Apostrophes, to be fair, were the least of my concerns. Mother dearest had simply written on top of the paper, in bright-red felt-tip pen: Go To This!
You really can’t knock her sick sense of humour.
At least it was something we could do at night, which gave me the whole day to try and make myself presentable. I cracked open one of Mum’s many toiletry gift sets, and given my hair a deep conditioning treatment to try and tame the frizz.
I plucked my eyebrows so I looked a bit less like a werewolf, and managed to squash myself into my jeans instead of my usual trackie bottoms. I fear my legs now resemble giant walking sausages, but there’s not much I can do about that in the timeframe.
Poppy took one look at me and decided to give me a mini-makeover, which I endured silently, and with what I like to think of as a great deal of dignity. She trimmed my hair, and opened a few buttons on my top to flash some boobage, and did my make-up.
‘You were always so much better at this than me,’ I said, as she shaped and blended, a look of utter concentration on her face.
‘I had to be. Spotty Poppy, remember?’
I do remember – not only that other people used to call her that, but that I said it to her myself the night before. I feel a blush of shame at the memory – she really had suffered.
When Poppy finished creating her masterwork of make-up, she gave my nose a little tap with the powder puff, just like Mum used to do, which threatened to tear me up and ruin all her magical mascara work.
I have to admit, though, that she did a good job, and I look better than I have in … well, years. She, naturally enough, just slipped into a tiny leather mini-skirt and swooshed her shiny hair out and became a supermodel. The cow.
Now, we are parked up outside the pub, and I really don’t want to go in. I’m driving, as I am temporarily off the sauce after recent excesses, and Poppy is checking her lipstick in the passenger mirror. The mirror that is held on by silver duct tape. I keep several rolls of it in my boot, like a serial killer.
‘Your car is a mess,’ she says, once she’s satisfied. ‘It’s like being trapped in a McDonald’s recycling bin.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, unhooking my seatbelt, ‘we aim to please. God … I really don’t want to do this.’
‘Why not?’ she asks, frowning at me. ‘It’s better than sitting in the cottage crying about the ghosts of traumas past, isn’t it? Besides, you have a nice voice. It could be fun.’
‘It’s not that … I just don’t want to see these people again. Look at this car park – it’s packed. Everyone in the village will be here. And they’ll all be, like, “look at those two little madams”, and “they’re only back now she’s dead”, and “God, she’s put weight on, serves her right”, and—’
‘And I think you’re overestimating how interesting we are, Rose. They have their own lives to worry about, without judging ours. And even if they do, who gives a shit? Once this is all done, we never have to see them again, do we? Now come on. Get into the groove, girl. It’s show time.’
She gets out of the car, and teeters across the gravel with way too much ease for a woman in those kinds of shoes. Frankly, they look like she stole them from a prostitute.
I pull a face at her, but follow on behind, grimacing as we open the door to the pub. This is a place I’ve been to so many times. A place where I spent large chunks of my childhood, eating a bag of crisps and drinking a lemonade while Mum had grown-up chats and the odd gallon of G&T – but I am still gripped with uncertainty.
Once we’re inside, I let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and try very hard to unhear the version of ‘I Will Always Love You’ that is being slaughtered on the karaoke machine.
I look around, and see that little has changed – still the same rugged stone floors; the ancient wooden bar; the horse brasses hanging from the wall. It’s been painted, and it smells a lot less of smoke, but other than that, it’s like stepping into a time machine. I almost expect to see my mother holding court in the corner that she always sat in, waving us over and sending us to the bar to get her a top-up.
Much to my relief, there’s not suddenly a huge silence as we enter, while everyone in the village stares at us with hostility. In fact, all that happens is that a few people wave, and some of the farmers give their traditional effusive greeting of one single nod.
I head for a free table, and Poppy goes straight to get drinks. I sit nervously, twisting my hair around my fingers, and watch her. There’s an exceptionally good-looking young man behind the bar, and they seem to be giving each other far more attention than it requires to order a white wine spritzer and a Diet Coke.
The mangled rendition of Whitney Houston finally comes to a stop, and I see as she steps from the makeshift stage area that Whitney was actually Tasmin Hughes, my old school friend from a million years ago. She’s all dolled up, wearing a flimsy white frock that makes her look like Marilyn Monroe after she ate all the cakes in the entire world.
She’s a big woman, but carries it in that proud, sassy way that makes her sexy – something I’ve never quite mastered. She pauses as she walks past, does a little double take as she sees me, and breaks out into a huge grin. I smile back, secretly hoping she’ll move on, and struggle to keep it on my face when she sits next to me instead.
‘I was hoping I’d see you around again!’ she says, fanning herself with a beer mat to cool her karaoke sweat. ‘How are you, Rose? God, it’s been an age, hasn’t it?’
She doesn’t wait for my reply, but instead reaches out and takes hold of my hand.
‘I was so sorry about your mum,’ she says, genuine sympathy on her face. ‘She was a lovely woman, and we all miss her. Especially here.’
‘Here? You mean the Farmer’s, or karaoke night?’
‘Both – she did a fabulous version of “Big Spender” every time. Had the old coots in fits, it did – she was one sexy mama when she wanted to be!’
I am momentarily thrown by this image, but once I squint at the stage, surrounded by disco lights, I can almost see it: Mum hamming it up, giving it some bump and grind, channelling her best Shirley Bassey and nailing it every time.
