Turning Thirty by Mike Gayle Page B

it’s just a you thing. Your life is great! Just chill out, will you?

    Elaine xxx

    PS Re: The have-you-got-any-mail quip. You are joking. You never got any when you lived here!!!!!

    PPS I know I sound happy but I’m not. I still miss you.

    PPPS I also note that none of your e-mails so far mentioned you missing me. Which means you owe me two if I’m not going to race ahead in the ‘loser ex-girlfriend/ex-boyfriend still wanting reassurance stakes’.

    PPPPS That Barbie-Elaine thing is hilarious. Everyone at work has been calling me Barbie all day. Tell Charlotte she’s gorgeous.

twenty-one
    â€˜There you go, Matthew,’ said my mum.
    I looked at the fistful of money-off coupons she was putting into my hands. ‘What are these?’ I asked.
    â€˜What do they look like?’ she replied, in her no-nonsense manner.
    I plucked one from the pile in my hand and said, ‘Well, this one’s for tenpence off Bachelor’s Cup-a-soup new country-style range.’
    â€˜That’s what it is,’ said my mum.
    â€˜But no one uses money-off coupons any more, Mum, it’s so . . . ‘
    My mum looked at me, daring me to finish the sentence. ‘Look after the pennies,’ she said, turning me round and pointing me in the direction of the front door, ‘and the pounds will look after themselves.’
    The reason for this exchange was guilt. Now that day trips were a thing of the past I was reduced to sitting around the house watching my parents work. Although my mum and dad had retired, their Protestant work ethic seemed to have quadrupled. As well as general household maintenance my dad seemed always to be building shelves for my mum. She, meanwhile, seemed always to be making twee country-style baskets of varnished fake bread plaits and flower arrangements to put on the aforementioned Dad-made shelves. They worked all the time. Like some sort of self perpetuating craft-fair industry. Work. Work. Work. This was why in my second week I volunteered to do the supermarket shopping for my mum just so I could be active too. Also I got to use my dad’s car – a pristine Vauxhall Nova. My dad loved his car; he washed it every other day, and had a tub of tyre paint that he applied once a month to keep his tyres looking jet black. It was his pride and joy. But as my mother ruled the roost in the Beckford family, even Dad’s pride and joy was at her disposal.
    â€˜I’ll do the weekly shop,’ said my dad, clutching his car keys nervously. ‘It won’t take long.’
    â€˜But Matthew’s already offered, Jack,’ said my mum. ‘And remember, you’ve got those shelves to finish. Anyway, it will do Matthew good to get out of the house and do something useful . . . for a change.’
    I had a certain nostalgic fondness for the Safeway on King’s Heath high street, which was my destination. When Gershwin, Katrina, Ginny, Elliot, Bev and I were seventeen, every big night out had kicked off with a trip there because when you’re on a tight budget supermarket alcohol is the most effective way to replicate the sensation of downing several pints of pub-bought lager. So standing by the automatic doors at the side of the store we’d pool our allowances and Saturday-job money and hand it over to Elliot, because he looked oldest. Once inside he’d buy as many bottles of Thunderbird as we could afford and we’d polish them off on the bus into town.
    During my trip to Safeway, I encountered Mrs Brockel, from number sixty-five, whom I’d known since I was six; Mr and Mrs Butler, the owners of Butler’s newsagent’s; Mr Mahoney, who was married to Mrs Mahoney, who was still my old junior school’s lollipop lady; Mrs Bates, a friend of my mum and dad who used to look after me and my brothers and sister after school, and Mrs Smith, who went everywhere in her slippers and used to be a dinner lady at my