by Daisy Waugh
‘That’s right.’
‘But, sweetie’—and she laughed again—‘why?’
‘Why? Your “spies” didn’t tell you I was pregnant, then?’
There was, I think, the minutest pause, and then she said, ‘Oh-my-God! But that’s fantastic!’ and I absolutely knew that she already knew. And since I’ve not mentioned the fact to a soul yet, not even to the poor children, there’s only one person who could have told her. ‘I have to be honest,’ she said. ‘I did slightly wonder…Especially when Fin said you were now planning to move out of the bathroom and out of the house altogether. Sweetheart, d’you think you might be being a teeny bit crazy? You do go quite crazy when you’re pregnant. And it’s such a beautiful, lovely house.’
‘I’m sick,’ I said.
‘Well, of course you’re sick. Everyone’s sick for the first bit.’ (Except Hatty, funnily enough.)
I don’t know why, but in spite of everything, for a moment I longed for her to understand; maybe I hoped she would justify it all to Fin; help to get him back on my side, somehow. I feel so bloody lost without him. Maybe, for a moment, I even hoped we could still be friends. I don’t know. I don’t know. In any case, I tried to explain. And I can still hear how desperate it must have sounded. ‘This is nothing like the others, Hatt,’ I said. ‘I’ve never known anything like this.’
She said, ‘Oh, come on. For God’s sake. I’ve been pregnant. We’ve all been pregnant before. Fin’s beside himself with worry. You’ve just got to pull yourself together.’
So I hung up. She’s tough, Hatty. Always has been. It’s one of the reasons we were ever friends. Because so am I—normally. Trouble is it means she doesn’t—she can’t—put up with people when she senses they’re being pathetic. But I am ill, for God’s sake. Why will nobody believe it?
She’s left a couple of messages since, and I think she may even have apologised in one of them, but I am not speaking to her. Not now, nor ever again. Fin, neither. The pair of them can sod off to the Isle of Man, with all her millions, and screw each other senseless for the rest of their senseless lives. God knows what I’ll tell the poor children, but nobody else is going to miss them. I certainly won’t.
May 20th
Can’t get a telephone signal in the holiday cottage. Not that anyone calls, really. Still. Have to take the mobile up the lane every now and then, just in case. And then I get lost. Got lost this morning. All the lanes look the same around here. Can’t see over the top of them. And when you can, there are only fields on the other side. Fields and fields and bloody fields. How I hate them.
May 21st
Got a message from my agent. Says she’s read the book. Wants to suggest a few changes. Says I have to call.
Absolutely mustn’t, though. Absolutely must not call. Can’t do it. Not fit to talk to anyone at the moment. Least of all reality. I mean a voice from reality. Thank God nobody ever calls me from the Sunday Times. I just file, and then there it is in the paper. Mostly. Except when I forget, that is, and the other time last week when she called and I was feeding carrots to the cows, so I didn’t want to frighten them. She said, Good news. John’s a big fan, and I said, John who? Fan of what? I’m losing the plot.
Got to pull myself together. Also, it’s column-writing day tomorrow. Got to write the column tomorrow. Got to pull myself together. Got to get my head together. Got to do something about my hair. Got to buy some clothes that fit. Got to get a sense of humour. Got to get my head together. Got to pull myself together. I’m going to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with the children. That will be nice. They’ll like that. Plus I think we’ve got some biscuits. And then tomorrow I’ll get up early and I’ll spend the morning really getting my head straight, and in the afternoon I’ll do the column. It’ll be fine. Thank God for the column, really. I’d be lost without it. I’ve got so much to say to everyone. I think I have. I just wish I knew where to begin.
John who, indeed. Christ. He’s only the sodding Editor.
COUNTRY MOLE
Sunday Times
Another bad hair day in Paradise. But things like haircuts aren’t so easy to organise any more, involving (as they do) day returns to London and then taxis to and from the hairdresser so as not to miss the cheap train back. Nothing cheap about any of it, of course, and right now I can’t afford the expense. The cost of country living just skyrocketed.
We had to evacuate the dream house. Life in the bathroom became pretty much intolerable. So while I’m now paying rent and my husband scrubs about with men-dressed-as-androids on the Isle of Man, desperately trying to cover the mortgage, our beautiful new home stands abandoned. In the last nine months it’s been recarpeted, repainted, receilinged, reterraced, refloorboarded, partially extended and partially rebuilt. And now it’s empty. It’s useless.
Except, I discover, as a source of monumental amusement to some of my old friends back in London. I call them sometimes, hoping for sympathy, and their laughter, on hearing my news, is positively musical. There are times when I have to hold the telephone away from my ear while they recover. In any case I have decided it’s not especially helpful to contact any of them, for the time being at least, since when I do we only end up arguing. I seem to have fallen out with everyone.
So the children and I have moved into a studio-style holiday cottage, which backs directly onto a cowpen. It’s small—I sleep on the sofa; the children share a bed on the gallery above—but it’s larger than the old bathroom and it doesn’t stink. Or not of chemicals. As it happens I have always loved the smell of cows and my daughter—oddly—has long nursed an ambition to become a ‘cow trainer’, though a trainer in what she has yet to decide.
My landlady, the farmer’s wife, looks disconcertingly like my London literary agent, I think. Unless I’m hallucinating. So starved of adult company am I that when she came to the door this morning to discuss the broken shower-head (Nothing to be done about that, unfortunately. Bad water pressure out here.) I was confused. I found myself breathlessly pitching ideas at her for the next book:
‘Let’s forget about the chick lit this time,’ I blabbered. ‘How about something serious for once? How about something on the nationalisation of childhood, for example? Or how about something on the citizen as slave? There’s bound to be a market in that!’
She looked at me as though I was insane. Which of course I’m not. And asked how the children were faring.
They’re faring OK, by the way. Under the circumstances. Actually, since moving to the cottage life has improved significantly for us all. We can eat together now, outside of a bathroom. We can talk endlessly about cows.
There are some beautiful Highland calves in the field opposite; an unusually congenial breed, my daughter tells me. So I thought, for lack of alternatives, I might try to befriend them. I thought I could take them a carrot. Do cows eat carrots? I’m sure they do. Are they interested in the nationalisation of childhood? Very possibly.
Which brings me round to the hair again. Or I think it does. The point is, until this morning those little Highlands and I were looking virtually interchangeable, and in a way that was good. It gave us some common ground, I felt…But then finally this morning, I broke.
Ages ago, before all this craziness began, I asked some of the coffee-morning gals where they got their hair done. Only to make conversation, of course, since—famously—getting a haircut in the provinces is the classic Step One in a gal’s descent towards eternal frumpiness. It didn’t occur to me I would ever take their advice.
But situations change. Don’t they just. There comes a time when a person whose cottage smells mostly of cowpats simply has to admit defeat.
So I made the call. Trudi, Deputy Chief Stylist at Hair Today, just behind Market Street, said she was available at once. Trudi, that is, who was charging less than a quarter what my hairdresser charges in London. She was cheap, and—honestly—she was a human. Someone to talk to. I couldn’t resist.
But Trudy wasn’t remotely c
oncerned about the nationalisation of childhood. She wasn’t even going on bloody holiday. And now, on top of everything else, I look like Bonnie Tyler. I have to wear a hat at the school gate, my daughter insists, and my calf-befriending dreams are in ruins. They took one glimpse at the new yellow mane and they’ve stayed far away from me ever since.
May 28th
Thought I saw Johnny Depp in Waitrose this morning. Which is odd, because everyone says he’s in Hawaii. I only saw his back, in any case, but he was wearing a baseball cap, and he was sauntering up and down the aisles in a deliberately diffident manner, I thought, as if he knew it was only a matter of time before a fan riot broke out. Also—he didn’t have a trolley or a basket. Which I thought was a bit of a giveaway. He had in his arms:
1 bottle of elderflower cordial
1 bumper pack of Mars Bars
and—I can’t remember what else. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because it turned out not to be him. It was just a bloke. Not even a very good looking one, either. He gave me the oddest look as I passed him by. Almost as if he was frightened. Maybe I look madder than I think I do. Or maybe it’s the bloody hair. In any case, definitely feeling a bit better than I was. Slightly calmer. Also, haven’t been sick for three days.
Finished last edits on the novel this morning and finally sent it off. Book isn’t due out until after Christmas. So, apart from the column, I’m now officially out of work. How terrifying is that? Very. Also, clearly, I think I need to interact more with the human race. Actually I’m desperate to interact more with the human race. Which means concentrating more on the journalism and less, at least for a while, on the books. Which means I’m going to have to be brave, after all this time out of the loop, and call up some commissioning editors with article ideas. Trouble is, from the middle of this field, and with only the cowshed for inspiration, I’m finding it very difficult to think of any.
May 30th
Another morning. Another coffee group. Rachel Healthy-Snax has taken me under her wing since the blubbing episode, and though it’s a little bit embarrassing and sometimes even a tiny bit claustrophobic, I am extremely grateful, and for that reason I am now officially going to stop referring to her as Rachel Healthy-Snax. Even in my head. Even though I can’t remember her real name. Because it turns out there’s more to her than fruit’n’veg. In fact, on one subject at least, I think she and her fruit’n’veg league of lady friends may be more than a little unbalanced.
There were five mothers at the Coffee Bean this morning, self included, all talking about kidz’n’vegetables, as per normal; boring ourselves and everyone within earshot into a welcome early grave. Then out of nowhere the subject of Clare Gower came up and a rare shot of energy fizzed through the group. It was extraordinary. I’ve never heard such vitriol—most especially from Rachel. They hate Clare Gower almost as much as Bin Laden presumably hates Mr Bush. Or something.
Anyway I stuck up for her—or I tried to. I started saying something positive, but Rachel literally shouted me down. ‘Oh God. Don’t pay any attention to her’, she said. (Meaning me.) ‘Clare’s got her claws right in there!’ The other mothers virtually hissed. One of them muttered at me to ‘watch out’, and with that they all turned away.
Whole thing felt like some kind of medieval witchhunt, actually. Rachel Healthy-Snax announced that Clare and her husband had first met while Clare was ‘touting for custom’ at a hotel bar in central London. Which would have been funny, I suppose, if it hadn’t been so vicious. In any case there came a point when the whole scene started making me feel a bit depressed. Reminded me too much of being at school so after a while I left them to it. Decided I’d prefer to be alone—which, under current solitudinous circs, is really saying something.
Called Clare when I got back. Don’t know why. Felt sorry for her. Wondered if she fancied meeting up for lunch. Somebody—the cleaner, I suppose—told me she’d gone to London for the day.
Haven’t seen Clare for ages. Not properly. She always seem to be on her way somewhere else whenever I turn up.
Or perhaps she’s decided she doesn’t want to be my friend, after all. Could hardly blame her.
Or perhaps she’s found out about the column?…There’s definitely something going on, now I come to think about it. She hasn’t returned the last two calls I’ve left for her.
Or maybe it’s just that she’s busy.
June 1st
Ripley wrote a story about a magic stairway this morning which his teacher thought was so brilliant she took it to show the headmaster. He’s been wandering around with a beautiful, secret grin on his chops ever since I picked him up this afternoon.
And Dora did her maths exam last week and came out, not just first, but first by miles, with an astonishingly brilliant, not to say spooky, 97 per cent. Where did that come from? She doesn’t even like maths. So. Everything else may be in meltdown, but it seems to be turning the children into geniuses. Which is nice. Baby number three will have a hard act to follow, poor little thing.
I was thinking Lettice might be a good name, if it’s a girl.
Half term tomorrow. Fin still away. Money leakage hopeless at the moment, what with the rent and everything, but it’s a funny thing—now that I’m virtually unemployed I can’t seem to stop spending. In any case I’m fed up with the rain. I am fed up with Paradise. The children deserve a treat, and now that we’re out of the house I’m not feeling quite so ill any more. Took my credit card to a travel agent in Paradise this morning and booked the three of us on a package deal to Tenerife. I told Fin. I think I secretly hoped he might suggest coming out to join us, at least for part of it. But of course he didn’t. Can’t. Won’t. Whatever. Anyway we’re leaving tomorrow night—from Birmingham airport, annoyingly, because there were no other flights left. We’ll be gone for a week, so I’ll be back in plenty of time to write the next column.
By which time, who knows, it might even have stopped raining.
June 8th
Nope. Still raining.
Lovely week, though. Ripley and Dora had the time of their lives, I think, eating chips and ice cream and building sandcastles and watching the whales. Fin called most nights, said he wished he could have come too and I almost believed him. Almost felt sorry for him, in fact, knowing how much he misses the children. Anyway, Fin’s still away, needless to say. And I think the three of us are all a little gloomy to be home again.
COUNTRY MOLE
Sunday Times
All this wholesome country air, those little lambs in their fields, those birds a-singing in their leafy trees—and I’m in a filthy mood. Can’t seem to shift it. After a week away in sunny Tenerife I discover it’s still beautiful here in Paradise: it is England just as it’s meant to be.
But as I motor easily this way and that, from lovely, relatively cheap school to spacious, friendly supermarket and, er, oh yes, home again, I gaze at the busy mums in their leisure-wear, the Important Dads en route to the London train, the streams of selfabsorbed pensioners shuffling by in their pastel anoraks…There is so much propriety; so little curiosity, so much contentment…And I want to scream. Or strip. Or throw a bomb. I had no idea, before we left London, that England could be like this! It is, truly, a foreign country out here. Chock-a-block with bossy, sensible, law-abiding citizens: pasty-faced men and women who will move your supermarket trolley if they feel it’s inappropriately positioned; who enjoy nothing more than a slow-moving queue. Good God, it’s a dreadful place.
—Oops. Did I say that? Damn. These words slip out. Is there such a thing as severe ante-natal misanthropy? Or is it just that it’s raining again?
In any case, there I was this afternoon. In Paradise. In the rain. With no obvious means of escape; and children to pick up in just under three hours. I thought I had better make the best of things.
I had two options, or so it seemed. First, to get a lobotomy. That would certainly have helped. Second, to face down all the shocking negativity. Get out of bed (for example) and try to ge
t involved.
Question was, though, where to begin?
The local paper provided a few clues. I discovered that a pothole had stopped traffic outside a place called Eggbuckland. Perhaps I could drive over and fill it up? Or perhaps I could have headed out to the Paradise Keep Fit Association’s Annual Festival of Movement and Dance, due to begin shortly. I could have headed out there and, um, danced…So.
I didn’t do either in the end, of course. Couldn’t face it. Drove by the empty Dream House to pick up my post instead. There I found an envelope, addressed To All Local Residents, including me; and inside it a rabble-rousing letter from a campaign group called Oakland! Imagine my excitement. Oakland! is currently looking for nominations to join its Action Panel, which nominations can be submitted by any Oakland! member to the chairman direct.
I sniffed local anger. A call to arms! For a moment I felt quite inspired. Problem was, since I’ve never before heard of Oakland!, nor—to my knowledge—ever met an Oakland! member, how was I to set about organising my nomination? And on closer examination, was I absolutely certain I wanted to?
Our Dream House stands, along with a handful of others, above a thin, winding road called Oakland Road (or something similar); which road leads eventually into the local town. A useful road, then. Unsurprisingly, people sometimes tend to drive down it.
Not for much longer, though, if the campaigners of Oakland! have their way. According to my newsletter, they have conducted a survey:
