Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs

by Clayton, Victoria

  ‘But darling,’ Dimpsie looked troubled, ‘have you forgotten you’re engaged to be married to one?’

  ‘Come in, petal.’ Mrs Peevis eased her bulk into the old moquette-covered armchair which was propped on bricks so she could stir things on the stove without getting up. Her feet rested on a stack of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. A grease-caked saucepan shot out a jet of steam that filled the Singing Swan kitchen with the smell of mouldy hay. ‘Yer late but it doosn’t matter. There’s ernly been one customer aal day.’

  It was just after two o’clock, and I was still glowing from an extra hard work-out in the study. Usually I did my lunchtime exercises in the hall because there was a largeish mirror there but, as it was within earshot of the kitchen and Jode was lunching at Dumbola Lodge, accompanied by Harrison Ford, Petula the Magpie and Nell the sheepdog, I had moved to the study in case he and my mother should feel moved by the presence of so much animate nature to indulge in ear-licking or other biological urges. Also there was Siggy to be considered. He thought himself above such company and had made himself a nest in my father’s chair and closed his marvellous marmalade eyes in disgust.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Tha’s the shop bell.’ She put the frying pan over a flame. ‘See if ye can persuade them te tek a bite o’ blood puddin’. Aa’ve a half a ring tha’ll be off by temorrow.’

  I put on my apron and went into the café. A man, a woman and two children were on the point of going out again.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said cheerily, ‘can I help you?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said the woman coldly. ‘We’ve decided not to stop …’ She threw a contemptuous glance at the tables draped with plastic tablecloths that curled up at the edges like so many miniature pagodas, on which stood lamps with shades speckled like thrush eggs with fly droppings, and ginger-beer bottles in which bundles of dried flowers listed to port or starboard.

  The man looked me up and down. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Maisie.’ He walked back into the room and smiled at me with all his teeth. ‘You were just saying how desperate you were for a cuppa.’ He winked at me, turning away his head so that his wife could not see.

  ‘Tea? Certainly. What would the children like?’

  ‘Coca-Cola,’ said the little boy promptly.

  ‘You’ll have milk,’ said his mother sourly as she flipped with her scarf at the crumbs and smears of butter on her seat. She sat down, her nose wrinkled and nostrils flared. I wondered if she could smell the bleach Mrs Peevis was always pouring down the lav in a vain attempt to get the brown stains off the bowl.

  ‘Could I tempt you to a little black pudding?’

  ‘Black pudding?’ echoed the woman in amazement.

  ‘Likely it’s a local kind of cake,’ suggested the man. ‘We’re from the South,’ he explained in a friendly way. ‘It’s our first visit up North.’

  ‘Lovely scenery, isn’t it?’ I said conversationally.

  ‘Not the only thing that’s lovely,’ he muttered with another covert wink. ‘I’ll try some black pudding if you recommend it.’

  ‘With chips and red cabbage?’ I smiled to conceal my embarrassment at this strange offering.

  ‘E-uch!’ said the woman. ‘You’re joking, I do hope.’

  The man looked less than enthusiastic. ‘Well … if you really think …’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Bert!’ said his wife, handing me the ashtray to take away before wiping her fingers fastidiously on a paper handkerchief. ‘You’ve only just had lunch. We’ll have four scones –’ she pronounced it to rhyme with thrones – ‘with strawberry preserve. Children, go and wash your hands. Chips indeed! At twenty-five-past two in the afternoon.’

  She looked at me with frank dislike. I walked gracefully into the kitchen then, as soon as the door swung shut behind me, I threw off my apron and put on my coat. ‘Put the kettle on,’ I said. ‘I’m going to Belinda’s Buns for scones.’

  ‘No blood puddin’?’ said Mrs Peevis in disappointed tones to my departing back. ‘Looks like yer in luck, Jelly.’ Jelly was Mrs Peevis’s cat, a friendly tabby shaped like a zeppelin.

  I zoomed down the street and over the road to the bakery and managed to buy the last four scones. Belinda herself was serving. Her generous figure had given rise to many quips in connection with the shop’s name.

  ‘These scones are stale,’ said Maisie when I brought them breathlessly to the table.

  ‘Made this morning,’ I lied for the second time in half an hour, thought of Conrad, banished him from my mind. I was well aware that Belinda made batches of scones once a month, then froze and unfroze them at frequent intervals according to her wild calculations of demand, which had given them the texture of Harrison Ford’s matinée coats.

  ‘And this is jam, not preserve.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a difference.’ This rare moment of truth was immediately undone. ‘It’s homemade.’ Actually the Singing Swan jam came from an enormous tin from which I had earlier fished out three dead flies and a quantity of Jelly’s hairs. It had dyed the plastic spoon a sinister dark purple.

  ‘Mum, we couldn’t flush the toilet and there wasn’t any paper,’ said the little boy returning to the table. ‘Someone’s had diarrhoea in there. It stinks!’

  ‘Oh dear, how horrible!’ I said. ‘I am sorry.’

  Mrs Peevis was always complaining that her digestive system was giving trouble – what she called ‘the skittors’ – no doubt because she ate her own food. I had a terrible vision of ex-customers crouching in agony in lavatories throughout West Northumberland. Perhaps there were people lying in hospital wards taking tearful leave of their families … research scientists examining unheard-of bacteria under microscopes …

  ‘We saw a big mouse,’ said the little girl.

  ‘Don’t be a looby,’ said the little boy, ‘it was a rat.’

  ‘That does it!’ Maisie spat out her mouthful of scone and stood up, glaring at her husband. ‘You can stay and ogle that girl, who I dare say isn’t a bit better than she should be, but me and the children are leaving. She looked at me. ‘I’m reporting you to the environmental health inspector.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Bert grimaced apologetically and put two pound coins on the table. ‘I thought the scones were A1.’

  I allowed him to pat my bottom without protest because he had had so little return for his money.

  Mrs Peevis’s mouth drooped as I recounted the disaster. I spared her none of the details because I had a plan.

  ‘If tha’ bloomin’ health man cooms round agin, Aa’m for it.’ Her rust-coloured eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Mrs Peevis,’ I said. ‘I think I may be able to help. But you must promise to do exactly as I say and not argue with me because we haven’t much time. I’m quite sure that beastly woman will be as good as her word. She’s the sort that’s only happy when high on a cloud of righteous indignation.’

  ‘On a what, pet?’ Mrs Peevis looked confused.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said, and went to turn the notice on the door to CLOSED before beginning to outline my scheme.

  Nan sat down at the Dumbola Lodge kitchen table and slumped wearily forward, her chin propped on one hand. There were dark circles under her lovely grey eyes and her hair hung in limp hanks. ‘Who’da t’ought hairdressin’d be worse t’an school? Bossed about from mornin’ till night, sweepin’ floors, washin’ basins, and now me skin’s had an allorgic reaction to t’e perms and dyes. Look!’ She displayed her hands that were covered with pink weals. ‘’Tis ever so sore.’

  ‘Couldn’t you wear gloves?’ suggested Dimpsie. She was giving Harrison Ford his bottle. Nan had said she was that flaked out she’d rather not. Though she had not seen her baby for two days, she had given him only the briefest of glances before embarking on the tale of her own woes. I did not condemn her for this, nor, I’m sure, did Dimpsie. At sixteen Nan was only a child herself and it was evident that her spirits were depressed.

  ‘I’m allorgic to latex
,’ said Nan glumly. ‘T’e woman who owns t’e salon, Miss Diane, she’s as hard as nails. She was always tellin’ me I’d have to smarten op. I’d like to see her look somet’in’ on five pound a week and livin’ in a caravan and all where t’ere ent nowhere to hang yor clothes.’ Poor Nan did look rather untidy in a fake leopard-skin coat that had large bald patches. The heels of her boots were scuffed down to the white plastic. ‘Someone told Miss Diane me dad was a tinker. T’at’s why she didn’t like me.’

  ‘People are so full of ridiculous prejudices,’ said Dimpsie kindly. ‘I know how it hurts. I’ve often been looked down on because I don’t dress and behave like the stereotypical doctor’s wife.’

  Nan looked surprised. ‘But you talk posh and you live in a big house.’

  ‘Not by some standards.’ Dimpsie smiled. ‘Anyway, you mustn’t take it to heart, Nan. All that matters is that you should work hard and do unto others as you would be done by and be true to your gods. You must set your own goals and try to live up to them—’

  ‘Is t’at real?’ Nan interrupted, looking at my engagement ring.

  ‘Yes.’ I slipped the big square diamond from my finger and held it out to her to try on. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ It looked sadly incongruous on her thin reddened hand. Her face grew yet more mournful. ‘If Rhett woulda married me I’d’ve had a ring like it.’

  ‘Rhett?’

  ‘Harrison Ford’s dad.’

  ‘Surely that couldn’t be his real name?’

  ‘The only Rhett I’ve ever heard of is Rhett Butler from Gone with the Wind,’ said Dimpsie.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nan. ‘He called me Scarlett. Said it was more romantic than Nan. But I think his name really is Rhett because I cried when I was telling him I thought I’d fallen for a baby and he gave me his hanky and there was an R sewn on one corner.’

  ‘How many times did you meet him, dear?’ asked Dimpsie in a gentle tone.

  ‘I donnaw, six or seven times. The first time he took me to a pub for lunch. The other times he brought a bottle of bubbly wiv him.’ She looked resentfully at Harrison Ford who was dropping asleep in Dimpsie’s plump, freckled arms. ‘’Twasn’t much, was it, for a lifetime of being stock wiv a baby?’

  ‘He won’t always be a baby,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Did he visit you at the caravan?’ asked Dimpsie.

  ‘Naw. We used to meet in the old pele tower on Waterbury hill. I was up there one day havin’ a fag, Dad goes mad if he catches me smokin’. I like it up there. There’s a white rose that grows round de door that’s ever so pretty. Rhett came walkin’ his dog. He said I looked like a queen in among the roses and we got talkin’. Then we kissed.’ Nan giggled. Evidently it was a happy memory in a rather sad life. ‘Upstairs in the tower there’s a bed. Really romantic it is, wiv a wooden bit over the top and blue curtains hangin’ down. Someone’s swept it out and put sheets and all, a bit cobwebby but wit’ real lace. Rhett said he thought one of the shepherds had a lass and he didn’t see why we shouldn’t make use of it.’ She giggled again and her pretty little face became enchanting. ‘He said it was a nest for lovers everywhere.’

  The pele tower. Rafe had gone upstairs while I waited below, unable to follow because my leg was in plaster. I remembered the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards as he had walked up and down, up and down. Then we had gone outside and someone had taken a shot at us. Could that have been Jode? Not a shot to kill – that would have been inconsistent with his avowed pacifism, but perhaps to warn? It wasn’t the first time a dreadful suspicion had sidled into my thoughts like an unwelcome visitor. Before I had always firmly shown it the door, but while Nan was talking it crept back in and took up permanent residence.

  ‘Here’s your ring, Marigold.’ Nan put it into my hand. ‘When’s the happy day?’

  ‘Not till September. It seems silly really to wait that long. I mean, if one’s going to do the thing one may as well do it at once. But there’s a lot to organize.’

  ‘And it shows people you aren’t in a rush to marry because there’s a babby on the way,’ said Nan, with surprising worldly wisdom. ‘I’ll stand in the churchyard and watch you come out in all your finery and chock confetti, shall I?’

  ‘I very much hope you and your father will be guests at the wedding,’ said Dimpsie. I caught her eye and she looked, for her, quite stern, as though reading some protest in mine. Here she wronged me, for my objection to having Jode and Nan at my wedding had nothing to do with snobbery.

  ‘Eh?’ said Nan in amazement. ‘Dad and me at a grand weddin’? But we don’t have t’e clothes! And what would people say if t’ey found t’emselves kneelin’ in chorch next to a tinker and a tinker’s brat?’

  ‘In the sight of God we are all equal,’ said Dimpsie sententiously. ‘Though of course even in church no one believes that for a moment, such is the beastliness of human nature. Marigold and I would be delighted if you’d both come, wouldn’t we, darling?’

  She looked at me and kicked my leg under the table.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Nan, how would you like to be a waitress?’

  32

  ‘Good morning, Marigold.’ Conrad was crouching with his back to me in the far corner of the hermit’s cave. He was busy with a trowel and did not turn round.

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘How did you know it was I, surely?’

  ‘Oh, all right. How did you know?’

  ‘The footsteps were light, obviously female, and quick, obviously someone young. And you put down your toe first like a dancer.’

  ‘Gosh! Really?’ I was impressed by this display of Holmesian detection.

  ‘Not really. I knew it was you because you are the only person besides myself who does not fear the terrible drop into the abyss. Fritz has tried it once but had to be blindfolded for the return journey. Golly and Isobel, when brought to the brink, have refused altogether.

  ‘What a shame. And it’s so lovely.’ I sat on the mossy rock and breathed in the delicious damp, sparkling air. The sun transformed the droplets of water into brilliants. In front of me was a table, neatly constructed, with rustic poles for legs and planks of wood for a top.

  ‘How did you manage to get this here?’

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I brought it in pieces and assembled it in situ of course.’

  ‘You mean you made it yourself?’

  ‘And why should I not be able to hit a nail with a hammer? You would have me not only dining on roast birds of paradise but fanned by eunuchs and bathed in unguents by women of the seraglio.’ He stood up and turned round, arching his back to ease the muscles. ‘Pour the coffee, will you? My hands, as you see, are dirty.’ He displayed palms thick with cement.

  On the table were two thermos flasks and two cups. I poured coffee from one flask and added hot milk from the other.

  ‘What’s in this basket?’

  ‘Breakfast. Help yourself.’

  I unfolded the napkin inside the basket. The round dimpled cakes, sprinkled with icing sugar, were still warm. I bit into one eagerly. It was like a doughnut, light and sweet with apricot jam in the middle.

  ‘I wonder, do you think Fritz would give me the recipe? I’m planning a dietary revolution in Gaythwaite.’

  As I ate the doughnut and drank the strong sweet coffee, I told Conrad about the Singing Swan. He had just returned from a week in Bavaria, so he knew nothing about the letter from the divisional environmental health officer that had flopped like an exhausted bird of ill omen onto Mrs Peevis’s doormat several days after the visit of Maisie and Bert. Conrad gave my story his full attention and seemed to find Mrs Peevis and Dale and the customers amusing, which encouraged me to exaggerate the ghastliness of my experiences just a little. Conrad laughed as much as I could have wished.

  ‘I expect you think I’m crazy to even think of trying to make a go of it.’

  ‘Crazy?’ He took up a cloth to wipe his hands and came
to sit next to me at the table. ‘No, I think you are bored.’

  ‘Not at all! I’m fond of Mrs Peevis and she’s so worried about money and her hips are bad and it seems a shame to miss a good opportunity. We’re all to get a share of the profits if there are any. Dimpsie and I are practically beggars, you know. I can say that now because you aren’t rich any more so you can’t possibly think I’m asking you for money.’

  Conrad gave me one of his speciality looks. Opaque, I think is the word. I found myself saying, with unwonted truthfulness, ‘All right, I am bored. But only because I’m used to working hard and always having something to work for. Dancing was my life. I hardly even thought about anything else and of course I miss it. Naturally once I’m married to Rafe I shan’t be bored at all. There’ll be a thousand and one things to do. Evelyn’s going to teach me how to run the house and how to garden. And there’ll be committees and good causes galore. She took me to a WI meeting the other day. That’s a sort of society of country women, supposed to promote tolerance and fellowship. Evelyn’s the chairman of the Northumberland Federation and she does the rounds of the various branches. I could see at once that they all hate and fear her. Part of the evening’s entertainment consists of a lecture, and this time it was about arboretums, given by a friend of Evelyn’s. That’s trees, you know.’