Bed of Roses

by Daisy Waugh

  ‘Hey, Fanny!’ giggles Jo suddenly. ‘Look down! Your shirt’s completely undone!’

  ‘So Timothy, if you’re ready, it’s over to you—Oooh!’ she pulls the microphone back from him just in time, ‘and I’ll be going round with raffle tickets in a minute. We’ve got some fabulous prizes…Mr McShane’s donated a dinner for two at the Gatehouse Restaurant, and for those of you with nice, big freezers, the Maxwell McDonalds have donated half a bullock!…We’ve got a month’s supply of young Colin and Chloe’s bantam eggs; and Mrs McShane’s offered a giant hamper of her award-winning veggies, so there are loads of super prizes…A bottle of wine, a great big box of chocs from Mr Cooke; a super Ladyshaver from Pru. Absolutely unused, isn’t it, Pru? Unwanted Christmas present, I believe you said.’

  Grey McShane, sitting at the back of the hall with his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms crossed, starts snoring ostentatiously.

  ‘…Tickets are 20p each, or five for £1. Which is the same price, of course…’ Grey snores louder, and everyone begins to laugh. ‘But it makes it a nice round number, doesn’t it?’ Mrs Hooper shouts over them. ‘So – get your wallets out, ladies and gentlemen. Right then! Timothy? Are we ready? Let’s take it away!’

  People mill about waiting for Timothy to finish his limbering up. They are mumbling quietly to each other, eyeing him distrustfully, dreading the moment when he insists they join in. Jo turns once again to Fanny, this time with a hint of impatience. ‘Fanny you do realise, don’t you? Your shirt—’

  ‘Of course I realise,’ says Fanny.

  ‘Well then, why—’

  ‘You’ll have to forgive us country bumpkins, Fanny,’ Messy interrupts tactfully. ‘We’ve been rotting away down here so long, haven’t we, Jo? We’re probably too damn dozy to realise it’s the absolute height of chic.’

  ‘No, we bloody well aren’t,’ snaps Jo. Who certainly isn’t. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Messy. It’s not chic. Her buttons have come undone.’

  ‘They are undone, Jo. They haven’t necessarily come undone. Anyway,’ Messy adds unconvincingly, ‘it looks great.’

  Fanny takes a deep drag on her cigarette and then exhales, puffing smoke out of the side of her mouth, before leaning closer to the two women. ‘Tell me,’ she whispers fretfully, ‘only be subtle. Is Mrs Guppy looking at me?’

  They glance over Fanny’s shoulder to the corner where Mr and Mrs Guppy had been standing.

  ‘Mrs—? Oh. Oh, dear,’ says Messy with a nervous laugh. ‘…Oh, dear…’

  ‘Christ! Don’t say “Oh, dear”! “Oh, dear” what? What’s going on?’ She searches their faces, frantic for clues.

  ‘Oh, crikey—’ Jo’s eyes widen in alarm. ‘What have you done to her, Fanny? She’s on her way over, and she doesn’t look too…Bloody hell. Hey! Mrs—HEY!’

  Fanny gasps as an icy blow hits her between the shoulders. She feels the shock working its way down her spine and she has no idea – she wonders if she’s been stabbed. She spins round.

  ‘Oh, excuse me,’ says Mrs Guppy, yellow teeth glinting. ‘I was only bringing Teacher a nice cup of cola…You shall have to go home an’ change, now. Shan’t you, my lovely?’

  Fanny looks up at her. They all do; Messy, Jo, various people nearby have noticed Mrs Guppy move in, and she doesn’t move often. A space has somehow cleared around them, and now a silence, which is quickly spreading across the room.

  Fanny smiles. ‘Not to worry, Mrs Guppy,’ she says lightly. ‘It’s a warm evening. And we’re all friends here.’ She drops her cigarette into the pool of Coca-Cola at her feet, undoes the final two buttons of her soaking shirt, and peels it off. The limbo enthusiasts of Fiddleford pause in amazement at their new head teacher, who stands before them all in her uplift plunge-cut black lace magnificence, Marlboro Light packs bulging from her low-slung pockets, an open bottle of vodka in her hand. She’s stuck there. She’s dying out there. Time stands still…

  The silence is broken at last by a wolf-whistle, long and low. Everyone turns towards it. Standing framed at the entrance is a tall, lean, suntanned man in his mid-thirties, with shoulder-length sun-streaked hair, his hands in jeans pockets, his mouth wearing a languid, admiring smile. He has a cigarette hanging from a corner of his lips. He is almost, but not quite, laughing.

  ‘You’re kinda naked,’ he comments amiably, in his soft Louisiana drawl.

  Fanny gives a short, strangulated laugh. ‘LOUIS!’ she chokes. ‘Thank God! Thank God for you!’ She runs through the space and throws herself into his arms. A series of flashes follow as the man from the Western Weekly Gazette springs from the melee to snatch pictures of the west of England’s youngest head teacher introducing herself to the villagers. Louis glances up at the photographer, and then at the gawking crowd. He takes off his old suede jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ he murmurs, ‘let’s get outta here.’

  The Fiddleford Arms is deserted, except for the bar woman, because everyone’s up at the village hall. Louis and Fanny – carrying the coke-drenched shirt and still in Louis’s jacket – drink a lot, very quickly, and before very long Fanny finds she has forgotten about the dreaded Mrs Guppy and is instead telling Louis in neurotic detail about the telephone call which came through when she was in her office with Robert White.

  ‘I actually dropped the telephone. It seems so stupid, but Louis, I recognised his voice,’ she says, puffing away on her cigarette, slugging back the whisky mac. ‘I knew it was him. I knew it was. He sounded so damn familiar…I hung up on him.’

  ‘Has he called back?’

  She hesitates. ‘Not yet, no.’

  ‘It probably wasn’t him, Fan. It would be a pretty damn weird coincidence. But this kind of crap is going to go on and on – in your head at least – until you deal with it. I keep telling you. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the police. Talk to someone.’

  But she won’t do that. She’ll never agree to do that. She always says the same thing: she doesn’t want to stir things up again.

  ‘Until you find out where the sucker is, if he’s still alive, for Christ’s sake—’

  ‘Of course he’s still alive. Why shouldn’t he be?’

  ‘Whatever. Fine. But if you believe it was him on the phone—’

  ‘But what if it wasn’t?’

  He stifles a sigh. He’s said it all so often before; virtually every time they meet. ‘Fanny, it probably wasn’t. Either way. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the goddam police.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You could clear this whole thing up.’ He snaps a finger. ‘Gone. Like that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well – I don’t know what else to say, Fan. Anyhow, I guess this publicity idea isn’t helping. I mean, if he is out there, which he isn’t, then broadcasting your fabulous successes over the airwaves could probably be rated as “stirring things up”. Don’t you think?’

  As he speaks they both remember the series of camera flashes which had followed her in her shirtless streak across the hall.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ says Fanny, sinking her head into her hands. She lets out a low moan. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  Louis pulls her into a hug. He holds her tight, tighter than he needs to, and breathes in the sweet smell of her. And she breathes in the sweet smell of him.

  They stay like that for a while, the two best mates, until one of them says something, makes some sort of brittle joke, and they both pretend to find it funny and slowly pull apart.

  It’s as they’re awkwardly, reluctantly disentangling, that Grey McShane sweeps in. He stops at their table, towers above it. ‘There you are,’ he says, noticing her bloodshot eyes but showing no sign of being affected by them. ‘You’re not giving up on us already, are you?’

  ‘What? No. No, of course not.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get back there. They all think you’ve done a runner.’

  She looks at him, confused.

  ‘We’ve got the children talking about you like you’re the bloody M
essiah, Fanny.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We’ve got my stepdaughter, little Chloe, coming home every day, singing your praises. We don’t want to lose you just because some fat cow doesn’t like the look of you in your scanties.’

  Louis snorts with laughter. Fanny turns to glare at him, finds it quite difficult to focus, and turns back to Grey.

  ‘He’s kind of right, though,’ Louis says. ‘You can’t let the fat lady push you around.’

  Fanny nods, takes another slug from her drink. ‘Is she still in there? I don’t think I can face it if she’s still there.’

  Grey shakes his head. ‘They left pretty much straight after you.’

  ‘Right then.’ Slowly, and with obvious regret, she pulls herself up from her chair. ‘Let’s—I’d better get on with it then.’ She pauses, sways backwards suddenly, steadies herself, and then with a scowl of concentration, ‘Actually,’ she adds, ‘it turns out I’m quite – very – pissed.’

  ‘Just don’t try to say too much,’ Grey says.

  ‘And I think,’ she tries to focus on Louis, ‘I should probably do this on my own, Louis, don’t you? If I just go back with Grey, it might maybe unruffle a few more feathers. I mean ruffle. Less. Fewer. Unruffle fewer feathers.’ She frowns. ‘It might go down better if I leave you behind.’

  Louis is not especially disappointed. Fiddleford’s great limbo cotillion did not strike him as much of a party. Besides which it’s a nice evening. He thinks, instead, that he might roll himself a J and take a walk through the village. ‘I’ll meet you back here in an hour,’ he says. ‘OK? Good luck.’ He grins at her. ‘Don’t get any more pissed. Less. Fewer less pissed. Don’t drink any more if you can help it…’

  PART TWO

  10

  Geraldine Adams looks rich. She is in her early forties and her hair, short and brown, with tasteful russet lowlights, is exceptionally well cut. She and her husband Clive used to be as important as Geraldine’s haircut still implies but in actual fact, eighteen months ago, the Adams family joined that annoying group of former yuppies which newspapers call the ‘downsizers’.

  They’ve even been the subject of a newspaper feature themselves. (They have it framed in their downstairs lavatory.) There was a massive colour photograph of Clive and Geraldine and the son, Oliver, leaning smugly against a fivebar gate, with the village of Fiddleford nestling behind them. In the article Clive and Geraldine swear that they have never felt happier, and that their ten-year-old son Oliver is so happy with the new rural life that he’s taken to voluntarily switching off the television.

  ‘Ollie’s got to the stage now where he can’t stand processed food,’ Geraldine told the journalist, called Richard. ‘He simply won’t eat it, Richard! Fortunately for us there’s a marvellous commercial vegetable garden here in Fiddleford, so every morning before school, off Ollie and I trog to Messy McShane’s Organic Kitchen Garden. You know who Messy McShane is, of course, don’t you? Absolutely! Wife of. Quite right! The notorious Grey. He’s charming, actually. A sweetie. But for heaven’s sake don’t get me on to that. Where was I? Yes, Ollie and my little trips to the Garden – which allow him to play an active role in the choices about what he eats, and of course choice is what it’s all about, isn’t it, Richard? Messy talks Ollie through the vegetables that are in season, and then Ollie says, “Ooh, Mummy, I could murder a beetroot today,” and so off she trogs, and picks it! Or whatever…You know what I mean. Picks it up. Picks it…away from the beetroot’s…growing place. So to speak. Anyway, Messy’s happy. I’m happy. Ollie’s happy. And Ollie’s eating beetroot! Who ever heard of a ten-year-old boy eating beetroot in this day and age! Ha!…No. No, I can honestly say to you, Richard, my only regret is that we didn’t make the move sooner!’

  Clive and Geraldine used to be partners in a firm of City solicitors. They used to live in Hampstead. Between them they used to earn not far off £1 million a year, if you included bonuses. They used to work twelve hours a day and pay their Australian nanny £600 a week. They used to do all that, and then rush off to the gym, and then have dinner with clients, where they would talk coyly and knowingly about the son they so rarely had time to see – and in truth they used to enjoy it that way. The life suited them perfectly. It probably suited Oliver, too. Because the £600-a-week nanny was usually too busy reading Heat magazine to forcefeed him any disgusting vegetables and, except when she could actually hear Geraldine at the front door, would absolutely never have been so cruel as to stop him watching television.

  But Clive and Geraldine couldn’t help worrying that they were somehow living life wrong. What with the return of terrorist threats in London, and a smaller-than-expected annual bonus from the City solicitors, the very distracting articles about downsizers in the newspapers, and then Geraldine, at forty-two, suddenly wondering if she ought to be wanting another baby, there came a time when Mr and Mrs Adams decided they had no choice but to take stock.

  Geraldine’s best friend, impoverished and non-productive ‘children’s author’ Kitty Mozely, had already moved from London with her daughter, Scarlett, to a pretty cottage on the outskirts of Fiddleford. As part of their stocktaking process Clive and Geraldine went to stay for a weekend with her and, as they told her at the time, they were very impressed. Not only was Fiddleford a beautifully quaint little village, it was also at the heart of a ‘fascinating’ social whirl.

  Kitty had pulled out all the stops that weekend, of course, because she wanted her friends to come and live nearby. She roped in people for dinner and for drinks, and managed to get them all invited out to lunch, so that by the end of the weekend, Clive and Geraldine had almost certainly experienced the peak of Fiddleford’s sociability.

  But it is true, too, that there is a generous sprinkling of ‘fascinating’ people in the neighbourhood. Apart from the McShanes and the Maxwell McDonalds, there is Daniel Frazer, the world-famous hat maker, who owns a cottage on the road to Lamsbury. He and his American boyfriend come down most weekends, and can often be spotted in the Fiddleford Arms, living it up with their fascinating friends. And then there’s Annie Millbank, who was the love interest in lots of seventies movies and now stars in a series of coffee ads. She lives on her own, mostly drunk, in the Mill House about a mile beyond the Retreat. There are the peoplefriendly former government minister Maurice Morrison and his curiously hideous wife, who are renting the manor in the next-door village, and he can often be seen, sniffing around, glad-handing the locals; Solomon Creasey the art dealer comes down with his numerous beautiful children and a different beautiful girlfriend at least every other weekend. He owns a large house hidden behind a high wall, bang in the middle of Fiddleford, and on summer evenings, when the windows are open, the whole street can be filled with the smell of his cigars and aftershave, and the sound of him – laughing usually, or yelling very large figures into a telephone. Solomon Creasey, though not yet forty, is a man with an inscrutable past. Nobody really knows where he came from, but the main thing is that he once discovered a Rubens at auction and has since held the British record for achieving the greatest profit on any single painting ever sold. One way or another he is very rich. Kitty Mozely (the non-productive children’s author) makes a courageous play for him every time they meet.

  Anyway, after Clive and Geraldine’s weekend visit to Fiddleford, non-productive Kitty, whose writing career has long since ground to a standstill, and who is often bored and lonely, became increasingly determined that they should follow her to the area. She would ring up Geraldine in her City office and regale her with stories of all the glamorous people who dropped in for drinks (nor was she above a little lavish embellishment), and she would swear that she and her daughter Scarlett had never been happier. She claimed that since moving to Fiddleford Scarlett didn’t watch television any more. (Actually, enigmatic little Scarlett had never been that interested in television.) And she claimed that Scarlett’s new favourite dish was baked fennel, which was an outright lie. ‘I can honestly say to y
ou, Geraldine, my only regret is that we didn’t make the move sooner!’

  Geraldine was not – is not – a woman who likes to be outdone. Certainly not in the social whirl. And not even over vegetables. So she and Clive finally blocked out an evening together to discuss their future. And by the end of dinner, in spite of all of Kitty Mozely’s efforts, in spite of the wonderful – and fashionable – savings they would make by sending Ollie to the local village school, they had pretty much decided to stay put, which was a great relief to both of them. They slept better that night than they had in months.

  Two days later Kitty rang to tell them that the Old Rectory in Fiddleford was up for sale.

  They only had to see it once. It was perfect for them; built 250 years earlier, as if exclusively with the requirements of third-millennium Hampstead downsizers in mind. It was a small, symmetrical, irreproachably pretty Georgian manor, with six little sash windows on the first floor and two on either side of a wide, stone-pillared front porch. It was set back from the village street, with a drive that curled through a small copse of trees and down into a little valley. It was private, elegant, and not at all cheap. Clive and Geraldine fell in love with it. Their Hampstead house sold very quickly, and for the asking price of £1.85 million, making them an encouraging £790,000 profit, much of which they blew on their extravagant ‘improvements’. They built the tennis court and the swimming pool, employed an interior decorator who specialised in a rustic-contemporary look, opened a small, exclusive practice in a converted town house in Lamsbury, and have been happily munching through Messy McShane’s Fresh Organic Vegetables ever since.

  Or quite happily.

  Or actually (unofficially speaking) not very happily at all. Downsizing, they have discovered, is not quite as easy as it looks. And though the piece in the Saturday Telegraph was fun, it couldn’t sustain them for ever, and there are times when Clive and Geraldine secretly feel quite breathless with horror at the smallness of their new lives. They might glance up from some exclusively priced little conveyancing job and hear the hideous, monotonous cawing of the ravens outside, or the pitter-patter-plop of the soft grey English rain. They might glance out from their rustic-contemporary, newly shuttered Georgian windows, and notice that it’s already growing dark, and that the evening looms with only each other and the blip of Ollie’s computer games for company.