Chapter 8

‘We were beginning to think you weren’t coming, Dominic.’  Steam whooshed out of the vegetable dishes as Thelma doffed their lids.  She motioned her family and guest to dig in.  ‘You’re all right, though, the dinner hasn’t spoiled too much.’

‘It hasn’t spoiled at all,’ said Emily firmly, riled by the naggy edge to Mom’s tone.  Dom was too old to be told off.  ‘Roasters, Dom?’  Rolling her eyes apologetically, she passed him the Wedgwood tureen from which she’d just loaded her plate with heavenly crunchy potatoes.

Brian, uncorking Dominic’s Cabernet Sauvignon, spoke in the self-conscious, over the top tone they were all suddenly using.  ‘You know your mother: always self-critical.’

This was true.  The vegetables were nanoseconds overcooked, but the meagrest slide down the hostess-o-meter mortified Thelma.

‘I’m very sorry I was late, Mrs Smeed.  The dinner’s delicious, though.  It’s so kind of you to have me.’

‘Well I must admit it was a surprise when Emmy told us you’d be coming.’

Emily scowled at Mom’s use of her baby nickname.  She’d never minded in front of other boyfriends – but then she’d never brought any home who arrived bearing sophisticated wines and wearing shirts with waistcoats.  She wasn’t an ‘Emmy’ with him.  She was wearing her new best dress, her blue wrapover from Hong Kong, and had French-pleated her hair, leaving spirals to brush her neck artfully carelessly.

‘Oh, I bumped into Ian’s mom a couple of weeks back, in BHS at the Merry Hill Centre.’

‘Did you?’  Emily was static, mid-slice with a sprout.  Her eyes were fireworks.

‘Ian’s at Aberystwyth, doing a PhD in Criminology.’

‘Great.’

‘Who’s Ian?’ enquired Dominic evenly.

‘Old boyfriend of Emmy’s.’

It was naughty of Mom, but perhaps it was actually adult to discuss exes, without risk of jealousy?  Dom probably maintained cordial terms with the no doubt cultured girls from his past.  Emily unfroze and popped the bisected sprout into her mouth.  ‘Yeah, I went out with him for a year and a bit.  Ages ago.’

The entire main course discourse bobbed along thus: staccato from subject to subject, the Smeeds half trying to natter naturally; half putting on this red-carpet front for Dom.

‘More turkey, Dominic?’

‘Whereabouts d’you live?’

‘You follow football, Dominic?  See West Brom are having another dismal season.’

‘Cranberry sauce?’

‘Had enough carrots?’

‘So you met Emmy at the Raffles?’

‘Sure you’ve had enough carrots?’

Emily shot Dom a ‘Please don’t let them put you off me’ smile.  He was so ultra civil – like a little boy, schooled to speak only when spoken to – that she suspected he was overawed.

‘You’re training to be a teacher then?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But Emmy said you were – well – twenty-nine?’

‘They have mature students nowadays, Dad.  You can return to education at any age.’

‘So you’ll qualify at thirty-two?’ Thelma verified.  By her tone, he’d be needing a zimmer frame on which to hang his cap and gown.  ‘What were you doing before?’

‘I worked in IT.  Computers,’ he clarified.

‘Yes, I know what IT means,’ said Brian brittly.  He was watching Dominic’s hand which lay familiarly across Emily’s knee. 

‘I kind of fell into it.  Then I had an epiphany and realised it wasn’t the career for me after all.  Teaching’s a vocation I’ve dreamed of for a long time.’

‘Take it you don’t live in halls of residence then?’

‘No, got my own flat.’

‘Don’t forget to give me the address before you go,’ Emily reminded.

‘Finished?’  Thelma gestured to Dominic’s plate.

‘Yes.  Thank you.  It was delicious.’

She stacked the plates and scraped the debris on to one, twittering again at how little he’d eaten.

‘Oh leave him be, Mom.’

‘Well the lad’s hardly had enough to feed a robin.  You’ve got room for a spot of Christmas pud, haven’t you, Dominic?’

He groaned, ever so faintly, though responded ‘I’ll try.’

‘I’ll give you a hand with the crocks.’  Emily gathered up some Wedgwood.  She and handsome Dominic smiled at each other on her way out, and pride rippled through her to see him at her family table.  His hot gaze made her feel so stunning.

‘So what d’you think?’ she whispered to Thelma as they stacked the dishwasher.

‘Hmm.’  The nonsensical reply was Thelma’s catch-all interjection, always expressed at a contemplative pitch – a lifelong irritant to Emily.

‘What does “Hmm” mean today?’  Emily filched a sprout before tipping the rest into the escalating bubble and squeak heap with the leftover carrots and roasters.

‘Doesn’t say much, does he?’

‘He’s shy – he can’t help that.’

‘Hmm.’

Emily rolled her eyes.

‘Dresses well for a student.  His shirt’s got that little polo player on – oh, what’s that one again?’

‘Ralph Lauren.  Maybe he got it in a sale.  Or on eBay.  So he takes a pride in his appearance.  What would you prefer, a scruffbag who makes no efforts to impress?  Anyway, he lives on an inheritance from his parents.  They were killed in a car crash, you know.’  Emily said this sharply – her implication being that the tragedy should excuse Dom anything, and her mother ought to be more compassionate, particularly this time of year.

‘Yes.  You did tell me.  His timekeeping’s not the best.  And he’s quite hard work.  Ian was such a chatty lad.’

‘Oh, you and precious Ian!’

‘Are you sure you’re being yourself with him, love?’  Thelma dropped her voice with penetrating concern. 

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’m not sure this new image is truly you.  Ian seemed to like you enough in your student baggies.  Here y’are,’ Thelma handed her daughter the microwaved pitcher of brandy sauce to sidestep argument, ‘take this in.’

‘I’m sorry Mrs Smeed – ’

‘Call me Thelma.’

‘I’m sorry Thelma, I’m afraid I’ll have to admit defeat with this pudding – gorgeous as it is.’  Dom put down his spoon just two laboured mouthfuls in.

‘Already?  But – ’  Emily’s frown curbed further mumsiness.  ‘Well if you’re sure – ’
‘Let’s do presents then!’  Emily licked the final smearing from her spoon.  ‘I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve got you, Dom.’

It was Raffles: The Story of Singapore, a glossy hardback, ‘a keepsake of our time there.  Maybe you could create a lesson around it, inspire your future pupils to jet off East and imbibe some of that history.’

Brian and Thelma swapped glances.  Their daughter’s swathes of holiday snaps, it had transpired, gave a disproportionate impression of her time in this young man’s company.  They’d had barely three days – Dominic being either on outings with the Mirror people, or keeping the still-ill Tim company – so this book seemed an overwhelming gift.

The Milk Tray from him was really a more befitting token – though Emily had to admit she found it a surprisingly prosaic choice for Dom.

It’s mercenary to feel disappointed, she chided herself, and thanked him effusively for the chocolates.

‘Alone at last.’  Emily nuzzled his arm in the cold. 

‘Why don’t you take Dominic a walk round,’ Mom had suggested, ‘show him the village.’  Emily expected this; it was such a parental chestnut – ‘let’s get the kids out the way while we dissect the new boyfriend’ – and Brian and Thelma were less than subtle in its execution.  She had to admit the snap of the front door behind them was a freeing sound – though, on their own again on her turf, as it were, she was oddly shy.

‘So,’ she spread her other hand, ‘this is my village!’  There was a self-conscious compulsion to fill silence – something that usually presented no difficulties – and show off her ‘turf.’

She narrated as she steered Dom to the top of Danks Avenue then left, canal-bound, into High Street.  ‘The bloke who lives there,’ she indicated a semi on the junction, ‘is a transvestite.  One of the neighbours once saw him go up a ladder in his frock to twiddle with his telly aerial!  Then Mr Shorthouse opposite keeps a pet goose – Gertrude – she got stolen once and Mr S put up a reward.  He got Gertrude back.  Right vicious thing she is, though.’

By the time they veered down the canal bank, Emily was warming to her authoritative pride in Lower B’s quirks and characters.  It mattered not that Dom still seemed too overawed for speech.

‘And this is the Staffs-Worcester Canal, obviously – or the cut, as we call it.’ 
High Street formed one of the numerous bridges over this waterway.  One could join the towpath either on the left – as Emily and Dom did – towards Upper B and onward to Britain’s biggest village, Wombourne, or right, which led to Kinver. 
Emily pointed back to the bridge.  ‘The lockkeeper must see some sights here, I tell you!  I actually lost my virginity under there!’

‘Shut up!’ 

Emily jumped; it was the first thing he’d said since they came out.  Dom himself shook slightly.  It was an involuntary bite – which he adroitly tempered into a plea. 
He drew her into a hug, rubbing her back, smelling her soft, almondy hair.  Beneath his assured, gentle hands, she felt as though nothing could hurt her.

‘I’m sorry, just the thought of you sneaking into the dark with Ian the would-be criminologist or some other stubby-nailed youth made me go a bit squeamish.  I prefer to pretend that you’ve only been mine.’

‘Oh I’m yours am I, you presumptuous sod?’  But she was squeezing Dom, and mock pouting, in the way of a girl who was mega flattered but loath to appear so.  He’d got away with it.  This time. 

‘I do hope so.’

As she gave herself up gratefully to another epic snog – which, whilst not quite on a passion par with her under-the-bridge action, certainly kept the frost off – she believed herself to be the one who’d ‘got away with it.’ 

Bloody Mom’s fault, banging on about Ian!  I didn’t realise how much she was upsetting poor Dom.  What’s she trying to do – wedge us apart already?  There was me thinking I was being all sophisticated, referring to past sex!  Well perhaps sophisticated isn’t the way to be after all.

‘And there’s the back of our house.’  Emily was narrating again.  They had desisted from their snog and were advancing up the Staffs-Worcester.  ‘Well, the upstairs anyway.’  The roof and top two windows peeked over the fence which partitioned the Smeed back garden from the canal, parallel to Danks Avenue.

‘Which one’s your bedroom?’ 

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

‘Really?  When?’

‘Hmm,’ Emily mimicked her mother’s non-answering inflexion, and strutted on, letting her skirt swirl coquettishly.  The Hong Kong silk was hardly canal-wear, but her boots and hem were at least safe – the mud still too frozen to squelch.  She giggled as Dom caught her up.  ‘When I was little, I crawled through a tiny hole in the bottom when I was out exploring the garden.  Mom was pegging washing, she looked up and noticed I’d vanished.  Said she found me right on the canal edge, happy as Larry watching the ducks go by.  She made Dad put new panels in straight away.  She nearly died.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t.’  Dom was content to drop the ‘bedroom’ thread for now.  It was enough for him that she’d insinuated he’d see it eventually.

‘Will you leave home again when you go back to uni?’  This question sprung to him after a few more minutes’ silent ambling.

‘No, I’ll get the bus in each day.  The only reason I’m going to Wolvo is that I can’t afford to live away for another year – or at least I won’t once I’ve financed my globetrotting!  I had a choice of either spending another year studying in Stoke now – which is just that bit too far to commute daily – or splurging all the wages I earned from three years of bar work and Saturday jobs on a travelling spree, and then do my LPC at a uni near home.  So I just thought sod it – I might never get any future opportunities to see these wonderful places around the world.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.  Travel provides such awesome experiences and memories.  Your classmates are going to be rather envious.’

‘Bet yours were too, eh?’

‘Yes, they were.’

‘Presume your tutors were OK about you having the time off so close to end of term?’

‘Didn’t have much choice, did they?’

‘S’pose not.  They could hardly say “Congratulations on winning this wonderful competition, but sorry we can’t let you take your prize!”  This is my friend Robyn’s family home by the way.’  They were a mile up the canal now, passing a somewhat straggly but snugly lit house on the bank.  There was a tiny paddock adjacent, and a stable, home of Siobhan Moss’s ‘hoss,’ Merit. 

‘Rob keeps the florist in the village and lives above the shop now, in a flat, but her folks are here.  Bet they’re having a whale in there now.  I used to be so jealous of her huge family Christmases as a kid, what with only the three of us at our place.  Which reminds me – what are you doing for New Year, Dom?  Rob’s clan always have this massive bash and invite everyone.  She’s said I can bring you this year.  Are you up for it?’

‘How do you get to their house?  They’ve got a Land Rover, but surely you couldn’t drive up the towpath?’

‘There’s a track off Bridgnorth Road – you know, the one that crosses that way.’  Emily waved her hand horizontally to represent the A-road, whose traffic they could now hear.  ‘We’re coming into Upper B now, by the way.’  She adopted a plummy, tour-guide voice.  ‘This is the posh end of our community – home to a few celebs actually.  Some of the houses here are just jaw-dropping.  I intend to buy one when I become a top lawyer or blockbuster novelist.’

‘Novelist?’  Dominic seized on that revelation, not apparently enthralled by Upper B.  ‘You’re a would-be JK Rowling on the side too?’ 

‘Oh, writing’s always been my hobby – I’d adore to have a book published.  Maybe even make a heap from it, retire early from the law, and live my life as one long worldwide jolly.  I’ve been keeping a journal since I embarked on my travelling.  I stick tickets in it, and pamphlets from everywhere I’ve been – which I know makes me sound a right anal cow, but I always think life’s too precious to go unrecorded, don’t you?’

‘That’s a lovely sentiment.  Are you going to do a novel based on your – our – time in the Far East?’

‘I’d love to.  It’s true what the creative writing guidebooks say – that journeys and foreign culture inspire authors.  They tell you never say no to the opportunity of trying something new – think of what a great story it could make!’

Dom nodded slowly, seeming to reflect on her reckoning.

The canal coursed north, its path now parallel with Bratchley Road, the upward continuation of Church Road.  It was a winding highway – an infamous rat-run that cried out for speed cameras which bisected Upper B on its beeline to the villages of Trysull and Wombourne.

‘Now that, if I’m not mistaken,’ Emily gestured to a roof – all that was visible above a wall of Berlin proportions, ‘is the home of Melba Most, the famous drag artiste.  Now my mate Robyn, who I was telling you about, has just befriended this girl, Heidi, who lives next door to him, would you believe.  In that place, I guess.’ 
In common with the rest of the estate, the houses in Abbiss Cross were individually designed.  The Chance residence sprawled, though not so elegantly as Melba/Melvyn’s.  Its construction was ‘in yer face’ modern: isosceles triangular roofs and acres of glass. 

Dom bestowed an unimpressed glance.  ‘Heidi, did you say?’ 

‘I know, like the little Alpine girl!  Wonder if she plaits her hair too?  Anyway, I was asking about New Year’s Eve – did you say you were up for it?  That Heidi’ll be there, though – not sure I like the sound of her.  Seems a bit of a spoilt diva type.  But I suppose I should make allowances.  She’s just been dumped by her fiancé, by all accounts, which must be a rough deal at Crimbo.  So do you fancy it?’

‘Can’t.  Sorry.’  Dom shook his head, looking at the ground.  ‘Tim’s having a do at his place.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Northampton.  He was my best mate at school but moved out of the area.’

‘Hope he gets no more tummy trouble.’

‘Yeah.  Can we go back now, Em?  I’m a bit chilly.’ 

‘OK then.’  She acquiescently wheeled round and hooked her hand through his other arm.  Mom and Dad should have had time to complete their Dom dissection by now.  ‘You suffer from the cold?’  Dom was shivering, though he looked padded enough in his leather coat and gloves.

He smiled feebly.  ‘Yeah, bit.’

‘In that case,’ she rubbed some feeling back into his arm, ‘we’ll slap the kettle on when we get back.  I’m dying to crack into that Milk Tray box too.’