by Daisy Waugh
‘I must admit,’ said Messy, puffing slightly, not quite keeping up, ‘it’s beautiful. Of course. But it isn’t exactly what I expected.’
‘Oh dear.’ He paused in front of her bedroom door, put down the three large suitcases he had been carrying. ‘What exactly has Jo been telling you?’
Months ago, before they were married, his and Jo’s relationship had nearly ended because of her unnerving inability to distinguish fact from fiction. Charlie knew (to his cost) that when she was working, and she set her sights on something, she was capable of telling any number of lies in order to bring it about. He had watched her in amazement. She lied so automatically sometimes, she didn’t even seem to notice she was doing it.
‘She told me it was a refuge for celebrities.’
‘Oh!’ He sounded relieved. ‘Well it is. Or it will be. But not just for celebrities. Obviously. That would be very unfair. It’s for anyone who’s being attacked, really. For anyone who doesn’t stand a chance to stick up for themselves because whatever they try to do or say it gets drowned out by a sort of mass jeering, or sneering, or general bullying. If that makes any sense. Which I’m sure it does to you, Messy. After your last week.’
‘You don’t need to feel sorry for me,’ she said curtly.
‘No, no. Of course not.’
‘Am I the only guest you’re feeling sorry for at the moment? Or is the tall guy, Grey—’
‘Grey? Oh no. Grey lives here.’
‘He looks very familiar. What’s his second name?’
‘McShane. Grey McShane. You may remember—’
‘The sex offender?’
‘Well, he isn’t actually—’
‘You’ve asked me and Chloe to stay here with a sex offender in the house?’
‘You shouldn’t—’ Charlie made an effort to smile – ‘believe everything you read in the press.’
‘He was convicted. I remember reading about it. He went to prison.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘He has a bad reputation. But that’s the whole point of this place. Who did you think you were going to find here?’ He opened her bedroom door, switched on the light and quickly slid the suitcases inside. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Grey was innocent. If she wanted any more details, she would have to prise them from him – and good luck to her. Because Grey didn’t much like talking about it either. ‘We’ll be up for another half an hour or so, if you want to come down and have a drink,’ he said, backing towards the stairs. ‘You’ll meet Grey. And perhaps you can decide for yourself.’
When she first walked into the room, still carrying her daughter, she was so pleasantly overwhelmed – by the size, the general impression of worn elegance and welcoming, cosy grandeur – she let out an involuntary gasp.
Against the far corner, almost reaching the ceiling and upholstered in the same faded pink flowers as the walls, was a four-poster bed so high off the ground it came with its own set of steps. Jo had put a large bunch of pink and white roses on the table beside the bed, and the room smelled delicious, she noticed: of smoky, polished wood and fresh flowers. There were thick, pale blue velvet curtains already drawn across the two large windows, and to the left of the windows, fifteen or twenty feet from the end of the bed, was an armchair with a little footstool, and in front of the footstool, lit in her honour, a flickering fire crackling in the grate. It was lovely. Like a film set. She didn’t notice the paint splodges, or the damp patch above the bed. It was the loveliest room she had ever seen.
The next-door room, where Chloe was meant to be sleeping, was smaller and more homely than hers, with a two-poster instead of a four, and a large old-fashioned doll’s house in the window bay. ‘Hey-ho, Chloe,’ Messy whispered. ‘It’s not so bad here, is it?’…The little girl slept on. But she would be beside herself when she woke up. She would never want to leave.
After putting the child to bed, changing her own clothes, unpacking their suitcases and finally running out of excuses to delay the moment any longer, Messy braced herself and headed downstairs.
She found everyone in the library, listening with varying degrees of inattention while Jo illustrated some point by reading out loud from a book about natural childbirth. She was sitting in the lotus position, looking flexible, Messy noticed, and exceptionally luminous.
‘“Pregnancy,”’ Jo read, ‘“can be a magical time. Many women feel sensuous, harmonious and naturally creative…These are—” Listen to this, OK, everyone. “These are all primitive expressions of fertility…” That’s what I’m saying, of course. Women are by necessity more in touch with their fundamental life rhythms. Because we have to be. There simply isn’t any choice…’
The General, scowling over a copy of Heat magazine, sat in his usual upright position but with a finger stuck into each ear. Grey McShane lay flat out on a sofa with his eyes closed and a tumbler of gin balanced on his chest. He was smirking. And Charlie was leaning on the mantelpiece, gazing forlornly into the fire.
‘Sounds fantastic,’ he said vaguely, ‘I think you’re probably right. But Jo, come on, be fair. This isn’t exactly Dad’s favourite subject. Or Grey’s, I don’t suppose. Perhaps we could—’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Jo indignantly. ‘I really don’t see why pregnancy has to be such a taboo subject.’
‘Excuse me,’ murmured Grey, still with his eyes closed, ‘but taboo is not the fuckin’ word. You’ve read that soddin’ book to us every night for a week. It’s been givin’ me nightmares.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be so squeamish.’
‘Och, bollocks!’ said Grey. ‘I don’t read you books about what it feels like to have a crap—’
‘That is not remotely the same thing—’
Messy, who for the last minute had been standing awkwardly in the doorway wondering how to announce herself, suddenly burst out laughing.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said Jo, clambering to her feet. ‘At last! Come on in. Have you got everything you need? Is the room comfortable?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Messy. ‘It’s the prettiest room I’ve ever stayed in. Everything’s lovely.’
‘Is that correct?’ She heard Grey chuckling complacently. ‘That’s not what you were sayin’ to Charlie, so I hear.’
‘Oh.’ She looked embarrassed.
‘Aye…Is it for yourself or the wee daughter that you’re worryin’, Messy?’
‘No. Neither,’ she said, blushing furiously. ‘I wasn’t thinking anything of the kind. Don’t be disgusting. Can I have a drink?’
‘’Cause, darlin’, you really needn’t worry on either account.’
‘You can be as rude as you like,’ she snapped, ‘but the fact is you’re a convicted sex offender and I had no idea when I agreed to come here—’ She nodded at the vast space where Grey was lounging, watching her insouciantly through his long dark lashes. ‘I had no idea we’d be staying here…’ He smiled at her, an incredibly intimate smile, full of mischief and good humour. She lost her thread. For such a famously evil pervert, she thought, he was amazingly, really amazingly attractive. ‘…With a convicted sex offender,’ she finished weakly.
‘Ha!’ said Grey. ‘And I had no idea that anyone could be so bloody fat!’ He laughed, a low rumble at his own wit, and waited lazily for Jo to step in and smooth things over.
But she didn’t. She’d been doing her breathing exercises when Charlie reported Messy’s concern about Grey’s difficult history, and now she was thunderstruck. All this preparation, all the money they had spent, all the telephone calls, the clever little plans…and this most obvious of problems had never even occurred to her. Grey McShane, however innocent, was going to frighten away all her guests. ‘Grey’s a nice man, Messy,’ she said half-heartedly. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the press.’
‘That’s what I told her,’ said Charlie.
‘After all this is meant to be a sanctuary for—’
‘The universally condemned.’ Grey lingered enjoyably on the
words.
‘—The victims of media abuse,’ corrected Jo. ‘You’re going to get all sorts. You’re hardly likely to be meeting Snow White. And I think, you know, that we all have to respect that. As I said to you on the phone, this thing isn’t going to work if we can’t trust each other. We’ve invited you into our home with a lot of trust, OK? And I think it’s only fair for you to trust us in return…’
The General groaned quietly to himself.
‘Och, Messy. Relax, for Christ’s sake!’ said Grey. ‘Do you think these fine people would allow me near this place if I was as wicked as people say I am? Have a drink! Sit that great big fat arse o’ yours on the chair over there, if it’ll take the weight. And if it’s not collapsed in a minute or two I’ll reward you wi’ a nice big glass of gin.’
‘Ha ha ha!’ spluttered the General. ‘I mean as a matter of fact,’ he added hurriedly, to camouflage the snort of naughty amusement with which he had greeted Grey’s rude and feeble joke, ‘you really look quite – petite – in the flesh.’
‘Absolutely,’ Jo lied blatantly. Charlie cleared his throat. ‘Well, maybe not petite, but then you’re so lovely and tall. Anyway! Ha!’ She patted her bump. ‘I mean who am I to talk!’
Messy wavered. They looked so relaxed by the soft light of the fire. And she’d been so lonely for so very long. ‘I’ll have some whisky then,’ she said with a wan smile. She had no idea where she was, and she was already feeling slightly confused as to why she had ever agreed to come. But there was something about the place, about this peculiar mismatch of people, which made her feel less lonely and more relaxed than she had for a long time.
‘Good on you,’ said Grey. ‘And good luck to you, my chubby darlin’. By tomorrow morning you’ll never want to leave our little Eden ever again.’
ACCIDENT REDUCTION
There are large numbers of non-fatal accidents in and around gardens. These involve mainly those under 65, and 60% of the victims are men. The question of falls in the context of the garden will be difficult to reduce. It will be difficult to reduce cuts and abrasions except where specific activities are involved. The use of protective gloves while gardening may help.
From GARDEN SAFETY, Home Safety Network, UK Department of Trade and Industry’s website on home safety
(iii)
PRIORITISE END-PRODUCT-RELATED GOALS
The following morning Charlie had yet another early meeting with his solicitor, so he left before anyone else was up. Afterwards he was ambling down Lamsbury High Street back towards his car, worrying about this and that. Worrying mostly, on this occasion, about the council’s announcement that it needed to inspect the Fiddleford water supply (from a private spring. They might choose to declare it illegal), when he was startled by the nearby sound of shattering glass. He looked up to see the greengrocer’s shop window had been smashed and the obvious culprit – a feeble-looking red-headed boy barely in his teens – belting away from the scene of the crime, hurtling blindly along the pavement towards him. Instinctively Charlie stretched out an arm and grabbed him.
‘Fuck you. Leave me a-fuckin’-lone,’ shouted the boy, in a rich West Country accent. He was twisting helplessly. ‘Bloody…fucker! I’ll fuckin’—’
It soon became clear that everybody in Lamsbury knew the boy by name. A crowd very quickly gathered to gloat at his captivity – something, Charlie got the impression, they had been wanting for a long time.
He was standing there holding the boy, wondering what to do next and actually feeling slightly uncomfortable about his role in the proceedings, when a middle-aged man – one of many already mustered around the action
– dashed right through the crowd and skidded to a halt in front of them. ‘Now we’ve got you,’ the man panted happily. ‘And no law here neither.’ At which, and to Charlie’s astonishment, he delivered a fast, efficient thump to the middle of the boy’s face.
The crowd gave a spontaneous cheer.
‘Hey!’ said Charlie. ‘He’s half your size. What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘He’s a pain in our backsides and he knows it. Don’t you, Colin Fairwell?’
Next thing Charlie knew, a man from the vandalised greengrocer’s shop had stepped forward to thump the boy again, and once again Lamsbury High Street was voicing its approval.
‘Do that one more time,’ said Charlie, ‘and I’m letting him go.’
‘Anyway I don’t fuckin’ care,’ said Colin Fairwell, smiling defiantly from behind a large bubble of blood. ‘I don’t fuckin’ care about none of you.’ The bubble popped, leaving a scarlet spray across his cheeks and forehead.
‘You’re not allowed down this street, you little bugger. Next time we see you down here, we’re going to belt you ’til there’s not a breath in your puny, pathetic little body, do you hear?’ The man from the greengrocer’s thumped him yet again.
‘Oh no,’ said Charlie sadly, reluctantly doing as he’d promised and letting the boy go. ‘Really. You can’t do that.’
In a flash, before anyone had even thought of recapturing him, the boy had ducked under Charlie’s arm and run for it. They could all hear him laughing as he disappeared around the corner of Market Street, but nobody bothered to go after him. They knew from experience they wouldn’t catch him. Colin Fairwell looked pale and feeble, but he ran very fast.
‘Silly sod!’ shouted a woman with low-slung bosoms. She pulled a can of baked beans out of her shopping trolley and flung it haphazardly after him. But he was long gone. A few people watched as the tin plopped onto the pavement and rolled slowly into the gutter but most of them had already started to wander away. Colin Fairwell’s destructive and apparently motiveless outbursts were a fairly regular feature on Lamsbury High Street. It was his entrapment which had caused so much excitement. By the time the police arrived only Charlie and the greengrocer were left.
‘It’s that bloody Colin Fairwell again,’ said the greengrocer, absently wiping some of Colin’s blood from his thumb knuckle. ‘When’re you goin’ to lock that bugger up and throw away the key?’
The policeman shook his head sympathetically. The boy was a bane on the existence of the entire town. He was forever wandering alone into the shops, randomly knocking over displays and smashing things, and then running away. Nobody knew why he did it.
‘Attention, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said the policeman amiably. ‘’Is mum’s a nutter, in’t she, David? In ’n’ out o’ the nut’ouse, poor ol’ thing. And God knows where ’is dad is.’
‘Bein’ frank with you, Carl, I’m not one of these ones ’oo cares too much why someone’s doin’ somethin’.’
‘I know you aren’t, David.’
‘I’m more interested in gettin’ the little buggers to stop. He should be scared, walking down here. But he’s not, Carl. That’s what’s so strange. The more we ’ave a go at ’im the worse he seems to get. And we all do, mind. We all ’ave a go.’
‘I know you do, David. I know.’
‘We don’t put up with ’im down ’ere. Anyone catches sightin’ on ’im, we’re after ’im. We ’ad Margaret throwin’ her beans at ’im this afternoon.’ David shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But he just gets worse…’
The boy was cowering behind the van next to Charlie’s car when he next encountered him. His face and clothes were covered in blood and across his cheeks his tear tracks were outlined in red. He was sitting on his haunches, scribbling with a stone on the tarmac around his feet and he looked so small, huddled up like that, Charlie wouldn’t have noticed him if it hadn’t been for the muttering.
‘Colin Fairwell?’ said Charlie, looming over him. ‘We meet again.’
Colin Fairwell’s head shot up. ‘How d’you know my name?’
‘Everybody knows your name,’ said Charlie. ‘Everybody in Lamsbury. You heard them. They want to lock you up and throw away the key.’
The boy turned back to the marks he was making on the tarmac. ‘So why d’you let me go then?’
‘Did you like the way I was bashing the shop window?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Charlie hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to do next. What he wanted to do was to go back to Fiddleford and set to work on a ruse to keep the water inspectors at bay. He wanted to talk to Mr Gunner about the fishing licences, and, more urgently, he needed to talk to Jo (preferably without Grey or the General present) about how quickly she could rope in more paying guests. But the boy looked so pathetic crouching there: wretched and friendless and bloodstained. With a mother in the nuthouse. And a streetful of angry shopkeepers waiting to beat him up if he ventured out of the car park again. Charlie couldn’t quite bring himself to walk away.
‘Look, er—’ he said irritably, making a point of examining his watch. ‘D’you want a lift somewhere? I’m going out towards Fiddleford, if you know where that is…I can drop you off at your – mother’s. Place. Or something. Is she there? I can drop you off at home if you want. Where do you live?’
‘No thanks,’ Colin said drearily.
‘What’re you going to do then?’
The boy shrugged.
‘Well, come on, buck up,’ said Charlie. ‘What’re you going to do? You can’t sit here muttering to yourself all afternoon. And you certainly can’t go back out that way…’ He indicated the car park’s only exit, which led directly onto the High Street. ‘Shall I drop you off at school, perhaps?’
The boy laughed suddenly, a blast of genuine mirth which took Charlie by surprise. ‘I’m better on Lamsbury High Street, thank you very much,’ he said. ‘But you can take me down Fiddleford if you like.’
‘I don’t like. That’s not what I was offering.’
‘I used to love Fiddleford,’ he said wistfully.
