The Purple Dolphin

1. The Christmas surprise

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The plan was set to crumble even from the starting block.  Fate had dragged Catherine Grimshaw by the sun lounger, right off that Corsican beach with all its perfectly toned attractions, only to dump her outside the doctor’s surgery, far too close to home.  It was ruthless, sadistic.  And it was chucking it down.

Catherine’s feet made squelching noises as she lowered herself onto a plastic chair near the toilets.  Rain continued to hurl itself against the plate glass window as she glanced furtively around, hoping there were no familiar faces.  Strangers of all varieties sat elbow to elbow in a contagious silence, except for the high-pitched nose blower buried in a crumpled hanky in a secluded corner of the room.

Looped over a fish tank, a child bandit poked the guppies on display with a Star Wars Lightsaber.  Another swung his steel-capped boots into the back of Catherine’s chair, setting in stone her general dislike of small humans and the clueless parents who spawned them.  Maybe it was a sign from above that she was seeing this today, of all days.

In the next half hour a decision had to be made - and no easy one at that.  But this time it would not be driven by the actions of family members.

Catherine attacked her rain-frizzed hair with desperate palms but it would not be tamed.  Her misted spectacles needed a wipe too.  Ransacking the bag on her lap, fingers collided with the smooth bowl of Ted’s favourite pipe.  Its tag-along friend, the aroma of Captain Black seasoned the air with nostalgia.  And the floodgates of memory threw themselves wide.

***

It was Christmas morning, 1961.  Ted woke early, with bed springs poking him in the back and a throbbing head to remind him where he was and why.  Twisting his weathered face, he peeled back the covers and shivered as bare feet met with the stone floor.  Last night in The Fish Gutter’s Arms he hadn’t considered for long enough his reckless choice between a warm bed beside the missus and that extra pint of Brown Ale.  Or was it two?  And how was he to know some shifty geezer would burst his way through the clouds of stale cigarette smoke, selling all kinds from beneath a scruffy blanket?  Ted was in a vulnerable state.  The state of having too many notes in his pocket and a wish to make Molly happy.  Egged on by side kick Sam, he staggered out of there with a live addition to the Grimshaw household, which seemed like the perfect gift at the time.  This morning, not so much.

The house slept on as he quickened his pace down the garden path, tugging at his thin collar against the chill.  For many months he’d watched with sadness as Molly flirted and fawned over fellow stall holder ‘wide boy’ Walter.  But now, Ted was convinced there’d been a parting of the ways, and today he planned to mend some bridges.

As Ted approached Sam’s house the front door opened a crack, and a lavender strip of colour danced behind it.  Sam hopped from one foot to the other, clutching a floral robe draped around his shoulders.

Will you get in here before I bloody freeze to death?

Ted strode up the path and leaped inside.  You’re gettin’ soft in yer old age Sam Wiggins.  Try wakin’ up with an icicle hangin’ off yer nose.  His brow furrowed as he clocked Sam’s robe.  So you’re finally on the turn then?

Sam rolled his eyes.  It’s the daughter’s.  And stop winding me up.  Did Molly stick you in that bottom room again?  You could keep a corpse fresh in there for weeks.  Sam led the way to the kitchen.

Aye, and that corpse may be mine when I give her this, said Ted, flicking his head at the dome shaped form on the kitchen floor.

Talking of which, said Sam, .... this little begger had the wife tossing and turning all night.  Kept asking for Fred.

The wife did?  You might be in trouble there.

You daft sod.  Can you manage it on your own?  I’m away back to bed for an hour.

Aye.  We’ll see ourselves out.

Ted lifted an edge of the cotton cover and peered inside the cage.  Sleepy black eyes flashed him a do-not-disturb look.  It’s alright young fella.  You go back to dreamland.  We’ll be home soon.

***

Ted rounded the corner into Halfpenny Lane, as two local boys chased a football towards him.  He thought of his son at the front window, making out like he wasn’t bothered.

Smashing Christmas present, lads, said Ted.

One boy looked up, while the other took a sneak shot between two rolled up jackets in the road.  And ... he scores!

"I did loads better than Pete this year.  He got some terrible short pants.

Are there any other kind? Ted winked, as he swept into his garden gate.

What’s under the blanket Mister Gee?  Pete shouted.

Surprise for the missus.  Pop round after dinner and you can see for yourself.

Stepping inside, a savoury blast of hot air perked up his taste buds, and festive songs played in the background, accompanied by the tearing of wrapping paper.

Dad?  Where’ve you been?  Steven’s pubescent voice yo-yoed between mezzo soprano and baritone.  Ted silenced a snigger and poked his head around the living room door.

"I’ve been out hunting - captured the most amazing creature."

Steven grinned from behind a coil of woolly scarf complete with price tag.

You’ve never!  So where’s your spear then?

Ted slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.  Aw...I knew I’d forgotten something.  And we can’t eat him if he’s still alive.

What? Who’s still alive?  Steven struggled to get up from the floor.  The surgical boot was heavy, but a necessary evil to walk with his shorter leg.

Take a guess, and you can have my last liquorice allsort.

Steven’s smile got wider.  A jelly button or coconut roll?

You’ll have to wait and see.  Might be a triple pink sandwich.

"Umm, okay.  So, can it swim?

Do you know son, I haven’t tested that possibility yet.

"So .... not a piranha then?"

Ted pushed a finger under his cap and scratched his head.  Not exactly.  Is that what you were hoping for?

What’s that smell?  Is it a skunk?

Molly came out from the kitchen wearing a splattered apron and a disapproving face.  She wiped her hands briskly on a towel.

There’ll be no talk of liquorice allsorts before dinner.  You both know the rules.  What have you done, Ted?  Why aren’t you coming in?

At forty two, Molly still held onto the button nose and dimpled cheeks of her childhood.  One or two greys had begun to show at her temples, multiplied by the odd splash of flour from the kitchen, her favourite place to be.

Can’t tell you yet.  It’s a surprise, he said.

"Say hello to Skipper."  A rasping voice came from behind the door.

Ted turned towards the cage, still hidden from sight, and lifted the cover.  Oh, so you’re talkin’ now, are you?

"Full of surprises.  Full of surprises."  Tiny feet pattered on wood.

Steven’s boot squeaked as he limped across the room and pulled open the door, eyes wide.

Woah!  What kind is it, Dad?  He crouched awkwardly in front of the cage and the bird peered back at him, neck outstretched. 

Molly scowled.  Ted Grimshaw, what am I supposed to do with that flaming thing?  I thought you were bringing the ham.  And look at the muck.  Its cage is filthy.

Sorry about the ham, love.  But this little chap’s got to be more entertaining.  And if all else fails, you can serve him up on New Year’s Day.  Ted gave a mischievous grin, and Molly turned away with a sigh of impatience.

Well, don’t expect me to be doing the plucking, she said, strutting back to the kitchen.

I was told, said Ted, hanging up his coat, .... he’s an African Grey.

What does he eat? What should we call him?  Steven said.

"Skipper’s a clever boy."

Sounds like he already has a name.  And there’s a bag of his food in my jacket.  Let’s get Skipper inside and clear a spot on the sideboard.

As he positioned the cage, Ted stared at the couch. Well, I never thought I’d see that...

See what?

A naked sofa.  With a clear view of the skylarks.  What happened to the plastic covers?

She took them off this morning.  Just for today, she said.

Well, can we sit on it or what?

Molly reappeared at the kitchen door.  "Of course you can sit on it.  And they’re bluebirds not skylarks.  She looked him up and down.  So long as you change out of those trousers, and don’t eat on it.  Ted lifted an eyebrow, and left the room to find his best tweed turn ups.  ... or fart on it for that matter," she called after him.

Steven’s fascination with Skipper wrestled with his hunger, and he needed some persuading to join his father at the table.  Then, with a sideways manoeuvre, Molly wobbled through the kitchen door under the weight of a large breasted turkey and set down the serving dish centre of table, humming along with the radio.  Ted and Steven watched her adjusting the potatoes around it, standing back for a better view and humming louder.

Where’ve you been hiding that Moll? said Ted.  It’s bigger than Australia.

Molly’s brows came together and the humming stopped.  A strand of hair sprang out from behind her ear and she dragged it back into line.  "Is that all you’ve got to say?  That it’s big?"

Steven lowered his voice. Don’t let Skipper see what we’re eating.

Ted picked up the carving knife.  Never thought of that, son.  They could be distant cousins.  Tell you what.... If it makes you feel better, I’ll put him outside with those two mad cats from next door while we have our dinner.

Molly pressed her lips together and sat down.  Take no notice.  Your father will do nowt of the sort.  Anyway, I’ll be sitting right in between.  Ted, for God’s sake take that bloody cap off.  It’s Christmas day.

Ted looked wounded.  He was rather attached to his old cap.  Steven waited for him to do the trick.  As if on cue, Ted lifted his bushy brows, tipped his head, and the cap flopped into his waiting hand.  He flashed Steven the briefest wink, laid the cap alongside the Brussels sprouts and smoothed his thinning hair.

Thank you, she said.  It’s bad enough we have to suffer that nasty pipe of yours.  Ted reached up to his chest pocket and gave his pipe a defensive pat.  If it wasn’t there, it would be nestled in the gap between his bottom front teeth.  Molly continued.

Now stop waving that knife like it’s a fairy wand and get the turkey sliced.  I’m starved.  How about you, our Steven?

Belly thinks me throat’s been cut.  Steven dug deep into every dish on the table with a shovel of a spoon, avoiding the green balls of hatred.

Best change its mind quick then, said Ted, plating up turkey body parts before tucking in himself.

Awkward gaps in the conversation were not common at the Grimshaws’, especially at meal times, yet seven minutes had gone by without a word.  Ted gazed across at Molly, hesitating for a moment.

Your sister couldn’t make it then? he said at last.

I’ll go and see her tomorrow.  She likely has one of her headaches.

It’s time she saw a doctor about those.  Invitations round here seem to trigger Joan’s headaches....for some reason.

Molly shifted her eyes across the room, and pushed more food into her mouth.

You two may as well be joined at the hip, he went on.  I wish you’d confide in me sometimes.

Steven’s eyeballs flitted between the two, as his mother got up from the table, stone faced, and removed the empty plates.

There’s real brandy for the pudding, Dad, whispered Steven as Molly left the room.    I spied the bottle on the bench this morning.

Molly returned from the kitchen with a tray of dessert dishes, Christmas pudding and a steaming jug of custard but without a space on the table to place it.  With purpose, she flattened Ted’s cap beneath it.

Hey Moll, if you’d asked, I would have moved that.  Ted did not understand why she couldn’t be happy, or at least make a show for Steven.  Trying to second guess Molly every day should have made him an expert, but he was still at a loss.  Although ... he had noticed there’d been no turnip on the plates lately, which was rather odd because she’d served it up every day for the last few months.  Maybe that was significant.

Can we set fire to it? asked Steven.

Molly rubbed an eyebrow with one hand as she spooned the pudding into dishes with the other.  No ... we can’t.  She sat down.  We’re out of brandy.  Ted and Steven exchanged glances as she poured the custard, serving Steven first, then herself.  She lifted her spoon and began eating.  Ted helped himself to pudding, hoping to swallow his disappointment along with it.  But just as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, Molly put hers down and fixed her eyes on the pepper pot.  She clearly had something on her mind.  Ted took a mouthful, watching her intently, while Steven scraped the last of his custard from the bottom of the dish.

I’m having a baby, Ted, she announced.  And it’s not yours.

Ted spluttered and coughed through his nose.  He grabbed a napkin and pressed it against his face.  Steven’s gaze shifted faster from Ted to Molly, then back again.

You choking?  Dad?

...No, son ... just ... swallowed a lucky sixpence, croaked his father.

Not so lucky for you then, said Molly, tucking back into her pudding, job done. Steven sprang from the table and made for the door, overcome by giggles.

"Man overboard!" said Skipper.

As fate would have it, Ted’s lucky coin was never seen again, and by the New Year, Walter had also vanished.  In his place, a large man with carbuncles and halitosis had taken over the vegetable stall.  Ted was thankful.  He knew Molly wouldn’t go there, big turnips or otherwise.

***

In early June when baby Catherine arrived, she came with a head full of ginger curls like Walter’s, and a barrow load of baby blues for her mother.  Molly’s bonding instinct never showed its face, and Catherine was left to cry herself to sleep, deprived of cuddles, milk and a dry nappy.  The medical profession, particularly those up north, trailed behind when it came to linking hormone deficiencies with mental health issues, and so Molly was advised by the family doctor to close her eyes for ten minutes in the afternoons and open her bowels every morning.

The market stall didn’t seem to suffer without her.  Steven was roped in to help, but in doing so had to give up his Saturday job at Smedley’s garage, which he loved.  Nevertheless, he took to market life like a dog to a lamp post, and Ted couldn’t see the point of him wasting, as he saw it, even more time at school.

Molly’s mood swings would unsettle the whole household, and Catherine still recalled the first scary incident, even thirty years on.

The preceding day, her mother remained in bed with a depression deeper than the bottom of her handbag, and Catherine steered clear of her room to avoid a tongue lashing and the odd flying missile.  But by next evening, Molly had transformed into Delia Smith on speed, with not enough hours in the day, nor flour in the cupboard to bake biscuits for the apparently starving neighbourhood.  It took all of Ted’s patience to get her into bed that night, even more to get her to sleep, but only when he heard her gentle snores did he drift off himself.

It was around two a.m. when he woke with a start to Molly’s tone deaf singing downstairs and the smell of burning.

Shit! Ted said to himself as he flung back the bedcovers and ran down the stairs in long johns and vest.  Standing in the kitchen doorway, it flashed through his mind he was having one of those weird nightmares that needed a Freudian translation.  But that thought departed as fast as it came when the heat hit his face.  The back door was ajar, and Molly stood over the cooker in her nightgown, singing ‘Baby it’s cold outside’ to a stray fox cub she’d invited in from the garden, now cowering beneath the kitchen table.  Crossing the threshold he saw flames climbing the curtains, and smoke, blackening the ceiling.  He sprang across to the sink, grabbed a towel from the drainer and soaked it.  Throwing it around his arm, he pulled down the curtains complete with rail, snatched open the back door, and flung the whole lot outside into the darkness.  Seeing a means of escape, the fox cub followed, without its promised bacon treat, still smouldering on the grill pan.

What the hell, Molly? Ted gasped. Are you determined to kill us all?  Molly stopped singing.

Poor foxy was hungry.  Who else is going to feed him?

Ted reached across, dragged the pan from under the grill and blew hard on it.  His mother, for one.  If you’d give her a chance.

You’re a bloody killjoy, Ted Grimshaw.  Why can’t you just have a bloody laugh?  What’s wrong with you?

Watching from the doorway, Steven tugged nervously on his earlobe, while Cathy peered through his pyjama clad legs.  Ted shook his head.

This can’t go on Molly.  You’ll have to see someone.  There are two kids in this house that need a mother and this isn’t fair.

"Just one kid, if you don’t mind," said Steven.

Calm yourself, grumpy drawers. Molly gave Ted’s face an affectionate squeeze with one hand, slipped an arm around his waist and began to hum, swaying from side to side to the rhythm.

Let’s go dancing like we used to.  Just the two of us, right now, hmm?  Her lashes fluttered in fly swatting mode.  He unhooked her arms and placed them down by her side.

Maybe not tonight love.  It’s late.

I’ll be allowed to drink beer pretty soon.  Steven was determined to be heard.

Catherine stuck out her tongue.  Yeuck!  Beer’s nasty.

"How do you know, Pipsqueak?" asked Steven.

"It smells nasty.  Anyway, Dad says so."

And that’s dead right, sweetheart, said Ted, as he secured the back door and turned off the cooker.  And I know you’re dying to grow up our Steven, but you’re still a kid to me, and I’ll always want to protect the pair of you.  He examined the plug holes where the curtain rail had been fixed and shook his head again.

I must have a word with that handyman.  Not very secure that rail, was it?

Um, I think that would be you, Dad, said Steven.

Really?  Ted attempted surprise.  Then I’ll have to shake the man’s hand.  He must have known it would need to come down in a hurry.  With a glance at the clock on the wall, he slapped his palms together.  Now, let’s get you lot upstairs.

I love it when you’re masterful, said Molly.  Play your cards right .....

"Don’t... Ted cut her short, ..say those things .... not in front of these two."

Was she trying to set fire to the house? asked Steven as they headed upstairs.

"It wasn’t that bad, insisted Molly.  Your father loves a bloody drama."

Are you going to play cards, Dad?  With Mam? said Catherine.

No, sweetheart, we’re going to sleep like normal folk.   Come on, up to bed with you.

After that, Ted worked fewer hours on the markets.  Reluctant to leave Molly alone in the house, yet taking her to work was just as much a hazard.  Steven returned to his part time job at Smedley’s helping to service the vehicles.  He’d missed it so much.

2. Peace and war

Cathy was still only six years old when Molly was admitted to Cherry Knowles hospital for a psychiatric assessment and stabilisation of her condition.  She felt bad to think it, but those eight weeks without her mother were the most care free of her young life.  Ted warned her about the gossips.

Now listen, our Cathy... he’d said.  "When the nosy parkers round here ask where yer mother is...and they will....you just tell them to keep their big nebs out."

Of course Catherine wouldn’t dream of saying any such thing, and no-one asked her outright, though she did see people whispering behind hands at the bus stop.

The long summer holiday had just started for Cathy, and she was excited to be the new recruit working on the stall with her dad and big brother.  It was a fine, bright morning and she was finishing breakfast while the others loaded the van.  She heard the van doors slam, and her dad came back into the kitchen.

You ready love?

Grabbing the last piece of toast from her plate, she snatched up her little bag and ran towards him.

I’ve learned all the words, Dad, she said.  I even did them in my sleep.

Good lass.  You’re gonna knock ‘em dead.

As they pulled up at Oldcastle quayside, the place was already buzzing.  Setting up and keeping pace with everyone else was always the hardest part for Steven, and those boxes of crockery had to be moved pretty sharpish.

Well, look at you, came a voice from the next stall.  Taffy Jones carried a huge box of doggy treats from the boot of his car.

It’s the Tupperware Trio.  Taffy gave Catherine a big smile as he slapped the box down on his stall.  Are you helping your dad today, little one?

We’ve got a new act, said Cathy, arranging the crockery the way Steven had shown her, for maximum visibility.

Oh yes?  Has your dad been teaching you?

Catherine nodded.

Well, I’ll be looking forward to that.

It was just gone nine thirty, and ambitious shoppers peered into lavishly dressed windows across the street before being tempted over to the market by mid morning.  Ted stood by, pulling on his pipe while Steven opened the cab door of the van and took out a soft woven shopping bag and a flowery straw hat.  He limped across to Catherine and placed the hat on her head.  It was too big, and her red curls bounced beneath it.

There you go, Pipsqueak.  Keep this bag on your wrist, and wait for the crowd to gather.  When I move this wooden box, I want you to stand on it.  Then follow Dad’s prompts.

Ted’s sales banter began.  Gather round, you sorry folk.  Grab a bargain, share a joke.  Catherine listened for her cue, watching the crowd grow bigger.  Ted chose a plate from Catherine’s display.  "So what could you serve on plates like these?  Caviar?  Or crackers and cheese?  Rich or poor, the plates don’t care.  But I’d kill to be a millionaire." With gentle laughter from the crowd, Ted replaced the plate.

Now folks, let’s see how steady my hands are today.  He held both arms out in front, fingers trembling.  Aw heck.  Not so steady today then.  Ted shook his head, picked up the tea plate again and threw it in the air.  Someone gasped.  He caught it in his opposite hand and picked up a second.  Then, he began to juggle the pair.  Steven stood by with a third, and Ted snatched it at just the right moment to throw into the sequence.  All eyes were fixed on Ted and the flying crockery.  Even those strolling past stopped in their tracks.  Some feared the slip and the crash.  Others, impatient for it.

The missus told me I’d never manage the weight of three, he said.

I told her, ‘If I can juggle three of your fairy cakes, I can manage the weight of anything.’

Laughter ran through the crowd.  Catherine watched Steven lift the wooden box and come towards her.  She stepped onto it, straightening her hat.  Ted stopped juggling, and addressed the crowd with his full attention.

Now then, can I interest any of you lovely ladies and gents in one of these genuinely fake Wedgewood dinner services?  He held a blue and white dinner plate aloft.  You’ve got six place settings here for when the mother in law comes to visit.

Men in the crowd groaned.

Almost giving these away, I am.  Cups and saucers are thrown in with it too.

Cathy raised her hand just above the heads of the crowd.

"I’ll take one. But I don’t want any broken cups young man, not when you’re throwing them in!" She shouted in as grown up a voice as she could muster, and the row in front separated.  Cathy and her wooden box were now centre stage, and Ted appeared to be insulted.

Broken cups?  I never break cups madam.  The occasional heart, maybe...

He winked at the crowd.  Will you give me ten quid madam? And I’ll give you a matching casserole dish.  A big family, have you madam?

That’s none of your business, young man.  And I’ll give you a fiver.  No more.

Well, what do I say to that folks? Ted asked the audience.

Take the fiver, someone shouted.  Ted poked his finger under his cap and scratched his head.

Oh....I don’t know about that.

Take the fiver!  Take the fiver! shouted even more people.

Ted held up a hand.  Okay, okay, I know when I’m beaten.  A fiver it is.

There was a round of applause, and Steven led Catherine to the front of the crowd where she took a bow as her hat fell off her head, to even more clapping.

***

As time passed, Molly’s manic depression stabilised, and she was allowed home with prescribed medication, to be taken at the appropriate time each day.  Eventually, she joined Ted and Steven on the market stall again and life seemed to settle back down until one busy day when