Nefertiti’s prodigy
By
K. McLeod
Copyright © 2007 Kerrie Ross
All rights reserved by the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Illustration on cover by Kerrie Ross
ISBN 978 0 9559938 0 0
To Kirsteen Douglas
And
Ivor
When one door closes another opens, so the saying goes.
When one door closes another slams in your face, so the joke goes.
For Sheryl, however, “that door” was always for someone else.
Until she met Nefertiti.
CHAPTER ONE
Sheryl watched the droopy lids of his eyes fill with water, and pulled out a tissue.
‘You’ve have got some arse on you!’ he said, dismissing the tissue. ‘You are like a ewe at tupping time.’ He moved behind her and pressed his fingers into the small of her back. ‘There’s plenty of meat on you girl.’
Mr. Rugby was the only person who called her ‘girl’, and he was the only man whose fingers came near her body. She watched as he fumbled his way into the cupboard beneath the stairs and pulled out a bottle of Aberfeldy.
‘Your mother has always been a little on the bony side for me,’ he muttered into the dark. ‘I like someone with a bit of meat on them, something to grab hold of. The problem with your mother,’ he continued, ‘is she lives on her nerves. It makes her lean and mean.’
‘My mother eats like a horse,’ said Sheryl.
Mr. Rugby had one final fumble with the bottle before he stumbled over to Sheryl and handed it to her. She eased it open and placed it on the kitchen table.
‘And she don’t know a good thing when she sees it,’ he continued, pouring out the whisky.
Sheryl motioned for him to stop, but he carried on until the glass was full.
‘Take that George feller. If you ask me, she isn’t going to get any better offers, not in a wheelchair and certainly not the way she drives it.’ Sheryl said nothing. She looked at her full glass and tried to remember if it was her third or fourth.
‘Now, what you need is something smooth,’ he said, staggering off to the stairs again.
Sheryl threw a shovel of coal on the fire, careful not to look in the direction of the mirror above it. It was the sort of mirror best avoided in daylight, and for the past two hours, she had managed it.
Mr. Rugby pulled out a bottle of Royal Brackla. ‘The Marilyn Monroe of malts,’ he whispered, and dusted it with his sleeve. ‘Full bodied, curvaceous and well endowed,’ he read off the label, then looked at Sheryl. ‘Whatever happened to peaty?’
****
Later on that night, she sat in front of another mirror behind the bar of the Argyll Hotel. Shifty the barman was playing, ‘Islands in the Stream’; and Sheryl was working up to a sway.
‘Dolly Parton really hits the spot, don’t she?’ Shifty said with a toothless grin.
Sheryl smiled and continued to sway until she heard Martin’s voice.
‘Sheryl! Thought it was you, I could hear you from the car park!’
She looked up to see Martin’s reflection in the mirror and standing beside him was the reflection of Imogene. Sheryl smiled a lopsided smile then turned to face her ex.
‘Sheryl THIS is Imogene,’ said Martin. ‘Imogene, Sheryl.’
Sheryl stared at Imogene; she had a body that defied gravity and a face that hadn’t cracked a smile since Christmas. Sheryl took a long draw from her cigarette and stubbed it out. Dolly Parton had finished and so had her good mood. She watched Martin place his hand on Imogene’s stomach and smile a smile she had never seen before.
‘I’m going to be a dad,’ he said.
****
Sheryl woke up five minutes before the alarm, with the sort of hangover that makes sleep impossible and any lying position worse than the last.
Ten past seven flashed on her clock.
‘Sheryl!’ boomed Beatrice. ‘It’s gone seven.’
‘I know.’
‘What?’
Sheryl rubbed her temples. ‘I said I know.’
‘I can’t hear you,’ Beatrice continued, adding a small cough.
Sheryl spied a glass half full of flat beer. She gulped it down; hoping it, along with the rest of what was in her stomach would stay still. Sam, the cat of unknown origin, sauntered up the bed.
‘Sheryl, you awake?’
Sheryl looked at the ceiling, wondering where else she could be at seven o’clock in the morning.
‘SHERYL?’
Small snapshots from last night flitted into her mind and she groaned. She let out a huge belch, attempted a stretch and then gave up as her head began to spin.
Beatrice eased herself upright and began hunting around for the television remote.
‘Sheryl, any chance of a cuppa soon?’
Sheryl rolled onto her back and groaned.
Beatrice flicked on the television with the remote and rewound last night’s wrestling tape.
Sheryl eased herself onto the side of the bed, pulled on her tracksuit and then made her way towards the kitchen, the only warm room in the house. Sam sprang off the bed and began charging in and out of her legs like a ferret on speed, as Sheryl expertly walked around it.
She flipped the kettle on, put bread in the toaster and then sat down with her back against the wall, waiting for her stomach to catch up with the morning’s movement. Nothing mattered, she thought. Nothing but keeping the contents of her stomach down and finding some cat food that didn’t stink of fish.
Beatrice watched the wrestling. Two huge men, dressed in colours only a large muscular man could get away with, circled the ring. They wore Lycra so tight that the only one (in the audience) who couldn’t see what was underneath was a short-sighted woman in the back row, half asleep.
Beatrice was almost in heaven, if only she had her tea.
Sheryl shuffled into the bedroom. ‘God, that’s loud!’
One of the wrestlers grabbed a chair from the commentator’s table and belted it across the back of his opponent. The chair hit the wrestler’s back and he fell on to his stomach with his limbs stretched out like a starfish. The standing wrestler looked around for applause. When none came, he then yelled some abuse at the audience.
‘Good night last night?’ said Beatrice, noting her daughter’s pasty complexion
Sheryl wondered if a cup of tea would be tempting fate. She forced a smile.
‘It’s about time you went out,’ said Beatrice. ‘You’ve been moping around far too long.’ She tapped her daughter’s knee, trying to appear positive; not easy with a face as comfortable with disappointment as Beatrice’s.
‘It was Rugby’s birthday,’ Sheryl ventured. ‘And he was looking for company!’
‘Ah, the malt whisky,’ smirked Beatrice, picking up a piece of toast. She could just picture the bottles lined up in the larder, and Mr. Rugby’s shaky hand pulling down one at a time, tenderly wiping the dust from the labels as he read each one out. ‘I remember his 65th birthday,’ said Beatrice. ‘We almost made it to the Knockando. So you seduced poor ole Rugby into a session, did you? How far did you get? I bet half of them didn’t even taste any different!’
‘I seem to remember a particularly pleasant Laphroaig,’ said Sheryl. ‘I even helped him to bed. No, my mistake was to carry on to the pub. That’s where things get blurred.’
‘I gather you met HIM then?’
‘And how did you ‘gather’ that?’
‘You staggered in moaning that song that you constantly played after the split.’
‘Shifty’s song,’ muttered Sheryl.
Beatrice swallowed her toast.
‘I thought we had a chance. I thought the split was temporary, then I met….’ She jumped up from the seat and raced to the toilet.
‘That’s right, Sheryl, better out than in,’ said Beatrice as she turned up the wrestling tape to drown out the sound of retching.
CHAPTER TWO
Sheryl sat in ‘The Stables Café’ thinking about brandy, raw eggs and other morning-after cures, idly wondering what sort of sick person came up with the idea when she noticed Lindsey, her younger sister, standing by the front door with an ”I’ve got something to tell you, which you are going to hate” look on her face.
‘Sheryl’s feeling delicate,’ yelled Beatrice, with a sympathetic face.
‘Oh,’ said Lindsey, with the blank look of someone who had never experienced a hangover before. Lindsey was the sort of younger sister no one would want; she had the same metabolism as Beatrice, a rich amiable husband and an easygoing son. Her main problem in life was what to wear to golf, and how to keep her cleaner from leaving. She ordered a hot chocolate with cream and the ‘gooiest’ cake available, and then looked at her sister. ‘So, what you been up to now, then?’
‘Feeling a bit rough.’
‘Sheryl, I can’t remember a morning when you haven’t felt rough.’
‘Or needed a good puke,’ added Beatrice.
‘You’ve had more hangovers than Mum’s had carers,’ said Lindsey, ignoring Beatrice’s sour look.
‘Ain’t nothin worse than a hangover when your life’s crap,’ said a waitress, appearing from nowhere. She plonked a hot chocolate down.
‘Crap?’ said Sheryl, looking at the waitress, who looked like she had nursed a few herself.
‘When you’ve got nothing better to do than get pissed.’
Sheryl eyed the waitress, still young enough to “pull” even in a slightly soiled apron. ‘I did not get p…’
‘Hanging around ole Rugby again?’ asked Lindsey.
‘I don’t hang around….’
‘When there is no one but your mum to commiserate with.’
‘Cheers, Mum.’
‘When the only way to treat yourself,’ said Beatrice ‘is to get pissed with some old git down the road.’
‘I did NOT get pissed ….’
‘Mr. Rugby did, by all accounts,’ said the waitress, scratching herself. ‘Frances was just in; she said he was still in bed - stinking of whisky.’
‘What’s he playing at, a man his age?’ said Edna from the next table. Edna spent every morning in the café with Mavis, and they had both known Rugby all their lives.
‘He didn’t even want his porridge,’ continued the waitress, acknowledging the two women. They nodded in unison.
‘What did you do to him?’ laughed Lindsey.
‘Not a bloody thing, I told you, I went to the….’
‘There’s no need to shout, Sheryl, or for that matter, wear a face like a smacked arse,’ Beatrice added, with a loud voice.
‘Frances said…’ the waitress continued.
‘You know,’ continued Beatrice. ‘If you just bothered a bit about your appearance, I’m sure you’d feel better.’
Sheryl wondered if the people across the road could hear her.
‘Frances said,’ added the waitress, ‘she was going to sort him out, starting with his so-called “collection”.’
‘Oh,’ said Beatrice, remembering why she didn’t like Frances.
‘And do you know what the old boy said? The only person touching his “collection” was him, and if he wanted to go to bed wrapped in tin foil, he would.’
Beatrice remembered why she liked Rugby so much.
Lindsey nudged her sister. ‘You wanna aspirin or a smoke?’
‘He said he would kill any damn bugger who was going to argue with that! And then he told her where to shove her porridge!’
‘Aye well, he always did have a good imagination,’ said Mavis.
‘That’s Rugby for you,’ muttered Edna.
The waitress moved on, leaving a whiff of fried chips behind, reminding Sheryl that she was still hungry. She wondered why she put up with the Saturday morning shopping, why she was sitting there taking all this verbal abuse. And when did drinking with an old man become a crime? She thought about fish and chips, a smoke and enough beer to make her clothes tight.
‘You heard from Martin lately?’ asked Lindsay.
‘Sheryl knows about the baby!’ said Beatrice, still in loud mode. Lindsey, to Beatrice’s mind was deaf; the truth was that Lindsay had no idea how to listen, or even pretend to.
‘But did you hear about the wedding?’ asked Lindsey, as she took a gulp of her drink. ‘It’s supposed to be a big ‘DO’!’ she muttered through chocolate lips.
‘It’s not that big a do,’ said Beatrice. ‘They’re holding it at the Argyll! That place has Irn-Bru on tap and karaoke on a Friday night. Their idea of a buffet is a plate of chipolatas, cheese and onion dip, and a packet of crisps. ’
‘The Argyll’s been taken over,’ said a voice from the other table. ‘They have a new chef, and they don’t do chips after seven, only potato wedges.’
‘You knew and you never thought to tell me?’ said Sheryl.
‘It’s a rush job,’ yelled the waitress from the back of the cafe. ‘She don’t want to show in her wedding dress.’
‘Show?’ Beatrice exclaimed. ‘She’ll be six months gone by then, the only thing she’ll be feeling on her honeymoon will be heartburn and the small sensation of piles.’
A chuckle ran through the café.
‘They’ve asked everyone,’ said Lindsey. ‘Even you.’ She slid an invitation card across the table.
The card was black with gold writing, some would say arty-farty. Sheryl ran her fingers along the crimped edges, and wondered how long the aspirin would take to work.
‘She made it herself… ’ said Lindsey.
‘Pretentious crap!’ said Beatrice, taking the card off Sheryl. ‘Mind you, that doesn’t surprise me, Martin always was a prat. I mean any man who has a hyphenated name.’
‘SHE MADE IT HERSELF,’ Lindsey continued. ‘Imogene IS a calligrapher.’
‘How wonderful,’ said Sheryl. ‘He’s having a baby with someone who writes like a monk.’
CHAPTER THREE
Beatrice looked at her cards, leant back in her chair and savoured her dram. George was all that was left, and he looked smug. Beatrice aimed her smile at him. She was as familiar with his weather-beaten face as she was with the moves in wrestling, and she knew what was coming next. Beating George was going to be the highlight of the night, and she intended to enjoy every moment.
Frances lit another cigarette. Why did she come? Poker was not her game; she preferred whist nights, but as there was only the three of them tonight from the ‘aces high’ card club, she was outvoted. She let out a small trail of smoke and thought about the following day. Beatrice would be in The Stables by lunchtime, crashing her wheelchair through the tables as the school children queued by the take away counter. Her usual ploy was to barge to the front of the queue and insist on paying for her 99p tea and cake offer with the winnings. Frances thought about taking the day off. Watching Beatrice count out coppers with a queue behind her was as painful as listening to her Uncle Rugby after he had spent an afternoon exploring his malt collection.
‘Play your hand, George,’ said Beatrice, draining her glass.
George met her stare.
‘I’ll raise you!’ he said, pushing forward a 2p.
She pushed forward her coin and another, ‘I’ll see you!’
‘Where’s Sheryl?’ asked Frances, ‘Upstairs; or still at Rugby’s?’
‘She is at her belly dancing class!’ said Beatrice.
‘Ballet dancing?’ said George. ‘Isn’t she a bit old for that tutu, dying swan stuff?’
‘BELLY DANCING!’ snapped Beatrice. ‘You know, of Arabia!’
George looked blank.
‘Sequins, bras, dance of the seven veils?’
‘Belly dancing?’ laughed Frances. ‘I read about that; a dance for fat women. Apparently, they all go over to Egypt and pick up Arabs for sex.’
‘How much you had to drink, Frances?’
‘It’s true; I saw it in the Record.’
Beatrice said nothing; as far as she was concerned, anyone who read The Record like the bible wasn’t worth arguing with. Instead, she turned her attention to George; his immaculate moustache was twitching.
‘What you smirking at, then?’
George smiled, he had vague memories of exotic dancing during the war, and for a moment he was transported back to those days when he looked pretty good in a uniform. ‘Belly dancing, I see, it is a woman’s kind of thing; getting over the break-up, what?’
Beatrice pushed another coin into the centre. ‘I’ll raise you!’
****
Sheryl stood at the back of her class, numbly thinking about Martin and his pulling power. She twirled her hips and followed the elastic flow of her teacher.
‘Knees together, Sheryl, this ain't no LAP DANCING class.’
Sheryl sighed. Nefertiti was a pain in the proverbial. She was a skinny woman, the wrong side of fifty-five, which no amount of black eyeliner and good dentures could disguise. She called herself Nefertiti, others in the class called her ‘Naff-arse-tetity’ or ‘the naff one’.
When Sheryl had started the classes, the teacher was a sturdy 25-year-old Greek called Ardennes, and Nefertiti (who was simply known as Janice back then) was just another pupil in the front row.
Ardennes attracted so many members that the class was moved from the small-carpeted playroom in the community centre, to the badminton court. He had a fondness for Lycra, worn tight, with a black sequined scarf tied in a LARGE knot over his groin, making pelvic tilts the high point of the evening.
He also had a job in the Argyll Hotel.
‘Belly dancing is a gift from one free spirit to another,’ Ardennes would whisper into a student’s ear, while placing his hands on her hips. ‘Let the drums unleash them.’
Janice had waited for him to whisper in her ear and place his hands on her hips. When he didn’t, she stopped eating carbohydrates and got her belly button pierced. And when that didn’t work, she informed Shifty, the barman in The Argyll, about Ardennes and his ‘free gifts’ from one client to another. It was the only time Ardennes was caught performing pelvis tilts with no Lycra.
He left the next day.
Sheryl felt sorry for the young man. Being caught in the act is undignified enough, but when suspended from a slightly dodgy four-poster bedpost, wearing nothing but a union jack g-string and clutching a pair of crutch-less pantaloons between his teeth, dignity didn’t come near it.
Sheryl would squirm uncomfortably as the other members of the class mulled over the gory detail of Ardennes’s sex life, some wishing it was themselves who had been suspended from a bedpost.
But Sheryl didn’t; it was not that long ago she was known as the girl who put sex into Scottish dancing. She knew, because Mr. Rugby had been in the Argyll and read the walls in the gent’s toilets.
It was all thanks to Mavis, who ran the post office. Martin owned the post office. He also owned the flat above, which Sheryl lived in. Mavis had walked in on Sheryl’s version of Scottish country dancing, and spread it about Lochgilphead that Sheryl was not only doing a line with a married man, but did it suspended in mid-air like some acrobatic prostitute. The things I did for Martin, Sheryl thought, no wonder I’m good at belly dancing.
‘Strictly speaking, this ain’t no belly dancing move, but as my Rodger would say, a bit of spice never harmed anyone.’
The class sighed. After two weeks in Turkey, Nefertiti had suddenly become an expert on all things Middle Eastern. She claimed belly dancing worked ‘Miracles down below’, or her ‘Flower of Scotland’, as Rodger liked to call it.
‘Six weeks of belly dancing, luv, and you’ll be able to laugh and stay dry,’ said Nefertiti, tilting her padded bra.
Sheryl wondered about her own neglected ‘Flower of Scotland’, and Martin, and wished she cared less.
George placed his hand on the table. At first, he was confident until he caught the familiar gleam in Beatrice’s eye. Plying her with whisky had been an expensive mistake. He had spent the best part of an evening watching his small pile of coins disappear. He knew what was coming next, gloating by Beatrice and more drink; all from his bottle, of course.
He smiled to himself, she was so damn predictable.
Sheryl rode her bike home from class, all the time thinking about sex, or as in her case, the lack of it. It had been ages since she had had any. In fact, she had forgotten what it was like to wake up with a smile on her face and someone warm close by. She stood by the gate of her house, and looked up at her mother’s bedroom window. Beatrice was in bed, the television light was flashing through the curtains and Sheryl could hear wrestling. She opened the gate, left her bike by the shed, and walked inside.
‘It hardly seems fair,’ said Sheryl, trying to shut the bedroom window, she looked at the lock and jiggled it a bit. ‘All those years he never wanted a baby, and then SHE comes along…’
‘You going to be long with that? Johnston is on soon.’
Sheryl tugged harder on the seized lock, but it refused to budge. ‘I’ve decided I don’t need a man,’ she said.
‘Women usually say that when they haven’t had their hole for ages, and there is no hope on the horizon. It makes them feel like they have a choice,’ said Beatrice, while watching the TV.
Johnston stood in the centre of the ring. The only thing that covered his six-foot dark frame was a pair of tight leather underpants cut high around his backside.
Sheryl sprayed WD 40 on the lock and gave it a sharp pull.
‘You never did like Martin, did you?’
‘Well, no mother likes to see her daughter hitch up with a married man; it means he is used to lying!’
‘I told you, it was an open relationship.’ Sheryl tried the lock again ‘It was all above board.’ The handle came off in her hand.
Beatrice turned up the volume of the TV. Johnston ran from one side of the ring to the other before climbing onto one of the corner posts and holding his arms in the air. The crowd cheered and began throwing knickers.
Steel Ice entered the ring. He had a tight butt, which he chose to show off in a pair of leopard print leggings. He picked up one of the underpants from the floor, rubbed it under his armpits and tossed it into the audience. The crowd booed.
Steel Ice and Johnston circled the ring. Johnston’s back foot slid on a pair of lacy knickers. Steel Ice grabbed his leg and bent it backwards, Johnston put on a good show of pain
‘You were still second best.’
‘For the love of GOD!’ shouted one of the commentators.
Sheryl looked at the handle in her hand then went downstairs to her toolbox.
Steel Ice crashed down on Johnston’s leg with his knee. When Steel Ice stood up, Johnston rolled over and slid under the ropes and out of the ring. Steel Ice followed, picked up a chair and ran towards Johnston.
‘Where is his wife now?’ Beatrice yelled. ‘She’s in his house, well set up.’
Sheryl stared at her father’s box of tools; she picked it up along with her drill and walked back to the bedroom.
‘Why did you have to fool around with HIM for? You’ve got nothing now.’
Sheryl turned on the drill.
‘I’ll get by somehow,’ she yelled over the noise.
‘Get by? How will you get by? You were working for ‘hands on Martin’ remember, not much reference that.’
Sheryl pulled apart the old lock and tossed it in the bin. Her thoughts drifted to Martin.
The first time she had met him was in the Argyll. Martin had just opened an underwear shop called Peek-a-Boo in Lochgilphead, everyone thought he was mad. Lochgilphead was a small town. Small enough to be satisfied with a Co-op the size of newsagents, and an even smaller Spar, how could an underwear shop pay? But Martin had ideas; he wanted to move up in the world and underwear with a difference was the way to go, that and some adult toys.
He walked into the Argyll and saw Sheryl knocking back the whisky, and singing Dolly Parton songs to Shifty. Shifty was trying to shut her up by offering her a cigarette. Martin at the time had a passion for big ballsy women, and Sheryl with a drink in her was ballsy, and big. He sidled up beside her and tapped her on the shoulder. Sheryl, still singing to Dolly Parton, spun around on her stool and skidded onto the floor. Martin was in lust.
‘Run my shop for me,’ he said, helping her to her feet.
Sheryl looked in to his puffy face and thought, Why not?
Those were the days, thought Sheryl, pulling the new lock out of its packet. She started her drill again.
It took Martin a couple of weeks to get past first base with Sheryl, but once she let his small round body into her bed, she was hooked. Martin pressed all the right buttons, and on a good day, he made her laugh. What did she care what her mother or anyone said. Martin made her happy, in the beginning.
But there are only so many ways you can flog a vibrator, and Martin began to look elsewhere to make money. He bought a shop in Oban and turned it into an art gallery. ‘Tourism, not sex, is the answer,’ he had said, and hired Imogene the calligrapher to run the shop, then Martin went all arty-farty.
The crowd on the TV were cheering louder, baying for Johnston’s blood. Steel Ice crashed the chair on Johnston’s back, and he fell to the floor; Johnston didn’t move.
‘What the hell do women see in Martin? I mean, what sort of grown man drives a sports car in Lochgilphead?’ said Beatrice.
‘HE LIKED intelligent women,’ Sheryl muttered, checking the lock one more time and than closing the window.
‘He just said that so you wouldn’t notice him staring at other women’s tits.’
Sheryl looked at the TV; Johnston’s beautiful black body was being carried off on a stretcher. ‘His new woman has a body that defies gravity!’ she said, ‘He’ll not be looking elsewhere now.’
‘The baby will see to that!’ snapped Beatrice.
Sheryl said nothing; she had seen his new ‘piece’, as Beatrice liked to call her, and thought it would take more than a baby to dislodge her assets. She stared at the TV, waiting for Johnston to return.
****
George parked his red Merc by the library ramp and jumped out. He walked around to the back, pulled the wheelchair out of the boot, unfolded it and then wheeled it around to Beatrice’s side of the car.
Beatrice glared at George. ‘Why do you insist on driving me about?’
George opened the door.
‘I mean, I’m not a bad driver, there are only a few dents on the car.’
George motioned Beatrice to slide onto the chair.
Beatrice inched her small bum into the chair, then switched on the controls. George moved behind to push. Beatrice, however, dismissed him with a wave and jolted the chair into first gear. The chair, not sufficiently warmed up, jolted, spluttered, then moved forward. Beatrice rammed it into second gear, then third, by the time the chair had hit the library door, it was in fourth gear and she had made her familiar crash entrance.
‘Hi Beatrice,’ said Steven, not even looking up from the reception desk.
Beatrice grunted and continued on to the staff room. There were three people in the library that morning, and not one looked up. Not one was surprised as she crashed by in her wheelchair, and all three expertly moved their feet out the way, like they had done a million times before.
‘Coffee, Steven? That’s if this old crock can manage a hot kettle.’ Beatrice paused and looked at the familiar faces now watching her, then crashed her chair through the staff room door and put the kettle on. ‘Two years ago, I was a vegetable,’ she muttered. ‘Couldn’t even wipe my own arse.’ She looked at the empty coffee jar. ‘TEA, STEVEN? They had me for dead; tell me I can’t drive.’ Beatrice crashed two cups onto the bench.
It had been two years since Beatrice had had her stroke, and she was proud of what she had achieved, she even had her old job back in the library.
‘MINT OR NORMAL?’ yelled Beatrice.
Steven muttered something about mint.
Beatrice crashed through the staff room doors with a cup balancing on each arm of the chair. Steven watched the liquid move with the motion of the chair, almost but not quite spilling. ‘Or whatever you got,’ he said.
Beatrice wheeled herself behind the desk as Steven gingerly lifted the cups from the arms of the chair. She took up her usual place behind the desk, and surveyed the library like a captain at the helm. She liked to think she ran a tight ship and that poor old Steven would be lost without her. She berated the young mothers for making too much noise, and did her best to scare off any children she considered “badly behaved”. She dealt with pensioners with an extra loud, “Are you stupid as well as deaf?” voice, and snapped at any students who dared to ask for an unavailable book. And as for those who brought in a late return; they never did it twice.
Steven, who had been working in the library for a year, had still not convinced Beatrice that it was he, and not her, who was the trained librarian and had the final say. He spent his time placating customers not used to Beatrice’s gruff ways, and soothing young mothers whose children refused to go near the “Crabbit old lady in the wheelchair”.
He also read “How to write a novel” manuals. He was secretly working on a murder-cum-western story, loosely based around a gun slinging redhead, just like Sheryl. He pictured his heroine standing behind some bar, wrapped in taffeta and lace, with a tiny pistol strapped to her thigh. Sheryl had no idea. She just assumed he looked at all women in a peculiar way.
****
Sheryl stood in the middle of the Community Centre badminton room, practising her hips circles, the motion felt good, she closed her eyes and moved to the drums.
‘Good, Sheryl,’ said Nefertiti. ‘You should think about gettin' a costume. Come see me later, I know what works for big ladies.’
Sheryl opened her eyes and looked around the room; there were ten big round bums covered in brightly-coloured coin belts just like hers, and not one of them looked out of place.
****
Beatrice pulled out four DIY books from the shelf, hid them underneath the desk in the reception, and then began to write a list. Frances walked in and placed a ‘Beat the Pros at Poker’ book on the returns desk. Beatrice looked at it and sniffed. Frances picked up the list and read it.
1. Unblock drain outside kitchen.
2. Replace rowan outside your window.
3. Replace slates next chimney.
If wet -:
Fix washing machine AGAIN.
Change lock on my bedroom window; they don’t match.
‘This is for Sheryl?’ asked Frances.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Beatrice, busy with returns.
‘Do you not think she needs pampering?’
‘Hard work is what she needs.’
‘She’s been working for months at your place, and she still looks as miserable as the day Martin dumped her.’
Beatrice threw her a look; she liked to think she knew what was best for her daughter; plenty of hard work and, of course, Mr. Rugby.
Beatrice had a theory, which she would tell to anyone who stood still long enough. ‘What a dumped woman needs is the chance to turn down the advances of another man,’ she would say, and Mr. Rugby was nothing if not persistent. The fact that he had just had his eightieth birthday and had a hygiene problem meant little to Beatrice.
Others would argue.
‘How is a persistent old man sprouting a variety of growths on his face going to cheer Sheryl up?’ said Frances. ‘She was dumped, she came home to find her possessions stuffed in bin bags, the locks changed and the worst Dear John letter I’ve ever read. Mr. Rugby’s groping is hardly going to take away that pain.’
But Beatrice was adamant.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sheryl left the Community Centre, drove into the main street of Lochgilphead and parked by the Spar. On the passenger seat was a pamphlet Nefertiti had given to her along with everyone else in the class. On the front was a picture of a huge woman dressed in an amazing costume, with the heading:
Belly dancing goes large
Inside was an article about Kelly, the huge woman in the amazing costume.
OUTSIZE KELLY OUTCLASSES THE REST
Being a size 20 doesn’t stop our Kelly from pulling in the crowd!
Some of the class members took offence. Sheryl felt inspired.
She pictured herself dressed in Kelly’s amazing costume. She pictured herself dancing in front of someone sexy like Johnston. She decided to make herself a costume.
****
Beatrice began to go through the returns pile, underneath lay Steven’s notebook, as it fell to the floor, Frances picked it up.
HOW THE WEST WAS WON
BY
STEVEN PIPER
Was written on the front. Frances opened it and the two women, after a small amount of protesting by Beatrice, began to read.
Sheryl was the type of woman hard to forget; a gun-slinging barmaid who made the West a safer place. She held no prisoners. With a tiny pistol strapped to her succulent thigh, and a smile that would melt the proverbial, Sheryl was the DOG’S BOLLOCKS.
Beatrice turned the page....
He took one look at her flowing hair and ample bosom and decided one look was not enough. Lust stirred in his loins. Sheryl was everything he dreamed of and more. She even pulled the perfect pint!
Beatrice looked at Frances, ‘I had no idea. I just assumed he looked at all women that way.’
Sheryl worked the bar like a pro. ‘Keep ‘em coming,’ he yelled as he eyed her voluptuous hips. She turned; caught his eye…she knew what he was thinking. ‘Skull your whisky, Porter,’ she said ‘it’s your last!’
Little did she know that Porter was already on her side!
Steven wandered past the desk and picked up the mail. Beatrice slid his notebook under the shelf, ‘Alright then?’ she said, with a small cough.
Frances flashed a smile. ‘Hi Stevie,’ she said sweetly.
****
Sheryl left the main street with a decent pair of scissors for sewing, a handful of cotton reels and a bag of old jewellery from the Bosnia shop. She jumped in the car and drove to the library; maybe they would have some sort of book about belly dancing there. She parked by the ramp and walked into the library, then she remembered it was Friday, fish and chips night.
Every Friday night over a fish supper, Beatrice went over her list of jobs that needed doing around the house. Sometimes, Sheryl wondered if she could ever look at a piece of battered cod again without thinking of drainpipes and handy foam. But tonight was going to be different. Tonight over her fish supper, Sheryl intended to plan her costume.
Without looking at her mother, she walked past the reception desk. Steven looked up.
‘Can I help?’ he asked.
Sheryl said nothing; she knew where the Middle Eastern section was. She pulled out a couple of volumes of Turkish Embrace, a small book called Eastern Rhythms, and then with the agility of a yoga teacher, she sat on the floor to read.
Beatrice watched her daughter and wondered which charity shop she had got her outfit from.
Steven watched and wondered about offering to help.
The first time he had met Sheryl, she was pushing Beatrice up the library ramp, the chair battery was flat and she was getting the blame. She pushed like a powerhouse with a face he reckoned hadn’t smiled, let alone laughed in weeks. From that moment on, he dreamt of making her smile.
Sheryl walked back to the counter and plonked her books on top of the list. This weekend, she was going to do something nice for a change.
Steven studied the books. ‘Sheryl’s a belly dancer,’ Frances told him. He opened Turkish Embrace Volume One and came face to face with a photograph of large pregnant woman circling her bare bump under the sun.
Beatrice pulled the list out and slid it over the woman’s bump. Sheryl looked at the list and saw her weekend stretched out before her, and the costume she was hoping to make become just another dream.
‘I’m busy this weekend,’ she said in a low voice.
Without a word, Beatrice stamped an elderly woman’s Patricia Cornwall (in large print).
‘I have plans of my own!’
‘Plans, what plans?’ said Beatrice, thumping her stamp even harder on a Steven King. ‘Since when did you have plans at the weekend?’
Sheryl turned to Steven with a pink face. ‘Last weekend, she had me unblocking the downstairs loo. She read out the instructions, while I was up to my armpits!’
Steven watched Sheryl with ever-increasing respect, Belly dancing and plumbing. He sighed.
‘As I said before,’ said Beatrice, ‘it’s best to keep busy when you’re alone!’ She pushed the novels towards the elderly woman, who had no intention of moving. ‘It’s not easy being the wrong side of thirty-five and dumped.’
‘I told you,’ said Sheryl. ‘I have things to do.’ She caught the eye of the elderly woman, who looked like she didn’t believe her either. Six months of living with a mother who had selective hearing and a permanent “Yeah right,” look on her face had left Sheryl feeling that most folk doubted her. She watched her mother reverse her chair into its familiar dent, while Steven expertly moved his feet. Her mother was not going to give up.
Steven felt for Sheryl, he had spent the last year skirting Beatrice’s vicious tongue, and was intimate with embarrassment.
‘Sheryl, I know better than you what you need!’ Beatrice snapped.
Frances turned to Steven, ‘you any good at DIY? Sheryl could use a hand.’
Steven thought about Sheryl holding a ladder while he mended something in a manly fashion.
‘I told you I have other plans,’ said Sheryl.
‘Yes, yes, like getting pissed with Mr.…’
‘I’ll do it for you!’
The two women looked at the small frame of Steven. Sheryl wondered if he could lift a ladder.
‘I’ll do it, I often help my landlady,’ he lied, mentally going through his friends for anyone who knew the least bit about drainpipes, plastering or any sort of joiner work.
‘You any good at leaks?’ Beatrice stared at Steven.
‘Oh definitely, leaks are just my thing. Yes, I’m big on leaks, lethal, in fact!’
****
Sheryl stood in the middle of her room looking for a clear space on the floor. She put nothing away. She didn’t notice the empty plates with leftovers smeared across them until she stood on one, or the pile of dirty clothes until she ran out. She happily watched the dust settle on everything in clumps, and slept in a crumpled bed; with Sam, and any peculiar smell that either of them chose to make. Sometimes, she was even happy in her room.
When Sheryl had lived in Martin’s flat, she was a woman ready and waiting for her lover. A lover who liked things clean, and even as his visits dwindled and the sex evaporated, she still lived, waiting, in a state of sterile agitation.
Until recently, the walls in her room had been a pasty green, with the odd damp patch breaking the monotony. But that was before Sheryl discovered wrestling, and more importantly, Johnston.
She hadn’t always liked wrestling; in fact, when she first moved in with her mother, she hated it.
But after a few drinks late at night, wrestling grew on Sheryl. She found herself lingering after helping her mother to bed. In the silence, they watched, and Sheryl grew to appreciate the finer points of a hard black body with more muscles than a seabed.
She tuned Mr. Rugby’s television to wrestling on Sky, just so she could watch the highlights while swerving the Hoover across the floor. Mr. Rugby didn’t mind, he liked having Sheryl about the place. She didn’t nag him when he put a bottle of whisky on the shopping list. She didn’t tut when he took one in the afternoon, and she pretended not to notice when he hadn’t shaved for a week, or forgotten to put his teeth in. Sometimes, she even joined him in a dram.
Every week, she trotted down to the local newsagents for a copy of the ‘Ultimate Wrestling’ Magazine (claiming it was for her mother). She bought every back issue with an article on Johnston.
She painted her walls dark blue, then covered them with pictures of Johnston.
There was Johnston in jeans.
Johnston standing with a towel wrapped around his hips and sweat rolling down his smooth skin; looking mean.
Johnston with his arm wrapped around his pint-sized mum, both wearing a Tee shirt with the slogan, “JOHNSTON KING OF THE RING” splashed across it.
And Johnston flying across the ring with red trousers stretched across his thighs so tight, she could almost see the hairs on his legs.
They all had their appeal, but her new poster was her favourite, and was heading for the precious place of the ceiling. It was full length, and gave an impressive display of Johnston’s dark muscular chest, and long hair. Now she would be able lay in her bed and stare to her hearts content at Johnston, and that tiny tattoo around his nipple.
She scrambled across the bedroom clutter, balanced herself with one foot on a cupboard and another on her bed head, and pinned the poster to the ceiling.
****
Beatrice, on the other hand, was downstairs preparing for another game of rugby on TV. She wheeled herself back and forth from the kitchen to the sitting room, carrying nuts and beer and getting in the way of Steven, who was busy assembling his DIY equipment.
Years ago, she had been a successful sportswoman propelling her tiny body into feats of acrobatics, still talked about in some sporting circles. She had been a champion in many amateur clubs, and had a cupboard full of trophies hidden away, which she couldn't bare to look at.
Beatrice switched on the TV and wondered how long it would be before Sheryl would start that awful racket she called music.
****
Sheryl looked in the mirror and shimmied, first her stomach, and then her breasts. It seemed odd after all these years of covering up her body, she was now shaking and swirling it about the place. She pulled her top off and took another swig of wine, then turned her music up.
****
After assembling and reassembling his tools for an hour, Steven decided it was time to go mend what he had promised to mend. Lindsey had come around for a “how are you” visit with her mother. But after watching Steven’s fumblings with the ladder, she decided watching him would be better value. She stood at the bottom of the ladder and handed Steven a chisel.
‘What kind of noise is that?’ asked Steven, checking the ladder was firmly planted on the grass.
‘THAT’S Sheryl’s belly dancing music,’ said Lindsey.
‘Oh,’ said Steven as he stood poised at the bottom of the ladder, he rattled it a bit then looked up, it wasn’t that high. He turned the chisel in his hand. ‘Maybe I need something sharper,’ he said, trying to appear knowledgeable. He fingered the blunt edges, trying to remember all he had looked up the night before about windowsills and handy foam.
‘You don’t know what you are doing, do you?’ said Lindsey.
‘What makes you say that?’ Steven replied as casually as possible, while staring up the ladder.
‘Cause you’re at the wrong window,’ she said.
****
Sheryl wrapped a scarf around her hips; and waited for the right beat. She circled her hips, varying the size, all the time watching in the mirror. She had developed a fixation for her belly and was beginning to grow a fondness for the pink flesh, as it rolled to the music.
Sheryl circled her pelvis to the rhythm of the music, and then broke into a shimmy, her favourite move.
Sheryl took to shimmying like other people took to drink; she never knew when to stop. She shimmied in the shower, when vacuuming Mr. Rugby’s home, even when standing over a fry pan for her mother. Sheryl could shimmy every part of her body. She shimmied her breasts while driving, her hips while ironing Mr. Rugby’s clothes, her bum while cleaning the floor; she just loved the feel of shimmying.
Mr. Rugby spent all his spare time hunting out creased clothes. His main aim in life was to keep the ironing basket full; and his floor dirty; watching Sheryl shimmy was better than Carol Vorderman on Countdown.
Sheryl stood in front of her mirror, marvelling at the obedience of her muscles. She rolled her hips to the melody and flexed her stomach in and out like perfect waves. For once, she was in tune with her body.
****
Steven looked up at Sheryl’s window; the hypnotic beat of drums blasted from the closed curtains. He grabbed the bottom of the ladder and shook it a little. He took a few steps.
****
Frances had decided to visit Beatrice as she always did on a Saturday afternoon. She arrived with a poster in one hand, a cigarette in the other and a “just passing, thought you could do with cheering up” look on her face. She slid the poster onto Beatrice’s knee, collapsed into her usual chair and inhaled the last of her cigarette. ‘You’ll have seen this then?’ she coughed. Beatrice read the poster.
Wrestling comes to oban
Lock up your daughters
lock up your sons
Cause the battle of epic proportion has
only JUST BEGUN
Johnston, STEEL ICE AND many more
will battle it out
for the king of celts extravaganza
‘I heard Nefertiti’s been asked to belly dance at it,’ said Frances.
‘No.’
‘According to Shifty, the Sports for Scotland Committee organised the whole thing, and you know who’s on THAT Committee.’
Beatrice stared out of the patio doors; Sheryl’s window was just above and Beatrice had a grand view of Steven fumbling with a ladder.
‘No?’
‘Chubby the butcher, and she has a thing for Nefertiti.’
‘That’s just cause she calls her darl, and Chubby is too stupid to realise she calls everyone darl,’ said Beatrice. She turned down the TV. Lindsey was now offering to help Steven.
‘Well, I heard different. According to Shifty, Imogene was in Chubby’s and made some remark about mutton, lamb and Nefertiti’s inability to fill a padded bra, and Nefertiti was standing right behind her.’
‘Oh?’
‘Apparently, she told Imogene where to shove her quill and Chubby has been in love ever since.’
Beatrice stared out onto the scruffy lawn. Who the hell was this Nefertiti?
Frances referred to her as ‘that game old bird’ ever since Nefertiti performed for the Old Folks Christmas dinner in the Stables. ‘She didn’t just dance,’ said Frances. ‘She came out of a cake, stripped off her seven veils and handed out free Turkish delights. She put the women off their plum pudding, and inspired the men to dance, one of the old boys had a turn and another pulled his hip out. And it was Nefertiti who did first aid; till the ambulance came.’
Rugby had other names for her, most of which he had read off the wall in the Argyll gents, Menopausal Lap Dancer being his favourite.
Beatrice just knew her as the ‘Is Sheryl there, Darl?’ voice on the end of the phone, and as the bony woman in the belly dancing poster on the Co-op notice board, who had obviously just been given a new set of dentures.
‘So it’s her I got to thank,’ said Beatrice.
‘What for?’
‘For Sheryl doing weird thing with her pelvis in her bedroom instead of mending the rowans for me.’
****
Sam was on the roof, looking down at the large jump and then he spied the ladder.
Steven was grimly hanging on to the sides of the ladder. He had managed to ease himself up and was level with Sheryl’s window. Her window was opened, but the curtains were closed. Steven didn’t see Sam; neither did Lindsey, who instead of holding the ladder was texting. For a moment, Steven hesitated then he took another step, the ladder wobbled, he gripped onto the window ledge and looked up to see Sam on the top rung of the ladder.
‘Bugger off,’ he whispered.
Sam, who had a fondness for softly-spoken men, moved down a rung.
‘Hiya,’ yelled Lindsey into her phone.
The curtains blew open and Steven caught a glimpse of Sheryl dancing.
Sheryl caught a glimpse of Steven’s face at the window. But it was just a face to her, and she quickly assumed it to be burglar. She slammed the window shut as Steven’s soft voice was drowned out by the music.
Frances and Beatrice stared out on to the scruffy lawn; the ladder wobbled a little.
‘Lindsey?’ yelled Steven.
‘You know, Sheryl could do worse,’ said Frances. ‘He’s very clean and he’s under fifty.’
A few crumbs of plaster sprinkled to the ground, followed by heavier rubble.
‘And willing; how many would fumble up a ladder?’
Sheryl ran into the lounge mumbling something about a burglar, but stopped in her tracks as she recognised the ladder and the ginger blur that was now cascading down the ladder, accompanied by a feline scream.
‘Sam!’ she yelled.
Then with dignified silence, Steven tumbled past the window. With a dull thud, he landed in the nettle patch and let out a muffled ‘Bugger.’
Beatrice reversed her chair to the side cabinet. ‘Another dram?’ she said. Frances held out her empty glass. Sheryl ran outside.
Steven lay on the ground with nettles artistically arranged about his person, mumbling incoherently.
That morning, he had woken up feeling positive. He had visions of himself coming down the ladder looking like a bit of rough out ‘Lady Chatterley’s lover’. A little bit of plaster dust, he thought wistfully, could do wonders for his sex appeal. He had pictured himself mending the leak and walking into the kitchen with a few tools slung around his hips, looking like Sean Bean.
‘I’m alright, our Sheryl,’ he muttered as Sam jumped on his chest, then he closed his eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
That evening, Steven stayed for supper. It was Frances’s idea; she had heard that he was a great cook and if she was staying for dinner, just for a change, she would like something edible.
Steven stood by the sink, his body still throbbing a little. He itched for his Mr. Muscle spray; the kitchen had that slightly greasy look from constant fry-ups and minimal cleaning. He thought about polishing the surfaces, but took one look at Beatrice’s idea of a cleaning cloth and gave up on the idea. Instead, he arranged the food on to four plates and put the kettle on.
He whistled a little to himself, looked down at Sam and handed him a small piece of cheese. Thanks to Sam, Steven had spent half an hour under the administering hands of Sheryl. She dabbed his cuts and nettle stings with whatever she had in the cupboard, and placed a few plasters in the appropriate places. None of the creams worked, but he didn’t mind.
Sheryl, on Beatrice’s insistence, opened a bottle of wine. She poured, then waited for Beatrice to complete what was hopefully her final lap of the kitchen. Steven carried over two plates of seared peppers filled with odd bits from the cupboards. Frances followed behind with two other plates and a look of anticipation on her face.
In the lounge room, the wrestling had just started. Steven walked in on an Aussie duo running into the ring while swinging didgeridoos.
He had never seen wrestling before. He didn’t even have a TV. What he had was a small flat, a computer, a stereo, a collection of records that took up the width of his lounge, and a very pleasant landlady who gave him free use of her herb garden for the odd jar of homemade pesto. He had a large blender, a very attractive old pestle and mortar, and a newly bought pasta maker. He liked to cook while planning his novel, and regularly brought titbits for Beatrice to have at work. Eventually, Beatrice had given up taking her lunch as Steven’s titbits turned into a full-scale picnic.
‘How’s the belly dancing?’ asked Steven, as he toyed with the idea of bringing over his pasta maker, would that be too forward?
‘Great! My teacher says I have an Arabic pelvis!’
The fanfare for Uno Sumo blared from the television, as two small men in blue underpants raced forward waving a Japanese flag. The crowd booed.
‘And that’s a good thing?’ Beatrice looked at her daughter, ‘That’s why you wrap yourself in those flowing skirts? And pour olive oil on everything?’
‘Apparently, the Arabs used to rub olive oil onto their hips,’ said Steven, ‘They say it’s good for the skin.’
The women looked at him.
‘I think you will find that it is the perineum,’ said Beatrice, reversing herself back to the sink and grabbing the whisky bottle.
‘And here he is, hot from England,’ yelled a commentator over the blare of Rule Britannia. The crowd cheered as a white knight swirling a sword marched into the ring. Mad Brady, one of the commentators, stood in the ring, while Uno Sumo stood in the corner restrained by his Japanese sidekicks
‘So, St Michael, are you ready for the fight of your life?’
The knight removed his helmet, waved to the crowd and then handed his sword to a small woman dressed in a fur-covered bikini. ‘I am here to defend the honour of my Lady Ginger, and to thrash the living daylights out of all who have tarnished her name.’ Some women sighed in the audience. Uno Sumo almost broke free from his restraints.
‘And soon,’ said Mad Brady, ‘you’ll be fighting in your homeland again. Is your fair lady coming with you?’ The crowd roared, a few waved Union Jacks. ‘That’s right, folks, the negotiations are over. The fight for the Celtic Title is on. England will never be the same again!’
‘They’re coming to England?’ said Sheryl, her heart beginning to thump.
‘Johnston too,’ said Beatrice.
‘What! You knew and you never thought to tell me?’
‘Yeah, it’s bigger than the Olympics!’ Mad Brady began to shout, before giving Jim, the other commentator, a friendly thump on the shoulders. Jim looked back with the expression of someone who didn’t think thumps on the back were friendly.
‘They’ll be in Oban next week,’ said Frances.
‘Your pal, Nefer-whatisname is dancing for them,’ added Beatrice.
‘What? When?’ Sheryl started to pant; Johnston this close. ‘We must get some tickets.’
Beatrice pulled the pamphlet from the coal bucket and tossed it across to Sheryl; the first thing Sheryl saw was the words “sold out” in red letters.
About the same time, a taxi pulled up by the gate, tooted loudly and then drove up the drive. No one heard over the TV or saw the two pink legs slide out of the car. She paid the taxi and struggled with her luggage to the front door. When no one answered, she, with her luggage beside her, fumbled around the back and peered into the patio doors.
Beatrice jumped with fright then she caught sight of the dentures.
‘And now as East meets West,’ Mad Brady yelled into the microphone, ‘and Japan’s most famous export clashes with the heroic white knight,’ he took a breath, ‘we’re in for a fight of colossal proportions.’
Jim looked at the camera with a blank expression. He was about to say something, but never got the chance as Uno Sumo promptly sat on his opponent.
‘Let us in, Sheryl,’ said the voice from the patio door, Sheryl opened the door, the pink legs walked in, leaving her luggage for some mystery porter to deal with, and she held her hand out to Beatrice. ‘I am Nefertiti, you must be Bea.’
****
Her eyes were red and her mascara a little smudged, but Nefertiti held herself erect, and only after finishing the last of Frances’ cigarettes did her story emerge.
‘I’ve left ‘im, that Rodger. I told him there are some things private, some things for just us, but would he listen? He says I knew all along, he says it’s bleeding art. I call it an …. intrusion.’
She dabbed her eyes and pushed her glass toward the whisky bottle, Sheryl filled it. ‘He’s been paintin’ my Flower of Scotland,’ she wailed.
Only Sheryl knew what her Flower of Scotland was, and having just eaten the best meal she had had in ages, Sheryl decided not to spoil it by explaining just exactly what Rodger had painted.
‘He is going to put them in a show thanks to that “hands on Martin”.’ She let out a sob. ‘He is calling it “Unveiling the Flower of Scotland”, and there won’t be a bloody tartan in sight!’
Beatrice decided the woman was nuts.