by Daisy Waugh
I asked our very friendly postman for advice, because he always pauses to admire the view/catch his breath when he comes up here. He suggested putting an end to the trees by climbing the wall one night and hammering brass tacks into their roots. Simple enough. And very hard to detect, apparently. We’d almost certainly get away with it. Yet, pathetically, I’m still hesitating.
What if, like poor Rapunzel’s father, I get caught creeping over the wall at dead of night? What if my mysteriously invisible neighbours, with their mysteriously immaculate garden and maliciously planted trees, turn out to be nothing less than a coven of witches? Highly unlikely, you may think. But this is the West Country, after all—famously prone to the black art. And there is certainly something unsavoury about the goings-on next door.
With only half-hearted apologies to the tree lovers, I admit I’ve just now looked up ‘tree murder’ on the internet, in search of an even simpler, less traceable killing method; one which won’t involve my stepping into the witches’ garden at any point. Sadly I found nothing very helpful except a news report about a man in the Midlands, jailed for poisoning his neighbour’s leylandii by peeing on it every night. If even peeing is imprisonable these days, I’m guessing a tree-crime involving sharp objects will land me straight in Guantanamo Bay.
I could risk the jail sentence, of course. I could…pretend to consider that option.
Or I could try a more conventional approach. Introduce myself to the mysterious witch-neighbours and invite them over to enjoy our view while they still can: try to charm them into compliance. On consideration, I think that may be the way forward.
So the current plan (always subject to changes, of course) is to track down my son’s Spiderman football, wherever it may be, and then to throw it over the wall into their garden. It will give me an excuse to go over and introduce myself. I tried to introduce myself before, but they refused to come to the door. This time, with Spiderman and the tree issue spurring me on, there’ll be no getting rid of me.
And if—by some glorious chance—a green-faced old crone in a dark pointy hat does happen to answer the door, at least two of my problems will be solved. It’ll give me something meaty to talk about not just this evening but for many evenings to come. (Because witches beat movie stars any day.) And the husband will be back so fast to buy up the film rights, he’ll have plenty of time to cook the children’s din-dins himself.
March 14th
It snowed last night. When we woke up this morning the hills were completely covered and the sky was a deep, clear blue. It was—is—staggeringly beautiful. The children were beside themselves with excitement, of course, and I think I was almost as excited as they were. I cooked them microwave porridge for breakfast, which was meant to be a treat (needless to say they both turned their noses up at it) and, for the first time since we moved here, I succeeded in getting them both ready for school with enough time to spare, or so I thought, for us to walk there. It’s further than I realised, actually. It took us over two hours, door to door. We arrived sodden, and very, very late, but appropriately rosy-cheeked. Actually it was wonderful. We cut across the back field, covered in a thick blanket of untrodden snow, and we had to leap from stone to stone to get across the stream. The children looked so happy—and so old fashioned. For a moment I remembered why we had wanted to move to the country in the first place.
Fin says he can’t make it home this weekend, for reasons which sound annoyingly plausible. He seems pretty unhappy about it, and he claims he’s coming home for four nights in a row next week, en route to somewhere else. I can’t even remember where.
Was he always away as much as this? He says he was. He claims that in London, where I had my own life and my own friends, I just didn’t notice it so much. But it’s not true. Because at least half the time he’s away now he’s away in London, which means—had we still been in London, he wouldn’t actually be away at all.
The children miss him a lot. If he and I didn’t argue so much whenever we saw each other, I suppose I’d miss him too. But something’s happened to the balance between us. The truth is, I feel somehow belittled by his endless business, as if my life—and the children’s—were forever on hold for his.
How I loathe to fall into any middle-aged cliché, and may death by firing squad save me from becoming the sort of drippy, whining frau who demands a husband at her side, only so he can drown in fearfulness and boredom alongside her. Anyway. Bugger it. How stupid is all this?
He’s busy. He has a life.
Clearly it’s time I found some business of my own.
Finally talked to Hatty. It was very tense. She called me. As soon as I picked up she said, ‘Oh. So you’re not dead then,’ and the conversation grew increasingly less enjoyable from there.
I said congratulations on the Oscar, and made a chippy, not remotely amusing ‘joke’ about her conquering the film industry even more efficiently than Fin. Which was a cue, or so she interpreted, for her to launch into a long spiel about Fin’s general fantasticness, which speech I certainly could have done without, and which I sat through with teeth so tightly clamped it actually gave me a headache.
She also said she hadn’t seen or spoken to Damian, and that he’s made no attempt to contact her or the children since she threw him out. She said it was a relief for all of them to have his lugubrious presence out of the house at last. So. I said something about how kind she was to be having Fin to stay so often, and very nearly gagged as I said it.
And then suddenly she announced her boss was calling her over. I didn’t think she even had a boss.
And we said goodbye. And that was it.
I feel horrible. Not sure if I was the complete bitch or if she was. Keep fighting the urge to call her back and apologise. But how can I? She and Finley would probably open a bottle of champagne in bed together tonight and have a bloody good laugh about it.
Or maybe I’m imagining the whole thing.
Friday March 18th
It’s been over a week—more like two—since I last heard anything from Darrell, and now that he’s gone silent I’m beginning to think it was pretty pathetic of me not to have returned his text messages in the first place. It’s not like he’s asked me elope with him, for God’s sake. He’s only asked me for a game of tennis. Unfortunately.
Joke.
Anyway I’ve decided I’m going to call him. Maybe he’ll call me first. I know he takes Friday afternoons off. And if he doesn’t, I’m going to text him first thing Monday morning.
Ha! I was heading out to Waitrose this happy Friday afternoon, when who should come loping up the garden path towards me but…Darrell. Enjoying his afternoon off.
By sheer, sheer chance I happened to have spent a lot of time in front of the mirror this morning. Don’t know why. With the book cruelly overdue now, and me screening all calls to avoid Editor and Agent, I’ve taken to putting a coat on over my pyjamas to drop off children at school, and not usually bothering to get dressed until it’s time to pick them up again. On this occasion, however, by sheer chance, I was wearing earrings and eyeliner and some quite uncomfortable high-heeled boots. Also, some of Dora’s peppermint-flavoured lipgloss. Clare Gower would have been impressed. I think Darrell was. He whistled.
Yes he did.
I almost wish our meeting had ended just there. Well, no, I don’t. In any case the Waitrose trip was abandoned, which means there is no food in the house. And—this not being Shepherds Bush—no shops open to buy any. Looks like Shreddies for supper again.
More interestingly, though, there was, we felt, a hint of sunlight behind the damp sky this afternoon, so Darrell and I sat out on the steps of our newly paved, unbelievably bumpy front terrace, and drank coffee, and talked. About a lot of things actually: Hatty and her short film; the escalating spat between him and Potato Head (Potato’s been ripping him off for months, apparently); but mostly about my neighbours and their poplar trees. He laughed when I suggested they might be witches—said, intriguingly, that
it wasn’t the first time anyone had suggested it. I couldn’t tell if he was joking and he wouldn’t be drawn. All he would say was that he and Potato Head had done some work for them a few years ago, and that they had both agreed they would never do it again.
Apparently there’s a husband and wife in the house, and there also used to be a couple of miserable, pastyfaced teenagers, but nobody’s seen either of them for years. Which means they must have left home, lucky things…or, as Darrell suggested, before releasing a laugh that might have been heard across the entire county, they’ve been slaughtered and added to the parents’ cauldron.
‘Witchcraft’s the least of it, from what I hear,’ Darrell said. ‘You’d be surprised what’s supposed to go on in that house.’
I begged him to tell, but he just shook his head and laughed his incredibly sexy laugh, and warned me to be careful, because even if I couldn’t see them, they were watching me. What did he mean? Darrell always looks a little like he has his own private joke going, and it was pretty much impossible to tell whether he was teasing. My mind has been running wild on the possibilities ever since.
Anyway, we finished our coffee and headed back down the hill together, me to go and pick up my children from their posh little private school in Paradise; Darrell to visit his four-year-old son, Daniel, who lives with Denise (Darrell’s ex-girlfriend) and Denise’s mother, Sue, who has emphysema and lives in a wheelchair, and Denise’s boyfriend, Mark, who is unemployed, and Mark’s brother, Stevey, who is a bit simple (but who, like Mark, sometimes moonlights for Darrell), and Denise and Mark’s twin baby daughters, Daisy and Emily, who are apparently both pretty cute. They live, the seven of them, in a bungalow built by Darrell and Mark together, in a big village about three miles on the other side of Paradise. Darrell usually eats with son and family about three nights a week.
But not tomorrow night, I think. Because Darrell and I have made a plan to play tennis together again! We’re meeting at the tennis club in Paradise at half past five, which is fine because the courts have floodlights.
Darrell offered to swing by and pick me up, but I said no. Not sure why.
It may not happen anyway. Everything depends on the babysitter and I haven’t spoken to her for months. She may well be busy, it being a Saturday night. In fact, for all I know she could be dead.
Bloody well hope not.
Saturday
Very late
Very very very late
Can’t sleep. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again. Got back at two, and little Ripley had already crept into my empty bed. He’s lying beside me now, snoring very gently, and I’m absolutely lashed and absolutely not tired, and I’m fighting the urge to wake him up and smother his sweet round innocent cheeks with disgusting alcoholic kisses and to tell him that it’s all going to be all right; that I love him more than my life, more than my life, and that whatever happens—whatever happens—he and Dora…Where was I? What am I saying? Can’t remember. God, I’m pissed. Stoned, actually, too. Darrell rolls a fine spliff, I think. Among other things. Oh, fuck.
But it was a great evening. It was. Also…very, very difficult, talking to the babysitter without smirking. Wonder if she noticed? She looked kind of sour. Perhaps. Actually maybe she looked exhausted.
I’m so tired. I can’t sleep.
It’s been a long, long day.
Sunday
Very very very early
It’s already light outside and I still haven’t slept a wink. The children are going to be awake any minute, and I’ve got to write some stuff down before then because my thoughts are…not under any kind of control, and I need to get a few things straight.
It was a good evening. We didn’t play tennis for long—there wasn’t any point. I mean it was stupid, we both knew. Even at the beginning he was pausing between serves to ask me if I supported the war, for Heaven’s sake. (He does, weirdly. But his best friend is serving in Iraq at the moment, so maybe that has something to do with it.) In any case, we went through the motions, and even with his mind on the Iraq War he played like a god, really, with effortless, faultless grace—and I have to say, there’s something about a man who plays truly beautiful, elegant tennis. It’s very rare. Actually Fin does. He plays almost as well as Darrell. But not quite as well. Anyway I’m not thinking about Fin at the moment. Don’t want to think about Fin…
Where was I? Darrell just kept blocking my shots back at me, and laughing, and however hard I hit the ball, however slyly I thought I angled it, it just came bouncing back—
& back
& back
& back
Until I was almost dead with the effort to win a single honest point off him, and Darrell was laughing so hard that I couldn’t really help laughing too, in spite of feeling quite stupid. The set degenerated pretty much from there. We played the last few games with me cheating blatantly, and Darrell just laughing, and lobbing the balls back, and asking disconcerting questions in the middle of seemingly endless points.
‘Did your mum go bonkers, then. Before she copped it?’ was one.
‘Do you believe in life after you die?’ was another
‘What would you do if your son said he wanted to be policeman?’
‘Have you ever done it with two men at the same time?’ Cheeky sod. That was when we gave up on the tennis and went to the pub instead.
Same pub, same table by the fire. It was still early—only about half past six—but the place was already lively. We were there for an hour or so, until a party of rugby players came in and Darrell mentioned he had some spliff in the van. We were going to smoke it outside. That was the original plan. But it was cold. Cold-ish. And anyway it turned out he’d left the spliff at home, not in the van, he said, and since his flat was only five minutes away we were pretty much already there anyway. So we got into the van and he drove us back to his flat, above the Oxfam shop, just behind Paradise High Street.
The flat was small and messy and not that nice, but it didn’t matter much. He made some toast, which neither of us ate, and he opened a couple of cans of beer and we sat side by side on his sofa, and he rolled a nice, big fat joint. We smoked it together, and talked, and giggled a bit, and I felt a bit like I was twenty again, but in a good way. Twenty, but better. Our legs were touching, but it didn’t matter. I mean to say—it was obvious. It was inevitable. And it’s been so long, now, I’ve been off the shelf, out of circulation, or whatever. But the funny thing is it felt completely natural. He kissed me, as I knew he would. And it was better, even, than I had ever thought it would be. I stayed for a long time after that.
He went out at some point, fetched more tobacco and alcohol, and some liquorice allsorts, I remember. I dozed, briefly. (Didn’t much want to think.) And then he came back. I stayed for a bit longer. I took a shower. He drove me back to the tennis club, where my car was still waiting for me. And then I drove here, home, to the Dream House; to the genteel, whispery babysitter, whom I felt could see straight through into my cheating soul.
And, finally, to my own bed. And a total inability to sleep.
It was a good evening, though. Better than good. Much, much better. And I don’t feel guilty. Why should I? This is my life. My business. Fin’s never around anyway. It has nothing to do with him.
Darrell and I didn’t talk about a Next Time. I don’t know, yet, if I want one. Or even if he does, come to that. I mean I do. God, I do. But I—the—fuck! What do I know? Guilt. Confusion. Guilt. God, I just don’t know anything any more.
Ripley's waking up. Better pull myself together. I’ve promised to take them to the cinema today—if there’s anything showing, that is, and if all the tickets haven’t already been booked up. Bloody Hell. I never imagined there would come a day when I would actually feel nostalgic for Leicester Square. Any case. And here comes Dora. Got to go.
Tuesday
Fin’s due back tomorrow. I’m having a drink with Darrell tonight. Part of me wants to cancel him. In fact most of me wants to ca
ncel him, because I’ve been thinking about him solidly since Saturday night, and my skin—everything—my mind, my body’s all on fire. Like a bloody teenager. I can’t concentrate. I can’t work. I can’t eat. I can’t sit still. I can’t do anything. It’s a nightmare. And honestly I don’t know if I can trust myself to be able to keep this—whatever it is—under any kind of control. I need to pause; spend these four days with Fin, and try to work out what the hell’s going on between us. Got to try and make some sense out of things.
Wednesday
I called Darrell and the babysitter about five o’clock yesterday afternoon and cancelled them both. Told Darrell the babysitter was sick. He suggested sending his sister Denise over, but I said no, and he seemed to take that OK. I thought it was the end of the matter. But then he called back half an hour later, sounding…angry, I suppose, and maybe even a bit wounded. He’d rung a woman friend who did babysitting, to see if she could help me out. She’d been delighted. She said she’d been due to babysit that evening anyway, except the mother had just rung up and cancelled her…
He said to me: ‘If you didn’t want to see me, why didn’t you just say so? I feel like a pillock now.’
I said I didn’t know, I was sorry, that I did want to see him, which I do, but that I needed a bit of time to think—and without another word he put the phone down. I badly wanted to call him back, but I didn’t. Because I suppose I realised, maybe a little later than he did, that there wasn’t really much point. We had nothing more to say to each other. At least for now.
