A Surrey State of Affairs

by Ceri Radford

  Readers, do not think I have a heart of stone. I was not unmoved by this story of Lithuanian love and loss. In normal circumstances I would have welcomed this suffering twin, despite the many hazards that a double serving of Natalia could produce. But she wanted her to visit at Easter, the very time that Sophie will be back from her eco lodge, ready perhaps at last for a few nice chats and a shopping trip for a new spring mackintosh. I regret to say that Sophie and Natalia do not get along, Nata-lia resenting Sophie’s mess, Sophie resenting Natalia’s habit of moving her things about, humming loudly, and allegedly once stealing her black-cherry nail polish. An extraneous Lithuanian would put her in a foul mood for the whole week and ruin my plans. It was not to be.

  I told Natalia as kindly as I could that Easter week would not be possible, but that Lydia was welcome to visit another time. She stared at me in silence, her heavily made-up eyes narrowing to wavy black lines. Then she picked up the laundry, staggered once under the weight, and walked away.

  SUNDAY, MARCH 9

  Jeffrey surprised me at breakfast. I was calmly decapitating a boiled egg and reading a feature in the newspaper about “trophy wives” when he said that there was something he wanted to talk to me about. I put down my teaspoon. This was a rare event.

  “It’s about Natalia,” he said, increasing my surprise. The affairs of our housekeeper are not usually his concern. However, she was apparently so upset by my refusal to allow her twin to visit that she had appealed to his higher authority. “I really think we should let her have her way, old girl,” he said, the prospect of a distraught young girl putting a compassionate gleam in his eye. “What harm could it do?”

  I was torn. I am usually happy to follow Jeffrey’s guidance in all matters except for the color of table linen, but on this occasion I felt something within me rebel. I had plans for that weekend involving our daughter. I had already handled the situation with the housekeeper. If I am in charge of domestic affairs, then I am in charge of domestic affairs, come what may. I told him that I didn’t think it would work and went steadfastly back to reading the newspaper. (I wonder if Tanya counts as a trophy wife? She is certainly much younger than Mark, and very pretty in a soap-opera-star sort of way, but I can’t help but feel that her dark brown roots must rule her out.)

  Jeffrey was clearly in a conciliatory mood because he followed me to church without complaining and then listened to Mother tell the same story about how the new foreign nurse had hidden her slippers twice. He must really pity Natalia. Beneath that cool, dignified, English exterior he has a heart that melts like our reduced-salt Lurpak butter.

  MONDAY, MARCH 10

  Where to start? It has taken me six vials of Bach Rescue Remedy, an hour of lying in a darkened room, and the help of a Facebook support network to calm my nerves enough to write this blog.

  This morning, Darcy escaped. Darcy, my beloved parrot, my most loyal companion. I have always guarded so carefully against this happening. Every time I let him have a flutter about the conservatory to stretch his majestic wings, I always check and double-check that the windows are shut first. It was Natalia’s doing. It must have been. She has the motive, and the malice.

  Today at about 10:00, I let Darcy out of his cage and shut the conservatory door firmly behind me to go and pour myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. At 10:05 I was gazing out at the lawn and thinking that I must get the new gardener to tackle the moss when I saw something out of the corner of my eye: a glint of emerald plumage rocketing off above the rhododendrons. It took me a moment to understand what I had seen. When I did, I have to admit that I abandoned my usual notions of feminine restraint and bellowed like a stricken ox.

  The next few hours passed in a blur. I ran across the lawn and out onto the street in my bare feet. I ran up the pavement, grit sticking into my soles, and watched as his little silhouette faded away into a heartbreaking nothingness.

  I went back to the house. I cried. I summoned Natalia and shouted at her. She shrugged. I phoned Jeffrey’s office and pleaded with his PA to haul him out of a meeting.

  And finally, I went back out again, and as I was pacing the streets, squinting at the horizon, Tanya drove past in her big black Toyota four-by-four. She was so kind that I will never again look askance at her hair extensions.

  As soon as she understood the situation, she packed some Waitrose organic muesli to use as bait, and drove me around the village green, then Surrey Heath, Richmond Park, and eventually as far as Hampstead Heath. We came across a few clusters of parakeets, each of which made my heart surge, but none contained birds of Darcy’s stature. After four long hours, we had to return empty-handed. My mouth was dry, my stomach cold and tight.

  And then…well. We got home. Tanya hugged me, then I got out of the car and walked slowly up the drive. I went inside. Everything looked as it did before—Jeffrey’s golfing umbrella leaning against the hat stand, a vase of lilies starting to drop pollen on the oak table—but the feel of the house was empty, desolate. I went through to the kitchen and looked out the window at the lawn, the last place I had seen my poor parrot. I looked, and looked again. Dear readers, there he was! Perched blithely in the apple tree in the middle of the grass, his branch bobbing in the breeze, staring right at me, I am sure, with a sharp and mischievous look. A few enticing words and Brazil nuts later, and he was back in his cage. My heart sang, even if the first word he uttered was Lithuanian.

  I took a padlock from Jeffrey’s shed, locked his cage, and threaded the key onto my white gold necklace next to Mother’s locket. I lay down to calm myself, then went on Facebook and told Paratweets all about my ordeal. They were the only ones who could understand. OMG pour you. Thats worse than the day my daughter hid in the laundry cupboard for 2hrs, said one. After Googling OMG, I smiled sadly in agreement.

  Although the knot in my stomach started to loosen and the thumping in my head started to fade, one problem remained: Natalia. She has shown me what she is capable of if I refuse to allow her sister to stay. I changed my status to: Do I capitulate to domestic terrorism?

  TUESDAY, MARCH 11

  I am weak. I have given in. Lydia is coming.

  Do not, however, think it is all my doing: I was tempted to pack Natalia off back home, clutching her Big Ben tea bag box and other pathetic memorabilia, after yesterday’s act of treachery. But once again, Jeffrey has intervened. Last night over dinner I told him all about Darcy’s disappearing act, almost choking on my salmon en croute as I explained that the whole dreadful affair was almost certainly Natalia’s fault. I suggested it might be time for a new housekeeper, mentioning too her slovenly dusting and her habit of leaving her tarty underwear lying about. This did not have the effect I had expected. Jeffrey looked distant for a moment, before flicking into his lawyer mode (I can tell when he does this because his chest sticks out and the frown line deepens between his eyes) and intoning gravely on the principle of innocent until proven guilty. Apparently, there was no prima facie evidence to prove beyond all reasonable doubt to a fair-minded group of people that Natalia had indeed released a parrot named Darcy. There were no fingerprints, no DNA evidence, nothing beyond assumptions and suspicion. This young girl, who had an unblemished record and her whole life in front of her, could well have been framed.

  Sometimes I think Jeffrey is wasted on tax. Once he had finished, he took a long swig of his wine, and said, in a normal, quieter, voice, “Besides, the economy’s buggered, my pension’s on thin ice, and she’s cheap.”

  He’s right, of course, although I find it hard not to feel rather distant from the swirling waters of financial Armageddon. The letters offering me platinum credit cards continue to arrive on the doormat, albeit a little less frequently, and only last Sunday, I learned from the Sunday Telegraph magazine that there is a six-month waiting list for a Mulberry handbag—named after some upstart fashion model barely Sophie’s age—which costs twelve hundred pounds. As long as it is so easy to borrow money to buy unaffordable things, I’m sure the economy will
perk up soon.

  And yet Jeffrey would not budge. Natalia stays, and if I am not to walk around in a constant state of fear it means that Lydia will be coming to stay too. She will have to sleep in Rupert’s old room, and I’ll be damned if I’m moving his collection of old comics and computer manuals to make space for her cheap eastern European cosmetics.

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 12

  Bell ringing provided a more sympathetic audience last night than Jeffrey did. I told them all about Darcy before we started ringing. Miss Hughes said it just shows that these eastern Europeans would sell their own grandmothers for a pair of gold earrings; Reginald said, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” and looked confused; Gerald touched my shoulder and said, “Poor you. I know what it feels like to be abandoned.”

  Even though I was preoccupied with the trauma of Darcy’s escape, I did not forget my other business at bell ringing: Gerald. Trying to gauge Miss Hughes’s tastes, I asked her whether she liked Reginald’s new rust-colored pullover, and if she thought men should experiment with color. She wrinkled her nose. “That color reminds me of a septic tank,” she said. “But I do like a man who can carry off a nice bit of purple.” I repeated this loudly—that men looked nice in purple—so that Gerald could hear. Then I hurried home to check on Darcy.

  THURSDAY, MARCH 13

  Today I baked a walnut cake and took it to Tanya to thank her for her help. She didn’t look her usual self when she answered the door. I told her she seemed pale and asked if she was feeling okay, but she laughed and said she was just trying to save money by skimping on the fake tan. Apparently Jeffrey is not the only one to notice that there is something amiss with the economy: Mark, her husband, is so worried that he has fired the cleaner and capped Tanya’s allowance. As she opened the fridge door to get milk for our coffee, standing in front of the luminescent shelves of out-of-season strawberries and blueberries, Marks & Spencer ready meals and macrobiotic yogurts, she told me she didn’t know what else she could cut back on. I said that at least they had the house, and she smiled thinly. I think she looks better without the tan anyway; more fragile, the first fine worry lines tracing out from her eyes, but prettier. I kept that to myself.

  Then it was off to Church Flowers, where everyone kept staring at me in sympathetic silence, no doubt distracting themselves from the azaleas with thoughts of my son’s leprous lesions, then home. I went on Facebook and found I had friend requests pending from two classmates, one of whom looked old, the other fat. I changed my status to is suddenly feeling more cheerful.

  Although not as cheerful as Natalia, who, since the news of her sister, has been going about the house singing with a louder monotone drone than usual. She even made me a coffee with a squirt of whipped cream and half a crumbled chocolate biscuit on top, which I presume was meant to be a treat. Not wanting to dampen her all-too-rare good spirits, I waited until she wasn’t looking to spoon the top off into the bin.

  FRIDAY, MARCH 14

  Sophie flies home in less than a week. I had offered to get Jeffrey’s PA to organize a train trip back, given her environmental zeal, but she said that an eight-hour journey would make her “go mental.” I sent her the following e-mail (which, after one eleven-minute phone conversation to Rupert for instructions, I have now successfully managed to “copy and paste”):

  Dear Sophie,

  I hope you’re still enjoying yourself and the weather is nice. Do remember to wear sunscreen if it’s getting warm—you will thank me for this advice when you reach my age, believe me. Pale is interesting. Just keep repeating that to yourself.

  It’s been an eventful week or so—I nearly lost Darcy, and tried to lose Natalia! I will tell you all about it when you’re home. I’m looking forward to a good catch-up. I’ll take you for a cream tea and a little shopping trip in Tunbridge Wells—my treat.

  See you on Thursday. We’ll be waiting for you at the airport at two.

  Love,

  Mum

  For once, she replied promptly:

  Yo mo, can I bring zac?

  soph xxx

  I struggled to recall her ever mentioning a Zac. I wrote back:

  Dear Sophie,

  Who is Zac?

  Love,

  Mum

  She replied:

  my best m8, ul love him. he’s booked his tikit. seeya!!

  So not only do I have a supernumerary Lithuanian to contend with, but also an unknown man who seems likely to im-pede both shopping trips and tête-á-têtes. What’s worse is that I have no idea what his relationship with Sophie is. What are his intentions? Are they indeed just friends, or might he be a “soulm8”?

  SATURDAY, MARCH 15

  Today, I finally summoned the courage to call Rupert. If he is indeed a Guardian reader, the best hope of a cure will be to treat him kindly and expose him to a more sensible point of view, or simply wait ten years for him to grow out of it. I may send him the Spectator once Jeffrey has finished with it to hasten the process. In any case, I felt it was time to mend fences (locally sourced and sustainable ones, no doubt) and ask if he would come over and help me check out Zac. He was his usual polite self on the phone, if a little quieter than usual, but agreed that he would be there for a nice leg of lamb next Sunday. At least he hasn’t turned vegetarian.

  MONDAY, MARCH 17

  A few sunny spring days and the garden has turned into a wilderness. Thank heavens that Randolph, the gardener I hired to replace Douglas after he retired last summer, was at work today. He is the American (hence the old-fashioned name and straight, white teeth) nephew of Daphne’s husband, who is from New York. Randolph is in Europe for a gap year, which seems to be a necessity for this generation of young people in the same way that growing up and getting a job was for mine. Still, he is a polite young man who insists on addressing me as madam, even if he mitigates the effect by saying “I’m Randy!” every time he meets someone new. I declined to abbreviate his name. Once I’d gone back into the conservatory, he took off his T-shirt before starting work, even though it’s still only March and I haven’t yet moved my cashmere cardigans to the spare room wardrobe. Perhaps all those muscles have an insulating effect. I watched him over the top of my magazine as he took a spade to the flower beds, his long, lean frame bending to and fro. It’s a shame he’s just a gardener. Hose him down, give him an MBA and a light gray suit, and he would make a rather nice catch for someone like Sophie.

  TUESDAY, MARCH 18

  News, real news, of a wonderful sort! Enough to push Jeffrey’s Internet antics to the back of my mind. At last I can start buying those matching Marks & Spencer baby cardigans and booties that I keep lingering in front of whenever I pop in for a pair of tights. Tanya is pregnant. She came around this morning and told me over coffee and a slice of my homemade lemon cake. I thought it wasn’t like her to get through a whole piece rather than just picking at the drizzle icing. Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet as she put down her plate and told me her news. The slight weight gain that she’d attributed to her failure to follow Gwyneth Paltrow’s macrobiotic diet, and attempted to exercise off with dance aerobics, was in fact a sign of her pregnancy.

  She’d been so worried about Mark’s job that she’d hardly thought about the possibility. “But he must be delighted,” I said. She looked at me, blinked, and twisted her fingers together. “He is,” she said after a pause. “But when I told him he went as white as my soy milk and had to sit down for five minutes. Then he said, ‘F*** me,’ then he cried.”

  I told her that everyone expressed their joy in different ways. Jeffrey, for example, drank three scotches when I told him I was expecting Rupert, and another six the day he was born. She smiled wanly. I know she is worried about finances, but Mark is a sharp, successful young man. I remember at Rupert’s party he was telling Jeffrey all about some amazing opportunity in the credit default swat market or some such gobbledygook that only the truly intelligent could hope to understand. Left to my own devices I would stick all my money und
er the mattress, but luckily Jeffrey looks after the finances. Anyway, I’m sure the financial crisis will soon blow over so that Tanya can relax and start decorating the nursery. Will she be going for pink or blue, or yellow, as is the fashion these days? I may buy one of those lovely wooden train sets. That would cheer Mark up too.

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19

  Readers, I believe my plan is working! At bell ringing last night, Gerald was resplendent in an extra-large purple T-shirt with the silhouette of a stallion and the words “Wild Thing” written on it. He must have taken Miss Hughes’s words in earnest, though I think she was imagining something more in the line of a nice jaunty tie. What’s more, just as we were leaving the belfry, he turned to me, cheeks flushed with the vigor of ringing, and said, “Constance, I need to talk to you about something. Alone,” with a meaningful look in his eye. At last. He must want my advice on how to proceed with Miss Hughes. Just think, by the time Tanya holds a christening for her baby they might be able to attend together, as a couple. The only problem is that I have so much to do with all the guests arriving for Easter that the earliest I could arrange to meet him in the village tea shop was next Wednesday. I suppose that true love can wait.