Summertime

by Raffaella Barker

  ‘Good God, what are you doing to those children?’ Charles demands, a hectic flush spreading across his face and reminding me of Hedley. Giles and Felix are playing the fool, and both scream with laughter and collapse on the grass.

  ‘We’re supermodels,’ flutes Felix, wiggling along in front of us, one hand camply on his hip. ‘We only get out of bed for ten thousand pounds, so give us it now.’ More wild sniggering, and then, to my horror, The Beauty trundles up to Charles, and without so much as saying ‘hello’, turns her back and flicks up her skirt to reveal no knickers.

  ‘I’m a mooneee, a mooonneee. Mooo, mooo,’ she squeals, and lurches forward into a somersault and then a curtsy. Charles is aghast.

  ‘Really Venetia, have you no control? The twins would never behave with such an absence of decorum. Unless under that child’s influence,’ he adds, glaring at The Beauty, now rolling with her brothers down the slope in the lawn. I watch the soft pants gathering grass clippings without regret. They will not do. Perhaps something shorter, like old-fashioned swimming trunks, might be the answer? Charles strides off towards the children and stands over them, cupping one hand and slapping the back of the other as if he is a boxing referee counting the combatants out.

  He fails to persuade any of them to get up, and picks his way back to me, his every movement suggesting distaste. He coughs and, fixing his eyes firmly on the roof, says, ‘I know it’s no business of mine, but those children would be a lot better off if you found yourself a husband. I don’t know what happened to that fellow David, but he had a good effect on them. Especially her,’ he says with relish, removing his gaze from the chimney pots in time to see The Beauty pull down her eyes and push up her nose to make her favourite ghoul face at Felix.

  ‘They’re all a bit exuberant at the moment. They’ll calm down once they get to Cambridge,’ I say soothingly.

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ says Charles, his voice doomladen. ‘We’re not going home to Cambridge. We’re going to a country house hotel for the weekend with Helena’s parents. I nearly said no when they asked us, but then I thought it would be a nice change for the boys. They seem to get rather bad-tempered around the house otherwise.’

  Cannot imagine their tempers being improved by a hotel, but the children all appear thrilled.

  ‘Has it got a swimming pool and a tennis court? Can we have room service? When are we going?’

  Even The Beauty catches on to the mood of extravagance, and rushes to fetch her small suitcase, shouting, ‘Shall we go in a helicopter?’

  Charles is touchingly thrilled by their enthusiasm, and drives away chatting animatedly wth all his passengers. Wave them off and return to the garden for aimless wandering, and to avoid feeding remaining four-legged and feathered dependents. This is a failure. As soon as I am alone, contemplating the simple beauty both to eyes and nose, of a small area of the garden where purple-headed lavender gives way to floating ghostly blooms of Rosa Alba and then to a dense green wall of yew, now in its prime and sprouting mad AstroTurf sprigs of impossibly bright new growth, my ears are assailed by the rattling groan of enquiring hens. All of them, usually busy at the compost heap or out on the road begging from passers-by, are now at my heels. The leading hen and her spouse have twisted their heads round so that one eye can look up to watch me, and the other eye can scan the ground so as not to miss a choice worm or caterpillar on the grass. They do not even peck at the borders, as the ground has become too dry and cracked for anything but dust-baths this month.

  It is quite impossible for me to achieve serenity when surrounded by a posse of moaning hens; so am forced to return to the yard and resume my usual role of provider. Have to focus on the colour blue to prevent bad temper. Do not entirely succeed, and dole out corn in a fit of graceless irritation, brooding on my circumstances.

  Everything to do with domestic life takes for ever, and is endlessly repetitive. Full of optimism and nesting instincts, we surround ourselves with it when in the first flush of love. Look at Desmond and Minna. There they were, a few months ago, with nothing more to worry about than whether Minna should have her nails done, and whether to listen to Waylon Jennings or an Elvis bluegrass set in their car. Now they have a mortgage, a window box to water, a cat called Ghetto and a vast stack of photograph albums to fill. A baby will be next, and all their Elvis memorabilia will be put in a box in the attic to gather dust.

  Have fed the hens now, and refilled the old sink that they drink out of. Will just give the dogs something quickly, and can then go and lounge in the garden with work to do and ill-tempered thoughts to think.

  An hour has passed, during which I have fed the dogs, and been impelled to worm them, as could no longer stand for another moment the way Rags glides across the kitchen floor on her bottom. Have also de-flea-ed them and washed their beds, then unblocked the washing-machine filter because their hair clogged it. Sudden zeal for dog hygiene on my part is fuelled by guilt, as Digger has developed dreadful swellings on his back and I have not noticed. Perhaps they have only just come. Must take him to the vet on Monday.

  The telephone has rung six times, but have not been in the mood to answer it, as wish to wallow in self-pity and frustration a bit longer. Must stop this negative thought process and get on with the day. Some yoga in the garden should do the trick, but first must change into appropriate Zen gear, as combination of Chinese pyjama top and an ancient print dress worn as a skirt because the top half has so many holes, is now hopping with fleas and also revealing too much of me through gaping seams and missing buttons.

  Turn to go upstairs and improve appearance, but too late. A car pulls up, and I panic, madly thinking it might be Hedley. Fears of being caught out and mortified in Miss Havisham mode evaporate when the car expels the unalarming figures of Vivienne and Simon. Simon’s perpetually cheerful expression is lit up further by my shambolic appearance, especially the bits where cloth gapingly reveals thigh, and a bit of stomach with a blotch of faded camping suntan still visible. Vivienne, however, is appalled.

  ‘Venetia, what have you been doing to yourself? You must get some new clothes organised, you’re supposed to be a fashion designer now.’

  ‘These are fashionable clothes,’ I insist. ‘They just need mending a bit.’

  ‘We’ve got a business proposition to put to you,’ says Simon, brandishing a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Oh good.’ I am eyeing the champagne, which suddenly becomes exactly what I need to give me a bit of courage and uplift. Have no trouble in understanding how women become alcoholics, especially mothers. In fact, find it much harder to understand why so many don’t.

  ‘We’d like to put some money into your company so you can expand and start manufacturing on a bigger scale,’ Simon continues.

  Vivienne, looking wonderfully cool, like a pistachio ice cream, in a pale green top and a beige skirt made of waffle towel material adds, ‘Yes, and I’d like to take over some of the administration for you, if you didn’t mind, Venetia, so you could get on with designing the things, and so it doesn’t all collapse every time a child is ill or on holiday. But let’s go and sit down, we can’t talk about it without a drink.’

  Am thrilled and irritated in equal measure by their offer; thrilled that my sewing of trolls and wishbones on to jumble-sale clothes all summer has resulted in a takeover bid by the giant conglomerate that is Vivienne and Simon; irritated that they have noticed the areas of inefficiency and lack of cash flow in something I was convinced was going according to plan. Must admit, though, have not been altogether clear about the plan. Can only just keep up with decorating the garments at the moment and rather thought I would sort it out after the children go back to school.

  ‘I’m sure some champagne will help us all think more clearly,’ says Simon, popping open the bottle with practised ease. Cannot feel that the kitchen, which has something unidentifiably sticky on the floor, making it difficult to move off once feet have settled in one position for a few seconds, is the place for us to have
a business meeting, so ask the others through into the garden.

  Lead the way, having gulped most of my champagne in one slug, in a spirit of confident happiness. I am about to close a deal and become hugely successful in my own right. Hah! Am striking a blow for demented housewives living in the country. In fact, maybe that’s what the company should be called.

  ‘Let’s drink a toast to The Demented Housewife,’ I yell, looking back as I do, to beam at Vivienne and Simon behind me. They are not there. They have stopped and are gazing in horror across the yard.

  ‘Something awful has happened,’ says Simon.

  I swivel my gaze around the yard and scream, ‘Oh, my God. I forgot to put them back in when the children left. Oh, no, oh, no.’

  At the bottom of the wall in the yard, beneath the bowed blood-red heads of my Dublin Bay rose, are two of the rabbits, lying stretched out, lifeless. The Beauty’s dolls’ pram is beside them, and her babies and their clothes are strewn about the yard. Another rabbit, or rather the legs of another rabbit, are sticking out from beneath my car, its top end tucked beneath the wheel as if it has been run over. The scene is gruesome and nightmarish.

  Scream rhetorically, ‘Those bloody dogs. How could they?’

  Cannot stop thinking to myself how annoying it is that I have just bought two big sacks of rabbit food, but at least there are still three rabbits left. Simon comes out of the barn, still holding his drink, and shakes his head.

  ‘They’ve had the ones that went back in as well. Why have you got so many rabbits, anyway?’

  ‘Simon,’ Vivienne admonishes, but I answer him.

  ‘Oh, because we have. Or rather had,’ I snap in exasperation. Rant and stomp about for several minutes, not wanting to approach the corpses, but looking around vengefully for a dog to kick.

  Simon carefully puts his glass of champagne down next to The Beauty’s pram, and crouches over the nearest rabbit. ‘Not a mark on any of them,’ he says, having completed his examination. ‘I think you’ll find that Rags and Lowly egged one another on. It’s classic terrier behaviour, I’m afraid. I doubt Digger had much to do with it.’

  ‘Digger doesn’t have much to do with anything,’ I mutter, and Digger, skulking behind us, thumps his tail in recognition of his name.

  ‘Thank goodness the children aren’t here,’ says Vivienne, sighing as she picks one of the corpses up off the ground. ‘What do you want us to do with them?’

  Am suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion and nausea, but do not wish to appear as unravelled as I feel. Manage nonchalantly to pick up a limp body myself, selecting the back legs to hold it by. The dead weight sways, then lolls, as if dripping, from my arm. I must put it down before I scream. Look wildly around for somewhere for them to go.

  ‘Just pop them in here for now,’ I say briskly. ‘That way we can think of something to do with them a bit later.’ Simon’s mouth gapes, and he watches me slump the horrible flopping thing into The Beauty’s dolls’ pram.

  ‘You can’t mean to leave them in there?’ he says, deeply perturbed. I am now anxious to get back to business, and would much rather not dwell on the macabre happening, as I feel it implies an inability to cope, and does not suggest a top business organisation or a company chairwoman with a brain.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say airily, ‘we always use the pram for dead bodies. We call it the hearse, in fact.’ Chuck another bunny in and smile serenely, avoiding Vivienne’s eye, willing myself to appear in control of the dreadful circumstance. ‘In fact, rabbit fur makes a very good trim for bags and skirts.’

  Vivienne gasps, ‘Venetia!’ in shocked accents, as if I have confessed to being a bank robber, but Simon laughs, picks up his glass and continues towards the garden bench.

  ‘You may as well make use of it,’ he says. ‘Now, what about our idea?’

  The drama of the past minutes has given me valuable breathing space, and has deflated some of the champagne-spiked confidence I felt for the idea. Am now a little wary, and not at all ready to commit myself. My business may be small and fragile and disorganised, but it’s mine, and I need time to consider a step which will lead to my giving it up or sharing it. Mentally edit this and say to Simon, ‘Let’s not rush this. I’d like time to think, please,’ and he nods, smiling and avuncular, as if he had thought so all along.

  ‘I thought you would say that. Think about it, just think about it. Have a chat with Charles when he brings the children back. Or ask Hedley, he’s got a sound business head, and you’ll probably see him, won’t you?’ Simon pauses to give a knowing wink, and I wish passionately that I lived in an inner city, or a Miami condominium where no one knows anything about their neighbours, nor do they care. Comfort myself that although they may know about the affair, at least none of them knows about the awful engagement interlude.

  He drains the last of his champagne and passes the glass to me. Vivienne follows him towards their car, and they depart. It is only as the sound of their engine dwindles in the hot, still air that I remember I have six dead rabbits in a dolls’ pram. Wheel them into the larder where it is cool and shut the door.

  September 2nd

  Of course, forgot about the rabbits yesterday, and made no visits to the larder to jog my memory, as just ate lettuce, radishes and chopped chives from the garden. This was a triumph on the grounds of health, self-sufficiency and virtue, but was spoilt by the discovery of half a yellow caterpillar clinging to a sorrel leaf on my almost empty plate. No amount of seaching revealed the rest of the caterpillar, and the experience marred my world-view for the day.

  In fact, spirits sank like the mercury in a barometer after lunch, and I was forced to take to the road in order to regain a sense of purpose in life. Driving between high banks where skeletal dried-out dandelions poked above tired grasses, I longed for autumn. For new beginnings, bonfires and the prospect of the children happily occupied at school all day. The sky, a sickly yellow-grey all morning, and partially responsible for my gloom, pressed down as I drove, and the first rain for months fell out of it in splashing drops on to my gnat-smeared windscreen. The splashes quickened and became a drumming torrent on the car, flooding the road, beating down from a relentless sky. I turned the radio up, revelling in the plangent misery of an old Suzanne Vega song, and drove on into the purple wall of rain.

  Most therapeutic. Reached Cromer, where the sun spilled out across the swollen sea, and the clouds shook final drops of rain on to the beach. Skipped about, skimming stones, then gave into a primitive urge and took off everything but my pants and T-shirt and ran into the water. Even more therapeutic. And a very good reason to eat cream tea, which I did, without a trace of guilt, on the way home. Followed Charles’s car the last half-mile back to the house, and leaping out to embrace my darling children, I experienced joy for the first time in ages.

  September 3rd

  Am certainly not experiencing joy today. Finally remember the rabbits at teatime, and break the bad news.

  ‘Oh,’ says Giles, not looking up from the ketchup bottle he is reading.

  ‘What rabbits?’ asks Felix, jabbing away at his GameBoy. ‘Oh, yes! Giles, look, I’ve caught the Tortle.’

  Am momentarily diverted. ‘What do you mean, you’ve caught the Tortle? What’s a Tortle?’

  Am ignored, and now both boys are jabbing away at the GameBoy. Try again with The Beauty. ‘I’m afraid your rabbits have gone to heaven, darling,’ I say gently. ‘Shall we go and bury them?’

  She puts her head on one side to consider for a minute, then shakes her head.

  ‘No, I’m busy,’ she says heartlessly, adding, ‘Is heaven next to Holt?’

  Suddenly can’t stand their heartless, zomboid, screen-filled existence. Grab the GameBoy and clasp it to my bosom, ranting, ‘You children are subhuman. Do you not understand that the dogs have eaten your rabbits and we’ve got to bury them?’

  Hurl sodding GameBoy out of the window, causing blood-curdling shriek from Felix. The Beauty spouts instant tears in sympathy, an
d Giles walks out of the door and into the yard to retrieve the treasured item, his hands in his pockets, muttering, ‘Why do you have to get into such a psych? And anyway, if the dogs ate the rabbits, we can’t bury them, can we?’

  ‘We can bury the rest of rabbit,’ says The Beauty, brightening.

  Felix stops crying as the GameBoy is restored to him. ‘Cool. Have they got heads or not?’

  Lead them to the larder, where thankfully, the thick walls and flagged floor keep the temperature low, so no awful decomposing has begun. Wheel out the pram with its dreadful cargo.

  ‘Yuck. It’s not very nice, Mum. I don’t think The Beauty should see this.’ Giles stands in front of the pram, blocking his sister’s view.

  ‘You shouldn’t have used her pram, Mum,’ says Felix, taking her hand and leading her away. ‘Come on, Beauty, let’s get some flowers and have a funeral.’

  The Beauty, thoroughly enjoying the solemnity of the occasion, goes with him meekly. ‘They’re only dead and good for nothing now,’ she says as they potter off to the garden for wreath materials.

  Why are my children so callous? On the other hand, I should be pleased, as this is the most interest any of them have shown in the rabbits since we got them. Must make the most of their ghoulishness and use the experience to teach them something. The ritual of mourning, perhaps? Giles and I trundle them down to the wood, armed with spades, and begin to dig, our spades clanking as if against steel once we have removed the layers of leaf mould, so dry is the ground.

  After a minute or two of getting nowhere, Giles speaks my thoughts. ‘Do we have to have separate graves for all of them?’ I nod. ‘Thought so,’ he says gloomily. He looks at me again after a moment, measuringly.