by Wendy Holden
Such dramas notwithstanding, the days dragged interminably. Today was his second Saturday entombed in the country. Sitting now in the oppressive silence of the garden, Guy felt heavy with boredom. Without the unending hum of London traffic, it was as if the plug connecting him to some vital life force had been yanked out. Samantha, sitting opposite, was loudly professing to be loving the peace. She'd even gotten twitchy a couple of times when a bird sang at too emphatic a volume.
"Isn't it just fabulous?" Samantha exulted. "Sitting here on the lawn before lunch, reading the papers?" Noticing that she was flicking eagerly through the Financial Times magazine How to Spend It, Guy's convalescent heart sank. Surely she needed no further tips on that.
He took an unenthusiastic sip of Evian. Despite the perfect early-spring day, his sap was far from rising. The precautions he had taken to sit far enough away from Samantha to render her inaudible had been thwarted; she had merely decided to indulge in a virtuoso display of thespian voice-throwing.
"Isn't The Bottoms just to die for?" she bellowed.
Guy did not reply. He almost had, after all.
"That sodding postman!" Samantha jerked her head up at a sudden screech of tires on The Bottoms' gravel drive.
Guy glanced up wearily as the postman, eyes rolling, came grinning over the lawn toward them.
"Not much this morning," he reported to Samantha. "A bank statement—my goodness, you've been spending, haven't you—and some telly producer saying he's returning your contract unsigned and that he's never worked with anyone so unprofessional—"
"Give me that." Samantha snatched the letters out of his hands. "How dare you? This correspondence is private. I'll report you to the post office."
Duffy shrugged. "Well, the letters were half open, Miss Villiers…"
"Mrs. Grabster," corrected Samantha irritably. "I use my married name in the country. For reasons of privacy, you understand." She narrowed her eyes at the postman.
"So I had to take them out to get them back in properly, if you see what I mean," Duffy continued, not batting an eyelid.
Samantha examined the envelopes. They showed every sign of having been securely sealed previously.
"Some people like me to read their letters for them anyway," the postman elaborated. "The old ladies especially. Easier than them scrabbling all morning to find their magnifying glasses and then spending all afternoon trying to understand somebody's handwriting."
Talk of infirm old ladies sent Samantha's thoughts flying to the president of the Eight Mile Bottom Amateur Dramatic Society, the eccentric-sounding Dame Nancy, whom she planned to visit that very afternoon. As luck—and the phone book—had it, the leader she planned to oust lived in the very next house on the High Street, a residence with the decidedly bizarre name of Illyria. Samantha allowed a small smile to curve her lips. As coups went, it should be bloodless. Ancient, senile, and very possibly incontinent in the bargain, she was almost certainly one of the postman's old ladies.
"Consuela's rushing across the lawn," Guy remarked in a bored drawl before Samantha could have her suspicion confirmed. "She looks very flustered."
The postman immediately dropped his bag on the grass and began to rummage through it. "Just checking there's nothing else," he muttered.
"I still can't believe you managed to persuade Consuela to come to The Bottoms," Guy said as the Filipina neared them. "You were absolutely ghastly to her in London. Paid her peanuts, made her slave all hours. Why on earth should she want to work for you again?"
The postman's search became more frantic. He had tipped practically the entire contents of his bag on the lawn and was listening intently.
"I don't know what you mean," Samantha gave Guy an innocent, blinking stare. "How was I ghastly to Consuela? I always let her put whatever she wanted on the CD player when she was cleaning."
Yet Samantha was unable to suppress a smile. For the way she had lured Consuela had been a triumph, even though she said it herself. Samantha had known the cash-strapped maid would be unable to resist the bait of a free holiday at The Bottoms; known, too, that she would find it impossible to go back. Indeed, the Filipina had found staying was the only option once her former mistress had pointed out to her that, her illegal immigrant status being what it was, she would feel duty bound to report her to the authorities should Consuela return to London.
"Madam. Madam."
"What is it, Consuela? Burned the souffle again, have we?" It had, Guy recalled, been over a year since the incident occurred. But Samantha had never allowed her to forget it.
"No, madam. Ees the Lady Avon. He is in the hall stairs. For seeing you, madam."
Forgetting even to be irritated at Consuela's uncertain grasp of English, Samantha shot a triumphant glance at the gawking postman. Suddenly, she was gratified to have an audience. Her first visit from a local aristocrat was something she was proud—nay, needed—to have made public. "The Lady Avon?" she repeated, caressing the precious syllables with her tongue. "Her ladyship is in the hall stairs? In the hall, I mean?"
Consuela nodded. "He says ees not a rush."
"Why the hell didn't you tell me before?" But Samantha was ranting for form's sake, too jubilant to be really angry. "Surely she telephoned to make an appointment?"
Consuela shook her head vigorously. "No, madam. Ees only just arrived, madam. Weeth suitcase."
"With suitcase?" Samantha's head whirled. Was this what happened once you moved into a manor house? Did all manner of aristocracy suddenly descend on you without warning? After all, she thought with mounting excitement, the titled spent weekends in one another's country piles, didn't they? This was her chance to join the musical Chippendale chairs. "Her ladyship must have come to stay," she declared, thrilled.
"Stay?" echoed Guy in dismay. "But where the hell will she sleep? The place is a building site."
"In our bedroom, of course," snapped Samantha. Guy's face plummeted. "Get it ready, will you, Consuela? Make sure the wastepaper bin is empty and lined with a clear plastic bag. Oh, and polish the bath. There mustn't be a single drop of water in it." She recalled reading something to this effect about the state bedrooms at Blenheim. "Oh, and put some notepaper out on the dressing table. Writing paper, I mean."
"What the hell for?" asked Guy.
"Letters," muttered the postman, his eyes bulging with hope.
Samantha rose to her feet and dusted down the front of her suit. Thank goodness she looked smart. In Dame Nancy's honor, she'd opted for the white waffle Dior this morning.
"Coming, darling? To meet her ladyship?"
Still pawing through his bag, the postman looked up expectantly. "Coming?"she repeated, directing the question forcefully at Guy.
Guy shook his head and watched as Samantha trotted proudly across the lawn and through the French windows. Picking up his bag at last, the postman eagerly followed.
Chapter Nine
With the cottage now the property of Rosie and Mark, "Green-er Pastures" had finally been unleashed on the Sunday-paper reading public. Much to Rosie's annoyance, the first column had included the vetoed pig incident.
"Come on, Rosie, the editor loved it," Mark assured her. "Said it was just the sort of color he was after. And you have to admit, you were a pretty amazing color after you fell over in all that shit."
Shit was right, thought Rosie, glaring at him. "And another thing. Do you have to call me Significant Other? Couldn't I just be Rosie?"
"There you are," said Mark triumphantly. "One minute you don't want to be in the column at all, and the next you're demanding a name check. Make your mind up, will you?"
As he ruffled her hair and kissed her, Rosie, despite herself, melted. She was an idiot to do so, she knew, but life was too short for sulking and, anyway, Mark was irresistible when he was being charming. Besides, there was so much to be happy about at the moment. The owners of Number 2 Cinder Lane, a pair of hesitant teachers, had been positively eager to complete the sale as soon as possible, the reason bein
g new jobs in another county and some relative willing to put them up indefinitely while they searched for a suitable property. Another enormous stroke of luck was both the building society and the estate agents moving with amazing speed to secure the deal. Rosie and Mark moved with even more amazing speed out of Craster Road.
They had almost no furniture of their own. A beanbag chair, a couple of folding chairs, a portable TV, and some sleeping bags comprised the extent of their possessions. Even so, it was amazing how much room they took up. There was almost no space for clothes—much to her embarrassment, Rosie's underwear had been stuffed unceremoniously against the back window, her collection of graying bras and holey knickers providing entertainment for all passing traffic.
As they arrived at Cinder Lane, Rosie glanced up at the clock tower. The dull gold hands were about to move into the two o'clock position; as she watched, the hammer hit the bell. "One. Two. Three," counted Rosie. "Four."
"Bloody hell," said Mark.
Five. Six. Seven.
"Oh, it just needs fixing."
The rest of the lane was silent and deserted as before, yet Rosie was sure that, behind Mrs. W.'s net curtains, someone was watching. Still, she decided as they began to unload the car, carrying in their few possessions under the concealed eyes of one neighbor was better than doing so under the collective gaze of an entire street. The screech of tires interrupted her as she struggled with the beanbag chair.
"Duffy to the rescue. Here, let me help you with that."
Rosie willingly relinquished the beanbag and, amused, watched Duffy try to keep it under control the few steps from the car to the cottage.
"Nothing for you in the post today," he told her as he returned to the open hatchback. "But Mrs. Sidebottom's vet's bill is enormous, which is funny when you think she's only got a goldfish. And Jack up at Spitewinter Farms having a lot of trouble finding the right mailorder bull semen."
"Fascinating." Rosie grinned. Spitewinter. What a strange and sinister name. Suddenly worried she may have sounded sarcastic, she added, "I'm afraid I haven't met Jack."
"Farms cattle and sheep, and some dairy, he does, at the top of the lane. Mrs. W. next door's his auntie." Duffy paused and shook his head. "Them's his cattle at the back of your garden."
Rosie looked at him with mock exasperation. "Honestly. Is there anything around here you don't know about?"
"Not much, to be honest." The postman's eyes creased with amusement. "No, I tell a lie. Matt Locke. I know bugger all about him."
Rosie looked blank. Matt Locke? The name sounded familiar.
"Is he an actor?" she hedged.
Duffy looked almost scornful. "He's that pop star. Lives round here, he does. You never see him around though. Very reclusive."
"Oh, of course." Rosie suddenly remembered, weeks ago, Mark poring over the pictures of Matt Locke in the Daily Mail. Pictures of Matt Locke in his country manor, she recalled. "He lives round here?
"No need to sound like that," Duffy chided. "There's plenty of famous people living round here, let me tell you. And some who just seem to think they're famous," he added darkly as Mark appeared at the door, threw a scowl in his direction, and vanished back inside again.
"Have you met him?" In Mark's absence, Rosie felt obliged to dig for column material. The more she could find for Mark to put in about other people, the less he might write about her. He was, she knew, planning to mention the prominent glass-fronted display of her underwear for almost the entire length of the M1 in the next column.
"I haven't met him exactly," Duffy admitted. "But I'm working on it."
"I'm afraid I don't know much about him."
"Posh Totty was his first number one album," Duffy told her, casting a disparaging glance at the box of Mark's records he was unloading, on top of which Rick Astley featured with criminal prominence. "It went double platinum, and so did his second album. Then he went AWOL. Disappeared. Cracked under the pressure to repeat his success, they say."
"So he came here?"
Duffy nodded. "Lives at Ladymead, that big house out on the moor. You must have seen it."
Rosie shrugged. "I haven't actually."
"Oh, well, it's behind a lot of trees. And as I say, no one ever sees him. But I see his post. Fan mail, mostly—you wouldn't believe what some people send. Knickers and…things." The postman's eyes widened. "Some of them aren't even washed."
Embarrassed, the postman suddenly cleared his throat. "Well, I'd best be off. See you later." With the regulation squeal of tires, he tore off in his van. Rosie waved. It was only then that she realized Mark hadn't lifted a finger to help with the unloading.
"Well, can you blame me with that bloody nosy postman about?" he grumbled when Rosie eventually located him on the loo seat reading a magazine. This, she was unsurprised to see, was the Sunday supplement containing the first "Green-er Pastures."
"He's got lots of local color though," said Rosie, recalling that this was what Mark's editor was keen on.
"You're telling me. Looks as if he rubs his face with bloody sandpaper."
"He can't help being red-faced," said Rosie. "What I mean is that he's full of gossip. He might be useful to you. He told me that there's a pop star—"
"Bound to be rubbish." Mark waved a dismissive hand. "Probably someone who supported the Kinks in about A.D. twenty-four. The countryside's full of old hippies like that. Seriously, I don't know why you encourage him."
You can lead a columnist to water…thought Rosie. But perhaps it was boring, after all. What did she know about newspapers? She slapped the two ancient, twisted beams running parallel across the bathroom's roomy ceiling, rejoicing in the smooth and ancient wood beneath her hand. Theirs. All theirs. At last. She bent and peered through the tiny window next to the bath. "You can see the church clock from here! You can lie in the bath and see what the time is. Or isn't," she added, giggling.
"Um, not quite yet you can't," Mark said, gesturing at the large crack in the tub and a damp patch the shape and almost the size of the USA on the bathroom wall above it.
Looking up, Rosie saw that, since their last visit, a whole new network of cracks had appeared in the ceiling. "Oh, well," she said, leaving Mark to complete his ablutions. "Nothing that a bit of plaster won't sort out, I imagine." She decided not to dwell on the fact that the only sort of plaster she and Mark had previously applied was the type one put on a blister. They'd got their dream cottage, hadn't they? Nothing—least of all a few cracks—was going to be allowed to spoil it.
She went back downstairs to find that a folded piece of paper, printed on both sides, had been pushed through the letterbox. The village newsletter, Rosie realized with delight as she opened it. She leaned against the window ledge, lost in the romantic detail of church cleaning rotas ("Would the person who failed to return the Lemon Jif kindly do so?") and the need to select a carnival queen for the next summer fête ("The persistent rumor that last year's queen is currently up on a drug charge is unsubstantiated and should discourage no one"). As Mark thundered downstairs, Rosie was buried in the continuing controversy surrounding the village recreation ground, where trouble had sprung up due to the cricket net's position too near the basketball court. Balls, it seemed, were flying indiscriminately in all directions.
"Look," she said, holding out the newsletter. "There's stacks of material here. It's so funny and sweet."
As before, Mark frowned. "I wouldn't put anything as obvious as that in 'Green-er Pastures.' Credit me with a little originality, please."
"But the cricket net story's hilarious. It's carnage on that recreation ground by the sound of it."
"What's for dinner?" asked Mark, emphatically changing the subject.
***
"The bath is fine if we stick one of those rubber shower things on the taps and keep the water away from the cracked bit," Mark announced the next morning after they had both washed in the bathroom sink. "We can't afford a new one anyway."
Rosie rubbed her aching back. O
ne night in a sleeping bag on the gritty floor had made her begin to wonder whether their almost complete lack of furniture was the romantic adventure Mark insisted it was. Starting from scratch was all very well—Rosie dug with her nail at the small red bump on her ankle—but not if things were biting you as a result of it. She added Jungle Formula insect repellent to the mental shopping list she had spent much of the sleepless night compiling.
"We really should go shopping," she said gently. "We need a sofa bed and maybe a kitchen table. Perhaps there's somewhere we can get them cheap. We only need to ask someone."
"But who?" asked Mark. "Not that bloody postman. Don't want him getting into our business any more than he is already."
Rosie remembered the cream pots and Popsicle sticks being put to use in Mrs. W.'s back garden. Their thrifty neighbor would certainly know where cheap furniture was to be had.
