25 Friday
Great Aunt Audacia’s funeral today. Luckily it wasn’t too solemn an affair, what with the chrysanthemums and the fact that the only car Stephen’s mate Barry had available was a pink Hummer limo. Actually, the coffin snuggled nicely beneath the heels of the hen party we had to share it with and the girls definitely added a certain joie de vivre to the ceremony, particularly with their rendition of ‘I Will Survive’ during the interment.
Reverend Timberlake’s service was beautiful and simple – nothing too personal to clutter it up, such as her name or anything about her life. Then, the congregation (largely composed of my great aunt’s fellow residents, who had been informed they were going on a day trip to Margate) retired to our house for the funeral reception where I read the following, self-penned poem to the mourners before pouring out the tea …
‘Audacia’s Eulogy’ by Edna Fry (Mrs)
Stock up the fridge, make a nice pot of tea,
Distract the kids from fighting with a DVD,
Set out the pies and hide the good rum,
Bring out the coleslaw, let the mourners come.
Stick Enya on the hi-fi, tie black balloons to the gate,
Put the cheese and pineapple hedgehog on my best china plate,
Lay out the platters of nuts, crisps and fags,
Scribble names of the sandwiches on tiny white flags.
There’s my pork, my cheese, my egg and cress,
My corned beef on rye and my anyone’s guess.
There’s my black forest gateau and my egg foo yong,
I thought that quiche would last forever: I was wrong.
The guests are not here now: they ate every last thing;
Packed away the drumsticks and dismantled the prawn ring;
Knocked back the ham salad and crusty French bread,
Now no one can say I don’t put on a good spread.
On reflection, it may have been a bad decision to leave Stephen in charge of the punch while we went to the church; but all in all, apart from the occasional request for a deckchair and Stephen’s snoring, the event passed successfully enough. In fact, I was on the verge of calling an end to proceedings when the doorbell rang. I was astonished to see it was that American doctor from the care home. Right there on the doorstep, his shirt drenched and clinging tightly to his taut, muscular frame.
‘Hello,’ he said.
He blinked as rivulets streamed down his chiselled cheekbones and dripped from his strong, square jaw. ‘Could I possibly come in out of the rain?’
‘Is it raining?’ I said. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
I led him to the bathroom and handed him a towel and one of Stephen’s less embarrassing T-shirts. ‘Doctor Hausmann,’ he said when he finally emerged, extending his large hand. ‘Doctor Laurie Hausmann.’ He was everything Stephen isn’t – suave, sophisticated, conscious … I took his hand in mine and for a brief moment I felt a spark.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘It’s these nylon towels.’
He smiled. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I had to see you.’
‘Really?’ I said, my voice for some reason slightly higher-pitched than normal.
He proceeded to tell me the reason for his visit. I was astounded to hear what he had to say. It turns out the woman I spoke to at the care home wasn’t my Great Aunt Audacia at all – she was, in fact, a retired lollipop lady called Maude Blenkinsopp. Apparently, she thought she was Boudicca the week before. The home hadn’t said anything because increasingly regular funeral costs had pushed them over their budget, so they were happy for me and Stephen to take care of it for them. Dr Hausmann had only just found out, and felt he had to let me know as soon as possible.
On reflection, I suppose I should have had my suspicions when I saw all those names on my family tree – Louis Pasteur, Marilyn Monroe, Sherlock Holmes … I sighed. My life no longer made sense. I’d been lied to by a tea towel.
I didn’t know what to say so I offered him a cup of tea. He looked at his watch.
‘I’m afraid I must go,’ he apologised in deep transatlantic tones. ‘I’ve been transferred back to Los Angeles. My flight leaves in an hour.’ Then he kissed me softly on the cheek and said, ‘It is my sincere hope that we shall meet again.’ And with that, he was gone. Out of my house. Out of my life. I bit my lip and stared first at Stephen and then at the door. ‘Damn,’ I thought. ‘I should have asked him to take the bins out.’
26 Saturday
Had the strangest dream last night. There I was, standing at the kitchen sink, when suddenly a giant kebab leapt out at me, but I couldn’t escape because I had a huge ball and chain around my ankle. Then, out of nowhere, this extremely handsome, very damp American came bursting through the door, cut through the chain with a surgical saw and carried me out to safety. Oh, and I was naked. And so was he. And there was a sunset. Most peculiar. I must remember to ask Mrs Winton what she thinks it means when I next see her.
27 Sunday
Stephen was being extremely difficult today. He’s demanding the right to spend every other weekend with his children. I had to tell him that was only the privilege of the divorcé, although that could be arranged.
28 Monday
Received a very odd letter this morning. From a firm of solicitors, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, inviting us to their offices tomorrow. I wonder whatever it can be? I hope Stephen didn’t take what I said yesterday seriously. I’d never divorce him. I’d get far more if he had a fatal accident.
29 Tuesday
Well, well, well. Who would have thought it? £80,000! Who would ever have imagined that dear, sweet lady would have so much money hidden under that huge hat? That’s online poker for you, I guess. Turned out she didn’t die when I was there at all. That was just the whisky. She actually passed away during the night, but not before re-writing her will. And composing several limericks. Must have been a single malt. It looks like, for once, our luck has really changed for the better. I asked Stephen how he thought we could best use the money, but he was too busy flicking through jet-ski catalogues.
30 Wednesday
Another surprise! Stephen’s just told me over dinner that he’s hanging up his chamois leather and bucket. He’s asked me to go around all the customers on his window-cleaning round to let them know. Apparently he’d go himself, but he claims he can’t bear the thought of all their shocked faces.
31 Thursday
I have to say Stephen was right. His customers were shocked when I told them. They all thought he’d quit years ago.
April
1 Friday
We told the kids a homicidal clown lives in their wardrobe today. It wasn’t an April Fool, we just thought they should know.
2 Saturday
We had a family conference this afternoon. I felt it was important we should all have our say about what to do with our enormous windfall. It was so nice, all of us sitting together like that, without it being some kind of intervention. Everyone had their own ideas about how we should spend it.
Of course, Brangelina wanted a pony. Viennetta wanted a boob job; Stephen Junior a stretch limo, a lifetime’s supply of Cristal and a subscription to the Playboy channel; and the twins wanted matching My Little Uzis. Hugh Junior had some ridiculous notion about a stethoscope and a biologically accurate model of the human digestive system, while Stephen suggested a bouncy lap-dancing castle and a biologically accurate model of Angelina Jolie. In the end, we decided to postpone the decision for a while and just use some of the money to go away this weekend. Stephen says he’ll book something online. I can’t wait!
3 Sunday
I’m taking advantage of all the kids being out by doing those little jobs – cleaning the oven, defrosting the fridge, changing the locks …
4 Monday
Had a bit of a shock today. I got back from shopping earlier than I expected to find Stephen lying on the sofa. Obviously, that wasn’t a shock, but there he was, sipping a glass of brandy and listening to some sort o
f classical music, of all things! Of course, he jumped up as soon as he saw me come in through the door. Then he gave me that big, sly grin of his and shouted ‘April Fool!’ Instantly, my mind was put at ease. Trust Stephen to get the wrong day!
5 Tuesday
Rang Stephen Junior’s school this afternoon. I’m not happy about him having to dissect a frog today. I’m sure there must be other ways to teach fractions.
6 Wednesday
Our mini-break tickets came today. I eagerly tore open the envelope. Where had Stephen booked? Brighton, Edinburgh, Cornwall? I looked at the stubs: Liverpool. I checked the calendar. Grand National weekend. I might have known.
7 Thursday
We took the 10:22 to Liverpool. A lovely journey apart from the baby howling a few seats away. Perhaps I would have been better off putting it in the next carriage.
It turned out Stephen had splashed out a bit and booked us into a Travelmansion right next to Aintree racecourse for three nights. It’s ever so luxurious. We’ve got a family room with en-suite jacuzzi, tea, coffee and champagne-making facilities and a sofa that folds down into a three-piece suite. Even the minibar comes with its own mini-barman.
8 Friday
We went down to breakfast early so as not to miss the good food, but we needn’t have worried. The serving troughs were full to the brim with bacon, sausages and foie gras.
After breakfast we took the Tributles tour – an open-top bus ride through the city, taking in the most famous haunts of the official world’s worst Beatles tribute band. They piped out hits such as ‘Strawberry Vodka Forever’ and ‘’Ey, Judge’ as we passed by their childhood homes and the Gavin Club. We even caught a glimpse of the city’s iconic landmark, the Lagerbird. It really was a wonderful trip down halfpenny lane.
In the afternoon, Stephen took me round Liverpool’s finest boutiques so that I might, in his words, look ‘a bit of all right’ at the racecourse tomorrow. He bought me a new bag from Handbags at Dawn and a hat from Hatty Jacques, before whisking us all off to dinner at Mickey Hollywood’s Meatzeria. The kids and I went for the Jurassic Pork, while Stephen ordered their largest steak – Apocalypse Cow. It’s so embarrassing eating out with Stephen. He always plays with his food. Sadly, the food usually wins. He’s sleeping it off now. Hopefully he’ll wake up soon. They’re putting the chairs on the tables.
9 Saturday
I was still full from last night, so for breakfast I just had a coffee and a bit of caviar on toast. Stephen, of course, had his usual full English. I don’t know where he puts it, really I don’t. After breakfast, we headed straight out to the racecourse, done up to the nines. The place was buzzing. No sooner had we arrived than Stephen said he had to go and see a man about a horse – him and his euphemisms! When he returned he had a big grin on his face. He said we were going to make a bet – an accumulator, I think he said it was called. Apparently you bet on a few races and whatever you win in the first one goes on to the next race until all the races have been run. I told Stephen it sounded terribly complicated, but he just gave me his Sunday morning wink and told me not to worry my pretty little head about it. It was, apparently, a ‘dead cert’, whatever that is. He opened up a copy of the Racing Post and asked me to pick a horse for each of the four races being run this afternoon. I was reluctant, but he said I was his lucky charm. I must say, this racing atmosphere seems to be bringing the best out in him, for once.
I looked at the lists, hoping something would jump out at me. Incredibly, it did, and I made my choices. Stephen dashed straight off to the bookmaker and then to the stables – probably to feed our horses an extra sugar lump, knowing him – the big softie!
The first race wasn’t until quarter past two, so we had time to have a good look round. It was all very exciting. We saw the winners’ enclosure where the winning horses parade after their race and the losers’ enclosure, which was next to the glue factory. Unfortunately, we missed the first two races but Stephen didn’t seem too concerned. When we finally emerged from the champagne and lager tent, it turned out Edna’s Folly and Couch Potato had both won, so all our winnings went onto my choice in the third race.
For a long time it didn’t look like our horse had a chance. He was trailing the other horses by miles, or 12 to 14 furlongs as Stephen informed me, however far that is. Anyway, it looked like our little bet was lost until, inexplicably, all the other horses in the race fell at the final fence, leaving Hugh’s The Daddy to trot home unchallenged.
The final horse in our accumulator bet was running in the big one – the Grand National. I have to say it was quite an extraordinary race. Who would have imagined so many horses would fall sick, lame or die like that just before it began? I felt quite sorry for our poor horse as he set off round the course all on his own, although Stephen didn’t seem quite so concerned as he jigged up and down, singing ‘We’re in the Money’, ‘Money Makes the World Go Round’ and, oddly, ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’.
Brangelina’s Dream plodded round the course, somehow managing to get over all the fences and finally came up to the final one. He only needed to get over that and he was home and dry. Our hearts were in our mouths as he trudged wearily towards it. We held our breath as he leapt upwards. Forwards. And downwards. He was over! We cheered wildly as he trotted on towards the finishing post.
Unfortunately, we soon stopped cheering as Brangelina’s Dream turned suddenly and ran off the course just two yards from the end of the race. We trudged back to the hotel with heavy hearts. For some reason, Stephen’s seemed the heaviest. He went straight to bed without even touching his Bacardi and Cocoa.
10 Sunday
Breakfast was lovely again, although a little more difficult to digest this morning, weighed down as we were by our suitcases, with a doorman in pursuit. As we all charged down the street towards the railway station, Stephen was still cursing and trying to blame me for my choice of horse but how was I to know what would happen? Or that my idiotic husband had placed our entire inheritance on a bet?
And of course, how were either of us to know we would return home to find the horse in Brangelina’s bedroom? To this day, I’ve no idea where she got that jockey’s outfit.
Oh Diary, as I lie here staring out into the night, I can’t help wondering what I’ve done to deserve this. How could Stephen do that? How could he just throw all that money away on a stupid bet like it meant nothing to him? Like I mean nothing to him? Honestly, I’m so cross I could thump him. But I’ll settle for kicking him instead.
11 Monday
Well, that’s that. It pains me to say it after all these years, but I’m afraid I had no choice under the circumstances. I talked to Stephen and I made it perfectly clear how things stood. To be fair to him, he took it quite well, considering. There were a few choice words, a few tears were shed and a few exclusive, limited edition, not-available-in-the-shops commemorative plates were broken; but, in the end, he went.
Apparently, the lady at the Careers Office was very understanding. She could see how Stephen’s chronic lethargy explained the gaps in his CV – particularly the one from 1992 to 2007. I’m not sure she was overly impressed with his preferred options of Karaoke Laureate or Argonaut, but she nonetheless endeavoured to locate an area best matched to his skill-set. He arrived home eight hours later. He’s got to go back again tomorrow, when she’s confident she will have located his skill-set.
12 Tuesday
Turns out Stephen doesn’t have a skill-set, so he’s being referred to their extreme cases department, where they are confident of placing him in a fulfilling position. In the meantime, he’s returned to his traditional fulfilling position – lying on the sofa with a bucket of chicken on his chest.
13 Wednesday
Creative writing cancelled again tonight. Not entirely sure why. The lecturer just said he was having a bad week. Something to do with shooting an albatross, he said.
14 Thursday
Must be my lucky day! I found 50 pence down the back of the sofa. Oh
, and the baby.
15 Friday
For a treat today, I made the family my special pizza. Here’s the recipe …
Edna’s English Four Seasons Pizza
Serves eight or nine.
My special Four Seasons pizza encompasses all the very best of the English seasons. First, every truly successful pizza needs a base. Something bready usually works best, I find. I prefer a traditional English bread such as thin white sliced, or thick if it’s deep pan, but wholemeal or malt loaf are acceptable alternatives. Knead together then roll out into a large circle (or more likely some kind of hexagon). Smear with tomato purée, ketchup or condensed tomato soup, then cover liberally with that most English of cheeses – the Dairylea triangle.
Next, the toppings, each representing one of the four English seasons.
Spring – it has to be lamb, of course. Who could possibly watch a newborn lamb gambolling playfully on a lush green hillside without thinking ‘pizza’? However, if the budget won’t stretch to fresh lamb, there are a variety of pre-packed, mechanically retrieved substitutes available from most supermarkets. My own particular favourite is Spamb.
Summer – nothing evokes an English summer better than the taste of leather on willow. But if your local supermarket doesn’t stock one or both of these, strawberries and cream make a passable substitute.
Autumn – the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. And Marmite. What could capture the essence – and brownness – of fallen leaves better than this delightful yeast extract spread?
Winter – it can only be that most festive of toppings, mulled liver.
And finally, my only foreign ingredient. A good pizza needs a healthy sprinkling of herbs and I use only the very finest French blend – my trusty bag of pot-pourri.
Bake for 20 to 40 minutes at Gas Mark 220, or vice versa.
Serve, drizzled with lager to taste.
Hint: Why not get your husband to dress up as a pizza delivery boy for that extra special authentic Italian touch? Or a gladiator.
16 Saturday
We’re trying a little bedtime role reversal tonight – I’m staying up to watch the football and Stephen’s pretending he’s got a headache.
Mrs. Fry's Diary Page 4
