In the Beginning
Chapter
One
IN THE BEGINNING
“Toilet brush” is no name for a hairdo.
G
eorge stood at the Red Cross shop counter eyeing the half price sticky-note on a TV. Behind it, staring from the pocket-size screen, was the PM.
George stared at his blond hair that looked way too much like a toilet brush.
“Thank God that’s on mute.”
No one heard. The shop was empty apart from two staff bent under the counter shoving mugs and packets of biscuits into a box like there was a food embargo.
George idly wondered what the full price for the TV was as he dumped two garbage bags onto the counter with a grunt. They were heavy, full of an unwanted pair of curtains, courtesy of Catrina.
She, waking up one too many times to the “abortion of a curtain,” declared that either they go or she does.
He had to admit they were a bit drab. Seventies secondhand. In fact, they probably came from this very shop.
He watched the two staff, an elderly woman with a commanding chest and a bookish-looking young man with stiff hair. They were packing, completely oblivious to him and his bags.
He coughed and was on the verge of shouting a Brexit joke when the door crashed open.
The till drawer followed, spraying a fountain of coins onto the floor.
“Turn it up,” said the voice.
“And listen to that twat?” muttered the elderly woman.
She looked up, caught sight of the face behind the voice, and smiled.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“The PM’s on,” said the postman. “We should listen. It’s an update.”
“We already know what the update is,” said the elderly woman with a crisp shutting of the till.
“It all kicks off midnight,” said the young man from under the counter.
“Kicks off?” said George.
“Lockdown,” said the elderly woman with a heave of her chest. “You’ve five minutes. We’re closing.”
“What about my curtains?” said George.
She pushed the bags toward him. “Take ’em home.”
“But . . .”
“I’m a volunteer. I’m not paid for sorting in the face of an epidemic; that’s frontline work.”
“You
have
had your flu jab, Gran,” came the muffled voice of the young man.
“Flu jab? That’s as useful as the shop’s till
and
as out of date.”
The door burst open again.
The till drawer followed, hurling a few remaining coins to the floor.
Catrina, dressed in her casual I’m-not-at-work-but-rather-hiking attire, filled the doorway. Her hair, usually up and rigid, looked wispy about the edges as her muscular arms clung to several garbage bags.
She glared at George with a “where the hell have you been?” look.
A garbage bag dropped; she didn’t move.
“We’re to take it back, luv,” said George.
“What?” snapped Catrina.
“They’re closing,” said George.
“Things are kicking off,” said the postman.
“You
are
kidding,” snapped Catrina.
“No, I’m friggin’ not. It’s the Chinese,” said Gran, slamming the till shut.
“And that twat,” the postman said, gesturing to the TV. “We’ll be wearing masks next.”
“Over my dead body,” said Gran. “We’re not the Chinese; fresh air is good for you.”
“But we’ve just had a clear-out,” said Catrina.
“Them and their cats in cages,” said Gran.
“It’s bats,” said the young man.
“Apparently they strangle them beside their special fried rice. They have no idea about health and safety.”
Everyone looked at her.
“I
was
a chef, you know.”
“Dinner lady, Gran.”
“I do have a fair idea of hygiene, and those from the far
whatever
are about as clean as a dog’s kennel. Stringing cats up outdoors . . .”
“It’s bats!” said the young man.
“And all that blood.” She shook her head.
“Where else would you string things up?” laughed the postman.
“Well, not near my fried rice, for a start,” said Gran.
The young man thrust a Nescafé jar into a bag and stood up.
“Gran, you’re getting silly again.”
“Those Chinese have lived for thousands of years on bats,” said the postman.
“Exactly,” huffed Gran.
“And look at them—their old folk dance in the street, not like ours
,
shoved in front of a TV too comatose to dribble.”
Gran huffed her chest, standing at attention. “I think you exaggerate. I’ve yet to meet a dribbler in my circle of so-called old friends.”
“Gran, have you taken your tablets?” said the young man.
“And what am I to do with these bags?” huffed Catrina in her crisp German accent.
“We’ll find something,” muttered George.
“I’m not friggin’ carting them back. I have better things to do with my attic.”
“I said we’ll sort it, luv.”
“Attic. Well, that says it all,” said Gran. “There’ll be all manner of infections in that lot. Get them out of my shop.”
“Tablets, Gran?”
“I have cleaned these on the hottest wash,” said Catrina.
“Ninety degrees
ain’t
gonna kill a Chinese virus.”
George gestured to the car. “Let’s go, pet.”
Catrina huffed. “What am I to do with all this . . . stuff?”
“We could use
my
stuff for costumes,” said George.
“Costumes?” said Catrina. “Out of these so-called curtains?”
George glared at her.
“I wouldn’t hang them on a window, let alone an actor.”
“I beg to differ,
luv
,” hissed George.
Gran looked at George, “That’s where I know you: the infamous fire.”
George face stiffened. “That hall was buggered.”
“Still, a hall,” said Gran.
George stomped back to the car, stuffed the bags into the boot, and pressed the top down for all it was worth.
He was fed up with the fire.
Of all the things he had done in his life—the pantos he had directed, his famed
Dick Whittington
, his
Puss in Boots
, and his much-talked-about
Peter Pan
—none mattered but that bloody fire.
Catrina said nothing. When anyone mentioned the fire, it was best to leave him to “huff himself out,” as she called it.
“They got a new hall out of it,” he muttered, “but do they thank me?”
“Let’s just get in the car,” said Catrina.
George jumped into the driver’s seat and revved the engine.
Catrina threw him an “easy on the peddle” look.
Gran stood at the shop door and switched the Open sign to Closed with a prophetic glare.
He huffed. “Wasn’t that long ago that old witch was laughing her head off at my
Puss in Boots
.”
Catrina, with her best soft look, patted his knee.
“My
Dick Whittington
was so innovative it made the center page.”
The grandson appeared, tablet in hand. Gran ignored his nudges and continued to stare.
George, meeting her glare, revved his engine again. “But what does
she
remember?”
“Let’s just head off,” muttered Catrina.
“The friggin’ fire.”
“Let’s not go there, dear.”
“Granny’s friggin’ Soup Kitchen going up in flames.”
“It
was
her Wendy house,” said Catrina.
“I’ll die with it plastered on my gravestone. ‘Here lies George, the man who burnt good old Gran’s friggin’ Wendy house,’” he grumped. “And me their best customer.”
“You want them to write
that
on your gravestone?”
“I’ve been in that shop more times than the cleaner. I practically paid their wages with the stuff I’ve brought over the years.”
“They’re volunteers,” said Catrina.
“Well, the electric bill then.” He stared ahead as the car hummed in neutral.
“Do you want me to drive?” snapped Catrina.
He crunched into first and headed off like a rally driver.
“Love to show her and her cronies.”
“I’m sure we can do something,” said Catrina.
“Make ’em eat their friggin’ words.”
Catrina stared at the road ahead. “Not much chance of that now, is there? We’re in lockdown.”