by Matt Rudd
The editor looked inscrutable. Typical editor. Poker face at all times. But I had the feeling that I’d nailed it. I took a more successful sip of espresso, crossed my arms and then, remembering it was defensive body language, uncrossed them. Finally, he spoke.
‘I think it’s all bollocks. Twitter. Facebook. The trouble with all you hacks is that you can’t write a good old-fashioned story any more. You’re all too busy marrying imaginary girlfriends in SecondLife. Now, look, I’ve got a meeting. I’ve got your CV here. We’ll let you know.’
He must have pressed a red button hidden under his desk because the second he’d finished speaking, the PA came in, no longer all smiles and espressos. Before I could backtrack, I was following the PA out. The interview was over. I was not beginning an illustrious new career in the beautiful offices of Life & Times’ arch rival. It could have been worse. The button could have opened a trap door into a shark-infested swimming pool.
‘Oh, Janet,’ he called as I was just about gone. Maybe he’d had second thoughts. Maybe he was going to give me another shot. ‘Janet, get hold of Anastasia at L & T. Fix lunch. She sounds like she’s worth meeting after all.’
Wednesday 31 July
Two letters. One confirming I had not got the job, which is fine, absolutely fine, don’t want the stupid job, anyway. One from the village elders, delivered by the colluding postman, which is absolutely not fine. There have been reports, it suggests melodramatically, that we have changed use of land within the village perimeters. Agricultural pursuits are not permitted under clause 14.2 of the village charter. Given that they have received no response to their last letter (dated Monday 27 May, regarding indecent exposure on front drive), they can only assume this is yet another attempt to disrupt the calm progress of village life.
‘Now they’re going after Thelma and Louise,’ I shout up to Isabel.
‘What?’ she shouts down.
‘They’re trying to take away our chickens,’ I clarify.
‘What?’ she shouts down again.
‘This has gone far enough,’ I shout up, louder. ‘I’m going to stop them, once and for all.’
‘What, darling? I can’t hear you. I’m in the bathroom.’
This is pointless, I think to myself. Why am I shouting upstairs at a wife in a bathroom when I should be resolving this with action? I am sick of being a talker. It’s time I became a doer. I storm out the front door and on to the street. I should really have a baseball bat or, since I’m English, a cricket bat or a squash racquet or, yes, a croquet mallet, because not only is Bob an ex-copper but, if this turns nasty, I have no way of knowing how far Brenda advanced in the kick-boxing classes she got me thrown out of.
Too late now. I’m halfway across the village green. I can feel the curtains twitching, but I’m not going to stop.
I reach the pub and, I’ll be honest, my resolve is weakening ever so slightly. This is just an overreaction to the terrible interview, says one voice, psychoanalytically. No, it’s not, says another. You’re fighting against a corrupt and bullying parish council. There are principles at stake here. But he might hurt you, insists the first voice. Well, maybe just have a stern word with him, then, says the second.
Ignoring both voices, I knock on the pub door as unpleasantly as possible. It’s only 9 a.m. The pub won’t be open for hours. Maybe they’re not awake yet. I knock again. Still nothing. Then I hear a noise round the back.
As I put my head around the wall of the pub garden, I see two things: Bob’s whippet and Bob standing over it, clutching a full-size croquet mallet, of the sort I wished I’d brought with me.
Bob has an almost serene look on his face, although an angry sweat glistens on his brow in the morning light. His voice never changes pitch as he calmly explains to the dog that he has chewed his newspaper for the last time.
I don’t have time to shout, ‘Stop.’ I don’t have time to do anything. Before the whippet knows what hit him, Bob has swung the mallet down hard on the hapless creature. A gruesome yelp, a canine crunch and then silence.
Then Bob swings the mallet down again and only as a fine mist of whippet blood sprays across his shirt does his expression change to one of fury. ‘That’s my favourite shirt,’ he screams before striking again and again, shouting terrible profanities at the increasingly flattened dog. Deciding now might not be the best time to have it out, I retreat back across the village green. I notice my hands are shaking as I quickly close the door behind me.
AUGUST
‘My father had a profound influence on me, he was a lunatic.’
SPIKE MILLIGAN
Thursday 1 August
I phoned 999 and they said it wasn’t an emergency if the dog was already dead. So I phoned the 0845 non-emergency local number and got through to an answering machine. I didn’t leave a message because I didn’t want them to know who had witnessed the murder. I called again later and got through to a man who sounded like Bob but couldn’t have been because Bob was retired. I explained what had happened.
‘What, Bob from the pub?’
‘Yes, Bob from the pub.’
‘He doesn’t play croquet.’
‘Look, I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘Your name, sir?’
‘I no give name. I wish remain anonymous,’ I said, in a suddenly Spanish accent.
‘This isn’t some practical joke, is it, sir? Because that’s a very serious allegation.’
‘Go see for yourself.’
‘Can’t today, sir. We’re flat out. We’ll take a look first thing tomorrow.’
‘But he got rid of body by then, que?’
‘Are you a resident of the village, sir? Your voice sounds fam—’
I hung up. And ever since then, right through the night, apart from a couple of hours when I nodded off, I’ve been looking out through the curtains, across the green, waiting for the police to turn up. Isabel is in a state of shock. She thought the whippet was quite well behaved, relatively speaking. She seems to be missing the point. Bob, the husband of the evil kick-boxing midget, brutally bludgeoned his own pet to death. Think what he might do to me.
‘Are you absolutely sure he killed it?’ she asks pointlessly.
By lunchtime, just as I’m starting to get sofa sores, a police van arrives. A policeman who looks like Bob gets out, adjusts his cap, looks over to our house and strolls up to the pub. Bob answers and, from a distance, it looks like they’re having a jolly good laugh. Then Bob retreats inside and, moments later, returns, followed closely by a whippet. The policeman returns to his van, waves back to Bob and the whippet, then leaves.
After that, I sit in the garden for a long time, watching Thelma and Louise pace up and down their Eglu. I saw the mallet. I saw the whippet blood. I definitely did.
Saturday 3 August
In the furnace heat of the first August weekend, the village green is crying out to be covered by a picnic rug, but it’s too soon after the whippet slaying to venture out. I can almost hear the clink of Pimms jug on Pimms glasses in the pub garden. But I know what happened on Wednesday. I saw it. I’m sure I did. I mean, how mad do you have to be to imagine a whippet being pulverised by a croquet mallet? So I stay indoors, sweating, wishing it was winter, until Isabel says, ‘Enough,’ and we make a sudden break for the fields and woodland beyond the reach of the dog-murdering cabal.
‘Maybe it wasn’t a proper croquet mallet?’ Isabel offers after a contemplative silence.
‘Or maybe I just made the whole thing up?’ I reply furiously.
I spend the afternoon consoling myself in the placid company of Thelma and Louise. I find myself admiring the simplicity of their existence, even though they’ve now eaten so much organic feed without laying an egg that I’m beginning to doubt the economic model.
Monday 5 August
Woke early after a vivid nightmare about being forced to eat whippet-and-kidney pie at Bob’s pub. Decided the coast was clear enough for a walk with Jacob. Brenda had obviously decided the
same about a walk with the replacement whippet.
Me on one side of the green. Her on the other. And she just stopped and stared. I stared back, partly because even if her husband is a psychopath, I still refuse to be stared at without any retaliation, partly because I’m curious to know whether she can look me in the eye knowing that the whippet she’s dragging around is not the original whippet but a replica, and that she is therefore an accessory to dogslaughter.
She can. There is no trace of associated guilt. She just stares impassively until I continue on my way.
‘Can I speak to Anastasia?’
‘I’m afraid she’s at lunch. I can ask her to call you back, but—’
‘Don’t bother.’
Tuesday 6 August
I think I’m over the whippet tragedy. I wake up feeling resolved to defend our two lovely chickens from a similar fate. ‘Here is your response,’ I say to the postman, handing him a letter. ‘Give this to your leaders.’
He nods because, as enemies, we are beginning to understand each other. Then he hands me an invitation to take out a new credit card because he is still the postman.
Dear Village Cabal,
I find your persecution of my family both distasteful and small-minded, and all because of the unfortunate but entirely unmalicious incident at Avocado some months ago for which I have long since apologised. You will be delighted to know that we can’t wait to leave your village and get back to civilisation. In the meantime, please be assured that two chickens in a hutch do not constitute a farm. Thelma and Louise stay. Any further harassment shall be reported to the police and county council.
Yours faithfully,
William Walker
Wednesday 7 August
The heat is unbearable. Five weeks without a proper job is unbearable. The cracks are beginning to show, even with the miracle aloe-vera anti-wrinkle cream.
Thelma, Louise and Jacob all seem to be taking the heat particularly badly. No one in this family sleeps any more. Having assumed, initially and quite selfishly, that global warming might not be so bad for those of us who would find ourselves living in a climate suitable for the production of fine sparkling wines, I am now considering climbing a power station to protest against fossil-fuel consumption.
Had another cold bath. Watered rapidly growing seedlings with siphoned bathwater.
Thursday 8 August
This morning, while Isabel is at the shops, I have two options: I can sit through Alex & Geoff to the Rescue, which is currently the only thing that stops Jacob crying, presumably because a seven-month-old finds their stupid overexcited voices entertaining, or I can stick Jacob in front of the television on his own and continue the job hunt.
Ten minutes into Alex enthusing about a faux-marble fireplace that will never, ever suit the small cottage the To the Rescue team are in the midst of destroying, I can take no more. I prop Jacob up on some pillows and sneak off to the computer. Action is called for.
It is while considering life as a hospital caterer that I notice a little advert flashing away in the corner of the screen. I click on it, a box pops up, some soothing music starts playing, and a nice-sounding American woman starts speaking out of the computer. ‘Today I’m going to tell you how you can begin making over $100,000 CASH as soon as this year! All from the comfort of your home.’
I wasn’t born yesterday, I think. And as if she can read my thoughts, the nice-sounding American woman says, ‘I’m sure you’re probably accustomed to hearing a bunch of GIANT numbers when it comes to making money online, but the truth is, I can show you how to make anywhere from a realistic $50 to $675 a day online.’
That does seem realistic, but before I can investigate further, Jacob starts crying from the next room. Alex & Geoff has finished. The child is inconsolable.
Friday 9 August
Postcard from Andy. He’s in the Caribbean. Hadn’t even mentioned he was going. We have friendship-by-postcard now. He’s with Saskia. The weather’s beautiful…not humid like England. Oh, I’m so pleased for him. He’s even more worried about all the sex now that he’s in the Caribbean, which I think is an embarrassing thing to put on a postcard. Isabel tuts when she reads it and mutters something that sounds like ‘slag’ under her breath. I change the subject by mentioning that one can make a realistic $50 to $675 a day online.
Isabel is halfway through telling me that any website promising vast home-based earnings in return for the initial outlay of only a few dollars is clearly a scam, and I am halfway to agreeing with her, when the phone rings.
‘Hi, Alex. You want to speak to Isabel? Isabel, it’s Alex. He obviously wants to talk to you.’
Isabel takes the phone and, from the tone of her voice, I can only assume Alex has been stricken with some incurable flesh-eating superbug and has decided to utter his last words to his beloved Isabel before succumbing to a horrible lingering, flaky death. Unfortunately, it’s not that, but it’s still the best news I’ve had for weeks.
Alex & Geoff to the Rescue has been canned. It never lived up to its hilarious opening episode. I don’t know how my traitorous son will cope but I am delighted.
‘Is it okay if I’m out tomorrow evening? Alex and Geoff want us to help them drown their sorrows. We can’t both go.’
‘What, so I have to stay here and look after Jacob?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I would but I’ve got to look after Thelma and Louise. We live two hundred yards from a man who kills animals with mallets.’ I get another don’t-be-unreasonable look, which is ridiculous because why should Thelma and Louise be the ones to suffer because Alex and Geoff’s show was rubbish? I didn’t even want to name them. I wanted them to be working animals, not pets. But it’s too late now. They’re part of the family. Alex isn’t.
On the other hand, an evening failing to convince Jacob that I can be an able parent in Isabel’s absence is a small price to pay for blessedly Alex-free television.
Saturday 10 August
I don’t believe it. He’s gone to sleep. There I was, ready for an evening of hysteria, interminable loops of the block and a few desperate prayers for forgiveness from any gods willing to listen, and he’s nodded off. Scoffed a whole jar of disgusting broccoli pasta, laughed his head off while I did my rain dance, cried when I stopped, laughed when I started again, cried when I kept going, then fell asleep when I stopped. Suddenly, I have an evening. No need to spend the next four hours doing the rain dance or anything.
It is while taking another brief, noncommittal look at the how-to-make-millions-without-leaving-your-village website that I notice another ad for a poker site. Now, I am well aware that gambling is an addictive, dangerous and, in cyberspace, largely unregulated way to lose money. However, this particular virtual casino will match my £50 with one of their £50s. So I could play £50, then quit. I might not be up, but I wouldn’t be down.
Within minutes, I am playing poker with people I can only assume are bored American housewives.
By 8.30 p.m., I’m on £180. Somewhere in the Midwest, a housewife is going to have some explaining to do when her hubbie gets the credit-card bill. By half nine, I’m on £390. By the time Isabel walks in, I’m on £850.
‘What are you doing, darling?’
‘Nothing. Just checking e-mails. Good evening?’
‘Well, sort of. Geoff didn’t come. They’re having a fight about the television show. So it was the two of us, but the restaurant was nice.’
‘Is he still definitely gay?’
‘Very funny.’
Sunday 11 August
Managed to sneak in another couple of hours in the middle of the night, but it didn’t go so well. Dropped £200. Mustn’t get cocky. Must keep calm. Keep doing what I did. Found an article by a professional online gambler. He makes £20,000 a month. If I could manage a fifth of that, all our worries would be over. Not that this is anything more than a bit of a flutter. You have to be very careful with this whole internet gambling thing. It’s a mug’s game. So I shall proceed with caution and only t
ell Isabel about our new source of income when I’m a real pro.
Monday 12 August
On the plus side, I’m up £200 again. On the minus side, it took all night and I was discovered by Isabel. On the plus side, I managed to flick to e-mail and profess insomnia in the nick of time. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘everything will be all right soon enough. Try not to worry so much.’ On the minus side, I’m feeling guilty because I should have told her. The longer I don’t tell her, the longer I’m living a lie. On the plus side, she would have killed me if I’d confessed, regardless of the fact that I’m up. Much better if she continues to feel sorry for me while I amass a fortune.
Also on the other plus side, the builders are now back to our house following the demise of Alex & Geoff. On the other minus side: ‘Mid-September, mate, like we said in the first place.’
‘You said four months on April 22. That’s August 22, not September.’
‘Right, well, you know, things slip. Bit like your ceiling. Ha ha ha. No, sorry, mate. We’ll do our best, but I’d say mid-September all done, hand on heart, is a good bet. We weren’t expecting to have to replace the ground floor as well, were we?’
Tuesday 13 August
An egg. Louise, or possibly Thelma, has laid her first egg. Am quite emotional. More emotional than you’d expect with an egg. Must be lack of sleep due to new nocturnal career as a professional gambler (£926, thank you very much). The egg unites the family. Isabel is delighted. Jacob is nonchalant.
‘Can we eat it?’ I ask Isabel.
‘Don’t see why not.’