Thursday Nights at the Bluebell Inn

by Kit Fielding

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction; General Fiction

Synopsis

In every pub in every town unspoken stories lie beneath the surface.

Each week, six women meet at The Bluebell Inn. They form an unlikely and occasionally triumphant ladies' darts team. They banter and jibe, they laugh. But their hidden stories of love and loss are what, in the end, will bind them.

There is Mary, full of it but cradling her dark secret; Lena - young and bold, she has made her choice; the cat woman who must return to the place of her birth before it's too late. There's Maggie, still laying out the place for her husband; and Pegs, the dark-eyed girl from the travellers' site bringing her strangeness and first love. And Katy: unappreciated. Open to an offer.

They know little of each other's lives. But here they gather and weave a delicate and sustaining connection that maybe they can rely on as the crossroads on their individual paths threaten to overwhelm.

With humanity and insight, Kit Fielding reveals the great love that lies at the heart of female friendship.

Raw, funny and devastating, all of life can be found at the Bluebell.

Release date: August 8, 2019

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

A darts match on a Monday night in October

The Bluebell versus the Naggers

Katy

It’s Monday night – my night – and Jerry’s sitting in front of the fire toasting his toes while I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly. I’m clearing up, washing up, sorting out Laura’s clothes for the morning. I say, ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to help.’

Shifting himself into a more comfortable position, Jerry says, ‘I’ve been out in the bloody wet all day.’

‘You know it’s darts.’

‘It’s always darts for you, Katy.’

‘Oh, yeah? So who cooks the meals? Who cleans the house? Who looks after . . .?’ Then I can’t be bothered to go on and he’s not listening anyway.

My lovely daughter Laura, soon to be sixteen, belt for a skirt, lolling in the armchair, rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘If you two are going to start, I’m off to my room.’ She flounces out looking like me but talking like him.

I say, ‘Look what you’ve done.’

He says, ‘Look what you’ve done.’ He draws out the ‘you’ve’ in a condescending, ‘of course it’s your fault’ intonation.

I want to spit at him but I light up a fag instead, cos that really gets his goat since he gave up smoking.

‘Not in here, Katy,’ he snaps at me.

And because he’s going bald and is conscious of it, I say, ‘Okay, keep your hair on.’

And he says, ‘Hah bloody hah.’

 

It’s five minutes till I have to leave and I’m looking in the mirror, putting my face on. Jerry’s still flopped in his chair, staring at the telly and mumbling ‘What a load of bollocks,’ but he doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. And you know what? I briefly feel sorry for this deflated man, whose hair is peeling back from his temples. Is he as unhappy as I am? But the moment doesn’t last because he opens his mouth and dredges up a loud belch.

‘Pig,’ I say.

‘At least I don’t look like one.’

This cuts me because I’ve been trying to lose a bit of weight; you know, easing down on the chips, only having two slices of cheese on toast. I’m not fat, just a bit over the ideal. What’s the word? Voluptuous. That’s it. Voluptuous. Like Nigella Lawson: big and beautiful. Well, dark-haired anyway.

In my reflection, I suck in my cheeks to give myself the hollow look, check that the flabbiness under my chin isn’t turning into another chin. Then I work on my eyes, squint on my eyeliner, squint again for my mascara. I step back to admire my handiwork. I’m not exactly a pale-skinned sloe-eyed beauty, but it’s not bad, Katy. Not bad.

‘You used to fancy me,’ I say to Jerry.

‘Used to fancy a lot of things.’

I shake my arse as I mock-leer at him from the mirror. ‘Fancy a bit of action?’

He says, with no interest, ‘Maybe later.’

‘When? After you’ve filled your guts with lager?’

He grins then. ‘It deadens the pain.’

I have to laugh, and there’s a second of how it used to be.

I pick up my handbag, check I’ve got my darts, and then I’m ready to go. I say, ‘Make sure Laura goes to bed on time.’ As if he will, and as if she would, but I’ve got to go through the motions.

So I leave Jerry, warm and comfortable and fucking selfish, to his evening in front of the fire, to his collection of porn DVDs and cans of lager. He’ll come along to the Bluebell a bit later, in time for a couple of pints before closing and a couple of free sandwiches off the team’s plate.

 

Jerry calls the Bluebell my second home because I spend so much time there, but even my crummy council house is in better nick than this pub. The Bluebell might be half comfortable inside, but the outside could definitely do with some help from DIY SOS. Danny the Landlord calls it his Victorian Wreck and he’s not joking. There’s dead weeds in the car park and withered flowers spilling over the hanging baskets that are hanging by a thread – something to watch out for on a windy night, or when I’m sitting on a plastic chair in the designated smoking area. Which is where I should be sitting now cos I’m taking a last few pulls on my fag outside the entrance – under the rusting sign of a faded bluebell – before I join my teammates.

 

And in the Bluebell, my girls are practising for the game, taking it in turns to throw their darts at the board. Behind the bar, Danny the Landlord – giving his paying customers his rear view – is playing with his newly fitted toy: his CCTV monitors.

I interrupt him. ‘Any chance of getting served here?’

Danny turns around, lets his wondering eyes wander up and down my body.

‘There’s every chance of that, Katy.’

I say that I’m fed up, not hard up, and he shrugs, says that it’s my loss. I tell him that he’s probably past it anyway, and he pats his stomach and says that he’s as fit as a butcher’s dog. He’s got the dog bit right because he’s the spit of an old greyhound; same colour, same knobbly joints, same way of scratching his hair for a hidden flea.

 

So it’s six drinks I buy for the Bluebell Ladies – for Six Of The Best. For Irish (Mary O’Brian): ‘Mother’s ruin’ and tonic. She’s a shade on the blowsy side, pushing fifty and always moaning about her gobshite of a husband.

For Maggie: half a cider. ‘Cos of the old man.’ Won’t see sixty again.

For Lena: WK Blueberry. She’s twenty-five years old and the biggest flirt in the pub – short skirt, low top and big, big eyes.

For Scottie Dog aka Marie Stewart: whisky and water, ‘and go easy with the water.’ Lives alone with her cats in a smelly terraced house with a jungle for a garden. Must be seventy if she’s a day.

For Pegs: ‘Um. Same as you, Katy.’ Lives in a park home on a travellers’ site. Twenty years old and darkly pretty, but keeps herself that little bit apart like gypos do.

For me: vodka and Coke. Me, Katy Jones, thirty-five, heavy smoker, and thinking my life’s over. Well, the fun part of it anyway.

 

So we sip our drinks, get in some more practice on the board, and wait for the opposition, the Nag’s Head ladies’ team – ‘the Naggers’ – to turn up.

Irish, already ordering another drink, says to Danny, ‘So what’s with that, then?’ And nods her curiosity towards Danny’s side of the bar, towards the newly set up CCTV screens that are snapping postcard views of the Bluebell.

‘Insurance wanted them for security. In case of thieving,’ Danny says.

‘Who’d want to steal anything from this shithole?’ says Irish.

Then Scottie Dog says, ‘I bet the perv’s put one in our bog.’

Danny laughs. ‘Shouldn’t think anyone’s seen yours in thirty years, Scottie.’

Scottie Dog says, ‘A Sassenach’s never going to see it, Danny boy.’

Old Bob, standing close, but with his own conversation going on, says, ‘Would have been better to spend the money on a pot of paint; place ain’t seen a brush since VE Day.’

He’s probably right; the ceiling is a dirty yellow from generations of fag smoke, and on the wall by the Gents is an enamel poster for Craven A cigarettes.

Our opponents – that’s too strong a word, friendly rivals is better – arrive to start the game. They’re a gentle team, about halfway up the table, and that’s ambition enough for them.

‘Bad luck in the cup this year, Katy,’ says their captain as we make the draw. She adds, ‘Again.’ As if I didn’t know.

At least we’re putting in some good results in the league. We’re a quarter way through the season and lying third behind the Moonies and the Battersby Babes. But you know how sometimes you get the feeling it’s your turn, a time for you? Well, that’s how it seems to me. I go to sleep at night playing out the games that we’ve got left, imagining winning – actually winning – the Division One Ladies’ League. Jerry reckons I’m obsessed and I cut him a blinder and tell him that’s all I’ve got to look forward to.

And the horrible truth is that it seems to be true.

Anyway, Danny wants some silverware for the shelf behind the bar, and ever since we’ve been playing here he’s said, ‘If you lot cut down on the boozing, you’d start winning.’

Lena, leaning forward to show off her boobs, says, ‘You’re a fine landlord telling us not to drink.’ But Danny’s not really hearing her; he’s fighting a losing battle trying not to look down her top.

So that’s where we are on this Monday night, recovering from being knocked out of the cup and wanting to keep this good run going for the rest of the league.

‘Nearest bull then, Katy,’ says the captain of the Naggers, and promptly launches her arrow into the twenty-five to start pole position in the team game.

I’m first throw on our side and I get us away with a sixty. In fact all of my side score well, but so do the Naggers, and it’s a only a fluky treble eighteen that leaves me wanting double sixteen with a dart still in my hand.

Irish, in my ear, whispers, ‘Give it fuck, Katy,’ and the double seems to beckon my dart in, and we’re out. We’ve won the team game.

I can hear Irish giggling behind me. ‘Well, they didn’t keep up with the Joneses.’

 

So it’s been close, and gasping for a fag, I head outside for the table and chairs of the smoking area. There’s a light rain falling and it’s starting to get dark, and I’m thinking, ‘Bloody smoking ban, sending me out on a night like this.’

 

I’m only there a minute when Johnny James comes out through the door rolling up a cancer stick.

‘Chilly out here, Katy,’ he says and lights up.

Now I don’t know what to make of Johnny James. I always seem to be bumping into him. We’ll have a chat, a few words about nothing much, but he has this habit of looking directly into my eyes with his deep grey ones and I . . . Well, it’s a stupid thing to think, he must be five years – perhaps a little bit more – younger than me, and I’m slightly plump, and how could he possibly be remotely interested? Anyway, I’ve got enough trouble with one man without going off into a fantasy land with another.

Johnny says, ‘How’s the game going, Katy?’

‘One up, Johnny.’

I’m puffing furiously at my fag, guiltily hoovering up the nicotine when I should be inside encouraging my team. I drop my half-finished habit onto the slab floor and grind it to death with my toes. ‘Better get back, check how the girls are doing.’

‘See you a bit later?’ He holds me with those eyes.

I think he means the next fag break, but it sounds like an invitation to . . . No, it doesn’t – he’s just being pleasant.

I say, ‘I expect you will; I’m out here every hour.’ And that sounds like a confirmation to a question not asked.

 

Inside, Pegs – quiet Pegs – is on the board and she’s struggling through her game. The chalkboard shows her inconsistency with a forty-five, a thirty, a twenty-six. When she comes back to the oche, Irish shoves a drink into her hand.

‘Get that down yer neck.’

I say, ‘Just slow down. Think about it.’ As Pegs nervously, quickly, drains a half glass of vodka and Coke.

‘That was my drink,’ I say to Irish but Pegs has thrown a ton and Irish laughs. ‘It went to a good cause, Katy.’

I go to the bar to order up and, from the pool-room side, Johnny James is paying Danny for a pint. When Danny serves mine, he says, ‘All done, Katy. Your admirer bought you it.’

‘Admirer?’

From the other bar Johnny James raises his glass in a toast.

‘Don’t be daft, Danny.’ But I can feel myself, of all things, starting to blush.

 

Whenever we play at home, we have support from a quartet of regulars. These are the guys who seem to live in the pub. If I call in for a packet of fags, or if Jerry and I visit on one of our rare nights out together, some of them are always here. Danny calls these waifs and strays ‘the Motley Crew’, and they drink the day and night away. Jerry says the Bluebell would go bust without them. I tell him Carling would be in dire straits without his contribution to their sales.

He doesn’t think this is funny. ‘If you slimmed down, you could get in the door to Weight Watchers,’ he says quite nastily.

I reckon that if he smartened up he could become a slob.

And that’s how it seems to go on between us, this kidding that’s not really kidding.

 

Anyway, our local support – the Motley Crew, from Old Bob, to Paddy, to Jilted John to Pikey Pete (Pegs’ cousin) – are fun drunks, not nasty, falling-down, troublemaking drunks. They booze and joke and laugh at each other. Tonight they’re in a singing mood, and half-cut, they drift over to watch the game.

So our local support, starved of entertainment, get behind us.

‘Come on, the Bluebell girls!’

‘Come on, luscious Lena!’

Lena perks up at the attention. She starts to pose on her throw – bottom pumped out, bosom thrust forward. When one of her darts bounces out of the board, and she bends over to pick it up, the whistles and cheers must be heard halfway across town. But this distraction is fatal for Lena and a setback for us. Her game goes to pieces and she’s well and truly trounced.

If you couldn’t see the next three games you’d know who was playing by the songs the wags of our supporters put together. Scottie Dog gets ‘Donald, Where’s Your Troosers?’ Lead vocals by Old Bob and Pikey Pete.

Maggie gets ‘Maggie May’, the choir led by Jilted John – and she moans to them that Maggie may not, if they don’t give her a bit of hush.

But it’s Irish they love, and every time she throws her darts it’s ‘When Irish’s Eyes Are Smiling’. This is started by Paddy, because this is the song he sings every night, without fail, at chucking-out time.

‘Saves me shouting “last orders”,’ says Danny.

Irish tells them they won’t be smiling if she doesn’t win this effing game, but she keeps her cool and collects her double out as the Naggers fall at the last.

 

So it’s drinks all round – again – and my head’s becoming a bit fuzzy. The girls, my girls, are on a high. Maggie, on several ciders too many, keeps saying she ‘must go home, cos he really shouldn’t be on his own. Okay, I’ll just have the one – only the one, mind.’

Even Pegs, our lucky Gypsy mascot, is letting her hair down. The trouble is, the more she drinks, the quicker, the thicker, her traveller accent becomes. ‘Dordee, dik o racklee,’ she says to Pikey Pete. (Don’t ask what it means, I’ve haven’t got a clue.)

What with it having the same effect on Scottie Dog – ‘Yee canna tale me thaat,’ – and Irish – ‘Oi’m ater tinking dis is a greatest day in moi loif,’ – there’s only half the team speaking proper like.

I’m thinking that I’ve nearly had enough for one night when Danny lines up a round on the bar.

‘For Chrissake, Danny – I’ll be on my arse in a minute.’

Irish says, ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth.’

I say, ‘I’m off to put a ciggie in mine.’

 

Outside, in the dim lighting of the leper colony, Johnny James is smoking his roll-up.

‘Katy,’ he says, feigning a cough, ‘I’ve been through three fags while I’m waiting for you.’

I have to laugh, but inside me I wonder if it’s true. The waiting.

As Johnny’s going in, he says, ‘I’ll be out here again at ten. Might see you then?’

‘Might do.’ The way I say it sounds teasing, like I’m flirting. I make a mental note to steady up on the vodka.

 

Our fan club has retired to the bar to be closer to the beer, and my girls have commandeered a table to sit at.

‘Been on my feet all day,’ says Maggie. ‘Twice, my Ken went walkabout. Second time he nearly made the bypass.’

I’ve seen her holding her husband’s hand, leading him back to their house through the streets like a scolded schoolboy.

Maggie says, ‘They want him to go in a home.’

‘I wish I could put Gobshite in a home,’ mutters Irish.

‘My aunt Zilla had Alzheimer’s,’ says Pegs. ‘She used to get up in the middle of the night, walk round the site like a ghost.’

Lena says to Maggie, ‘It must be awful for you.’

I forget sometimes, that there’s a side to Lena that’s not all boobs and bum. It always surprises me.

Scottie Dog reckons the drink is affecting her waterworks and, because it’s contagious, Lena, Irish and I join her in the loos.

 

I touch up my lipstick, check my eyeliner (can’t think why) while Irish, toilet door wide open, carries on a conversation with us as she sits on the bog. Her skirt’s bunched up and when she’s finished, with a contented sigh, she stands and her skirt drops back to her knees.

Irish goes straight to the sink and Lena says, ‘You didn’t pull them up?’

‘Pull them up?’

‘Your knickers.’

‘I’m not wearing any.’ Irish lifts her skirt and, sure enough, she isn’t.

I say, ‘You’ll catch a chill, Irish.’

Lena says, ‘For God’s sake don’t trip over on the way out.’

Scottie Dog says, ‘You’ll frighten the horses, Irish.’

Irish reckons she could do with a good stallion. ‘Better than the little gobshite I’ve got at home.’ She’s combing her hair through her fingers and looking at herself in the mirror above the sink.

She sets up a pose and asks, ‘Do yer think I’m getting a little on the plump side?’

Scottie Dog says, ‘You’re an ample woman, Irish.’

‘Ample? What the fuck does ample mean?’

‘Fat,’ says Scottie Dog, which I think is on the harsh side because I’d say that Irish was just well covered. She’s a bit like me, but with a bit more.

 

You know how a song can take you back years? When we sit ourselves down again the jukebox has been fed and there’s a tune on from twenty years ago. I look around this pub where nothing much has changed in all that time. Those words, ‘I will always love you’, and that gentle insistent tune, used to drift out the back door of the Bluebell as I sat, fifteen years old, on the wooden bench in the warmth of a summer evening. Then, I was desperately wishing to join in the freedom of age, craving to be older. (That one worked out all right, didn’t it?)

Jerry would sneak me out a drink – a vodka drowned in Coke so it didn’t look suspicious – and he’d bring out his pint. Every window of the pub would be open and the jukebox would track my crush on this laughing boy with his thick mop of brown hair. He was handsome then, Jerry was. He didn’t have a paunch and I was as thin as a rake. Those long summer evenings were spent sitting out the back of the Bluebell, sharing cigarettes and talking, always talking. About anything. About nothing.

Jerry had a car – bit of a wreck, mind, and sometimes not taxed – but in that car we’d drive miles. Some Sunday mornings he’d pick me up from home and we’d just drive to anywhere that took our fancy.

And we were happy. So happy.

The day I was sixteen I walked out of school for good, got a job in the packing factory, and told Mum that Jerry and I were looking for a flat.

Mum says sadly, ‘Don’t you want more than that, Katy?’

But all I want is to hold Jerry every night, wake up beside him in the mornings, and live my life with him.

Mum says, ‘You can do all that later, you’ve got all the time in the world.’

God, I know now how right she was, and suddenly I’m in one of those ‘If only I could turn the clock back moods’.

Maggie says, ‘Penny for them, Katy.’

I say, ‘They’re worth nothing,’ and the bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

Irish says, ‘The mood of her. You’d be thinking we’d just lost the bloody game.’

Maggie says gently, ‘C’mon, Katy, buck up a bit.’

I try because I know that Jerry will be here in a minute, and if he sees my long face it’ll give him something else to go on about.

So what I do is take my last twenty pound note, the one I’d been saving for midweek shopping, and buy yet another round of drinks. (Afterwards, when everything came to a head, I reckon that this is what did it: that drink.)

I take a huge gulp of my vodka and Coke and then, even more fuzzy-headed, go for a smoke.

 

There’s no one else out here and I sit on the damp bench under a dripping plastic cover and wonder if I’ll be sitting here in five, ten, twenty years’ time. I might even die out here, some old crone puffing on her last fag, while the world carries on beside her. I’ve started to feel really sorry for myself, and all because of that bloody song. Even now I can’t get it out of my head. I will always love you.

Well, I fucking won’t. And I fucking didn’t.

And then, believe it or not, I start to cry. I put my head in my hands and I cry for a life that’s being wasted, for a young girl with all her hopes and dreams standing before her. I cry for a me that was.

That’s what Johnny James must have seen: me crying. Perhaps he even stood over me for a minute before . . . before he sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulders, and drew me gently towards him.

‘Katy, whatever’s the matter?’

Well, I’m not going to answer that, am I?

So what happens?

What do you think happens? I kiss him, that’s what I do. I put my arms around his neck and I kiss him long and hard.

‘Jesus, Katy,’ he says, and then he kisses me back.

‘You’re all woman, Katy.’ Now he’s kissing my neck. He’s gentle and warm and his hands are caressing everywhere – and I mean everywhere.

Then he puts his mouth to mine again and it feels like heaven to be wanted so badly. But I need to take a breath, to draw air. ‘Johnny,’ I say, ‘give me a breather.’

I’m saying this, and over his shoulder I can see a pinprick of red light, and it seems to be flickering, pulsing, and . . . and it’s a bloody camera. It’s Danny’s security camera beaming me into the public bar.

I freeze and I’ve got this image in my head of me – of us – captured in this black-and-white scene of deceit. And what if Jerry’s at the bar, leaning over and saying, ‘A pint please, Danny’?

And what if, while Danny’s pouring up, Jerry scans the CCTV screens and, forever the voyeur, thinks, ‘That couple having a snog and more. They’re going for it. Hang on. Wait a minute.’ He squints at the picture. ‘That looks like . . .’

I say to Johnny, ‘The camera. The fucking camera.’

He goes, ‘Shite, Katy. Do you think anyone . . .?’

 

Later, Irish says to me, ‘He stood at the bar as still as a statue, and Danny was saying, “That’ll be three pound twenty.” He says it twice and Jerry doesn’t move, just stares at that screen, Katy. Then Danny turns around to see what’s got Jerry’s attention and says “Jesus Christ, isn’t that . . .?” ’

Irish says, ‘And then Jerry walks out, like he’s a zombie. He leaves his beer on the counter and, quiet as a mouse, he walks out.’ She sighs like she’s disappointed. ‘He just walks out.’

I say, ‘Who knows? Who else saw?’

‘Just me and Danny. And he’s not a one for the talking.’

 

We’ve stayed behind, me and Irish, and the bar’s empty, and the jukebox is on automatic, and every fucking song that’s playing sounds like a requiem for an act of folly.

I’m drunk. I know that and I’m saying, ‘It was only a kiss, Irish. Only a kiss. That’s all.’

But inside me I know what it was. It was a little bit of excitement in this dull, boring world where all I’ve got to do is play darts and get pissed and look after an ungrateful husband and an even more ungrateful daughter.

Danny, washing glasses behind the bar, calls over to me. ‘Your taxi’ll be here in a minute.’

Irish asks, ‘Can you drop me off, Katy?’

 

When I get home, the house is in darkness and I let myself quietly into the front room where the embers of the fire are still glowing. Jerry’s voice comes out the shadows, making me jump.

‘Don’t turn the light on, Katy.’ He’s sitting in his usual chair and his words sound muffled.

‘Jerry, it wasn’t like it looked.’

I want to tell him how I felt, how I wanted things to be, but I don’t have the words . . .

Jerry’s talking quietly and deliberately, and the meaning is lagging behind his words. I’m thinking about them, digesting them slowly.

‘In the morning,’ he’s saying, ‘I want you gone.’

‘Gone? Gone? What do you mean, gone? What about Laura?’

He says, ‘Me and Laura’ll be all right.’

I’m angry now and I’m drunk, and I’m not talking in the dark to someone who doesn’t understand . . .