“Well, maybe that’s the problem, Spiro. We’re too free with our yeses.”
“And you know,” he hissed in my ear, “he only forty-eight! Ees incredible, no? And he still very fit and able to do things.” He smiled at me, flashing perfect white teeth, and suddenly, I saw the way Spiro’s mind was going. Alf, my fit and able labourer, my eighteen-stone, glass-eyed, flatulent of bottom and gushing of armpit bricklayer, was being offered in my general direction. Alf, good, Alf, smiley Alf, Alf, the man who liked to say yes, was being proffered for my delectation by his friend, the woolly-hatted, perpetually sobbing Greek.
I leant towards him. “No, thank you, Spiro,” I said firmly.
Lance stifled a giggle beside me.
Spiro looked puzzled. “You no like him?”
“Oh, no, I like him very much, but just not in that way, savvy?”
He sighed, nodded. “Savvy.” Then he paused. “So…perhaps you like the younger man, yes?” His eyes drifted past me to Lance. They sparkled excitedly. “Perhaps you like – ”
“Spiro,” I interrupted urgently, “what I’d really like is another bottle of wine. Would you mind getting one, only this one seems to have mysteriously evaporated.” I waved the empty bottle in his face.
He sighed, took it resignedly, and got to his feet. “OK. I go.”
“Attaboy,” grinned Lance, as Spiro retreated up the garden path. “What you have to realise,” Lance went on in my ear, “is that Spiro comes from an island called Mexatonia.”
“Where’s that?”
“Exactly. No one’s ever heard of it. It’s a tiny disputed territory just off Albania. It’s so minute that when the goat-herder dies, his widow automatically marries the fisherman instead. So instead of sex, cooking and mucking out the goats, it’s sex, cooking and mending nets, that’s all.”
“Right.” I nodded thoughtfully. “So instead of sex, cooking and Eurobonds, I’d get sex, cooking and my plumbing sorted, is that it?”
“Exactly.”
We giggled companionably, and for a moment I felt ridiculously, absurdly happy; lolling about here with my boys sharpening our wits, cracking a few jokes, the mayflies buzzing about us, dancing in the low beam of the evening sun. I glanced contentedly about me. Alf was beginning to exhibit signs of sleep. Another can of Stella had done its worst, and he was snoring softly now.
“What happened to his eye?” I asked Mac, who had stealthily usurped the Greek beside me.
“Our stepfather stabbed him wiv some scissors when he was a nipper.”
“Good God!” I sat bolt upright. Felt sick. “How terrible!”
“Yeah, dreadful. I was six at the time, and he was about four. We bofe went off to boarding school after that.”
“Boarding school. Heavens, I wouldn’t have thought…” I tailed off, about to say – you’d be able to afford it.
“Barnardo’s,” he offered helpfully.
“Oh! Right.” I took a slug of wine. Fell silent for a moment. “Gosh, Mac, you and Alf, you’ve – well, you’ve had a pretty traumatic time then.”
He shrugged. “Could be worse. We’ve always had each ower, and we’ve always looked out for each ower.”
“You mean, you’ve always looked out for him,” Lance put in softly.
“Yeah, well, you do, don’t you? If you’re brovers. Anyway, it weren’t that bad. We could have been brung up in Kosovo, couldn’t we? Could have had bombs dropping on our beds, could have had – ”
“Coo-ee!”
Any extension of this incisive, sociopolitical discussion was brought to an abrupt halt by a loud trill. We all turned in its general direction and saw Nanette, up on my terrace, on the steps of the French windows, wobbling about on pink high heels, wearing the skimpiest of miniskirts, and waving a bottle of champagne.
“Is it a party? Can I come down? I’ve brought my own bubbly!”
Well, she was coming anyway. Before the “Of course!” was out of my mouth, she was teetering across the lawn towards us.
“I spotted you all out of the bathroom window,” she called, “having a little drinky, and I thought – well, I’m damned if I’m going to celebrate up here on my own. Why not go and join them?”
“Why not indeed,” I said, getting up to greet her and give her a kiss. “But what are you celebrating, Nanette?”
“Oh!” she gushed, clasping her hands together, eyes shining. “Too exciting. Roger’s asked me to marry him!”
“Oh Nanette, that’s wonderful!” I hugged her.
“Isn’t it just? And it was such a surprise! There I was, on my hands and knees polishing the parquet floor because Brenda makes such a frightful mess of it, and he just walked in the front door and popped the question! Then he said, “Nanette, I can never resist a woman who goes down on her knees for a man, so while you’re down there…” Isn’t he awful! Oh Lord,” she clasped a jewelled hand to mouth, “and here I am pouring out all my personal effects, and we haven’t even been properly introduced!”
“Sorry, Nanette.” I turned hastily. “Um, well, you’ve probably seen these boys around because they’re my builders.”
“I have indeed,” she purred, “but I haven’t seen this one.” She plucked admiringly at Lance’s sleeve.
“Ah, well, this is Lance, he’s quite new, and this is Mac, his father, who’s the foreman, and Spiro from Greece, and Alf, who’s sleeping it off on the grass.”
“Nanette,” she purred, “as in Newman, but I don’t have to do the washing-up!” She gave a tinkly laugh as the boys regarded her blankly. “I say, this is all so thoroughly modern of Olivia, isn’t it?” she beamed at them. “All socialising together? So egalitarian, hmm? I do think you’re lucky to have an employer like this!”
“And I think you’re lucky to have any teeth!” beamed back Mac, quick as a flash, but as she blinked, uncomprehendingly, Lance stepped in quickly.
“Er, can I open that bottle for you, Nanette?”
“Oh, thank you, young man, and bring me a glass too, if you would.”
“Of course,” said Lance, his mouth twitching as he turned.
“Now he’s nice, Olivia,” she whispered to his not quite retreating backside. “For a bit of rough, I mean. Obviously he’s not in the same league as Roger, but he’s quite nicely spoken. You could do worse, you know.”
“Jesus.” I raked my hand despairingly through my hair.
She frowned. “Sorry, have I said something?”
“No, it’s just – well, everyone seems intent on…Never mind. Sorry, Nanette. Tell me about Roger. When are you getting married?”
“Christmas,” she said happily, “just a quiet little ceremony, we thought, except that of course he is Jewish, so we might have to stamp our feet a bit and pin money on our clothes or whatever they do.”
I laughed. “Sounds fun.”
“Did you know?” she pounced. “I mean, could you tell?”
“What?”
“That he was Jewish?”
“Er, no, but then I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Oh yes, he is, frightfully.” She nodded. “You can tell by the way he parks in The Crescent, just leaves it slap bang in the middle of the road. And of course his mother’s an absolute nightmare, but then they always are, aren’t they? And her mother, who’s barely alive, is even worse and still speaks with a ridiculous Polish accent, although I swear she puts it on. But I do love their warmth and culture, don’t you? I mean, I think they’re pretty much accepted over here now, don’t you?”
I frowned. “Who, the Poles?”
“No, the Jews!”
I looked at her in astonishment. “Well, of course they are, Nanette!” I spluttered.
“No, no, just checking,” she said quickly, “only I am prepared for people to be a tiny bit – you know – funny. After all, it is a mixed marriage, and you’d be amazed how narrow-minded some people can be, still thinking they’re a load of tight-fisted, big-nosed – ”
“Um, where is Roger?�
� I interrupted, looking round nervously. Heaven forbid he should overhear his bride’s views on his chosen people. “Is he coming over?”
“Oh no, he’s had to go to some sales conference or other with a load of men in brown suits, too dull for words. You know, it always amazes me how interesting Roger is when he works with such dreary people – Thank you, young man.” She beamed this last up at Lance as he handed her a drink. She patted the grass beside her. “Now, come and sit beside me and tell me how you know Olivia.”
“I work for her. I’m a carpenter.”
“Of course you are, I keep forgetting! You simply don’t look like one, that’s all! He’s very like Malcolm, don’t you think, Olivia?”
She leant back to survey him with narrowed eyes as he dutifully sat beside her.
“He’s nothing like Malcolm!” I spluttered, and was about to expand on their striking physical differences, when I realised Nanette had introduced Malcolm simply to inform Lance – softly, so he had to lean in close to hear – exactly where I’d gone wrong with Malcolm. I sighed and sipped my drink, pretending not to care, and actually, I discovered I didn’t. Occasionally I’d catch snippets like: “…rang him, for God’s sake, came on much too strong,” or, “…doesn’t exactly look desperate, but you know, it starts to show.”
I smiled. Night was stealing up on us now. I leant back against the ancient cedar and gazed into the midnight-blue vault of the heavens. Stars were beginning to twinkle down, and I thought, with a wry smile, what an eclectic gathering we were in this warm, airless summer night: Alf, fast asleep, curled up in the foetal position, thumb practically in his mouth, his face sad, even in slumber; Mac, beside him, quietly sipping his beer, watching over his brother, half his size but with twice his brain power – who knows what horrors they’d been through together? Spiro, far from home, and far from his wife, who perhaps even now was standing at her open doorway in her village, her baby in her arms, gazing up at the same stars but in a different sky; Nanette, from Dagenham, who’d pulled herself up from her roots by her bra straps, who thought that keeping a man and her figure was a sufficient lifetime accomplishment, but who’d fallen in love with a man who every nerve and sinew of her narrow-minded, prejudiced body resisted; and beside her, Lance, blond, beautiful, and generous of spirit, who was letting her flirt and prattle on, instinctively knowing that Nanette was one of those people for whom a response is not important, just an inert body, and then, of course, there was me…
After a while, Lance stood up, stretched.
“Night, all.” He raised his hand and wandered off towards the bridge, back to the caravan. I watched him go with regret. Breaking up the party, eh, just as I was beginning to enjoy myself. Nanette seemed peeved too, and gave a little wriggle of her buttocks, a regrouping gesture.
“I’m going to take you shopping,” she hissed, still watching Lance, but leaning against me now, mouth drooping dramatically at one corner. Her eyes were glazed and I realised she’d drunk most of her bottle herself. “I came through your kitchen just now and saw your bra in the laundry basket. Nobody’s going to be driven crazy by that, Olivia. What you need is one of these.” She pulled down her top and shoved her well-upholstered bosom under my nose. “Plunge and lift, see? Not squash and separate. Get a grip, Olivia. I’ll take you to Pollyanna’s in Harpenden next week.”
She prattled on about silks and pads and gussets, but she was right, I mused, as I watched Lance disappear through the caravan door, I must get a grip. Not on my underwear, but on my life. The door closed behind him and I looked beyond, into the dark horizon. The great weight that had been gathering for weeks in my chest was still there, but tonight, for the first time, I felt as if it wasn’t sitting so tight, and that, were a strong gust to shift it westwards, clearer skies might follow. So was it in my making, I wondered, to shift it? Or would it take something more magnificent to send it scuttling away? The stars twinkled knowingly above, but I couldn’t tell.
Nanette was still talking beside me. “Roger says I should floss more,” she confided. “Says it’s terribly important.” I gazed out at the lilies on the riverbank. Tall, strong and optimistic. “He has lovely gums,” she said dreamily.
Mac offered me a cigarette and I took it. I hardly smoked at all these days, yet I’d smoked like fury when Johnny left. Fury. That’s what had gone. Or was going, anyway. I dragged the smoke down deep. It was strong, and made me feel slightly ill, but I liked the strange, groggy feeling, mixing with the scent of the tobacco plants and the warm night air. So, I wondered dreamily, was this just a transitory blurring of the senses I was experiencing? Or could it really be that, at last, my continued existence on this planet was not causing me quite so much dismay?
14
Imogen rang the following morning.
“Right, I take it you’re still on for tonight?” she said briskly.
“What’s happening tonight?”
“The concert, remember? In the Abbey?”
I put down the glass of Alka-Seltzer that had been halfway to my dehydrated lips and pulled my dressing gown around me.
“Oh. Right.” Well, yes. OK, somewhere, dimly, at the back of my fuddled mind, it rang a bell; something about rustling up a bit of crumpet for me. In fact I believed I might have even instigated it, but right at this moment I didn’t feel quite so instigatory, if that was even the word. I leant against the scullery wall and rubbed my throbbing forehead.
“Um, listen, Imo, if it’s all the same to you I had a bit of a heavy night last night,” I mumbled. “Bit of a session. I wouldn’t mind just curling up on the sofa with Joanna Trollope and a Horlicks.”
“Oh no you don’t, and it’s not all the same to me! It’s taken me ages to organise this and get seats and everything, and Rollo’s coming especially for you!”
“Rollo?” I blinked. I wasn’t sure I could take anyone with a name like that entirely seriously. “What, as in Rollo-me-over-lay-me-down-and-do-it-again?” I giggled. A mistake.
“That’s the spirit!” she enthused brightly. “Honestly, you won’t be disappointed, Liv. He’s totally gorgeous, and so excited about meeting you.”
“If he’s so gorgeous,” I said suspiciously, “why aren’t you going out with him?”
“Oh, I know him far too well,” she said airily. “Shared a house with him at Oxford. He’s like a brother to me really. Come on, Liwy. You’ve got to come. Mum and Dad are dying to see you too.”
“Oh all right,” I caved in pathetically, although why anyone should be excited about meeting a recently separated, neurotic, single mother unless she’d lied through her teeth about me, I had no idea.
“Great. Parents’ place for drinks at seven o’clock and we’ll go on from there, OK?”
“OK, OK,” I agreed wearily. I could tell Imo was in no mood for shrinking violets.
Imogen’s parents lived some distance from the city. Twenty minutes to the west, in fact, in a glorious, unspoilt part of the Hertfordshire countryside, where, on a summer’s evening, with the swallows swooping and calling to each other across the valley, and with the wind in the right direction deflecting the low hum of the M25, you could almost believe you were in Devon. Tonight was just such a night, a sultry, misty evening, and as I drove up the bumpy track to their house, a low, rambling, Elizabethan farmhouse complete with beams and gables and tiny leaded lights glinting in the evening sun like shining eyes under the brows of the eaves, I couldn’t help feeling a surge of pleasure. I’d spent a lot of time in this house as a child, had some happy times, and I was quietly confident it wouldn’t have changed one jot.
Inside it had always been shabbily chaotic; very dark so one fumbled around a bit, and I remember following Imo around in our school uniforms, feeling along walls and stumbling over books, papers, and stacked-up files, all piled up on the stairs, to get to her bedroom. Imogen’s father was the headmaster at the local boys’ school and her mother, an elegant, but slightly eccentric don at Oxford. The written word was a priority in thi
s house, but food wasn’t, and mealtimes here had always been something of an eye-opener for me and Molly. In the first place nothing was prepared, nothing cooked. One was simply invited into the rather grubby kitchen to view the freezer and choose an individual M & S meal, which Mrs Mitchell then shoved in the oven. So, for example, I might be having a chicken Kiev, beside Mr Mitchell who was tucking into salmon en croute, opposite a brother demolishing a lamb biriani, and another brother with turbot in a white wine sauce. Sometimes Mrs Mitchell decanted them from their foil containers, and sometimes she didn’t, depending on how the mood took her. Reading was pretty much mandatory, though, and Imo, her brothers and her parents would all drift to the table with whatever happened to be clasped in their hands – anything from Kierkegaard to The Hobbit – prop it up against a handy pepperpot, and munch away distractedly. I’m fairly sure this rule didn’t apply if proper guests were present, but as a school chum of Imo’s, I clearly didn’t count. My mother, of course, had been horrified when I’d told her.
“You see what comes of overeducating children? They think they’re all so flaming clever, but let’s face it, it’s no better than a telly supper!”
She had a point, but then my mother always had a point, and generally, a disparaging one. It sprang from insecurity, of course. I very much doubt if Jeffrey Archer had ever been propped up at the Mitchells’ table.
As I walked up the path to the front door tonight, Ursula Mitchell, a tall, elegant, faded blonde with a rather hawklike nose, and wearing a bright red shot silk ensemble, was outside greeting her guests and directing them round to the terrace, where I realised drinks were being served by caterers to twenty or so people. Quite a party.
“Olivia!” She took both my hands in hers and swooped for a kiss from her great height. “I’m so glad you came!”
“I’m glad too,” I smiled up at her, and I was. It was years since I’d seen these lovely people.
“Come and meet everyone,” she insisted, linking my arm in hers. “I’m bored with standing sentry at the door so I’m going to show you off. You look simply marvellous, my dear, and I must say, your Rollo seems rather divine too. I hadn’t met him properly before tonight, but I assure you, he’s quite a dish!” She winked. “So isn’t that perfect?”
Olivia’s Luck (2000) Page 21