by Caron Allan
And because life is finally calm once more, I thought I’d have a little dinner party. Nothing like as lavish as those I used to have, obviously, but just a nice little gathering of friends. So I’ve invited Madison, I wouldn’t fail to invite her, she is now my dearest pal; and the new Vicar, Neville, and—I feel a bit cheeky about this—Madison’s new friend Tyrone/Suzanne. In the hopes of making a match I also invited Steve along—it’s time he got back on the romance horse and in any case he needs a break from all that sewing.
I was a bit stuck for available dates, and in the end I decided to make it a week tomorrow—Saturday—to give the guests plenty of notice and to give Lill and Jacqueline time to come up with a really splendid menu.
Originally I was going to invite Lill—and Sid—as guests. I mean, they live here, they’re family now, not my slaves servants staff, so I felt it would be rather rude and unkind not to invite them. But Lill declined very firmly, saying that she preferred to do the food and that my soiree wasn’t Sid’s ‘cup of tea’. Which is true—he’d hate having to put on a shirt and talk to people. No doubt there will be enough food for him to sample everything from the cosy seclusion of the kitchen.
Jacqueline is quite excited, and nervous. This will be her first experience of a proper dinner party, and Lill has asked her to wait at table, which will be really fabulous for me us—it not only makes me us look very important but also saves all that faff with getting up and down to grab stuff for my guests.
But this has led to some rather intensive training of Jacqueline—and now everything we partake of, even if it’s just a cup of tea, is ‘served’ by Lill’s little protégée. Which means it takes twice as long to have anything. Though I have to admit, even after just one day she is already heaps better. And on Sunday, when we have Jess and Murdo here, she will be able to get a bit more practice, but in front of strangers, so that will be a huge help.
Lill’s just been in to explain to me that she is buying Jacqueline a smart black uniform. And as I have discovered in the past, that is Lill’s code for “I am buying something really expensive we will only use once, and you need to pay for it.” I suppose I can’t begrudge the child a half-decent outfit as she’s helping us out.
Lill also informed me that I need new table linens, so she and Jacqueline have gone into Gloucester to have a good old spend-up in the name of ‘organising’ everything for the dinner. This party is going to cost me a fortune.
Lill and Jacqueline are furiously busy preparing all the food for Sunday too. It should be great. And I am so looking forward to seeing them.
I must think of two more people to invite to my big bash next weekend. At the moment there are only going to be the six of us—that’s not really enough for a proper dinner. Lill’s preference, apparently, is for ten or twelve. I think I might be able to muster eight.
I had no idea Lill had missed my entertaining so much. I feel as though I’ve deprived her of her only pleasure. Even Sunday’s lunch and buffet tea with Jess and Murdo is not really a sufficient challenge for Lill.
I will invite the ‘new’ people from Madison’s old house. Hopefully it won’t be too awkward, if it is that’s just too bad. Perhaps if they get some of Lill’s lovely food into them, and lots of alcohol, they will be inclined to forgive and forget the other knotty little problems such as the downstairs toilet and the loft insulation. It’s time they got over it anyway.
So I will phone—or no, better yet, I’ll pop round—and invite the new people to my dinner next weekend. Then I will feel as if I’ve done my bit to (belatedly) welcome them to the village. After all, they’ve only been here six months, and everyone knows it takes forever to be accepted into a village. Plus, I was in a coma and had a baby. Valuable excuses individually, but together, irreproachable.
Later: 5.30pm
What a nice woman! I popped round to invite the new people to dinner as planned, and in spite of her being called Tricia, she seems very pleasant. Was also agreeably surprised by what they’ve done with the hall which was always so dreary when Madison lived there with her scumbag husband Sacha, that sleeping-with-the-vicar’s-wife scumbag.
Tricia is a part-time solicitor with a partnership in a practice in Stow. She’s attractive in a slightly overblown English-rose way, plumpish, which did my self-esteem no end of good, and I’d say probably in her early forties. Not posh, but not common either—a nice halfway between Made In Chelsea and Eastenders.
Her husband was out. Did she say golf? I think so. Golf or…well. whatever it is chaps do at the weekend. Tim, she said. I didn’t get the opportunity to find out much about him, but she said he’d be ‘chuffed to bits’ to dine with us.
So that’s all right. I didn’t mention Madison would be there, or that some of the other men I’d invited might possibly be wearing frocks. Best to let all that come as a nice surprise. Don’t want to put them off!
I’m really looking forward to next Saturday!
Sunday August 30th—00.35am
A lovely, lovely day with Jess and Murdo—and we had a huge slap up meal at home, both as a slightly-early wedding anniversary dinner and also just because they were here. It was so good to see them again. They cooed over the children, and brought them all presents. Brought all of us presents, actually, but more than anything it was a gift for us just to see them again after so long. Aww! I felt so choked up saying goodbye.
Phone call from Leanne. For a moment I was filled with dread. What if she was in dire need of her mother to go and stay with her? But no—it’s good and bad news in a way—she’s taking one of the cottages in the village. She’s signed everything and is moving in by the end of the week.
“I’ll be able to pop in all the time!” she announced, full of excitement.
Yay.
Well, I suppose at least she will have her own home, so she shouldn’t spend all of her time here fondling my belongings. Lill and Sid are really happy, and I think even Matt is quite pleased, so…it’ll be fine, I’m sure. At least she won’t be living with us.
Sunday September 6th—1.20am
I’m so glad my family are finally talking to me after that fiasco at Monica’s and the fall-out in the shape of flowers and sympathy cards, which stopped arriving over a week ago, another huge relief. Finally, I feel like everything is back to normal.
The dinner party last night was absolutely marvellous. I still can’t believe how well it all went off. And Jacqueline was the perfect little waitress in spite of her nerves. She looked immaculate in her white blouse and black skirt, and I’m sure that somewhere amongst all my correspondence is my credit card statement which will show those items of clothing next to a hideous amount of money. Still it’s a small price to pay if it helps a young girl on her way in life.
And of course, Lill outdid herself with the most adorable little prawn fritters with poached pears, squid melange, boeuf en croute, passion fruit mousse with plum compote and the obligatory locally made, artisanal cheese and biscuits and fairly traded coffee. Scrumptious from beginning to end. All the guests simply wolfed theirs down in no time. So much for leisurely conversation over a relaxed meal.
But, oh dear, Madison is a little upset with me. She says I did it on purpose, and of course, she’s absolutely right, I did. I sat Tyrone (mercifully Suzanne was dropped for the evening) opposite Steve. And now, exactly as I’d hoped, they are already besotted with one another. I just knew they were right for each other.
But poor Madison. She arrived in her usual black polyester trousers and a rather all-purpose cotton lawn blouse. Which is a shame as she has a lovely figure if only she was bold enough to flaunt it a bit. The vicar, Neville, was also besotted—with Madison—just as I’d hoped! But although he sat next to her and made a lovely polite and entertaining trickle of conversation, she barely noticed him, I’m sorry to say. I might need to give her a prod in the right direction, she’d be perfect as a vicar’s wife. What with all her jams and chutneys and everything. Not to mention her rather old-fashioned o
utlook on life.
Matt was deep in conversation with newcomer Tim, which was fine by me; they talked fishing the entire evening. Anecdotes, tips, tackle comparisons. Tim is going to be Matt’s bosom pal, I believe. Which is a real shame, because at the start of the evening, it was revealed in conversation that Tim’s a cop.
“Good evening,” Neville had said, extending a pale, delicate hand as he came into the drawing room.
“Hello.” Tim had responded, grasping it with his own rather rough hand with grimy fingernails. He’s definitely a bloke’s bloke, I thought.
“I’m the vicar,” said the Vicar.
“I’m the chief constable,” said Tim-the-oh-dear-he’s-a-policeman.
Bugger, I thought. Matt and I exchanged a secret look of dismay. But he seems very pleasant. Tim, I mean, not Matt. Matt’s well-known for his gorgeosity. At the end of the evening, as he and I sat in the garden room and chilled before bed, Matt said,
“I really liked Tim. We’re going fishing next weekend.”
Not sure this is a mateship that should be encouraged. But what can a girl do? They choose their own friends, don’t they? All you can do is trust that they don’t forget everything you’ve taught them.
“I thought he liked golf?” I suggested. Next to me on the sofa, I felt him shake his head.
“Nah. He only plays golf to keep in with all the right people. He says he’s useless at it. He’s a fisherman at heart.”
“And a cop.” I reminded him.
“Let’s go to bed,” Matt said. He drunkenly gave me what he fondly imagined was a sexy kiss, then belched in my face and clutched his stomach. Was almost sick myself. How quickly the effervescence of romance fizzles away to the still water of married life. Good thing I’m madly in love.
Monday September 7th—11.25am
This morning when I was alone in the sitting room, browsing through an issue of Vogue and trying to decide between one pair ridiculously perilous high-heels and another, Sid sidled into the room in an excessively sneaky manner and said, out of the corner of his mouth,
“Psst.”
Which was completely pointless because a) his odd behaviour had already guaranteed he had all my attention, and b) I was the only one there.
“What is it?” I asked in my normal voice, plus half a serving of irritation on the side.
“Sshh!” he said, pressing a sausage-like finger to his lips and glancing over his shoulder.
I just stared at him. What on earth???
He rummaged within the dim interiors of his overalls and brought out a large lump of newspaper, thrusting it at me and looking over his shoulder again. I took the package and began to unravel the layers. Sid appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy.
“Don’t!” he hissed. “Not here. Go into the loo and open it. Meet me in the shed in half an hour.” With that he turned, conducted a visual sweep of the hall in either direction and then went back to the kitchen, presumably for his next dose of sanity medicine.
If I couldn’t look at whatever-it-was in the sitting room, why did he have to give it to me there? Why not just say “can you pop out to the shed with me, I’ve got something to show you”?
Anyway, clutching my mysterious bundle of The Sun newspaper with “My brother is my girlfriend!” emblazoned on one side of its crumpled folds, I went upstairs to my en-suite bathroom, locked the door and stood there at the vanity unit, peeling the layers of the newsprint onion. As it loosened, I realized there were two parts to this enigma. First, I saw the small box with its foreign inscription on the side, and then I saw the other half of the present—first a shaped grip, then a stubby barrel. It was a gun.
My father-in-law had just given me—a gun—and what proved to be a box of ammunition.
It took me a full minute to process this.
I unlocked the bathroom door, and hurried into my dressing room to rummage for a huge knitted jacket with deep pockets. I stashed the gun—or pistol as I decided it probably was—in one and the ammo in the other. I neatly folded the newspaper and tucked it under my arm, and once downstairs, I threw this into the recycling box.
There was no possibility of me waiting the requisite half an hour—I wanted to speak to Sid immediately and I fairly ran down to the kitchen. Lill was hard at work on Jacqueline’s culinary education, and belatedly my brain translated the sounds I’d heard as I rushed by. She had been saying, “Now remember to slice down almost to the base but not quite.”
As I stood there looking at Sid, seated as always at the kitchen table, and wondering what to say, my brain said, yum, hasselback potatoes for dinner. My stomach gave a low growl of appreciation.
Sid looked up from his newspaper with an expression of dismay at my failure to stick to the plan. With a big, ‘natural’ smile and a bright, happy voice, I said, for the benefit of listeners-in and relatives,
“Oh Sid, there you are. I was just wondering if we’ve got any white gloss paint? There’s a little chip on the cupboard door in my room.”
“Ooh er I think we might just have some white gloss paint outside in the shed, Cressida, if you will just come this way for a minute.” Mr Smooth said and threw his paper down on the table. So we went out the back door and I said,
“Sid, what the…?”
But he shushed me, saying over his shoulder, “Not here!”
All this cloak and daggery! But I followed him down the path to the shed in obedient silence, and only once we reached the hallowed depths of his man-cave did I repeat my question.
“Sid, what the…?”
“I just thought you needed some protection.”
“But…”
“You need it, Cress, anything could happen.”
“But…”
“And you know sooner or later she’ll come after you again,” he added.
“But…”
“But what?”
“Well,” I said. That was it. I was stumped. There was so much to object to, I didn’t know where to begin.
“What?” He just didn’t see the problem.
“Well for starters,” I said, deliberately using my Sid-speak to maximise my advantage, “I don’t know how to use a gun. This may come as a surprise, but it’s not something I’ve ever felt I needed to know.”
“But you used to go shooting,” he said.
“No,” I said, “Thomas used to go shooting, I used to go coffee and cake-ing. It’s a very different sport.”
“Cor lumme!” said Sid. I had to agree.
“Where did you…?”
“Best you don’t know.”
I nodded. That was fine with me. I could easily envision a deserted pub car park and scruffy notes of the realm being passed from one grubby hand to another in the dead of night.
“Do you know how…?” I asked. He nodded. Of course he did, I thought.
“We’ll go tomorrow, do a spot of practice after we drop the kids off.” I nodded agreement, and he continued, “best we go back to the house one at a time.”
I couldn’t see that this was at all necessary since we’d come out together on the pretext of some white gloss, and in any case, it’s our home, not some secret military base in the Nevada desert, but I agreed. I grabbed a tin of white paint.
“Good idea,” he said approvingly, “bit of cover.”
I shook my head in disbelief and left. I really do wonder about that man sometimes. Life must be a tad dull for a chap of Sid’s eclectic skills.
So tomorrow morning we are going ‘somewhere’ so he can teach me how to use a gun.
This is definitely a very bad idea.
Tuesday September 8th—3.15pm
Amazing! Who would have thought it? It turns out I’m a crack shot!
Sid and I sloped off at dawn—or rather, at a quarter past nine, having first dropped Paddy off at school, then Billy off at nursery. Tom snoozed happily in his little seat in the car, oblivious to any sudden noises or unfamiliar surroundings—what a little treasure he is!
Sid knew a pla
ce. I imagine he’d been looking for somewhere as soon as he bought—or decided to buy—the little ‘gift’ he gave me yesterday. He’d found a quiet little spot in the woods nestling against a lovely riverside beauty spot.
I was a bit worried there might be dog-walkers and joggers, you know how they always seem to turn up in the most isolated, inhospitable locations, and of course if there are bodies to be discovered, no matter if they’ve lain undiscovered for a day or a century, these are the menaces who will winkle them out. Luckily though, it’s not a very nice day, rather on the cool side and a dreary persistent drizzle began to fall almost as soon as we got out of the car. That kept away everyone who wasn’t there because they desperately needed shooting practice.
Sid had bought some old cans with him. They all had their labels missing and had been thoroughly rinsed out—so he’d obviously decided to raid the recycling bin on the QT.
I watched as he set them up, all six of them, in various positions on the trunk of a fallen tree. In films, trees always seem to fall right down straight and lay perfectly horizontally along the ground, forming the perfect shelf for target practice.
Not in real life. This one had fallen and simultaneously split, creating a complex F-shape, and a certain amount of ingenuity was required for arranging the targets, one of which had to be replaced three times before Sid wedged it in place with a large stone.
He showed me how to load the gun. Pistol, I should say. He showed me how to arm it and then he showed me how to fire it. Sid’s first target fell at the first shot, and when I went to reposition the can, the hole was in the exact centre. I attached yet another string to Sid’s Bow of Mystery—he’s an expert marksman too. I could only shake my head in wonder at how dull his life as a part-time landscape gardener must be.
