by Caron Allan
Thursday 26 June—9.30am
Felt decidedly gippy this morning. Surely it shouldn’t be like this so soon?
Couldn’t face any of Lill’s breakfast suggestions this morning, so sat hunched up in the garden-room with a cup of herbal tea and wrapped in one of Thomas’s old jumpers, glaring at the birds. Darcy and Bingley snuggled up with me. I must admit the warmth from them and the sound of their little snuffly snores was very soothing. Once I’d sat there for about an hour I was ready to tackle some toast with the merest hint of butter and just the vaguest suggestion of marmalade—have had no coffee at all for five days (still headachey to prove it) I would never have thought I could give up my morning caffeine for anyone and now it’s happened almost without me realising. I think I may have been a saint in a former life. Since learning of my impending motherhood, I have felt very holy, somehow, as if I am on a righteous path, carrying out my sacred little part in the universe’s great plan, and...oh bugger, I have spilt marmalade down my top. Arse! Now I’ve got to run upstairs and change it.
I left the kittens snoozing on Thomas’s jumper and went for a potter in the garden. Sid and Matt are making a formal herb garden—all box and germander hedges and cartwheel-shaped plantings—it’s going to look wonderful when it’s finished, though am beginning to suspect it’s more for Lill’s benefit than mine. Plus it’s in place of the old kitchen garden, so the best view of it will be from the kitchen, from what the estate agent’s details described as the ‘breakfast nook’ but that we call the garden room. Nevertheless it will be amazing when it’s all finished.
There are now a couple of large clumps of catnip that have appeared at some point. Not that I mind—the tiny purple flowers are smothered with bees and Tetley was lying underneath one rich clump, zonked out and dreamy. I wonder if the stuff is any good for humans?
They are also making start on a pond, with a couple of little waterfalls leading down to it. This was my idea. For once I was permitted to have some input into the design of my own garden. There is already a pond right down at the bottom of the garden, it’s a nice feature for when you’re out and about or having a cocktail in the summerhouse, but I really wanted a water feature at the top, something that would be visible from the house. I mean, one only needs so much lawn, and if there is one thing this place is not short of, it’s grass. I only hope my baby won’t fall in the pond—am beginning to be paranoid about safety. There are hazards absolutely everywhere one looks. It’s a miracle any children survive their early years.
Later same day: 6.30pm
Decided to abandon the ‘boys’ to their work and wander into the village. I checked in with Lill before I left to see if there was anything she needed. There wasn’t. After all she has both ‘boys’ and all three cats. What else could she possibly need? Our Lill is the most contented woman I know.
Today was the first day I’ve ever been into the village properly and on my own. Once or twice we’ve been on the way to somewhere or on our way back from somewhere and we’ve stopped the car in the village so that Lill can nip into the only shop for some trifling item or another, but that’s been it so far for me.
There wasn’t really anything I needed but I could hardly just stand there in the middle of the one village shop without making a purchase of some kind, so I nabbed a pot of locally-produced honey, and some local eggs, and a cabbage. One has a duty to support local businesses. As I always say, shop locally, use it or lose it.
Anyway, rather surly old chap behind the counter so no opp. to chat and glean any insider knowledge of the village. V. disappointing. But at least have done my bit for local industry.
Next stop, the church.
St-John-the-Something is a very pretty little Norman church, so obviously hundreds of years old, set in sunny grounds like a country meadow, and all lichen-covered slanting gravestones. The churchyard itself was flowery and villagey and the birds were singing, and butterflies just flopped about drunkenly, it was lovely. The perfect country churchyard. The perfect spot to relax for a while. I sat on a bench and just soaked it all up, then suddenly at my side, Henrietta materialised.
She asked if I minded, and of course I didn’t, so I scooched up a bit to make room for the poor old dear.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it? The peace and quiet of the country.” I said, feeling very chatty and at one with the world.
“Not for much longer,” she said grimly, “Mavis is about to start her organ practice. It’ll be a bloody awful racket.”
Such language from a nice little old lady! I tried to hide my dismay. “Oh well, I was thinking of going home anyway. Goodness, is that the time?”
She was looking at me like a small bright bird. “Or,” she said, “we could go to the pub. I always go there when I’m waiting for her to finish.”
I must admit I was a bit taken aback. Do little old ladies frequent pubs? Sid and Matt have popped in there a couple of times, but it would be another first for me.
So…
“We could,” I agreed, “but have we got time?”
“Plenty. She’s going to tackle the Miserere first, that’s forty-two minutes long, then the Nunc Dimittis, that’s twenty-seven minutes, then the Nocturnal Watch, that’s thirty-six minutes and fourteen seconds.”
Even as she spoke there came from the open side door of the church the strident first flourishes of someone warming up a mangle with stereo speakers. We got to our feet.
“This way,” said Henrietta, “it’s a short-cut.” And she scurried away, leaving me to gallop after her in a not very athletic or ladylike fashion.
Five minutes later we were settled in a cosy corner of the saloon bar of the Tripe and Clackett, Henrietta with her rum and orange juice, me with a mug of hot chocolate.
“Do you do this often?” I asked her.
She nodded, paused to down half her rum then said, “Twice a week, or whenever Mavis is practising. Usually Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
Well, well!
We talked. Firstly just about the weather, then a bit about how the village had changed over the years. Then she leaned forward and said to me in a really loud whisper, “You probably don’t realise this but Mavis and I are a couple.”
I gaped at her. Surely not? Didn’t lesbians evolve as fallout from the 1960s hippie movement? Then I did the maths and realised the numbers made sense. They were free-lovin’ flower-power gals.
“We live next door to each other for appearances’ sake. Oh I know times have changed and it’s all quite acceptable these days. But not here. Not in our village. Not when you’re surrounded by people who have known you forever.”
I still couldn’t think of anything to say, so to cover my surprise I coughed down a whacking gulp of my hot chocolate. But Henrietta continued.
“We’ve been together since 1957. That was the year she left her hubby. Oh yes, Mavis was married—still is, technically—when I first met her. But he was a rotten lot. Drinking. Bullying. Always abusing her in some way. She was a nervous wreck. A pale ghost of the girl she is now. I persuaded her to leave him, and I thought—we both thought—that we were shot of him. But no. After hearing nothing from him for years, now it seems he’s keen to divorce her so he can marry some fifty-year-old bimbo he’s met at a wine-bar. And he’s making our lives a misery.”
There was so much to struggle with here that I soon gave up the attempt. By my calculation both women had to be at least eighty yet neither of them looked a day over 65. Apparently the secret of eternal youth is being a lady in comfortable shoes. Makes sense when you think about it. I suppose no woman would be surprised to discover it’s being involved with men that makes you age.
My preconceptions were shattered. I mean, surely lesbians are 30-year-old games mistresses with horsey faces and premature moustaches? Not angelic-faced 80-year-olds who played the church organ? I mean—I’m as open-minded as anyone—but—well, I ask you!
“Thing is,” said Henrietta, and her voice trembled with emotion, “as I said, he wants to
marry this tart he’s met, and so he’s putting pressure on Mavis for money.”
“Why does he want money from Mavis? Doesn’t she have any savings?”
“She’s got nothing put away, just what’s in her bank account. She’s stony-broke. In fact she can hardly make ends meet.”
“At least she’s got the cottage,” I suggested helpfully. “She’s got a roof over her head, so that probably gives her a sense of security. Or I suppose if she was desperate, she could always sell the house and then she’d have the cash, to save or whatever.”
“The house is rented. Same as mine. Bad investments, lost all our money, measly pensions.” Henrietta said, swilling down the last of her drink. She snapped her fingers at the barman who immediately got to work. Soon a second hot chocolate with little pink and white marshmallows and whirls of aerosol cream was being placed in front of me, and another rum-and-something in front of my compadre. If this went on for the duration of my pregnancy, I would soon be welcomed into the wonderful world of Type-2 Diabetes and Henrietta would need a liver transplant.
“We’ve lived in this village for almost sixty years,” Henrietta told me, and anger was clearly vying with heartbreak within her surprisingly pert bosom. “If Mavis can’t afford her rent because he’s making her pay back the money she owes him, what will we do? I can’t go on without her. She’s my whole world.”
I had a sinking feeling.
It turns out that when Mavis left this chap, whatever-his-name-is, she relieved him of some of his mother’s jewellery as start-up capital for her new life. And for sixty years she’s lived on that and on her state pension, and the little money she earns as a lollipop lady mornings and afternoons at the village infant school. In her spare time, she volunteers to play the organ at St-John-the-wotsit. And Henrietta similarly survives by the skin of her teeth on her state pension and a small private work pension.
Henrietta talked on and on about how difficult things were and how she doesn’t know what they’re going to do, and how Mavis is making herself sick with worry about the whole situation, and is terrified he might decide to take her to court. Clearly it was a relief for Henrietta to get it all off her chest.
But for me it meant just one thing. I felt a compulsion to help, I had to do something to help my new friends. I couldn’t just let two helpless little old lesbians suffer and worry like this.
I think my little to-do list is about to grow again.
By the time we got back to the church, Henrietta a bit wobbly on her legs with me supporting her as best I could, the organist was just emerging from the side door looking flushed, happy and as if she had blown away the cobwebs with heavy-duty sacred music. She was a bit surprised to see me, I think, but she was definitely pleased to see Henrietta. A little glint in her eye told me she knew exactly what had been going on. Henrietta is kidding herself if she believes Mavis still thinks she sits and waits in the churchyard.
They wandered off arm in arm through the gravestones, and I went home for a nap and a think.
Friday 27 June—7pm
Had a doctor’s appointment today—hoorah! Today was the first time I listened to the baby’s heartbeat—so unbelievably and astonishingly amazing! It sounded like a slightly rusty little squeaky spring inside a hot water bottle. My—I mean our—baby. Only one—thank God! Such a relief—I couldn’t have coped with twins. So we worked out that I’m about 7 to 8 weeks pregnant now and she said my sore tummy and light morning sickness were normal. I’ve got to take iron tablets and folic acid to make sure the baby and I keep healthy and tickety-boo. Got a date for my ultrasound scan in four weeks—that’s very exciting too. Dr Sophie asked if ‘Baby’s Daddy’ would be attending the scan—I said I thought he probably would. I think Matt would be interested in doing that, don’t you? I hope so. I don’t want to turn up there on my own like a total loser.
And when I got home I had a nice cup of tea and a pile of cherry buns with Lill and told her everything Dr Sophie had said. I swear Lill is almost as excited about this baby as she was about Tetley’s kittens! I bet she’ll make me up a nice cosy box in a corner of the kitchen to have my kitten baby. And she said Matt will definitely be at the scan, “He wouldn’t miss it,” she said. Though she spoiled that somewhat by adding, “not if he knows what’s good for him.” Hmm. Will just have to wait and see.
But all this baby talk makes me think about my priorities.
Obviously now I have quite a few horrible people to dispose of. But, because no one likes to see a heavily-pregnant woman sneaking about with poison or blunt objects, clearly I will have to get cracking on a decent plan to dispatch these losers before I resemble a nicely-dressed walrus. Also no one, including the mother-to-be, likes to see a heavily-pregnant woman in the dock for murder, so I will have to rack my brains on this and not do anything precipitate.
But it’s so hard to decide what order to do them in—I mean, obviously I need to get Matt’s son Patrick’s evil bitch of a mother out of the way as a top priority—but then, there’s Desmond-the-child-molester and poor Whisper to avenge slash liberate, so he’s also got to go, toot sweet. But then there’s my new pal Henrietta and her gal Mavis. Now they’re already bloody ancient so technically could peg-out at any moment, they don’t really have time to waste waiting for me to stop farting about and get on with things. Obviously one would like them to be happy in their twilight months or possibly weeks, so they really need to be shifted up the list of priorities a bit.
OMG. The weight of responsibility is doing my head in, as Sid would say. Will sleep on it and trust that a relaxing evening in front of the telly along with a few more cherry buns and some nice herbal tea will work its magic and that I’ll wake in the morning with a bright, sparkly solution at the tips of my freshly manicured pinkies.
*
I hope you enjoyed reading that short extract from book 2 of the Posh Hits trilogy. If you did, I hope you will download a copy or treat yourself to the paperback version!
Happy Reading!