by Daisy Waugh
Recently, Geraldine has been finding it increasingly difficult to sleep. She lies awake at night, next to Clive, and she can feel the quicksand of Downsizers’ Oblivion closing in around them, sucking them in, and she wants to scream for help. And Clive, too, can lie quietly beside his wife, blinking in the absolute darkness, and he’ll think about the important cases he and Geraldine might have been involved in if they had stayed in London, and he’ll think of the humdrum papers on his desk, and of their practice, which is far from thriving and he’ll think, This is hell. This is not what we worked so hard for.
But they always put on a brave face in public. Of course. Not even Kitty Mozely – not even each other – would have guessed how difficult they were really finding it.
11
So. It is tea-time at the Old Rectory on the Monday after the Friday-night limbo party and Kitty Mozely and Geraldine, who have both made a highly competitive point of stopping their non-existent work in time to pick Scarlett and Oliver up from Fiddleford Primary School, are stretched out on the lawn in front of the house discussing the sujet du moment, as they have chosen to refer to it: Fanny Flynn. Fanny is not a popular woman in Fiddleford at the moment.
Geraldine Adams and Kitty Mozely had both been present at the shirt-stripping incident, when she had swept out of the village hall with Louis’s glamorous American arms around her, and they were still there afterwards, when she returned to the village hall with Grey. But neither has yet had a chance to speak to her, which is frustrating for them. It means they are unclear about exactly what happened to whom, and why, and are still, nearly seventy hours later, trying to piece the full drama together.
‘I notice she didn’t come out to the gate after school this afternoon. Did she? To have a chat with the parents – which she might have done. She ought to, really, every day. So the parents can get to know her. But really,’ tuts Geraldine, sitting up slightly to stir saccharin into her tea, ‘after Friday…’
‘After Friday it’s the least she could do,’ Kitty agrees.
‘It’s all very well. But she does have our kids in her care. I personally think she ought to have sent the children home with a letter of explanation. Don’t you? I mean, so many parents were there at the limbo, witnessing…People like us can take these things in our stride of course but a lot of parents…’ Geraldine is briefly distracted by the sight of a chip in the Chocolate Plum polish on her toenail.
‘Absolutely,’ murmurs Kitty, lying back, eyes closed, exhaling cigarette, soaking up the spring sun. ‘That’s absolutely right.’
They lapse into silence, listening idly to the birds twitter, the gentle breeze in the trees. ‘Aaah…’ sighs Geraldine. ‘What a lovely day!’
From inside the Old Rectory they can hear Ollie and Scarlett talking animatedly, or – no, it’s only Ollie, actually. Ollie’s voice, yelling something angry, followed by a loud crash. The words ‘stupid ugly bitch’ ring out across the lovely lawn. But both women are relaxing, taking a well-deserved break from the stresses and strains of work, work, work and motherhood. They both pretend not to hear, and then, after a decentish pause, Kitty says (it could have been either of them; they tend to take it in turns), ‘Isn’t it marvellous how well the children get along?’
Scarlett Mozely is Kitty’s only child, the fruit of a passionate month with a Moroccan cab driver, who has long since driven away. Scarlett was born with lopsided facial features and a twisted back which, though she doesn’t need a wheelchair, means she will probably never be able to walk without crutches. She and Geraldine’s son, Ollie, are both at Fiddleford Primary, and both in Fanny’s class, although a year apart. They loathe each other.
‘But I get the impression the chap,’ says Geraldine, keen to stick to the sujet du moment, ‘that incredibly handsome American who whisked her away at the end—’
‘Louis,’ Kitty prompts impatiently. ‘He’s called Louis, Geraldine.’
‘Louis – he’s not actually her boyfriend.’
‘She must be mad. Why ever not?’
‘They didn’t embrace when they arrived, did they? They hugged in a sort of non-boyfriendy way, don’t you think?…Plus, Dawn was behind the bar at the pub on Friday night,’ Geraldine adds. (Dawn is Geraldine’s daily.) ‘She was watching them very closely. After all, she’s got Derek at the school, hasn’t she? Is he called Derek? I can’t remember. Skinny boy. In Ollie’s class. Ollie and Scarlett’s class, excuse me.’
Kitty has no idea. Nor any interest. ‘And the pub would have been empty, I suppose. With everyone being at the limbo. So she’d have got a good look…’
‘Dawn says Miss Flynn was knocking back pints of Guinness. With whisky mac chasers. Guinness and whisky mac chasers!’
‘Yes. And were they canoodling?’
‘She said not. She said definitely just talking. But Miss Flynn was crying her heart out at one point. She must have been quite upset.’
‘Christ,’ bursts out Kitty suddenly. ‘You don’t suppose he’s gay, do you? What a waste!’
Kitty adores young men.
As might be expected, given her frolicsome lifestyle, Kitty has aged a good deal less elegantly than her rich, selfdisciplined friend, Geraldine. Kitty’s long straight hair has been dyed so often it’s devoid of any colour at all any more, and she’s put on stones since the early days, when she and Geraldine were at Oxford together, and she, Kitty, was meant to be the sexy one; the doe-eyed Brigitte Bardot lookalike who was going to set the world on fire…
She still has the doe eyes, except nowadays they’re watchful and puffy from alcohol. She’s broke. Lonely. Lazy. She drinks like a fish. But she still has a certain blowsy allure. She dresses in white, always; wafts around in a cloud of musky scent and French tobacco, and when she flirts, which she does continually, she flirts with true and reckless intent. She’s good company but a dangerous friend. Fortunately for Geraldine, her soft-speaking, cerebral husband Clive has never appealed to Kitty – and nor (though Kitty might not believe it) has she ever greatly appealed to him.
In any case, Kitty’s action-packed sex life has always been a source of irritation for Geraldine. It’s one area where Geraldine has always felt outdone. Especially since she’s been married. She and Clive happen to have a strongish marriage (Kitty, on the other hand, has never maintained a relationship for longer than a few months). Clive and Geraldine work together, plan together, agree with each other on most things they consider to be important. They quite like each other. But they don’t have much sex. ‘Gay or not, my love,’ Geraldine says, annoyingly brightly, ‘young Louis is probably just a tad – too – young – for you, don’t you think?’
Kitty chortles. ‘I doubt that very much.’
‘Either way, you’ll probably never lay eyes on him again.’
‘Ah-ha!’ Kitty rolls over on to her belly, rests her chin in her hand. ‘Top Secret gossip: Mrs Hooper says he was asking at the post office about places to rent! Apparently, Ms Flynn isn’t allowed to know. But we are. He’s a photographer, Mrs Hooper says. From Louisiana. Of course one can tell. He’s got that innate masterfulness about him, hasn’t he? From all that slave owning, I imagine. They all have it. In the Southern States…I can never resist a Southern boy, can you?’ Kitty says ‘Southern’ with a silly Southern accent, and doesn’t wait for Geraldine to reply. ‘Anyway, Mrs Hooper says he works freelance for some of the London newspapers. She says he’s looking for a place to live.’
‘Oh. Well then, I’m wrong, aren’t I?’ says Geraldine. ‘If he’s moving down here – if he’s keeping it secret from her
– then he and Fanny Flynn must be lovers. Or if not then he certainly wants them to be. Which rather knocks you out of the frame, old girl. Sorry.’
‘Not necessarily, it doesn’t.’
They fall silent a moment, recover their good nature.
‘I say, though,’ Geraldine says brightly, ‘you know Clive actually went up and talked to her, after she came back to the hall. And she’s obviously ra
ther a troubled young lady, because when Clive told her he was a solicitor she wouldn’t stop talking about stalkers. Legal rights of. Imagine that!’
‘So she’s a stalker?’
‘Either that, Kitty, or she’s got a stalker. Which I think is the more likely scenario.’
‘Oh! But who could possibly be stalking her? In Fiddleford!’
‘Well, she wouldn’t say, would she?’
Suddenly Kitty gasps. She even sits up. ‘Geraldine! You don’t think – Grey McShane!’
For one delirious moment they will themselves to believe it. Without success.
‘One can’t help thinking, though,’ Geraldine moves blithely on, ‘if a girl does wander through life ripping her shirt off at the slightest provocation, she is running the risk of attracting unwanted attention from – you know – these sort of ghastly, obsessive perverts. Don’t you think so? I know it’s not fashionable to say so. But that’s just the way of the world.’
‘Exactly…Absolutely.’
‘Clive says she was being very obtuse. Absolutely wouldn’t go into specifics. But one can’t help wondering…I mean, it’s certainly intriguing, isn’t it?’
Just then Ollie comes rushing out of the house, screaming like a toddler. He, too, when he calms down enough to speak, remains stubbornly obtuse. Absolutely won’t go into specifics. But it turns out his PlayStation is broken, and that Scarlett is to blame.
‘Oh, baby,’ coos Geraldine, ‘never mind. I’m very proud you were generous enough to let Scarlett have a go with it.’
That isn’t quite what he’d said.
‘Yes, well done, Ollie,’ says Kitty. ‘Did Scarlett say sorry nicely?’
‘No.’
Kitty clicks her tongue. She wishes Scarlett would remember that she’s in Ollie’s house, playing with Ollie’s toys, and that really, given Scarlett’s physical and material disadvantages, she should count herself lucky that such a nice-looking boy with so many nice-looking toys is willing to have anything to do with her. Besides which, weather allowing, Kitty very much plans to place herself and her daughter beside Ollie’s lovely new swimming pool for most of the coming summer. It makes everything so much more awkward when the children refuse to get on. ‘Where is she, anyway?’ Kitty asks.
‘Inside, probably. Smashing something else up—’
‘Never mind, baby-boy,’ interrupts Geraldine hurriedly. ‘Never mind. If it’s really broken we’ll get you another one at the weekend. Fair?’
‘But it’s—What, the new one?’
‘If you’re good. As a reward for being so generous to Scarlett.’ Geraldine leans across to give him a cuddle but he shakes her off and runs quickly back into the house. Geraldine hesitates. There are times when she is embarrassed by the contrast between Scarlett’s and Ollie’s fortunes, and this happens to be one of them. ‘Perhaps,’ she says, looking tentatively at Kitty, nervous that the suggestion might be thought patronising, ‘perhaps I could get one for Scarlett, too? As an early birthday present…’
Kitty doesn’t generally mind being at the receiving end of her rich girlfriend’s largesse. Actually, over the years Geraldine has helped her out more often than Kitty cares to remember. But even Kitty has her limits. There are a few things she will not – she cannot – accept from Geraldine, and a PlayStation for Scarlett is apparently among them. So Kitty pretends not to hear. ‘Children!’ she says irrelevantly. ‘Anyway, how’s work?’
‘Oh. Work’s OK. Work’s great!’
She and Clive have slashed their prices since they first opened for business, but they still charge too much for country solicitors, and their whole Big City manner is too aggressive. It doesn’t impress anyone around Lamsbury. So Geraldine’s office is in fact more like a graveyard – very far from great – and with every month, as the negative word continues to spread, the situation seems to be worsening. Not only that, with the nest egg gone, and the big fat salaries too, Clive and Geraldine are beginning to fear that cash flow may soon become a problem. ‘Work’s fabulous, Kitty. Thanks. I mean, it’s quiet, but we like it like that. And of course we’re still relatively new. I was actually thinking I might slim down the hours I put in there. Just for the summer. Spend a bit of quality time with Ollie before it’s too late, and we’re packing him off to university!’
‘They grow up so quickly,’ Kitty says automatically.
‘I was thinking I could take a couple of mornings and offer up my services at the school. They’re clearly in need of it.’
‘Mmm. Good idea. What fun.’
‘I can do a bit of reading with the kids. Gosh, you know – all the stuff other mummies get to do, who don’t have careers to worry about!…Because frankly, Kitty, what confidence I ever had in that establishment—I mean, never mind the three Rs. What about the others? What about Respect? What about Restraint? What about keeping your bloody clothes on?’
Kitty chortles.
‘It’s all very well having a young, attractive, spirited head teacher, and of course, in principle I’m 100 per cent behind her. One hundred per cent. But really…Personally, Kitty, I would have liked to have had some say in appointing her, wouldn’t you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘It’s because we aren’t governors, Kit. Why aren’t we governors? We should be governors.’
‘Crikey, I don’t know about that.’
‘We should be. How does it work, do you think?’
‘I’ve got a nasty feeling you’d have to go to church,’ murmurs Kitty. ‘And suck up to that bloody awful vicar.’
‘We, Kit. Not me, we.’ The idea is growing more appealing the more she thinks about it. Anything is more appealing than sitting in that silent office, watching her husband bend diligently over work he’s too good for, listening to the ravens, waiting for the telephone to ring. ‘I’ll start by offering to do a bit of reading with the kids, I think. Don’t you think? And then sort of work my way in. Because frankly, Kitty, after that display last Friday night I’d like to see for myself what’s actually going on in that place.’
Kitty sits up suddenly. Mention of the Friday Night Display has once again reminded her of Louis, the masterful Southern boy, possibly not gay and possibly moving into the area; and she’s felt a shiver of adrenalin run right through her. ‘I say,’ she says brightly, ‘shall we open a bottle of wine?’
12
The photograph of Fanny and her fancy bra, arms outstretched and leaping into the arms of (an unseen) Louis, makes the whole of page 7 of the Western Weekly Gazette that Thursday. It is the same day that Robert White puts in his first appearance at the school since slinking off with a cold ten days earlier. And there is, most understandably, an air of repressed glee about him as he and his sandals and his thick polo-neck jersey shuffle into the staff room that morning. Behind the beard, his pink lips are upturned in wry, self-conscious amusement. He has the newspaper opened and folded under one arm.
Fanny, having ignored various Gazette telephone messages on her answer machine at home and here at the school, naively imagines that the newspaper has lost interest in the story, and has by now virtually forgotten it herself. So when Robert comes into the staff room she’s sitting very peacefully with her feet on the coffee table, chuckling over a copy of Private Eye. It is only half past eight. School doesn’t start for a quarter of an hour, and Fanny has once again been up for hours. (It’s a new habit, and slightly disconcerting to her. She continues to work harder than ever before and yet recently she’s been literally springing out of bed.) So she’s already taken herself and Brute for a run, and put in a couple of hours’ work on the increasingly damp stack of papers under the kitchen sink. Now she is relaxing. Beside her Linda Tardy the teacher’s assistant is munching prematurely on her lunch-time sandwich, as usual, and staring blankly into space. Mrs Haywood the glass-eyed secretary is making herself coffee. Contentment reigns.
‘Hell-o!’ says Robert warmly. ‘Morning all! Good morning, Fanny!’
They look up, mildly surpris
ed. It’s rare for Robert to come in at all. It’s exceptionally rare for him to come in sounding excited.
‘Morning, Robert,’ they say. ‘Welcome back. Good journey in?’
Robert lives in a village almost ten miles from Fiddleford, and he usually has a little observation to make about the traffic, or the inconsiderate behaviour of his fellow drivers. Today, most unusually, he says the journey was ‘very good indeed’.
Mrs Haywood offers to make him coffee.
‘Oh, that would be splendid!’ he cries, rubbing his hands together. ‘What a splendid idea, Mrs Haywood. Yes, please. Much obliged.’
‘Glad to see you’re feeling so much better,’ Fanny says drily. Among all the other problems spinning around her head this week, the problem of Robert’s absenteeism has not been forgotten. On the contrary, with every day he has failed to appear she has grown more resentful. She discussed it over the weekend with Louis, who was no help at all. On Friday night, after she reeled back to the limbo, she even found herself discussing it with old General Maxwell McDonald.
‘Our real obstacle is Dr Curry,’ General Maxwell McDonald had shouted over the calypso music. ‘Robert White’s sister is Dr Curry’s wife, of course. Excellent doctor, but weak-minded. That’s the problem. He knows perfectly well his brother-in-law is a good-for-nothing layabout. I’ve spoken to him about it. But then Robert White turns up in the surgery, snivelling like a girl and asking for a “sick note”.’ The General shuddered at the words. ‘Curry won’t tell the man he’s an idle bugger and pack him off back to work. I should, certainly. But then again,’ he chortled, ‘I’m not married to Dr Curry’s wife…’ At which the General had tapped his nose and added, incomprehensibly, ‘Silent but deadly, see? Courageous work with Mrs Guppy, by the way. Thought you looked marvellous! Great success. Well done!’
