by Sue Watson
“God would want this on television; he created this garden… why not show off his handiwork?” I heard myself saying, scrabbling at random concepts in an attempt to prevent him backing out at this late stage in production.
“Stella. There’s paint everywhere, there’s noise from the catering truck and shouting until all hours. There are cables and cameras all over the place and lights still full-on at midnight. Poor Denise hasn’t been able to sleep because the crew keep her awake all night, banging away.”
I looked away and managed to refrain from commenting.
“My biggest anxiety, Stella, is the parishioners’ access to the church. I’m afraid none of us feel very close to God with a big microphone and a cherry picker bearing down on us at Evensong.”
“But Bernard, I can assure you it’ll be worth all the pain. Instead of 30 or 40 parishioners at your services, you’ll be on TV with more than a million!”
“That may well be true Stella, but my concerns are with my congregation and their relationship with Jesus.”
I saw his point and couldn’t help wishing that I had more in my armoury, that I’d paid attention in Confirmation classes or was more familiar with the writings of Patience Strong. I needed the holy approach because I realised Bernard’s main concern around being on telly was God. He didn’t want to piss God off (my words not his) and who could blame him for keeping in with the boss? The Lord was his bread and butter, after all.
“I was told the makeover would be minimal. Just some ‘tidying up,’ your colleague told me. That turned out to be rather misleading to say the least… Then there’s colour scheme Stella. It’s rather ‘punk-rock-ish’. Do we really think scarlet and purple are the most churchlike of choices?”
I spluttered to give myself time, then went for it. “I’d say that violet is very ecclesiastical, Bernard,” I tried, wiping at my mud-covered wellies with wet leaves in an attempt to hide the horror on my face and think of something else to say.
“As for the punk look,” I continued, not meeting his eyes, “well, I’m sure I read in Hello! that Johnny Rotten has just become a born again Christian, hasn’t he?”
I lied to a vicar and I may burn in hell but it was for a good cause and anyway, my fingers were crossed behind my back. I had no choice because in TV terms this was life or death and Bernard had to buy it, because we didn’t have time to find another church.
“I’m worried what the Bishop’s going to say about all this,” he went on.
“Bernard, I promise you this will be good for you and for the church as a whole. As for the makeover, the vibrant garden will put you on the map and bring people flocking to see the garden and to Jesus.”
I was just thinking that I couldn’t get any lower in my desperation to make this work when I heard the dulcet tones of Gerard, the garden designer, who Al had brought in at the last minute to bring some more ‘pizzazz’ to the proceedings. He was hammering scarlet trellis onto the lurid lavender to the tune of Tom Jones’ Sex Bomb.
“A charming man,” Bernard said, nodding in Gerard’s direction. “Though, it would be nice if he sang something a bit more appropriate while in the vicarage garden. I was under the impression he was a religious man, but I have to say his choice of music doesn’t indicate this.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I said weakly, feigning surprise. But I have to confess I was also slightly troubled by Gerard. Selected by Al for his gardening prowess and religious piety, Gerard would be making over a different aspect of the garden each week. He’d been singing pretty much since he arrived, but despite a huge and varied musical portfolio, he hadn’t sung one hymn. I should have known better. Phrases like ‘suitable’ and ‘appropriate’, have always eluded Al when selecting contributors to take part in TV programmes.
There was the alcoholic tenor who drank three bottles of Tia Maria in the green room and gave an operatic performance live on Great Morning that was likened to the late Ollie Reed’s live-and-inebriated rendition of Wild Thing. Then there was the narcoleptic Al booked to talk about his condition on live telly. Not surprisingly, our studio guest slept through most of the interview while the hapless presenter ‘filled’ for six whole minutes – which may as well be a year in television. And my own personal favourite, the psychic with Tourette’s that Al booked for Have a Dead Good Morning. There had also been naked decorators, gay gardeners and bulimic dieticians, all with their own unique way of stealing the show and blocking phone lines with viewers’ complaints.
I reassured Bernard once more that all was OK and went to find Al in the makeshift and optimistically-titled catering tent.
“Al, can you assure me that Gerard wasn’t the result of a trawl through one of your favourite gay dating websites?” I said as I joined him at a table where he was eating a rather delicious-looking chip butty.
“My sweet, it’s a bona-fide garden company and Gerard comes highly recommended,” he answered, taking a huge bite of hot, chip-filled bread. I knew what he was up to – he was trying to dismiss the whole subject with chip distraction.
“That looks nice. But I’ve started a diet,” I muttered, refusing to be drawn into the hot chips and melting butter on thick, white, doorstep bread. I pictured the ‘delicious, nutritious’ Lighter Lift shake that was waiting for me back at the B&B and felt even more depressed. I grabbed a black coffee and returned to poke again at ‘the Gerard problem.’
“I know you think I’m completely paranoid,” I said, sitting down at the table and letting the steam from my coffee provide warmth and a mini-facial, “but Gerard’s not your typical gardener, is he?”
Al shrugged, “What is a typical gardener Stel? I mean he’s got all the qualifications…”
“Mmm, it’s fine on paper but it’s something else when Gerard, in his twenty-two-stone glory is brandishing a pitchfork and working it to the tune of Smack My Bitch Up on the vicar’s grassy knoll,” I spat, now deeply resenting the way the butter was melting around Al’s chips.
“You said you didn’t want the same old gardeners with their boring old trugs and terracotta, so that’s what you’ve got. His designs are just a bit different and the garden will be fabulous, you old drama queen!” With that he stood up and blew me a kiss before rushing off for an overdue and much-needed conversation about sleepers with Dan.
I decided that for my own sanity I needed some space and time alone. I wandered out of the catering tent and stood for a moment in the vicarage garden, just wishing I could blank it all out like I wasn’t really there. I longed to escape the pressure, move up and away to see it all from the safety of the cherry picker high above the trees.
But I couldn’t. I had to stay on earth and watch close up as Denise resurrected Sodom and Gomorrah, Al screamed and flirted, and Gerard and his pack of ‘heavenly heavies’ turned God’s garden into something resembling a steamy night in Bangkok.
4 - A Rainy Night in Rochdale
I changed out of my mud-covered clothes and had a quick shower as soon as I got back to my cheap B&B and even though by now it was well after eleven, I called home. I missed Grace so much; sometimes just speaking to her on the phone helped, but there was no answer. Before, when I’d worked away, Tom had called me at night and passed the phone to Grace. When she was tiny these calls involved a lisping voice lost in a confusing jumble of baby words involving ‘teddy’ and ‘Daddy’. The novelty would wear off for her quite quickly and within about 45 seconds I’d find myself talking to no-one as she dropped the phone to investigate something far more urgent and interesting.
“I’ll have to go, she wants to play,” Tom would say apologetically. Putting down the phone, my heart would break and I’d return to writing the scripts I seem to have spent my life doing. I loved and hated those calls; they were a tantalising glimpse at the home-life that was going on without me. I always felt a deep compulsion to jump in the car and drive home and I had to steel myself to turn my heart off and my laptop on.
Grace was now eight and if she did deign to
speak to me it was about the score she’d achieved on the latest Nintendo game or a confused retelling of something that happened at school. A slight in the playground or a recrimination at fruit time can cause ripples of hurt until afternoon break when you’re that age.
I tried the phone again, wondering why it was that Tom didn’t call me these days. No answer, just an incessant, empty ring followed by my embarrassingly fake posh voice: “Hi, this is the Weston house. Please leave your message and we’ll get back to you.”
I sighed and opened the can of Lighter Lift, swirling the ‘Passionate Pineapple’ around and taking a big swig. It certainly didn’t seem to me to have the ‘aroma of the tropics’ – more like paint stripper. The cheap Custard Creams thoughtfully left for me by what was laughingly referred to as Room Service suddenly looked very appealing. They stared up at me from the nasty, chipped saucer with diamond-shaped edging, willing me to eat them. I turned back to the phone hastily.
After the tenth ring there was still no answer. Suddenly it all started to get a bit ‘Violent Violet’ in my head. Had Grace had an accident? Had Tom fallen off a ladder onto Grace, pinning her down, neither of them able to get to the phone? Had they disturbed a deranged burglar and were they now both tied up? As my call rung, – cruelly, mockingly – were they trying to reach for the phone with their fingers inches away, so near and yet so far?
I promised myself this would be the last time I dialled (knowing deep down that it wouldn’t be). ‘Ring, ring,’ for an eternity, ‘ring’. Then, just as I was about to hang up, ‘click.’ I heard Tom’s abrupt voice: “Hello?”
I was filled with overwhelming relief, warmth and love which naturally manifested itself in an angry, clipped voice: “Tom! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been so worried.”
“Stella, we’re fine. I’ve only just got Grace to go to sleep and now the phone has woken her. Thanks, it’s late enough as it is.”
My relief was replaced with a nice cold splash of anger. How dare he speak to me like that? How dare he tell me what time my daughter goes to bed?
“Oh, I’m sorry if I’ve been worried sick all night about my family. If you had phoned me Grace wouldn’t have been woken up. Where the bloody hell have you been?”
“Don’t start, Stella,” he said, with simmering anger. “We went to the cinema. She wanted to see that film about the penguin. It went on quite late. I finally got her off to sleep and now you’ve woken her up. I can’t believe you’re ringing this late,” he muttered.
I was furious. How could he be so unfeeling? I knew it wasn’t just about waking Grace either – he just wanted to finish the conversation and get back to watching sport on the TV – bloody balls on pitches.
“How is she?” I asked firmly, trying to cut through the bubbling rage on both ends of the line. This was my daughter and I needed to be kept informed of her well-being. It was my right as a mother.
“She’s fine and I’m fine,” Tom said in an irritated voice. “I’ve just got her to bed and I’m about to have my dinner – it’s getting cold. I’m knackered, Stella. It’s not easy working and looking after a child at the same time you know. It’s all right for you…”
That put me on the ceiling, red mist pumping into my brain like dry ice, at the point of no return.
“Oh, yes it’s great for me. Do tell me about being a working father, Tom. After all, I love being here working my tits off and feeling like a crap mother. Then when I’m home and working all day at the office, I also work my tits off and feel like a crap mother. Tough isn’t it? Welcome to my world.”
I slammed the phone down, tears of hurt and rage stinging my eyes. Most of all, I was disappointed. All I wanted was to have a normal conversation with my husband and to know my little girl was safe and happy. I wanted anecdotes and quotes. What did she do? What did she say? How did she say it? I wanted some of Al’s colour and fun. It wouldn’t have taken too much effort for him to give me a few highlights – but it’s all Venus and Mars and I’m convinced straight men just don’t do colour…or fun.
Not having a fully-equipped kitchen in which to bake away my stress, I reached over to the nasty saucer and grabbed the packet of Custard Creams. I ripped off the cellophane and crammed both of them into my mouth at once, which made me feel a bit better – for about a nanosecond. My Lighter Lift counsellor –‘Jemma with a J’ – would go into a spasm if I confessed I’d actually let real food pass my lips, and filthy biscuits at that. When I’d dared to suggest during my Lighter Lift Induction Day that I might be hungry drinking only three ‘highly nutritious yet delicious,’ shakes she had almost hyperventilated.
“Stella, you couldn’t possibly be hungry. These shakes are medically formulated. My goodness!” she had exclaimed, breathlessly patting her tiny, washboard tummy.
I sighed and slowly threw the wrappers in the bin. Sat in my lonely little room, I was beginning to think that I’d turned up in someone else’s life. Part of me couldn’t believe I wasn’t eighteen anymore and I was slightly worried that time was running out for me to do everything I wanted to. I’d always believed my destiny was to be a successful film producer with a walk-in wardrobe, Persian pussy and second home in the Bahamas. My only problem would be what to wear for my spot on David Letterman in a life of gilt-edged glamour and gleaming flesh. In between the parties and Pilates I’d adopt left-wing politics and rainbow babies from Third World countries. And after the book signings and Botox lunches I’d squeeze in a bottle of Dom Perignon and a couple of torrid toy boys.
The reality, of course, was that at the age of forty-ish, I was digging a vicar’s vegetable patch and forcing crazy people to smile for the camera all day. At night I killed time by trying not to eat cake and stalking my wrinkles far from home in a very cold, very single hotel room on the outskirts of Rochdale. I could hear Tom’s voice ringing in my ears: ‘You want too much. You are setting yourself up for disappointment. Life will never live up to your expectations’.
He’s right, I was disappointed because it didn’t matter how hard I searched the dingy hotel bathroom, or how tightly I shut my eyes, I just couldn’t find the Dom Perignon or the toy boys.
5 - Trouble in Paradise
I didn’t call Tom again that night. I decided to give him some space and leave it until the next morning. But I needed to sort it early so I could be free to concentrate on the last rehearsals before the first live show in the afternoon. Again I waited and waited for Tom to answer and when he finally did, it was clear that he was going to continue to be vile. Again the one-word comments, the gruff voice and the sulky demeanour, so I tried to approach things from a different angle.
“Tom, what is it? Why do you always seem so abrupt? It’s like you don’t want to talk to me.”
“You always ring at the wrong time, Stella,” he answered. “We’re in the middle of breakfast. And I’m tired – with you away, I never even get a weekend lie-in.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought this would be a good time.” I said, crushed. “I don’t seem to be able to do anything right at the moment.” Silence. “Mind you, I find your lively telephone banter irresistible, it has me hanging up laughing every time,” I added.
He laughed. If in doubt, make them laugh. I always used to make him laugh. Tom and I had been married for ten years. I could still remember the time we would be excited just being together – when we made each other laugh, stayed in bed all day, stayed up all night. I often wondered where all that intensity and spontaneity went to. On second thoughts, they were probably hanging out with my firm skin and pointless dreams – too far out of reach.
You’d think there would have been more understanding between us with us both being in the same business. I remembered the day we met, when we were both working in London at the BBC. We’d done a few shoots together so would say hello and perhaps chat if our paths crossed, but I was obsessed with someone else at the time and didn’t really notice Tom, he was just another cameraman.
It was at Steve the soundman�
�s leaving party that things changed.
The party was in a rough old pub in the backstreets of Shepherd’s Bush and I went along with some of the girls for a first drink. We’d planned to go on to a wine bar and end up at The Groucho for last drinks and a bit of star spotting. I was coming out of the toilets and as I passed the bar I saw Tom, who smiled, so I peeped under eyelashes, Princess-Di-style, while sashaying past. He was tall, with short, thick, black hair and a smile that filled his face. I went back to the girls but I kept catching him looking at me. Eventually he wandered over to our table. We started chatting and he made me laugh.
“We could go and see a film one evening after work?” he suggested after we’d been chatting for about an hour. “There’s a new film club opened in Camden and they’re showing old black and white films. I think there’s a Hitchcock season coming up.”
So as the girls waltzed off to The Groucho that night I was happy to stay in the smoky bar with Tom and the whiskery locals. In the next hour we discovered a shared a passion for old films, dark chocolate and black humour. Kismet.
We saw Dial M for Murder on our first outing, on the second date we went to the zoo (a cliché I know) and on the third date I moved into his flat. It was a bit of a whirlwind, but it just felt right. And at the wrong side of thirty, I wasn’t letting this one go.
We laughed a lot then in Tom’s cramped, rented flat. We watched TV on an old portable and lived on takeaways and cheap plonk. When we weren’t in bed, we’d spend weekends at the cinema watching films back to back, our only sustenance being popcorn, chocolate and each other. After we’d lived this completely carefree, self-indulgent life for about a year Tom suggested we get married. I loved him, loved big parties and really loved big cake, so I said yes.
