by David Ruffle
“I didn’t expect you back this soon, Michael,” she exclaimed.
“I have a job, Mrs (?) Barry, the first one I applied for.”
“You clever boy,” she said, wrapping her arms around him.
“Thank you. But it means I will be heading straight back to Oxfordshire, once I call my folks.”
“So I won’t get the chance to look after you then”?
“No, sorry.”
“Unless you stay tonight and travel back tomorrow.”
“You’ll still only be looking after me for one night though,” he said and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Yes, Michael,” she purred.
If she wanted to look after him, then who was he to complain? It was not the first time he had been seduced by an older woman, but it was, unknown to him then, the last time.
Meanwhile...
...over in Thames Ditton, Judy was steadily losing the will to live. Mrs Danvers’s demands on her were wearing her down. She had given a month’s notice and hoped that she would just be ignored for the month and left to suffer in silence. Not so. She was the Cinderella of the insurance world, the disadvantaged and ungainly sister who in this case would never go to the accreditation ball. She spent her days plotting a revenge she would never take, working out schemes to bring about Mrs Danvers’s downfall which would never come to fruition. She left not with a bang, but a whimper, slinking away in the shadows of the evening with barely a thought of petrol-bombs in her head.
“Now what?” asked her mother.
“Something will come up, mum.”
“Do you think your father got to be something big in the city with that attitude? Do you think Fay would have got herself a lovely young man (married actually) and a decent job (it stinks) with that attitude?”
“No, mum.”
“One of my women (in the WI before you start going down the wrong path) is looking for a teaching assistant at the school she is the head of...”
“I may be under-qualified for that.”
“She is desperate though.”
“Gee, thanks, mum.”
“Miss Amanda Roseberry at St Botolphs School in Chessington. Shall I call her for you?” she asked, picking up the phone.
“No, I’ll do it,” Judy said as she snatched the phone from her mother’s hand. “I can do my own dirty work; I don’t need your help.”
“Charming...”
“Mum...er...what’s the number please?”
Miss Roseberry would be pleased if Judy presented herself at the school at 9am sharp the following morning. She would be further pleased if Judy were to write in not less than two thousand words and certainly no more, why she thought she deserved this post. Judy already had the nagging feeling that Mrs Danvers and Miss Roseberry shared a joint personality, not so much Jekyll and Hyde as Hyde and Hyde.
However, Judy presented herself at the school at 9.13 sharp the following morning.
“Sorry I’m late Miss Roseberry, a lorry shed its load of paper and envelopes, the traffic was stationery,” explained Judy, hoping this early morning humour would go some way to softening Miss Roseberry.
It didn’t. Miss Roseberry’s face absolutely refused to break into a smile. Humour obviously played no part in her life thought Judy. Good job I didn’t tell her about the lorry shedding its load of toothpaste and traffic having to squeeze past. Miss Roseberry offered Judy the position in spite of her well-founded misgivings about her tardiness. Geography was to be her specialist area of expertise she was told. Handy as she knew nothing whatsoever about the subject. She would learn as she goes. Monday morning at eight-thirty sharp was the starting point for this new adventure.
Monday morning arrived. 8.44 sharp.
“Sorry I’m late Miss Roseberry, a cattle lorry shed its load of cows and the traffic was mooving slowly.”
Although Judy was never to warm to Miss Roseberry and vice-versa, something neither she nor Miss Roseberry would lose sleep over, she did warm to the job itself. The teachers were uniformly hard-working and committed and she liked all of them without exception, even Mr Halpern who was forever inviting her to have some extra tuition in geography with him. He took the one hundred and thirty one polite refusals in good part and they were to work together successfully for some years.
After her experiences with Christopher and Jason, she longed to meet someone who displayed all the signs of normality, something easier said than done. There were one or two dates, but nothing to write home about, not even a postcard’s worth of fun. However she did have what may be called euphemistically a fling with Graham Tasker who taught history at St Botolph’s. It was short-lived, ironic really because Graham himself tended to be short-lived, but it sparked an interest in the English Civil War which was never to leave her. She became an active member of the Sealed Knot society[22] and threw herself into their events with a great deal of exuberance and enthusiasm.
Just a few miles away was a man, did she but know it, who shared her enthusiasm and unknown to both of them, their lives were fast converging.
22 I’ll tell you later.
Chapter Eleven
Early Days
“Tell me what you are thinking, Mike.”
“I was thinking about our parents, about breaking the ice. I mean, it could have been worse.”
“Yep, could have been much worse, there could have been bloodshed. When it comes down to it, there is no good reason for them to get on. We cannot expect our intimacy to be reflected in them.”
“Perhaps it will be different come the wedding.”
“Maybe, Mike and on that subject we need to start planning in detail. Who, what, where, why?”
“Why?”
“Well, maybe not why. Dad wants the reception at the Molesey boat club.”
“Fine with me, Jude.”
“Have you thought about a best man?”
“To be honest, there is no one who really fits the bill. You are my best friend, but it might be far too Bohemian for East Molesey to have you as my best man as well as my bride. Having said that I did have one idea.”
“Intrigued of Clapham here. Who?”
“Fay.”
“My sister, Fay?”
“No, Fay Weldon the author. Yes, of course your Fay.”
“She’ll never do it, you know our history, Mike. I know things are better now, but she wouldn’t do this in a million years.”
“Ring her,” said Michael persuasively for he could be just that on occasion. Everyone said so.
Judy disappeared into the bedroom with the handset. Michael could hear her muffled voice through the door, muffled still even when he had his ear to the door. He heard the call being disconnected and resumed his seat. Quickly.
“You didn’t have to rush, I heard the door creak when you put your ear to it.”
“Well? Did you speak to her?”
“Fay Weldon?”
“Very funny. What did she say?”
“She said yes, Mike, she said yes!”
“Brilliant!”
“There’s something more. She cried. Oh Mike, I love you, you endear yourself to me all the time. This is one of the very best things you have ever done.”
He kissed her. It seemed the appropriate response.
The guest list took shape. They decided that in order to keep the whole thing manageable there would have to be a maximum of seventy guests. Several brutal excisions later it was down to ninety-three. The next round of cuts weeded out several ex-colleagues and the odd uncle and aunty and associated cousins. Eighty-two. They approached the problem from another direction, who did they figure absolutely had to be there? Whose attendance was essential? A few more stokes of the red pen and they were down to thirty-four. And so it went on, hour after hour
until the magic figure of seventy was reached.
Band? Yes. Dancing? Yes. Champagne on arrival? Yes. Hats compulsory for all female guests? Yes. Midnight finish? God, yes!
“Have you thought about the honeymoon, Mike?”
“Oh yes, Jude. Constantly.”
“Oh behave. Where are you taking me?”
“Or you taking me?”
“I want to be old-fashioned for once, so you decide.”
“I have. I’m taking you to the most romantic place on earth.”
“Chipping Norton?”
“Hah! Venice!”[23]
“Bloody hell, Mike, can we afford it?”
“All paid for, Jude. An apartment off Via Garibaldi, ten minutes’ walk from St Mark’s Square.”
“Not Via Custardio Creamio?”
“Hah!”
“Will we need to learn Italian?”
“Si.”
“You have started without me, Mike!”
“Si.”
“Mike, my multi-lingual hero...”
A wedding, Venice, a future together, could life get any better?
23 This may be the first occasion in print where Chipping Norton and Venice are so closely juxtaposed. Then again, it may not.
Chapter Twelve
Present Day
“What’s all that greenery, Mike?”
It was evening. The girls were playing a game called ‘Memory’, the irony being that it had taken them ages to remember where the game was. Judy had just got in after a hard (very) day’s work at school. Michael had done little of note during the day, but now he was in the spacious kitchen creating yet another culinary masterpiece.
“I’m glad you asked me about that. I’ve been foraging. All this will be perfect with the beef,” he said, wafting his arm towards the oven where the beef was currently residing.
‘Perfect? Really?’ thought Judy as she poked the collection of random foliage with a carving knife. It made no difference where she stood or from what angle, it was still not appetising. Nor she suspected would it ever be.
“I’ll have to ban you from watching cookery programmes if this is the result. What next? Bone marrow?”
“Hey Jude (could be a song that), you might enjoy it, you never know.”
“I think I do know. Foraging is simple. Go outside. Pick mint. Add to Pimms. That’s it, that’s foraging.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“The only way. How was your day? Did you accomplish anything useful?” Judy asked pointedly.
“I mulled over some ideas for my novel, but that’s as far as I got; just ideas.”
“And is that all? Apart from your spot of hunter-gathering?”
“Pretty much yes and how was your day?”
“Bad enough to drive me mad, but not bad enough to drive me out.”
“A positive negative then.”
“Or a negative positive. If your assorted weeds are ready, can we eat?”
The Hamilton’s settled down to their bucolic (very) meal. The fibre content was never in doubt, everyone could and indeed would testify to that later. The flavour content was a different kettle of beef altogether. Interesting was Judy’s opinion. Yuck was Katy’s considered verdict and Annabelle’s final word on the subject was, aargghh. Not the responses Michael was looking for, but then again his own response was somewhat unenthusiastic (very). A chastened Michael washed-up, as you knew he would.
“Where did you get that recipe from anyway? British Weeds Weekly? Foraging for Beginners? asked Judy.
“I Googled it, typed in all the key words, found a recipe and adapted it.”
“Yep, Mike my foraging hero, it was the adaptation I feared.”
“That phone may have been a waste of money too; I can’t access the internet on it anymore. Why do we bother spending more and more money on things which stop working as soon as you need them? Life was so much simpler in the old days you know.”
“Like counting with an abacus? Going everywhere on a horse? Except you can’t ride can you? You’re getting to be a grumpy old man, Mike.”
“With good reason I’d say.”
Katy came running into the spacious kitchen, doll in one hand, her dad’s smart phone in the other.
“What are you doing with my phone, young lady?”
“I heard you telling Mummy it doesn’t work so I thought I’d mend it for you.”
“Well now, that’s very good of you sweetheart, but best give it to me. Thank you anyway.”
“There’s an update on it you haven’t downloaded, see?” Katy said, inviting her dad to look at the tiled screen.
“I see. Thank you, now if you’ll just give it to me, darling.”
“You download it like this,” and she suited the action to the word, “and then tap in your new internet settings like this, see?” and she once more suited her action to her words.
“I see. Thank you.”
“Then the phone rec... reco....regno.....knows the new settings and you can ac.....acs....acc.....get on the internet again, see? It’s quite easy really, Daddy.”
“Er...thank you, Katy.”
“Fixed, Mike?”
“Fixed, Jude. My daughter, the genius.”
“Perhaps she can do the dinner tomorrow?”
During the course of the evening as they demolished a bottle of dry (very) white wine, Michael told Judy of his conversation with the girls earlier that morning.
“...anyway the upshot is that these are pretend men that they are talking about.”
“But surely you didn’t think anything else did you? You are not thinking about what old Mr Williams keeps saying are you?”
“And old man Willoughby too remember!”
Judy lapsed into forgivable and as it happens highly accurate impressions of the aged Messrs’ Williams and Willoughby. “It’s cursed, it’s cursed. There’s something nasty in the soon to be replaced shed, they only come out at night, missus. It’s cursed I tell ye.”
“You can’t deny last night was odd.”
“Odd, yes, but not unexplainable without resorting to curses and the like.”
“Makes you think though, Jude.”
“You maybe, not me.”
The conversation steered a course towards a much more important subject; the upcoming Rugby Union internationals. Each team’s chances were discussed in detail with much gnashing of teeth over the England squad.
“I think England will win all their games,” opined Michael, for whom this was a simple fact.
“You have an advantage, your superior knowledge of the game.”
“You have made your mark sometimes you know.”
“I do try,” laughed Judy.
“Must be a small scrumb of comfort to you.”
“You are so right, Mike, it’s a proper relief to me.”
“Good, perhaps you should turnover a new leaf and let me win one of these wordplays.”
“What? And me so fly half the time! And remember you wouldn’t know the fun these wordplays can bring if hadn’t converted you.”
“And now I pay the penalty!”
“Very good, Mike. You are getting the hang of these wordplays unless it’s just a phase you are going through. Maybe we should try a geography one?”
“I’m Ghana have no chance, it’s your subject after all. Unless you let me win.”
“There’s norway I would helsinki oslo as that!”
“Very good, you could make a korea out of this.”
“Too right, Mike, Czech my skills out.”
“I give up!”
“Good boy, thought you were all finnished,” Judy said, “you know you have no chance with me. Come on,
let’s go to bed and you never know, I might let you win!”
Actually, they both won.
Crash. They woke, startled once more. They sat up, ears straining. All was quiet. A sound again. Metallic sounding and close, very close.
“I’ll check the girls again, you investigate downstairs.”
“Yes, Jude,” Michael said, searching the bedroom floor for his hurriedly discarded clothes. Before he had scarcely got one trouser leg filled Judy was back.
“Katy has gone, Mike,” she screamed, “she’s not there.”
They called her name repeatedly as they ran down the stairs. They naturally headed for the kitchen, the scene of the previous night’s disturbance. The gunpowder smell was heavy in the air, much more so than before. The kitchen was suddenly flooded with light as a sound like a thunder-clap tore through the silence.
“What the hell was that?” Judy shouted as the sound died away.
Michael had reached the back door. “Look, there she is!”
Katy was standing quite, quite still in the middle of the garden. Still, but not quiet. She was giggling. Giggling at something or somebody unseen. Then, she began to sway. Alarmingly so.
“I’ll grab her,” Michael said.
“Be careful, if she is sleepwalking you don’t want to alarm her.”
“Come on darling,” soothed her dad, “I’ve got you.”
She mumbled something that Michael could not catch.
“What was that, Katy?”
“Bye,” she said, looking over her dad’s shoulder.
Sleeping peacefully, she was tucked up in her bed once more. Michael and Judy had only one thing on their minds.
“We need to talk about this,” they said, in unison.
Chapter Thirteen
Much Earlier Days
It was the settling days as Michael liked to think of it. Settling into a new position, settling into a new home and settling into a new life style. Despite a kind (very, but also self-serving) offer from Mrs(?) Sheila Barry to stay with her while he found his feet he managed to procure a flat in Canford Road, Clapham. He scraped together the money for the deposit from various sources including, but not exclusively, the backs of various settees and the door pockets and back seats of various cars. And a little help from his folks. It took some adjusting to, this new life. He woke up many times in the weeks to come, not feeling himself (or anyone else for that matter), but time took care of that.
