A Surrey State of Affairs Read online

  Then she explained that, to an outsider, it was glaringly obvious that Gerald didn’t have a thing for Miss Hughes. She explained her interpretation of the events. At first, I could hardly give credence to what she was suggesting. I am a respectable woman. I had thought that Gerald, for all his crumpled trousers and emotional volatility, was a respectable man. Tanya waved the card in my face, determined to prove that he was not. I looked at it again. The illustration was of Winnie the Pooh unscrewing a jar of honey. Surely that was innocent of anything other than a little misplaced mawkishness. Then I looked at the words. I picked up his earlier postcard. I looked at the words. A clammy, prickly feeling spread down my spine. In one horrible, wrenching moment, I knew that she was right. How could he? How could I not have realized?

  Tanya asked if I had replied to the postcard, and I mechan-ically repeated my innocuous note. She went white, despite her Johnson’s Holiday Skin. Before I could agonize any lon-ger, however, I had to leave for Church Flowers. Pru descended on me in a cloud of Lily of the Valley perfume, fluttering her hands, telling me how delighted she was—David and Ruth had been to the cinema once and to dinner twice, and Ruth had already given away her caftan to Cats in Need. But I was too distracted to revel in this success. All I could visualize was Gerald, standing in the belfry, clutching his rope and staring at me with longing in his eyes. No matter how much I tried to concentrate on wrapping my twine tightly around the rose stems, the image remained.

  How could he? What to do if he comes around?

  I shall hide. That is what I shall do. I shall hide.

  4 P.M.

  He is outside! Dear readers, this is terrible. I can see him through the crack in the blinds in the study, pacing back and forth on the gravel, a bunch of red roses in his hand. I have told Natalia, Mark, and Tanya not to open the door on any account. I have put the chain on. I am a prisoner in my own home.

  I sincerely wish that Jeffrey wasn’t allergic to dogs so that we would have a slavering Alsatian at the ready to set loose on him. Perhaps I should buy one of those large gloves and train Darcy to attack.

  I have just taken another peek out the window. Thank heavens. He is walking away, holding the bouquet at a sorry angle.

  FRIDAY, JUNE 6

  I cannot hide forever. I must resolve this situation. As far as I see it, I have the following options:

  Tell Jeffrey all and allow him to defend my honor as he sees fit.

  Tell Gerald that I am joining a convent.

  Convince Jeffrey that we should emigrate.

  Shave my head and start dressing like Jacqui Smith in order to dampen his ardor.

  I talked these through with Tanya, but she seemed to think a note would do the trick. I thought for a long time, and then drafted the following:

  Dear Gerald,

  I am a married woman. Kindly desist.

  Constance

  SATURDAY, JUNE 7

  I hope the old adage that “No news is good news” holds true. The welcome mat was blessedly free of postcards from Gerald this morning, though I’m not sure if this is because he has been shamed into silence or because he knows better than to push his luck while Jeffrey is at home. My husband has a sturdy, rugged physique, even if the last thing he punched was the wall when England lost to Wales at rugby.

  SUNDAY, JUNE 8

  Still no word from Gerald. I went to see Mother alone, because Jeffrey said he wanted to mow the lawn while the weather was nice, and she once again raised her eyebrow as if to suggest that I must have done something terrible to have driven him away. I didn’t dare allude to Gerald, or so much as mention bell ringing. There is something about that look she gets that takes me right back to the day I got caught stealing a piece of the Christmas cake she had been maturing for four months in the larder, whether or not I have anything to feel guilty about. Instead I told her the latest from Rupert, who has just been given a small promotion, and Sophie, who promises that she is practicing her French verbs “in her sleep.” Mother sniffed at the latter piece of news and asked what was wrong with speaking English slowly and clearly.

  When I got back, Jeffrey was lying on our garden recliner, asleep, with a gin and tonic beside him and luxuriant, unmowed grass surrounding it to the rim. I felt too cowed to reprimand him.

  MONDAY, JUNE 9

  Still no word from Gerald, and mixed news from Tanya. This morning, as we were having our usual eleven o’clock coffee together, she announced that she had something to tell me.

  “It’s good news, Connie,” she said, with a confident smile on her face. She has finally taken to wearing maternity tops—pretty, colorful, crossover things—which are a marked improvement from the old gym wear. “Idle Hands has taken off,” she said. “It was all Mark’s doing. He drew up a business plan with graphs and everything and now he’s found us an angel investor, just like on Dragons’ Den!” I had to admit that I found this talk of angels and dragons a little hard to follow—it reminded me of the computer games Rupert used to play—but I didn’t want to dampen Tanya’s enthusiasm, so I smiled encouragingly.

  “The best thing is that the business plan included costing for new premises—well, when I say premises I mean a two-bedroom flat with an open-plan kitchen/dining room, but you get my drift. With this investment we can afford to rent our own place. We’ll be out of your hair!”

  I bit down on my tea cake a little too hard, and felt my teeth crunch together. I will miss her. Of course I am delighted that her business is a success, and that her baby will be born into a proper home of its own rather than having to be stowed away next to Jeffrey’s golf clubs, but I will still miss her company, her conversation. I gathered myself together quickly enough to congratulate her, then tried to concentrate fixedly on the time she switched off Woman’s Hour to put on a dreadful pop song by some woman called Katie Perry.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 10

  What, I wonder, does one wear to a bell-ringing practice in order to discourage the advances of a certain man while also having to fit comfortably into a safety harness? Burlap sacks are out of the question. I stood in front of my wardrobe for so long pondering the question that Natalia was driven to vacuuming around my feet. In the end I selected a pair of black boot-cut trousers and a gray cotton T-shirt that had begun to stretch with age, hoping to convey an impression of austerity, but without quite looking like a hag. I left off the sweep of dusky peach blush and mascara that I usually wear, put on my stone-colored raincoat, and left. I’m not sure the effect was entirely successful—or perhaps, more to the point, it was too successful. When I got to the belfry, Reginald asked me if I had caught the summer vomiting bug.

  Then Gerald arrived, and I busied myself with strapping on my harness and arranging my helmet over my hair so that a few strands poked out to soften the impression of being as bald as a coot. It wasn’t until we had started ringing that I dared to look at him. Something had changed. He was staring straight ahead with a solemn expression on his face; he was wearing one of his old blue shirts, perfectly ironed; his nasal hair had been clipped. He didn’t speak a word to me all evening.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 11

  Still no postcard from Gerald. I suppose he has paid attention to my request, which is more than can usually be said for Jeffrey.

  While giving the utility room a bit of a spring cleaning I found a pair of Sophie’s purple leggings, coiled up like an exotic snakeskin, in the corner. I thought of her wearing them with her funny little dresses over the top and felt that sudden, achy sensation of missing her, which can occur at the oddest of moments. I decided to call, and by withholding my number managed to get her on the first attempt. The line was bad. Sophie sounded muffled and there was a rustling like the lapping of waves on a beach in the background. I asked her if she was okay and she said that she was “thfine” and talking funny only because she had been practicing her French so hard. Just as I was asking if she wanted me to send over some Buttercup syrup from Boots she said that she had to rush off to hold Daisy’s bucket and hun
g up. I hope she will get better soon. French is indeed a language to mangle any Englishwoman’s vocal cords.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 12

  Reginald popped around in a positively effervescent mood today. “Constance, you are a genius,” he said over a cold Pimm’s in the garden, with a grin as broad as his sun hat. “It’s all going swimmingly.” By this I presumed that he meant the situation between David and Ruth, and I was right. It would appear that David has not attempted to persuade his father that he needs a psychological “audit” for more than a week, that he has started to wear Lynx deodorant, and that yesterday he took Ruth on a date to play mini golf. In short, he was showing all the hallmarks of becoming “normal.” Pru confirmed that this happy transformation was a two-way affair at Church Flowers when she told me that Ruth had had a haircut for the first time in eighteen months. I tried to savor my triumph and not to reflect on the fact that had things been different, my own son would have been benefiting from Ruth’s sudden swing toward neatly coiffed conformism. I comforted myself with the thought that I wouldn’t in any case want Pru to be mother of the bride at Rupert’s wedding, as she would no doubt want to have a say in all the organization. Judging by what she did with the freesias today, she is much too slapdash to be trusted with the table arrangements. It’s a good thing that Reginald is the rumpled, forgiving sort.

  FRIDAY, JUNE 13

  Friday 13: unlucky for some, including one of Sophie’s dim-witted “friends.” I have just received the following e-mail:

  yo momma k how ru and dad? could u ask ur friend whoz a nurse what to do bout an infected tongue? my m8 got it peerced last wk an she still cant eat. really sore. and has this wierd kinda puss coming out. anyhoo, gotta go…love ya lots

  soph xxx

  I thought for a long time, and then I replied:

  Dear Sophie,

  When you left primary school seven years ago you appeared to have a firmer grasp of the English language than you do now. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and presuming that the French sun has addled your brain (are you wearing sunscreen and a hat?), but just in case I’m going to pop a copy of Eats, Shoots & Leaves in the mail for you along with that Buttercup syrup.

  Now, as to this friend of yours, the first thing I want to know is why you’re spending time with someone who would do such a disgusting and tasteless thing to herself. A pierced tongue? I thought that was the preserve of deranged, bat-eating heavy-metal fans.

  But I digress. Unfortunately I’m no longer in touch with the nurse Natasha (who hasn’t returned my Christmas cards since the time I asked her to take a look at Grandma’s varicose veins), but I do remember that Grandma’s cat once had an infected tongue abscess, and I think the treatment would be similar. She needs to bathe it in a strong salt solution. It will sting, but the pain may make your friend think twice about being such an idiot in the future.

  I hope you’re well and having a nice time. Not long now until you’ll be home for the holidays!

  Lots of love,

  Mum

  SATURDAY, JUNE 14

  Mark and Tanya have gone. They were here for only two months, but it feels like the end of an era. At ten o’clock this morning I heard the diminutive crunch of Smart car tires on gravel as Mark pulled up in their brand-new lilac-colored company car, emblazoned with Idle Hands in a black curlicue font on the side; three hours and nineteen carloads later, they and their meager possessions had vanished. The house had that same big, immaculate, empty feeling it gets when Sophie has just left. I called Natalia to make some lunch, longing for a little bustle of any sort, but she was nowhere to be seen. I called Jeffrey, but in a strained voice emanating from his study he said that he was just in the middle of something and had his hands full. I went to talk to Darcy instead. He cocked his head and looked at me with his black, depthless, wise eyes, and said, “You’re fired!”

  SUNDAY, JUNE 15

  Jeffrey came to church, and to see Mother, without complaining once. I can’t keep up with him, I really can’t.

  MONDAY, JUNE 16

  Dreadful news. My fingers are shaking so much I can hardly type. The director of the eco lodge just called. Sophie has not returned from a field trip to study the newt population of the Loire. He tried to reassure me. The lodge staff has checked her room and it seems that her passport and most of her clothes are missing. Perhaps she is homesick and on her way back? I told him that she would never have done such a thing without telling me. How else would she pay for the ticket?

  He said there was one other thing I should know. Her friend Daisy has disappeared too. Perhaps they had gone off on a little trip together? I swallowed hard. It was possible, but so were many other scenarios. What if she has been abducted by drug smugglers to be used as a human mule? Or worse—by Parisian pimps? If only she had let me persuade her to keep a can of mace spray in her handbag at all times.

  I feel ill. Jeffrey is on his way home. I hope he gets here soon.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 17

  Relief, of a kind. Sophie is safe, if a little woozy due to the effects of a piercing-related infection. I am too angry to say much more. Besides, I must book my flight to Ibiza.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18

  I will have to keep this brief. Tanya is coming around to drive me to the airport in fifteen minutes for my flight to Ibiza Town. Jeffrey left for work as usual this morning, as if for all the world his only daughter were not holed up in some latter-day, sun-baked version of Gin Lane with a bolt of metal through her tongue. Just writing these words makes me shudder. I feel numb with shame and trepidation.

  Sophie finally answered her mobile at three P.M. yesterday afternoon, after I had made the eco lodge director alert the French police, contacted Interpol, taken out an advertisement in the classified section of the Daily Telegraph, and wrenched approximately thirty-two hairs out of my head in desperation.

  When she said hello she sounded as if she had a damp sock in her mouth. Her tone was dazed, then sheepish, then emotional. My relief was quickly subsumed by anger. She was not in the Ardèche valley. She was not even in the Loire, or the Tarn. She was in a flat in San Antonia, on a small, and by all accounts rampantly hedonistic, Spanish island that is not renowned for the rigor of its stickleback monitoring.

  She was so befuddled by fever that she couldn’t keep up the charade. I still find it hard to believe her capable of such dissimulation in the first place. This wretched new DJ friend of hers must have led her astray.

  In any case, I have no further time for speculation. I have packed water-purifying tablets, lightweight clothing, disinfectant, insect repellent, cotton wool, and an emergency flare, and I am ready to depart. Heaven only knows what awaits. Wish me courage.

  SATURDAY, JUNE 21

  I am still alive. That is about the most positive thing I can say about my current situation. Even this state of affairs may not endure: an obstreperous airport security official confiscated my water-purification tablets.

  Once, in happier times, I visited the Rodin museum in Paris. There I observed the famous sculpture The Gates of Hell, which featured writhing, contorted, debased, and demented human forms. That is what Ibiza reminds me of.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 26

  Sophie and I have returned safely from Ibiza. There were moments during the trip, such as when I was subjected to the reckless ineptitude of Hispanic taxi drivers, when I feared that I would never type those words.

  When I got to the address Sophie had given me, a nondescript sixties-style apartment building, I climbed a set of concrete steps and knocked tentatively on the moldering door. This was hardly the bougainvillea-clad villa of expatriate fantasy. After two further raps, just as I was cleaning my fist on a wet wipe and wondering if the imbecilic taxi driver had taken me to the wrong place, the door swung open.

  A skinny girl with an orange tan and headphones around her neck, who transpired to be Daisy, let me in, cheerfully saying “You’re Soph’s mum, right?” and showing no sense of shame. Passing through a tiny, hot, and
messy flat, I found Sophie sprawled in bed, wearing a bikini, her feet tangled up in dirty sheets, with piles of Milky Way wrappers, bronzing lotion, flip-flops, Hot magazines, and makeup scattered around her. There were photographs stuck to the mirror of her posing with friends in clothes that would be too small to fashion a silk vest for a Siberian hamster.

  “Hiya, Mum,” she said woozily, smiling and grimacing with pain. I felt torn between the desire to take tender care of her, as any mother of a sick child will understand, and to put my hands on my hips and give her a good talking to. In the end, I oscillated between the two. Sophie spent most of the time burying her head under a pillow, perhaps through a belated sense of shame at her loathsome piercing, perhaps because whenever she emerged I made her gargle with saltwater.

  The combined effects of the heat and the emotional stress gave me such a terrible headache that I had to raid the bathroom cabinet for some pills. They perked me up so much that I soon felt like taking a brisk stroll to get some fresh air, and I ended up walking the length of the bay and back fourteen times. Exercise can be terribly therapeutic. Blotting out the near-naked revelers and the ghastly, thundering, monotonous music, the natural beauty of the scene made me feel strangely euphoric.

  The rest of my time there was much quieter. I nursed Sophie back to health, attempting to cook wholesome food in her tiny, dark kitchen, which was stocked with nothing more than a box of stale Frosties and a bottle of ketchup. I tried to ignore Daisy, which was easy as she was always either out or asleep.