by Sarah Mason
'What is it?'
'It's Poppet. She's in Mr Berryman's room.'
'Are you sure?'
'Positive. She practically devoured my arm!'
'Well, why didn't you catch her?'
I look at him as though he's speaking Russian. Is he on the same planet as me? 'Catch her?'
'With a glass or something?'
'A glass? Simon, it is the size of my hand. What sort of glass did you have in mind?'
'Well, couldn't you have just scooped her up?'
'I'm just plain Isabel. You must be thinking of Incredible Isabel the Spider Tamer. I'm going nowhere near her.'
'God! If you want a job done …' He swoops out of the room, muttering to himself. Ungrateful or what?
Dominic and I beetle after him as he takes the stairs at an ambitious three at a time. We catch up with him in the corridor. He taps lightly on Mr Berryman's door and then peers into the room. He looks back at us.
'I'll stay here,' says Dominic. 'I'll whistle if someone comes.'
'But I can whistle,' I protest.
'Not as well as me,' says Dom, giving me a hefty shove Poppet-wards.
'Perhaps we could both whistle?' I suggest.
'Don't be dizzy, Izzy. I'll need some help,' says Simon, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the room. Some help? Can I be useful from about five metres away? I hope so because that's the only sort of assistance I feel qualified to give.
We walk softly into the room. 'Where is she?' whispers Simon.
'By the bed,' I whisper back. We creep towards the bed – I use the plural term loosely here because I'm not actually making very much headway across the room at all.
'Where?' he whispers, turning his head back towards me. 'Izzy! Get over here! She's not going to bite you!' It isn't the biting bit per se that bothers me; it is the general verb bit, the walking, the sitting, the moving, the just plain being
- those are the bits that are worrying me. I walk another inch towards him and point. 'She's there. By the foot of the bed,' I hiss, but suddenly there is the unmistakable sound of someone whistling. Rather hysterically too. Our eyes meet for a second.
'Quick, someone's coming! Under the bed!'
'Under the bed?' Is he mad? Where the spider is, I certainly am not.
The whistling gets louder and then lapses into humming.
'Okay, in the wardrobe then!'
We run over to the wardrobe. I throw myself inside with dangerous abandon and Simon follows. He lands in a heap on top of me and swings the door shut.
It takes me a few seconds to orientate my limbs and another second to realise we have done this rather badly. I am lying with my head at a difficult angle, my cheek pressed up against the wood and the smell of mothballs up my nose. We're not talking about an exceptionally large wardrobe here; it's certainly not designed for two fully-grown adults. My legs are curled under me and my dress is rucked up around my ears. I try to breathe quietly and keep perfectly still but I seem to be taking in great chugs of air and my limbs are already suffering from cramp.
I pray to God, Buddha, Allah and anyone else who could be listening that Mr Berryman doesn't take it upon himself to open his own wardrobe. I mean, what on earth are we meant to say if he finds the two of us inside? Hello, turned out nice again? I bite my lip as I feel a wave of hysteria rise up my throat. But the more I try to stop it, the harder it becomes. Come on, Izzy! Don't let the side down. This is not the time to be overwhelmed with giggles. I manage to find my leg with my hand and dig my nails into it hard. Must think of unhappy thoughts. Must think of dead things and naked politicians and … The Sound of Music. God, that's not right, is it? The problem is it's not easy to keep your perspective with your face pressed up against the back of a wardrobe. I mean, it's hardly a meditating position, is it? You don't find yoga gurus advocating the inside of a wardrobe as the ideal place to contemplate your inner peace.
I start breathing heavily through my nose. I must think of Simon because I can bet he isn't very amused with this whole situation. He will be taking this very seriously because, let's face it, if we are found in this wardrobe the whole takeover is finished. I suddenly feel a shiver pass through Simon's legs. And another. A sort of shaking. Instinctively I recognise what it is and the wave of hysteria threatens to engulf me altogether. He is desperately trying not to laugh. Absolutely desperately. We both breathe together deeply and I can feel his hand searching for mine. He grabs it and squeezes it hard in an effort to gain some control. I squeeze it back, bury my face in some sort of material and pray for deliverance.
This comes in the form of Dominic who opens the wardrobe door tentatively and whispers, 'Izzy? Simon? Are you in there?' We let go of our breath and indulge in those peculiar little snorts and noises which seem to come from your stomach.
Simon crawls out first, inadvertently kneeing me in the solar plexus, and falls into a heap on the floor. I giggle hysterically to myself and have to be practically lifted out as I seem to have temporarily lost the use of my limbs and can barely breathe. Dominic and Simon put a hand under each armpit and haul me out, knickers flashing wildly, both of then now laughing openly.
'Was it Mr Berryman?' Simon asks.
Dom nods. 'Thank God, he left after a few minutes. I don't know what you would have done if he'd decided to take a nap or something.'
We all remain on the floor and take a few minutes to calm down. Eventually we find the strength to get up, brush ourselves down and go back to the serious business of spider-catching.
Simon peers fearlessly at Poppet while Dom and I look on from a couple of metres away. He moves closer and closer, until eventually he simply reaches out and picks the spider up. My eyes almost boggle out of their sockets. Is there no end to this man's bravery? He's like some sort of demi-god, absolutely fearless of man and beast.
'Izzy, how close to her were you?' He waves Poppet around wildly. I'm not that keen on the old girl but I really don't think Simon should be shaking her like that. It might make her angry.
I manage to pull my eyes away from her jigging form. 'Simon, I really don't think you should be tossing her around like that. Aunt Flo would be—'
'Did you look at this at all? Did you take a really good look?'
'Of course I took a good look at her! She almost bit me!'
He holds Poppet out in front of him. 'Izzy, this is a toupee. Mr Berryman's toupee.'
I take a tentative step forward and look at Simon's hand. It is indeed some sort of hairpiece.
'Oh.'
He replaces the toupee with a sigh. 'Didn't you notice he wears one?'
I look at Dom who is giggling into his hand. 'Er, no.'
Simon walks out of the room, grinning widely. It sounds as though he's saying something like 'stupid', 'fucking' and 'prat' but I am probably mistaken.
'Time to up the medication, Izzy!' Dom says cheerfully and follows him out.
I sheepishly bring up the rear. Oh God, Dom isn't going to let this go for years. A toupee? I could have sworn it actually moved. I only hope the others don't remember that I accused the toupee of biting me.
I look at my watch. God! It's half past seven already. I hope someone has been plying the guests with drinks in my absence. Simon disappears into his room to change for dinner and Dom and I rush downstairs to check on the guests. Thankfully the rest of Simon's team is with them, along with Monty who is doling out the booze and the charm in equal quantities.
I leave Dom to help with the drinks and scurry through to the kitchen to see how Mrs Delaney is faring with dinner. She must be absolutely shattered, especially after preparing breakfast, lunch and tea as well. 'Mrs Delaney? Are you … ? Oh.' I stop dead because the room is empty. She must have popped to the loo or something. I wander around, taking note of the open cookery books and the half-prepared dishes.
Ten minutes later I'm a little concerned. Has she drowned in the loo or something? Has she got stuck? I have a quick look under the table just in case she's having a snooze. I am
about to go in search of her when Simon strides in. He has changed into some very smart chinos and a pressed shirt and I get a faint whiff of some fabulous aftershave. I give him a wide grin which dies on my face as I note his expression. 'What's up? What's wrong?'
'Mrs Delaney has just called.'
'Where from? The loo?' I ask, rather bemused.
'No, worse than that. She's at the local pub.'
I admire the audacity of the woman. 'Is she? Crikey, talk about sinking ships. Did she go for a quick one? I don't see why, it's not like we don't have any booze here …'
'Her husband has just turned up.'
'Mrs Delaney's husband?'
'Yes.'
'Mrs Delaney's husband?' I say again, in order to try to get the concept into my befuddled brain.
'Yes. That would be Mr Delaney.'
'I didn't know there was a Mr Delaney.'
'There kind of has to be a Mr Delaney in order for there to be a Mrs Delaney.'
'I know that, but I thought he wasn't around any more.'
'He wasn't. She hasn't seen him since she left Oxford years ago.'
'And he's just turned up?'
'Yep. I think she was a bit surprised.'
'And she's gone to the pub?' Blimey, she obviously developed a thirst that the cellars here simply couldn't handle.
'He's taken her to the pub – I think she was in shock. She said she would come back and finish cooking but I told her to stay there.'
'You what?'
'I don't think he knows about Harry. It was nine years ago when they last saw each other and Harry's only eight, so I thought they would both probably need another drink. She doesn't sound as though she's in any fit state to cook anyway.'
'Where is Harry?'
'In bed, thank God.'
'What the hell are we going to do?'
Dominic arrives.in the kitchen. 'Any idea when the food might be coming? I think the natives are getting restless.' He looks from face to face. 'Where's Mrs D?'
'In the pub,' I answer dumbly.
'Is she?' Dom asks incredulously. 'Blimey, that's a bit keen, isn't it?'
'I'll tell you later, Dom,' I say quickly. 'What shall we do?' I ask Simon.
'Well, she told me that the pudding and the cheese board are ready in the larder.' We stride over to the larder door, open it and, sure enough, the food is there. On the cold slate surfaces are two enormous cheese plates surrounded by grapes, celery and cape gooseberries, along with three latticed tarts and three bowls of whipped cream. Good, things are looking up.
'Starter and main?' I ask.
Simon mentions something of such mind-boggling complexity that I almost make a run for the pub myself. 'I don't think I can cook that for twenty within an hour,' I say slowly. 'I'll manage the starter but I can't do the main.'
Simon picks up a set of car keys. 'Dom, take my car and run down to the supermarket in Bury St Edmunds. You know where it is?' Simon looks at his watch. 'You'll just catch them. Get whatever you can that's easy. Quiche, salad, whatever. Here's my credit card. Get some cash out.' He reels off a pin number.
Dominic looks confused. 'Cash? Where from?'
'The cash point.'
'There's a cash point?'
'Yes.'
'In the country?'
'Yes,' says Simon with admirable patience. 'Outside the bank.'
Dominic looks at us as though we're having him on but gamely takes the keys and hares off.
'We'll just tell them that the cooker has broken down.' Simon goes to the back of the utility room door, pulls something off it and chucks it at me. 'Here! An apron. You don't want to ruin that beautiful dress of yours. You look gorgeous, by the way.'
'Do I?' I say weakly. I can't imagine this is true. After the experiences I've just been through I suspect my deodorant isn't living up to all its promises. I shake the apron open and fasten it around me. 'Has Poppet been found?' I ask, thinking the last thing we need is for her to wander across the table in the middle of the meal.
Simon is now rooting around in a cupboard. He grins widely over his shoulder at the mention of our latest debacle and says, 'Aunt Flo and Aunt Winnie are looking for her. I thought it might look too suspicious for all the family to be absent at the meal.'
'What are you looking for?'
'The cooking sherry. Mrs D keeps it in here somewhere. Ah! Here it is! Come and have some.'
I laugh as he uncorks the bottle and takes a swig from it. I take a quick slurp and hand it back to him, noting that he doesn't bother wiping the top before taking another mouthful. 'I'd pop one of those patches on if I were you, Izz.'
'Already have.' I whizz my dress up to show him the one just above my knee. 'I'll slap on another when I get a moment. Do you want one?' I ask seriously.
He laughs raucously as he pops the cork back into the bottle, as though a non-smoker couldn't possibly wear a nicotine patch. He kisses me roughly on the cheek, says 'Thanks Izz. You're wonderful,' and walks from the room, leaving me sniffing the air like a Bisto kid for another whiff of his aftershave.
The evening isn't a roaring success. We have a nasty moment between the drawing room and the dining room when the guests are greeted by Meg the Westie covered in velcro rollers (which are mine, she has a nasty habit of trying to bury them). She's following with great interest the progress of a grasshopper that is jumping languidly across the hall. On top of that, Aunt Flo and Aunt Winnie are both on all fours peering underneath a sofa. Aunt Winnie is wearing yellow rubber gloves and brandishing a coat hanger. The old-fashioned way of protecting yourself against spiders no doubt. I daresay there are pygmies in the Amazon right now who are dressed in similar attire. Simon hurries the Americans into the dining room, explaining that Aunt Winnie had lost her glasses. Lost her marbles more like.
I think our visitors are a little disgruntled at the malfunctioning cooker (which is sort of true; Mrs Delaney's behaviour could be construed as malfunctioning), but then so would I be if I had been revved up by a gallon of booze, and the promise of a feast, only to be told the ambrosial fare was off the menu and cold quiche was on instead. I manage to prepare the starter, which is a sort of far-Eastern bouillabaisse made with chillies, fresh coriander and coconut milk, but it is difficult to tell where Mrs Delaney had got up to in the recipe. At least it tastes all right. Ish. The pudding and the cheese board go down a lot better and finally it is all over and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.
After I have cleared up in the kitchen, I go back to the drawing room to find everyone else sprawled around on the furniture looking exhausted. All the visitors have pushed off to bed. Monty has brought the three open bottles of wine through from the dining room and everyone is now wading through the contents. I help myself to a glass, flop down in an armchair and wonder where Aunt Winnie nicked it from.
The others are having a discussion about which house in Aunt Winnie's village has the best taste.
'You know, Izzy' booms Aunt Winnie, 'I've decided that the vicar needs to take a wife. His house was a terrible mismatch of styles. I had a peep in his kitchen too, and there were just rows and rows of baked beans. I'm determined to find him a good woman.'
That poor man. God seems to be really testing him.
A very sheepish Mrs Delaney comes into the drawing room. Simon gives her a big smile. 'How is everything, Mrs D? Come and sit down.'
She has the good grace to look very apologetic and spends a great deal of time staring at the floor. 'No, it's okay. I just came to say that I'm sorry about earlier.' Despite her protestations she eventually perches on the end of one of the sofas. 'It was just such a shock to see him. Apparently my name was mentioned in one of the papers when all the fuss about this takeover started and he came to see if it was me. Didn't think he'd still care after all this time.'
'And Harry?'
'He didn't know I was pregnant. That was a bit of a shock for him too, to find a son he didn't know he had.' She manages a wry smile. I sit forward a little in my seat, suddenly curio
us. I wonder why she left her husband in the first place but don't feel I can really ask. 'I'm sorry I let you down,' she continues and I'm surprised to see a lone tear trickle down her cheek. 'After all you've done for me and then I let you down like that.'
Simon gets up, sits next to her and offers her his handkerchief. The tears are starting in earnest now. 'After all we've done for you? What about what you've done for us? You do more hours than a junior doctor with no decent wage and all of us to put up with. You haven't let us down. Besides, you cook like an angel.'
It's past midnight, the man is coping with a dozen problems, a dodgy takeover that might just claim his family house, and he's still got time to comfort the housekeeper. Where is the nasty Simon that I knew?
'Is Harry okay?' I ask.
'Yes, I've checked on him once and Aunt Flo has too. He's fine. Hasn't even woken up.'
'Where's Mr Delaney?' Monty asks.
'Staying at the pub overnight.'
'Why don't you go to bed? You look done in.' Simon pats her knee and then gets up and stretches his arms over his head. 'I quite fancy a walk down to the lake. Clear the head.'
He wanders over to the door. Monty takes his place on the sofa next to Mrs Delaney and starts talking to her in a low, comforting voice.
'Do you fancy a walk, Izzy?' Simon says casually, barely turning his head. Do I fancy a walk? Rather surprisingly, I think I do. I put down my glass and get to my feet.
'Em, yes,' I say casually. 'That would be nice.'
We wander down the passageway and into the kitchen. We put on a fleece each in the cloakroom and liberate Meg and the other dogs from the utility room where they have been locked up for the evening. Taking Meg with us, Simon picks up a torch and we slip out into the night.
