This Time Next Year(32)

‘You’ve cut your hair. I thought you were growing it out?’ she said, reaching up to gently tug one of Minnie’s curls.

‘Well, I felt like a change,’ Minnie shrugged. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘If you want to grow it, it takes time, you have to persevere.’ Connie gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Your generation never stick anything out.’

‘Mum, I don’t think me getting a haircut is symptomatic of my being in the snowflake generation.’

Minnie took off her cape and hung it on one of the coat pegs in the corridor.

‘It’s like your swimming lessons all over again.’

‘Mum, you can’t still be mad at me for giving up Saturday morning swimming – I’m thirty!’

Her mother gave a little shake of the head, like a duck shaking off rainwater.

‘I spent an arm and a leg on those lessons, and you had such a talent for it, Minnie. Now, did you at least bring a pie?’

‘Was I supposed to?’

Her mother groaned.

‘Well, it’d be nice not to cook once in a while, when we’ve got a “chef” in the family.’ She said ‘chef’ the way she always said it, in a posh accent with a regal hand flourish. ‘Your dad’s just got back, been no help to anyone, and I didn’t sit down all shift. We were a nurse short on the ward, and not enough beds as usual.’ Minnie followed her mother through to the kitchen and watched her sit down on one of the kitchen chairs with a resigned sigh. ‘My poor Mr Cunningham got sent home, and he was in no fit state to go.’

‘I’m sorry you’ve had a hard day, Mum,’ said Minnie.

‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to sometimes,’ her mother said, closing her eyes. ‘How can some people have so much, and then our hospital doesn’t even have a bed for a man who just wants to pass on with a little dignity?’

Minnie reached out to touch her mother’s hand, but her mother didn’t see, and moved hers from the table before she could reach it. Minnie picked up a button instead. There was a collection of broken objects in front of her, waiting to be mended: a saucepan without a handle, a small button with ‘hot’ written on it, and the decapitated head of a ceramic dog.

‘You don’t need to go to any trouble, Mum. I’m honestly happy with beans on toast. I’ve just come to see you both.’

‘Well, that’s what you’ll be getting at this rate. Now, would you help me find this dog’s body, Minnie? It must be in that lounge somewhere.’

Her mother waved a hand towards the front room and Minnie did as she was asked. In the lounge the tick-tock of the clocks was marginally quieter. Her dad had designed it that way so as not to disrupt his programmes.

Of all the clocks in the house, there was only one that Minnie was genuinely fond of. It hung in pride of place above the TV – Coggie. She’d bought it for Dad from a car-boot sale up at Pick’s Cottage when she was sixteen. When she found it, it didn’t work; the bell on top had rusted and the seven and the four on the face had been scratched away. It had clearly been uncared for and unloved for many years, yet there remained some understated regal quality in that clock’s face, as if – even though it couldn’t tell you the time – it might tell you something else important, if only it could speak.

Minnie liked the hole in the face that let you watch the cogs whirring behind. The bell on the top was struck by a small pin every hour, and in amongst the clamour of clocks, it was the one bell she didn’t mind the sound of. Such a gentle proclamation of another hour gone, not a grandiose gong like some of the more entitled clocks.

Minnie bent down on her hands and knees and reached beneath the sofa searching for the lost piece of dog her mother was looking for. She heard her father’s footsteps heavy on the stairs.

‘Let’s have no more talk about beans on toast – we’ll just get a takeaway, shall we, love?’ Minnie’s dad bellowed in the direction of the kitchen, then he stomped into the lounge. Minnie saw his big workman’s boots stop next to her head. ‘What you doing down there?’

‘Looking for half a dog,’ she said.

He frowned. ‘Don’t be putting her to work, Connie. Get the girl a drink and let’s get a Chinese in, hey?’

He sat down in his worn brown cord armchair. The chair made a slow wheezing sound as though it had been winded. He reached for the remote control on the side table.

‘Notice anything different in here, Minnie Moo?’ he asked. Minnie stood up and straightened the blue woollen jumper she was wearing. She looked around for a new clock.

‘Up there,’ she said, pointing above the bookcase to the left of the TV. There was a small wooden Vienna regulator wall clock, with a pendulum as large as its face.

‘Finally found that missing piece, didn’t I. Bloke in Hamburg sold it to me for a pretty penny, I’ve been haggling with him for months.’

‘Very impressive, Dad – looks good as new.’

Her father grinned, his broad ruddy cheeks balled to the size of apples. To look at him you wouldn’t imagine Bill Cooper had the sleight of hand or the patience to repair minute pieces of machinery. He had arms like tree trunks and shoulders like an ox, perfect for hauling heavy loads. Yet his real strength lay in the fine-motor coordination of his fingertips and an unlikely interest in antique clockwork.