A Surrey State of Affairs

by Ceri Radford

  SATURDAY, MARCH 29

  Lydia is gone; silence rules. Jeffrey obligingly took her to the airport. As soon as he came back he retreated to his study, no doubt savoring the newfound calm and quiet in the house. I saw Randolph in the garden, immobile, leaning balefully on his hoe until it sank three inches into the ground.

  Monday, March 31

  Back to normal. Having instructed Natalia to give all the bedrooms a good clean and check thoroughly for concealed frogs, I settled down with a cup of coffee to check my e-mail. As usual, there were a few circulars from Waitrose and the National Trust, and nothing from Sophie—even though she promised before she left that she would e-mail me a photo of herself every Monday so I could check that she wasn’t losing weight or getting her hair cut in any more unusual shapes.

  And then, like a scab that one cannot resist picking, even though one knows the results are likely to make one queasy, I felt compelled to sign on to Facebook and find out whether Jeffrey had indeed abandoned his online persona. A search for his name revealed that his original identity had disappeared into the ether; but scanning farther down the page I saw something that made my stomach lurch: J Hardon, whose profile picture was Daniel Craig wearing a 007 tuxedo. I hope this is merely coincidence. I like to think of Jeffrey as a Roger Moore man to the core.

  TUESDAY, APRIL 1

  I called on Tanya today to ask her whether she thought that J Hardon was Jeffrey, and if so, what I should do. She seemed distracted, taking a bottle of pomegranate juice instead of milk out of the fridge and pouring some into my coffee, but eventually she said I should stop worrying, and gave me a thin smile. I think she’s finding her first pregnancy tough. This is hardly surprising. I remember my brain went to mush when I was expecting Rupert: how Jeffrey laughed when he came home from work one day to find me upset because I had run out of matching wool while knitting the third bootie in a “pair.” He put his briefcase down, took me in his arms, then laughed into my hair as he patted my stomach. I asked Tanya whether Mark was excited about the baby, and she shrugged and said he was never there, before opening the fridge, staring into it for five seconds, then closing it again, shaking her head.

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2

  What a disappointment! Gerald didn’t come to bell ringing last night. I fear something drastic must have happened, because he knew full well that I was primed to butter up Miss Hughes for him. Perhaps his leak has deteriorated.

  In any case, I decided not to waste the opportunity to have a quiet word in her ear—well, not so quiet, given her partial deafness and the resonance of our ringing. She is a woman with a no-nonsense attitude and a tendency to bellow “And your point is?” whenever she feels herself to be adrift in a conversation, so I decided to be forthright.

  “Miss Hughes, I want to talk to you about Gerald,” I said.

  “Gerald?” she replied. “I thought as much. Dreadful sense of timing, that man. Do you want me to tell him to pay attention when he creeps back here next week? Or perhaps to smarten himself up a bit, trim that mustache?”

  I considered this offer. It would certainly improve both the standard and the salubriousness of our ringing group. And yet I decided that, once started, I should not let myself be drawn off on a tangent.

  “Well, that’s not quite what I meant,” I said, and paused to gather my thoughts. She frowned and began tapping her suede Footglove shoe against the flagstones, making a series of muffled thuds. Dithering was not going to help my case. I cleared my throat.

  “I’m going to be open with you,” I began. “There’s no other way of saying this. Gerald doesn’t need nasal clippers, he needs the love of a good woman.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” she said, wrapping her arms firmly across her cream blouse.

  “Well, to put it bluntly, I have reason to believe that the good woman in question is you. He has always thought very highly of you. You have stood here, shoulder-to-shoulder, pulling together, for the best part of fifteen years. Since Rosemary left he has begun to see you in a new light.”

  There was a strange expression on Miss Hughes’s face—her eyes narrowing and curling up at the corners—which brought to mind for some reason a fox standing in front of a chicken coop.

  “And how do you know all this?” she asked, smoothing back an immaculate curtain of iron-gray hair and securing it with a quick stab of her hairpin.

  “He told me.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  And that was that. I hope Gerald resolves his plumbing problems before next week.

  THURSDAY, APRIL 3

  I got back from Church Flowers to find Natalia reading a magazine—or rather, looking at pictures of girls with orange tans falling out of taxis—when she should have been at the supermarket. I chivvied her along. Edward, Jeffrey’s brother, and his wife, Harriet, are coming around for dinner tomorrow night and the usual slapdash fare will not do. Last time I ate at their house, Harriet had her housekeeper make a perfect cheese soufflé, an act of incalculable malice.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 4

  11:59 P.M.

  Readers, I think I’ve done something silly, or maybe two or three silly things. It’s all Edward’s fault, why did he have to top up my wineglass every two minutes? Why did he have to bring port? It went down too quickly just like wine but stronger especially the third glass. It’s all Hattys’ fault anyway, I never liked her that much funny nose with a bump on the bridge like a man always pursing her lips and how can she be a size 10 and ask for seconds? and why did she have to show me those pictures? The wedding album, laura in a cream strapless dress, fur wrap, hair curling around her face, smiling, there’s harriet in the next one in her mother of the bride suit size 10 from jaeger and her hat and her glass of champagne. There’s me and sophie sophie’s wearing ugly ugg boots and scowling I tried to make her wear pretty cream shoes with a kitten heel I tried. And then the baby photos their son John’s new baby girl, their second grandchild, pink face, pudgy, perfect, there’s her big brother built like a little rugby player standing next to her and smiling. Why?

  So I just called Rupert and sophie I went on facebook and I dont want to think about it anymore now I need two big glasses of water and some leftover chicken and bacon casserole with a fried egg on top and bed. Why didn’t jeffrey stop me? I can here him snoring from here thats why

  SATURDAY, APRIL 5

  It is nearly lunchtime. I have slept late. Jeffrey has left for a game of tennis with Edward. The house is silent except for the dull clatter of Natalia unloading the dishwasher. I have taken two aspirin with a glass of sparkling water and eaten three chocolate Hobnobs. Physically, my condition is stabilizing. If only I could say the same about my state of mind.

  I am embarrassed to see from my blog page that I started to inform you about last night’s events at a time when I should not have attempted any form of irreversible electronic communication. Please ignore my observations on my sister-in-law, Harriet. Her nose, in fact, gives her a noble profile.

  As you will have gathered, it all got a little much over dinner. Edward was generous with the wine, and Harriet was glowing with excitement because she had finally finished writing the calligraphy captions on the photo album of her daughter, Laura’s, wedding, which took place last December. She also had the first photos of her son’s baby daughter, whose christening we will shortly be attending in the North. Readers, it was an intoxicating combination. The more pictures I saw, the more I felt myself almost mechanically compelled to lift my glass to my lips. Harriet was too absorbed in the pictures to notice; Jeffrey and Edward were having some sort of heated argument on the state of the world economy, which they interrupted only to slosh out large quantities of wine. I heard incomprehensible snatches of their conversation as the photos started to merge into one multicolor smiling blur in front of my eyes.

  After several hours of such activity, I remember hearing the heavy clunk of the front door
shutting, then suddenly finding myself sitting in the conservatory with my legs tucked up under my skirt and my mobile in my hand. I called Rupert. I wish I hadn’t; but the call history on my phone confirms that it was so. I first remembered the full details when I woke at six A.M. with a tongue that felt like the bit of carpet underneath the sofa. As far as I recall, the conversation went something like this:

  “Hello, Rupert, it’s me.”

  “Mum! Is everything okay? It’s almost midnight.”

  “Yes, I mean no. The casserole was a bit dry around the edges. I told Natalia to use more stock but the stupid girl wouldn’t listen. But, yes, don’t worry, everything’s fine. Except it isn’t.”

  “Mum, are you okay? Have you been drinking?”

  “Yes, I mean no! Stop changing the subject. I’ve been thinking and looking at lots of pictures and booties. What I mean is, I’ve been thinking about why you don’t want to go on Telegraph dating.”

  “Mum, I really don’t want to talk about that just now.”

  “Don’t interrupt your mother while she’s talking! What I mean is, I’ve been thinking and worrying and worrying and thinking and what I think is this. You’re hiding something. You’re not the person I thought you were.”

  “Jesus, Mum, are you sure you want to be having this conversation?”

  “Never take the Lord’s name in vain! But you wouldn’t care, would you? You’re probably an atheist. That would fit the picture. You probably donated money to that campaign to put “There is no God” on the side of a bus and laughed about it afterward with all your friends with their rectangular glasses and Converse trainers. Even David Cameron has Converse trainers now. You can’t trust anyone.”

  “Mum, what are you going on about?”

  “Rupert, you’re a Guardian reader, aren’t you? Just admit it. You want your father to be taxed to death and you wish that you’d been brought up on a wind farm run by asylum seekers. You’ve turned against us. You hate everything we stand for. You’re a Guardian reader, aren’t you?”

  Then I recall that there was a pause before he said:

  “Yes, Mum, yes, I am. I do read the Guardian, mostly online. Sometimes the BBC Web site too. But every Sunday I buy the Sunday Times because I like the supplements. I don’t hate you and Dad. I think wind power should only ever make up part of a mixed-energy portfolio and, while I believe we have a moral duty to provide asylum to political refugees, I wouldn’t swap you and Dad for the world, as hard as that is to believe right now. Now will you go to bed?”

  “Good night, sleep tight, hope the bed bugs don’t bite.”

  And that, I believe, was the end of the conversation. I must comfort myself where I may. He reads a newspaper that encourages him to think like a decent human being once a week. I can only hope that he doesn’t skip Jeremy Clarkson’s column.

  After talking to Rupert, I remember trying to call Sophie. She didn’t answer, but I vaguely recall leaving her a long message on the aesthetic horrors of Ugg boots. After that I went on Facebook and sent a beseeching message to my friend Bridget, asking if I could come and stay. She’s childless and divorced, and so the only person in the world who can make me feel better about myself at the moment. The only problem is that it appears I phrased my message along those lines. I also sent a cocktail to all my friends and “poked” J Hardon. I have just changed my status to is hungover and remorsefu l, so hopefully Bridget will forgive me.

  My phone has just bleeped. A text message from Sophie, reading: momma k, was u pissd last night? largin it?? lol!!! xxx.

  I am going to lie down again.

  SUNDAY, APRIL 6

  Today I have been a model mother, daughter, and wife. I went to church, I brought Mother a bunch of flowers (the pollen made her sneeze, but the thought was there), I called both my children and left normal, sober messages on their answerphones, I cooked Jeffrey steak with homemade Diane sauce. I drank water with dinner. I shall make amends, I shall.

  10 P.M.

  Good Lord, my domesticity has been shaken by a message from J Hardon on Facebook. The good news is that it cannot possibly be Jeffrey. The bad news is that I have this scrawled on my “wall” like public graffiti for everybody to see: u hot horny lookin for sexy time’s?

  Jeffrey would never misuse an apostrophe.

  MONDAY, APRIL 7

  Thank heavens for that: Bridget has written back to me on Facebook, undeterred by J Hardon or my rudeness. Luckily, she is the tough, plucky type who is not easily offended. She wrote: Dear me Constance, if life in the suburbs is getting you down there’s only one solution: London! Come stay this weekend. Fun, frivolity, and fine food await. Bridge x.

  I’m slightly worried about what “fun and frivolity” might entail, but it can’t be worse than reading 276 handwritten wedding photo captions. I replied that I would love to and booked my train ticket.

  I thought Jeffrey would be bemused by my rash display of independence, but when he got home I took his briefcase out of his hand, hung up his coat, and told him about my plans, and he simply smiled broadly and said, “You have a ball.” He really is most supportive at times. I will tell Natalia to make sure she looks after him properly this weekend.

  TUESDAY, APRIL 8

  Dear readers, dreadful news. Poor Tanya. I popped around to her house this morning to bring her a coffee and walnut cake and a copy of You and Your Baby magazine, which had a special feature on nursery decor, including the most gorgeous hand-carved white crib. As I approached the house, I noticed a few weeds poking up through the yellow paving stones of the drive—they must have laid off the gardener as well as the cleaner. I really should lend her Randolph, I thought to myself. When I got to the front door, it was ajar. I knocked but there was no answer. I pushed it open another few inches and shouted her name; it would be a shame to let the cake go completely cold. It was then that I heard a muffled sob emanating from the direction of the kitchen. I forgot all my scruples about intruding and went straight in, nearly dropping the cake as I kicked off my shoes. I found her sitting at her stripped-pine table, her hands knitted into her hair just at the point where the lengthening brown roots turned honey-blond, weeping. I ran over and put my arm around her. Whatever was the matter? Was it the hormones, or was something wrong?

  “Something’s wrong,” she said, looking up at me with muddy trails of mascara dripping down across her white cheeks. “It’s Mark. He’s lost his job.”

  Horrible as this news was, I have to say that my first feeling was relief: Mark had not been beaten about the head by a bloodthirsty asylum seeker or a resentful taxpayer and left to perish in a gutter; both Tanya and her baby were well. I put the kettle on, took two of Tanya’s funny square plates out of the cupboard, and served the cake. By the time the tea was ready she was only sniffing intermittently, stroking her hands up and down over her bump. After half a piece of cake, she felt up to telling me what had happened.

  Mark had been made redundant that morning. As soon as he got to work, his manager called him into his office and told him, as kindly as possible, that he would have to clear his desk. It was a conversation he had been dreading for months. Mark was a senior derivatives trader (whatever that means—Tanya tried to explain, but she ended up staring blankly into the middle distance, as did I). In any case, she impressed upon me the fact that, given the financial climate, his profession was akin to being a turkey in December. After the inevitable occurred, he blasted home in his Porsche, told Tanya the news, kissed her on the cheek as she stood there stunned, then left again to “clear his head.” That was an hour ago. “He was still wearing his lucky cuff links,” she said, another sob breaking out. She gestured to a small crate in the kitchen that contained all his possessions from seven years of work at the bank: a Reuters desk calendar, a small gift hamper from Fortnum & Mason, some folders, a dog-eared copy of the book Investing for Dummies, a pocket calculator, and a novelty Margaret Thatcher nutcracker.

  “That’s it,” she said. “That’s all he’s got lef
t.” The sorry pile stood beneath one of many framed wedding photographs, which both our eyes drifted up toward. It showed the happy couple in Barbados, Tanya wearing a sheath of designer silk with a stem of acid-pink hibiscus tucked behind one ear, her skin shining and nut-brown, her hair immaculately flaxen-colored. Mark was in a cream suit, open at the neck, a huge smile on his face. They had flown 120 people over, she said, for a ceremony on the beach, at sunset, flanked by candles, where they said “for better and for worse” with silver sand between their toes before cracking into Bollinger and lobster.

  “And now I don’t even know if we can afford a Bugaboo pram. What will happen to us if Mark can’t find another job?”

  I reassured her as best as I could and then, sensing that she wanted to be alone, I left, the pristine copy of You and Your Baby tucked discreetly under one arm.

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 9

  What has become of the modern man? Jeffrey excepted, the male of the species seems lacking not just in employment opportunities and proper footwear but also in get-up-and-go. Take Gerald. Last night he scuttled into the belfry late, to take up his usual position by my side. Miss Hughes—who was resplendent in an olive-colored tweed skirt two inches shorter than usual—asked to swap places with me so that she would be next to him. Instead of seizing the opportunity to sidle up to her, as any red-blooded man would have done, he was quite put off his stroke.

  THURSDAY, APRIL 10

  Ruth appeared at Church Flowers like some mournful specter, dressed in layers of baggy white. As she approached me, blinking behind her purple plastic glasses with a self-pitying smile on her face and a book called The Secret clutched in her hand, I decided I had no truck with her nonsense. Just as she began to assert that the way to overcome sorrow was within, I cut her off.