Doreen's First Post

Of all the special days of the year, I’ve been talked into having a Blog! I blame that pirate author!

 I’ve no idea what one is, but my gal, Trisha set it up and said I needed one cos the pirate has one!

Trish knows everything, well that’s what she thinks, seventeen going on thirty! Kids, who’d have ‘em?

I mentioned it’s a special day, in other words, it’s the publication of, The Birthday Card by Pauline Barclay. You might ask what’s that got to do with me, well I’m the main character. Yes, it’s me, Doreen Wilkinson, at the moment, I’ve not a clue what to say, I’m still coming down to earth from all that’s happened, but I’m sure with the heckling I’ll get from my gal, I’ll have plenty to say. In the meantime, please take a look at my story, it had me giggling and squirming at some of the things I did and said… blimey, what am I like? Thankfully Pauline laughed as much as I did, but it was a refined laugh, unlike me, I’m a giggler. *giggles loudly*

My days are always manic and I’m forever running late, no matter how hard I try to get my arse into gear. It was Friday and I was out of fags, so before I set off for my first clean of the day, I needed to  call in the corner shop, Mr Greedy’s, I’ll explain in another post, but he lets me have my stuff on the slate… OK, I'm gonna stop here, it I'll be best if you read chapter one, you can get a feel of what I’m trying to say.

Chapter One

Doreen glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall and let out a loud groan; she was running late again.

‘God, why was time always racing as if it couldn’t wait a second,’ she mumbled and at the same time grabbed her bag. She fumbled inside, ‘Blimey, why do I carry all this rubbish around?’ she said, pulling out a handful of bits of paper that had been reminders when she had to go to the shop. Rummaging around further, she grabbed a handful of tissues. ‘Gawd, what am I like?’ she muttered then smiled at the sight of her packet of cigarettes. Taking hold of the packet, she opened it and cursed. ‘Hells bells, I’m out of fags,’ and she tossed the empty packet across the kitchen unit. As if she was not running late as it was, she now needed to pick up a packet of fags from the corner shop. There was no way she could face cleaning the office that was her employment without her tobacco fix.

Just thinking about her job plunged Doreen’s low spirits into free fall. She shrugged at the inevitable at having to go to work in a job that was soul destroying and barely paid the rent. When had it all got to this? she thought and at the same time reached over the counter and turned off the radio. ‘Blimey,’ she cried as her ‘neighbour’s TV filled the noise that her radio had left. With the palm of her hand, she banged on the wall. ‘Turn that volume down!’ she called. She waited a second, but loud voices continued to invade her flat. She banged again on the wall, but she knew it was a waste of time and right now she needed to be legging it. She groaned, it didn’t matter, she was heading out of the door to work.

Slinging her mock leopard skin bag on to her shoulder, Doreen headed down the narrow hall. She halted in front of Trisha’s bedroom and banged on the door.

‘I’m off! Time to get up and get ready for school,’ she shouted as if she was trying to wake the dead. She hadn’t time to hang about and with one final knock, she called again, ‘Get up!’ The only noise she heard was the TV from next door.

Shrugging her shoulders, she headed to the front door. With each step she imagined her neighbour slouched in his chair, a roll up dangling from his bottom lip and ash peppered over his threadbare cardigan. God only knew how old he was, she thought, and guessed he must be pushing eighty if a day. A soft giggle escaped her lips at how the dirty old devil liked to leer at her. Even for her age and having had one kid, her figure wasn’t bad, but due to a serious lack of money, she never wore anything special, market bought jeans and tops, but something about her seemed to fuel his imagination. She shuddered at the thought of his leering, rheumy eyes, yet despite his winkled old face, stooped walk and being almost toothless, she could see through the ravages of age and guessed he had been a looker in his younger days. Age can be cruel, she thought, and pulled her jacket from the peg on the hall wall, removing her bag from her shoulder, she slipped it on. Turning, she checked her face in the wall mirror and scowled, ‘Blimey, Dor, you might only be in your mid-thirties, but today you look like poor old Jack next door, well and truly past your prime!’ She tutted at her reflection and, with more effort than necessary, slipped her bag back over her shoulder.

Doreen pulled open the front door then stepped out on to the landing of Wentworth House, one of the largest tower blocks of council flats in the area, and Jack’s TV could still be heard.

‘Deaf as a post these days,’ she grumbled, and at the same time saw a blue balloon tied to his door handle. “Happy Birthday,” it read, bobbing in the breeze on its flimsy silver ribbon. A card hung half way out of the letterbox. So, old Jack was a birthday boy today, she chuckled. He was not a bad neighbour and he had always seen her right when she had done a bit of shopping for him, slipping her the odd quid for her trouble. The least she could do was get him a card, after all, it was the end of the week and she would be paid today. The thought of it being Friday lightened Doreen’s mood and, with a smile on her face and a purpose to her step, she headed towards the stairs.

Reaching the top she smelled pee and wrinkled her nose, unsure if it was animal or human, then guessed it was probably both. Trying not to take too many breaths, she ran down the litter- strewn steps. Hurrying out of the building, she stood on the broken paved pavement and took a deep breath.

‘Phew,’ she said, as the stench from inside Wentworth House evaporated now she was outside. Gathering her breath, it occurred to her that she could bake the old boy a cake for his birthday. She knew he loved chocolate. If she used the cheap cake brand stuff then she would be able to afford it. She smiled at the idea of making his day. We all need to have something special done to us from time to time, she thought as she headed down the road. Thinking about making the cake, she suddenly grimaced. Already she could hear what her daughter would have to say when she caught her baking for Jack. ‘What would an old man want with a cake?’ Trisha would cry with scorn. Doreen tutted at how her daughter was like many seventeen-year-olds these days who seemed to think the planet revolved around them and her generation. Perhaps she would make two to keep her Trish happy.

‘Blimey, what a life,’ she moaned and quickened her step towards Mr Greedy’s corner shop.

Doreen pushed the door open and stepped into the dingy shop, the overhead bell tinkled announcing her arrival. Instantly her nostrils filled with a stale acrid smell and she ran the back of her hand across her nose in an attempt to deflect the odour. Not for the first time, she wondered what Mr Greedy had on the rickety shelves and, worse, what their sell-by-dates were. She swallowed down a lump of apprehension and recalled picking up a jar of marmalade. 1066 was printed in small black numbers on the lid; she had not been sure if it was the sell-by-date or something to do with the seaside town on the south coast.

Her Trisha had once told her, at length, during one of her homework sessions, about some carry on in the seaside town.

‘Hastings,’ Trisha had said.

Funnily she had only remembered about it because as a kid she’d had a day at the seaside. Mind you, all she had done was shovel sand into a bucket and then tip the lot out to make a castle. Those sand castles were the nearest she had come to any real one. Real or not, she had not seen any evidence of a battle or even a skirmish. She had told Trisha about the day who had erupted into hysterical laughter.

‘Oh my God, Mama, you are just so unreal.’

Her daughter might laugh at her ignorance, but there was no doubt, as her mother, she was beyond proud of her. Her Trisha was the apple of her eye and very brainy; she had even passed exams and now went to a posh school. How she had given birth to such a clever baby never ceased to amaze her, but she loved her to bits, even if she mocked and laughed at her lack of knowledge.

Letting her childhood day at the seaside melt away, she tried to push the thought of where the odour was coming from. Then decided not knowing was best. Looking around the shabby shop, she wished, as she did every time she entered Mr Greedy’s, she could shop somewhere else. All the wishing in the world would not change a thing. Mr Greedy’s was the only shop in the neighbourhood, and on the estate, that allowed her to have her shopping on the slate. She would never survive from one week to the next if she had to pay for her goodies before she got her pay packet on Friday. Gazing around at the mismatch of jars and packets, her reverie was broken when the shop owner appeared, like a spectre, in front of her.

“Morning, Doreen; let me guess what I can do for you today,’ Mr Greedy said, a beaming smile filling his pointed, clean-shaven, face and his dark brown eye roving over her. Doreen glared at him and wondered if she would one day find the courage to tell him what he could do for her. Instead, she restrained herself and forced a giggle. ‘I’d like to win the lottery so I could shop in a posh place,’ she said loudly and as the words left her lips she imagined herself sashaying into stores like Fortnum and Mason and buying everything she fancied; no slate nor worrying about paying it back at the end of the week. For a brief moment she let herself dream. The sound of a heavy box landing on the floor a few feet away brought her back to reality with a jolt and she realised she could not even afford to look around the food hall in M & S.

‘And wouldn’t we all,’ Mr Greedy said leaving the box in the middle of the aisle and strolling over to the lottery terminal, ‘but like most of us, having the chance to win means you have to buy a ticket.’ His white teeth flashed as he pointed to the blue machine with a picture of a pair of crossed fingers and the legend ‘Play Here.’ Doreen stared at the machine and wondered if he got commission for the sales because he was always banging on about her buying one.

‘People like me don’t win, so I’m not throwing my money away, but I’ll have my usual packet of fags,’ she said and wished she had kept her mouth shut about the lottery.

Mr Greedy tutted. ‘They’ll kill you in the end,’ he said, placing a packet on the counter.

‘So will old age,’ she replied, smirking and knowing she should cut back on her fags. Maybe next week she would give up smoking. She told herself this every time she bought a packet. ‘Oh, and I need a birthday card,’ she added turning to look for the shelf where they were displayed.

‘Over there.’ Mr Greedy pointed at a stack of cards on top of an unopened box.

Doreen strode over to the pile and rifled through them. She took a deep breath of exasperation; it seemed there was every card you could think of but nothing suitable for an old man’s birthday. About to give up, she spied a card on the floor. Bending down she picked it up. ‘Blimey,’ she said and giggled, ‘perfect.’ Standing up she read the words out loud, ‘Happy Birthday to a Diamond Geezer,’ she chuckled and took the card over to the till. Feeling bolstered with her find, she decided to buy a lottery ticket. Maybe it was her lucky day after all. ‘Go on then, you’ve talked me into it. I’ll have a lottery ticket, but if I don’t win, I’ll be back for me money.’

Mr Greedy rolled his eyes and handed Doreen a long narrow slip of paper covered in numbers. ‘Just pick your lucky numbers,’ he said, offering a pen. ‘Put a line through them and pick your draw day here,’ he added, pointing to the top of the slip.

Taking the pen, she could not think of any numbers in her life that had been lucky; maybe she should not bother. About to save herself a pound, she looked up at Mr Greedy and, seeing his smug expression, she scribbled down the only numbers she could think of before giving the slip back.

‘Good luck, Doreen,’ Mr Greedy purred taking her money and slotting the slip through the lottery machine. Passing it back to her with the pink, printed ticket, he repeated, ‘Good luck.’

‘Mmm,’ Doreen said, pushing the cigarettes and tickets into her bag.  What had she been thinking about, wasting her money on a lottery ticket? She might as well have just dropped the coin down the drain for all the good it would do. Clutching the birthday card, she opened it and read the words inside. She stifled a giggle. A miserable old sod he might be, but as neighbours go on her estate, he was as the card said, a Discovered Diamond. She tucked the card into her bag and with a broad smile hurried off to work.

Now here’s the words Pauline put on Amazon about the book…

Doreen Wilkinson, a woman in her mid-thirties and single mother to a seventeen-year-old daughter, (going on thirty), can never imagine life will be anything other than the daily slog of trying to keep body and soul together.

Running late for work, she hurries out of her flat and sees a balloon bobbing on a thin ribbon tied to her neighbour’s door handle. Realising it must be the old boy’s birthday she decides to get him a birthday card at the same time as she picks up a packet of cigarettes from the corner shop.

Whilst the cigarettes will go up in smoke, the purchase of the birthday card will change her life forever.

The Birthday Card is a feel good, light-hearted read that will have you laughing out loud.

“Very touching look into the life of Doreen Wilkinson, and how she handled the surprise of her life. Fun and funny, Doreen is an endearing character with a big heart that will have you cheering for her. An excellent prequel to Sometimes it Happens. Delightful!” Julie Dexter

“Ms Barclay has an ability to take a reader from sorrow to mirth in an instant."

Available in Kindle from ALL Amazon sites

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