by Lynne Truss
Death knells don’t only come in bongs, then. This one didn’t go bong, or ding, or clang, even faintly. It just made a nasty insistent electronic noise, in the manner of faxes everywhere, and a grave two-minute silence would have been distinctly out of place. Looking around, in fact, it was plain to see that office life was proceeding with quite ghastly normality. Tim – attempting to make a cup of tea – sniffed some milk in an open carton and recoiled so violently that he hit his head on a pillar and his glasses fell off. Next door, Michelle spoke to the typesetters by phone, asking them with a deadly sweetness, far be it from her, etcetera, whether it would be too much trouble for them to ‘set some type’, perhaps in the spirit of experiment, to find out whether they could take to it, given time and the right circumstances. And a motorcycle messenger, despairing of ever gaining Lillian’s attention, slowly surrendered to narcolepsy on a chair, his heavy, shiny, helmeted head coming finally to rest on his leather-clad knees, giving him the appearance of a black coiled-up bean-sprout.
All this blithe normality! How incredibly ironic! When just a few yards away fate was unfolding, slowly and backwards, with only Lillian to know.
She tore the message off the machine and read it through, several times. She even read it bottom-up a few times, too, just to recapture the original sensation of receiving it. And then she put it in her top drawer and turned the lock. She peered at the motorcycle messenger and decided it would be a shame to wake him.
‘Not from the elusive Mr Makepeace, I suppose?’ Michelle was passing, on her way to the sandwich shop, and had spotted the fax.
‘No,’ snapped Lillian, ‘it wasn’t.’
‘Lackaday,’ said Michelle, not as a joke. ‘Could I ask you to be preternaturally sweet and keep an eye peeled for his book round-up?’
Lillian gave her a look that said No, actually, Michelle could not ask her to be as sweet as all that. In fact, just try it. And as for the peeled eye, what an unpleasant turn of phrase.
‘You see, between these four walls, Lillian – these four quaint but cosy living-room walls, I suppose I should say,’ she added, glancing at Lillian’s magazine rack, ‘I suspect Mr Makepeace of making things up. He keeps missing deadlines, but instead of apologizing he says, “Didn’t you get it? I posted it on Friday.” I asked Osborne to tell him we haven’t received the latest piece, and I just know he’s going to pretend he’s done it already.’
‘Huh,’ said Lillian.
‘Well, it’s annoying!’ exclaimed Michelle, suddenly quite heated. ‘It’s unprofessional. When he says, “I posted it on Friday,” I have to pretend I believe him, because I can’t accuse him of lying. I hate it. And I don’t understand why Osborne has befriended him, either. What can he see in a jerk like Makepeace, who can’t stop telling lies?’
In fifteen years, Lillian had rarely heard such passion from Michelle. It was rather entertaining. Did she say ‘jerk’?
‘Want me to sort him out?’ said Lillian flatly.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I could sort him out. I’m good at sorting out liars.’ Herewith, she tapped her locked drawer significantly, and gave Michelle a level stare.
‘You’ve lost me, I’m afraid,’ said Michelle. She shoved the swing door and marched out, leaving Lillian to her own devices.
‘Oh yes,’ said Lillian to herself, ‘I’m very good with liars.’
‘I’m going back,’ said Makepeace. They had reached Angela Farmer’s gate; and Osborne was stooping to pick up the nice bunch of flowers he had dropped, nervously, for the second time; and hoping he wouldn’t topple over, through sheer nerves, when he tried to regain the upright position. The long walk to the front door always took him this way; he reckoned it was the adrenalin. Fight or flight, they called it. Which was fair enough, since he would certainly have fought anyone who tried to stop him running away.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Going back? You mean you aren’t coming in?’
‘No, I’m not.’
Osborne was confused. ‘But I thought you wanted to meet her.’
‘I never said that.’
‘You did.’
‘I fucking didn’t.’
‘Oh. Mm. Right.’
The older man needed a minute to take this in. ‘Oh well,’ he said, trying to sound regretful, ‘I suppose if you’re going back now, I can always catch a train. Tsk, don’t worry, I can manage. After all, it’s up to you, it’s your car –’
‘No,’ interrupted his friend. ‘I mean, I’m going back to Dunquenchin.’
Osborne looked at him. He had made his announcement as though ‘going back to Dunquenchin’ was something that a man’s gotta do.
‘But they’ve both gone out. The boy went out first, and then the fireman. Don’t you remember, we saw him from the florist’s? I waved, and he pretended not to see us. In any case, what’s the fascination? If that boy is a bit funny about me, isn’t it better just to get away and forget about it? He didn’t know who I was, so no harm done.’
‘But I want to find out who Digger was.’
‘Digger?’
‘Last night, he said his dad shouldn’t have worried about Digger, because everything had been under control. Perhaps he felt about Digger the way he feels about you.’
‘Stop it, mate. It’s not worth it. Let’s just do the interview and go home.’
‘No.’
‘Have a cup cake?’
‘Fucking no!’
‘How will you get in, in any case?’
‘I unlocked the back door this morning, when I was taking my bike out.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘You don’t have to. You just be nice to Ms Farmer and sit in her shed, and I’ll do the rest.’
It would be fair to say that when Gordon opened the door at Ms Farmer’s, holding a pale blue négligé in his hand, Osborne did not rise above his emotions.
‘Aagh!’ he exclaimed, and dropped the flowers again.
‘Didn’t expect to see me?’ said Gordon carefully. This is the only way to deal with these people, he decided. Don’t let them see you are afraid.
‘Well, not so soon,’ admitted Osborne jumpily. ‘Er, I’ve got some – well, business with Ms Farmer, if that’s all right.’ Don’t say what it is, thought Osborne. For God’s sake, don’t tell him you are the shed man at Come Into the Garden.
They looked at one another. There was a long pause.
‘I know,’ said Gordon. They both took a deep breath.
‘I know who you are. And I think I know why you’ve come. You’re from Come Into the Garden, aren’t you? You’re the man who does the sheds.’
Oh God. Osborne gulped. ‘’Assright,’ he said in a tiny voice.
‘I know your work,’ said Gordon very carefully.
‘Oh good. Er, thank you very much.’
‘Where’s your friend?’
Osborne started guiltily. ‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘I mean, I don’t know. Nothing to do with me, anyway.’
‘You’d better come in,’ said Gordon.
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Osborne with a brave smile. ‘I’m fine here.’
‘I think you should.’
‘No, it’s a lovely day. Tell you what, where’s the shed? I’ll start there.’
Back at Dunquenchin, Makepeace had climbed the stairs to Gordon’s modest little office – a top-storey room with a tiny window, and very little sign of Gordon’s immense success. It was nearer to an average teenager’s playroom than to an executive office, with papers and gadgets and bits of computer scattered about like toys. What it did have, however, was a fax machine, something Makepeace spotted at once. Could this be his perfect opportunity to clear himself with Come Into the Garden? If not, why not? Despite the rather stressful circumstances, this was too good a chance to miss. Hastily he scribbled a note to Come Into the Garden, and fed it, without more ado, into the fax.
Dear Michelle,
Hi! Osborne tells me you didn’t get my round-up last Friday.
Are you absolutely sure? Because I came to the office specially and posted it in your letter-box on Thursday night. It was two sides of A4, green typewriter-ribbon. I can’t imagine what could have happened to it. Anyway, I can type it up again by Friday if you like. What a drag!
In haste (in Devon!), M. Makepeace
‘Why didn’t he come in?’ asked Angela. ‘I don’t get it.’
Gordon considered. ‘I just think he’s a bit peculiar.’
‘Well, I’ll drink to that. Shall I go out and speak to him, do you think? I mean, if he’s just gonna look at the shed on his own, I needn’t have got up so early. I mean, now I think of it, I needn’t have got up at all.’
They were watching from the kitchen window.
‘Listen, can I phone Dad? It’s just that the other one, his pal, isn’t with him, and I’m a bit worried what he might be up to.’
‘Gordon, this isn’t like you, sweetheart. What’s on your mind?’
‘Well, it may just be rubbish, but I think these blokes might be a bit desperate. I don’t know; out for revenge, or something like that.’
‘I get it. Your dad did one of his risottos, am I right?’
‘No. I mean, yes. But that’s not it. Can I use the phone?’
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
Makepeace was startled when the phone rang, and even more alarmed when he heard it answered downstairs. ‘Fuck,’ he said aloud, and then wished he hadn’t.
‘Dunquenchin,’ said Gordon’s dad, as though it were quite a normal thing to say, but then his tone changed. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Yeah, but I only just got in. Listen, if there’s trouble I’ll sort it out. You stay with Angela, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
Just then the fax machine started to rumble, and Makepeace panicked. Gordon’s dad was looking for him! The big man with the beach-ball shoulders and those searing Rumpelstiltskin analogies! Oh God. Should he hide, jump out of the window, what? Why hadn’t he picked up a hatchet from downstairs, or a ladder, or a large colour picture to hide behind? And now this sodding machine was giving him away. ‘Shut up!’ he hissed at it, and rushed over to turn it off. But glancing at the message emerging from the machine, he realized to his considerable discomfort that it was addressed to him, and was a reply from Come Into the Garden. Oh fuck, how incriminating! Even if he hid, Gordon’s dad would find out what he’d been doing. As soon as it was finished he ripped it from the machine and stared at it in horror.
Dear Makepeace,
Michelle wanted me to tell you not to worry about the round-up piece. She says it was on her desk all the time!
(‘No!’ he whimpered.)
Sorry for the false alarm! Thank goodness you haven’t ‘retyped’ it yet, eh? She says it was pretty good, by the way, but she wasn’t sure about the reference to ‘hoist by his own petard’ – perhaps a twinge too literary, she said.
(Makepeace struggled for breath.)
Anyway, the point is, stop worrying! You writers are all far too conscientious!
All best,
Lillian
‘Fuck!’ shouted Makepeace. The effect of this letter was quite extraordinary. He had started hyperventilating. In fact, he was bent double and panting when Gordon’s dad put his head round the door and saw him.
‘Gotcha,’ said the fireman softly. And standing outside, he gently but firmly turned the door-key in the lock.
7
You might suppose that Osborne Lonsdale of Come Into the Garden had reached the stage in his career when he could no longer be surprised by a shed. He might have thought so himself. But this would be to reckon without the shedus mirabilis which was now revealed to his astounded eyes in Angela Farmer’s garden. How fantastic, you wonder, was Ms Farmer’s shed? Well, put it this way: if Cole Porter had known anything about sheds, this amazing specimen would have featured in the famous lyric ‘You’re the Top’ alongside the Mona Lisa, the Tower of Pisa and something that rhymed with ‘bed’.
Osborne was speechless with excitement. Having spotted the shed from the side of the house, he fairly raced towards it, clutching his airline bag and bunch of flowers with one hand and reaching out with the other, rather in the manner of someone who has been wandering aimlessly on an almost forgotten pilgrimage for the better part of his adult life and then beholds the Holy Grail, large as life and twice as graily. All thoughts of Gordon Clarke’s perverse desires were banished from his mind. This shed had a chimney! It had a little garden of its own and a picket fence! It was blue! It had guttering and leaded lights!
To a man who had spent a dozen years dressing up boring sheds for the benefit of his readers, Angela Farmer’s exceptional shed was like manna from heaven; his heart filled with praise. Forget the Cole Porter thing and put it this way instead: if the Magnificat had been about sheds, Osborne would have dropped down on his knees and sung it. For one thing, all those years devoted to looking at second-rate sheds were now utterly vindicated: they had prepared him to bear expert witness to this wondrous structure. And for another, how immensely cheering to reflect that this week’s ‘Me and My Shed’ piece would be an absolute doddle to write.
Angela watched him from the kitchen window, a cup of coffee in her hand.
‘That man is nuts,’ she said.
‘Mmm,’ agreed Gordon.
‘He’s acting like a goddam lunatic.’
‘Well, I –’
‘Is the bunny safely indoors? I don’t want that rabbit spooked by a nutsy newspaperman.’
‘It’s upstairs, I think.’
‘Good.’
‘Actually, it was nibbling some TV script or other, the last time I saw it. I hope that was all right?’
‘Sure. Why not? A rabbit needs all the roughage it can get.’ She put on a coat. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go talk to the crazy-man. Don’t look so worried, baby. Take my word for it, the guy is harmless. On the other hand, he does seem to be worshipping the outhouse. Do you suppose that’s normal?’
‘We had some really nice times in that shed, Auntie Angela,’ said Gordon wistfully, as if nice times were emphatically a thing of the past. ‘Do you remember? How you used to sing me songs?’
‘I remember that you sang them too.’
‘Did I?’
‘Sure. Duets. “You say neither and I say nie-ther”.’
Smiling, Gordon suddenly sang out, ‘“But oh, if we call the whole thing off, then we must part –”’
She joined in. ‘“But oh,”’ they sang together, ‘“if we had to part, then that might break my heart.”’
Osborne opened the little picket gate and stood enraptured. Neat little descriptive phrases were leaping in his writer’s mind like salmon in the spawning season; he felt refreshed, vigorous, inspired and glad, nay proud to be the author of ‘Me and My Shed’. For some reason, however, he also kept getting intrusive little flashes from a recent memory of the Come Into the Garden office, but he couldn’t think why. He looked at his shoe – at the Tipp-Ex mark, actually – but it wasn’t that. It was something to do with Tim. That’s right. Tim crouching beside his desk, asking questions about Angela Farmer. All those details about sheds, about her husbands and gerbils, and umpteen sitcoms. Osborne couldn’t remember much of it now, which was a nuisance.
‘Barney proposed to me in that shed,’ Angela told Gordon, as if reading Osborne’s mind. ‘You didn’t know that, did you?’
‘I did, I think. But I’d forgotten.’
‘Well, why should you remember? He left before you and your dad moved down here; he’s hardly been near me in ten years. He wasn’t a man for keeping in touch.’
‘Was it terrible, breaking up?’
‘No, it was predictable. It was never going to work. I said “neither” and he said “nie-ther”.’ She grimaced. ‘But to be honest, that was bearable. No, the trouble was that neither of us said “pot-ah-to”. We had to call the whole thing off.’
&nb
sp; They looked out at the big, autumnal garden, and both shivered. Gordon rarely heard a word about Barney. The ex-husband could be buried out there in the cold ground with the invisible bulbs and tubers for all the difference it would make. All Gordon knew was that Angela’s second (and last) marriage had endured for just five years, and that there had been no children, even though it had been Angela’s last chance of motherhood. She gave up quite a few things for that man. Before Barney, she had split her career between London and New York, but because Barney worked in British television (cockney character parts, mostly), she settled with him in England, bought the big house in Devon and the flat in town, even agreed with his decision not to have babies. And then he dumped her – just when her biological clock wound down and stopped. She never forgave him for that, and especially not for starting a family straight away with his next wife, his bimbo co-star on For Ever and Ever Amen. That was a real poke in the eye.
Barney was a louse, as Angela was fond of saying. He was, she said, ‘of the louse, lousy’. When the Angela Farmer tulip was announced, he sent her a postcard, from completely out of the blue, saying, ‘There you are, love! You got propagated after all! Ain’t nature wonderful?’ which made Angela so mad she set fire to the curtains.