Famous (30 page)

I put on my Plain Jane get-up and drove into the village. It appeared the market was in the church car park, judging by the stalls and crowd of people. People. I’d no idea so many people lived in this town. I mean it wasn’t a city-strength crowd, but it was a crowd nonetheless. A rural crowd. There were a surprising amount of stalls too, largely food, with a few revolting arts and crafts thrown in for good measure. And people appeared to be paying with money, rather than potatoes.

I really should buy some food, I thought, walking over to the row of produce stands. The first stand I came across was unfortunately the butcher.

‘Buggerandhell!’ I gushed, jumping back.

There, staring up at me from the table, was a pig’s head. Not something I was accustomed to seeing. One generally didn’t stumble into pigs’ heads of a Saturday morning in the city.

‘You all right there, love?’ asked the butcher. I managed a nod.

This was closest I had ever been to a pig. My childhood had in no way consisted of quality time on farms or tramping in the bush. Most of my quality time had been spent down at the shopping mall or going to the movies. I attempted to wipe the twisted grimace from my face and quickly moved on. At the next stall there were rows and rows of preserved jams and chutney thingies piled up on the table, with little bits of gingham wrapped over the lids. It looked as though Jenny was the culprit, judging by the way all the labels said
Jenny’s Jam.

She must spend every waking moment making jam, I thought in horror, staring at the pile of jars before my eyes. The first contender for Jam RSI. She could give my father a run for his money.

I bought some strawberry jam and onion chutney and walked on. The next stall along, and unfortunately the only clothing stall I could see, was piled high with ugly homespun jerseys and woolen hats in delightful shades of brown and green.

Please God, I prayed, no matter how long I have to stay in this hellhole, never let me wind up wearing one of these.

The next stall was filled with art (in the very loosest possible sense of the word). There were more watercolour paintings than there were old people alive to hang them. Paintings of boats, fields of wheat, vases of daisies, horses, and other predictable watercolour subjects. It’s as though whenever anyone painted in watercolour they had to paint one of these things, or there was a good chance their paint brushes would self-combust. I hated watercolour paintings. They reminded me of doctors’ surgeries and retirement homes.

‘Jane! Jane!’ shouted a woman’s voice, as I walked away from the watercolours.

I suddenly remembered that was my new name and turned for a look, even though the chances of me bumping into someone I knew at a market fair in the middle of the country were slim to none.

But I was wrong. It was Elsie. There was no hope in hell of missing her. She was wearing some sort of bright pink and black striped all-in-one trouser suit. She looked like a disco zebra.

‘Hello love,’ she said, approaching me with several shopping bags and two men in tow. ‘How are you?’

‘Good thanks,’ I replied. ‘And you?’

‘Marvellous, thanks. This is my husband Bob.’

I shook hands with and smiled at a shortish rotund man with grey hair and a close-cropped grey beard. He looked like some sort of happy Swedish woodchopper, all round, smiley and bearded.

‘And this is Ethan,’ said Elsie, turning to the youngish man on the other side of her. ‘My surrogate son.’

Ethan smiled at Elsie and then at me. I had been under the impression that only people aged under ten or over sixty lived in this town. At thirtyish he was definitely breaking the mould. Plus, he was also reasonably good-looking, in a kind of bad-checked-shirt-wearing farmer way.

‘Hi,’ I replied, shaking his hand.

‘Jane’s moved here from the city for a wee while,’ explained Elsie. ‘She’s one of my regular customers. And my favourite,’ she added, giving me a little wink. ‘How do you like the market, luvie?’

‘It’s great,’ I lied.

Although, to be honest, it felt good to be out of the cabin and surrounded by other humans for once.

‘Do all of these people live here in town?’ I asked.

‘No love,’ replied Bob. ‘Most of them are farmers or orchardists in the area. They just come into the market each week to stock up.’

‘Well, a rolling stone gathers no moss,’ said Elsie. I think that meant she was making a move. ‘See you on Monday, luvie, have a tip-top weekend.’

‘Bye,’ chorused Bob and Ethan, each giving me a little wave and a friendly smile. ‘See ya soon.’

I walked on and did a loop of the remaining stalls, coming across one piled sky high with fresh fruit and vegetables. I was ecstatic. In my euphoria I purchased a far greater quantity of fruit and vegetables than one person could hope to eat in a month.

The last stall I came across was a bookshop, of sorts. More like a table stacked with piles of ratty hundred-year-old books and well-dated and worn magazines.

I really did have to get something new to read, I thought to myself. I could now recite my copies of
Vanity Fair, Tattler, Harpers Bazaar
and
Style
word for word. I aimlessly foraged through the piles of books. I picked up a battered copy of Anna Karenina, which I had failed to finish reading when I was at university.

‘You know only fifty per cent of people who start that book ever finish it,’ said a voice next to me. A voice which belonged to Elsie’s friend, Ethan.

‘Are you planning on torturing yourself?’ he asked.

‘I think so,’ I replied. ‘I’m feeling a bit self-deprecating at the moment. Just can’t seem to get enough of inflicting pain on myself.’

‘Perhaps you should read something a little lighter then. How about this?’ he suggested, holding up an old and battered copy of
Treasure Island
, which for some reason I’d never read.

‘I guess I’m reading this then,’ I said, taking the book from him.

‘I think you’ll enjoy it,’ he said, picking up his food-laden basket, smiling at me and walking off.

Never in my life had I seen a grown man carrying a woven cane basket in such a confident and leisurely manner.

That afternoon I curled up on the lumpy couch with my duvet and opened
Treasure Island
. With much rejoicing I even managed to light a fire, which stayed alight. Before I knew what was happening, I was immersed in the classic adventure story. How I had managed to miss this gem when I was a child I had no idea. The book itself was almost eighty years old, and was filled with beautiful full-page colour illustrations. The dust covering each page only added to the magic.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had curled up on a couch for an entire afternoon, reading a book from cover to cover. I contemplated turning on my laptop and checking my emails, but I was just too cosy to move. It can wait, I told myself, turning back to the book.

My only interruption was the phone. It was Mands.

‘Guess what?’ she said.

‘What?’

God, what else has happened? I thought to myself.

‘Lizzie and I are coming to visit you next weekend!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really.’

‘Really really?’

‘Yes. Really really.’

‘Fabulous!’

Yay! I was finally going to have some human company!

‘You’ll need to bring several duvets,’ I instructed. ‘One to sleep on and one to smooth out the lumps in the mattresses.’

‘Sound peachy,’ said Mands.

‘It’s a shithole,’ I reiterated for the tenth time, lest she have any romantic log-cabin-in-a-field-of-daisies-with-a-hunky-in house-woodchopper notions. ‘There hasn’t been any human activity in this place for at least forty years.’

‘Probably why Uncle Sten had forgotten he owned it,’ said Mands.

‘There’s a lot to forget,’ I replied.

‘So, what do you need?’

Half an hour later Mands had a concise list of what to bring:
Clarins
moisturiser, fresh magazines, a calendar (so I could mark off each day, just like a real prison), CDs, a selection of wines and a pair of long-forgotten running shoes.

‘What are those for?’ asked Mands.

‘To run in.’

‘What do you want to be doing that for?’

‘Because, there’s no gym and I’m rapidly turning into a porker. Oh, and I need some tracksuit pants too.’

‘Some what?’

‘And I don’t own any so you’ll have to buy me some.’

‘I should hope you bloody don’t. Where the hell do I get those from?’

‘A sports shop…I guess.’

‘S’pose you’ll be running in those too?’ she asked.

‘Correct. It’s too cold for my gym leggings.’

‘I’ll make Lizzie get those. I’ll buy the moisturiser and wine.’

‘Fine. Just please don’t forget anything. Or plan on picking any of it up on the way through the village. There is nothing there. It is the shopping antichrist.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Mands, noting my desperation.

‘Oh!’ I suddenly remembered. ‘And I need my coffee machine too.’

‘What? That bloody great thing sitting on your kitchen bench you’ve never used?’

‘Yes.’

‘How the hell am I supposed to carry that?’

‘Okay,’ I relented, realising I might be pushing it. ‘Just buy me a plunger then.’

‘Gotcha,’ said Mands, adding it to the list.

‘Update,’ I pressed. ‘Just how much does the world hate me today?’

‘Actually,’ replied Mands, ‘I think the world is beginning to get sick of you. There was only one picture in the Telegraph today and nothing in the Sun.’

‘What picture was it?’ I asked.

‘Um…the nose one.’

‘Oh for fucksake!’ I cried. ‘When are they going to get sick of using that?’

‘P’haps you should send them a new picture of yourself?’ suggested Mands. ‘So they’ve got something else to print.’

‘Not a bad idea,’ I replied. ‘So, what was the story about?’ I asked.

‘It was about Alistair at the airport, leaving for Italy with the rest of the team. Looking very foxy too,’ she added.

Good, I thought, ignoring her. So the story wasn’t actually about me then.

‘Well here’s hoping the plane crashes,’ I said.

‘And that a few of them survive,’ continued Mands.

‘Including Alistair. But they have to resort to eating each other to stay alive.’

‘And that Alistair gets eaten first,’ I added. ‘Because he’s got the biggest bum.’

‘Exactly,’ finished Mands, who was always brilliant at playing along with imaginary tales of death and destruction.

The following morning I headed off for a walk, which was intended to be half an hour but ended up being slightly longer. With the help of a farmer on a four-wheel motorbike I managed to find the cabin again, over two hours later. Navigation, in any way shape or form, had never been my strong point and this was only accentuated in the country, where every paddock, fence and grassy ditch looked like a clone of the one before. There were no shops to clock as reference points. No traffic lights, pedestrian crossings or buildings to judge my distance from home.

‘Might want to carry a compass next time,’ suggested the nice farmer, as he dropped me back at the bottom of the dirt driveway.

A compass? All I wanted to do was go for a simple walk. I’d no desire to take up orienteering.

I had a shower and drove into the village for my morning tea. There was absolutely no one in the village, at least no other humans to speak of, and all the shops were closed, including the café.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ I wondered aloud.

It looked as though the entire township had been abducted by aliens. I looked up and down the street for any other sign of life but there was nothing doing.

What day is it? I asked myself.

Sunday, myself replied. Oh. I suddenly clicked.

It appeared that Floodgate was one of those prehistoric towns where retail life ceased to exist on a Sunday, presumably so that everyone could bugger off to church and other pressing familial engagements. Had they never heard of seven-day-a-week service? I was used to being able to purchase whatever I wanted and on whatever day I chose. There was no blatant discrimination between Sunday and weekdays in the city. It was all just one big happy seven-day shopping week.