Cuckoo in the Chocolate Read online

  Cuckoo in the Chocolate

  By Chris L Longden

  The prequel to ‘Cuckoo in the Chocolate,’ is ‘Mind Games and Ministers’ by Chris L Longden.

  Chris’ blog can be found at http://funnylass.com/

  Text copyright © 2017 Chris L Longden

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission of the author except for brief permissions in relation to promotional material. This is a work of fiction; all names, characters, places or incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, organisations, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition, 2017

  ISBN - 978-0-9928792-3-5

  Acknowledgements:

  For the good people of The North

  Thanks to: Ian, Ruby and Gregory. My parents for going the extra mile in everything they do.

  Leonora Rustamova for the editing and Graham Brown for the proof-reading.

  Flora Rustamova - for the cover design and map.

  Ian A and Tim T who suffered the early drafts. And everyone who read ‘Mind Games and Ministers’ and who badgered me to carry on with the story.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Where’s Lydia?”

  “She’s dead. I killed her.”

  I clutched the steering wheel with both hands, nails arcing indents onto cheap plastic. A seagull - perched on the brick wall next to the car - stabbed at the remnants of someone’s Bargain Breakfast Burger. It hesitated, jerking a pin pricked eye at another black-headed chum who was threatening a dive-bomb attack. Threat over, it continued with another greasy beakful. Radio Four jabbered away in the background. Ofsted, Ofwat, Ofcom, if only you’d all Eff-Off, I thought. Then Lardarse Gull’s buddy shat on my windscreen, so I flicked the wipers on; a smeary, grey, streaky mess.

  I exhaled and tried again. Patience personified.

  “Matthew. I’ve told you before. Making jokes about killing people - about people being dead - isn’t funny. At all. Now. Where’s your sister?”

  “Dunno. Talking to a banana, I fink.”

  “Right. Stay in the car. I’ll be one minute.”

  I slammed the car door shut, galloped up the steps, into the service station and yes, there was Lydia. Engaged in deep dialogue with a woman who looked to be a good few years older than my own mother. And who - at the unearthly hour of seven-thirty in the morning - also happened to be dressed as a banana.

  “Lydia Russell!” I boomed. “Get your arse over here - right now!”

  Banana woman ruffled her campaign leaflets, shedding a couple of them onto the gleaming service station floor. All nervy, like.

  Lydia scowled at me, then stomped over.

  “You just said ‘arse', Mum!”

  “And I’ll be saying a lot more than that if you don’t shove your backside into the car, this instant - I thought that you had followed us back outside! And what the hell were you doing with that lady in the banana thing?”

  Lydia was braving it out. Arms folded, brown curls bobbing with defiance.

  “You should be glad! I was telling her about why the chocolate - what you and the beated-up ladies make - is better than all the other kinds. But she was a bit thick. She reckons that the big bad chocolate companies are all okay now -‘cause they shove a nice-tradey stamp on things.”

  Here I allowed a small pause; acknowledgment for her efforts.

  “Nice try. Glad you’ve been trying to preach to the masses, Lydia. But you still acted like a total twonk. There’s all kinds of nutters hanging around at motorway service stations. And not just elderly people dressed as fruit.”

  It was going to be a long day.

  *****

  Normally I’d do anything to avoid travel with two under eight year olds. But this time I had no choice. Pull of the groin? Or tug of the heart? Either way, London was calling.

  Now, they do say that travel with small children can be a marvellous way to build the family bond. To foster a greater sense of genetic solidarity. Yeah, well the people who come out with that kind of claptrap should take a wee peek at road traffic accident statistics caused by familial animosity. Stressed-out adults, trapped in a small tin can on wheels with squabbling siblings in tow, is all too often a tragedy waiting to happen.

  And my family are a little bit more accident-prone than most.

  Hence the absence of Daddy. And me being a little bit prickly about jokes in relation to death and dying. So, although I might be whirlwind woman in all other respects of my life, on the vehicle front, thanks to the loss of Adam, I’ve ended up with the label of 'Dull Driving Lady,' - “No, Liddy. I’m just cautious.”

  We set off at Stupid O'clock in the morning and, whilst Lydia’s travel sickness had been thwarted by a little pink pill, Matthew had opted for the dodgy tummy handicap, resulting in unplanned stops at various bland service stations down the M1. When the first gleam of the sun began to snake across the carriageway, the kid was already on his third Pull-Up, despite his protestations of “Oi! I don’t need no nappies! I’m a big boy!”

  Tell that to your sphincter, our Matt.

  The banana lady incident had occurred at our third motorway stop. As I frog-marched Lydia away from the fair and fruity brigade, we passed yet another one of those displays featuring plastic tosh, cunningly placed by the evil corporations who own service stations to line the pathways of families en route to toilet. Subsequently, Lydia began to dawdle, ogling at some purple squidgy ball claiming to be ‘The Toy that Every Kid is Going Crazy For!’

  I snapped at her;

  “And don’t even think about asking for one!”

  “Meany old moo-face,” came the response.

  So, by the time we were back on the M1, I was already mid-rant;

  “Lydia Russell, you’re turning out to be an ungrateful little brat! The kind of kid who's obsessed with totally unethically produced products! I don’t know why I bother making all this effort to do nice things – like spending time with you. It’s not like I want to go to London – I hate London! I would do anything to stay away from London…”

  I caught myself just in time. The lady doth protest; just a tad bit too much. Pathetic really. So, I managed to swallow my words. It was the stress, of course; those sixth-former flutters. The anticipation of being in Michael’s company again. And not just because he happened to be my parents' local MP, as well as being the UK's Minister for Local Government. Nah.

  Rather, it was all down to the fact that a rather steamy encounter had taken place between us at his cottage, some three weeks ago. The sexual shenanigans had been quick off the mark; occurring just a few hours after Michael had ended up spending an Indian summer afternoon with me; a bizarre incident - the watery rescue of one Miss Mary Simpson, an elderly neighbour and constituent of his – whom we managed to remove from her flooded and flea-bitten home. This had all taken place in Stalybridge - a constituency that I didn’t happen to be a resident of - but which my parents had been gerrymandered into under the 2013 boundary review.

  But despite my initial reaction, that East Mancunian born n’ bred default to cynicism, Michael – a man whom my dad had previously described as “a right bloody woofter,” and “born with a silver spoon up his arse, never mind in his gob,” - seemed very keen to pursue the connection with me; with a person whom I had presumed he would simply view as a one-off weekend-shag. No, he didn’t even bugger off into the Parliamentary sunset when the 'News Of The Nation’ - the UK’s trashiest tabloid - printed photos of him riding an uninsured motorbike on Brindleford council estate, where we had relocated Miss Simpson into one of Manchester's shabbier hostels. Neither did he seem to be par
ticularly perturbed when pictures were produced of him and ‘New Mystery Lady', on that fateful day. We were somewhat semi-naked. And were looking all hot and bothered (although the less sordid truth was that I was happy to be investigating his flea bites).

  We hadn’t been in regular contact so much over the last week, though. The party conference in Brighton had been taking up a lot of his time, and there had been fewer phone calls and emails pinging between us. Resulting in a slight wobble of paranoia on my side of things. So, call me drippy; call me insecure; call me The Town Bike (as my best friend, Kate, does) but the very same week, a blast from the past had very nearly knocked me off balance and back into a certain big bugger’s arms.

  Shaun Elliot always came with a push-pull effect. This time, the push side of things had been his announcement that Shaun's municipal empire - Medlock Council - was going to yank the funding plug from my own meagre corner of his realm. Heralding disaster. Sisters’ Space was more than just my job - more than just your bog-standard women’s domestic violence centre up north - it represented a belief system. For all of us, it offered a sanctuary of sanity. Even if we did spend rather too much time bickering about unsavoury sandwich fillings and whose eldest son was back on the Category A Wing of Strangeways this week.

  Shaun’s pull-effect turned out to be double-edged. The offer of a new job; one that would have involved working directly for the Mighty One. Accompanied by an impressive salary; a rather attractive lure for a lady facing deep financial distress, thanks to a lack of insurance pay-out after Adam’s death. And I would be a bare-faced liar if I denied that there were other tantalising Terms and Conditions on offer; a return to those addictive and secretive encounters of the past that had always comprised the Shaun and Rachael Show. And that's Shaun Elliot, you see. A maverick and a maestro at manipulative charm. But he didn't stop there. Shaun also ladled a bit of extra helpings into the bargain; informing me that he was the only person who had twigged that I was the mysterious lady parading in the photos with the Minister. Jealousy? Peevishness? I still wasn't sure of his exact motivation. But all of this added up to nudging me towards a big wobble - or 'relapse' if you had asked know-it-all Kate's opinions on the matter.

  But just as I was about to cave in, a lifeline had presented itself. It came in the form of a Jehovah’s Witness Miracle Cure. Or rather, Martyn Pointer. Martyn was Shaun’s arch-enemy of old – now head of the local housing association and a bit of a religious fanatic - but not a bad egg. He offered to bail out Sisters’ Space with a social enterprise loan. So, things had finally begun to look a bit more chipper. Meanwhile, Michael was badgering me about visiting him in London;

  “Come on; parcel the kids off to someone. Book the kennels, or whatever. I’ll treat you. Vast swathes of Michelin-starred restaurants to choose from here, you know. Surely, you’ve worn out your season ticket for Compo’s Chippy in Holmfirth by now? Don’t you fancy a bit of haute cuisine…?”

  And Michael could be horribly upbeat; powerfully persuasive. Even after I had reminded him that no-one in their right minds – not even their grandparents – wanted to put up with both Lydia and Matthew overnight, he carried on with;

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Rachael! We can do The Ivy. We can do some God-awful musical that you’ll no doubt want to see! I mean - I’ll even pay for you to ride on the top deck of a London bus if it tickles your fancy…I know you like your buses. Or was it trams? Or was it those traction engine contraptions that you – or is it your father - has always possessed a bit of an infatuation for?”

  At that point, I yielded. Because this throwaway comment meant that he had listened, had actually absorbed some of the prattle that I had subjected him to in relation to my background, which was more than Shaun had ever done, by the way. So, I had replied;

  “Well at least I'm not a motorbike freak, like you are. Like … like Adam was. So. Right. Go on then. I'll do my best. Kennels, borstal, Freddy Kruger’s Kiddy Care Centre - whatever. I’ll try and find somewhere to park them.”

  The answer to the child-minding dilemma turned out to be a combination of Adam’s parents in Reading and my sister - our Vicky, who had defected to London a couple of years back.

  But despite my eager acquiescence and the appearance of a laissez-faire approach to parenting, this northern broad was all strung-out. Not just because Shaun Elliot was trying his hand at puppet-mastery. Not just because the Prime Minister himself knew who I happened to be screwing. And not just because Lydia was still chunnering 'Mum's such a spanner-head' to Matthew under her breath. No. Much of my crabbiness was entirely due to the fact that, very shortly, we were going to be seeing Adam's parents. Guilt parading the same old performance in the production. What would Julia and Malcolm think if they knew the truth? If they realised why I wanted them to look after Matthew for me - whilst I dumped Lydia at my sister’s place, leaving me free for a shag-athon or two.

  Thoughts sludged their way around my head like an overloaded washing machine, causing me to nearly miss the exit for Reading. I skated my tiny car dangerously over the chevrons, receiving the one-fingered salute from a bald bloke in a Land Rover. And then, as always, the natural course of guilt-induced thinking skittered towards Shaun. Thank God, that Adam’s parents had never known anything about Shaun; about Shaun and Rachael Round Two, occurring just a few days after their son’s funeral.

  I gave my head a good hard shake. Reminding myself that after I had waltzed out of Shaun’s swanky office only yesterday – telling him where to stuff his job offer – I had promised myself not to waste any more brain synapses on the man that my closest pals referred to as ‘Shaun the Shithead’.

  Still, obsessive-compulsive sexual activities and accompanying shame is a tough habit to break in just a couple of decades.

  We only had to face one more Pampers ‘Pull-Up’ pit-stop before we arrived safely at Julia and Malcolm’s home on the outskirts of Reading. My in-laws were sitting by the living room window; all set for our arrival. All grins and matching leisure wear (Adam would have ridiculed them for the duplicate tracksuits, but then - his parents – his prerogative).

  Julia looked older, frailer than when I saw her last, but she couldn’t contain her elation as both children cannon-balled into her arms, with the obligatory cutting remark from Lydia;

  “Watch out, Nanna. Matthew stinks like a poopy-pants!”

  Lydia and I scoffed our elevenses before we dashed off for the train station, and I reminded Julia that “even when Matthew’s got a dodgy tummy, he still eats anything. Other than pizza or pasta, mind. Not sure why he’s taken against the Italians, but there you go.”

  “Dagos, we used to call them.” Malcolm interrupted, all booming bass tones just as Adam had been. “But you can’t say ‘Filthy Wop Dagos’ anymore these days, can you? Political correctness gone mad, it is!”

  I ignored him.

  “So, Julia. If Matthew starts being a total pain in the bum, I’ve packed his Power Ranger DVDs. Give him a good hour to come down after watching them, though. Oh, and if you take him to your church on Sunday - don’t let him near those prayer cushion things.”

  My mother-in-law chuckled;

  “Oh yes. The last time he went with me, he bit a hole in one of them…”

  A few minutes later, we were whisked off to Reading station. As he pulled the car into the station forecourt, Malcolm shot me a wan smile.

  “It’s great to see the kids again, Rachael. This depression thing of Julia’s, since we lost Adam… W ell. It’s the grandchildren that she lives for now, you know. I keep thinking… if only we’d never moved down south. But you never dream that something like this would happen, do you?”

  No, Malcolm. Not even in my worst nightmares could I have ever imagined that my husband would have driven his bike off the edge of Cape Point in South Africa. A freak motorcycle accident. Not something that you could ever prepare for. And if only Adam hadn’t been as laid back, as flippant about such grown-up matters as forking out for travel insuran
ce policies that included cover for 'dangerous sports'.

  I shook my head, batting the black clouds away as I manhandled my little suitcase and Lydia’s overnight bag out of the back seat of the car.

  “Nope, you don’t,” I replied. “But, as Adam would always say – life has to go on. Still, I just hope that Matthew doesn’t exhaust you both. I realise it’s a bit of an ask to be swapping him with Lydia, when we get back on Sunday. I know that you want to spend time with her too, but I feel a bit guilty … hope you don’t think that I’m taking advantage…”

  “Don’t be daft, Rachael,” he dismissed me with a shake of his head. “You never get a minute to yourself. Just have a bit of fun with your sister. Let your hair down. And give her our love, won’t you?”

  I smiled woodenly. Lying Toe-Rag Rachael. I thanked him for the umpteenth time.

  “Bye, Gramps!” yelled Lydia, her corkscrew curls twirling in the draught of the station forecourt. “If Matthew is naughty, you’re allowed to slap him - hard. Until his teeth rattle, okay?”

  Two saffron be-robed Buddhists sandal-shuffled past us. They eyeballed us strangely. Lydia gawped back and hissed at me;

  “You don’t get folk like that in Yorkshire do you, Mum?”

  “No. They’ve generally got enough sense to stay down south and away from the likes of us. Now, come on you,” I propelled her forward. “Got a train to catch.”

  We boarded for London.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lydia hadn’t been on a train;

  “Since Grandma took us to Manchester Art Gallery and had a massive row with Grandad because she made us look at all the boring paintings, when all he wanted to do was go to the Football Museum.”

  The kid was itching with excitement. I tried to urge her to read a comic book and to listen to ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ on her headphones, but Andrew Lloyd-Webber was no match for the First Great Western. Next, she badgered me to let her visit the loo at the end of the corridor by herself, but this turned out to be a mistake as it took her only five minutes to unearth her latest victims. I then had a bit of a battle on my hands; trying to dissuade her from extracting money from tipsy Scottish football fans, who were heading for the big England versus Scotland match at Wembley. But Lydia seemed to think that being paid a pound a time to shriek ‘Scoooootland! ’ every time a bloke shouted at her “Tell Es whoose goonna win todaay lessie?” was easy money.