Angel in a Blue Dress.

Should never ‘ave agreed to it. Never. Knew it might be too much after…before.

Still, ‘what’s done is done’ as my old fella used to say. Not that he ever really believed in forgiveness, mind. Weren’t never shy dishing out the business end of his belt when I’d got up to summat I shouldn’t ‘ave, that’s for sure. Kids today wouldn’t understand the stuff we old ‘uns used to go through and, if you try to tell ‘em, they yawn and stretch and pretend to doze off. Some of ‘em don’t even bother to pretend.

Wonder how much longer they’ll be? Place reeks. Like bonfire night with the wind blowin’ in the wrong direction. A sulphury, burnt matchbox kind of pong what lingers and makes your clothes smell for days on end. Janice catches a whiff, she’ll think I’m back on the fags again. No chance o’ that though. Not now. Forty years today since I last had a puff. Before that though, before … her … I was a fifty a day man. Easy.

1978, a Christmas party at the insurance office I was workin’ at on Bold Street. Been lookin’ forwards to it for ages. There would be always some pool girl what’d have a few too many at this type of do; they’d be havin’ some bother or other with their boyfriend. They’ll have been dumped or cheated on or their ‘Mister Right’ had turned out to be married. Whatever. There was always one, knockin’ about, ready to be unwrapped at Christmas. And me, well, I was always ‘appy to ‘elp.

December 23^rd, 1978, - Christmas Eve eve – and I was twenty-seven. We’d started off at the office, straight after work – just a few shorts and a couple of mince pies an’ what not. Then, at around seven, those of us what’d thought ahead and brought their party clothes with ‘em, made our way – via The Chandlers Arms – up the road to the Bull and China.

Weren’t much of a place and didn’t go big on decorations as far as I can recall. Just a few crepe paper chains, some raggedy tinsel, a few half deflated balloons pinned up in the corners and a Christmas tree with half its plastic pines missing. Festive? No. Not really.

Still, the ale was good. And cheap. Not like today. The food, such as it was, looked alright, but the more you eat the less likely you are to, you know, get hammered. And if you don’t want to get hammered at Christmas, don’t go to the office party! End of!

Yeah. You got it. Back then, I was more than just a little bit full of meself: a bit …wild. Got meself into trouble more often than was good for me and nobody to blame but meself. And Micky. The change over the years has been … remarkable I guess sums it up.

So there’s me and Micky Mellor stood by the bar. Micky was me best mate back then. Knew a lot of people, Micky did: lot of bad people. Could ‘andle ‘imself pretty well though, for a skinny ‘un. Mean right ‘and like lightning and weren’t averse to pickin’ up the odd chair or whatever should the need arise. ‘Mad Micky’ Mellor: a good bloke to ‘ave on your side, no mistake.

Inseparable we was, until that reversing dray wagon took him right off his bike when he was shiftin’ at sixty miles an hour, round a blind bend in the road outside The Red Lion. Truck’s wheel went right over poor Micky’s ‘ead; turned it jam in a microsecond. He was only twenty-nine. Such a waste. I carried ‘is coffin at the funeral. Least I could do for me mate.

Anyway, this Christmas party and we was stood standin’ at the bar, crackin’ a few filthy ‘uns most like as not, when I look up and sees this girl looking over at me. Hair like the underside of a raven’s wing, it’s that black and glossy, she’s got a kind of pixie-like slant to her eyes and face that makes the combination as sweet as it is hypnotic, especially when she smiles like she did when I waggled me fingers at her. She’s wearing this shimmerin’ navy blue dress, too, and has yellow high heel shoes on. Oh, and there’s this red and silver Alice band keeping those locks of hers firmly in place. Funny what you remember sometimes.

‘Aye aye,’ thinks I, so I give her a little waggle of me fingers, like, which makes her smile a smile that lights up the room. Micky clocks this, looks over his shoulder, then back at me. Doesn’t know ‘er name or not’n, but tells me she’s been up in typin’ for about a month. Single, Micky thinks, but can’t figure out why. Not with a body like hers.

I know why though.

I know why she’s single.

She’s not met me until now, that’s why, and once she does well … she’s only ‘uman, right?

Anyhow, long story short, this girl’s stunnin’ and, own trumpet blowin’ aside, I figured I had a right chance. Another couple of drinks, I’d make me move when the first slowie hits the turntable.

As plans went it was ‘ardly original. Still, what the ‘eck: it always seemed to work so why fix what ain’t broken, right?

Speakin’ of broken, will you take a look at the paintwork on that wall! Peelin’ worse than a suntan after a week home from Benidorm! Comin’ off in chunks like dead white skin. Urrgh! Someone ought t’do something about that. Nasty on the eyes. Offensive. I know they’re short of cash, but flippin’ ‘eck!

Anyway, at the party time’s getting’ on. Me and Micky we’ve ‘ad a few. Earlier on, I’d cleverly managed to position meself behind the girl in the queue for buffet, just so’s I could introduce meself like. Break the ice so to speak. Didn’t want nothin’ to eat. So I says ‘ ‘ello. I’m Charlie. Chaz, if you prefer.’

“Hello, Charlie. Yes. I know who you are. I’ve seen you at work,” she says, her voice a smooth mixture of posh-bordering-on-chocolate sweetness; those hazel eyes of hers twinkling, that smile igniting her face like a sparkler.

She half fills her paper plate with stuff from the table – couple of quarters of cocktail pork pie, some mini sausages, a few bits of cheese and pineapple on sticks, a couple of slightly curling sandwiches – usual rubbish.

“Not having anything to eat, Charlie?” she asks.

“Nah. I might later on. Alright at the minute though.”

“Not good, drinking on an empty stomach,” she says, engaging that smile again.

I returned it best as I could. “Don’t you worry about me, girl. No worries on that score.”

“No,” she says then kind of floats off across the dance floor and fades into shadows on the far side of the room with her plate of grub … and her smile.

I just stood there, watching her move. Watching the way that dress had folded itself around the sensual curves of her body like a shimmering blue skin. I knew my mouth was probably drooping open. I also knew I didn’t care. I also realised I’d not asked her name! What a complete an utter –

“Well?” asks Micky, two paper plates with colossal amounts of food piled up on each. He’s arrived out of nowhere to stand beside me, swaying a bit on his pins. 

“Eh?”

“What’s ‘er name then? D’you get ‘er number? Is she, you know, up for it or what?” The usual list of questions we’d ask when one of us pulled.  This time though, as I looked at me mate and noticed the lump of shiny white grease on his cheek from the chicken drumstick he’s just ripped to shreds with his wonky, misshapen teeth, I suddenly wanted to keep what little I know to meself.

Just for a bit, like.

“Nah, mate. No chance. Bit, you know … stuck up. Not my type after all.”

Micky nodded. “Y’mean she knocked you back.”

“Yeah. She knocked me back, mate. ‘er loss, eh!”

I made my way back across to where our seats were, sat down, picked up me pint of lager, took a long hard gulp and tried to think of a way in with the girl in the blue dress.

Should ‘ave brought me book. ‘Never leave ‘ome without a book,’ me dad always said. ‘Never know when it might come in ‘andy’. Another pearl of wisdom, but one of the few I actually took on board. Usually. What with everythin’ goin’ on, I never thought to stick it in me pocket. Besides, these chairs aren’t really any good for reading in anyway. Why’d these places always ‘ave chairs you can’t get comfy in? Stiff things made of dark blue plastic. They must know you’re goin’ t’be in ‘em a while?

It’s been half an hour now.

How much longer?

Rest of that night, at the party, is a bit of a blur. I do remember Micky fallin’ asleep in the corner at about eleven o’clock. Drunk as a skunk, he was. Hammered, despite the amount of food he’d tucked away. Just goes to show, doesn’t it eh?

I remember, as well, getting up every five or ten minutes, scanning the room, the dance floor … checkin’ out the door to the Ladies loos … just in case I spot that dress. The more I’d thought about it, the more I needed to know her name before I went home. But if I couldn’t find her, how the ‘eck was I supposed to find it out before Christmas? I deffo couldn’t wait until we all turned up at work either. This was December twenty-third. The office wouldn’t open again until January fourth: over two weeks away.

No, I had to find her tonight, get her name, and time was gettin’ on.

It was eleven-thirty. 10cc were comin’ out from the DJs speakers – that one where the singer’s bangin’ on about keepin’ a picture of his girl on his wall to hide some stain or summat – and as he does, so I realised I’m getting more and more panicky and sweaty.

I begin to tour the room again. Ignoring the shouts from me other mates to join ‘em, I concentrate on scanning the room and probably look like a weirdo. Twenty minutes I’m at it and nothing. No flippin’ sign of ‘er anywhere and I resign meself to the awful truth … she’s gone ‘ome already.

And with that thought, there came this crushing sense of disappointment as if I’d woken up Christmas Day as a kid, only to find that what I thought had been a bike for me, had in fact been me parents keepin’ a bike hidden for the spotty little oik next door. The kid nobody liked.

The let-down really did feel that bad!

Then, as I’m standing there, with the flickering lights of the glitter ball washing over me, and couples slowly swaying to the rhythms being supplied by Barbra bloody Streisand, I feels this gentle little tap on me shoulder and I turn.

There she is. Right behind me. My heart leaps and I say a silent thank you to the man whose birthday it’ll be in a couple of days’ time.

“Grace,” she says, simply.

“Sorry?”

“Grace,” she repeats. “My name.”

“Oh, yeah …right,” I say, trying hard to keep the relief out of me voice. Trying to act and sound, you know, cool and in control. “I wasn’t lookin’ for you or not’n. I was just …”  Then I realise I sound like the bloke from 10cc so I shut up.

“Right,” says, flashes that smile again. “Course not, Charlie Vincent.”

Then she does something that turns me legs to water. She takes me hands, pulls me down a little bit so’s we’re face to face, then places the gentlest kiss on me left cheek. As she does this, so does she slide a slip of lavender coloured paper into me ‘and: her number.

Christmas Eve eve, 1978. Grace’s twenty-eighth birthday.

 Now, today, it is Christmas Eve eve 2020. It’s been a pretty rough year, but at least we made it through to her seventieth unscathed. At least until, well, midnight. At Grace’s virtual party. Our fortieth wedding anniversary, too.

You didn’t think, after all that messin’ about, I wasn’t goin’ to end up marrying ‘er did you? What d’you take me for, an idiot?

This social distancin’ malarky means it’s only me what could be brought with her in the ambulance and only me what can wait. Since the second wave came around in October, 'arder than the first lot, we’ve all been shoved back into Lockdown. Bloody idiots wouldn’t listen when the pubs and shops and whatever opened in July. Didn’t care about keeping their distances from everyone like me, who’s older, and Gracie.

The kids thought it’d be nice ‘avin’ a party to doubly celebrate usin’ this Zoom thing. It was goin’ alright, too. Not the same, obviously, but it was nice seein’ everyone: the grandkids, especially.

At eleven-thirty, I looked across at her sittin' in the armchair and saw a look on her face I hoped I'd never to see again. Just like the first time, when Grace got it. Scared the life out of me then, scared the life out of me tonight. She couldn’t get her breath properly that first time, so they stuck her on a ventilator. Got better.

Not right – she still gets tired a bit too easily for my liking – but gettin’ better. Stronger. Least, I’d thought she had been.

Tonight, her skin - that pixie like face - it was that self same colour; grey, like wallpaper paste. I made the call again.

Our Janice has phoned, and our Tom, seeing how their old mum is doin’. Good kids, both of them, thanks to Grace. Janice works in a big law office in Manchester somewhere and Tom, he’s an architect. Two kids each, two boys and two girls. I said I’d call them both when I knew more.

Later.

Oh, ‘scuse me a minute. Just slip me mask on ‘cause there’s someone over now.

“Mister Vincent?”

“Yes, doctor. 'ello. 'ow is she? 'ow’s my Gracie doing?”

I study the doctor; notice how he draws his lips in before answering; notice a lock of his toffee coloured hair has slipped loose over his right eye from beneath his skull cap, before he forces it back under with his gloved left hand. His wedding ring finger, like mine, has a band of gold showing through the thin blue material. I’ll remember all this later, probably, because it’s funny what you remember sometimes, isn’t it.

“Mister Vincent –”

“Charlie … or Chaz. Whichever.”

The doctor swallows. “Charlie. Please. Have a seat. I’m afraid … I’m sorry, it was your wife’s heart, you see …” And while we sit, the doctor – as gently and kindly as he can – tells me that Gracie really has left the party this time.

After a moment, over the medic’s shoulder, I see her, my Gracie, by the main exit. She’s wearing that sparkly blue dress and those yellow high heels. Her hair is like the underside of a raven’s wing, it’s that black and glossy, and all held in place with a red and silver Alice band. She’s got a kind of pixie like slant to her eyes and face, too which makes the combination as sweet as it is hypnotic, especially when she smiles, like she is smiling now.

Her face is smooth, clear of worries and cares. She is young and beautiful.

She is my Gracie.

I waggle my fingers, causing the doctor to stop his explanation mid-sentence and glance over his shoulder, then back at me. Grace waves back, blows me a kiss then pushes on the heavy swing door and steps out into the night.

I look at the young man sittin’ beside me.

He looks tired. His blue overalls – scrubs, I think they call them – are dishevelled, stained in places. I feel sorry for him.

“What’s your name, son?” I ask.

“Erm … Mellor. Doctor Mellor. Michael.”

I smile at this, then I chuckle openly. “Michael Mellor. Really? Do your friends call you Micky by any chance?”

The doctor frowns and smiles, confused. “Yes, sometimes. Why?”

I shake my head a little, holding onto my smile but feeling the prickle of tears forming in my eyes. “No reason, son,” I say, quietly. “No reason at all.”