The Fantastic Mr Fiddlyjobs

I don’t know how I could have been so daft.  Still, I’d had a lot on my mind what with moving home to a new town, a new job, the prospect of new friends and a new lifestyle.  Well, that’s my excuse for what happened that fateful Tuesday morning.  

I mean, how could I possibly have known?  You see, the minute I rested my eyes on Mr. Fiddlyjobs, the handyman, I think I lost the ability to think straight.  He was just so gorgeous.  Not only that, there was a very special quality about him.  I don’t know how to describe it, except it was a strange mixture of warmth and charisma and it seemed to shine out from him even as he stood there, grinning, on my doorstep.  

I’d only moved in to my new flat the previous day and it was fine, exactly what I wanted.  That is, except for about one hundred niggly little jobs.  You know the sort of jobs that are too small for a big, professional firm to take on, but a bit too heavy or unsafe for an inexperienced person to tackle.  I just wanted to get my flat shipshape and smart.

      I mentioned to the lady in the newsagent how frustrating it was having all these little niggly things to sort out and asked if she knew a good handyman. 

 ‘There’s one in the window,’ she told me.  I blinked and stared towards the front of the shop expecting to see a bloke in green overalls with a hammer in his fist setting about the display shelves.  

‘I mean a postcard advertisement, of course.  On the left of the window,’ the woman explained and I felt myself blush for being so dense.  

 ‘Lovely bloke,’ she continued.  ‘Everyone recommends him.  Calls himself Mr. Fiddlyjobs.’

      Thanking her, I took down the number and rushed straight home to telephone Mr. Fiddlyjobs.

      ‘I’ll be round soon as I can,’ said the man.  He sounded nice, friendly and efficient.  ‘Hang on in there, I should have an hour or so free this morning.’

      So, I waited.  And I could hardly be blamed for making the obvious assumption when there was a ring on my bell.  Not that it wasn’t a surprise, I mean, I really couldn’t believe my luck as I opened the door and there, as I thought, stood Mr. Fiddlyjobs.  Six-foot-three, wide, happy grin, healthy outdoor tan, bright sparkling brown eyes.  

‘Are you the lady who just moved in?’  

 I nodded dumbly.  ‘Miss Tucker, isn’t it?’ he asked.  It took a moment before I could stammer out a sensible response.  

      ‘Yes, I’m Rachel Tucker.  Do come in.  I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you as I have quite a few problem jobs.  This way please...’

      ‘Oh, erm, well, all right,’ he said and ambled up the hallway behind me to the back room, where I kept my computer.  

 ‘You can start in here please,’ I told him.  ‘The ceiling light fitting needs cleaning badly and I can’t get it off as all the screws seem bedded in.’ Then I stared at him.  He seemed strangely unprepared.  ‘Don’t you need a stepladder or have you got your own in the van?’

      ‘Erm, well, if you’ve got one handy,’ said Mr. Fiddlyjobs.  ‘I’ll, er, I’ll need a screwdriver as well.’

      ‘Isn’t there one in your tool box?’ I asked, staring at him in amazement.  Surely any self-respecting odd-job-man brought a tool box with him absolutely bursting with screwdrivers, hammers and nails!

      ‘Of course,’ he said.  ‘Hang on a mo, I’ll get it.’  There seemed to be a faint twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth and I wondered what had tickled him.  All the same, I breathed a sigh of relief.  Clearly, I decided, he wanted to see what needed doing before he brought his stuff in.  Probably thought he’d need to give me a quotation first and maybe I should ask him for one.  Still, the lady in the shop said he was a genuine sort of bloke, so he’d be sure to charge a fair price.

      I went out to the back of the house to make a start on tidying the garden.  Two hanging baskets lay on the ground, waiting to be screwed into fence-posts.  Perhaps I should make a list for Mr. Fiddlyjobs while he was here, just in case anything was forgotten.  I got my pen and notepad and sat down in the conservatory.

      ‘Excuse me, could I have a word.’

      It was Mr. Fiddlyjobs.  ‘Have you done that light already?’ I asked.

      ‘Yes, all fixed.  It’s nice and bright in your study now.’

      ‘Oh good,’ I said.  ‘Can you come out here into the garden please?  There are a couple of hanging baskets that need fixing on the fenceposts.  I’ll show you how high I want them and while you’re doing that, I’ll make you out a list of all the other things that need doing.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Mr. Fiddlyjobs and he grinned as though he was a bit embarrassed.  Perhaps he felt awkward coming through the kitchen into the garden.  Perhaps he hadn’t been a handyman for very long.

      ‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea before you start,’ I offered, hoping that might help him feel more comfortable.

      ‘Well, I’ll do the hanging baskets for you, but I think that’ll have to be it for today.’

      ‘Can you come back tomorrow and finish off?’

      Again there was a twinkle of merriment in his eyes.  ‘At first I’d been thinking you were just a bossy sort of person,’ he commented.  ‘But, as much as I’m enjoying helping you out, I think I should explain...’

      His words were interrupted by a ring of my front door bell.

      ‘Excuse me,’ I muttered, and then a terrible realisation began to sink through the top of my head into my brain.  And sure enough, as I threw open the door, there was an elderly man standing there.  Wide grin, friendly-looking. 

 

      With a toolbox in one hand.

      ‘Mr. Fiddlyjobs at your service,’ he said.

      Just as I’d begun to suspect.  I sank my head into my hands, feeling really daft. 

      ‘Come this way,’ I said.  ‘Perhaps you could make a start in the dining room, the carpet needs.....  Excuse me, I just have to see to something in the garden.’

      As I walked out into the garden, Mr. Fiddlyjobs No. 1 was standing there.

      ‘Well,’ I said.  ‘Those hanging baskets look terrific.  But perhaps you can tell me who you are.’

      ‘I live next door,’ he said, ‘and my name’s Paul.   I just wanted to introduce myself and ask you if you’d like to come round mine for a coffee.’

     

      Well, that was a year ago and my new house is looking a treat.  Paul’s helped out a lot although I still use the services of the real Mr. Fiddlyjobs, so that Paul and I can have plenty of quality time together.  We get on so well and it always amuses us to look back on how we first met.

      Last week, Paul called round and he was looking, for a change, rather serious. 

      ‘What on earth is it?’ I asked, feeling alarmed.

      ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Paul.  ‘I mean, nothing bad.  It’s just that I thought it might be easier, instead of having two houses to maintain, if we just settled for one.’

      I stared at him and started to laugh.  ‘You mean sell up and buy a new home together.’

      ‘Yeah,’ said Paul slowly.  ‘I want us to get married, Rachel.   I want to have kids and if you agree, we’ll need a family home.  What do you think?’  He paused and my heart ached to see how anxious he was, how he was staring at me to see how I was responding to his proposal.  

      ‘Paul... I can’t believe it,’ I stammered.

      The next moment, I was in Paul’s arms.  Of course, I’d been there before, and I knew what it was like, I knew how warm, how comforted and how I felt I truly belonged there.  But this time there was an extra little frisson of excitement.  I could feel it in the way Paul held me, as he waited for my reply.

      ‘I think that’s the best idea you’ve ever had,’ I told him, ‘and the sooner the better.’  Then I added, teasingly, ‘There’ll be lots of jobs to do, I expect, to get it just how we want it.’

      ‘Yes, bossy-boots, but I think we’ll start with me showing you just how much I love you,’ said Paul firmly and next moment, he’d pulled me even closer and his lips were on mine. There was nothing in the least bit fiddly about the way he was kissing me.  

I suppose it would seem too dramatic to say I swooned, but I did feel sort of faint with the wonderful feelings that ran through me so I did the only thing I could do.  I just closed my eyes and surrendered myself to the sweetest lover in the whole world, my new and utterly wonderful husband-to-be.     

     

---

The Lodger

Formerly published in The Sunday Post.

If I had mixed feelings about taking a lodger, they disappeared when I first set eyes on Brad.  He looked reassuringly average and even slightly cute.  He had a crop of short hair, stiff like a nailbrush and a wholesome, fresh-faced bounciness.

            ‘He’ll do,’ I thought.  ‘I’ll take him.’

            I’d heard all sorts of lodger horror stories from friends.  My friend, Emma, divorced, and lured by the prospect of a lucrative side-line was driven to pasting notices all over her house to keep the lodgers under control.  When filling the kettle, think green, said one.

            ‘Just imagine - they fill the kettle to make one tiny cup of coffee,’ she complained.  I tutted at such wanton waste, determined that wouldn’t happen to me.  I’d make a contract.  That was the sensible thing to do, and so I wrote one.  The terms included being sure to shut the garden gate.  I also insisted on having privacy when entertaining.

            Brad arrived with his three thousand DVDs, a pine shelf and two furry monkeys.  I hovered in the doorway of his room as he poked around the cupboards and inspected the drawer space.  Then I thrust the contract under his nose.  Brad raised his eyebrows and I fidgeted.

            ‘How often do you have people to dinner?’ he asked, looking not-quite-so-friendly.

            ‘Well, it sort of varies…’

            ‘I’d find it claustrophobic being cooped up in that little room.’

            ‘But that’s why the rent’s so cheap.  House-shares are much more expensive,’ I insisted.

            It was not an auspicious start.  All the same, he was the best of a bad bunch.  He was neither a woman-hater nor a dog-hater.  Pedantic perhaps, but I reckoned I’d cope with that.

            ‘If you expect me to keep to my room, I’ll need a chair.’

            And so I picked up a chair for him in a local second-hand shop.  How I begrudged that fifteen quid!  Brad said it was rather small and more like a child’s chair.  Of course, he was right but his comfort wasn’t my top priority.  By this time I was pretty fed up with the intrusion on my life.

            Brad moved around so silently, in his soft-soled shoes, disturbing nothing.  I prefer to hear people coming and going.  There was a spookiness about the way I’d suddenly feel his presence behind me.

            ‘He’s such a creep,’ I confided to Emma one day on the phone.

            ‘You’ll have to have it out with him,’ she said wisely.  ‘Remember, it’s your house and he’ll have to toe the line.’

            But how could I tell him he got on my nerves simply because he crept around everywhere?  Said out loud it sounded like nit-picking.

            A few days after Brad’s arrival, Jerry came to dinner.  The wine was chilled, the tablecloth pristine white.  I opened the glass patio doors wide onto the garden.  Brad was sitting there on a deckchair, pretending he could do the Telegraph cryptic crossword.  He was wearing a pair of the longest shorts I’d ever seen.  I shuddered, but I wasn’t worried.  We both knew where we stood.

            Surely even an insensitive clod like Brad would not remain there playing gooseberry while I was entertaining Jerry.

            Jerry arrived, looking as sultry, dark and gorgeous as ever.  I glared at the back of Brad’s head with its nailbrush hairdo and little-boy’s neck and almost burst with the intensity of my hatred.  Jerry looked up from spooning his asparagus soup, and asked about Brad.

            ‘He’s here because his marriage broke up and he needs time to look around for a new pad for himself.’

            ‘Poor chap,’ Jerry muttered tenderly.

            ‘Poor chap,’ I repeated through clenched teeth.

            Jerry offered Brad a glass of red wine, which he accepted with a broad smile.  He then hovered until Jerry left around eleven.

            I phoned Emma next day.  ‘Do you know what that numbskull did last night?’ I fumed.

            ‘No.  What?’  Emma was agog.  She was horrified when I told her.

            I was cool towards Brad after that and sensing it, he withdrew into himself.  For a couple of weeks all he did was go to work, come home and sit out on the patio.

            ‘How Jerry getting on?’ he asked casually one evening.

            ‘OK.’

            ‘Haven’t seen him around lately.’

            I shrugged my shoulders.  It was true.  Jerry hadn’t phoned but I tried not to get uptight about trivialities.  He was only a man, after all.  If he was busy and needed some space, then he must have it.

            Occasionally I joined Brad on the patio.  He’d put down his paper or novel and pour me a drink.  It was cosy.  I still considered him to be arrogant and a creep, but he did have a softer side.  Once, when I told him about the break-up with my boyfriend last year, he said, ‘So you’re feeling it too, then…’

            He brought home bones for the dog and once, some flowers for me.  My friends started making remarks.

            ‘Oh, there’s nothing to it,’ I said airily.  There wasn’t.  I mean, how could there possibly be? 

            Jerry still hadn’t rung.  I quietly tormented myself.

My social life improved but Brad’s didn’t and he made no effort to deal with this.  One day, as I was going to a party, I asked him if he’d like to come along.  He accepted and I introduced him to a businesswoman I knew, Melanie.  Melanie’s big blue eyes lit up.  I was pleased they got on so well. 

The next day I asked him if he’d made arrangements to see her again.

‘I’d like to, but I couldn’t,’ he explained.  ‘I’m always the same when I meet someone attractive.  I can’t seem to work up the courage.’

And so I fixed it.  The conversation went something like this…

‘Melanie, if Brad asked you out, would you go?’

‘Brad, Melanie would love to go out with you but she’s waiting for you to ask her.  She’s in tomorrow evening if you want to phone.’

Yes, I fixed it for the two of them, I really did.  Then, out of the blue, Jerry phoned and took me to an Indian restaurant.  His conversation was fast and lively, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as I expected.  Brad wasn’t seeing Melanie that night and I’d left him with his novel, on the patio.  He looked so lonely…

Gradually, Brad got back into circulation.  One day, to my surprise, he invited me to a party.  It was a fifties night.  I went to Mum’s and rummaged in the back of her wardrobe.  I dug out the perfect dress with a red top and full white skirt.  Four-inch stilettoes and a purple fringe completed the look.

            I caught my breath when I saw Brad’s get-up.  His crop was slicked down with gel and he wore a black T-shirt, pink shirt and skinny black jeans.  He looked amazing.

            When we stopped at the petrol station, the attendant’s eyes almost popped out of his face as I teetered to the cashpoint and Brad put air in the tyres. We both laughed at the effect our gear had on the unsuspecting public.  And I loved every single minute of it.

            There was only one thing that marred a perfect evening…

            On being introduced to Brad’s friends, everyone gave me a strange look and remarked: ‘So you’re the landlady!’

            ‘What have you been saying to your mates about me/’ I asked Brad later.  He looked uncomfortable, but then, who was I to judge him.

            ‘I told all my friends you were a creep,’ I confided bravely.

            ‘I told mine you were a dragon,’ he replied.

            I began to regret my successful matchmaking as I thought about Brad and Melanie.  After all, we had more in common that I first thought.  There was a certain something about our time together.

            When Jerry rang, my response was lukewarm.  It was Friday and Brad was shortly due home from work.

            ‘I quite understand if you’ve got something better on the back burner,’ snapped Jerry, annoyed because I wasn’t immediately available after three weeks of silence.

            ‘That’s how it goes,’ I said cheerfully, replacing the receiver.  I put Brad’s favourite DVD on the player and began to think things over. 

            I worried about Brad, this arrogant guy who loved loud clothes and furry monkeys.  He was the same man who like opera, but was impatient with Shakespeare and couldn’t do the cryptic crossword.

            He asked me how I was and really wanted to know.

            He was going out with Melanie.

            I could stand it no longer.  When he arrived home, I asked him outright.

            ‘Are you seeing Melanie again?’ I blurted.

            ‘I’m comfortable with you,’ Brad said simply, ‘and I’d rather stay here.’

            That’s all very well, of course, but now I must prepare a new contract.  It’s essential to start how you mean to go on.  Know where you stand, that sort of thing.  It’s only sensible. No more Jerry-types for me.  Brad’s going to know exactly what’s expected…

© Janet Cameron.  First published in The Sunday Post 15 September, 1991 under the title My Uncertain Heart.

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Meals on Legs

Copyright: Janet Cameron

'Here you are, Sindy," says Mum. "Nan's dinner's ready."
Carefully, she places a dab of mint
sauce beside the lamb and adds a
little broccoli next to the crispy
roast potatoes.  "They're not too
crispy, are they?" she worries. "Do
you think Nan can chew them, or
should I put more mash on instead?"

            ‘They’re fine,’ I assure her.  ‘Nan always covers them in gravy anyway.’

            So Mum pops the aluminium lid on top of the plate and hands it to me.  ‘And there’s yours,’ she adds, placing my dinner on top of Nan’s.  It’s exactly the same except there’s no broccoli.  I hate broccoli and, fortunately, Mum understands. 

            ‘We could all go round Nan’s with our dinners.  It wouldn’t make any odds,’ Mum pops a couple of serviettes on top of the dinners.

            ‘Don’t forget, Mum,’ I say, ‘We agreed because Nan says not to make any fuss.’

            Mum smiles her secret smile.  ‘She always was a proud old lady,’ she murmurs, ‘but then, we wouldn’t have her any different, would we?’

            ‘See you soon, Mum.’

            I whizz off round the corner to Nan’s.  Mum, Dad, Phil and I live in a three up, two down in Short Street and Nan lives in Three Meadows Close in a lovely bungalow  that’s just the right size for her with tiny, yellow roses round the window.  When I reach her buttercup yellow door, I ring the bell, three short rings and one long, so she knows it’s me and I make a mental note her front lawn grass needs cutting and the roses could do with a prune.  My young brother, Phil, always does it for her.  Nan has an idea that if you’re doing a tough job, you need lots of cups of tea, and is apt to get a little agitated if you don’t drink it.   So Phil spends more time drinking tea than cutting the grass.  Actually, sometimes I think she does it on purpose so she can have more time with him, but I know Phil doesn’t mind.  Like all of us, he adores the old lady.

            It takes a while for Nan to reach the door, although she’s pretty good for ninety.  (Actually, she’s my great-grandmother on Mum’s side, but Mum’s parents retired to Spain so we look out for her day-to-day, although Mum’s parents visit as often as they can.)

            ‘Hi Nan,’ I greet her.  ‘It’s Meals on Legs.’  Nan laughs.  It’s become our family joke and we always laugh at it, even though, with the constant repetition, it shouldn’t really be funny anymore.

            ‘Sindy, what a good girl you are?’   I follow her inside.  ‘Why have you brought me two dinners?’ asks Nan, bewildered.  ‘I can’t possibly eat all that.’

            ‘The other one’s for me.  I’m going to have mine with you, today.’

            ‘I told you I didn’t want any fuss.’  All the same, Nan sniffs appreciatively and then looks anxious for a moment.  ‘Now you’ll miss your Sunday lunch with the family.  You don’t have to do that, Sindy.  Now that I can’t get round to you anymore doesn’t mean I can’t eat mine on my own.  I know I’m lucky to get such a lovely dinner every Sunday.  After all, you always come round and have tea with me.’

            Dear Nan.  She’s so independent and always anxious not to be a burden, not that she ever could be.   Like everyone, she has her funny little ways, but she is the most unselfish person I know and a fountain of good sense when you need a listening ear.

            ‘But I want to eat with you, Nan.  I eat plenty of meals with Mum and Dad and Phil on weekdays.  Anyway, I want to talk to you.’

            ‘All right, my love.’ 

            Nan has already laid the table for herself, so she gets another placemat for me and a knife and fork then hands me a bottle of Rosé and a bottle opener.  ‘You’re a nice strong girl, Sindy, can you get the cork out?’ she says.  Secretly I think to myself, ‘But you didn’t want any fuss, Nan!’ although I daren’t say so.  Trying not to spill the wine, I manage to remove the cork.  Nan’s little rosebud mouth lifts up approvingly as the wine gurgles happily into her favourite crystal sherry glasses.   ‘That’s the ticket,’ she says. 

            She has lots of funny little expressions like that, from when she was a girl and sometimes it really cracks Phil and me up.  As we sit down, I notice she’d had her hair done yesterday and it sits in neat little curls on top of her head and around her ears.  And, am I imagining it, or has she had a silvery-blue rinse?  No, I’m sure I’m not.   Anyway, she looks great with her light hair and her sun-browned, smiley little button of a face.

            We both taste a small piece of everything and have a sip of wine, then I say, ‘Nan, there’s this boy I like.  I don’t know if he likes me, and I’m not sure whether to…well, you know… do anything about it.’

            ‘Is he really a very nice boy and worthy of you?’

            ‘Well, yes, of course he is.  And he’s quite incredibly attractive and gorgeous with black hair and he always talks to me as though he likes me.  He loves dancing, just like I do.  It’s just that…well, I’m not sure if he’s really attracted to me, in a romantic sort of way.’  I trail off, starting to feel a bit daft, but I can see Nan is thinking about it very carefully by the way her head is nodding.   After what seems like forever, she looks me straight in the eye.

            ‘Then of course you should do something about it.  Of course he’s attracted to you.  Why shouldn’t he be?  I mean, Sindy, my sweetheart, just look at you…’

            I start to giggle.  ‘But you’re prejudiced, Nan.’

            ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about,’ says Nan firmly, spearing a piece of broccoli and inspecting it as though it holds the answer to the meaning of life, the Universe and everything in it.  Honestly, who needs therapy for self-esteem when they have a Nan like that!

            ‘You wouldn’t be here if I’d been lily-livered when I met your great-grandfather.’

            Lily-livered!  That’s a new one!  I almost choke on a roast potato.

            ‘What happened?’

            ‘He’d never have asked me out, let alone asked me to marry him if I hadn’t guided him very firmly in the right direction.  Young men don’t always know what’s best for them and need a little help in making up their minds.  But you needn’t worry because they won’t ever do anything they don’t really want to.  You just have to make it easy for them and let them think it’s their idea.  Never mind all these high-faluting new ideas.  Male psycho…, what d’you call it?... male psycho…ana…lology. well, that hasn’t changed a bit.’

            I think about this.  Suppose I mention to Ben, sort of casually, as though it was neither here nor there, that I’d really like to see that new romantic comedy with Hugh Grant, then perhaps he’ll offer to take me.  In fact, I’m sure he will.  The more I think about it, the more sure I am and I start to feel more confident and, yes, even empowered.

            For a short while, Nan and I eat in companionable silence, then I say:  ‘You’re right, Nan. 

            ‘Faint heart never won fair lady – or gentleman, in this case.’

            Again, she was right.  There was something gentlemanly about Ben, gentlemanly and respectful, although he was no shrinking violet.  Shrinking violet!  What am I thinking?  Nan’s jargon’s beginning to rub off on me!

            ‘That was delicious,’ says Nan at last, gathering up our plates, and, right on cue, there’s a ring at the bell.

            ‘Goodness!  Who can that be?’

            I don’t offer to answer the door for Nan, because I don’t want to spoil the second little surprise of the day for her.  Quickly I take the plates from her, pop them through the kitchen hatch and follow her to the door.

            ‘Well I never!’ says Nan.  ‘More meals on legs!’

            Phil, who is standing on the doorstep with three dishes with aluminium lids on top, begins to chuckle, setting me off.  We all troop back into the dining room with our desserts, Phil ducking his head as he goes through the door.  He’s growing so tall, he’s left me way behind.

            ‘It’s Mum’s home-made Bannoffie pie, your favourite,’ says Phil.  ‘And the cream’s here, somewhere, in my jacket pocket.’  It’s wedged rather tightly, so it takes him some time to extract, then Nan gets a little china jug and pours in the double cream and gets us some forks and spoons.

            ‘Yummy!’ says Phil.  Phil’s my younger brother and he’s just nineteen and as little brothers go, he’s pretty cool, although I have to remind him to take off his baseball cap at the table before Nan does.  

            ‘I said I didn’t want any fuss,’ says Nan.  All the same, she tucks in as though she’s never had Bannoffie pie in her life and has just discovered its naughty delights. 

            ‘You’ll need to cut Nan’s grass soon,’ I remark, by way of conversation which has been flagging rather since we started on the pie which, because of its excellence, demands our undivided attention.

            ‘OK,’ says Phil, pouring on more cream.

            ‘How’s Amanda?’ asks Nan suddenly and both Phil and I freeze.  Poor Phil – he broke up with Amanda last week and he’s absolutely gutted.  I told him he should ring her, because it only sounded like a silly lovers’ tiff to me and I was sure she was suffering too.  I was so upset about their quarrel and trying to think how to help get them back together.

            Phil has gone quiet so I answer for him, whispering as though it would make it less awful, ‘Nan, they broke up.’

            ‘Why don’t you do that thing on your little machine,’ says Nan.  ‘That funny little machine like a writing telephone.’

            ‘You mean, text her’ says Phil. 

            ‘Yes,’ says Nan, ‘test her.’

            ‘It’s text, Nan, not test,’ I say, thinking about the strange irony of Nan’s little mistake.

            ‘Text,’ repeats Nan.  ‘Good gracious, you children do have some funny expressions!’   And, in spite of the sadness, that set us both off again into fits of laughter.

            ‘Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,’ I remark, pleased with myself for remembering that one from when Nan told me not to criticise Phil for being untidy.

            We are all sorry when our desserts are finished.  Nan gathers up the plates and Phil excuses himself for a few minutes then they both come back and sit down.  Phil is looking decidedly smug with himself.

            ‘What’s up with you?’ I enquire.

            ‘I tested Amanda,’ he says and winks.  I lean over and squeeze his arm in sisterly empathy and he says, ‘Gerroff!’

Then the doorbell rings again.  Neither Phil nor I get up and Nan looks at us a little perplexed.

            ‘There’s someone at the door,’ says Phil.

            ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Nan says severely.  ‘Got lazyitis?’

            In any case, she gets to her feet and answers the door and Phil and I linger behind her, bristling with expectation.  There on the doorstep are Mum and Dad, beaming fit to bust.  Holding an enormous cake with pink icing and all lit up with ninety gleaming candles (you need an enormous cake for ninety candles) was Mum.  I peered over Nan’s shoulder and could just make out, beneath the tiny candles, the words ‘DEAREST NAN’ in a darker shade of pink.

            ‘Let us in, Nan, this is heavy,’ says Mum.

            ‘I said I’d carry it,’ says Dad, ‘but she wouldn’t let me.’

            ‘You might have dropped it,’ says Mum and it’s true, our Dad, lovely as he is, can be accident prone with anything remotely related to cooking.  Mum won’t let him carry anything fragile, especially since he dropped a Coq au Vin once when she was having a special dinner-party.  Perhaps the lovely smells that emanate from Mum’s cooking send him off-balance.

            ‘I told you not to make a fuss,’ cries Nan, but there is a beautiful smile on her face and her blue eyes are glowing.  ‘I told you and told you but you don’t ever listen.’

            ‘We only came round for the entertainment, ’jokes Dad.  ‘We want to see you blow out all the candles by yourself.  Now, come in and sit down, Nan.’

            Quickly I get out some more glasses and serviettes and Dad places all the presents on the floor by Nan.  One or two candles have gone out, but they’re magic ones and Nan is intrigued when they light themselves again. 

            ‘Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Just look at that!’ she keeps squealing.

            We all fall about as we watch her try to blow them out and she tells us we’re a crateload of monkeys and she doesn’t know what she’s going to do with us all.  What did she ever do to deserve all this? 

            Then, ‘We love you Nan,’ says Phil suddenly and there’s an instant hush and we all stare at him as he reddens and stares into the cake.  You see, Phil is such a loving bloke, but like many young men of his age, he’s slow in expressing his real feelings. 

            Dad saves the day.  ‘Yes, we do all love you Nan.  You’re the best.  Happy, happy birthday!’

            Then there are kisses and hugs all round, although we remember to be gentle with Nan.

            ‘You know it’s my ninetieth,’ says Nan.  We assure her, we all know that and that’s why she has ninety magic candles.  ‘Why don’t you count them to make sure?’ suggests Phil, cheekily.

 

As she cuts the cake, with enormous pride, I can see she’s almost bursting with the excitement.  Even so, she just can’t help commenting: ‘I told you I didn’t want any fuss.’

Copyright Janet Cameron
Published by People's Friend as I don't want any fuss, 16 September, 2006.