With key points written on my palm to prompt me, I proceeded to outline all the excellent ways they were bringing religion to the masses. I sang the praises of Songs of Praise and, like with David Lyon-James twenty years later, had its producer eating out of my hand – literally, in this case.
‘Now, to the issue of references . . . You’ve given Martin Haggard as a contact at Beatnik Media, but is there anyone else there you would like us to speak to?’
There was no need for my notes at this point. I looked her in the eye and said ‘No, thank you, Martin is fine.’ My links at Beatnik had to be reduced to one slender, brittle branch which could be broken off once I’d scampered across it. No one else there would speak for me.
Outside the producer’s office, I walked past Susie’s desk and she winked at me and made a call sign. Later, I got two calls – one from her and one from the producer, telling me I’d got the job. The sigh of relief I gave went straight up to the heavens.
* * *
I’ve always had nightmares, ever since I was little. After the Ross-on-Wye wasps’ nest incident, I used to dream there were insects in my bed, crawling all over me, tangled in my hair, a spider dangling just above my face. The visions were so vivid, so real, that I would get out of bed in my sleep, brushing off the bugs, slapping my pillow, pulling off the duvet to check. Even after I woke up properly, I couldn’t convince myself that they weren’t there, that it was all just a figment of my imagination. Sometimes I would sleep on the floor, because the bed felt contaminated – whenever Rose found me there in the morning, she would exclaim ‘Goodness me, again? We’ll have to get this baby a bed guard.’ And then she’d yank the comb viciously through my birds’ nest hair until I was made neat to match the house.
During my teens, there was a recurring dream about forgetting my lines in a play. Or rather, not having any lines to begin with. I’m standing in the wings, and no one has shown me the script but everyone’s waiting and I just have to get out there. Once I’ve stumbled on stage, I realize pages of the script are lying around, behind a sofa, under a table, taped to a grandfather clock, and I have to make my way there, find my line, learn it, say it at the right time before anyone realizes what a mess I’m in. Can I rescue the production? Or will the audience see through me? I always used to wake, panting and drenched in sweat at the precise moment the pages ran out, when I was left high and dry, my panic at a pitch. When in real life I was asked to audition for the school production of Blithe Spirit, I couldn’t face it, because I was sure the dream would come true. When I told Rose, she laughed and said ‘Oh, I don’t think so! No one would be able to hear your mousy little voice!’ So that was that.
And then the window dream, which started when I was twenty-six. Someone trying to get in, and I haven’t closed them all, haven’t left things secure as they ought to be. I’m running round, starting at the top of the house, working my way down, slamming everything shut, worrying that I’m too late, he’s already in – but rather than look for him, I want to know which window was open, which one was it? Which was the nail that led to my lost kingdom? I must close it, must finish the job, get it done, make everything right and tight. So rather than escape from him, get away, I just go round with my checklist . . .
I don’t have the dream so often nowadays. My brain is probably gearing up to give me a fresh and juicy nightmare scenario. But I did have it a few times during lockdown. You’d think that being away from the office might calm me down, give me the space I craved, but it didn’t. In fact, it blurred the boundaries between work and home, made me feel like I couldn’t escape. My home was always my refuge, a switch-off, but now it was my office too – a window had been opened, and all these jobs and worries and obligations had filtered in, overwhelming me. So I started having the dream again, thrashing around in bed until Robbie’s arms around me woke and soothed me.
‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be OK.’
‘It’s my fault,’ I panted. ‘It’s my fault.’
He stroked my hair. ‘Not everything is your fault, Clover. Sometimes it’s just theirs.’
‘No.’ I found that hard to believe.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ he said again, his hands warm and secure.
But I knew it wouldn’t be, until I closed the window.
EVENING
32
The Brycgstow turns out to be a pub with ideas above its station. Maz says she was perching at an island in one of the IKEA showroom kitchens, and heard a couple talking about ‘Bristol’s hottest new riverside inn’, saying the cocktails were deadly and it had an ‘ambience’. When we arrive, we stand by a lectern for five minutes being ignored by numerous bustling staff who all look like busy fools. It’s a big, airy space, with heavy oak tables, a flagstone floor and pictures of ye olde Bristol on the walls, so I go over to have a gander while we’re waiting. One of them is a sepia photo of a Victorian woman alongside a cutting from an 1885 newspaper. She was a barmaid called Sarah Ann Henley, famous for throwing herself off Clifton suspension bridge:
SKIRTING CERTAIN DEATH . . .
Her daring leap was the result of a lovers’ quarrel. The lady’s young man, a porter on the Great Western Railway, determined to break off their engagement, writing a letter to the young woman announcing his intention. She, the jilted lover, filled with despair, rushed to end her life by a fearful drop from the Suspension Bridge.
Thankfully for Sarah Ann, she was saved by her crinoline skirt – a billowing effect caused by an updraught of air turned it into a sort of parachute, slowing her fall, so rather than plunging to her death, she landed in the muddy banks of the river and was rescued by passers-by. Despite her injuries, a taxi driver refused to take her to hospital in case she dirtied his cab, so they got a stretcher from the police station instead. As she recovered in hospital, news of her misfortune spread, and she received several proposals of marriage. It’s one way to find a man, but not one I’d recommend.
The next photo is from 1896, of two children surrounded by policemen. The girls are Ruby and Elsie Brown, who were thrown from the suspension bridge by their father, and rescued by a passing boatman. Their murderous papa, Charles Albert Brown, had money problems, and was deemed insane at trial, but by 1901, he’d been released from prison and was back at home with his wife and daughters. I suppose whatever else she’s done, at least Rose hasn’t tried to throw us off a bridge.
These tales of attempted suicide and murder are interesting design choices for this establishment, which clearly sees itself as a cut above your average boozer. I wonder what Sarah, Ruby and Elsie would make of their photos on display in a gastropub near what was supposed to be their final resting place. Still, they’re not around to object, and it certainly lends an ‘ambience’.
None of the staff have approached us yet, and eventually I have to get their attention.
‘WHAT FALSE NAME DID YOU GIVE, MARINA?’ I address Maz, who is reading the bookings list on the lectern. She looks up, puzzled, but the passing maître d’ hears me and is with us in an instant.
‘Can I help you ladies?’ he purrs, eyeing my sister like she’s a mouth-watering freshly cooked lobster.
‘We have a booking in the name of . . . um, what did you go for in the end?’ I ask Maz, who reluctantly rejoins Planet Earth.
‘Ashton,’ she says, in her habitually vague way, as if she’s just made it up.
The maître d’ scours the list. ‘Ah yes, Ashton, party of three!’ He beams. ‘Come this way.’
‘Who does he think we are?’ Maz murmurs, as he leads us to a prominent table in the centre of the room.
‘He thinks you are a famous restaurant critic,’ I mutter. ‘It would be helpful if you could pretend to be Scottish.’
‘Och, aye.’
He settles us at our table, whipping off napkins and arranging them tenderly in our laps. As he does mine, he catches sight of Bigwig’s whiskers emerging from my bag, and his face falls.
‘Er . . . is that an animal, madam?’
I touch my rabbit lightly on the nose. ‘Yes, it is. Sorry, should we have booked a table for four?’
He laughs like a drain, anxiously. ‘Um, it’s just that . . . we don’t usually allow pets in the restaurant. For reasons of hygiene.’
‘He’s a very clean rabbit.’
‘Nevertheless . . .’ The maître d’ is in a quandary. He doesn’t want to upset the renowned food journalist who’s gracing his premises, but on the other hand . . .
Maz rescues us. ‘Have you got a place he could stay while we’re eating? Maybe a back room somewhere?’
Her accent is all off – Edinburgh rather than Glasgow – but the management is visibly relieved at her suggestion.
