Her predicted outcomes for Donald and
Gillian’s whistle-stop were pretty accurate.
Someone had vomited, but not a child.
Gillian had compensated for mediocre prawn balls, sesame toasts and a
particularly greasy dish of beef and water chestnuts by
drinking too much.
Cheap merlot rather than food poisoning
was the cause of her confinement in the downstairs toilet and
subsequent ill humour.
Vanessa had wet her bed; David had
snapped the neck off Richard’s favourite brontosaurus and Paul, in
inimitable style had escaped the resultant wailing and gnashing of
teeth by whisking Donald off to the Duke.
She could see that they must have been
ensconced for some time with Kev, Suez Mick and Fatty, whose
sludge-coloured low slung trousers left little to the imagination.
As usual the latter was unshaven and presented as a caricature of the
horny-handed sons of toil that the Party in the adjoining
tap-room was supposed to represent.
Horny-handed or not, Fatty was a
horrible, drunken oaf who sponged off his parents, Edna and Stan;
spent his wages on booze and had been known to treat his women to a
smack around the chops when popped up.
He did not merit representation.
Donald, in Harris Tweed jacket and
brogues polished to perfection with an assiduous attention to detail
honed in the corps of his alma mater, seemed ill at ease. He
was betraying familiar signs of discomfort such as clearing his
throat and picking at his cuticles. But Eric’s financial outlay on
a Waverley education had not gone amiss.
Paul’s brother waved his wallet and
she suspected that Donald had borne the financial burden of the
evening’s jollities.
Her husband had teamed his army
greatcoat with the flat cap and Hunter’s wellingtons that
were his sartorial pick when fraternising with Binley regulars. It
was a type of fancy dress at a distinct remove from the
tailored suits and understated cufflinks that typified his garb when
visiting Oxbridge colleges.
He gave Dickon Cleave the quizzical
smile that he reserved for the lower orders, and glanced at
Jessamy’s ample bosom, inclining his head.
Well – if you’re offering?
Mine’s a double grouse…
Donald and Gillian left with the lark
the next day.
As she sat in her staff cubby hole at
GC, sipping instant coffee and wading through execrable essays on The
Crucible, she mused about the last 24 hours. An evening of
undiluted Gillian had been exchanged – for what? A murderous
headache (unlike Paul, she could not sleep whilst her toddler
screamed) and laundering wet sheets at 4am. Paul had been perky;
walking Splosh, and doing men’s things with the Spong coffee
grinder before bounding off to work with a parting sally:
Back late – Lower Sixth play –
and you’d better postpone the revolution because Christine’s
visiting her mother!
The revolution was the least of her
problems.
She did not enjoy teaching at GC. The
mid-sixties brick and glass block was an unappealing work space and
the less-motivated teenagers had forsaken - school regime for
‘college’ with its informal dress code and licence to smoke
cigarettes ( and possibly cannabis) outside the entrance lobby.
The majority of staff members were on
‘rolling’ contracts and insecurity of tenure bred an inevitable
lack of commitment to the institution and its students.
She was part of the Humanities team,
led (if that was the word) by Selma Blaine, whose curly perm and
spray-on emerald jeans made her a cross between Jane Fonda in Work
Out mode and Breakfast Television’s very own Green Goddess,
Diana Moran.
Or that was the idea.
In reality, the lumps and bumps of a
post-menopausal figure should have necessitated a ruthless cull of
all things lycra from the wardrobe but Selma, oblivious to the
sniggers of her students, collected her salary, perfected her
timetabling and ensured that student numbers remained stable .
If she knew that her nickname was
‘Mutton’, she betrayed no hint.
Lecturers were required to turn up;
maintain a modicum of control and be seen to set and mark
work. Usually she fulfilled the criteria – but today, the
hamster-on-wheel routine was unbearable.She could have done the job
performing cartwheels with a carnation stuck up her nose. Had nights
of relentless swotting at Dorlich been a curtain raiser for this?
As she caught the bus for the homeward
journey, she reflected that it was not as if domestic life offered
any compensation.She had not wanted to move, and while Paul went from
strength to strength at Fairway, she remained dissatisfied, bored and
friendless.
Hazel and the girls were fun –
but what did she really share with them?
When they had exhausted television
soaps, the latest Ruth Rendell, kids, clothes, marital sex and the
perfidy of the Butchers all that remained was a cultural desert the
size of the Sahara
She was losing the language to
communicate with Lynne, who was mixing in increasingly sophisticated
London circles and had attended the champagne preview of Anthony
and Cleopatra at the National.
While she had attended a political
equivalent of Dad’s Army in the Duke…
She got off the bus and marched into
the off-licence near thome, paying more than usual for two bottles of
decent Frascati.
Things had got to change, and if it was
going to take alcohol and French knickers to convince Paul that it
was time for her career opportunities to take priority then so be it.
With any luck, she had a couple of
hours’ pampering in the bathroom before he returned from the play
rehearsal. She would team Next knickers with a front-fasten
Wonderbra and don the grey jersey sheath and black patent
stilettos with the bar straps. Vanessa had swimming at school
tomorrow and could be persuaded into bed after tea and Richard could
overdose on Thomas the Tank Engine and Rainbow.
After Paul had been bewitched by the
vision of feminine sexiness adorning his hearth and home she might
tactfully propose a move to Oxford or Cambridge. There would be an
abundance of opportunities for him – and she might study for a PhD!
The children would thrive; lose their
grotesque Gridchester accents and in the spirit of brave new worlds,
she would call Brian Pelleroe and resign as candidate for the
ridiculous Laceybrook by-election.
The sight of the mustard family Peugeot
in the car port at the back of her house necessitated a rethink.
Paul must have cancelled his rehearsal,
and the idea of captivating him unawares in guise of a 20th
century Primavera was a non-starter. She walked up the path
wondering what on earth had possessed her to buy the horrible brown
cord button through skirt she was wearing and to complete the
ensemble with a lumberjack- style checked shirt and American Tan
tights.
When she had met Paul on that fateful
night ten years ago in Bunters, she had been virtually bursting out
of her maxi dress, a seductive vision of curves, lipstick and
tumbling blonde hair. The words ripe and peach came to
mind, and in one of his amorous flights of fancy, Paul had compared
her charms to those of Tess, milking her herd at Talbothay’s
Dairy.
As she entered her scullery kitchen
Tessy dearest was back in her novel and the reflection
greeting her from the kitchen mirror was a dead ringer for Patricia
Hayes in Edna the Inebriate Woman.
She had let herself go, and if Paul
were to succumb to a Gridchester version of Frances Hunt – then who
could blame him?
In the dining room, Vanessa and Richard
were busying themselves with the Fisher Price garage and she could
see that tears from one or both were a probability. The three years
separating them in age meant that Richard was incapable of being a
satisfying playmate to a serious five year old who had started school
and was learning to read.
This did not stop him following her
like a dog; attempting to join in her games and invariably spoiling
them. She caught his hand instinctively as he was about to hurl a car
at his sister and braced herself for the inevitable wails. She had
wanted two children. When would they start to like each other?
Well, I think that’s her now….
Paul’s voice came from the lounge and
sounded tense. He had company and the thought that she might be
expected to entertain the Nuttalls was unbearable.
She turned the lounge door handle, and
was leapt upon by Splosh with such vigour that she dropped the wine,
tripped and landed unceremoniously in the lap of Dickon Cleave.
Beware of Greeks bearing gifts
he said.
The next hour; embarrassing for her and
perceptibly irritating for Paul, did little to ruffle the composure
of their unexpected guest. Dickon lounged on the sofa, seemingly
oblivious to the fact that it was grubby and covered in dog hairs. He
had the type of angular physique that would have looked good in a
sack, but the jeans, granddad shirt with a delicate blue stripe and
soft brown leather boots conveyed a casual elegance that was neither
cheap nor casual. It took time and money to look that good, she
thought, horribly conscious of her matronly court shoes and “in
between” length hairstyle.
Similarly, Paul in his shapeless grey
school suit and black shoes with side buckle looked hopelessly dated.
Dickon had the effect of making them staid, middle-aged and boring
and she wanted him to finish his drink and go.
He showed no signs of doing so,
because he had come to visit his candidate.
An hour later, her plans for a romantic
evening had departed as her Election Agent sped away in his MG
roadster and her husband decamped to the Duke. The children were in
bed and nothing had changed – but everything was different. Paul
returned after closing time and went straight to bed. He was
unusually taciturn and she did not feel talkative. They slept
fitfully, back to back.
When she remembered that time from the
distance brought by 26 years, the sequence of events had perforce
blurred, but the atmosphere was light, bright and sparkling. GC,
her home and everything in it seemed suddenly Lilliputian and as she
looked at her husband and children, the words from Status Quo pounded
insistently:
When I look up to the skies
I see your eyes a funny kind of
yellow
I rush home to bed I soak my head
I see your face underneath my pillow
I wake next morning, tired, still
yawning
See your face come peeping through
my window
Pictures of matchstick men and you
Mirages of matchstick men and you
All I ever see is them and you
She was seeing a lot of Dickon Cleave.
Her Agent was vibrant, witty,
resourceful, charming, and possessed of unequalled enthusiasm both
for the election and the candidate. As they sat, night after night,
huddled in the darkest corner of the Duke’s tap room, pouring over
voting trends and compiling canvassing schedules, she had never felt
happier.
Years later, she realised that she had
not been happy, but excited, and the rush of blood to
the head had nothing to do with the prospect of fighting her first
election as candidate (in an utterly unwinnable seat) and everything
to do with the sensations occasioned by close proximity to an
incredibly attractive man.
When she lost her parliamentary seat
and made a bonfire of press cuttings and leaflets; the history of her
rollercoaster ride in politics - she was dumbfounded when she
unearthed her first ever election leaflet.
There she was; a cornucopia of blonde
hair and red lipstick, clad in a diaphanous white shirt and pale blue
jeans, arms aloft, sitting on a swing. Her smile was arch and
the caption read: The Lady LOVES Laceybrook.
It was verging on soft porn and how
could she ever have sanctioned it?
At the time, Dickon’s insistence on
hiring he most extortionate photographer in Gridchester for a day’s
shoot on location and then raiding the deposit account for the
cost of a full colour leaflet seemed only right and proper. The fact
that Derek Kingsmill’s humble (and winning) General Election
leaflet in neighbouring Lowerbridge would have cost a fraction of the
amount was entirely irrelevant.
He always was a cheapskate
And they had spent such a wonderful
day; roaring off on Saturday in the nippy MG; lunch at a cunning
little restaurant beside the brook of ‘Laceybrook’ with its
luxuriant countryside backdrop complemented exquisitely by the Kir
Royales that Dickon had insisted they drink before tucking into
plates of turbot on a bed of wilted greens.
The photoshoot was a joy; choreographed
by Dickon while Greville from Photo Fanatic snapped her in a
variety of settings and costumes (she had packed a small suitcase).
Jerry Hall and Marie Helvin had a rival!
In the end, it had been a toss-up
between the swing and jeans picture and another one in which she had
posed on the grass with her back to a tree, wearing a black velvet
skirt and knee length boots. That one was Dickon’s choice –
vetoed by her on account of showing too much leg.
Greville left early and they drove back
in leisurely style, stopping at another country pub to discuss the
campaign. She arrived home at 9 pm, exuding euphoria.
Paul was sitting in the wheel-back
chair, smoking his pipe and listening to Ravel’s Bolero.
It jarred unpleasantly with her mood,
as did the incessant yapping of Splosh, whose empty bowl indicated
that Paul had omitted to feed him.
Paul was crotchety; sniping that she
had said that she would be back four hours ago. “I’ve had
Jessamy Neape on the phone. They were supposed to be meeting her
daughter at Geppetto’s - she waited as long as she could but then
had to go on ahead. And the kids have had alphabet animals and
burgers AGAIN – there was nothing else in the freezer!”
She looked at her husband’s baggy old
jeans and frayed shirt,his habitual weekend loafing clothes, and
wondered why he felt it appropriate to channel Saville Row when
visiting the Oxbridge colleges and emulate a bin man when spending
time with his family.
Well, why didn’t you buy them
something else? she returned as they began the low-level
bickering that was becoming a staple of their relationship. She was
conscious of prolonging it to avoid the imposition of sex, and her
strategy worked, as Paul slammed the door and went to bed alone.
She poured herself a glass of wine and
smoked a cigarette, trying to recapture the magic of the day, but he
had ruined it … by mentioning Jessamy Neape.
Now, try as she may, images of herself
and Dickon, eating a deux in Laceybrook were overlaid with
images of Dickon and Jessamy in their house, with their family and
even in their bed.
It was repulsive.
Paul had spoiled her day. Paul
spoiled ----- everything.
As usual.
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