by Moira Murphy
“Well as I have a scholarship in bookkeeping and commerce, it’s something I don’t mind doing at all really.”
“Of course you have. Silly me. George has to have mentioned that somewhere along the line. Well, I really must speak to George, if only he would get someone in to do the accounts, that would mean I could stay well clear of this place and good riddance, I say.”
Well wouldn’t you just know it. Fran knew of a student from Croatia who was in her final year at university studying for a degree in accountancy: Bernica Sarola. Fran said Bernica would be delighted to do George’s books as the money would help stretch her student grant and of course, it would also provide me with me time and, more time to spend with the children.
Me time and children time. Oh well every silver lining has a cloud. Still, as I was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, even one in the shape of Fran, who of course had her own agenda for keeping me out of the way, I considered the advantages of this idea in about three seconds flat. I really begrudged the one day of the week I spent in the yard doing the books and to be free of it would mean I could do something for myself.
For a split second I could have kissed Fran. Well perhaps not. But I thanked her and although I have to admit the front I was putting on was nothing short of multi-faceted, it was an almost-ran in the face of the blatant duplicity which Fran exhibited when she touched my arm benignly and said, “Sisterhood, Joanne, sisterhood.”
And I just knew Fran meant that most sincerely: from the heart of her bottom.
4
SWINGERS AND THE PTA
“Mam!” Lucy pinged her seatbelt open. “Stop the car! There’s Chloe. I’ve got some mega news about Zara and Scott. I’ll get the bus home.”
“Sorry Lucy, but you heard what Dr Watson said, I’ll need to go to the vet’s when we get home, and either you come with me, or else I will need to know you’re in the house.”
She bounced her legs, “Pleeese, Mam, ten minutes, that’s all. Five then.”
I looked at my watch, “Okay, you can have ten minutes.”
I pulled over. The car was hardly parked when Lucy all but fell out of it. She ran to Chloe and they immediately started gossiping and giggling. They nudged each other and looked at a passing paperboy who blushed.
Then Josh said, “Mam, you know that bloke in the doctor’s, him who was playing for the away team. Whatsisname. Trevor?”
“That’s not nice, Josh!”
“Well anyway, you know him, Mam? I think he could be one of the teachers at my school.”
“That’s not funny Josh.”
“It’s not meant to be,” he said, as he replaced his earplugs, slouched further down in the seat and shut his eyes.
I studied Josh for a few seconds not really sure what I was looking for. Was being part of a dysfunctional family beginning to tell? But he looked like he always did so I opened the glove compartment to look for some mints and a change of CD.
Josh was nodding in Eminem mode in the back seat. I weighed up the possibilities: James Blunt, Oasis or Coldplay? I fingered James Blunt (figuratively speaking) but Josh, suddenly springing to life, begged me not to play James Blunt. He said he’d had all the hell he could take for one day, what with missing his rugby practice and having fleas; so I settled on Coldplay.
“I heard a great poem the other day, Mam, d’ya want to hear it?”
“Hmmm,” I said, suspecting it wasn’t going to be one of Emily Bronte’s, “go on then.”
“Cousin Billy had a five foot willie and he showed it to the woman next door. She thought it was a snake so she hit it with a rake and now it’s only two foot four.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Josh.”
He replaced his headphones, laughing. I let him have his moment. I didn’t tell him that had done the rounds when I was at school.
A paperback I’d stuffed in with the CDs fell out. It was something my mother had bought from Oxfam; a Barbara Cartland. I scanned the pages. Nothing wrong with a bit of romance I thought, while also thinking that in reality, what was romance but the product of an over indulgent imagination?
While pondering the concept of romance, I looked from the pages of the book to a woman crossing the road with exactly the same prodding way of walking as had Fran in her three inch stilettos. Fran of Green Fables I remembered calling her, the wit of which totally eluded George, who sulked because he said I was making fun of Fran, which of course I was. George said Fran was a clever woman who didn’t deserve to be made fun of. Really! In order to win George over, she could quite easily have dispensed with the Fantastic Fran scenarios and the providing of ‘me’ time for keeping me out of the way. All she needed to have done when she’d first clapped eyes on him, was to tell him she was an out and out ‘swinger’ and she could have saved herself all that bother.
He had met his soul mate. They were kindred spirits, birds of a feather. He Tarzan. She Jane. Swinging on a vine of perversion through a jungle of debauchery, while I was dumped on the forest floor like something excreted from a primate’s bottom. Of course I had suspected it long before he had sheepishly suggested the three of us – as in me, him and Fran – might go to one of the clubs Fran enjoyed. George said according to Fran, everyone was welcomed – singles, couples, threesomes, foursomes – it didn’t matter, as everyone joined in. Sometimes there may be twenty or more people engaged in the various activities. One big happy family really. He was obviously having trouble forming the word orgy. A bit of an enigma was George. Although a closet sexual deviant, once out of the bedroom or presumably the swingers, dubious establishments, he became very straight-laced, no smutty jokes, innuendo or articulation of the word orgy for Georgie.
So, could he tell Fran we were up for it? Up for it! Of course I wasn’t up for it! After years of marriage had it really never occurred to George that I wanted romance. I wanted scented rose petals scattered over a bed of white linen. I wanted to be caressed by soft, sensuous music. I wanted to look up at a ceiling draped in shadows of dancing lace, bestowed by an opalescent moon twinkling its way through flimsy lace curtains. I wanted the sensibility of ecstasy that had made Marianne Dashwood lose her senses when carried through the storm by Willoughby. I wanted to languish in a leafy glade, dressed in my best sprigged muslin and peer coyly from beneath my parasol into the eyes of Mr Darcy in thigh high boots and a frockcoat, and, if he came in the guise of Colin Firth, then so much the better. I wanted to be persuaded, as had Anne Elliott to sail into the sunset with Captain Wentworth.
Was that too much to ask? Had it really not dawned on George that I hated being hauled into position with one hand while he held onto his pocket Karma Sutra with the other. Or, tied to the bedpost with stupid fur handcuffs which were miles too big and which I could have gotten out of quite easily but went along with because it was usually the first time I’d been off my feet all day?
George had been my first boyfriend who, in retrospect, seemed to have walked me from the school disco, been invited for Sunday tea and stayed for twenty years. And although our courtship could never be construed as love’s young dream, he would be, according to my mother, a good provider. So a good provider was what I had settled for. And because I had settled for that and although my pride had taken a bit of a bashing when he had up sticks and left, my world hadn’t exactly come to an end. In fact I kind of mentally wished him luck. Of course I would never have admitted that to George, opting instead to play the injured party and providing him with a first class ticket when he was on one of his guilt trips, which Fran ripped to shreds before he could wonder where his passport was.
Yes, romance was certainly in short supply in my neck of the woods and, come to think of it, things didn’t seem any better for other people if last quarters PTA meeting was anything to go by.
Going to the pub after last quarter’s PTA meeting wasn’t something I would normally do; it w
asn’t really my scene, and for the first half hour or so I remembered why. Okay, Cillit Bang is fine for cleaning grease off a hob and yes it’s irritating when partners leave towels on the bathroom floor, or who put empty milk bottles back in the fridge, or who put trousers in the wash with tissue in the pockets so that the whole wash needs de-fluffing; but the semi’s of Britain’s Got Talent was on…
I was planning my exit but then, as glasses emptied then refilled and amid giggles and flushed faces, Margery, who works on school dinners, said she was mortified when she had found some lad’s mags that her Jim had stashed behind the tank. ‘Readers’ Wives’ some of them were called, she said, and she shuddered as she wondered what sort of perverts could possibly take disgusting photos of their wives and send them into a dirty magazine. It seemed to me it was probably the same sort of perverts who bought the dirty magazines and stashed them behind the tank. Margery shuddered again and said these people were walking among us in the streets, sitting next to us on the bus, eating at the next table in McDonald’s!
Then mousey little Sally Stevens, who works in Mahmood’s corner shop, giggled, looked around furtively then whispered that what got her husband Pete going, were suspenders, a peep-thru bra, high heels, long gloves and a whip. I really struggled with that image as I’d only ever seen Sally in a zipped up fleece, fingerless gloves and a fur-trimmed Trapper hat (Mahmood’s corner shop was like a fridge), and before the wine had taken effect Sally had been over the moon with bi-carb and vinegar for de-scaling kettles. Perhaps the wine was having an effect on me. I found myself quite fancying the idea of high heels and suspenders and using a whip on George certainly had its appeal, yet, although I was no stranger to perversity having being married to George for years, it had nevertheless felt curiously odd when Sally said the only place Pete could find his size of fish-net stockings and suspenders was at John Lewis!
I decided I wasn’t really in such a hurry to leave after all when Linda Holmes, the school secretary, said she never ceased to be amazed how she had conceived of her twins as her Derek had worked nights all their married life and was always shattered. She said he had once slumped on top of her while right in the middle of you-know-what, and she’d thought he was dead until he started snoring like a train.
Belinda Evans, dazzlingly amoral in her shocking pink lurex boob-tube, leather pants and orange spray tan, whose daughter Symphony was suspended from school for refusing to wear school uniform (a case which Belinda intended to take to the European Court of Human Rights), said she never ceased to be amazed by the promises she was able to extract from her Dave in moments of post-coital euphoria. So bring it on! she said.
And there was me thinking post-coital euphoria meant getting it over and done with.
I stuffed the Barbara Cartland and the notion of romance back into the glove compartment then I tooted for Lucy. I pointed to my watch in a time’s-up gesture. She produced some pleading facial contortions before putting up two fingers which I optimistically took as a mime pleading for two minutes more. I got out of the car and insisted she said goodbye to Chloe and Emma. Her original ten minutes had turned into twenty and I needed to get home to ring the vet.
She pleaded to be allowed more time; said she could easily walk home. I refused.
“That’s like, so-not-fair!” she huffed as she flopped into the car.
5
PLEAS AND FLEAS
At home Lucy stomped upstairs to sulk while Josh went into the garage to practice his snooker. I looked for the Yellow Pages and wondered why in God’s name I found it impossible to remember a number I rang practically every other week.
The dog scratched manically while at the same time furiously wagging her tail. It was obvious she was expecting the usual pat on the head by way of a greeting but I thought of the fleas and held my hand just above her head and did a sort of flapping gesture, like a pat but without actual contact.
The Yellow Pages was in the hall under Josh’s trainers, keeping the mud off the floor. I wiped it down, found the number and waited while it rang out. I bounced my legs in a sort of Lucy-type plea, hoping anyone other than Mavis Moffatt would answer.
“Apollo Veterinary Centre. Mavis Moffatt speaking. How can I help you today?”
Damn. “Oh, hello, it’s Joanne Charlton, here,” previous to this I had suggested that Mavis Moffat might like to call me Joanne or Jo, it sounded much more friendly but she insisted on calling me Mrs Charlton, so I called her Ms Moffatt.
“Yes, Mrs Charlton and what can we tell Mr Robinson Millie has been up to this time?”
This time! Snooty cow. I’ll have you know it is we, the owners of idiot dogs like Millie, who pay your wages, madam.
“Well, I’ve just come from the doctor’s and it seems Millie may have fleas.”
“You took Millie to the doctor’s, Mrs Charlton!?”
“No of course not, Ms Moffatt. We went to the doctor’s, my children and myself, and it seems Millie may have fleas. Anyway, can I bring her in to see Mr Robinson?”
“Oh now that’s not such a good idea, is it? We can’t have our other patients catching Millie’s fleas, can we? Are you sure it’s fleas, did you read up on it?”
I’d read Bridget Jones’s Diary, for the second time and a Gracia magazine from cover to cover, both zilch in the flea department.
“You’ve lost me there, Ms Moffatt.”
“Yes of course I have,” she patronised. “Well, Mrs Charlton, do you remember the ‘puppy pack’ duffle bag you were given when you first registered Millie with us? Because, in that bag, as well as free samples of food and treats, a puppy feeding bowl, a rag-pull and a CD of noises, was a pamphlet of information on the pests and diseases puppy may be susceptible to.”
“CD Noises?”
“Yes a CD of the noises puppy needs to get used to, washing machine, vacuum cleaner, ticking clock etc. Obviously poor Millie has had to learn the hard way.”
Hell’s bloody bells, whatever next! And anyway who has a ticking clock these days? I vaguely remembered Josh delving into the bag and pulling out the interesting bits; the free food, the dog-pull etc, the rest must have been binned.
“Have you any idea of Millie’s weight, Mrs Charlton?
“No, sorry.”
“No, of course not. Okay, I’m looking at her records on screen now, so let me see. When she was first registered with us she was 5kg.Then, three weeks later, when you noticed the string coming out of her bottom which turned out to be the mast and rigging from a Lego ship, she was 8.5kg.Three weeks after that when you noticed a pirate brandishing a musket also trying to make an unsuccessful exit, she was 10.5kg.Then there was the pipe-cleaner angel from the Christmas tree which needed to be removed and then the lollipop stick wedged in the roof of her mouth then, when she had the cassette tape wound round her tonsils and needed an overnight stay, she was up to 18.5kg.We can assume she hasn’t gained that much in a few weeks, so the treatment I can give you will be fine. You will also need a spray to use in every room in the house, the directions are on the container. Has Millie been in contact with any other animals?”
I mentioned Bobby the cat from next door which Millie seems to have an odd relationship with. He jumps the fence every morning around seven, just as Millie is let out to pee. He allows her to pull him by the collar, zig-zagging around the lawn, then after about five minutes, he turns onto his belly, digs his claws into the ground forcing Millie to free him, then he scales the fence, back into his own garden.
“Well,” said Ms Moffatt, “that could be where Millie has caught the fleas. Cats are notorious flea carriers as they play around with mice and birds. It might be as well for you to have a chat with the owner of the cat, it probably needs to be treated as well. That will be £40 to pay. I leave at 3pm today so if I’m not here when you come in, someone will explain the procedure, it’s really very simple, nothing for you to worry about
. Is that all today, Mrs Charlton?”
“Yes, Ms Moffatt, thank you. Hopefully the procedure will be explained in words of one syllable. Bye for now.”
I made a mental note to get there after 3pm.
At 3.30pm I collected the flea treatments from Trudy which now also included a spray for the cat. The bill had jumped to £55. There was definitely some satisfaction in knowing how much George will sooo regret lumbering me with this dog when he gets these bills. Trudy also had a recommendation from Mr Robinson which was that I should be cleaning and flossing Millie’s teeth morning and night at least twice a week.
Mr Robinson is obviously a mad-man.
£55! On the way home I vaguely wondered if it would be possible to get onto a veterinary access course with an A level in art.
Janice’s front door was slightly open and I called into the hall. She called back from the kitchen in her one octave drawl, “Hi, Jo, you comin’ in?”
“Better not, Jan. I’ve left the kids in the house and you know what they’re like. I came in half an hour ago and the place was in chaos. The dog was charging around trying to kill a bluebottle and the kids were doing the same trying to kill each other.”
She flip-flopped along the hall wearing a ‘too shagged to shag’ tee shirt and cropped leggings, and drying her hands on a towel which looked as though it might have been used to clean Kev’s bike.
“Tell me abow it. My two were exactly the same at tha’ age, but I’ll tell you this, it’s downhill all the way.”
I groaned. “Bloody hell! Anyway, the thing is, Jan, we’ve just been to the doctor’s and… oh, by the way, you were right about Dr Watson, he is positively dripping sex appeal. He could make my reflexes jump anytime.”
“Tell me abow it. Just thinking about him makes my varicose veins throb,” she said.
We laughed. Well I did and Jan did her silent shoulder shaking.