Paul Robertson: Hi mrs turnbul sorry missed job can do tomoro halfrate
Paul Robertson: Hi mr clover sorry missed job can do weds halfrate
Paul Robertson: Hi mrs stuart summer specal 20% off loyal customs
Paul Robertson: Hi mrs sing summer specal 20% off
Paul Robertson: Hi mrs andresun 20% off bargin all sumer specal
Paul Robertson: Hi ali got any job
—
“I’m glad your ex-husband showed up okay,” New Girl pours Sylvie a cup of tea, “were you worried?”
“No, not really,” sighs Sylvie, “he always seems to land on his feet. And then finds another way to mess things up again. He’s like a child. But I guess I still feel affection for him. Just glad I’m not living with him.”
“Sounds like everyone’s happy…”
“Well…”
“Great. Let’s celebrate by looking at men!”
“Er, what?”
“On my dating app, look,” New Girl holds out her phone.
“I’m not really looking for anyone at the moment,” protests Sylvie.
“Not even this guy?” New Girl holds her phone out again.
Sylvie glances at the screen, “well, I mean he’s pretty. But awfully young.”
“Oh that’ll just be an old photo. They all do that. He’s probably more your age?”
“What, old?”
“No, no,” laughs New Girl, “but an actual grown up, not just some kid hoping to get lucky.”
“Show me another?”
“Okay then, what about this guy?”
“Ooh yeah, that’s more like it,” laughs Sylvie.
“One hundred per cent aino,” New Girl dismisses the picture with a swipe of her finger.
“Aino? What does that mean?”
“Totally fake profile, fake photo. It’s AI. And it’s a ‘no’.”
“Are there a lot of them?”
“Oh- yes! All of them use InJenJen or whatever of course. But the fun’s in working out if there’s a real person behind it or just feral copybots. Copybot see, copybot do,” New Girl starts to laugh, “this app’s better than most for keeping them out. That’s what you pay your dues for!”
“What does your profile say?”
“The photo was taken in Rome,” New Girl taps a couple of times to bring up her profile, “I went for a day out with friends from work. It wasn’t that far from where I lived.”
“May? Is that your real name? I thought you had an Indian name.”
“It’s short for Mahalakshmi. I don’t really like ‘May’, I prefer Lakshmi, but having a foreign name puts people off.”
“Surely it only puts off racists you wouldn’t want to go on a date with anyway?”
“No, not really. It puts off everyone whether they realise it or not. So I use May across all my socials. It makes life easier.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. But can I call you Mahala Lakshmi…”
“Mahalakshmi, but Lakshmi to my friends. Call me that, if you like. I’m not really that fussed. A rose by any other name after all.”
“Okay, thanks. Sorry, I don’t understand. Are you also called Rose?”
“No,” laughs Lakshmi, “‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’. It’s a quote, you know, from Romeo and Juliet. Meaning that names shouldn’t change how you think about someone. But of course they do, especially if it’s the only thing you know about them. Juliet’s being a bit naive there.”
Sylvie shakes her head, “sorry, don’t know it.”
“By William Shakespeare, you know, your country’s best ever writer.”
“Oh, okay. I didn’t know. I mean, yes, I’ve heard of Shakespeare, obviously. Anyway, thank you for sharing. Maybe I’ll have a go at that app, see what happens. What’s it called again?”
“Better Halves.”
—
A warm southerly breeze tickles their faces and plays with Jak’s hair as they ride.
“Woohoo,” shouts Robbo, “freedom!”
“Do you remember Sandy?” asks Jak.
“Who?”
“Sandy the dog. I used to walk him in these fields.”
“No. Never been here before. Never lived in the Leys,” Robbo screws up his face and for a second he almost starts to cry, how long is it since he lived with Jak and Sylvie? But the feeling passes, ‘don’t forget the good things, Pauly Po, they count for more than the bad.’
Robbo blows his nose and peddles harder, up a slight rise in the ground, “used to go rides with my Aunty Babs. Along the canal. Stop at a pub for one. Stay all day. Loved it. Yeah, just loved it, just sat in the sunshine, having a drink. Coke with lemon and ice cubes. Just loved it.”
“Did you ever see a kingfisher?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Small blue bird flying above the water.”
“Dunno. Can’t remember.”
They ride past a fenced off clump of tall trees at a high point of the path.
“What are they?”
“Beech. See how they have smooth looking bark and oval leaves. That’s how you tell.”
“Ah. Edible nuts? Beechnuts yeah?”
“Not at this time of the year,” laughs Jak, “in the autumn. Dunno what they taste like. They’re quite small, in prickly pods.”
“Like conkers?”
“Smaller.”
Robbo looks about him as he rides, hoping to see other things to ask Jak about. Magpies he already knows about and crows, but the trees in the distance are just trees in the distance to him.
“Can’t really tell from here. Maybe sycamores? I’m not really an expert on trees, you know,” shrugs Jak.
“Been looking at gardening classes, like proper classes with a certificate. Won’t have to ask you what everything is then.”
“That’s brilliant dad,” encourages Jak, “do you want to be a gardener then?”
“Yes. Favourite job. But only people with big gardens pay enough. Not many round here.”
“Where would you work?”
“North Oxford. Summertown and Park Town. Walked through it. Lots of big gardens. Need a certificate to get work visa for Oxford.”
“Ah, of course.”
Robbo’s voice goes quiet, “need to change. Cut down the booze. Go to work each day. Honest work for honest pay.”
“That’s great dad, like a little song.”
“Yeah! Maybe be a singer. That’s a good job.”
Jak laughs then puffs her cheeks out and, signaling to stop, pulls onto a patch of straggly grass by a thin hedgerow growing along a wire fence.
“Tired out?” asks Robbo.
“Yeah, I need to catch my breath,” concedes Jak, “this path is hard work on the up slopes today.”
“Nice view,” Robbo stays sat on his bike as Jak takes some deep breaths.
“Dad, when you said about people drinking blood, did you… I mean, did you actually…”
Robbo stares into space and shakes his head slightly, not to deny the question but out of horror at the thought of it, “didn’t know what it was, just told to drink.”
“Do you know what kind of blood it was? Or where it came from?”
Robbo shakes his head, a knot forming in his stomach. He gets off his bike and leans over, as if to be sick.
The feeling passes although the knot remains. He climbs back on his bike.
Jak leads the rest of the way along the Roman Road, through a wood which Robbo does not ask about, to Berinsfield.
—
“C’mon Coocoo, your fans want to have a look at you,” Sylvie pats her lap to encourage Itchycoo to come up. Itchycoo wanders off towards the kitchen.
On the screen in front of her, Sylvie can see Ruth’s lips moving, “think you’re on mute Ruthy?”
“… ’uck’s sake, sorry. It always starts muted by default for some reason. My colleagues just laugh at me now – ‘Quiet Ruth’ they call me.”
“‘Quiet’?” laughs Polly, “have your colleagues ever actually met you in real life?”
Ruth laughs as well, “no, most of them haven’t. We had a meet up in London last year but there’s been a lot of churn since then. Anyway, Sylvs, where’s this adorable kitten of yours?”
“He’s not a kitten,” corrects Sylvie, “fully grown tabby pussycat. And right now, he is probably standing by his food bowl waiting for me to fill it.”
“Aw, cute but selfish, that’s cats for you,” coos Polly mockingly, “what’s its name?”
“Itchycoo.”
“‘Itchycoo’? What a horrible name! What are you going to call it instead?”
Sylvie shrugs, “I don’t mind it too much. But I call him ‘Coocoo’ for short.”
“Like the bird?” queries Ruth, “I’m not sure having a cuckoo in your nest is generally seen as a good thing.”
“Well maybe ‘Cooey’ then, I dunno,” sighs Sylvie, “if you call roses something else they’ll still smell nice, after all. But I refuse to call him ‘Carly’ like Jak seemed to want.”
“That would have felt weird,” agrees Ruth.
“Exactly. For Jak as much as me, I’d have thought.”
“But here’s an idea: why not just give it a proper cat’s name?” suggests Polly disdainfully, “I mean, if you call a rose a turd then people won’t want to smell it at all, will they?”
“Well, Paul seemed insistent on Itchycoo…”
Ruth nods, “and he found him, right?”
“Well,” hesitates Sylvie, “a little hard to tell. But it sounds like the cat found him. Almost like he rescued him, showed him how to get back home. Or at least to ours anyway.”
Polly shakes her head in disbelief, “cats have a good sense of direction but a lousy sense of who to make friends with. They always seem to go for people who don’t like them or the most unreliable ones. Fickle like them, I suppose.”
“Well, he seems to like me,” laughs Sylvie, “and I do like cats so that must make me unreliable!”
“I didn’t mean you!” shrieks Polly.
“Ha ha, surely even you,” grins Ruth, “wouldn’t call Miss Sylvie ‘I said I’ll be there so I’ll be there’ Churchwell, unreliable!”
“I dunno though,” winks Polly, “you’re usually late for nights out. Although I suppose you’ll claim, reliably late.”
“Oh God, do you remember that night at Maxwell’s? Back in the day,” chuckles Ruth, “anyway, you remember Polly, don’t you? We had a table booked but we were waiting for Sylvie to show up so we could order, and we were just drinking cocktails like there was no tomorrow…”
“Margaritas!” remembers Polly, “oh they were so nice!”
“Yes that was it of course, margaritas, and the waitress,” Ruth giggles and can barely get the words out, “she’s like, ‘well, are you not ordering food?’ and I’m like, ‘yeah, but we’re waiting for our friend’ and she’s like, ‘well, okay’ and then the next time, which is just like ten minutes, we just order drinks again and she’s like, ‘well, I really think you should order some food, if you booked a table you should order some food’, so Polly orders something to keep her happy…”
“Dough balls…”
“Yeah, dough balls, to pretend we’re eating something. And we’re just being sassy teenagers really but we can’t take our drink…”
“Not that many anyway!” chuckles Polly.
“Quite, and then eventually I think the waitress refuses to get us any more drinks but we’re trying to get another one to serve us and we’re shouting, God knows how loud, and we’re both shouting the same thing, ‘a margarita for me, and a margarita for my best friend’ and…”
“I can hear you both as I’m walking up from the street,” remembers Sylvie, “I think half of Oxford could hear you. So I’m by the bar and I order three margaritas.”
“Then you bring them over,” Polly is laughing so hard, tears are squeezing down her cheeks, “so then you say…”
And all three shout together, “a margarita for me, a margarita for my best friend, and a margarita for my other best friend!”
“Oh,” continues Polly, “and I say, ‘you took your time,’ and you say…”
“I said I’d be here,” laughs Sylvie, “but I didn’t say when I’d be here!”
“Oh Sylvs,” Ruth, grinning, dabs at her eye with a tissue, “we know you always will.”
They all hoot with laughter, the sight of tears streaming down each other’s faces triggering them to keep laughing even as their faces ache so much they want to stop. Itchycoo, no longer the centre of attention, miaows plaintively in the kitchen.
—
“Welcome to Berinsfield, Mr Robertson, good to meet you, do come in,” Sticks greets them warmly, shaking Robbo by the hand.
He leads them into the living room, gestures to sit on the settee and sits himself on an armchair facing the window.
“How’s work with you?” Sticks asks Robbo politely.
“Quiet week,” responds Robbo with a grimace, “so far.”
“Anything booked in for tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Well then, we can crack open the whisky,” Sticks rises from his seat, “you’ll take a dram? Anything for you, Jak?”
Jak eyes him with suspicion, and concern about her dad drinking, but just replies, “cup of tea?”
Whilst Sticks is out the room, Jak tries to talk to Robbo, “not sure you should drink. Not much anyway.”
“Seems nice bloke,” Robbo feigns a sort of nonchalance and looks round at the trophies, “a boxer. Don’t just say no to boxers.”
“He stopped boxing years ago, half of them are for chess.”
“Defo don’t say no to clever boxers,” he laughs but he can still feel the knot in his stomach from earlier. It won’t go away. Maybe the whisky will help.
Sticks comes back into the room with a tray, a large bottle of Highland Park and two wide, heavy glasses. He places the tray on a coffee table and pours generous measures into the glasses, one of which he passes to Robbo.
“Slàinte mhath,” Sticks clinks his glass against Robbo’s.
“Cheers, thanks.”
“Your tea’s brewing in the kitchen,” Sticks half-turns towards Jak, “I don’t know how strong you like it, so maybe sort it yourself.”
“Have you taken my letter to Carly yet?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Okay, I’ll get my tea.”
Stick’s kitchen is small but very tidy and clean, almost unlived in. Jak rummages through half empty drawers for a teaspoon and fishes the tea bag out of the cup. The fridge has a week’s supply of ready meals and an unopened pint of milk. She opens it and pours a little into her cup, slowly stirring it.
Jak leans her back against the counter and sips the hot tea.
‘What are you doing here Jak? Why’s he being nice to dad? God, I forgot to tell dad about his mad no phones rule. Hope it doesn’t go off. He might not be so friendly then! Better get back.’
Sticks pours more whisky into Robbo’s glass, “you like it then?”
Robbo gives a thumbs up signal and swallows another mouthful.
“If you’ve not got any jobs on for the next few days, do you want to do a few things for me?”
“Yeah, how much?”
“Hundred a day plus bed and full board?”
“Full board? What’s that?”
“Three meals a day. Plus, y’know, teas, coffees, biscuits, whatever.”
“Alright. What’s the jobs?”
“Oh, fixing a few things. Keeping the place a tidy. Maybe an errand or two, you do drive don’t you?”
“Yeah. Need to be back Monday.”
“Okay, that’s a deal,” Sticks holds out a hand for Robbo to shake but he takes a sip of whisky instead, “okay then. Slàinte! I’ll just pop out for a second to put your bike away in the back garden, it’ll be safe from the local kids there.”
Jak passes Sticks as he goes out. She stands over her father, clutching a half drunk cup of tea, “what’s going on dad?”
“Got work.”
“Work?” Jak is puzzled, “what kind of work?”
“For Sticks, hundred a day. No jobs booked in and need cash for Mr Rumbelowe.”
“Your father’s going to work for me,” explains Sticks, peeling off his gloves as he comes back in the front door, “just for a few days. I need some things doing.”
“I see,” Jak nods, “when does that start?”
“Tomorrow morning, after breakfast. When Mr Robertson is ready. There’s no clocking-on-clocking-off here. He’ll be staying a few nights, make it easier than going back and forth from Rose Hill.”
“I see,” repeats Jak. This time she doesn’t nod, “and you’re fine with this, dad?”
“Yeah.”
Sticks looks at Jak, “don’t you have an early start tomorrow?”
“Same as usual.”
“Eight o’clock on the dot,” laughs Sticks, “or you’re sacked?”
“Late one time is docked pay. Late twice is sacked,” mutters Jak with a scowl, “I haven’t been late once yet.”
“Ah, they have you queuing up to build your own prison, grateful for it and running scared of putting a foot wrong. It’s a sort of genius, I guess.”
“I’m not grateful, I just need the money.”
“Ah, the capitalist contract. Guess we should’ve all read the small print. Anyway, how’s your friend Peter?”
“Peter? I don’t know anyone…”
“Ped, I believe he goes by. I’ve got an old mate working security there, keeps me informed,” Sticks smiles to himself, “when I want to be. Anyway, how is young Ped?”
“He’s been sacked.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Dunno. Annoyed, I suppose.”
“Have you told Carly?”
Jak laughs nervously, “he’s just a friend. He likes birdwatching. And actually, yes, I have told Tabs. Well, as soon as you pass on my letter.”
Sticks smiles and shrugs, “okay, I’ll make sure Carly gets your message.”
“My letter,” insists Jak.
“Yeah, of course, your letter.”
“Good,” concludes Jak, “now I better get going. I’ve got a prison to build, dontcha know! Bye dad, take care, see you soon.”