A Surrey State of Affairs

by Ceri Radford

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 19

  I can’t write for long. I must go back to the hospital. Ivan has been shot in the foot. Tanya has given birth.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20

  First, the good news. Tanya and Mark are the proud parents of a lovely little girl. Although a few weeks premature, she is in good health, weighing in at five pounds eight ounces. Mother and baby will be kept in for observation for a couple of days, but should be back home by the end of the week.

  Second, the not-so-good news. The baby has been named Shariah. Mark claimed it had a “nice, eastern ring to it.” I wondered if he had been on Tanya’s gas and air, but I bit my tongue. I went to see them a few hours after the birth; Tanya was sleeping, but Mark pointed with a trembling hand to the incubator where little Shariah was curled up. Her tiny, perfectly formed fingers and toes provided a sharp contrast to Ivan’s obliterated digit, which was the other reason for my visit to the hospital.

  At this point I feel I should explain that Jeffrey is a fine sportsman, but I suppose that in marksmanship, as in stewardship of the Rotary Club’s finances, his confident insouciance can occasionally lead him astray. It appears that, having spotted a particularly alluring bird, he fired off too soon, thus relieving Ivan the Terrible of the little toe of his left foot. Ivan received emergency treatment in Yorkshire before being transferred to a private room at our local hospital yesterday. It was with great trepidation that Jeffrey and I went to see him in his hospital suite, painted a tasteful shade of lavender. As soon as we opened the door, he stubbed a cigarette out in the pot of his peace lily before realizing it was us and explained that he thought for a moment we were one of those “do-good nurses.” In Russia, the nurses are beautiful, he added. Not here. We approached him with caution. I asked him how he was, and he simply said, “How do you think?” and scowled. Jeffrey, however, patted him on the shoulder, and Ivan grasped his hand and shook it manfully.

  I do not understand the Russian temperament. Ivan is a man of foul moods, of tempestuous rages, of black, glowering discontent. And yet, having had a significant and lifelong wound inflicted upon him by my husband, he shows less resentment than he did when Jeffrey once inadvertently polished off his glass of vodka. I have to say, I do not fully understand the temperament of my husband either. This is the first time I have seen him since Rupert’s life-changing announcement, and I had hoped to be able to read instantly how much he had suffered. Yet the only thing I could tell from looking at his face was that he had been out in the sun for too long without his hat.

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 21

  Ivan the Terrible is back, wounded, groggy, and petulant. He blunders through the house like a bear with its foot caught in a trap, scattering all in his path. Jeffrey has lost his favorite port glass, and Sophie, one of the crystal ponies she used to collect as a child. She has borne the loss remarkably well. If anything, her mood seems to have improved in the past couple of days. She has taken to locking herself in the bathroom for long periods of time, trying out a bewildering array of cosmetics and singing. Luckily, Boris is always on hand to clean the iridescent eye shadow off the sink.

  When I finally got Jeffrey to myself for the first time, I thought he would be bursting to share his feelings about Rupert. “I’ve seen him,” I told him, almost triumphantly. “I’ve seen him, and, darling, it really isn’t so bad. I know this must be hard for you too but he really is the same old Rupert. We can get through this.”

  Jeffrey muttered, “Of course, old girl,” and just for a moment, before he started vigorously stuffing his rubber boots with rolled-up pages of yesterday’s FT to dry them out, I caught a lost look in his eye.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 22

  11 A.M.

  I’ve invited Rupert and Alex for dinner. It was Sophie’s idea, and I followed it on the spur of the moment last night. Rupert sounded so happy when I called that I swallowed any doubts about how Jeffrey would react, and whether Ivan would make a suitable dining partner in a delicate family situation. The most important thing is to show Rupert that we support him. I’m sure that Jeffrey would agree, though, as ever, his feelings are difficult to read. When I told him about the plan over breakfast this morning he lowered his paper by about a quarter of an inch and said, “Fine.”

  Perhaps it really will be fine. Perhaps, over the course of the next seven hours, Jeffrey will reconcile himself to our son’s situation and I’ll be able to persuade Darcy to stop saying “Who’s a pretty boy, then.”

  11:30 P.M.

  It wasn’t entirely fine. Of course it was good to see Rupert again, and Alex does indeed seem a very eligible young man, but I couldn’t stifle a small wish that this soft-spoken, handsome young geography teacher, with his neat dark hair and short-sleeved checked shirt, had been brought home by my daughter and not my son. He would be the perfect boyfriend for Sophie, I thought, calm and steady but with a throaty laugh, which suggested a lively sense of humor. I caught Rupert looking at me as these thoughts ran through my head, and I jumped up anxiously to pass the stuffed olives around.

  It was an awkward meal. Boris prepared a wonderful rack of lamb with new potatoes—his culinary skills are far superior to Natalia’s—but there was nonetheless a background tension that made conversation difficult. It didn’t help that Ivan the Terrible punctuated the first long pause at the dinner table by saying “There are not so many gay men in Russia, you know. In England, they are here and they are there and they are everywhere, but Russia, no. Men are men in Russia,” before devouring an enormous chunk of lamb by jamming it into his mouth and then rotating his fork.

  Rupert asked, “What about this year’s Eurovision act?” but Ivan replied that that was a Latvian nancy boy masquerading as a Russian, who had no real manly Russian blood in his veins. I changed the subject quickly to last Sunday and Rupert’s role in our victory, going on to describe the competition in such detail that Ivan was soon silent and rapt, as was everyone else at the table.

  Then Ivan took over the topic of competition and started to describe the wrestling contests held between the youths of his village that he said he used to win every summer. Apparently all that was needed was a mud pit, a few straw bales for the spectators, and some low-grade vodka to wash off the blood. I saw Rupert and Alex exchange glances and roll their eyes. At least Sophie remembered her manners and listened intently, staring at his face—perhaps counting the fine lines that crinkle out from his eyes when he guffaws—while he spoke.

  Jeffrey said hardly two words throughout the whole meal, but managed to drink a bottle and a quarter of wine and two glasses of claret. I wish Darcy had shared his reticence. Just as Rupert and Alex were getting their coats to leave and we were all assembled awkwardly in the hall, wondering whether to say anything of significance, to hug or not, my parrot let out a piercing cry of “Jolly Roger.”

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 23

  A letter arrived today, addressed to Jeffrey, written in the spidery scrawl familiar from Natalia’s shopping lists. It was postmarked London. Why is she writing to him and not to me? Perhaps she thinks he is a softer touch. I do hope she’s not petitioning for her job back. Boris is so much more efficient, and is doing a wonderful job of keeping the bathroom spick-and-span despite the ever-increasing array of new makeup that Sophie is cluttering it with.

  I must content myself with not knowing. Just as I was boiling the kettle—for a cup of tea, you understand, not to misuse the steam, which was quite profuse and would have had it open in a jiffy—Jeffrey appeared, collected his mail, patted me on the bottom, then left for a game of golf, leaving Ivan to sit in the conservatory and smoke with only Sophie for company.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 24

  Mother’s birthday, and a special lunch at The Copse to celebrate. Jeffrey came, along with Sophie, although Rupert couldn’t make it because he had to prepare for a work project. I suspect this may have been a front—he is usually so reliable at attending family gatherings, but it must be difficult for him to face his grandmother at the moment. Mother w
as in her usual form: she told all the residents who were gathered around the large oval dining room table for lunch that there was never this fuss and nonsense about birthdays in the old days, then complained that there was no cheese course, then said loudly that it was far too hot and stuffy, but on closer inspection was found to be wearing a flannel vest under her blouse.

  After lunch, Jeffrey took Sophie home and I went to visit Mark and Tanya, who are now at home with little Shariah. Tanya, who has taken to motherhood quite naturally, cooed and jiggled her, while Mark sat watching them both with an equal measure of awe and fear in his eyes. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from thinking that I would never catch Rupert with that look on his face.

  After this scene of domestic bliss, I went back home to find that Ivan had singed the edges of my parlor palm with his cigar.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 25

  Just now, I popped into the kitchen for a glass of elderflower cordial and was accosted by a very strange sight: Sophie changing the dressing on Ivan’s foot. It made me realize that one silver lining to the raging cumulonimbus of Ivan the Terrible’s visit is that it has revealed a new and admirable side to Sophie’s character.

  To be quite frank, I have been worried about Sophie. Very worried. Maternal pride has no place here. Her behavior this summer—the impromptu trip to Ibiza, the tongue piercing, the misguided foray into reality television—shows her to be irresponsible, inconsiderate, and easily led astray.

  And yet, since Ivan arrived back, hobbling and swearing, Sophie has transformed into a veritable ministering angel. She bathes his wounded foot (without a face mask!); she listens to his endless turgid tales about bear hunting and yacht buying. The man is as loud-mouthed, foul-breathed, egotistical, and repellent as ever, so Lord only knows how much she suffers. And yet she puts on such a brave, cheerful face. I am impressed.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 26

  Sophie has christened the mynah bird—whose presence I have largely ignored—Fergie. When I said, “After Sarah, how nice,” she just looked at me and shrugged. Earlier, I caught her in the conservatory trying to teach the wretched creature some sort of inane ditty that went “My humps, my humps, my humps, my humps, my humps.” I really should arrange some charity work to fill the remaining month before she goes off to Bristol. Just not on any literacy projects; I’m not sure that she would be a positive influence.

  No bell ringing tonight; we’re taking a short summer break. I miss the adrenaline rush of competition, the camaraderie, the uplifting sound. I persuaded Jeffrey to play backgammon while an old recording of Songs of Praise played in the background, but it wasn’t the same, and after I had beaten him for the second time I wasn’t too disappointed when he retreated abruptly behind The Economist.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27

  I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Sophie has run away with Ivan.

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 28

  Once more, I find myself sitting at my keyboard, my palms sweating and my head pounding. Once more, my own flesh and blood has dealt me a devastating blow.

  Yesterday, Sophie failed to appear for breakfast. So did Ivan. Both of them are late risers, so this didn’t alarm me to start with. I saw Jeffrey off to work, making sure he took an apple with him, then decided to empty out the kitchen drawers and give them a good clean. This absorbed me for several hours—how had a receipt for twelve pink-frosted Krispy Kreme doughnuts got there? Why was there a glittery My Little Pony sticker still clinging to the back of the drawer behind the teaspoons?—until I suddenly realized that it was almost midday and the house was strangely silent.

  I called out to Sophie. There was no reply. I went up to her room and tentatively pushed open the door. It jammed on a pile of clothes, but once I had wedged it open I saw that her room was empty, and in a typical mess. I even noticed, with a catch in my breath, half a bottle of Ivan’s red-label vodka on the floor. But there was no sign of Sophie. I told myself she must have gone out, and went downstairs to start on the dining room drawers.

  And then I heard the familiar sound of Jeffrey’s tires on the gravel, followed almost immediately by the sound of his key in the lock. I rushed to the hall to meet him. He had a funny look on his face, which reminded me of Mother in her doughtier days, when she used to raise a rolling pin above her head in anger. He handed me his BlackBerry and said, “Read this.”

  It was an e-mail from Ivan—sent from his BlackBerry, Jeffrey said—but the subject line read from soph!!! What followed was clearly her hand. It read:

  Hiya mum & dad, cant stop larfin when i think of you looking about the house 4 me today. Im not there!! me and ivan are going away together!!! im so happy, hes lush, and he’s dads best m8 I know ull be happy for me in the end. dunno bout going to school. mum always said finding the right man was just as important as getting a dugree and the only boys who do sociology are gay (no offense to rupert!!) in a cab, dunno where we’re going, its like a film or sumthing, cant stop larfin!! Luv soph :) Ps ive got fergie.

  Ivan’s BlackBerry had subsequently been switched off. I have never seen Jeffrey so furious. His normal calm, composed expression had slipped away like a mask being taken off; his cheeks were magenta, his eyes wide, his pupils tiny. His shock made me suppress my own. I said I should make us some tea and led him into the kitchen, but as soon as we were there he noticed one of Ivan’s shot glasses, picked it up, and then hurled it across the kitchen with a roar. It narrowly missed the carved wooden cockerel that Harriet gave me for my birthday last year.

  And now he has gone to London, to track down Ivan’s acquaintances and try to find some clues as to where they are hiding. I don’t know if he’s taken his hunting rifle.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 29

  Why me? Why?

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 30

  Forgive me for yesterday’s outburst. Jeffrey still has no leads, but I realize I must try to get a grip. I can’t continue to wallow in this muted hinterland of drawn curtains, soporific novels (I find Maeve Binchy works best), crumpled tissues, and cups of tea.

  To strengthen my resolve, I decided to compose a short list of people trapped in situations worse than my own.

  King Lear. Neither of my children, as far as I am aware, is entangled in a plot to kill me.

  The woman in Lionel Shriver’s book We Need to Talk About Kevin. Rupert may be gay, but to the best of my knowledge he has not committed mass murder with a crossbow.

  That’s as far as I have gotten.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 31

  2 A.M.

  I can’t bear it. Where is she? What is she doing with that man? When is she coming home? How can she stand his halitosis? Why has she not called, or e-mailed, or sent me a text message? Perhaps he has drugged her and smuggled her to somewhere even more treacherous than the outskirts of London. Perhaps they are in Moscow, or Chechnya.

  2 P.M.

  I woke early this morning, cold, with the sheets pushed off over the side of the bed. I noticed once again that I had small red crescents imprinted into the palms of my hands from where I had dug my nails in my sleep. This was hardly surprising, given that I could clearly remember dreaming that Ivan and Jeffrey were fighting a duel with old-fashioned pistols, while Sophie looked on wearing a wedding dress (one of those horrible strapless, tarty ones) and a publicist in dark glasses filmed it all on his mobile phone with a grin on his face. When the shots rang out, Darcy, my beloved Darcy, suddenly fell from the sky and I woke up with tears in my eyes.

  I went to church and kneeled until my legs hurt and prayed. Then Rupert came around with a new copy of Hello! magazine and a box of Belgian chocolates, and although he was clearly worried too, he sat and chatted about this and that, so I almost forgot to worry about Sophie for half an hour. As soon as he left, however, I found myself staring at the framed photo of Sophie that was taken on her twelfth birthday: her hair is platinum blond and she is squinting a little in the sun, standing in front of the glossy petals of the magnolia tree with her hands jammed in the little pockets of
her pink checked birthday dress.

  Where is she now?

  5 P.M.

  Just as I thought today could not get any worse, Natalia showed up on the doorstep. It took me a few moments to recognize her: she’s bleached her long brown hair a peculiar shade of yellowish white and lost quite a bit of weight. She was wearing a denim miniskirt to show off her scrawny, orange legs. “Can I coming in?” she said, and as soon as I remembered my manners I said, “Yes, of course, how lovely to see you again,” all the while hoping that she wasn’t going to demand her job back and frighten off Boris, who is such a thorough cleaner that he has formed an almost emotional bond with the vacuum cleaner. I needn’t have worried. She had come to collect some things she had left behind, which I had packed into her peeling gold-colored suitcase and left in the spare room. Once I had handed this over to her, she asked if Jeffrey was home—I suppose she wanted to say hello to him as a courtesy. When I said he was away and wouldn’t be home that evening, she left without even saying good-bye. Thank heavens I have a replacement with better manners.

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 1

  Bank holiday Monday. There is rain dribbling down the windowpane, and the wind is lashing the magnolia tree, scattering the last dead petals across the lawn like dirty confetti. On the television, the news shows footage of a six-mile traffic jam on the M5, caravans stacked behind cars with bikes and boats on the back, families who thought they would be building sand castles staring at the windshield wipers scraping back and forth.

  Why should I pity them? At least those gridlocked parents don’t have a daughter who has absconded with a middle-aged nine-toed semialcoholic Russian. At least they haven’t had to suffer a visit from Harriet, who took my hand, smiled, and shook her head slowly in pity, then asked if there hadn’t been something amiss with Sophie’s character right from the beginning, as evidenced when she stole a fairy cake from Laura’s sixth birthday party.

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2