touching Peg’s scalp. It was the fifth or sixth time she had asked the same question, and Peg gave her the same answer as she had on the previous occasions.
‘It helps me think more clearly, Nan.’
‘Does it, dear? Perhaps I should have a go at that hairdo myself.’
They both laughed.
‘Do you know what I fancy?’ Doll said, twinkling her eyes up from behind her glasses. ‘A drop of sherry. With a cherry in. Cherry in me sherry.’
Peg went to the cocktail cabinet and swung down its horizontal door. The shiny interior, with its peppery smell and neatly arranged bottles and glasses, was as familiar as an old friend. She poured two small glasses of treacle-sweet sherry from the decanter, topped them with cherries speared on wooden cocktail sticks, and carried them over to Doll.
‘What’s this?’ Doll said.
‘Sherry with a cherry. Like you ordered, madam,’ Peg said, bowing slightly as if she were a waiter.
‘Did I? Well I never. A cherry on a sherry! Well we can’t put them down on the surface. It’s ever so precious,’ Doll said, stroking the tiny bit of free space on her wheeled table. ‘You’ll have to get a mat for the glasses. From the cocktail cabinet.’
Happy to humour her – she was in no rush and quite enjoyed Doll’s capriciousness when it dealt with stuff rather than memories – Peg went back to the cabinet and rummaged in its two drawers.
‘Nothing here, Nan,’ Peg said.
‘They’re there. You’ve just got to look. Try the little wotsit behind the potato wine.’
Among all her confusion, Doll still retained some extraordinarily sharp laser beams of particularity. Peg lifted aside the bottle of potato wine Doll had made over ten years earlier and, just as she had said, there was a wotsit – or, rather, a cardboard box – full of identical drinks mats emblazoned with the word ‘Flamingos’ and a cartoon of a bright pink snooty-looking long-legged bird.
‘I never knew that was there,’ Peg said. But she recognised the flamingo mats; they were like a cocktail stick of clarity piercing into the fog of her childhood. ‘We used to have these out at Christmas,’ she said, setting two down on Doll’s table.
‘That’s not the right place,’ Doll said, repositioning one of them. ‘That’s better. Yes, well of course, we’ve still got loads left. We used to have the serviettes too, but I don’t know what happened to them. He brought them back for me. Never look a gift horse.’
‘Who brought them back?’ Peg said, pausing briefly, sherry glasses in hand.
‘Pass me that drink, come on. I’m gasping, dear.’
‘Sorry.’ Peg handed the glass to Doll, who downed it in one.
‘Lovely,’ she said, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
‘Who brought the mats back?’ Peg went on, picking up the one meant for her own glass and examining it.
‘My Raymond brought them back, of course. From his club. You know. The one down London Bridge. You know.’
‘Club?’
‘You know, Jeanie.’ Doll tapped the side of her nose, then picked up a mat and showed Peg the reverse, where an old 01 London telephone number swooped above the legend TOP BIRDS FOR TOP GENTS. ‘Flamingos.’
‘He had a club?’ Peg said.
‘You know, just off Tooley Street. Remember? It’s been a while since we was there, though.’
Peg’s heart raced. She had scoured the real- and cyber-world for her father, and all the time her first real concrete clue to where he might be had been sitting in her grandmother’s cocktail cabinet, behind her grandmother’s potato wine.
‘Do you think you could find it on a map?’ she said, quickly fetching Frank’s old 1960s A to Z from the glass-fronted bookcase. She found the page with London Bridge on it and held it open for Doll, who put on her readers – placing her normal glasses just so on her table – and peered at it.
‘There, look. It’s marked anyway. That green cross,’ she said, stabbing a knobbly finger at a biro mark on the
‘It helps me think more clearly, Nan.’
‘Does it, dear? Perhaps I should have a go at that hairdo myself.’
They both laughed.
‘Do you know what I fancy?’ Doll said, twinkling her eyes up from behind her glasses. ‘A drop of sherry. With a cherry in. Cherry in me sherry.’
Peg went to the cocktail cabinet and swung down its horizontal door. The shiny interior, with its peppery smell and neatly arranged bottles and glasses, was as familiar as an old friend. She poured two small glasses of treacle-sweet sherry from the decanter, topped them with cherries speared on wooden cocktail sticks, and carried them over to Doll.
‘What’s this?’ Doll said.
‘Sherry with a cherry. Like you ordered, madam,’ Peg said, bowing slightly as if she were a waiter.
‘Did I? Well I never. A cherry on a sherry! Well we can’t put them down on the surface. It’s ever so precious,’ Doll said, stroking the tiny bit of free space on her wheeled table. ‘You’ll have to get a mat for the glasses. From the cocktail cabinet.’
Happy to humour her – she was in no rush and quite enjoyed Doll’s capriciousness when it dealt with stuff rather than memories – Peg went back to the cabinet and rummaged in its two drawers.
‘Nothing here, Nan,’ Peg said.
‘They’re there. You’ve just got to look. Try the little wotsit behind the potato wine.’
Among all her confusion, Doll still retained some extraordinarily sharp laser beams of particularity. Peg lifted aside the bottle of potato wine Doll had made over ten years earlier and, just as she had said, there was a wotsit – or, rather, a cardboard box – full of identical drinks mats emblazoned with the word ‘Flamingos’ and a cartoon of a bright pink snooty-looking long-legged bird.
‘I never knew that was there,’ Peg said. But she recognised the flamingo mats; they were like a cocktail stick of clarity piercing into the fog of her childhood. ‘We used to have these out at Christmas,’ she said, setting two down on Doll’s table.
‘That’s not the right place,’ Doll said, repositioning one of them. ‘That’s better. Yes, well of course, we’ve still got loads left. We used to have the serviettes too, but I don’t know what happened to them. He brought them back for me. Never look a gift horse.’
‘Who brought them back?’ Peg said, pausing briefly, sherry glasses in hand.
‘Pass me that drink, come on. I’m gasping, dear.’
‘Sorry.’ Peg handed the glass to Doll, who downed it in one.
‘Lovely,’ she said, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
‘Who brought the mats back?’ Peg went on, picking up the one meant for her own glass and examining it.
‘My Raymond brought them back, of course. From his club. You know. The one down London Bridge. You know.’
‘Club?’
‘You know, Jeanie.’ Doll tapped the side of her nose, then picked up a mat and showed Peg the reverse, where an old 01 London telephone number swooped above the legend TOP BIRDS FOR TOP GENTS. ‘Flamingos.’
‘He had a club?’ Peg said.
‘You know, just off Tooley Street. Remember? It’s been a while since we was there, though.’
Peg’s heart raced. She had scoured the real- and cyber-world for her father, and all the time her first real concrete clue to where he might be had been sitting in her grandmother’s cocktail cabinet, behind her grandmother’s potato wine.
‘Do you think you could find it on a map?’ she said, quickly fetching Frank’s old 1960s A to Z from the glass-fronted bookcase. She found the page with London Bridge on it and held it open for Doll, who put on her readers – placing her normal glasses just so on her table – and peered at it.
‘There, look. It’s marked anyway. That green cross,’ she said, stabbing a knobbly finger at a biro mark on the
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