speaking rapidly, slapping written papers face down before each person, exam-style.

  ‘Right. Must hurry! By now you should have assimilated sufficient strategies to race through this paper in the two minutes allowed. I don’t expect any failures! Read the whole paper before you begin. Two minutes to do precisely what it says. Two minutes, don’t let me down! Don’t speak to each other. Begin.’ Conspicuously, she checked her watch.

  Pens were snatched up, first answers scribbled. And the second. They progressed to the section that required actions, jumping to their feet, counting backwards, ‘Ten, nine, eight …’, sitting down, shouting out their middle names, ‘Margaret, Edmund, John …’

  ‘One minute gone!’ Cleo called.

  With anxious glances at the clock, they folded over the top quarter of their pages, then wrote a large letter T on the backs of their hands. ‘Forty seconds left.’ Cleo let her voice rise on a warning note.

  Two people did absolutely nothing other than read the paper. One of them was Justin.

  And as the two-minute mark was reached, others began to clutch their heads and groan, ‘Oh no!’ Or laugh.

  ‘Two minutes up.’ Cleo beamed round. ‘Nobody but Justin and Phil listened to my instructions. I said read the whole paper first – what does the final point, number twenty, say?’

  She was answered by a sheepish chorus. ‘Disregard points one to nineteen.’ More groans.

  ‘So,’ she grinned, ‘that’s reminded you to follow instructions even when you’re under pressure!’

  Lunchtime.

  Cleo turned back to her laptop to cue up the next presentation; the staff filed out, still complaining at being caught out. Any chance Justin would suggest they lunch together? She hoped he wouldn’t. No, she hoped he would. She glanced up.

  He’d gone.

  Cleo left only to buy a BLT on wholemeal from a little kiosk across the car park, then returned to help herself to a spoonful of the office coffee and ring Gav from her mobile. ‘How’s your dad?’

  Gav exhaled loudly. ‘Not bad. The doctors are saying he might be discharged on Monday.’

  ‘What about your mum?’

  ‘Coping.’ She could picture Gav pacing to and fro as he talked into his phone. ‘She’ll be OK if I come home at the weekend. When’s good for you?’

  Because he hadn’t tried to impose his own schedule Cleo felt generous. ‘If I drive up Friday evening, we can come back Saturday or Sunday.’

 
‘You’re going to work to the end of the week, now?’

  ‘I have to, really.’

  He paused. Then, ‘You’ve left your pyjamas here.’

  They’d still be under the rose-splashed pillow and satin-quilted bedspread of George and Pauline’s guest room. Cleo laughed. ‘I didn’t need them.’

  Gav’s voice dropped. ‘They smell of you.’

  ‘That’s reasonable.’

  ‘I like them. I was thinking …’ But he broke off without sharing his thought. ‘You know I love you?’

  ‘Mmm.’ For a stinging moment, she actually felt sorry for Gav; for this new, uncertain Gav, anyway, trying to coax a loving reaction out of her. And failing. It was a new sensation. She hoped that this weirdness would fade soon and she’d go back to being glad to hear his voice and touch his skin. Approaching chatter in the corridor outside forewarned her that her time alone was up. ‘The group’s coming back. Must go.’

  Justin was enjoying himself enormously, watching Cleo and how excruciatingly conscious she was of him. When he’d realised Cleo was ‘the training woman’ taking the seminar, a huge bubble of delight had lodged in his chest. And her expression when she’d noticed him! The shock-horror. Brilliant. A real ‘Beam me up, Scotty’ moment.

  During the afternoon break, from his place in the coffee queue he watched her shunt armchairs into a circle at the back of the room before fetching one of the taller, straight-backed chairs and reserving it with her handbag. Her mobile, the one he’d carried around for almost a week, peeped out from a side pocket.

  She raised her voice – ‘Let’s wind down in the comfy chairs’ – and turned to accept the coffee that Bernadette – she would – had poured for her.

  Justin took the seat dead opposite Cleo’s.

  Funny – and infuriating and frustrating – how he’d missed her. How could he miss someone after a mere fling? He couldn’t. But he had. Tucking away the kitchen stool she’d used, snapping shut the lid on the shampoo she’d massaged through her hair, drying himself with the towel that had wrapped her body, her absence had been a palpable thing.