Before and After
Authors: Laura Lockington
Before and After
Laura Lockington
© Laura
Lockington 2013
Laura Lockington has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Rule
Number One
‘
The
arrival
at
a
new
residence
must
be
undertaken
with
style
and
panache
.
It
is
possible
,
therefore
,
in
these
circumstances
to
overlook
the
vulgarity
of
a
Rolls
Royce
.”
Most of my business comes from word of mouth. I like to think that all of my clients get together now and again to chat over the changes that I’ve made to their - on the whole -
very
humdrum lives.
Of
course, occasionally I’ve made mistakes, but who amongst us can claim otherwise? On the whole I think I’ve worked miracles.
I
have made silk purses from sows’ ears.
Today
I’m starting a new assignment. I’ve skimmed the notes, and frankly, I can’t wait to start.
The
family in question have passed my requirements (I have to be quite strict in my criteria). They must have sufficient finances to make my job viable. I need clients who have an income that exceeds the spending power of their imagination for a start. Then there’s the geographical problem. (Although I once broke my own rule and took an assignment in Italy). My excuse, that I lay before you quite honestly, was that I’d never seen Venice or eaten black risotto and therefore felt justified, this once at least, in dabbling abroad. But on the whole it’s simply not worth it, as too much foreign air weakens my concentration and that can have quite devastating effects.
Children
can be a problem too if they are the wrong ages, although I don’t rule them out all together. It can be rewarding to see quite how far the familial love can push things along. Some of my past clients’ offspring still write to me. The letters are forwarded to me as naturally no-one knows about
this
place. I never open the letters of course but still, I suppose they’re quite satisfactory to receive.
I
flicked through the notes on the Ambles and waited for the familiar tickle of excitement to begin in the pit of my stomach. If I don’t get it, then it’s a bad sign, but luckily I did. A small rippling feeling grew deep inside me and I stroked the pages of closely written notes, and stared at the photographs. The rippling of excitement in the tummy
could
have been put down to a highly indigestible, but satisfyingly delicious kosher pickle that I’d had an hour ago. Anyway whatever the feeling was, I had no choice. I
had
to work with them as I had a very pressing engagement in two months from them that simply wouldn’t wait.
It
would soon be time to leave the sanctuary of my house and travel to the Ambles. But I had time to make my usual tour of the property. I checked the portraits and noted the extent of the cobwebs, they’d made good progress since I’d last been here. The books were exactly as I’d left them, tottering piles of them, stacked against the walls. I stopped and frowned slightly at the sight of a silver bowl that was lying drunkenly against the skirting board. I picked it up and put it on top of the ebony stand. I carefully stepped over some shards of splintered glass from the Venetian mirror that I’d broken quite deliberately some years before. I’d clear it up later. I have a very tricky relationship with my reflection and had succumbed to hitting the looking glass with a hammer when it hadn’t shown me the picture that I wanted to see. It was, I agree, quite a ridiculous tantrum, but then sometimes, tantrums are immensely satisfying, aren’t they?
I
walked into my dressing room and tried to decide what to pack for the Ambles. The large well-travelled trunk stood in the middle of the room, waiting to be filled. How was I going to present myself to them? No-one knows exactly how old I am. I can look thirty and dress as if I am twenty, though sometimes I look forty and dress as if I am fifty. My age depends on the light, and what I wear depends on how I feel, which depends on how old I look that day, which depends on the light. It’s
very
tricky as you can imagine.
I
stared at the well-filled rails that lined the room like serried ranks of old faithful soldiers waiting for the call for battle to begin.
I
paused over the Edwardian section, my hand brushing the dark velvet nap of a riding jacket. The bustles were quite a problem, of course, but once you got used to them they were very comfortable.
The
corsets were another thing entirely. Impossible without help. But I was drawn to the idea.
The
next rail held what I termed my Out of Africa look. Wearable, certainly, but was it quite right? I paused and fingered the linen of a long safari skirt. Hmm, no, not quite what I needed.
Impatiently
I tugged at the hem of the dress I’d been wearing. An original Mary Quant mini. Black and white in saucy checks that I wore with lacy tights and hoop earrings. I stripped off and stood naked, apart from my beret, in the clothes room waiting for inspiration. It was cold, and I wrapped my arms around to me to keep warm. I’ve noticed that physical discomfort has a wonderful way of forcing the mind to make a decision.
My
eyes alighted on a rail of floaty black chiffon. Now, that wasn’t a bad idea. I hurriedly pulled on a long black skirt and a beaded black see-through top. I draped an enormous black cashmere throw over it, and hurriedly piled the rest of the rail into the open maw of the trunk, triumphantly slamming the lid down with a flourish. Damn, I’d forgotten shoes. I pushed the lid up again and rummaged around the back of the room. A beautiful pair of grosgrain ribbon high heels, and a pair of black embroidered silk mules found their way into the trunk. I carefully wound a feather soft paisley shawl around my precious jar of marbles and placed that in there as well. I could never leave them behind, they represented the passions of my past and the consolations of my future. I pressed the lid firmly down and clicked the lock. Done.
As
an after-thought, I threw in a tennis racket and a snorkel. I find it’s so important to give the impression that one can do anything.
I
then collected my notes and called the taxi company I’ve used for decades now. They know me very well, and, unlike many a modern fly-by-night firm, can be relied upon to be punctual and, more importantly perhaps, discreet. Some clients have been known to try and bribe the cab driver for my address. This hurdle I overcome by always using the same firm and tipping as extravagantly as the late Aga Khan. Then, of course, there’s the bonus of the divinely suave and handsome Ray. As a driver he is second to none. The sparklingly fresh Mercedes (he buys a new one every year with
monotonous
regularity) purrs like a dream and delivers one to a front door without a hitch.
I
adjusted the pale grey rose in my velvet turban in front of the shadowy looking glass and smiled at my reflection. Perfect, quite perfect, if I do say so myself. I looked like a large exotic bird in mourning. I pride myself on my pale complexion, and always carry a parasol in case of being directly in the sun’s invidious rays. When Coco Chanel started the fashion for being tanned like a farm worker, she started nothing but trouble, in my opinion. Although of course the giant multi nationals that produce the tons and tons of oily gloop year after year which the hordes smear over themselves in the hope of avoiding skin cancer would disagree with me. But, on the whole, I trust my judgements about things. I was right, after all, about microwave ovens, smoking, whale hunting and the dangers of hand rearing badgers, so why wouldn’t I be right about sun bathing?
Ray
would be arriving in an hour, which gave me time to re-read the dossier and sip a glass of water. I would, naturally, prefer a glass of the widow, but I don’t keep alcohol here. The temptation on the rare days that I am home, and prone to a certain ennui, or mooniness to imbibe is not to be encouraged. Solitary tippling is a vice of the worst possible kind, and one I make sure never to succumb to.
I
settled down in the zebra skin chair, and took a deep breath. I flicked the pages until I came to the Ambles’ dog. I find pets
very
receptive to me. Animals often give me more help and information in five minutes than hours of tortuous conversation with humans. I say pets, though I draw the line at goats. They tend to keep themselves to themselves and have never knowingly helped anyone. Even goldfish can be remarkably incisive.
Marmaduke
–
known
as
Duke
.
A
four
-
year
-
old
long
-
haired
golden
retriever
.
Bought
for
Arabella
on
her
tenth
birthday
.
Boisterous
,
very
fond
of
water
in
all
forms
,
has
been
known
to
break
the
ice
in
a
lake
to
go
swimming
.
It
is
advisable
to
lock
the
bathroom
door
when
bathing
,
as
Duke
will
attempt
to
dive
into
the
bath
with
you
.
Suffers
from
periodic
bouts
of
depression
.
Eats
anything
that
isn’t
locked
up
.
Considers
himself
to
be
the
alpha
male
of
the
household
,
and
is
desperately
in
love
with
Miss
Marple
,
the
poodle
from
next
door
.
This
love
has
been
consummated
,
but
unfortunately
Marmaduke
is
firing
blanks
.
This
is
probably
just
as
well
,
as
Marmaduke
has
a
highly
developed
libido
and
will
shag
anything
that
is
furry
and
moving
.
Likes
to
sleep
on
the
chesterfield
next
to
the
piano
,
as
the
light
from
the
hallway
shines
into
the
music
room
.
Frightened
of
the
dark
.
Adores
cold
cooked
meats
.
I
sipped my water (God alone knows how we’re meant to drink litres of the stuff a day) and gazed at a photograph of Marmaduke sitting on the lawn, his tongue lolling wolfishly out of the corner of his mouth. Intelligent, humorous hazel eyes stared back. Good. I was relieved. A dog without a sense of the ridiculous can be quite dangerous.
I
flicked the pages and read about the cook-slash-housekeeper (it seems even the Ambles can’t afford much indoor staff), a Polish woman called Maria Kandinsky (prone to sobbing over cabbage) and the gardener (Jack Blair, part time, no teeth). They could come later.
Arabella
Amble
–
Known
as
Bella
. I gave a cursory glance at a photograph of a sullen overweight teenager scowling behind a pair of dark glasses on a beach somewhere far too hot judging by the sunburn on the end of her nose, and then continued reading.
Aged
seventeen
.
Attends
Haberdasher
Bobbins
School
for
girls
where
she
mainly
stares
out
of
the
window
. I stifled a yawn, really, could any family be more
vin
ordinaire
? A slight uneasiness in the middle region told me that I had perhaps been unwise in the nibbling of pickled cucumber, so I made myself a restorative glass of salts and did a few deep breathing exercises –
most
beneficial, I assure you, for any form of stomach upset. I urge you to try them the next time you are a victim to rich food and poor health.
Allergic
to
bee
stings
.
Dislikes
sports
.
Adores
reading
gothic
romances
.
Writes
poetry
on
rainy
days
which
she
then
reads
to
Marmaduke
.
Adores
her
elder
brother
Harry
with
a
passion
that
is
unsuspected
by
him
.
Sometimes
she
sneaks
into
the
kitchen
to
watch
Maria
make
bread
,
as
the
smell
of
yeast
makes
her
yearn
for
something
she
cannot
name
.
Worries
about
her
weight
problem
which
results
in
midnight
binge
-
eating
of
chocolate
.
