by Daisy Waugh
OPENABLE WINDOWS AND THE ABILITY TO CLEAN THEM SAFELY
Openable windows, skylights and ventilators should be capable of being opened, closed or adjusted safely and, when open, should not be dangerous.
Workplace health, safety and welfare, a short guide for managers. Published by HSE Health and Safety Executive
(vii)
TACKLE AND DEMOLISH NEGATIVE-OUTCOME VENTURES AND SITUATIONS
Maurice was disconcerted. After all, at thirteen stone (or whatever she was), a single mother, a washed-up TV presenter, and until recently a figure of national mockery, Messy could hardly be described as the most eligible bacheloress in the stock room. She ought to have been flattered by his intentions. Attentions. But in the five days since he’d decided to marry her, Maurice had been forced to acknowledge an unexpected and somewhat degrading obstacle. In the form of Grey McShane. It was something which he assumed he would overcome but it was irritating all the same.
They thought they were being discreet and yet it was perfectly obvious – to him at least – that Messy and Grey were at it. Like fucking rabbits. It was conceivable, actually more than conceivable, highly probable that they imagined they were in love. So he needed to prise them apart. And to do that he almost certainly needed to get Messy away from Fiddleford, which wasn’t going to be easy.
He had just found them in the kitchen together. They were repainting the cupboards with an infuriating air of joyful incompetence while Charlie, Colin Fairwell and Chloe attempted to re-tile the floor (with non-approved tiles, Maurice noted, so they would have to do them all over again. But who was he to interfere?) He loathed DIY. He thought it was brutal and disgusting and – in this instance – an insult to the craftsmanship of the original house. So after a few well-chosen remarks regarding his own ineptitude in the decorating department, he had quickly escaped the kitchen and left them all to it.
It was nearly a week since he had arrived at Fiddleford, and – absurdly – the Albanian debacle remained unresolved. He was itching to get back to his ministership, but the prissy little sods had now told him it would be ‘inappropriate’ to be seen in Westminster without visiting the hospital first. Which was all well and good. Except the auntie in charge of the boy (name now entirely forgotten; he would have to check his notes) was still refusing to allow him anywhere near the sickbed. Which was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if the boy would notice one way or another. That morning he had ordered his lawyers to make her a few delicate suggestions regarding money. A risky strategy but since the boy clearly wasn’t dying, it seemed the only one left open to him. He hated being made to wait for things.
Now he was waiting again, pacing through the rooms at Fiddleford, making mental notes – a patch of damp here; a superb piece of cornicing there – waiting nervously to be informed of Auntie’s response. But his telephone wasn’t ringing. So when he discovered La Monumentale Jo with her office door ajar he was delighted.
He had noticed some tension developing between Jo and his adorable intended, and he was curious. In fact, with the exception of Nigel and Anatollatia who tended to loll harmlessly and wordlessly about the tennis court all day, too wet to broach the single subject so obviously on both their minds, he had noticed tension developing between La Monumentale and everyone in the house. Even her charming husband. It was most intriguing.
Intriguing, and possibly quite useful. Though of course he couldn’t be certain about that. What he needed, in order to progress from this stultifying position, was information. About Fiddleford (financial state of/Jo’s attitude to). About Jo and Charlie (marital state of). And of course about Messy. Did Jo know Messy and Grey were shtupping each other? Did Charlie know? If not, why not? And so on. By the miserable look on Jo’s face he judged she would welcome some friendly company. He seized the moment.
‘Hello, Jo,’ he said warmly, sitting himself down on the chair beside her desk and then asking politely if he could join her.
‘Please do!’ She sounded absurdly delighted. They both noticed it. With a light sigh to redress the balance she closed her newspaper (already discarded by the General) and dropped it onto the floor with the others. ‘Been trying to find a new guest,’ she said. ‘But I can only think of Prince Edward’s wife. And she won’t take my call.’
‘Isn’t the house full already?’
‘Yes, of course it is,’ she said quickly. ‘Anyway…Would you like some coffee?’
Maurice spraddled his knees, rested his forearms one on each and leant towards her, his body, his face a picture of masculine concern. ‘Jo, darling,’ he said softly, ‘will you forgive me for speaking out of turn?’ He didn’t wait for her reply. ‘Only frankly, I’m worried about you. You’ve been looking so unhappy these last couple of days.’
‘Actually I’m fine.’ She gave him a very stiff smile. ‘But thanks for asking.’
‘Well, you don’t look fine. If you don’t mind my saying so, Jo, you look dreadful.’
‘Thanks a lot!’ She tried to laugh but it sounded pitifully unconvincing. He waited, a look of the most tender attention on his face, and suddenly she was overcome by the need to talk to someone – and not just to someone but to Maurice, who wouldn’t report back to her friends, who wouldn’t judge her for complaining about her perfect new marriage so soon after it had begun…
In their enthusiasm for peace a week ago she and Charlie had settled on a compromise, regarding Messy’s departure, which had satisfied neither of them. They had agreed that Messy should be asked to leave, but only when they could provide a decent excuse for it, i.e. a new guest in exceptional need of her bedroom. Since then Jo had searched high and low for a candidate, re-churning all the ground her father-in-law had already worked over, but without success. And in the meantime Messy remained, quite oblivious to all the trouble she was causing, in fact blissfully happy and getting slimmer and more beautiful by the day.
But the subject of Messy had now become such a fraught one between them, they found it easier not to refer to her at all. Charlie hadn’t even mentioned the entertaining encounter in the hay barn, for fear of upsetting her. It was a great mistake. Because Jo, spinning off in her own lonely bubble of hormone-induced insanity, had become so absorbed by the threat Messy posed to her own marriage, she was the only person in the house who still hadn’t noticed what was going on. All the currents of electricity flying between Messy and Grey, Grey and Maurice, Maurice and Messy had completely passed her by.
‘You know,’ said Maurice quietly, patting her on her knee and, in doing so, making her tired eyes immediately fill with tears, ‘of course I’m hardly one to offer advice. Twice divorced and so on. But sometimes, Jo, it helps just to chat about these things…I mean none of us is perfect. Nothing’s perfect—’
Jo knew all that. But she couldn’t speak in case he noticed she was crying. So she nodded instead, causing, to her dismay, one fat tear to overspill. They watched it plop onto the back of his hand.
‘Oh angel!’ he said, quickly wrapping her in both arms. ‘Angel!’ His sympathy was the final straw. Jo had reached a point of such exhaustion she couldn’t control herself any longer. She cried like a child – sniffing, hiccupping, dribbling, her whole body shaking – and all the while Maurice rocked her, and patted the back of her head.
‘Come on,’ he said softly, when she was calm enough to hear him. ‘Talk to me, Jo. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘You’re such an amazing man, Maurice,’ she said, wiping the tears away. ‘So kind. I’m so sorry.’ She smiled. ‘God knows what you must think of this madhouse…We’re supposed to be helping you, not the other way round.’
‘Oh nonsense.’
‘Seriously, Maurice,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how you do it. You’ve got all these things going on in your own life. I mean the last thing you need is some mad pregnant cow—’
‘Hey!’ he said, giving her another of his electrifying knee taps. ‘Enough of that. You’re a beautiful woman, and you’ve got two perfect little poppets gro
wing inside you. That’s a wonderful, incredible thing and you of all people should appreciate it. So come on, give yourself a break! Now talk to me. We’re friends, aren’t we? Tell me what’s going on.’
‘I’m not even sure I know where to start,’ she mumbled. ‘I mean it’s nothing. I know it’s nothing. I know I’m incredibly lucky and everything. It’s just…’
…Well, well…so the finances were pretty desperate, were they? But that was no surprise. He’d already guessed as much. And she felt fat and ugly and redundant blah blah blah. And she didn’t realise that Messy and Grey were at it like the proverbials. At it like rutting pigs, more like. Which was interesting. She thought Messy was after Charlie, of all the absurd ideas! So she was jealous of Messy. Very interesting indeed. No reference to any frisson between Messy and himself, then. Which was disconcerting after all the effort he’d put in. But which might possibly be made to work in his favour…Poor old thing. Funny to think how impressed he’d been when he first met her. She’d seemed so grounded. In fact it was a sad, strange thing about most women. They almost always did turn out to be a disappointment. He picked his next words very carefully.
‘The problem with your beloved husband,’ he said, ‘is he’s a flirt. He’s a terrible flirt, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said unwillingly. Because she didn’t think he was a flirt. Or not so that it mattered. People warmed to him, that was all. And he warmed to them. Nobody involved could really help it.
‘And by the way, Jo, you’re not imagining it. Of course they bloody fancy each other! I’ve noticed it. We all have. OK? So you can set your mind at rest about that. Just because you’re pregnant it doesn’t mean you’ve gone crazy, OK?’
‘…Well.’ It wasn’t quite what she’d been hoping for. ‘I know that.’
‘So…yes,’ he said, ‘Charlie does flirt with Messy. Of course he does. And yes, Messy flirts with him. They’re both very flirtatious people. And perhaps, you know – who knows? Under other circumstances who knows what might have happened? But that’s not the point. The point is, Jo, sweetheart, it’s you who married him. He’s your husband. He’s the father of your twins.’
‘Right.’ She gave him a sickly smile. ‘So he’s stuck with me.’
‘Don’t be silly! I’m just saying – Jo, darling – let them flirt! Who cares, eh? After all you’ll be back, fighting fit, and knocking ’em all dead in no time! A few months. Well, maybe a year. But until then, Jo, darling, realistically – what can you do?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said miserably. ‘Nothing.’
‘Exactly! You can’t compete! So don’t waste your precious energy trying. Lesson number one, darling girl, in the secret of Maurice Morrison’s success. Actually the secret of anybody’s success. Don’t waste time competing until you know you’re going to win!’
‘But he said he loved me!’
Morrison paused. She looked ready to cry again. ‘Well, of course he loves you! I can see that! We can all see that! But come on, Jo, you’re a sophisticated woman. Love him or hate him for it, but, angel, nothing ain’t gonna change it. The guy’s got testicles, OK?’
That zapped her a bit. As intended. ‘What? For Christ’s sake, Maurice, I don’t give a fuck what he’s got. I don’t care if he’s a fucking hermaphrodite. It’s not the point. He married me. He got me pregnant. He should bloody well appreciate we’re in this together.’
Much better. ‘Take my advice,’ he said. ‘Don’t say a word about it to anyone.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘Just keep an eye on him. And if the worst comes to the worst – well, Jo, it’s your house, too. Whatever Charlie may say, the best thing may be for you to ask Messy to leave. Yes? Yes?’ He was tapping her knee again, trying to chivvy out a smile. ‘And in the meantime,’ he stood up, straightened his cashmere jersey and grinned at her, ‘get some rest, girl! Yeah?’ With a meaningful squeeze of both her shoulders, a meaningful eye-to-eye moment, he left her to stew in the juices he’d so meticulously coaxed to the boil. ‘Watcha!’ he said with a final wink, and walked out into the hall again.
Right then. Still no word regarding Auntie Money-Grub. Next job: the one he always dreaded. Time to put in another call to Sue-Marie.
‘Sue-Marie? Hello! So sorry. Meant to call back yesterday. But you know what it is. Busy-busy-busy. How’s it going with you?’ Maurice was always careful when talking to his new friends at the Lamsbury Council never to do it within earshot of the house. So he had taken his mobile to a place behind the sheep pen, where there was always a good reception. ‘Now then. Where were we? Any word from Derek? What? Oh yes, yes, of course. Ha-ha. Sue-Marie! Trust me! I’ve already set my researchers onto it! Degradable refuse! Absolutely. They’re beavering away on your marvellous suggestions even as we speak, that’s right. And they’ll be calling you—Yes…Well, goodness, thank you, Sue-Marie! Yes. Splendid! Any word from Derek?’
Derek, Maurice decided, would probably benefit from one of his one-to-ones. He would put in a call later. But in the meantime he needed to update Sue-Marie with various. They had a lot of ground to cover.
Point One. The Stairs.
‘At an educated guess I would say the lower two flights almost certainly exceed the legal width for public use, Sue-Marie, and that bothers me. It’s a hazard. I would insist on a central railing. Minimum height, 1200 mm if I’m not mistaken! Am I right?’ He laughed, briefly. ‘And while we’re on the subject of the stairs, it might be worth having a quick chat with the local fire authority. Chivvy them along a bit. They really should stipulate fireproof partitioning floor-to-ceiling all the way along that stairwell. Up the landing and down into the hall. It’s going to be costly, I know. But you and I appreciate where members of the public are involved SAFETY MUST COME FIRST…’
Point Two. The Kitchen.
‘I hate to tell you this, but, Sue-Marie,’ he laughed, ‘honestly I feel such a fool. I should never have allowed you to hold fire on that order. But, Sue-Marie, like it or not, we have a mouse infestation. And frankly you need to re-present that prohibition order pretty much PDQ. Don’t you think? We’ve really got to get that kitchen closed down before something horrendous happens…’
‘Maurice,’ Sue-Marie broke in tentatively. ‘No offence. I don’t mean to be rude – and don’t get me wrong – don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But why are you doing all this? I mean, sorry, but I actually thought they were friends of yours. You said you were staying there to help them out.’
‘And so I am, Sue-Marie. So I am,’ he said smoothly. ‘The point is, after your timely visit the other week – and then your magnanimous stay of execution – I foolishly assumed that my friends might have got the message. Sue-Marie, I’ve tried to say it gently. I’ve tried to say it less gently. They’re not listening! And the fact is, I hate to make these sorts of generalisations, but I’m afraid we’re dealing with the upper classes here. These people are so used to making the laws it sometimes doesn’t occur to them that they may also be expected to abide by them occasionally! Do you see? They tend to think that rules are for other people. Which is all well and good and so on. But after the ghastly – terrible – experiences of last week…You know the poor lad’s still in a coma. It seems increasingly unlikely he’s going to pull through.’ He left a heavy pause.
Which Sue-Marie dutifully filled. ‘I’m so sorry, Maurice.’
‘Well, but that’s my point. If there’s anything to be learned from this tragedy then, believe-you-me, I intend to learn it! And whatever my own personal feelings for the Maxwell McDonalds may be, and I adore them, I simply cannot sit back and watch while they put more people’s lives at risk. To be frank, if something happened to one of those kiddies, I’m not sure I could take it.’
‘I am sorry, Maurice.’ She sounded chastened. ‘I truly didn’t mean to upset you. I was being silly. It’s just…’ But still she couldn’t quite let it go. ‘Well. I suppose I was thinking about you and the stables. I just wondered, y
ou know,’ she laughed nervously, ‘perhaps you had some plan up your sleeve you weren’t telling me about?’
‘The stables? No, no – goodness! Same reasoning, my dear. Same reasoning.’ If she’d been listening more attentively she might have noticed the voice tightening a fraction. But she noticed nothing. All she wanted was reassurance. ‘Besides which,’ he went on, ‘I hate to see beautiful things being left to fall apart. And frankly, Sue-Marie, if Derek doesn’t take action about those stables pretty quickly, I shall have to bring the matter up with English Heritage myself. Perhaps you could tell him that…’ Maurice wondered if he’d sounded snappish, so he smiled and dropped the voice by a note or two. ‘Now then, Miss Gunston, might I inquire, when are you and I going to have this dinner you’ve been promising me?’
Sue-Marie gurgled joyously into his ear. She had a training seminar from 5.30 to 7.30 on Wednesday; Friday night was Scottish dancing night, and there was the fortnightly work-team catch-up on the Tuesday of the following week. ‘Beyond that,’ she said, ‘I’m free every evening all the way through…yes…well, there’ll be the office do at some point…but otherwise all the way through until Christmas. You can take your pick, Maurice! When are you free?’
Maurice Morrison’s concentration operated on a strictly is-it-interesting basis. So he wasn’t listening. But just as she was rounding off he became aware of someone behind him. He turned to see Les standing less than a foot away, open-mouthed and blatantly staring. Maurice cut off the call.
He knew exactly who Les was, of course. Les was the one who’d taken the blame for letting Derek and Sue-Marie Gunston into the stables. And he was almost certainly the one Maurice had tipped – and quite generously – for carrying the suitcases upstairs on the evening he arrived. Since then Maurice had seen him roaming about here and there, looking slovenly. But until now they hadn’t spoken.
