A Surrey State of Affairs (15 page)

A few sunny spring days and the garden has turned into a wilderness. Thank heavens that Randolph, the gardener I hired to replace Douglas after he retired last summer, was at work today. He is the American (hence the old-fashioned name and straight, white teeth) nephew of Daphne’s husband, who is from New York. Randolph is in Europe for a gap year, which seems to be a necessity for this generation of young people in the same way that growing up and getting a job was for mine. Still, he is a polite young man who insists on addressing me as madam, even if he mitigates the effect by saying “I’m Randy!” every time he meets someone new. I declined to abbreviate his name. Once I’d gone back into the conservatory, he took off his T-shirt before starting work, even though it’s still only March and I haven’t yet moved my cashmere cardigans to the spare room wardrobe. Perhaps all those muscles have an insulating effect. I watched him over the top of my magazine as he took a spade to the flower beds, his long, lean frame bending to and fro. It’s a shame he’s just a gardener. Hose him down, give him an MBA and a light gray suit, and he would make a rather nice catch for someone like Sophie.

  
TUESDAY, MARCH 18

News, real news, of a wonderful sort! Enough to push Jeffrey’s Internet antics to the back of my mind. At last I can start buying those matching Marks & Spencer baby cardigans and
booties that I keep lingering in front of whenever I pop in for a pair of tights. Tanya is pregnant. She came around this morning and told me over coffee and a slice of my homemade lemon cake. I thought it wasn’t like her to get through a whole piece rather than just picking at the drizzle icing. Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet as she put down her plate and told me her news. The slight weight gain that she’d attributed to her failure to follow Gwyneth Paltrow’s macrobiotic diet, and attempted to exercise off with dance aerobics, was in fact a sign of her pregnancy.

She’d been so worried about Mark’s job that she’d hardly thought about the possibility. “But he must be delighted,” I said. She looked at me, blinked, and twisted her fingers together. “He is,” she said after a pause. “But when I told him he went as white as my soy milk and had to sit down for five minutes. Then he said, ‘F
^*
*
*
me,’ then he cried.”

I told her that everyone expressed their joy in different ways. Jeffrey, for example, drank three scotches when I told him I was expecting Rupert, and another six the day he was born. She smiled wanly. I know she is worried about finances, but Mark is a sharp, successful young man. I remember at Rupert’s party he was telling Jeffrey all about some amazing opportunity in the credit default swat market or some such gobbledygook that only the truly intelligent could hope to understand. Left to my own devices I would stick all my money under the mattress, but luckily Jeffrey looks after the finances. Anyway, I’m sure the financial crisis will soon blow over so that Tanya can relax and start decorating the nursery. Will she be going for pink or blue, or yellow, as is the fashion these days? I may buy one of those lovely wooden train sets. That would cheer Mark up too.

  
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19

Readers, I believe my plan is working! At bell ringing last night, Gerald was resplendent in an extra-large purple T-shirt with the silhouette of a stallion and the words “Wild Thing” written on it. He must have taken Miss Hughes’s words in earnest, though I think she was imagining something more in the line of a nice jaunty tie. What’s more, just as we were leaving the belfry, he turned to me, cheeks flushed with the vigor of ringing, and said, “Constance, I need to talk to you about something. Alone,” with a meaningful look in his eye. At last. He must want my advice on how to proceed with Miss Hughes. Just think, by the time Tanya holds a christening for her baby they might be able to attend together, as a couple. The only problem is that I have so much to do with all the guests arriving for Easter that the earliest I could arrange to meet him in the village tea shop was next Wednesday. I suppose that true love can wait.

  
THURSDAY, MARCH 20

Little time once again. Sophie and Zac have arrived, the latter wearing those chunky rectangular glasses that signal that he too may be a
Guardian
reader.

Lydia is here too. She is, as I suppose is only to be expected, the exact image of her sister, even down to the shoulder-length dark hair streaked through with highlights. You would have thought that twins would have the good sense to at least opt for different hairstyles. Even Jeffrey looked bemused. “But how will we tell them apart?” he said, running a hand through his own thinning hair, as soon as Lydia had wheeled her pink plastic suitcase out of the hall. “How on earth will we tell them apart?”

  
FRIDAY, MARCH 21

At last, some time to myself. Sophie and Zac have gone to the cinema to watch some film involving Angelina Jolie and a flying monk. I’m writing this on my LapTop in the conservatory, from which I can see the twins relaxing in the garden. Lydia seems a sweet girl, though I’m not sure if this is because of her personality or because the only words she seems to know in En-glish are “please,” “thank you,” “excuse me,” and “Cadbury chocolate.”

She must share her sister’s physical hardiness though. It can’t be more than fifteen degrees outside but the two of them are out there sprawled on the patio (I have resisted the trend for “decking,” which belongs on a ship and nowhere else) wearing short ruffled skirts and listening to music on shared headphones. I worry they’ll catch their deaths of cold, or distract Randolph from planting the petunias.

  
SATURDAY, MARCH 22

Everyone assembled for breakfast this morning. Natalia cooked a fry-up for herself, Lydia, and Zac, and Sophie nibbled on the chocolate cereal that she still hasn’t grown out of. Jeffrey sat in a corner eating toast and marmalade, occasionally peering out from behind the side of the
Financial Times
Weekend
at the hubbub. I hope our guests don’t annoy him too much. Despite his sympathetic streak, he must be counting down the days until Lydia, at least, departs, taking her piercing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” ring tone with her.

After a while, Sophie pushed her cereal bowl to one side, went over to the window, stared out, and asked, “Who’s that?” I looked out. Randolph was there, mowing the lawn, his shirt tied around his waist, seemingly immune to the sharp spring chill. I explained that it was the new gardener, brought in to replace Douglas. “This
one’s an improvement,” she said, pressing her nose against the glass.

A few minutes later, after Jeffrey had disappeared to his study, there was a gentle knock on the back door. I opened it and there stood Randolph, shirt back on but unbuttoned to expose a few dark curls of chest hair, standing with a delicate pink spring tulip in each hand. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Randy.” Sophie dropped her spoon into her cereal bowl with a little splash. But they were not for her. “For the ladies,” he said, gesturing at Natalia and Lydia. Natalia looked a little cross; Lydia giggled. Or it might have been the other way around—I cannot for the life of me tell which is which.

In any case, I took the flowers from him, and said thank you very much in a firm voice so that he took the hint and walked off, turning his head for a last grin at the matching Lithuanians. He may well have a ravishing smile but he has taken unwarranted liberties with my spring flowers. Seeing as the damage was already done, I found two slim vases for the pilfered tulips, and handed them to the twins. Sophie walked out, almost knocking her chair over and leaving her breakfast things scattered behind her. Zac followed, with an apologetic look on his face. He seems a nice boy; it’s just a shame he is too short and freckled to be considered a romantic prospect.

Natalia—it must have been Natalia because she knew where the dishwasher tablets were kept—tidied the breakfast things away, while Lydia stared out the window, twirling the tie of her pale-pink polyester bathrobe between her fingers. I hope she stays away from the stove, as it looks like it would go up in flames in a flash.

I should have liked to go after Sophie to comfort her, to tell her that one grubby American is not enough to waste half a bowl of chocolate hoops over, but the front door clicked. She had left
with Zac. I suppose it is for the best: I have a Sunday dinner to shop for, and as Mother is coming around tomorrow, I have to find the most tender joint of lamb or her dentures will stick.

  
SUNDAY, MARCH 23