No reply.
He heard the door of his room open, and he feigned sleep like a child on Christmas Eve catching his parents hanging his toy bulging stocking at the end of the bed. Best that they don’t know that he knows that they know. He felt rather than heard Sylvia bend over him, and check his breathing from a rapid pant to deep slow breaths. The only thing that he could genuinely feel pleased about was at least it was Saturday and there was no fearful racket from downstairs, where the builders were turning his once peaceful home into a circle of hell.
Sylvia left her husband sleeping and descended the rubble-filled stairs looking for Maria. She was about to gently chide her about being late with her morning fruit juice and prairie oyster, but Maria was nowhere to be found. The ringing of the doorbell and the absence of Maria made Sylvia move slowly towards the front door, feeling aggrieved.
A blonde woman, looking faintly dishevelled stood in front of her. Disappointment filled her face.
“Oh.”
Oh indeed, Sylvia thought. But managed to say as pleasantly as she could, “Yes, can I help you?”
Shyness and then determination filled the other woman’s face and she began to stutter an explanation.
“Umm, I’m looking for Flora, Flora Tate? I believe she lives here? I’ve knocked on so many doors and rang so many bells, I knew it was this road but…. Oh sorry, I mean, I’m Victoria, I don’t know if she said anything about me, but I’m, well, I want to see her, no, I need to see her, the thing is you see, that she bought me some shoes, I mean she doesn’t know me or anything but -“
“You’d better come in.” Sylvia said as kindly as she could muster, standing aside to let the stranger enter her house, wondering, not for the first time, what Flora actually did. Buying footwear for complete strangers seemed an unlikely occupation for Flora, but then, you never really knew. No-one ever really knew anyone, Sylvia thought as she stepped delicately over a roll of cable left by the builders.
Victoria followed Sylvia to the kitchen, managing to trip only twice over gaping floorboards, snagging the heel of her chocolate brown suede shoes rather badly. She winced and stroked the scuff mark tenderly.
A quick glance around the decimated ground floor of the house left her reeling – what an awful mess. Draughty, cold and unwelcoming with unsafe-looking props holding up walls and ceilings. It wasn’t how she’d imagined Flora living. Not at all. Flora deserved something better than this. And Victoria knew the very place for her.
Sylvia switched the kettle on and the two women settled down over the age old paraphernalia that entails the brewing of a nice cup of tea.
Bella was sitting in a warm bath with a more than healthy dose of a cloudy antiseptic in it. The tattoo was looking puffy and scabby. Perhaps Flora could look at it when she got here. Bella hoped that it wasn’t going to turn septic.
Marmaduke padded down stairs and took up residence by the front door. Like all animals looking for a familiar he was aware when his mistress was nearing the premises, and he could tell that I was sitting in the back of a taxi, just about to turn into the road.
I had with me a swathe of brochures that I’d picked up from a travel agent. The cloudless blue skies and limpid pools that floated out of every page were an impossible mirage, one not contaminated in any way by the boorish guests, biting flies, badly -cooked fish and starving cats that seem to proliferate in such idylls. I was convinced that the time was right for such a trip for at least two members of the Amble family. But which two? That was the question. Some time away from the builders mess into some winter sunshine was undoubtedly what was needed. None of them, for various personal reasons, would want to go, but that could be easily overcome. Really, if I wasn’t so happy in my chosen path I could easily be a saleswoman selling ice to the proverbial Eskimos. Or Inuit’s as we are all now meant to call those charming seal-eating people, with their fifty-seven different words for white. I greeted Marmaduke and, calling out that I was home, let myself into the kitchen which was the only possible place to be in that wretched home at the moment.
I didn’t immediately recognise the woman sitting with Sylvia at first, and when I did, an unpleasant jolt went through me.
ROAK’s were not meant to turn up like the proverbial bad penny. I greeted Sylvia and smiled pleasantly at her, plonked the brochures on the table, and sat down. In my experience it’s best to let people get things off their chest, so I was prepared to give Victoria five minutes of gushing thanks for the footwear, before I enquired after Archie, or let the idea of a far flung holiday drift inexorably over Sylvia with the unstoppable force of a grand piano being pushed from a ten story building.
So I began, as expected, and graciously allowed Victoria a full minute of effusive thanks and held up my hands in a charming self deprecating manner to signal her to stop.
But no.
The creature was relentless.
“ – and so the simply marvellous thing is that Sylvia has explained who you are and what you do here and says that you are nearly finished really, so do you see, it seems as if it was meant, doesn’t it?”
I leant back in my chair and closed my eyes briefly through sheer tiredness. After all, I’m not superwoman and do have needs of my own, one of which includes a decent breakfast which the hotel had not been very helpful with. I would have thought that kippers were not too much to ask for in a five star establishment of the British Isles, but it had seemed not. Something to do with an unpleasant odour in the restaurant. Ridiculous. If Victoria thought for one moment that I was going home with her she was sadly mistaken. Simply not enough money or space or scope. I opened my eyes and glanced sharply at Sylvia. To my surprise Sylvia looked quite pleased about it. This wouldn’t do at all. A surge of annoyance swept through me. Had everyone taken leave of their senses? I had nowhere near finished here, and Sylvia was trying to, well, the sickening phrase, palm me off, occurred to me. Surely not? No. Of course not. Impossible. I must be mistaken. I re-assured myself that I had done everything I could for the Ambles and that I was appreciated.
I jumped to my feet, imperiously drawing myself to my full height - a very regal five foot two and a half, (and mark my words well here - a half inch is always very important) - and swooped down on Victoria, practically dragging her from her seat.
“My dear woman, you simply must get along, I have so much to do here and so little time, no, no time to finish your tea I’m afraid, is this your coat? yes I rather thought it must be, so nice to see you and thank you so much for taking the time to stop by-“ I had her in the hallway now and was on the home run. “Do take care of yourself won’t you. Good bye.” I pushed her out the front door and closed it firmly behind me. I opened it again briefly and called out “And do put a touch of polish on that nasty scuff mark on your heel, won’t you?” I banged the door shut again and felt a wave of relief swoop over me. Done and dusted. Back to the kitchen I trotted. I simply dread to think of the number of miles I must cover every day on other people’s errands. Why I should have to show the woman out was beyond me, but, there you are, the standards these days have slipped so much it’s a miracle that we get any sort of service whatsoever.
I tried to gauge Sylvia’s mood as I entered the kitchen, but the woman was annoyingly hard to read this morning. Still, she politely started to chatter to me, omitting any reference to Victoria, I was pleased to note,
“So Flora, how did it go last night? I think Archie must have got home before you –“
At least he got home, I thought complacently, banishing the dark thought that I’d had in the night about Archie ending up at a party on the outskirts of Manchester and not arriving back for three days.
“- and Maria’s nowhere to be found so I’ve had to make tea myself! Would you like some?”
I sat at the table and let Sylvia know all about last night. Well, nearly all. I omitted the speech enhancer and concentrated on the gory details of Lady Pat’s dress, which I knew would amuse her.
“And so,” I recounte
d, “Archie’s speech may have upset Sir George just a little, but I think it’s all for the best really. You know Sylvia, I don’t think Archie’s really happy in his work, do you? Now might be a good time for a change. What do you think?”
She looked quite horrified at the idea. I quickly passed her the bundle of brochures and we poured over the merits of the Caribbean versus Asia, pool versus beach, island-hopping versus cruising. Sylvia dutifully bowed her head and concentrated on the travel speak that dotted the pages of print in her hands.
“Oh, Flora – what do you think about Phuket?”
“I don’t think it’s quite pronounced like that Sylvia, but it has merits nevertheless,” I said smiling at her.
Sylvia laughed, then abruptly pushed the brochures away from her.
“Quite impossible, I’m afraid.” She said with real regret in her voice.
“But why?” I practically blurted out, forgetting for a moment that I held control.
“Archie and I both have the most awful sun allergies. It’s why we honeymooned in the Lake District –“
So that’s why she’d worn so much underwear underneath the dress – to keep out the invidious creeping damp chill of the northern climes.
“Oh, but you mustn’t let a little thing like that stop you,” I cried, “No, no, one must push on and rise above it, besides anti-histamines are very effective in most cases, or hypnosis or –“
“Oh no, we’ve tried everything. Besides, we dislike the hot weather very much indeed.” Sylvia said with a horrid finality.
I mentally pulled my hair and gnashed my choppers. If only the damn notes hadn’t gone flying from the window, I would have known all of this. District nurses old men’s toenails and bishops. And gristle.
The telephone ringing interrupted my thoughts and Sylvia looked around crossly for Maria to answer it. As Maria didn’t instantly pop out of her room, the phone continued to shrill its double tone noise into the room. It didn’t occur to me to answer it as I believe picking up another’s phone to be very rude indeed, and it certainly didn’t occur to Sylvia, who sat mutely beside me, glaring around the room as if by narrowing her eyes she could make Maria appear. Soon enough the ringing stopped and the answer machine took over.
“But where is Maria?” I asked, suspecting, but not knowing that she had done a moonlight flit.
“Not in her room, not in the garden, not at the shops. I have simply no idea,” Sylvia said with a distracted, defeated air. (Really, staff were impossible these days.)
“I’m sure that if she has gone she will have left a semi literate note lurking somewhere around the house, have you seen one?” I asked.
“No, do you think we should look?”
I found the crumpled bit of paper on the wrecked floorboards by the front door within a minute and handed it to Sylvia.
“Oh dear. What a bother. What gets into these women? Do you think she’s OK? I mean, should I call the police or something?”
Sylvia bravely said, steeling herself as if for a blow to the head. Such fortitude displayed by her over such a domestic disaster would surely require her retiring to her bed for a few hours at the very least.
Rule Number Twenty
“Home Comforts: the comfort must fit the home. There is no point serving yourself kedgeree on a council estate. Equally, turkey twizzlers will get short shrift in a country seat. Therefore ensure a match is made. Only provide for oneself – any other form of comfort food is known as cooking and not acceptable.”
That Saturday evening, which should have been a familial, cosy sort of time of the day, ripe for rare-steak sandwiches garnished perhaps with peppery watercress followed by a gentle and undemanding sort of film – Bringing up Baby, perhaps? - was without question the nadir of my allotted time with the Ambles. The house was in disarray, Archie was too. His head hurt more than his liver, which in turn hurt more than his kidneys. Even his teeth hurt, which was inexplicable to him (although not to the more horribly advanced self-medicaters amongst you who will know that the severe tooth grinding of cocaine produces a raw, shrill ache in the molars.)
Sylvia had retired to her bed armed with an interior design book, for which I don’t blame her for one second as there was simply nowhere warm and comfortable to sit in the house at all. Indeed, to my joy and surprise it now seemed quite normal for the entire family to hunch round the kitchen table, fighting with tense elbows for some sort of personal space. They were all starting to become accustomed to jostling with one another, living cheek by jowl, as they had never done in the past. Bella was in bed too. The agony of sitting on a suppurating tattoo without wincing was too much for her, and the horizontal position was demanded. She had trailed behind her mother up the treacherous stairs carrying a plate of toasted teacakes heavily spread with butter and Maria’s cherry jam, muttering that she was going to spend the evening with Don Juan.
Maria, as we now knew was AWOL, so it was only me that Archie found on that cold Saturday evening in his kitchen. Marmaduke was guarding my feet under the table whilst I peeled a rosy cheeked apple with a sharp knife, letting the peel form a perfect spiral as I did so.
I greeted him as pleasantly as I could, noting the dishevelled hair, the bloodshot eyes and the furrowed, bewildered look of a man who craves sleep, and has had not a wink. He was wearing dark blue, and red-striped pyjamas and a plaid dressing gown that had fresh toothpaste stains scattered on the lapels, like the very messy buttonhole of a guest at a country wedding.
He slumped down opposite me and stared around him, as if unfamiliar with his surroundings. Indeed, he could well have been unfamiliar with them, never spent an inordinate amount of time in this particular room. I glanced sympathetically at him as he groaned softly to himself, massaging his temples with shaky hands.
“I expect you’re hungry,” I said at last, knowing full well that his body was begging for the dubious benefits of what I believe is called a Full English Breakfast, or, as a café I saw in Soho advertised it so charmingly – a Gutbuster. Eggsbaconsausagesbeansmushroomsblackpuddingtomatosand aslice. A slice of what I simply don’t know. I assume that it meant a slice of fried bread. It is extraordinary isn’t it, what the body craves? If there were some logic to it, we might all be right in thinking that the body knows what it’s doing and is sending us messages of the right sort. Like pregnant women craving coal or something equally revolting and nutritionally unsound which then turns out to be just the sort of minerals that’s needed. But in my experience the craving for carbs (fried at that) is simply the pathetic attempt of the body to regain some sort of control over the idiocies of the host in charge. Archie would be much better off with a piece of fruit and some water – but that was not what was being called for.
A loaded plate of cooked breakfast danced tantalisingly in Archie’s mind. So real was the image for a moment that he even groped wildly at the air in front of him for the bottle of HP sauce that he felt sure, if there was any justice in the world, would be there. He began to smell the bacon, and opened his eyes to the stark reality: the aromatic remains of my rapidly browning apple peel. His heart sank. He looked pleadingly at me, as I crunched the last quarter if my apple between my teeth.
“Where’s Maria?” Archie croaked, his throat sounding like sandpaper.
“Gone,” I said neutrally.
“Where? To the shops?” Archie asked hopefully his mouth watering at the prospect of a loaded shopping basket brimming with the ingredients of a gut buster.
“No, gone as in gone away. Left. Skedaddled.”
“Oh.”
He sunk his head in his hands and sighed. Life really couldn’t get any worse.
I stood up and pushed my chair away from the table. I decided that he would have to ask me, nicely, before I did anything for him, and even then I wasn’t sure that I would comply.
Archie cleared his throat in a heroic prelude to the favour he had to ask.
“I say, Flora, you couldn’t, no, no, of course you couldn’t, too much. Sorry
.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Well, the thing is, I don’t feel too clever-“
I turned away from him to hide my smile. Really, English school boys and their euphemisms. I fleetingly wondered what Archie called having sex? Doing the naughties, getting a leg over, perhaps? Revolting.
“- and I was possibly wondering if you could perhaps make me some breakfast and then be kind enough to talk to me about last night. All a bit hazy somehow, yet crystal clear at the same time. Damned odd. But would welcome your input. Wise to call Sir George, d’you think? Or best not? You’ll know. You always seem to know what’s what.”
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