Littlebury always got a good
write up in the Best Places to Live features favoured by
journalists (alongside items about celebrities with cellulite) in the
August news graveyard. It won points for being quiet;
unspoilt; surrounded by stunning scenery and at the same
time thirty minutes from London on a fast train.
Local pubs and restaurants had
character; the village green sported a charming duck
pond that dried up in summer ,and Littlebury School enjoyed a
national and international reputation.
This blessed plot, this earth, this
realm, this England.
John of Gaunt would have approved.
It was just the place to retire,
acquire an education, or spend your husband’s money and as she fell
into none of these categories, it was prison. Gridchester, by
contrast, (and especially when memories were fuelled by a second
glass of amaretto) became her Atlantis; a land of milk, honey,
opportunity and like that island – utterly mythical.
But there was an element of truth.
Since graduating, her experience had
been that when sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in
battalions but as1988 began, good fortune, unlike lightning,
struck twice.
At GC, she found herself the unexpected
beneficiary of Selma Blaine’s breast cancer and early retirement.
The Principal; a skinflint of repute,
calculated that it would make financial sense to pay her the extra
allowance to lead Humanities. The Department would be one lecturer
short – but no matter – they could all teach extra classes!
And I think you’ll find, said
Alec Coverley, offering her the job, that everyone will be happy!
They weren’t; but after a month of
wildcat strikes when she had to cross a makeshift picket line to get
to her office, everything returned to normal; except that the extra
money and additional responsibility was not normal at all.
It was utterly abnormal and she
had never been happier. Perhaps she was a contender at last!
Paul’s enthusiasm was muted.
I worry, he confided to her
mother, between mouthfuls of Victoria sandwich, that it’s going
to be too much. She gets terribly tired as it is – isn’t that
true Darling? The place is virtually a reformatory – VERY difficult
kids – and then all that politicking in the evenings –
something’s got to give and I fear (shooting her mother a
doleful glance) that it’s going to be our two. Only yesterday
Ness Ness said that she never sees Mummy (ruffling his daughter’s
hair).
Oh dear, fretted her mother.
Now I don’t like the sound of that
at all. No wonder Richie’s having so many tantrums. You’re never
at home with him. I think you ought to work part time – at least
until he starts school. Well, Paul – what about a jam tart?
This was rich coming from her mother; a
woman who had returned to work as soon as was humanly possible,
putting her only daughter into nursery a full term before the legal
age. But Mother had morphed into Grandma and her ambition for
that daughter had died with the birth of Vanessa.
She eyed the Victoria sandwich;
stifling a desire to remove it from its cut glass cake stand and
deposit it firmly in the middle of her husband’s face.
Her father cleared his throat and stood
up from the table, brushing cake crumbs from his lap.
Very nice Flo – cake perfectly
risen, eh Paul? And as for the job, let her take it (giving her a
wink). At least there’s a salary – not like all that free
teaching she did to help you out at Chudleigh! Now... just in time
for A Question of Sport!
And he switched on the television;
having launched a custard pie of the metaphorical variety at Paul and
rescued the Victoria sandwich from possible annihilation. She helped
her mother to wash up.
Paul did not like her new job; but
apart from a few scathing comments to his family and the Nuttalls,
could say little against it. Family finances were healthier; she paid
a couple of the domestic bills and he had more money to squander in
second hand bookshops and The Duke.
A holiday that was not to be
endured in the company of mice and unspeakable insects in a French
gite became a distinct possibility.
Her political fortunes likewise, were
in the ascendant.
Following her letter to Duncan
Musgrave, expressing serious concerns about the conduct of the
Beech family, she was invited to attend for interview at The St
John’s Ambulance hut.
Musgrave, flanked by two male
assistants, similarly booted and suited, was an impassive
figure with a hint of menace.
With no good reason, she formed the
view that he disliked her and plunged into a stumbling (and she
feared, unconvincing) account of Beech perfidy; the treatment of
Clare Butcher – thus spawning a Tory MP in the making; the abusive
drunken lunge in The Duke; the suspected black market trading and
wheedling money from members to finance the nefarious operations of
Red Heart.
As she was making these allegations,
staring fixedly at a cracked window pane and avoiding the penetrating
Musgrave stare, she became uncomfortably aware that apart from the
treatment of Clare Butcher and aggression towards herself, it was
just a jumble of supposition and conjecture that would never have
withstood scrutiny in a court of law.
But this was not a court of law; it
was a kangaroo court and her instinct was to destroy Lester Beech
before he destroyed her.
Musgrave was non-committal; posed a few
questions as to the precise location of the collection tin and the
identity of the persons in closest proximity to it, thanked her
for attending and then, by turning away and signalling to his
colleagues, indicated that the interview was over.
It had been profoundly disconcerting
and she reflected that on balance, writing the letter had been a
mistake.
A Party meeting at The Duke was to
prove pivotal.
She arrived with Gail, minus Hazel
(whose attendance had declined since her separation from Martin) and
Sylvia who, with husband Shaun, was suffering from shingles.
Perhaps they’re re-bonding after
that Pelleroe business? suggested Gail optimistically.
She could not see that being confined
to barracks, scratching sporadically next to a similarly afflicted
spouse was the ideal new start for Sylvia and her husband, but
nodded assent as they took their seats at a corner table.
The atmosphere matched landlady Pat’s
funereal back room décor, and she noted that Duncan Musgrave was
sitting at the top table, flanked by one of his Team inquisitors and
a nervously twitching Fred Hoy.
A male voice bellowing swear words was
audible from the main bar and she wondered which of the pub regulars
had gone on a bender. Could it be Fatty? She fervently hoped
that he would be banned.
It was not Fatty.
Duncan Musgrave apologised for the fact
that Lester Beech had created a disturbance after being
refused entrance. The assistance of the police had been necessary but
(opening the door and peering round tentatively) he could say that
the matter had now been dealt with.
After all, the Beech family were no
longer members of the Party and could not be allowed to attend
meetings.
He trusted that business would now be
conducted in an open and transparent manner, after a successful
Inquiry that had rooted out the rotten apples in Gridchester
and elsewhere. Members who had assisted this process had performed a
great service to the Party and their contribution to our politics
would not be forgotten.
Fancy – Chair of the Party!
enthused Sylvia.
And Gail the proper Secretary
instead of pencil-sharpening for Peabody. This is a feminist
revolution!
They were waiting to be served in the
new vegetarian restaurant at The Jasmine Bay hotel after an
invigorating sauna in the adjoining health club. The Malmsey
Head evenings had been replaced by more varied pursuits at Hazel’s
insistence; swimming; the odd yoga class (a disaster – whatever the
lotus position was, it was a stretch too far); a women only book club
at the cooperative, and now this.
Hazel had purchased tickets for next
month’s all – female production of Macbeth (from a radical
lesbian perspective) and everything was very different and
uniquely dull. Since dispensing with Martin, the fish and the weight,
she had become a fully paid up member of the Health Police and their
outings had turned into a contest to see who could manage to sneak an
extra glass of wine without incurring a disapproving lecture.
As Sylvia said:
Hazel was more fun when she was fat.
The strictures of Hazel Sweet (now
Kendall; Hazel had reverted to her maiden name)
notwithstanding; her own new role as Chair of the Gridchester
North Party had come as a fait accompli.
After the Beech purges, Fred Hoy
resigned and Duncan Musgrave gave a strong hint that the local
Party (as evinced by the shocking abuse of Clare Butcher) was less
than woman-friendly.
As Musgrave stressed ( tapping a flip
chart by way of illustration), the socio economic priorities of
Gridchester Girl were the key to electoral success; but the
female component of the Gridchester Party was decidedly out of sync
with the voting sisters.
This was a firm steer to elect a woman
Chair; but the entrenched Party culture had attracted involvement
from the wrong sort of women.
Maureen Booth and Cheryl Smithers were
more suited to parties of the Tupperware variety and when Sian
Norfolk (a student at GC) proposed her as Chair, there were no
objections. Gail became Secretary; Hazel; Women’s Officer and
Laurence Fernyclough Treasurer and token male.
The flower of manhood had been
vanquished by the petticoat revolution
Not with a bang but with a whimper.
Paul greeted her elevated status with
the usual irony and took to dubbing her Madame Mao; but many a
true word is spoken in jest and the next six months ushered in a
cultural revolution for the Gridchester Party.
We must start as we mean to go on!
pronounced Hazel, opening her briefcase
and propping up the menu with a filofax.
And I’d recommend the falafel and
adzuki bean salad – filling but not fattening if you get my drift!
Unfortunately, they did; exchanging
glances and yearning for The Balti Bowl and its pickle tray.
Freed from the shackles of pandering to Martin’s limited palate,
Hazel might have been expected to embark upon a gastronomic splurge
of gargantuan proportions – but had merely replaced the austerity
of corned beef and tinned vegetables with dried pulses and all things
wholemeal.
She had ordered a new range of
vegetarian cookery books for the cooperative and the collected works
of Rose Elliot had replaced the familiar tomes of Linda
McCartney with their trademark vegetarian sausages. It was all very
worthy and Hazel certainly looked good on it, but her heart was with
Sylvia who commented trenchantly:
Life is too short to soak a
chickpea; anything longer than five minutes under the grill and the
kids create mayhem.
There was nothing for it but a secret
binge on Geppetto’s pasta Alfredo with extra cream when
Hazel left for work at the bookshop. The consumption of a second
plate of garlic bread induced predictable feelings of guilt and when
they left (after a very decent Chianti) each was a passionate
advocate of The Kendall Plan to re-shape the Gridchester
Party.
Paul initially balked at her proposed
financial outlay on a word processor and answerphone and, not for the
first time, she resented their joint bank account.
The necessity of destroying the monthly
statement before her husband could deplore her regular expenditure at
Next, Laura Ashley and Benetton was wearing – especially when such
strictures did not apply to his own indulgence at antiquarian
bookshops and visits to the Oxbridge colleges.
She also resented the expenditure
from pooled finances that did not appear in any official document –
on his secret stash – purchased from some source in Fairway and
indulged, like a Victorian with snuff; at the end of an evening.
It was time to resort to desperate
measures via a quick revision of The Joy of Sex by Alex Comfort,
but reprieve came in the unexpected form of her father in law.
Eric had signed a lucrative contract to
write for The Gas; a sell-out paper, known contemptuously as
The Comic by everyone from its Editor to the tea lady.
However, despite a decided aversion to
words of more than one syllable, The Gas demanded a phenomenal
work rate and Deirdre’s daisy-wheel typewriter was no longer
fit for purpose.
So Eric embraced the technological
revolution and became, at the age of 69, the proud possessor of a
word processor and a cordless telephone system with separate
answering machine.
Paul followed suit a week later.
Persuading the comrades to
relinquish the St John’s Ambulance hut and The Duke for the women
and children friendly environs of the Gridchester Community
Centre was more difficult.
The union contingent – and even Shaun
Mills and Ned Pitt - craved their pint in The Duke – and the
proximity of The Duke for their pint - after meetings in the
hut.
Neither was there a general clamour
for the gender balanced child minding rota to enable women to
attend meetings; or the insistence that crèche facilities be
a pre-requisite of any venue booked for a special event.
But by far the most venom was directed
at the new Women’s Society hosted by Hazel in her flat above
the cooperative bookshop. Here, women members met to devise
women-friendly policies; support potential women candidates
for Party positions and local elections and recruit more women
members.
It was a far remove from the
Tupperware culture.
Duncan Musgrave was a fan.
The other men were not – including
her husband.
Paul was not a Party member, but he was
Chair, Secretary and Treasurer of the Lord and Master Federation -
an organisation that required wives to grace the bedroom, kitchen and
nursery instead of abandoning the hearth in favour of numerous
meetings both professional and personal.
Matters came to a head in March 1989
when a week dominated by evening GC Management meetings
concluded with a Saturday Women’s Training Conference at the
Community Centre, addressed by Shadow Minister Alma Blenkinsopp
and the ubiquitous Duncan Musgrave from the Sectional Team.
As she walked up the pathway to her
house, her approach heralded as usual by a yapping Splosh, she
reflected that they had pulled it off – just. The Conference was
the first real test for the new women leadership team and had been
dogged by difficulties from the outset.
Firstly, they had been forced to
compromise over the crèche; due to male Party members (whose numbers
included Ned Pit and Shaun Mills) discovering that previous
engagements prevented them from staffing the rota.
Women’s Officer, Hazel was adamant
that no female member should be deprived of even a minute of the
programme because of the burden of childcare:
(They like the fun of MAKING them
and that’s about the sum of it!)
but the men voted with their feet and
they were forced to engage the services of a childcare agency worker
at an exorbitant cost.
Secondly, the speaker, Alma Blenkinsopp
MP was a less than ideal choice for such a groundbreaking occasion.
At 65, Mrs Blenkinsopp was coming to
the end of her tenure in frontline politics; had supported local
residents in their campaign to evict the Greenham women on grounds of
poor hygiene and general rowdiness, and had opposed the
national Party campaign against sexist language:
(I am a Chairwoman – not a CHAIR).
But beggars could not be choosers, and
only Alma Blenkinsopp had agreed to waste a Saturday in a Tory
stronghold – on the understanding that there would be full press
coverage, including television.
The attendance register was similarly
underwhelming. Female members of the Booth / Smithers variety,
trickled in, and Mrs Blenkinsopp’s irritation at spreading her
pearls before a sprinkling of 20
(I thought we’d have to haul them
in off the streets!)
was considerably augmented as the
scheduled press conference came and went without a single
representative from the Third Estate crossing the threshold.
But then the hand of fate intervened by
way of a horrific crash involving a black saloon car and two
motorbikes 100 yards from the Community Centre. The media then
miraculously emerged – as did Alma Blenkinsopp who secured her
television coverage; bewailing the dangers of Tory city traffic
management and pledging to raise the issue in the House.
So it had been a success - of sorts
- but not in the way envisaged.
As she entered the hallway, a familiar,
sweet smell assailed her nostrils, and her ears were assaulted by the
mingled wailing of Richard, Vanessa and Sad Eyed Lady of the
Lowlands.
Paul and Martin Sweet were
listening to the latter; Richard and Vanessa were squabbling over the
contents of the Fisher Price house and the source of the smell
was unmistakable.
Paul, and Hazel’s ex husband, were
indulging in the secret stash at 6pm in full view of her children,
who were tired, hungry and fractious. She scooped them up and
shooed them into the dining room where she fed them pizza slices and
a tray of oven chips.
The fall-out, later that evening, with
the children in bed and her lounge finally free of a worse-for wear
Martin Sweet, was predictable.
She had accused Paul of corrupting
their children by exposing them to illegal drugs:
Vanessa’s seven – not seven
months.
He had countered with charges of child
neglect:
Why did you want kids if you didn’t
want to look after them? Out FOUR times this week and the whole of
Saturday!
She had attacked the Nuttalls; he had
vilified Hazel:
Poor bloody Mart! Letting his hair
down for the first time in years! Granny fed him on corned beef and
potato salad – no wonder he needs a joint though you can see he’s
not used to it – stoned on the first puff!
Love fifteen. Fifteen all. Fifteen
thirty. The tennis match of their marriage.
Still later, when Paul had retired to
bed, she finished off the dregs of a bottle of un-chilled Sancerre
whilst watching the regional television news; shots of the crash
and Alma Blenkinsopp speaking to camera. At the side of the screen,
she caught a glimpse of herself in her grey linen skirt suit;
clutching her new business briefcase- all buckles and gilt. She
looked porky beside the diminutive Blenkinsopp and Hazel, whiplash
thin in a trouser suit and brogues.
Hazel – who phoned excitedly – how
fantastic was that?!
Not especially, against the backdrop of
domestic mayhem; to include tending to Richard who had woken from a
nightmare – and had covered his Batman duvet with vomit
A passive victim of secret stash
fumes?
She did not tell Hazel about Martin.
Hazel had sloughed off the domestic coil and it was fairer not to.
At the end of that year, in
Littlebury; the warm glow attendant upon a third glass of amaretto
did not shield her from the fact that she had certainly not shaken
off hers.
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