by Ceri Radford
What with this reflection on the universality of human nature and the need to concentrate intensely on my bell after months with no practice, I managed to spend almost the entire evening without thinking once about a stranger taking down my pictures and traipsing up my stairs with his clumpy stranger’s shoes and opening the door to the bathroom with his grubby stranger’s hands.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 18
Today, Boris gave me a briefing on everything he does to look after the house, which will fall into my hands when he leaves. He will be going home for Christmas on Monday, and will be back in Britain to look for a new job in the New Year. I’m sure someone will snap him up. When I told him he could keep the vacuum nozzles he bought, tears of gratitude welled in his eyes.
As he described dusting the tops of the wardrobes in all five bedrooms, polishing the floorboards in Jeffrey’s study, vacuuming the rugs, scouring clean the downstairs bathroom, the family bathroom, and the master bathroom, the prospect of moving into a new, smaller house became a little less terrible.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19
Last night Jeffrey said that he wanted to cook me a special dinner, so I put on a nice dress and some perfume, and took the batteries out of the smoke alarm in the kitchen. He grilled a couple of steaks, which caught fire only once, and made his own pepper sauce, splattering it across the kitchen tiles in an elaborate arc. Thank heavens Boris is with us for a little while yet.
Then he lit a candle in the dining room and put Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” on in the background. I was touched. He must have seen how upset I was about the house. As we were halfway through the steaks, which were tolerable, though nowhere near as tender as Argentinean beef, he suddenly slumped down from the table. I shrieked, fearing an angina attack, but he told me to be quiet. It was then that I noticed that he was on one knee. He took a little box from his pocket, and gave it to me.
It was simple, creamy cardboard, tied with a burgundy velvet ribbon. I opened it up. Inside was a ring, a beautiful ring—not diamond, not platinum, just a lovely, striking pear-shaped piece of turquoise flanked by two smaller pieces of coral on a thick silver band.
“Constance, will you remarry me?” he said, and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling upward in that lovely, familiar way.
“What on earth do you mean?” I asked.
He got up off the floor, knees creaking, and explained that after everything we’d been through together, and everything that lay ahead, he wanted to renew our vows, to make an official fresh start. He was sure that my friend Reginald would do the business.
I was sure he would too, but could I be sure I was ready for this? Jeffrey and I had just spent some of the best weeks of our marriage together; and yet, back in the house, every time I passed Natalia’s old room, or found one of her old pink hair scrunchies lurking in the back of the bathroom cupboard, I felt a surge of surprisingly sharp anger and hurt.
This was not an easy thing to do, but I closed my hand over Jeffrey’s, gently pushing it down over the open ring box, and said, “Not yet.”
Last night, when I woke up in the early hours, I turned over and saw that Jeffrey too was lying awake, staring at the ceiling. I nestled my head into his shoulder, and eventually we both fell asleep together, until we were woken at seven A.M. by the sound of Boris vacuuming.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20
One good idea at least has emerged from Jeffrey’s touching but awkward proposal yesterday. The prospect of having a church service after Rupert and Alex’s civil ceremony was so appealing that I called my son this morning to ask him what he thought. Rupert may not be a regular churchgoer, but he has always got on brilliantly with Reginald, and he told me that he had so many fond childhood memories of church that it would make the day feel more significant somehow if we could arrange something, provided that Alex agreed, and that—he sounded a little anxious here—Reginald thought it appropriate.
I immediately called Reginald, who was delighted with the idea. “Of course, we’ll have to fudge the wording a little, but I’m sure I can manage a blessing—I think Colossians 3:12 would do the trick. And what’s the good of being a CofE vicar if I’m not allowed to fudge?”
No sooner had I thanked him and put the phone down than Rupert called back to say that Alex was “chuffed” with the idea too. “He said we’d get lovely photos, Mum, and he’s right. The town hall may have more enlightened politics but it’s still an eyesore.”
And so we’re all set. Jeffrey has just booked the cars to take us from the town hall to church, and then back here to see in the New Year all together. The plan would be perfect, if only I could find at short notice a wedding cake with two men on it.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 22
A sad farewell at the airport to Boris, who had asked permission to take one of Darcy’s tail feathers to remember him. Then I spent the rest of the day making mince pies with Sophie, who told me all about university: the time they all played a joke on a girl called Stacy by sneaking into her room and turning every piece of furniture upside down and writing an upside-down message on her mirror in lipstick; the time everyone played a trick on her by sneaking into her room and taking Heidi, her cuddly giraffe, hostage; and also her course, which she said was fine.
By the time we’d gotten through all this, a veritable mountain of mince pies had formed, which is just as well—they’re Rupert’s favorites, and he will be here from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day. Harriet and Edward invited us to their house for Christmas Day, but I declined—I want to enjoy the last Christmas in our house, and not face any mortifying remarks as to why I have not yet had my hair recolored.
On Boxing Day, Alex and his parents will be joining us, which has already caused me to wake at two A.M. with the following questions on my lips: Should Jeffrey and I congratulate them unequivocally, or attempt to share a moment of somber solidarity on the subject of what might have been, of the grandchildren never to be born? Will a leg of ham suffice?
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 23
I can’t type more than a few lines. I am exhausted in body and soul. I have been Christmas shopping on a budget. The morning—which involved meeting up with Bridget in London to buy presents—was not unalloyed hell. It was wonderful to see my dear friend, who hugged me so tightly I thought I would burst. She helped me find all sorts of quirky, inexpensive presents, including a set of “carpet golf” for Jeffrey. And yet the crowds that surged and pressed all around us gave me flashbacks to the streets of Bogotá where pickpockets relieved Jeffrey of twenty U.S. dollars and his last remaining packet of extra-strong mints.
It was the afternoon, however, that really took its toll. Food shopping for Christmas used to involve writing a list for the housekeeper (whose name I will no longer deign to mention), then taking a leisurely stroll around the broad, white, quiet aisles of Waitrose to pick up any extras. Today I went to Lidl. It was Jeffrey’s idea. He said that they stocked many high-quality products at a bargain price, and that if he could only turn back the clock a year he’d have invested his savings in them rather than in U.S. property derivatives.
This may well be, but it has taken me a strong coffee and a nip of brandy to revive myself from the trip. It was a disorientating, discombobulating experience: the narrow aisles, the cluttered displays, the bargain bins stuffed with “slipper socks” (I was unaware such a hybrid existed), and chocolate Father Christmases whose foil wrappers were peeling off.
I swear that woman ran my foot over with her trolley on purpose as I reached for the last packet of ninety-nine-pence Parma ham.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 24
The last of the Christmas cards arrived today, and among them was a lurid pink envelope bearing Natalia’s erratic handwriting. I showed it to Jeffrey, and he threw it on the fire without saying a word. He held my hand as we watched it burn. It made a strange pop and hiss and emitted a bitter smell.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 25
Merry Christmas, my dear readers. I hope your day has been more tranquil than my ow
n. All I had hoped for was a quiet family meal, and that Mother would not crack her dentures on the fifty-pence piece Jeffrey always hides in the Christmas pudding. It was not to be. No sooner were we all seated around the table—a CD of carols from King’s College Choir playing in the background, the plastic contents of cut-price Christmas crackers all around us, a steaming platter of Lidl sprouts in the center—than there was a knock on the door. Or rather three bold, vigorous knocks, the knocks of a self-assured and potentially violent visitor. We all exchanged glances, apart from Mother, whose hearing is not what it was, and who continued to look at the lime-green plastic comb that had come out of her cracker as if it might leap up and stab her. Jeffrey, Sophie, Rupert, and I rose from our chairs and went to the door. Jeffrey opened it. And there on the doorstep, with a poinsettia plant, a bottle of vodka, and a young woman in his arms, stood Ivan the Terrible.
“Merry Christmas!” he boomed. “It’s the season for forgiveness, no? I’ve brought you vodka with the gold flakes in. Please meet Irania, my fifth wife. I save the best to last!”
And with that, somehow, they were over the threshold, Ivan clasping Jeffrey in a bear hug, Irania taking off a fur-lined coat to reveal a black silk minidress, scarlet tights, and over-the-knee patent leather boots.
What could I say? What could I do? You can imagine my feelings on seeing the man who had absconded with my daughter and framed my husband for fraud come crashing into our quiet family Christmas. And yet there is something about Ivan, some irrepressible force, that has you graciously accepting his crushed flowers and hanging up his coat before you can say “b***** off, you Russian b******.” Jeffrey looked as if he might punch him, but Ivan clasped both his shoulders and said, “I am a new man. You must believe me, old friend.”
I turned to Sophie, fearing for her reaction, but she was simply giving the pair of them a cold, appraising look, and when I got closer she whispered, “Her boots are totally last season, Mum.”
And then we sat down to lunch, hastily eked out with some leftover new potatoes. Luckily, Irania did not eat much. Mother, for once, was stunned into silence, although she continued to stare at our visitors as if they posed an even greater threat to her person than the green comb did. As soon as the meal was over, she went to lie down. It was then that Ivan unscrewed the top of his vodka bottle, poured a generous measure into everyone’s port glass except Sophie’s, because she covered it with her fingers, and said, “Now we can talk. Now you can tell me you forgive me. I am ashamed of myself. For long nights I have lain awake. Irania here can tell you that.” He winked at her, and she giggled.
Jeffrey, who has never been able to bear a grudge, picked up his vodka glass, eyed the specks of gold floating in it like celestial dandruff, and clinked his glass against Ivan’s. There ensued a long catch-up—punctuated only by the Queen’s Speech—in which Jeffrey regaled Ivan with the highlights of his trip, and Ivan told Jeffrey how he had cleaned up his act, closed his recruitment business, and was doing a roaring trade in corporate liquidation solutions.
Eventually, after Rupert and Sophie had retreated to the other room to play cards, the conversation turned to future plans. Banging his vodka glass down on the table, Ivan said, “I want to settle down here. Spread roots. Be an Englishman in his castle. I’m selling my Moscow flat and I want to buy a house just like yours, with the roses around the door and the village pub a stroll away. I want Irania to stand in the kitchen looking out at the green English lawn making cakes for our children. Our many children.” Another nudge, another giggle. Readers, you can guess where this conversation was heading. After another few glasses of vodka, and despite my kicking Jeffrey sharply in the ankle, he said to Ivan, “Old man, if you really like this house, you can buy it, you know. Connie and I fancy a change.”
There was a silence. I stared fixedly at the Lidl paper napkins, which featured a red robin with remarkably long eyelashes, and pondered the following dilemma. Which is worse: to have Ivan the Terrible take over my house, infiltrating every room with his malodorous presence, replacing my roll-top bath with a gold-edged Jacuzzi, or to open the door to a real estate agent?
Before I could formulate an answer, I saw that Jeffrey had reached over the table to shake Ivan’s hand and that Irania was staring at the French windows with a proprietary smile.
It was only afterward, when Ivan and Irania had left, and Jeffrey and I sat on the sofa together with a tube of heartburn tablets, that he told me the amount Ivan had offered was considerably more than what we could have hoped for on the open market. Revenge, he said, with a sheepish smile. “Don’t worry, Connie, it’s not going to go back to how things were with Ivan. No shooting trips when you need me,” he said, smiling guiltily. We talked again about the money, and the sense of relief that we would not have to have strangers traipsing through our home.
“And you can buy yourself a lovely hat for Wednesday now,” Jeffrey added, squeezing my hand. After thirty-four years, he has finally learned to say the right thing.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 26
After the drama of yesterday, lunch with Alex and his parents was mercifully uneventful. It was wonderful to see Alex again, who really is a charming young man. He gave me an illustrated hardcover book on the parrots of the world as a Christmas present, and remarked on how much my hair suited me longer. His parents were equally pleasant. Rather than any mortifying heart-to-hearts on the inadvertent rearing of homosexuals, we talked about the traffic on the M25, the weather, the sad decline of rural post offices, and the sad decline of the village pub.
Alex and Rupert repaired to Jeffrey’s study to watch Casino Royale on DVD while we chatted. I didn’t think that gay people liked action films, but life, as I have discovered, is full of surprises.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 27
Once more unto the breach: today I went sales shopping for my mother-of-the-groom outfit. It was not an easy task. Last night I had lain awake deliberating on what would be the appropriate outfit to wear as a well-preserved fifty-four-year-old woman about to witness the civil union between my son and a geography teacher. I suppose if I had been truly desperate I could have sent myself in as a case study for that reality TV program with the two hectoring women, but instead I went to John Lewis. Sophie came along to pick up a few pullovers for the cold winter in halls and to advise. After a few unsuccessful experiments with outfits that made me look like, variously, a French maid and a nun, we struck on a combination that made me smile, and Sophie gasp, as soon as I stood in front of the mirror. I will be wearing a fitted mandarin-collared dress in puce-colored silk, a cream brocade jacket that falls in a flattering line over my hips, and a broad-brimmed, elegant puce hat.
Jeffrey will wear his suit. Like with so many things, as a man he has it easy.
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 28
Jeffrey and I took Mother back to her home, where she complained that the nurses had not taken down her Christmas cards yet, and then, when she found two in the bin, complained that they had. We have decided not to tell her about Wednesday. I fear the gay civil partnership will be too bewilderingly modern for her. It was bad enough the time that Rupert tried to explain e-mail.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 29
Jeffrey and I dedicated most of the day to carpet golf. I hope that in our new home we will have a flatter carpet; every time I got close to the overturned tennis trophy that we were using as a “hole,” the deep pile interfered with the path of my ball. I don’t understand why Jeffrey did not encounter the same problem.
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 30
Sophie just presented me with the most lovely surprise: a tailor-made two-man figurine for the cake, which she had crafted herself from papier-mâché made from yesterday’s paper. You can almost discern a news item about Gypsies on one of the grooms’ suits, but it is a touching gift. One more shepherd’s pie and twenty-seven more canapés to bake, and I’m ready for tomorrow.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 31
11 P.M.
What a day, what a wonderful, wonderful day.
Even as it went along, every moment seemed to acquire the light and the stillness of a photograph in the family album. The smile on Rupert’s scrubbed, glowing face; the way Alex smiled back at him; their matching lemon ties and gray suits. Harriet, who appeared to be there on sufferance, turned almost the same color as my hat during the ceremony, and Edward had a coughing fit, but I have already edited that out of my recollections. Then there was the drive across the village green, which was brushed with frost; the short walk into the church, which the Church Flowers ladies had lined with cream roses and red poinsettias. Hazy winter sun fell through the stained glass, daubing color onto the faces of my dear friends: Mark and Tanya with little Shariah bundled up in a sequined blanket, Bridget in a velvet jacket, David wearing a pink tie that matched Ruth’s pink dress, Rosemary and Gerald and Miss Hughes all standing straight in a line. Alex and Rupert sat in the front-row pew, their shoulders touching. Reginald intoned a reading in his gentle voice, spoke of “love which binds everything together in perfect harmony,” and Jeffrey looked at me with enough warmth in his eyes to burn through the frost, enough to cure, even, Miss Hughes’s chilblains.
And then it was over, and we were walking out in clusters to the churchyard, and Rupert took my arm and said, “I’m proud of you, Mum. I know everything you’ve been through.”
I clutched his arm back. “You’ve always been a sensitive boy,” I said.
“No, Mum, I mean, I really do know exactly what you’ve been through. I know because I read it on your blog.”
I nearly dropped my handbag in shock. I had presumed that you alone, strangers who I now also count as friends, were my audience. When I thought about some of the things that I have written on this blog—my initial horror at Rupert’s revelation; my skulduggery with Ivan’s sunscreen; Carlos, oh dear Lord, Carlos—I momentarily felt dizzy. But then Rupert tightened his grasp on me. He had finally tracked down my blog, he said, when he was worried about me after Jeffrey and I had gone AWOL somewhere in Peru. As my blog was anonymous, he’d had to Google all the things I was likely to mention to track it down—eventually, a combination of “Jeffrey Rupert Sophie Darcy bell ringing John Lewis” did the trick. He told me he’d loved it, he loved me, I had nothing to be ashamed of. I hugged him back. What is the point of dwelling on the past? What more, indeed, is there to say here?
