‘Venetia, what a surprise. This is hell, isn’t it? Let’s go and have some lunch. I owe you a treat as two of those puppies of yours seem to be Digger’s. I dropped in and had a look at them this morning, but of course you were out. Here, I suppose.’
He swings The Beauty up onto his shoulders and leads me through a courtyard entrance I had never noticed before and into a restaurant. Enveloped in warmth and quiet, my senses invaded only by the murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses and the aroma of delicious food, I sigh with huge relief.
‘What a treat. Will they mind The Beauty?’
‘No, not at all. A friend of mine runs this place and he’s got two kids of his own about her age. And I know that today’s special is going to be fantastic – a tip from the chef.’
How wonderful: I don’t even need to think about what to have. All decisions removed, my idea of bliss.
‘Davey, Davey, give me your answer do,’ sings The Beauty, nestling up to David. She thinks this song is his theme tune, to be sung whenever he appears, as if he is a Teletubby or similar. David sits her on his knee and posts bread into her mouth. She lolls against him, chewing dreamily for a few seconds, then, revived, sits up straight and bounces. Sip my wine and watch them, enjoying the picture they make, and happy not to have the ceaselessly moving Beauty on my knee for once.
Delicious lunch of lemon risotto and crunchy vegetables; hardly fattening at all. In fact quite possibly a Hay Diet lunch. So cheered by this thought that I have orange sorbet for pudding. A business lunch, as well as being slimming, as David is going to build a bunk bed for The Beauty and a safety zone for the puppies in the back of the hall. Am not sure if this is what he wants to be doing for the next few weeks, but when he hesitates, I just remind him that Digger’s children need peace and space to grow up in. He agrees with alacrity.
‘Of course they do. I’ll just sort out a few things and be along next week.’
David’s presence and the consumption of a bottle of Rioja over lunch eases the birthday shopping ordeal. We find a very excellent construction kit for Felix, with real cement and bricks. The Beauty buys a six-pack of trolls for him, and David chooses a projector with torch and clock. It comes in a complicated nylon suit and is for camping, I think. It is the kind of present I hate. I cannot make head or tail of its instructions, and become irritated.
‘What’s the point of giving him something no normal person can open?’ I demand, just resisting to urge to stamp my foot. Am sure David is laughing at me, although there is not a quiver in his voice as he replies.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll come and set it up with Felix. It really is very simple, you know. But you won’t have to have anything to do with it at all.’
He can also help Felix build the little brick house. One look at the instructions, which include a section called, ‘How to make floor plans to scale’, has convinced me that I will have to retrain as an architect, or one of the three little pigs, to understand it. What a relief that The Beauty spotted David today.
January 10th
Cell-block-style cement skies and non-weather have given way to swirling sleet and hail. Cobwebs swing and flutter in the house, making sure that we cannot forget the draughts for a moment. I have taken to wearing three scarves, one around my waist, another to protect my neck and a third to keep my bottom warm. Odd how cold a bottom can get. I thought fat was supposed to insulate. Bronwyn telephones.
‘I am sorry, Venetia, next week we simply haven’t the space for anyone else. But would you be interested in setting up your own Cabochon coffee mornings?’
‘No. I’d rather die.’ Oops. Not very graceful. Minus fifty brownie points, and Felix will be furious if he finds out. Take my mind off it with virtuous behaviour. Order packets of seeds from catalogue with no pictures and only Latin names. Jolly pleased with myself for coping with it. Cushion of smug deflates, however, when I add up the total and find I have spent £147. Try editing, but how can I get rid of any of these precious gems? My favourite is Papaver somniferum, Hen and Chickens, described thus in the catalogue.
Flower-arrangers won’t be able to wait to get their hands on this unusual strain of poppy, with its large, pale lilac flowers and curious seed-pod arrangement in which the central pod has arising from its base several little seed pods, giving the impression of a mother hen surrounded by her brood of chickens. The pods are very decorative when dyed and dried.
In fact, shall order two packets of this one, and create unique gifts for all next Christmas. Very pleased to have thought ahead for once.
January 14th
Felix is eight today. Lovely cosy breakfast with pancakes and chocolate topping is marred by frightful weather invading kitchen through the glazing bars. Torrents of icy water woosh onto the window sill, causing Felix’s cards to curl up at the bottom. Roll up tea towels and balance them on window frames, then telephone David and ask him to bring a putty syringe when he comes and hope he is impressed with my expert knowledge. He says he is not coming until next week. This puts me in a filthy temper. Have to go outside and feed hens to recover and remind myself it is Felix’s day.
Felix is much more excited by the troll six-pack and a PlayStation game given to him by Giles, than he is by my construction kit. Try not to mind, and get on with cake, which is to be in the shape of an Orc Chieftain and is to be the centrepiece of the party tea table tomorrow. Felix has chosen to throw a full-scale children’s party, deeming that to have a couple of friends for the cinema is useless.
‘I would hardly get any presents, Mum,’ he explains, outraged that I can have made such a stupid suggestion.
January 15th
Arctic conditions prevail, and none of the ten children invited to the party has shut a single door since they arrived. Rather, they have opened them all, and a few windows, and are engaged in tramping quantities of mud and snow through the house. My mother and The Beauty are gathering objects to place on a tray for a memory game. The Beauty selects a lump of coal and a lavatory brush before tottering outside to join in the game of British Bulldogs on the lawn. My mother peels a lychee and adds it to the treasures on the tray, which include a scouring pad, a silver sugar shaker and a Boglin.
Grass-stained and flushed, the children troop inside as dark falls and more rain sets in. Lucille, a nasty piece of work from Felix’s class, regards the tray with disgust.
‘What horrible things,’ she pipes. ‘You have a really weird house, Felix.’
My mother grabs his wrist to prevent him from punching her, and winks.
‘Lucille. You seem to know a lot,’ says my mother in her best phoney-granny voice. ‘Shut your eyes and let’s see if you can guess what I am putting into your hand.’
Lucille adores the spotlight, and a mimsy smile plays around her lips as she obeys. My mother drops the lychee into her hand. Lucille freaks, and dashes out of the room yelling. My mother watches her go, her brows arched in surprise, then turns to Felix.
‘Oh, dear,’ she says, ‘listen to Lucille’s squeals.’
January 17th
Frozen mud and freeze-dried grass is the garden look at the moment, but the dreariness is broken on the edge of the wood, where a wintersweet is in full, fragrant flower. Go down there and close my eyes, inhaling deeply to absorb essence of vanilla and jasmine and wallflower all mixed together to make the unforgettable fragrance of wintersweet. Cut an armful and bring it into the hall, where the fragile flowers, like stars on black twigs, waft their scent through the house.
January 18th
Cannot believe that we are still only halfway through January. Am so fed up with winter that I went on a sunbed today while Vivienne took The Beauty swimming. Bliss to lie naked in the heat, and pretend to be in the Seychelles rather than Cromer Fitness Centre. Freckly afterwards, but not brown. Booked another straight away, then cancelled it for fear of becoming addicted and getting skin cancer.
January 20th
House almost uninhabitable now as David has finally started buil
ding Camelot-sized dwelling for the puppies. Far from keeping The Beauty out, he is tailoring it to her requirements. The twin turrets are her boudoir and kitchen, safe places for stashing jewels stolen from my dressing table and biscuits from the larder, as no one over three feet tall can get in. The puppies have a throne room in the castle keep, and The Beauty likes to crawl in and raise the drawbridge in order to spend quality time with them. The whole construction is larger than my bedroom, and sprawls through from the utility room into the hall and kitchen. Cannot see why David needs to have Smalls and his other henchmen here. All they do is make cups of tea and leave doors open.
January 21st
Retreat to bed for the afternoon to escape frenzied sawing and hammering and cup-of-tea-making. Force The Beauty to have a rest, and keep her quiet with a packet of raisins and another of Jelly Tots. Bed is splendid. Electric blanket, lots of pillows and the last pages of Anna Karenina. Am weeping over Anna’s tragic destiny and comforting myself at the same time by stuffing Smarties into my mouth, when there is a knock on the door. Hide the Smarties, but cannot get out of bed as have taken off trousers, so cannot pretend to be hard at work, dusting or folding clothes. Opt for lying down flat, as if ill.
Quaver, ‘Come in,’ and David’s head appears, his hair haloed with sawdust. We look at one another for an eternity.
‘Can I turn the electricity off?’ he says.
‘Yes, do.’ I keep my eyes half-closed, and hope mortification is not spreading pink across my cheeks. He tiptoes into the room, now keeping his eyes averted from my listless form. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to get to the fuse box. Can I bring you anything? I think Smalls is making some tea. Or would you rather be left in peace?’ he adds solicitously.
‘I’m fine, just shut the door.’ So unfair. Bloody hell. Why does the sodding fuse box have to be in my bedroom? David flicks a switch and I hear the answerphone click and bleep as dark and silence envelope the house. Groan atmospherically. David glances again at my slumped form.
‘We’ll keep the noise down, you rest,’ he says kindly. ‘You need to get your strength up.’ He leaves the room laughing, I am sure. Turn over and see that the Smartie tube is not under the blanket at all, but next to me on the pillow. I am revealed as Bessie Bunter figure rather than glamorous consumptive type.
January 25th
Burns Night. My mother telephones and recites ‘Wee sleekit timorous beestie’ to Felix and Giles in turn. She wants them to learn it off by heart. They sound as if they are speaking in tongues, but Giles assures me, ‘It’s the proper Scottish accent for the poem. Robbie Burns used to talk like that. Granny said so.’
Anniversary of my divorce. Is it something to celebrate? Can’t decide if it would be tasteless. Charles has no such qualms, but this is because he has forgotten all about it. He telephones briskly from the office. Minna puts us through, but chats for a moment first. She and Desmond have been to the Canary Islands to escape the weather here.
‘Yeah, it was windy, but I managed a bit of topless most days, which isn’t bad for January.’
She needs no prodding to talk about Charles’s business.
‘The clockwork coffins have generated ever such a lot of attention,’ she tells me, ‘and the demand for them is huge. I think Heavenly Petting could give up frying dead animals and move into the ghoulish gift market full time. I’ll put you through to Mr Denny. Ask him.’
Charles does not want to talk about business, however. Nor about our divorci-versary.
‘Venetia, hello. Helena’s frantic that the twins should not be vaccinated. I say they should. She’s pretty het up about it, so I said I’d ask you. What did you do about The Beauty?’
‘Charles, you can’t ask me to get involved in your decisions with Helena about your babies. I can’t remember what I did about The Beauty, anyway. But she doesn’t have a nut allergy.’
He is perplexed. ‘Why should she have a nut allergy?’
‘Oh, it’s another thing people get very het up about. You’ll soon see. Do you know what day it is?’
‘Yes, of course I do. It’s Burns Night.’
‘Anything else?’ I use my most dulcet tone, but it is ill received.
‘Yes. Yesterday the twins were one month old, so as you can imagine, I’m exhausted and not in the mood for playing calendar guessing games with you.’
Hang up, delighted to think of Charles being forced into unfamiliar, murky waters of babycare.
January 28th
Giles has refused to go and stay with Charles and Helena this weekend. I ask him if he is upset about the babies. He is sitting on his bed, looking tired, his shoulders sagging and his voice small and sad.
‘It’s not that. It’s more difficult to explain.’
Hug him and sit closer on his bed, heart palpitating, awaiting awful traumatic revelation.
‘Dad’s house is different from here,’ he says, diplomatically averting his eyes from the shredded newspaper stuck to my shoe, and the dark patches of cleared-up puppy pee on the carpet. ‘And I feel homesick there, even though I’m with Dad. I’d just rather wait until everyone stops thinking about Holly and Ivy-Eff all the time.’
‘All right then, I’ll tell Dad. But remember, never call her Ivy-Eff when you’re with Dad.’
Revived miraculously, Giles sits up. ‘It’s only so we know which ones we’re talking about,’ he cajoles, and then, in a much stronger voice, ‘And can I have our Holly and Ivy up here? Felix and I are doing an episode of Animal Hospital. David’s helping us and he’s lending us his digital camcorder. Look, I’ve already got Lowly.’
He pulls back his duvet to reveal the slug-shaped dome of Lowly’s belly as he lies on his back, paws beneath his chin, sound asleep on the pillow.
February 1st
Very cross-making day of being utterly ignored by everyone, even the puppies. The episode of Animal Hospital turns quickly and surreally into a tiny film for real television. House fills with gaffer tape, cables and huge fluffy brooms held upside down. All this equipment, and the stupid idea of putting the dogs and the children on the local news, comes from marvellous Marion, a so-called friend of David’s who is a producer for the local television station. Try to get Giles to find out if marvellous Marion is David’s girlfriend. Giles grins at me.
‘I know she’s not, because David said to me, “I bet your mum thinks Marion is my girlfriend.”’ Giles is silent for a moment, watching Marion’s lithe frame leaning over to show David a shot she might use of the puppies’ castle. ‘But I think she’d like to be, don’t you, Mum?’
‘Honestly Giles, I am depressed by the coarse tone of your mind.’
‘What about yours? You’re the one who asked.’
All supremely irritating. David should not use my house as a pick-up joint for lissom journalists. Huh.
February 3rd
Letter from Charles announcing possible merger and subsequent flotation of Heavenly Petting with a pet shop chain. Visualise this as Noah’s-ark-style manoeuvre, with rickety and antique animals sailing away with all Charles’s money. In fact it means the opposite. Charles will become a squillionaire. Wonder if I will too. Hope so, but doubt it. Can’t even remember how many shares I have. Resolve to become literate in pension schemes, life assurance and shares this year, and purchase the Financial Times in Aylsham. Spend a happy hour reading the classified advertisements and eating doughnuts at the kitchen table. The advertisements are top quality and include blissful-sounding holidays. Indulge in fantasies for a while, then flick through the headlines without seeing anything I need to know, and use the rest of the paper to line the puppies’ castle keep. They look sweet nestled in the pink newsprint. Have a brilliant idea. Compose an advertisement to sell them and fax it to the FT classifieds. Most efficient morning.
February 6th
Charles collects the boys and takes them to Centre Pares for the night. They are thrilled to have him to themselves, and all three of them drive off very animated, talking about
what they will do first and whether they can go dry skiing. Wave them down the drive, scanning conscience to detect any lemon-faced feelings. There are none. This is what I wanted for them when Charles left. His twins have been a catalyst to change, and he is beginning to see the point of having Giles and Felix to himself. Not quite sure about The Beauty, but am convinced she will cope. Return to the kitchen to find her standing on the table surveying the wreckage of breakfast. Lips pursed, she shakes her head in disapproval.
‘Tut tut tut,’ she says, and, brandishing a dustpan brush, she begins to clear the table. Crockery catastrophe is averted by Sidney, who jumps onto the table to scavenge and distracts her. Sidney insinuates his way towards the butter dish. The Beauty joins him. Sidney shoots out a long pink tongue and achieves a slurp of butter. The Beauty extends a dainty finger and dips its tip in, alongside Sidney’s tongue.
‘Mmmmmm, yummy yummy,’ she smiles.
February 9th
Marvellous Marion telephones to ask if she can use the puppies’ castle as a location for a children’s programme.
‘Which one?’ Hold my breath, hoping and praying that she will say Teletubbies.
‘It’s called Soppy Dog. It’s about a Cabbage Patch dog with learning difficulties, but a lovely, gentle, funny character.’
‘Sounds ghastly,’ I bark, and realising I sound like some old sergeant major, add, ‘I mean, it sounds wonderful, and we’d love you to film it here. Will it be a series?’
‘Yes, it will take about a week to shoot. Would ten thousand be all right?’
Just manage not to scream, but say airily, ‘Ten’s fine for that, yup.’
Hens Dancing Page 22
