Every Woman for Herself

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘And I’ll go round with the Bowls of Cleansing,’ offered Xanthe. ‘Mix us a large G&T, dear, for afterwards.’

  Rituals accomplished, things got quite merry, and after some urging from Em I told them all about Skint Old Northern Woman magazine.

  Everyone came up with suggestions for more articles, some so rude I’d probably be prosecuted if it came to anything.

  ‘You should publish it,’ suggested Madge. ‘Everyone would love it. It would go down a treat at the W.I.’

  ‘Publish it? I couldn’t possibly do that – it would take a fortune to start up a magazine.’

  ‘Yes, but you could try it as a one-off issue, and see how it went.’

  ‘It would be great!’ Susie said. ‘My sister Jen works for a small publishing company. I’ll ask her how much it would cost.’

  I shook my head regretfully: ‘I can’t afford anything at all.’

  ‘It should be published!’ Em said, as if she’d just received Divine Revelation. ‘Anne thought so too, when I told her about it. Perhaps we could pay for the first print run?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, you’d just lose your money – but it’s fun writing the articles. Anyone got any more ideas?’

  ‘How about an ‘Are You a Victim’ quiz?’ suggested Freya.

  Are You a Natural Victim? Try our quiz and find out!

  Your partner slaps you around, and then goes out. Would you:

  A) Put up with it, because it was your fault after all, and he won’t ever do it again, will he?

  B) Balance a large heavy item on top of the half-open kitchen door and await events

  C) Leave (May be combined with answer B)

  D) Fell the bastard with a large heavy object as he turns to go, thus giving you plenty of time to pack.

  On the way home Em and I stopped in at the Black Dog, where we found the new vicar playing darts with Walter, Bran and Father, with Jessica sitting in the corner looking bored over a Martini.

  Bran, surprisingly, can throw a mean dart. You just have to remember not to stand between him and the board when he’s got the darts in his hand, because he throws them fast.

  I was introduced to the vicar, whose name was, entirely suitably, Christian, although he likes to be called Chris. He was a different species from our last one, being very tall, rangy, fortyish, and with a long, iron-grey ponytail and drooping moustaches, like a handsome but slightly melancholy Wyatt Earp. He wore small gold rings in his ears with dangling crosses, and a T-shirt with a dog collar and waistcoat printed on it.

  The moment he set eyes on Em he dropped his darts and assumed the unmistakably sheepish expression of the seriously smitten male, but I don’t think she noticed.

  She looked especially nice tonight, I thought. The red T-shirt under her dungarees had washed out to a flattering faded rose, and her light blue eyes with their blacker-than-black pupils looked like a very intelligent goat’s.

  Em joined in the game while I took my drink and sat with Jessica, who seemed pitifully grateful for any company, even mine.

  ‘God, this is boring!’ she confided. ‘I thought Mace North might come in – he does sometimes when Madge babysits for him – but not tonight.’

  ‘Madge was at Freya’s house for the discussion group.’

  She yawned. ‘Then Mace won’t be coming. The vicar’s quite dishy, but he won’t flirt – that’s the trouble with vicars. I think I’ll go home.’

  ‘I’ll walk back with you,’ I said, draining my pint of bitter and blackcurrant. ‘I’m pretty tired – it’s been a long day.’

  ‘I’m going home, Ran,’ she called, and pouted when Father just smiled and waved a hand at her before taking careful aim with his next dart.

  I think lust’s first bloom has rubbed off already. But it will be a bit worrying if Jessica leaves, because the next mistress will probably need the Summer Cottage, which is just starting to feel like home.

  Chapter 12

  Jumbled

  ‘Chris – the vicar – gave me a message for you, Emily,’ Jessica said a couple of days later. ‘Did you ask him to find you a plumber, or something? God knows, the bathrooms are still in the last century, and none of the locks work. I walked in on Bran the other day while he was showering. He’s a big boy,’ she added thoughtfully, a faint smile crossing her face.

  Oh well, I don’t suppose she really registered on him. If he’s got a sex drive he hasn’t found the on switch yet.

  ‘What was the message?’ Em demanded curtly.

  ‘The message?’ she echoed blankly. ‘Oh yes, the message – silly me! Chris said to tell you that Barkis is willing. Willing to do what?’

  ‘Barkis is willing?’ I repeated, staring at Em in astonishment, and she went a faint but becoming shade of pink.

  ‘Chris is quite dishy,’ Jessica said, ‘for a vicar. He invited me round tonight.’

  ‘He can’t have done,’ Em said shortly. ‘It’s the jumble sale.’

  ‘Yes, he invited me to that.’

  ‘You don’t invite people to a jumble sale, you just tell them about it,’ I informed her. ‘Are you going?’

  ‘Oh no – I get all the girls’ stuff from Gap, and I’m so petite—’

  ‘Skinny,’ interpreted Em, but Jessica was impervious.

  ‘That I have to buy most of my clothes from children’s departments too!’

  So that’s why the shops are so strangely full of sexy clothes for little girls – they’re really meant for all the tiny stick-women like Jessica. I’m glad to have that explained to me.

  ‘I wouldn’t say it like it was an asset being a bag of bones – bag being the operative word,’ Em said disagreeably, but Jessica just laughed.

  Her bones must be rubber, because she always bounces back. Or maybe she doesn’t take in everything Em says? She certainly seems immune to her little whitish spells – let’s hope Em doesn’t call in the Black Dogs of War in the shape of Freya, Lilith and Xanthe.

  I’m getting to sort of like her a bit, but I must try not to, because of loyalty to Em.

  ‘I’ll go to the jumble sale,’ I said. ‘I’m tired of black, and nothing fitting. I might find some jeans or something.’

  ‘If you lost another stone, you’d probably fit into my clothes,’ Jessica offered.

  ‘if she lost another stone she’d be even more skeletal than you,’ Em said. ‘We’re trying to build her back up again. Anyway, she doesn’t wear tart clothes.’

  ‘Thanks, though, Jessica,’ I said hastily. ‘Fashion’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Remember all those transparent dresses women wore with just knickers under? I mean, people went out wearing those and no one much said anything. It was just like the Emperor’s new clothes.’

  ‘Which Emperor?’ Jessica said, puzzled.

  ‘In the fairy tale,’ Em said. ‘You’re right, Charlie – no one dared to tell the Emperor he was totally nude and the family jewels were on public display, because he’d been brainwashed into thinking he was wearing a magic suit.’

  ‘Except for a little boy, who didn’t understand, and shouted out that the Emperor was in his birthday suit – and then the crowd all got the sniggers,’ I finished.

  Anne came in, looking exhausted. Even the multi-pockets on her battle fatigues looked limp, although her light hair still stood out round her face like a dandelion clock.

  ‘Clear off,’ she said to Jessica, although not with her usual energy.

  ‘You Rhymers!’ Jessica said, laughing, but getting up all the same. ‘I told Ran he’d made a bad job of bringing you up. All that isolation has warped your social skills.’

  ‘Go to bed, Anne,’ Em said tersely. ‘Charlie will bring your tea up in five minutes.’

  ‘It’s no wonder you’re tired, if you keep going out when you’re supposed to be convalescing after an operation,’ Jessica babbled. ‘I suppose it was a hysterectomy or something, and that’s why you’re not telling us what it was?’

  ‘Telling you what it was,’ Anne said pointedly, a
nd Jessica gave up probing and went off to pick up the girls from school.

  ‘Was it okay?’ I asked when I took Em’s lovingly prepared tray upstairs to Anne. It was odd seeing her in bed during daylight hours, but she did look exhausted.

  ‘Quite bearable. Only for a few weeks.’

  ‘Your hair’s not going to fall out, is it?’

  ‘No, different sort of treatment.’

  ‘Will you have to have anything else done?’ I ventured, since this was talkative for Anne.

  ‘No. This is a back-up – they got the bugger. Gave up before the battle began. Like Red – one mention, and he cleared off. No guts.’

  Even cancer’s got more sense than to tangle with Anne twice.

  ‘Doctors wanted me to take some drug for ten years. “Just in case”. Told them to stuff it up their jacksies.’

  ‘Should you do that?’

  ‘What, stuff it up their jacksies?’ She sniggered.

  It’s all that hanging around with soldiers. Anne’s language sometimes has to be heard to be believed. I’m always afraid she’s going to slip up when she’s broadcasting live, but she hasn’t yet.

  There was a familiar wheezing noise as Flossie appeared in the doorway, wagging her tail in a mildly pleased way. Then she scrabbled up onto the bed next to Anne.

  I stared at her in surprise. She doesn’t usually take a liking to people; I’m not even sure she can distinguish me from everyone else half the time.

  ‘Do you want me to take her away? She’ll cover the bed with hair.’

  ‘No, leave her,’ Anne said, leaning back and closing her eyes. ‘She’s company.’

  That’s another thing Anne’s never sought much before. I backed out feeling a bit ruffled, but leaving the door slightly open for Flossie when she remembered food and attempted to find the kitchen.

  Anne’s hand was on Flossie’s head, in a touchingly dying-Brontë way, but Flossie’s tongue was just starting to explore the perimeter of the tea tray.

  I put my head into Bran’s room on the way down. He was standing by the window, saying something calmly, but in an obscure-sounding tongue, to Mr Froggy.

  ‘Tea, Bran? Hot cheese scones?’

  His light brown eyes regarded me amiably. ‘Buttered angel cake?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. Em always has to make angel cake for Bran. He interpreted this for Mr Froggy, and then stuffed the toy unceremoniously into his pocket before picking his way through a drift of books and papers. Someone, either Em or Gloria, had put new leather patches on the elbows of his corduroy jacket.

  I led the way down. ‘There’s a jumble sale tonight at the church hall, Bran. Do you want to come? Books?’

  ‘Books,’ he agreed.

  Jumble Sale Etiquette

  Step one: queue in an orderly fashion in front of the door, peering in to see where the best-looking tables are, if you get the opportunity.

  Step two: as soon as the doors open, stampede in, jostling for a position at your chosen table with your elbows. (As Mae West once so memorably put it: ‘He who hesitates is last.’)

  Step three: grab anything that looks remotely interesting without stopping to examine it until you have an armful and can’t grip any more. Then retire to a corner of the room and sort through them, returning to put the rejects back on the table and pay for your chosen items.

  Stow paid-for items in a bag and repeat step three.

  Em, Gloria and I formed a cordon around Branwell to prevent him wandering into the hall and rifling the books until the doors officially opened. Walter had somehow managed to insert himself at the head of the queue, and could be heard informing Madge that he had no eyebrows, and, probably, that he had no hair anywhere else either.

  It was a good jumble sale, and well attended, since word had got out that Lady Hake-Hackett had been having a major clearout. Word had also got out that the vicar was including some of the obscure volumes left behind by the previous incumbent, but no one except Bran was showing much interest in those: I had to go back and get the car at the end and load them in.

  The vicar helped. He seems drawn to Em like an unwary moth to the flame.

  ‘Barkis is willing to what?’ I asked her later while we examined our booty in the kitchen, Bran having retired to his room with his books.

  Jessica and Ran had gone to the pub in our absence, leaving the girls in the nominal care of Anne, but they’d gone to bed when we got home. Anne said she’d told them a few stories first, which seemed unlikely, because the only stories I’ve heard her tell usually end something like: ‘… and bugger me if the next second he didn’t tread on a landmine and get himself blown to smithereens!’

  Em shrugged, pulling a voluminous mass of tawny crushed velvet out of her bag. ‘Marry me, presumably,’ she said offhandedly, holding the dress against her dungarees and squinting critically downwards. ‘Do you think this will fit me? It looks big enough – must have been a Hake-Hackett. They’re all built like barn doors, except Felicity. She’s the runt of the litter.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you in a dress!’ I said, amazed. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen her in anything other than dungarees over a T-shirt or jumper, and big boots.

  ‘I need to make an impression, or I’ll die a bloody virgin.’

  ‘But Barkis is willing.’

  ‘I can’t seduce a vicar when I’m about to embrace the Dark Powers. You can’t seduce vicars anyway. It isn’t done. You have to marry them, which is impossible.’

  ‘It’s not impossible, and he’s rather attractive.’

  ‘I don’t want to marry, I’m quite happy with my life the way it is, or I will be, once we’ve got rid of Jessica. No, I just want casual sex, preferably in a place of power, like the standing stones on the moor. Besides, I couldn’t have any sort of relationship with a man who thinks Dickens is the greatest British novelist!’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Er … you do know all about safe sex, don’t you, Em?’

  ‘Wasn’t born yesterday,’ she said indistinctly as she pulled the dress over her head. It fell in loose folds about her and would have been flattering had it not been for the layers of bulky fabric underneath and the boots. ‘I’ll wear this next Friday, for Father’s birthday feast.’

  ‘It will have to be cleaned first.’

  ‘It’s clean already – still got the cleaner’s tag pinned in the neck.’

  ‘Is anyone else coming on Friday?’ I asked. There had to be some reason for the dress.

  ‘Mace North – Father’s invited him. Jessie’s delirious with pleasure.’

  ‘Big deal.’

  ‘He hasn’t accepted any other invitations, though that Whippington-Smythe woman’s been shameless. Maybe he only looks nervous when I talk to him – you watch him on Friday and tell me if you think he fancies me.’

  ‘I will, but you’re flogging a dead horse on that one, Em. Even ugly middle-aged men can pull pretty young girls if they’re rich or famous enough, so he’s probably got a queue waiting to jump into his bed.’

  ‘I’ll put something in his drink. And he’s not ugly.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was – it was just a generalisation. He’s … interesting-looking, and he has a very attractive smile.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Em said, staring at me. ‘Why’s he smiling at you? You don’t want him, do you?’

  ‘No, I’ve gone off men permanently, except family, of course. And I don’t mind the vicar, he’s rather sweet. Otherwise, even casual sex seems pointless now I can’t get pregnant any more.’

  ‘What have you got in your jumble bags?’ she asked, changing the subject to my relief. I am not a rival for anyone’s affections; I’ve been through the sex/marriage/dwindling sex/divorce cycle already, I don’t want to repeat the whole damned thing with anyone else, even on a temporary basis.

  ‘Jeans, and a lot of sea-green stuff. Dresses, T-shirts … a dark green suede jacket … matching desert boots, sandals…’

  ‘Now that definitely was Felicity. She had a green
phase last year; thought she was a bloody naiad, but it didn’t suit her. Too yellow. That’s a nice dress.’

  ‘I think it’s a nightie really,’ I said doubtfully, holding up a wispy green chiffon number. ‘But it has got a nice Peter Pan sort of touch about it – frondy.’

  ‘Well, call it a dress and wear it next Friday. When do we ever dress up?’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘We shall go to the ball,’ Em said.

  Chapter 13

  Jam Tomorrow

  I spent a couple of days washing, altering and mending my new wardrobe – Felicity is a little larger than me, even now I’m starting to fill out a bit. I had to filch one of Bran’s belts to keep my jeans up, but I don’t suppose he will notice.

  The two little girls (who, under Anne’s practical influence, have started calling themselves Clo and Febe) helped me to paint a jungle on the inside of the verandah’s glass walls in poster paints. It will come off eventually, but give me the right dense green atmosphere to work in until I get enough plants.

  I was glad the paints were non-toxic, because Flossie tried licking the glass and smeared several leaves before she decided she didn’t like the flavour.

  Clo painted a sort of monkey in her bit, and Febe did lots of butterflies and a lizardy thing like a salamander.

  I did a snake. The serpent in the Garden of Eden.

  Skint Old Gardening Tips: 2

  Spider plants have no reason for existence – they are simply a sort of green chain letter.

  1) Place in a cardboard box and abandon them somewhere they will be found quickly: e.g. outside a charity shop just before opening time.

  2) Include the macramé potholders.

  3) Walk away: just feel that relief!

  One afternoon Em appeared in her loomingly silent way, followed by Frost, who tried to poke his head into Flossie’s igloo and got short shrift.

  Since a blast of dank, icy air had fingered its way in with them I deduced that they had come in through the verandah. They’d taken to using the place as a short cut up to the Parsonage after their walks, which was fine, except for the surprise; I’m not big on surprises after the Dead Greg episode.