by Ceri Radford
THURSDAY, MARCH 20
Little time once again. Sophie and Zac have arrived, the latter wearing those chunky rectangular glasses that signal that he too may be a Guardian reader.
Lydia is here too. She is, as I suppose is only to be expected, the exact image of her sister, even down to the shoulder-length dark hair streaked through with highlights. You would have thought that twins would have the good sense to at least opt for different hairstyles. Even Jeffrey looked bemused. “But how will we tell them apart?” he said, running a hand through his own thinning hair, as soon as Lydia had wheeled her pink plastic suitcase out of the hall. “How on earth will we tell them apart?”
FRIDAY, MARCH 21
At last, some time to myself. Sophie and Zac have gone to the cinema to watch some film involving Angelina Jolie and a flying monk. I’m writing this on my LapTop in the conservatory, from which I can see the twins relaxing in the garden. Lydia seems a sweet girl, though I’m not sure if this is because of her personality or because the only words she seems to know in En-glish are “please,” “thank you,” “excuse me,” and “Cadbury chocolate.”
She must share her sister’s physical hardiness though. It can’t be more than fifteen degrees outside but the two of them are out there sprawled on the patio (I have resisted the trend for “decking,” which belongs on a ship and nowhere else) wearing short ruffled skirts and listening to music on shared headphones. I worry they’ll catch their deaths of cold, or distract Randolph from planting the petunias.
SATURDAY, MARCH 22
Everyone assembled for breakfast this morning. Natalia cooked a fry-up for herself, Lydia, and Zac, and Sophie nibbled on the chocolate cereal that she still hasn’t grown out of. Jeffrey sat in a corner eating toast and marmalade, occasionally peering out from behind the side of the Financial Times Weekend at the hubbub. I hope our guests don’t annoy him too much. Despite his sympathetic streak, he must be counting down the days until Lydia, at least, departs, taking her piercing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” ring tone with her.
After a while, Sophie pushed her cereal bowl to one side, went over to the window, stared out, and asked, “Who’s that?” I looked out. Randolph was there, mowing the lawn, his shirt tied around his waist, seemingly immune to the sharp spring chill. I explained that it was the new gardener, brought in to replace Douglas. “This one’s an improvement,” she said, pressing her nose against the glass.
A few minutes later, after Jeffrey had disappeared to his study, there was a gentle knock on the back door. I opened it and there stood Randolph, shirt back on but unbuttoned to expose a few dark curls of chest hair, standing with a delicate pink spring tulip in each hand. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Randy.” Sophie dropped her spoon into her cereal bowl with a little splash. But they were not for her. “For the ladies,” he said, gesturing at Natalia and Lydia. Natalia looked a little cross; Lydia giggled. Or it might have been the other way around—I cannot for the life of me tell which is which.
In any case, I took the flowers from him, and said thank you very much in a firm voice so that he took the hint and walked off, turning his head for a last grin at the matching Lithuanians. He may well have a ravishing smile but he has taken unwarranted liberties with my spring flowers. Seeing as the damage was already done, I found two slim vases for the pilfered tulips, and handed them to the twins. Sophie walked out, almost knocking her chair over and leaving her breakfast things scattered behind her. Zac followed, with an apologetic look on his face. He seems a nice boy; it’s just a shame he is too short and freckled to be considered a romantic prospect.
Natalia—it must have been Natalia because she knew where the dishwasher tablets were kept—tidied the breakfast things away, while Lydia stared out the window, twirling the tie of her pale-pink polyester bathrobe between her fingers. I hope she stays away from the stove, as it looks like it would go up in flames in a flash.
I should have liked to go after Sophie to comfort her, to tell her that one grubby American is not enough to waste half a bowl of chocolate hoops over, but the front door clicked. She had left with Zac. I suppose it is for the best: I have a Sunday dinner to shop for, and as Mother is coming around tomorrow, I have to find the most tender joint of lamb or her dentures will stick.
SUNDAY, MARCH 23
Sunday lunch was not the harmonious gathering of guests and family that I had hoped for. From the start, Mother seemed totally adrift. She could not understand how Natalia, the housekeeper, and Lydia, the sister of the housekeeper, could be sitting down with us at the dining room table, wineglasses shining in front of them, napkins on their laps, looking to all purposes like part of the family (had it not been for their matching “Eurovision Song Contest 2006” cropped T-shirts). In her day, there was a separate door for the servants, a separate table for them to eat on, separate dishes; their separate lives would intersect with the family only in carefully stipulated ways. I remember as a little girl her telling me off for playing hopscotch with the cleaning lady’s daughter—as an only child I always craved company. Even then I suppose she was old-fashioned, clinging to her world as the fifties gave way to the alarming currents and hemlines of the sixties.
I confess I am a little like her in that respect; I believe there is a right way of doing things and a wrong way, that traditions should be respected, that you should put lemon in a gin and tonic, not lime. And yet I am also aware that we are in the twenty-first century now. Natalia is, despite occasional evidence suggesting the contrary, a human being in her own right, and as Sophie frequently says, I have to “get real.” Not that I explained any of this to Mother, of course. It is simply too late in the day. She refused to understand any of Natalia’s polite, if thickly accented, questions, and instead talked exclusively to Jeffrey. Zac was another source of bemusement to her. After meeting him she presumed he was Rupert’s friend; I explained that, no, he was Sophie’s friend, and she asked me if his intentions were honorable. We were in the kitchen at this point and Rupert patiently explained that they were “platonic friends,” as was quite normal for lots of boys and girls now, but she merely harrumphed and said she would be watching what he did with his hands under the table.
As if dinner were not strained enough, no sooner had I started clearing up than I spotted Randolph through the kitchen window, shirtless and besmirched, scattering seed. Sunday was supposed to be his day off. Soon enough he sauntered over, knocked on the door, and, still bare-chested for Mother, Natalia, Lydia, Sophie, and me to see, asked if he could come in to “take a slash.” I asked him what he was doing here on his day off and he said he couldn’t keep away, winking at the twins before wandering through to the downstairs bathroom, leaving muddy footprints behind him. Mother nearly choked on her port.
MONDAY, MARCH 24
I woke to the sound of screaming. Had the house caught fire? Was Randolph stalking the landing with a gun, revealing himself to be another tormented American teenager with a chip on his shoulder and revenge in his eyes?
No. Natalia had a frog in her bed. This unfortunate state of affairs only became clear when I had dashed out of my bedroom brandishing the pepper spray I keep in my handbag for emergencies, followed by Jeffrey, sleepy-eyed, holding a baseball bat at a limp angle. The latter, at least, was superfluous.
When we reached the source of the screaming, we found Natalia, shuddering, dressed in a short shiny black nightie, pointing at her bedclothes. She was quickly joined by Lydia, dressed in an identical slip, and the two girls confided quickly in Lithuanian, clasped each other, and shrieked. I wanted Jeffrey to do somet-hing but he was still so drowsy that he simply stood there staring at them, transfixed. After a few long moments, Natalia (or Lydia?) grabbed a coat hanger, and gingerly used it to pull back her duvet.
It was then that we saw it, a small squat amphibian, which took a grotesque leap forward and landed squarely on Natalia’s lilac-colored pillow. Having grown up in the countryside, I am not squeamish about such creatures; and yet I would rather not touc
h them when there are other perfectly good means of remedying the situation. I gave it a quick blast with the pepper spray. Natalia and Lydia left the room choking; the frog sat quite still, stunned. I made Jeffrey seize the moment by taking off one of his bed socks and scooping the green interloper up into it. He quickly knotted the end and stood holding his wriggling bundle when Sophie and Zac finally emerged to check out the noise.
Zac, rubbing his eyes, hair standing on end, looked truly baffled, then alarmed. Sophie, I noticed, seemed bright-eyed, with a trace of mud on each kneecap. Would she have? Could she have? I suppose her time studying the ecosystem of the Ardèche will have made her quite capable of catching the odd frog; and yet I don’t like to imagine my own daughter capable of stooping to such spite.
Once Jeffrey had taken the sock and deposited its contents under the bushes at the edge of the garden, I made everyone a cup of tea. We were a silent group, Natalia and Lydia sitting close together, wrapping their fingers around their mugs, each of them no doubt wondering how such a thing had come to pass. Sophie was the first to speak. “Someone must have put it there,” she said. Natalia and Lydia looked up as one. “Someone who knows the outdoors, who knows where to find gross things like that. Someone who knows us, and the house too.” She paused. Everyone looked down, perplexed. “And why was Randy lurking about here yesterday? It was his day off.”
Oh, dear. Was she right, or was Randolph (I do wish she would use his full name) being framed? Either way, Natalia whispered a translation to Lydia, who promptly burst into tears. Who could blame the girl? She fled one country in despair at the sort of man who would cruelly dump her for a rich girl, only, one assumes, to find solace in a man who now appears to be the sort to smuggle amphibians into her sister’s bed. I felt I had to intervene. “But Sophie,” I said pointedly. “Why on earth would Randolph do such a thing?”
She was unfazed, and took a long sip of tea before replying: “Oh, you know what men are like. He probably thought it would be funny.”
Natalia again translated for Lydia, who listened with fresh tears running down her puffy cheeks. Then she stuck her chin out and declared something that Natalia translated back into English (of a sort) as “She says she hate men. All men are whole asses. She from now will be girl who like girls.” Jeffrey looked a little woozy, perhaps from his exertions with the bed sock, and said he needed to lie down.
TUESDAY, MARCH 25
Before taking Sophie and Zac to the airport today I finally got a chance to talk to my daughter alone. Zac had gone out for a run—like many short men, he seems to take a perverse pride in his physique—leaving Sophie in the conservatory trying to teach Darcy to say something that sounded like “Comin’ atchaaaa.” Fortunately she failed. I settled down in a wicker chair and waited for her to stop pretending she didn’t know I was there. Eventually she looked away from Darcy, who was shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other saying “Atchoo,” turned to me, and said, “All right, Mum?”
I decided to bite the bullet. “Yes, I’m fine, thanks, but I’m a bit worried about you, Sophie,” I said. “Jealousy is a terrible thing.” I stared at her in the hope that she would cave in, or at least show some sign of embarrassment or remorse, but instead she stuck her hands firmly in the pockets of her slouchy jeans and stared right back at me through narrowed eyes rimmed with thick green kohl.
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “I saw the look on your face when Aunty Harriet told you that Laura had got engaged.” I could tell that this line of conversation was going nowhere. I will never find out if my daughter is guilty of a frog-related crime passionnel; she will never confess.
Instead I turned the conversation to safer territory. I asked if she was enjoying herself in the Ardèche, and she said it was “all right”; I asked if she’d made lots of nice friends, and she said “’spose”; I asked if her French was getting better, and she said “’spose.” She then perked up a little and said she knew how to give a boy a brush-off by telling him to do something unspeakable with a pinecone—I paraphrase so as to spare your blushes, dear readers. I know I should have told her off but I couldn’t suppress a small giggle. I gave her a hug, and actually felt her hug me back. I felt less bleak than usual when I drove her, and Zac, to Heathrow. It will be Lydia’s turn at the end of the week, and then I hope things will return to normal.
There was no bell ringing this evening because of the Easter break, but after such a hectic few days I was quite happy to sit back on the sofa and watch Location, Location, Location. It featured a couple who had spent £100,000 on a two-bedroom flat in Clapham in 1996 and, having added a “feature wall” of glass bricks and painted everything white, were selling it for £375,000. Jeffrey and I bought our house in 1988; even without any novelty see-through bricks, Lord only knows what has happened to its value since then.
And now I must get an early night: tomorrow I am finally meeting Gerald, and I will need all my wits about me to steer him safely into the arms of Miss Hughes.
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 26
I have just returned from my rendezvous with Gerald. We met in Café Milano, or what used to be the village tea shop before it underwent some spurious Continental makeover. Gerald was there already, perched uncomfortably on a chrome bar stool and clutching a paperback copy of Anna Karenina with clammy-looking hands.
He was wearing a lavender-colored corduroy suit, with a crumpled white T-shirt underneath. Either he is taking Miss Hughes’s preferences to heart, or he has managed to lose all his blue shirts and sensible trousers at the launderette. When I went up to him and said a cheerful “Hello,” he appeared ill at ease, perhaps because he was nervous about the conversation that would ensue, or perhaps because he was bamboozled by the café’s terminology of lattes and Americanos. I took matters into my own hands. I was an Englishwoman in an English tea shop; there was no need for me to ask for anything ending in o. I asked for one cup of tea, one white coffee, and a couple of biscuits, fixing the waitress (I will not say barista) with an unflinching smile. She gestured vaguely at the blackboard, which had all sorts of strange words chalked up in a curly hand, but I repeated myself, and eventually she simply nodded her head beneath her preposterous baseball cap and went to get the drinks. Gerald was looking at me with respect, no doubt admiring my powers of persuasion and hoping they would be as much use on Miss Hughes as they were on the waitress.
Once we were settled opposite each other at a small metallic table, Gerald finally looked me in the eye and asked, in a quiet voice, if I had any idea why he’d asked me here. I replied with a knowing smile that I thought I had an inkling. Heartened, he carried on, saying “It’s just that, since Rosie left me, I’ve been so lonely. It’s been the most wretched time of my life. I didn’t think I’d get through it. If it hadn’t been for Poppy and—and—” Here his confidence failed him.
“Bell ringing?” I suggested, with another encouraging smile.
“Well, yes, ringing has certainly been a refuge of sorts. It’s taken me out of myself every week, and everyone has been so kind, especially, uh…You see, that might be why I’ve started to—started to develop certain feelings.…I’ve lost faith in marriage, Constance. Rosie just upped and left, after thirty-six years. She left her rings in the soap dish. What does it mean, marriage? That’s why I’m telling you this, telling you about my—my feelings.”
He stuttered to a halt, crumbling a biscuit (I will not say biscotto) to a fine powder with his right hand. I decided to leap in and fill the void. “It’s Miss Hughes, isn’t it?” I said. She was unmarried. Gerald jumped, slopping tea over the side of his cup and onto his saucer. “Don’t worry, I guessed a little while ago. Your secret’s safe with me,” I reassured him, while he sat there staring, his facial muscles working as if to open his mouth, but failing. “She’s a fine woman—knows her own mind, but nothing wrong with that. I’ll do my best to soften her up for you.” I patted him on the arm. Finally, Gerald snapped back to life like an elastic band that has been stretched for too long.
“Uh, yes, yes, of course, Miss Hughes. Uh, yes. So kind. Knew I could count on you. Uh. Fine woman. Bunions. Uh. Do you know, I’ve just realized that the launderette is coming around to fix a leaking pipe in ten minutes. Shall I get the bill?”
The poor man. He was obviously overcome with emotion at the mere mention of Miss Hughes’s name. I can’t wait for bell ringing next week!
THURSDAY, MARCH 27
Church Flowers today. Appearing in a cloud of perfume that smelled like air freshener (a little touch of Anaïs Anaïs is all I wear), Pru informed me in a hushed voice that Ruth was doing much better thanks to therapy.
“What for?” I asked.
“You know,” she whispered, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “To help her get over the shock of what happened with Rupert. Her therapist suggested he might come along to one of the sessions. She can arrange a screen because of his—condition.”
I said that it would still be too risky, and Pru nodded sadly. It is out of the question that Rupert should attend; he is terrified of Ruth, and besides, therapy is the worst American import since Britney Spears, whom Sophie once said she wanted to grow up to be. Rupert is not so far gone down the path of Guardian reading that he would need to pay a stranger to listen to him witter on about himself. That’s what friends—and parrots—are for.
I got back to find the house filled with flowers. For a moment, I thought Jeffrey had made his first grand romantic gesture since 1989; but it turned out that it was all Randolph’s doing. I caught Natalia and Lydia wandering among the milk bottles stuffed with irises and daffodils giggling. Natalia explained that she had told Randolph what happened with the frog and he said it wasn’t him—and he’d then arranged the flowers to cheer the twins up. Which is all very well, except it has ravaged my borders. Jeffrey came in, eyed the floral superabundance, and said it was a sacking offense. He seems to have taken against Randolph from the beginning. I may not have agreed with him, but there was a certain compelling fury to his speech. Even Natalia looked chastened.
