Ralph lives in east London, not in one of the snappy flats around Canary Wharf, but in a mid-terrace house on one of the seedier back streets near West Ham Football Club. It's a source of pride to Ralph that you have to push through wheelie bins to travel the 8 feet from the front gate to his door.
'Well, it's where Maggie's got her business,' I reply, 'and we like it there.' As the flabby words slouch past my lips, I realise I'm showing him an ill-prepared defence against his inevitable attack.
He shakes his head. 'It's Lark-Rise-to-Candleford syndrome,' he pronounces.
'Careful Ralph,' I say, getting my thoughts in some sort of battle order, 'You read Russian at Cambridge, not English. You're wandering outside your comfort zone, and I've no idea what you're talking about.'
'Not literature. Sunday night television,' he corrects me.
'Sunday night telly!' I squeak. I've got him here. 'Let me get this right. Sunday nights, you slip into your dressing gown, microwave the cocoa and settle down in front of Lark Rise to Candleford.'
'Hardly, old son. My mother wanted a box set for Christmas, and she insisted I watch the first episode with her.'
'Hoh.' It's the sound of my sails as he steals their wind. 'But you're suggesting I watch it, are you?' I say, and taking another tack, add, 'I'm all for Jane Austen delivered to the living room of the masses, but endless nights of Dawn French and Julia Sawalha is… is a bonnet too far.' I indulge him with a smile, and lean back to rest on my wit.
'You may not watch it, but that doesn't mean to say you're not a closet fellow-traveller. It's like homosexuality in the fifties,' Ralph presses on. 'You can't admit it to yourself, but just like all the other Lark Rise addicts, you harbour a burning desire for life in rural England where men doff their hats, "ladies"…' – he pauses long enough to raise both hands, each bobbing two apostrophising fingers up and down – '… curtsy, jolly red-faced cooks bake apple turnover like they don't make any more, and anyone who is nasty gets their fair dues and turns out to be nice after all just in time for the end credits.'
'You're trying to say that I'm moving to Stow-on-the-Wold out of a need to exist in some pastoral golden age?'
'There, see, doesn't it feel better now you've come out and said the words? You're a romantic, in fact the most sentimental sort of romantic.'
'Is this a defence of life in Whitechapel surrounded by drug-crazed muggers and ASBO-breaching kids?' I've been through this sort of sparring with Ralph before so I know it's best to give as good as you get.
'Hackney Marshes,' he corrects me again. 'Life in east London is what it is.'
'Very profound, Ralph.'
'It doesn't pretend to be something it isn't,' he insists. 'Living in a chocolate-box village like Stow-on-the Wold – all morris dancers and ye oldie tea shoppes – is a sugary lie. It's like setting up home in a theme park for old-aged pensioners. It's not the real world. It's an invention to feed the perverted desires of the middle classes.'
'Ah, ah, that's it,' I cry, wagging a triumphant finger towards the pub ceiling. 'I see now, these are the lunatic ramblings of a disillusioned Marxist.' I shake my head with a knowing twinkle. 'I see your evil plan, to turn me into a Cotswold cell of the Fourth Communist International.'
But Ralph's not to be bantered off course. 'It probably all stems from your childhood. Brought up in a Midlands mining village, you saw at first hand the oppression of the workers and now yearn for some utopian alternative.'
'Ralph, I admire your ingenuity. But mixing Freud with Trotsky is like… like… like dissecting a football with a scalpel.' It's hard work debating with Ralph. 'Anyway, by the time I was born, the coal mines were nationalised.'
'Only just. The legacy of exploitation was still there. People react in one of two ways to that kind of exposure to social injustice: they either fight it or flee it. You're doing the latter. Spurning your roots.'
'So now I'm a snob, as well!'
'Don't be too hard on yourself, Derek. I expect you'll be quite happy in Stow-on-the-Wold.' He pronounced the four words as though they're in an unfamiliar foreign language. 'We're all victims of society in our own way.'
'Well, that's a consolation.'
The haddock and chips arrive.
'I bet they don't sell many copies of The Guardian in Stow,' Ralph adds, biting the end off a ketchup sachet. And we declare a truce.
I usually enjoy the journey back on the train. The threatening grot of west London's trackside houses viewed from a pre-booked window seat gives way to the reassuring safety of fields with cows in. But today the graffiti speeding past outside, I'd swear, says 'Lark Rise addict' and 'morris dancer junkie'. And the cows, when they finally arrive, look like mock-ups on a low-budget film set.
So by the time I join Maggie on the sofa with my mug of Red Bush tea, my mind's not on our usual news exchange. Well, not on Maggie's turn anyway. I gather there was some sort of drama at the shop today, something about a male transvestite, or a Dior frock being shoplifted, or a woman from Leicestershire who was going to buy twenty-eight pairs of designer jeans and then changed her mind. Something like that, because throughout I'm staring at the eucalyptus through the French windows and then at the Cotswold stone fireplace we had put in two years ago without seeing them.
'So that was my day at the shop,' she finishes. 'It was pretty boring.' And when I just grunt, she goes on, 'Anyway, I'm starving. What are we having for supper? Are we going to do it together? You can tell me about your lunch with Ralph while we get on with it.' This is too many questions and propositions for my distracted brain to cope with, so I just follow her into the kitchen.
Now you may be thinking, 'Oh isn't that nice that they cook together. I wish we did things like that.' Well, think again, because with Maggie and me, the kitchen is a battleground. We both like cooking. But we have completely different styles. She's an 'I'll put in a pinch of this and a dash of that and taste it and see what else it needs' sort of person, while I'm a 'stick strictly to the recipe until the hallowed words of Nigella or Rick are proved to be erroneous' type of bloke. We also each know that our system is the correct one. It is therefore highly dangerous for both of us to be within elbow-range of the oven at the same time.
Over the years we have thus developed a set of culinary rules, roughly equivalent to the Geneva Convention, designed to hold our relationship firm.
• Rule 1: if Maggie's been working that day, Derek does supper, and if Derek's been working, Maggie does it.
• Rule 2: if both have been working, supper preparation is shared.
Then come two important sub-rules.
• Rule 2A: in the event that both are in the kitchen together, neither shall be permitted to wear the head chef's big hat; instead separate and sovereign tasks shall be allocated to each of us.
And finally,
• Rule 2B: neither shall claim to know better than the other what the other should do.
It's here that the treaty starts to break down. Neither of us is capable of upholding Rule 2B.
Tonight we're doing Zardalu Polo. 'What in the name of the blessed Delia is that?' I hear you say. Well, you should have guessed that we're a mite obsessive about what we eat. Not for us a frozen pizza or an M & S shepherd's pie. We do the hand-crafted goods every night regardless of what stresses the day has brought us. If we really can't be faffed, we might go out for a meal. Don't get me wrong though. We're not food snobs. We run a mile at the sight of a bizarrely shaped loaf being sold for £6 by a snotty eighteen year-old with a posh accent (something which is all too common in the Cotswolds). Nor at the other extreme are we the sort of people who think a cabbage is not a cabbage unless it drops a poached baby slug onto your plate. No, we just like tasty food. And we like doing it ourselves.
And tonight, it's that good old Persian favourite, Zardalu Polo. So while I prepare the rice, lamb, apricots, onion, turmeric and cinnamon, Maggie – in a separate part of the kitchen – is doing something with aubergines and cauliflower. After I've brushed asi
de Maggie's suggestion about the need to sauté the meat a little longer, and she's ignored my comment about the standard way to cut aubergine being in quarter-inch-thick disks rather than three dimensional jigsaw pieces, Maggie says, 'Go on, then, tell me about Ralph.'
'I think it might have to wait till we're sitting down,' I reply, trying to scrape off the excess cinnamon which I've accidentally spilt on the lamb.
So once the ladybird-shaped kitchen timer has rung 'time up', and we've both got two mouthfuls of the excellent Near-Eastern cuisine inside us, it's time for the unwritten Rule 3. And here you may be permitted a brief 'Ah, that's nice.' Once the food is on the table, we always compliment each other's cooking. The most severe criticism that's ever heard across our dining table might be something along the lines of: 'This sauce is delicious. Perhaps next time it might take a smidgeon less cumin. But it is lovely as it is.' So when we've got that stuff out of the way, I start to recount the detail of what Ralph said about Lark-Rise-to-Candleford syndrome and how, in moving to Stow, I was craving a childhood paradise I never had, all of which I deliver with what seems to me minimal outrage and maximum objectivity.
Maggie laughs. 'I like Ralph,' she says, 'in small doses anyway. He's a caricature.'
'Yes, he's a funny guy. So why do you like living in Stow?' I ask.
'Obviously because the shop's here…'
'… and?'
'Well, the countryside's lovely, and I couldn't bear the filthy traffic in a city.'
'Is that enough?'
She puts down her knife and fork and stares at me. 'You know something? I think Ralph's got to you.'
'No, he hasn't, no. It's not personal. I'm just interested to understand what makes rural living in the second decade of the twenty-first century attractive. Academically speaking. It's nothing personal.'
'You're trying to say, is village life all it's cracked up to be?'
'Sort of. I mean villages are misfits, aren't they? The village – little houses, an inn and a church surrounded by fields – is a medieval idea. Let's face it, the English village – as such – is an anachronism. Why would anyone want to live in an anachronism?'
'Now you sound like Ralph. You'll be telling me next that Stow Parish Council should be a step towards the dictatorship of the proletariat.' And with that she helps herself to half a dozen more cubic inches of ZP and a scoop of aubergine.
'Stow-on-the-Wold. I suppose it does have a Lark-Rise-ish to Candleford-y sound to it,' I muse, leaning back to stare at the ceiling.
Maggie seizes the moment to attack me while I'm vulnerable. 'What's that?' she cries, poking the bottom button of my shirt. But it's not that innocent little fastening device she's referring to, but the flesh beneath.
'What do you mean?' I reply, quickly leaning forwards again.
'You know, your tummy's a lot bigger than when we first met,' she says.
'I don't think it is at all,' I say, 'I'm very careful about what I eat.'
'You probably need more exercise. Have you been to the gym lately?'
'I haven't had time, what with this burgage project and Ralph and one thing and another.'
Maggie can do a very effective sceptical expression that requires no words. She's right, of course.
Or is she justifying her capture of the last morsel of spicy lamb?
CHAPTER 3
THE NICE HAM SYNDROME
It doesn't take me long next morning to come up with an architectural partnership in our area with a prestigious oriental name and a website showing lots of pictures of oak and glass constructions set on the side of Gloucestershire hills. The designs look exactly like what we're after, and lots of them have won awards in Sweden and California.
OK, so our job falls short of their £2 million minimum assignment, but I don't think there was any need for the receptionist who picked up the phone to be quite so offhand.
The next one Google throws up is Jackson Architects. That sounds more our speed.
The number rings out for about a minute before a female voice delivers a breathless 'Hello.' I'm guessing a wrong number.
'Is that Jackson Architects?'
'Well, not really.'
'Oh, sorry.'
And I'm about to hang up when she says, 'That's OK. We're divorced. He's Jackson Architects. I'm AJ Architects, A for Anthea. I can give you his number.'
It seems a waste not to pick her brains while I've got an actual architect on the line, so I explain our needs.
'You don't want an architect,' she says. 'You want a builder. I can design it for you. But the builder's the one who'll build it for you. He'll give you a quote.'
I make a mental note to try in future not to give away that I'm learning on the job, and ask, 'So, do you know any builders?'
'I've come across one or two,' she replies, 'in the course of my work. In fact there's one sitting in my kitchen now. He lives here. Do you want to speak to him?'
I'm having second thoughts. 'Well actually,' I sidestep, 'we're a bit wary about talking to a builder at this stage. He might grab this bit of land from under our noses and develop it himself. It's a real find.'
'I shouldn't worry about that,' says Anthea. 'This one's got no money.' And before I can respond, I hear her yell, 'Nik!' And I arrange to meet him two days later, that's Saturday morning, at the market cross in Stow to take him to the burgage.
Next, I tap out the number for the Cotswold District Council Planning Office, and begin to explain to the voice at the other end about the burgage and Sunny and how we want to buy it but only if… when she interrupts.
'Name and address?'
I tell her and she shoots back, '10 a.m. Thursday on-site,' followed by a bell-like but dismissive, 'Thank you.'
Saturday comes, and Nik the builder arrives at the market cross clutching Co-op bags in each hand.
'Sorry I'm late,' he says, 'I got here early, so I went to pick up some stuff for the kids' dinner, and there was a queue.' It's an endearing start.
As we walk across the Square, I ask him if he's got any experience of converting historic buildings. He explains that he used to be lead foreman for a company that specialised in restoration work. Then a year ago, he and his partner, Simon set up their own business.
At the site, he doesn't need long.
'To be frank,' he says, 'it's not so much restoration, as a rebuild in an old style. Everything'll have to come down except the back wall and probably the two side walls.'
I feel I can be direct with him, 'How much?'
'I can't give you a real quote till you've got the plans approved and we know exactly what's involved,' he replies. 'But for a rough idea, assume a thousand quid per square metre of ground area. Then add around ten grand for demolition and allow ten more for underpinning the old walls – just in case.'
He shuffles the Co-op bags into one hand, shakes mine with the other, and we agree to talk again once purchase of the plot has gone through.
The pieces are starting to fit together as easily as tiles on a bathroom wall. Those with experience of such matters (or of house purchase) will have noticed no mention of the tricky bits round the basin or at the back of the loo.
First, we have to find the money to pay Sunny. Ultimately, the whole project is going to be funded by the sale of Maggie's house where we live now plus the pay-off I got when I resigned from the American news company. But until the house is sold, we need a bridging loan. One phone call and two signatures later, that box gets a simple, if costly, tick.
Next, tax.
When did you ever have good news about tax? I have a vague memory of some advice on a TV programme that we may be able to pay only 5 per cent instead of the full VAT rate on the builder's services. So I phone the tax office to check. And a jolly woman there says that's correct, and did I know that with a self-build we can claim all, yes all, the tax back on the materials? 'But not fitted wardrobes,' she emphasises.
'Crikey,' I blurt. 'But we're not actually building it ourselves.'
'Oh
no, you don't have to get your hands dirty. It's a "self-build" if you contract the builder, buy the materials yourself, and then live in it afterwards.'
'Crikey,' I repeat, 'but that's worth thousands.'
'I know,' she chirrups. 'Brilliant, isn't it? I'll send you the forms.'
'What a very nice woman,' I keep saying to myself. 'I'll never complain about government bureaucracy ever again.'
We're on a roll with banks and tax collectors throwing cash at us. So there must be more good news to come. For instance, we need to get the architect moving. It's got to be Anthea. But first Maggie and I need to sort out our own ideas. Sunny's given us a key to the gate, so we can go and look at it any time we want. And on a cold, bright September afternoon, we spend an hour wandering round the buildings, pacing out exactly how big it is.
A Horse in the Bathroom Page 2
