by Caron Allan
And there, in the middle of the kitchen was the most enormous man in a scruffy shirt, baggy jeans and some ancient, dog-eared slippers. He had clearly just entered from the garden and seemed to have been about to say something to Mrs H who was standing there with a daft expression on her face, watching that cat eating when I walked in, still in my dressing-gown.
She looked at him, he looked at me, I looked at him, he looked at her, and she looked from me back to him. They couldn’t have looked more shocked. True, I don’t usually wander into the kitchen at that time of day, and certainly not in my nightwear, but there was more to it than that.
Then, in an attempt to collect herself, Mrs H said, still sounding a bit flustered,
‘Oh, er, this ‘ere’s my Sid, Mrs Powell.’
‘Oh indeed? How nice to make your acquaintance, Mr Hopkins, and many thanks for offering to repair the vacuum cleaner, too, that was very thoughtful.’
He seemed a bit shifty. He didn’t seem too sure if he should shake my proffered hand or not. In the end, he did just give it a brief clasp in his gnarly bear paw. He seemed a bit uncomfortable, and if I hadn’t been there, I’m fairly sure he would have wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He looked like the sort of chap who does that.
‘Snuffink, I’m sure, Mrs, er…‘
‘Well, ‘op it then,’ Mrs H scolded him, flapping her hands at him. He didn’t immediately seem to realise what she meant but then with a sudden nod, and apparent clarity, he stepped back towards the door. He waved his hand in a half-salute and said carefully in a much louder voice,
‘Well, I’ll—er—I’ll be off, then, I ‘ave now told you what it was that I had to come over and—er—and tell you, and so now I can go and—er—I shall see you at ‘ome later. Bye me duck.’
And in one smooth motion he had opened the door and gone through it, and the door was already closing behind him when Mrs H called out to him somewhat belatedly,
‘Bye, Ducks, see you this afternoon.’ She turned back to me, a little flustered.
‘Has he got a day off?’ I asked.
‘A day…? Oh, er, yes, Mrs Powell, he’s having a day off today. That’s right. A day…just doing a few odd jobs at home, like.’
‘You should have said,’ I told her, ‘you could have quite easily had today off—you haven’t used any of your holiday yet. In fact why don’t you go now? It’s still early, you’d have virtually a full day together. You really have arrived very early this morning once again. There’s no need to get here quite so early, you know.’
She looked at me with something like dismay. What on earth was wrong with the woman? Generally one’s staff are all too eager to have some time off on full pay. But not my Mrs H, it would seem. She shook her head vehemently.
‘Ooh, er, well, that’s very generous of you, Mrs Powell, it is really, but you know, I think I’d just be in his way, you know how men are when they’ve got their jobs to do, tools everywhere and everything. Thanks all the same, you know but well…’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ I said doubtfully. ‘Just let me know if you change your mind, it’s really not a problem, I can manage without you for one day.’
I drifted off to the sitting room again, totally baffled. But in the end though, I just stopped worrying. I mean, I know I shouldn’t say it, as it’s not very PC, but everyone knows the working classes are Not Like Us. There’s no point in metaphorically working one’s fingers to the bone trying to understand them.
Sat 28 July—7pm
So, to dish the dirt on last night’s fiasco! To think that Huw could have the gall go to a dinner party with ‘our set’ and, before the dust has even settled following his abrupt departure from the marital home, he is carting his secretary slash mistress about with him as brazenly as anything!
I could tell Cherub Bryston-Harrison was horribly embarrassed. It was all Garrison’s idea, of course, he has simply no idea about good taste. Well the man does work in advertising, so one is hardly surprised.
‘Don’t know if all of you have already met Mandi Morgan, Huw’s new—er—well, er—Ladyfriend,’ Garrison said when we made our way into the drawing room before dinner.
‘It’s wiv two Ds,’ she said with a giggle and a slight lisp that made me want to smack her. I assumed she meant Manddi not Laddyfriend. Huw at least had the grace to look a little uncomfortable. He couldn’t meet my accusing eyes. Good! The Bastard! It’s literally just been a few days. How could he? Fortunately I didn’t have to sit anywhere near either of them during dinner, Cherub’s good taste coming to the fore there, I should think.
When we left the men to their port and cigars (all very Edwardian), and She nipped off to the ladies, wiggling her pert yet massive backside as she went, Cherub grabbed my arm and hissed in my ear,
‘Oh Cressida, I’m so sorry. I’m truly mortified! I had absolutely no idea they were coming—and I know Monica is your best pal—I just don’t know what to say…it’s all Garrison’s fault. Men are completely useless, aren’t they?’
But then She came back in. We were all handing round coffees and talking about holiday plans and Cherub’s new baby daughter’s christening gown. It’s antique lace—and Cherub needs recipes for bleaching it as it’s gone a bit of a horrid yellow in her great aunt’s attic. Naturally Cherub doesn’t want to upset all the old biddies in the family but at the same time without some serious renovation, that lace will look really ghastly on her gorgeous little baby girl and obviously the christening photos will be utterly ruined.
She sat at the other end of the room, but she didn’t appear the slightest bit self-conscious or uncomfortable. She just chatted away in her little corner with Nadina (That turncoat! I definitely hate her now, if I didn’t already!) and another girl whom I’m sure I heard Nadina call Weasel. I do hate these big dinner parties, one never gets the chance to really interrogate people.
Later, I made the mistake of popping to the loo. And when I returned to the drawing room, I caught the tail-end of something Manddi with two double Ds was saying, which a few people sniggered at then broke off guiltily when they saw me standing there. Now there is nothing worse than that awful feeling of being the only one not in on a joke, or rather, of feeling a horrid sense that one has become the joke.
So it was evident she had been talking about me.
I remember when I came into the room she had been saying,
‘…lookth ethactly like a great big giant overgrown Barbie doll, innit?’
So that all fell into place in my head. But I was on fine form. For once I had a comeback, not especially witty but a comeback nonetheless and I was quite pleased that I sounded rather cool as I said in a bright happy voice,
‘Speaking of Barbies, don’t you think it’s time, in our modern world, the manufacturers brought out a transgender Barbie? They could take a Ken doll, give him tiny little pink plastic boobs, and long hair, five o’clock shadow and high heels? They could call him slash her Kelly.’
No one laughed. It was all so horrid. I so wished Monica had been there to take the edge off the situation. Eventually someone asked if anyone had seen a television show called Made in Chelsea. It seems they all had.
Once everyone was talking again, Nadina snuck over to earnestly whisper to me,
‘Darling Cressie, I’m so sorry you had to hear that, obviously it was a perfectly hideous thing for her to say and she’s far too new to our set to have a right…I just wanted to say that I for one made a point of not laughing, and I don’t think you look anything like a Barbie doll. I’m on your side, Cressie.’
I smiled and said something polite that I can’t even remember now. In my mind I was pounding her face into the top of the nearby glass coffee table. Cressie!
When we got home, Thomas told me he had actually felt physically ill to hear Huw banging on over the vintage port about how great the sex was, and he said even Giles Smytherton-Netherbury seemed a bit embarrassed, and everyone knows him as one of the filthiest old goats that ever prowled the
earth in search of a guilt-free quickie.
I’m not anything like a Barbie. Well, I’m not all that tall, and my boobs are not even slightly plastic! They’re all nature’s own fine work, I’m proud to say (and Thomas would agree!) and that’s more than Manddi would be able to boast! Cow.
We talked about the situation when we were in bed last night, even though we were late getting back and poor Thomas had to be up early for golf this morning. It was just like when we first got married—talking really seriously into the wee hours about how sad we were about our friends’ upcoming divorce. Thomas is quite angry about the way Huw is carrying on and it’s so nice to know he has such strong, firm morals. He is wonderful. I’m so lucky to have him.
Only thing is, it makes me feel so ashamed of the things I’ve planned and thought about and plotted towards. I mean, Clarice, you know, and well, that sort of thing because obviously if he knew—well, I don’t think he’d love me anymore. He’d be so shocked, so disappointed in me. I would have let him down so completely and utterly. I know I wouldn’t be able to bear the look on his face. And realising that has really made me think about other things I’d been thinking about a bit more. I mean the other aspects of the Huw slash Monica situation. If you see what I mean.
Just before he dropped off to sleep, Thomas said, ‘Can you ring up a pest control firm on Monday? I’m absolutely convinced we’ve got mice or rats or something in the attic, I keep hearing little noises. I can’t take any more broken nights.’
I promised I would and gave him one last peck on the cheek, and off he drifted, from wide awake to softly snoring in less than thirty seconds. Typical chap.
But I lay awake for ages. All I could think about was Huw’s betrayal and what I, as Monica’s best friend, ought to do about it. And yet, there’s Thomas to consider, and how he would feel if he found out what sort of woman I really am. If anything happened, if he found out and left me because of it, I would just die, I know I would. There wouldn’t be anything worth living for. To know that he was alive in the world and thinking ill of me.
I suppose the main thing is, not to let him find out. I don’t see how I have any choice about what I’ve got to do? Or have I? Should I do it? I mean, obviously, you know, it’s wrong, but she’s my friend. If I don’t look after her interests, take her side, then who will? Oh God, I’m so confused.
There were definitely quite a lot of odd little sounds from above our heads. Thomas is quite right. And, poor lamb, he tossed and turned restlessly, he’s such a light sleeper. Suppose it’s Clarice’s ghost come back to haunt us? That’s just the malicious sort of beastly thing she would do.
Must get Mrs H to ring the Rat Man on Monday. And if he can’t help, might have to turn to Britain’s Most Wanted Ghost Walk Investigator Paranormal Cops. That’s one of my favourite TV shows. I wonder if they have a helpline one can contact? Second thoughts, they’ve probably just got a Ouija board. I woke Thomas up a little bit with my giggling. Made a firmer effort to try to forget about everything and just go to sleep, such a big day ahead tomorrow!
Sun 29 July—11.50pm
Absolutely exhausted after the most amazing day at the Olympics. The gymnastics was truly wonderful—such a talented lot—and it was lovely to see all the girls hugging one another and chatting and encouraging one another—not just their own team-mates, but, on occasion, other teams too. Such wonderful community spirit. I mean, I know one bangs on about uniting the world through sport and non-violent competition, but it really is amazing to see rivals truly happy for one another, and truly commiserating with one another.
We had the most perfect seats, positioned so we could see the asymmetric bars and the floor routines, and the whole thing was such a spectacle, the arena was just electric, the atmosphere indescribable. I will never, ever forget today. And Beth Tweddle, and the other girls of course, was brilliant. She didn’t win, but she certainly deserved to have done so.
It was utterly magnificent from beginning to teary end.
Mon 30 July—11.45am
The rat man, Ern, came out almost immediately Mrs H called him, and after two hours of poking about with all kinds of gadgets and looking very Ghostbusters, with a torch held together with sticky tape and a pair of steps not much better, he has now given us a completely clean bill of health, rodent-wise, much to Thomas’s amazement. I rang him at work just now to tell him the good news.
I queried it with Mrs H as soon as she presented me with the bill.
‘He found nothing?’
‘Nuffink at all, Mrs Powell, not so much as a sniff of a mouse or rat. He were ‘ere a good two hours. Very furrow, I must say.’
‘Yes, I know, I heard him banging about upstairs. And twice I bumped into him coming out of the first floor bathroom.’
‘Ah, yes, erm, I suspect ‘e ‘as a bit of a problem in the plumbing department.’
As I suspected she meant his own personal plumbing department, I decided to leave that whole topic well alone.
‘Well, I’m very pleased to hear we don’t have any kind of infestation. Though I think Thomas is going to be a bit surprised to hear it.’ Which he was, as it turned out!
‘Really Mrs Powell?’ Mrs H was looking a bit puzzled.
‘Yes, he keeps hearing noises at night, coming from the attic. At first I thought he must be imagining things, but now I know he’s not, I’ve heard noises myself the last couple of nights. Sort of banging and scraping and quiet little noises, going on for at least two hours in the middle of the night. Whatever it is, we need to get to the bottom of it, the poor lamb isn’t getting a wink of sleep.’
She looked a bit worried. I hastened to reassure her.
‘Oh please don’t let it bother you, Mrs Hopkins, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.’
She hastily agreed, saying, ‘I mean if it’s not rats, what else could it be? It must be rats. Anyway, our clever little Tetley will catch anyfink what comes into the ‘ouse.’
Looking at the steadily fattening, complacent tabby lying in a pool of sunshine just inside the garden door, I wasn’t convinced. I seriously doubt she could move, let alone run fast enough to catch any pests. Sardines maybe. Roast chicken, definitely. Rats—I seriously doubt it.
Same day: 10.10pm
‘Birds,’ Thomas said earlier this evening. ‘Bloody great big crows or some damned thing, probably trying to nest in the chimney pots. I’ll have to look into it next weekend, I can’t just leave it, it’s driving me daft, all the aggravation of those tiny little stealthy noises in the wee hours of the night. I know it’s only little creaks and slight sorts of rustling noises but once I start to hear them I can’t relax, and then I can’t get back to sleep. After four or five disturbed nights in a row, I feel like I’m going to crack up or something.’
I tried to remonstrate with him, pointing out that everything seems worse in the middle of the night and that I hardly ever heard anything, so perhaps he was letting his imagination run away with him.
I didn’t really want him to know I’d heard the sounds too. What if it was really Clarice? I know the house isn’t very old, but there could still be something other-worldly going on, and if a human or spirit-being was to blame it would definitely be Clarice, she loved to make our lives a misery when she was alive, I don’t see that she’d let a little thing like death put a stop to that. And anyway, aren’t murdered people always restless spirits? How could she rest in peace knowing someone had done her to death? Mind you, by that reasoning, technically she should be haunting Monica. And Monica has enough on her plate at the moment without being haunted too. And of course, Clarice, even if she had got a look at her killer, wouldn’t know where Monica lived, and she could hardly look her up in the phone book, could she?
Thomas grumbled on a bit more, poor old pet, then we settled down in front of the television with some champagne and strawberries to watch Midsomer Murders.
‘D’you know,’ I said, ‘it’s quite humbling to think that we’re just like ordinary people
sitting here watching TV together, with no shoes on, and with our drinks and snacks.’
He dropped a kiss on my hair.
‘I know, Darling, it’s the simple things in life that count. Relaxing in front of the old box with one’s loved ones. Letting all one’s troubles ease away. I bet even Our Sid and Mrs ‘Opkins are doing just this very thing.’
‘I’ll ask her tomorrow,’ I said.
Tues 31 July—1.15am (so technically Wednesday!)
Went to relaxation class and reflexology. Had a quick massage. And I certainly felt like I needed it, with the stressful few days I’ve just had!
Sent a few texts to Monica asking how she is and suggesting we meet up. She just texted back to say she didn’t really feel like going anywhere, didn’t really feel like facing anyone, but thanked me for thinking of her.
So I grabbed some champers and some vodka (after all I wouldn’t know until I actually got there and assessed the situation, which of these would prove to be the ‘cup that cheers’) and drove straight over to her place after my facial, hoping I wouldn’t look so fabulous she’d feel even more depressed. I didn’t want to push her any closer to the edge of the cliff, after all.
I must say, it gave me a bit of a shock to see how badly she’s letting herself go—her hair was a shocking mess, and she was wearing, I’m absolutely certain, chain-store jeans and an old shirt of Huw’s. She’s lost weight too, but not in a good way. I mean, she was almost a size zero before, now she must be a minus two. A leggy little stick with huge red eyes and blotchy skin.
‘Oh My God!’ I said when she opened the door. Well, I mean, one always intends to spare one’s friends feelings but sometimes the shock is just too great to hold back.
