Summertime (2 page)

Toy with the idea of abandoning alcohol until Easter. This too seems unwise, as I might have to attend a sales conference for Vanden Plaz hotels soon, in order to suck up and get more work writing their brochures. This annual evening of frightfulness is made bearable only by the very high quality of food and drink. Generally have about four glasses of champagne and start inviting people I have just met to stay. Last year I asked the whole corporate hospitality team, and the leader seemed very keen. It came to nothing, thank God. Allow myself to imagine the horror of entertaining six strangers for a weekend, and trying to produce food for them while looking like a top-efficiency copywriter who
deserves a pay rise. Giving up alcohol may be my salvation.

Return to the kitchen from the dustbins to find the children running on peak efficiency. Giles is making scrambled eggs, Lowly and Digger, David's Labrador, are eating the eggshells under the table, and The Beauty has dragged a chair over to the sink and is doing the washing-up. Occupying another area of high ground is Felix, who is standing on the window seat watching the second hand of his watch.

‘Well done, Mummy, you're back within the allotted time. Have you seen my goalie gloves?'

He jumps down, interrupting before I manage to say no.

‘In fact, I think I may have left them in the hen house. Time me.' He chucks his watch at me and hurtles out of the back door and across the yard to the dilapidated hen house, crouching to open the nesting-box doors then vanishing save for his legs as he leans in to look for gloves, and I hope, eggs. The cockerel sticks his head out of the door to see what sort of day it is, and finding it to his taste, emerges on to the lintel, groaning and clucking to warn us all that he is about to crow.

In order to crow, he needs to feel tall, so he hops on to the handle of The Beauty's pink tricycle, and manages the first part of the triumphant morning
call before losing his balance due to overexertion and splashing in a dust of feathers to the ground again. Felix scatters a few grains of corn and dashes back to the house. I refrain from sending him out again to give the bantams more than just the half-teaspoonful he has found adequate, because I want him to eat his breakfast right now, and because none of the hens has come out yet. There are only three, and I think they have all decided to be broody together, which is tiresome as we shall have no eggs this summer.

The sun breaks through and dispenses a weak dose of uplift as we pass the pig farm on the way to school. The pig farm is often a haven of picturesque loveliness, but not today. Something has happened to the muck heap, and it has avalanched across the road in front of us, so our path is steaming and pungent. Abruptly shut my window and attempt to drive through the slurry, but in moments the wheels are spinning and we are embedded.

‘Phew, it stinks,' says Giles, turning the radio up, as if he thinks this will make a difference.

I rev the engine once more, to no avail. ‘Hell and buggeration, we're going to be late.' Open my door and step out, heart sinking as feet do the same into warm manure. Have not worn my wellingtons, and as I squelch towards the barn, looking for a shovel, bits of straw and soft slime stick to the soles of my shoes
and float in over the top to lie beneath my heel. Find a spade, and a broom, but no farmer to assist me, so stomp back to the road in a big rage.

My life seems entirely made up of shit-shovelling episodes, be it dogs, pigs, children or hens. Am fed up with it. Am fed up with David being away, and never being able to speak to him because it's always the wrong time of day. Whenever he does ring, it is a bad moment and I am in a rush or unable to concentrate and the conversation becomes dyspeptic, or dysfunctional, or just plain disagreeable. He will never want to come back at this rate. Must work out a way to improve this state of affairs, and also my appearance. This is foul, as a few moments in the bathroom after the school run demonstrate. Am loitering in front of the mirror, killing time while The Beauty busies herself with her babies whom she has lined up against the wall and to whom she is administering medicine and dabs of hand cream along with a kindly kiss on the head. This absorbing occupation gives me plenty of time to notice the leaden texture and pallid tone of my skin. Must implement a thorough purification regime forthwith. However, by the time I have wiped all the babies, put away the hand cream and restuffed the whole packet of baby wipes The Beauty has discarded and thrown into her sock drawer, I have lost interest in purification. Dump
The Beauty in her cot, praying that she has forgotten that she now knows how to climb out, and retreat to my own bed, promising, ‘I'll just lie down for ten minutes.'

Surface again at midday, flushed with the sense of achievement which comes from having read a whole Georgette Heyer at one sitting, and spurred by the merry dance of true love in
Cotillion
, to a more cheerful level of existence.

March 16th

Good cheer is beginning to drain away again as I stare out at the blank sky and try to decide whether it would be more ghastly to do my work or to go to the supermarket. There is no loo paper, no cereal, no washing powder and no milk. After some consideration, choose to do my work, as the shopping option involves more than meets the eye: a multitude of chores will be unleashed by a visit to the supermarket, each one more urgent than the last. Also, it is one thing gliding up and down the aisles with The Beauty, humming away to piped music and wondering which Teletubbies video to buy today, but it is quite another to be back home, dragging vast,
splitting bags of stuff out of the car, and into the house where the final insult still awaits in the form of unpacking and putting away, accompanied by a hovering and stamping Beauty who needs her supper. Work, on balance, is the easy option today.

Five minutes at my desk has me riffling through the waste-paper basket and then my diary in search of something interesting to take my mind off the Vanden Plaz Conference Catering brochure. Discover from my diary that Easter is almost upon us, and telephone my friend Rose in London to invite her to stay. She is out, so have to make do with her answerphone. Try telephoning my mother for a spot of work avoidance instead. She is at home and is sniffing back tears. Fortunately they are of joy.

‘Oh, Venetia, it's so wonderful. I was just about to ring you. You will never believe this – never. Desmond has asked Minna to marry him and she has agreed.' There is a pause, and the deep intake of breath required for a huge puff on the celebratory cigarette crackles down the line. I am speechless. I must digest this extraordinary news. My brother Desmond is getting married. Surely he is not grown-up enough? He is certainly old enough, and has been for years, but old is not the same as grown-up.

‘Gosh, that's fantastic. When? How? Where?'

Have a sense of urgency, and a potent desire to
have the whole thing sewn up before Minna changes her mind. But perhaps she won't. After all, they have been together for nearly two years, which is certainly a record for Desmond. My mother's excitement is gathering force.

‘Wait there,' she commands. ‘I'll just pop into Aylsham for a bottle and I'll come over to tell you everything.'

She arrives with Egor, her bull terrier, hanging out of the passenger window of her car, yapping hoarsely. This sets Rags and Lowly off, and Digger joins in, so there is a hellish cacophony of dog reverberating through the house. The telephone rings, and I leap to answer it. Pick up the receiver but am distracted from saying hello by The Beauty, who has thrown herself at my mother and is warbling, ‘Grannee, Grannee. Come and have a cuppa tea now.'

‘No fear,' says Grannee, ‘no tea for me. I'm celebrating with vodka and tonic.'

‘Vodka tonic, vodka tonic. No fear,' parrots The Beauty.

‘… CAN YOU HEAR ME, VENETIA?' blares in my ear. It is David sounding tetchy. Decide to punish him by pretending I can't hear him.

‘Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? Oh, well, there must be something wrong. I expect whoever it is will try later.' I hang up and turn to greet my mother. She
and The Beauty have settled at the kitchen table, and are watching in admiration as the bull terrier Egor and his idiot offspring Lowly run in circles of pleasure, holding one another's tails.

‘Do look, Venetia. They are clever,' coos my mother, sloshing vodka into two glasses The Beauty has brought her from the cupboard. She sighs, leaning back in her chair, and muses, ‘I must say, I always thought you would be married before Desmond. In fact, I never thought Desmond would be married at all. It's marvellous.' The telephone rings again and I battle with my better self, my bad fairy alter ego telling me not to answer it. Better self wins and I grab the phone.

‘Hello, who is it?'

‘Hi Venetia, it's me, David, missing you already today and I've only just got up.' Decide to ignore this, particularly in view of my mother's remarks, which have deflated me to the size of a worm. Almost burst getting the words I want to say out without sounding resentful or expectant.

‘Guess what David, Desmond's getting married!' The silent jaw-dropping I can imagine down the line from Bermuda is as expressive as any exclamation.

‘Darling, do get off the phone, I want to tell you everything.' My mother has tired of the dogs and is poised for a chat at the table, and The Beauty has
found a straw and is making purposefully towards her glass.

I cut in on David's laughter and the tumble of questions he is asking. ‘Sorry, David, I've got to go before The Beauty starts on the vodka. Call me later, darling.'

Barely hear his resigned ‘OK then,' before hanging up and moving across to the chair opposite my mother and as far as possible from The Beauty, who is stripping off her red corduroy skirt in favour of a pair of Chinese trousers from the dressing-up box and a pink feather boa from my bedroom. Sip the first delicious mouthful of vodka and tonic, experience great dizziness and rosy glow of well-being, decide there is no room for resentment or jealousy today and get stuck into wedding details.

‘Where are they getting married? I don't think Minna's got any parents, has she? What's she going to wear? When did he ask her? Oh,
God
it's so exciting.' Jump up, grab The Beauty and waltz around the room, dizzy with disbelief that this can be happening to the unmarriageable Desmond.

The ash on the end of my mother's cigarette has grown as long as a catkin, so lost has she been in silent musings. It is flicked off now, and a businesslike puffing recommences.

‘No, she's an orphan. I don't know what happened
to them, though. Do you?' My mother pauses to refill her glass, adding, ‘Actually, I'd rather not know, if you don't mind. It might be gruesome. Anyway they want to get married here. And I've already asked dear Rev. Trev, who doesn't seem to mind that neither of them are spinsters of the parish.'

‘That's because he's got a crush on you,' I remark cynically, but am ignored. My mother is in full sail, her black beret sliding towards her left ear and giving her the look of a crazed French Resistance officer.

March 21st

Easter weekend looms, and according to the weatherman it will be snowing for the whole four days. I don't care because Rose is coming to stay, along with her son Theo who is The Beauty's best friend, but without her husband Tristan, whom she referred to on the telephone as ‘that snake-witted hell-hound'.

Am rather inspired by this moniker, but also worried, as I recognise it as similar to the abuse I frequently heaped upon my ex-husband Charles in the final stages of our marriage. Now I can simply call him dreary, which indeed he has become, and which is a vast improvement on being a hell-hound.

Chugging and loud banging on the front door announces a Parcel Force van with a lumpy package from David. The Beauty falls on it crying, ‘It's my Happy Birthday,' and tears at the string and tape binding it shut. Inside are three vast balloons, one for each of the children, and three water pistols shaped like aliens. A note is attached to the smallest of the aliens: DO NOT SQUIRT YOUR MOTHER ON PERIL OF EXECUTION BY GREEN SLIME. The final item in the parcel is wrapped in pink tissue paper.

‘I bet this is for you, Mum, it's all girly,' says Felix, handing it over. The tissue unfurls to reveal a pair of sandals with velvet soles and purple and orange flowers garlanded across the top. They are enchanting. I put them on and they fit me perfectly. Burst into tears. Felix groans, ‘God, don't start crying again. What's the matter this time? Look, here's a letter from David. It might cheer you up.'

Darling Venetia,

I think I'll be home in a few weeks. I'm writing this in my room. The windows are open and rain is crashing on to the balcony, so work is off for the afternoon. I've sent Desmond a pair of Elvis shades from the market here to wear at his wedding. They're Graceland rather than GI, and have thick gold arms with squares cut in
them for Desmond's sideburns to stick through. I bought these shoes for you to walk all over me in. Metaphorically. Mind you, I wouldn't say no to literally … You are my dreams, xxxx David xxx

Most pleasing. Almost worth him being away if this is the sort of treatment I can expect. Float to Budgen's supermarket on a cloud of pink pleasure, and still wrapped in unreality, purchase seventeen long tubes of mini Easter eggs for the Easter-egg hunt. Absently proceed to eat two with Felix and The Beauty while waiting for Giles to come out of school. This returns me to earth with a thump of nausea. All of us feel sick, and The Beauty has turned an unbecoming caramel colour all over by the time I realise Giles should be out, and I go into the school to look for him. Find him in a darkened room with other low-lifers, playing on someone's Nintendo. Cannot understand how the school can allow this form of brainwashing to go on, and stand in the doorway muttering furiously while Giles and his automaton friends continue to perform thumb wars on their consoles. Giles waits until we are out of earshot of his friends before turning to me in raging contempt.