A Surrey State of Affairs

by Ceri Radford

  “Now, look here, young lady,” I began. “Have you found out that you’re pregnant and that your husband has just lost his job? Have you been abandoned after thirty-six years of marriage for a trapeze artist?”

  She was silent, her fey smile drooping.

  “No? Well, then. I suggest you buck up.”

  Pru clucked indignantly, but I could tell from the look in her eyes that, secretly, she was on my side.

  After arranging was over, I gathered up the leftover flowers and took them around to Tanya, who was struggling to peel a carrot and weeping. Mark had suggested she try cooking a meal from “scratch,” and she said she had been shocked to discover that scratch wasn’t in fact an Asian vegetable or a form of small, bristly wild boar. I introduced her to the stock cube and helped her make a shepherd’s pie before leaving. I wonder where her friends are in such difficult times. She must have lost touch with her old colleagues after leaving work, and I suppose she moves in different circles from her school friends’.

  When I got home I signed on to Facebook and changed my status to Does anyone know anyone with a job for a banker? No one replied.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 11

  I have packed a capsule wardrobe for my trip to London this weekend: black low-heeled shoes, smart black trousers, a stone-colored knee-length skirt, a black sleeveless fitted top, a primrose-colored cashmere cardigan, my cream Burberry raincoat, and a can of mace spray. I am all set. If you don’t hear from me again, please write to the mayor and ask him to mount a search party in the Notting Hill area. I am so glad that that dreadful Ken Livingstone is no longer in charge. Never trust a grown man in a duffle coat, as I have told Sophie many times.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 12

  I must be quick. Bridget is in the shower and we will be scooting off to the Victoria and Albert Museum as soon as she’s ready, and it’s already taken me ten minutes to figure out how to use her funny white Mac computer. She told me something last night that I just had to share with you. My old university friend, with her first-class degree and her high-flying publishing career, has launched herself in a new direction. She is now a writer of erotic fiction under the pen name Bluebell Lahore. After a few glasses of wine, she explained that times “were looking pretty iffy” in publishing and that it made sense to have a lucrative sideline. “Even in a recession, women will always buy chocolate, makeup, frilly underwear, and dirty paperbacks,” she said, grinning through blackberry-colored lips stained with red wine. I thought of Tanya with her carrot peeler and her roots, and I wondered.

  “And besides, writing them’s a breeze. There are only three plots you need to know. One: poor, downtrodden young heroine battles adversity; man A, who is also poor and downtrodden, falls in love with her, but she falls in love with man B, who is a rich, vicious love-rat; she has a steamy affair with man B then he breaks her heart then man A fights him then inherits lots of money then girl and man A live happily ever after. Two: feisty, successful young heroine bored in marriage to man A, who is dependable but dull, starts illicit affair with man B, who is a rich, vicious love-rat who breaks her heart, sending her back into the arms of man A, who in the meantime has started to work out and now has a six-pack and some handcuffs. Three: sweet, naïve young heroine saving herself for marriage with man A, her childhood sweetheart, when love-rat man B arrives on the scene and leads her astray; man A fights him wins back heroine but then she runs off with man B anyway for a life of passion.”

  I stood gaping at her, wineglass halfway up to my mouth.

  “You see? Easy,” she continued, unabashed. “All you need to do is make up a few names and places and you’re laughing all the way to the bank. Maybe you should try it. You always had a way with words.”

  I was tempted to reply that this blog provided me with as much of an outlet for my writing as I needed, but I bit my tongue. Dear readers, I think it best that you’re not joined by anyone who knows me. Instead, I muttered something noncommittal about being far too busy with bell ringing, then went to bed. I woke at three A.M., however, from a dream in which Gerald was in the belfry with a “Man B” name tag pinned to his corduroy jacket and Miss Hughes was swinging about on a bell rope wearing a frilly Victorian-style nightie with her hair streaming out behind her and her bunions showing. I looked down and realized that I was wearing one of Sophie’s Topshop minidresses with the name tag “Girl A” attached to it. What does this mean?

  I have no time to ponder an answer. I can hear Bridget’s hair dryer.

  MONDAY, APRIL 14

  I am back home. My London adventure is over. For two days and two nights, I shared the life of a cosmopolitan single woman. I sat in Bridget’s flat eating chocolate éclairs from the nearby French patisserie (making cakes is one thing the French can be trusted with), admiring the large bow windows, the antique book shelves, the pretty Oriental rugs, and doing my best to resist running my fingers across every surface to show up the dust. Bridget herself does not have the crushed look that I expected in a single, childless woman of fifty-three. In fact, she has fewer wrinkles than I do: I know, because I counted them as she was leaning forward over the breakfast table to concentrate on a crossword. She was wearing a brightly colored silk kimono at the time, and whistling cheerfully. Nothing about her expresses the idea that she has crashed through life’s great hurdles. Over dinner at a smart restaurant, after I had spent half an hour bringing her up to date on the various shortcomings of Sophie and Rupert, she told me she was perfectly happy as she was, alone, and smiled serenely over her wilted green leaves and speck of sea bass. Perhaps she is simply putting on a brave face, or perhaps the Clarins beauty flash balm I spotted in her bathroom cupboard really works. After dinner she took me to some sort of forties-style club where everyone was wearing tea dresses and dancing. I’m afraid the martinis Bridget bought me went straight to my head and I had to take a taxi home. Bridget must have crept in like a mouse later because she didn’t wake me at all. She must have gotten enough sleep, though, because when she appeared for breakfast she certainly had a spring in her step.

  I think the weekend has achieved its aim. I am better equipped to cope with little Erica’s—the granddaughter of Harriet and Edward—christening next weekend. If Bridget can be happy with no children, two bonsai trees, and a career, I too can be happy with my lot.

  As if to reinforce the point, Jeffrey greeted me at the station with a lovely bouquet. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He doesn’t normally buy me flowers except when he’s trying to make up for something, like the time he spilled his Bloody Mary on my Burberry trench coat. As far as I’m aware, none of my clothes has been inadvertently soiled recently. But spring is in the air, I suppose. And underneath that slightly stern exterior, he does have a kind, even a passionate, heart.

  TUESDAY, APRIL 15

  Once again, a visit from a troubled-looking Reginald. I could tell something was amiss from the way he kept hooking and unhooking his thumbs through the belt loops on his chinos even as he stood on the doorstep. When he came in and sat down, the wisps of hair he pulls back across his flaking scalp flopped down over his eyes. He peered out through the graying strands like one of the rare breeds of long-haired sheep they have at the county fair. “Reginald, dear, whatever is the matter?” I asked.

  “Two things,” he said, patting his hair mournfully back into position.

  “David has decided he’s a Scientologist. And St. Mary’s is being investigated by the Health and Safety Executive.”

  I didn’t know what to say, or which piece of news was worse. I once watched a Panorama documentary on Scientology, which seemed to show that it was a mad cult filled with mad Americans wearing sunglasses who went even madder if anyone called it a mad cult. My only uncertainty is whether health and safety inspectors are as deranged as Scientologists. Reports in the newspaper would suggest that they are.

  I comforted Reginald that it was doubtlessly just a phase that David would grow out of, and that I would help him complete the necessary “risk asse
ssment” form for bell ringing.

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 16

  Bell ringing last night. Miss Hughes’s skirt has shrunk another three inches, revealing knees as thick and fleshy as a joint of ham. It was too much for Gerald, who bolted out of the belfry before the last note had sounded. I stayed late, however, to help Reginald with the form. Under the section “What are the hazards?” we wrote:

  Ringers may hold on to rope for too long, be hoisted off the ground, fall, and die.

  Ringers may be deafened by cacophony.

  Ringers may be trampled by Gerald.

  Ringers may choke on biscuits at break time.

  Ringers may be thumped by Miss Hughes’s handbag for failing to keep time.

  I thought we should whittle it down a little, but Reginald was adamant that honesty was the best policy. Underneath the section “What are you doing to minimize risk?” we wrote:

  Praying.

  Underneath the section “What more could be done to manage risk?” we wrote:

  Ringers to use common sense and, perhaps, ear muffs.

  I hope that will do.

  THURSDAY, APRIL 17

  Dear readers, I have done something rash.

  Tanya came around for lunch today, but she hardly touched my homemade onion quiche with green salad, merely pushing forkfuls of food back and forth across the plate and sighing. I thought that perhaps I had oversalted the pastry, but it turned out there was an even worse explanation. She and Mark are going to lose the house. Pushing her lengthening mousy hair behind her ears, she explained that they were mortgaged to the hilt; Mark’s bonuses had gone to pay for the wedding, the Porsche, the all-inclusive holidays to Sandals in Jamaica and luxury chalet trips in Méribel, the tailored suits and Jimmy Choo shoes. He had blown his redundancy payout on online gambling. Given the recent fall in house prices, they were in serious negative equity; repossession loomed. I stifled a small gasp of horror. Tanya’s parents live in a flat in Billericay, Mark’s in a flat in Spain. Neither is a suitable abode for a mother-to-be. I hadn’t realized their situation was so dire.

  I wanted to rail against Mark for his selfish irresponsibility, but something about the flat, resigned look in Tanya’s eyes told me not to. She said that Mark had lost a stone from worry, while she could not stop comfort eating and had gained one, which she claimed was far too much weight at this stage of her pregnancy. She was distraught. Tears fell from her eyes, but this time there was no mascara to wash away. Readers, there was only one thing I could do. I invited her and Mark to stay for as long as it takes them to find their feet.

  I hope Jeffrey doesn’t mind.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 18

  I am still waiting for the right moment to tell Jeffrey about Tanya. He was in a bad mood when he got in last night—something to do with the share price of an Icelandic bank—so I didn’t feel it was wise to raise the subject. Perhaps the christening of our little grandniece will cheer him up. I bought her a silver piggy bank; growing up in the North, I’m sure she’ll learn to hoard her pennies. We leave for York as soon as he’s back from work tonight, with Rupert in tow. Harriet just called to check that we were all set, with a gleeful flutter in her voice.

  I will not be jealous.

  I will not be jealous.

  I will not be jealous.

  I will not be jealous.

  I will not be jealous.

  I will not.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 19

  I am jealous. There is no point in lying to you. I am horribly jealous, from the top of my head, where this morning’s blow-dry has now gone askew, down to my cream heels, dip-dyed in mud. This is a terrible thing to say, but at one point I wanted to slap Harriet’s pink, glowing face. It was a perfect day, warm spring sunshine, branches of cherry blossom waving in front of the pretty church where the ceremony took place. Afterward there were glasses of champagne in a marquee nearby, Harriet flitting to and fro with a camera, little Erica a perfect plump-cheeked bundle in a little lacy white dress, kicking her feet in her little white booties. Harriet picked her up and carried her about like a trophy. By the end of the afternoon my cheeks were starting to hurt from the enforced smiling, so I made my excuses and came back to the hotel, leaving Jeffrey discussing golf swings with Edward.

  As I sit here, squinting at the computer in the dim-lit hotel lobby, my only comfort is this. I watched Rupert closely as he chatted to the guests, who included a large group of young women in pretty dresses. He was quite at ease in their company, laughing and chatting. I couldn’t tell from my vantage point if he was flirting, but he clearly wasn’t intimidated by female company. Perhaps he is overcoming his shyness. Perhaps it will not be so long until I too have a wedding, then a christening, to organize.

  SUNDAY, APRIL 20

  What a to-do. I knew I should have told Jeffrey about Mark and Tanya sooner, but I was waiting for the right moment. Family get-togethers always seem to put him in a bad mood, so the weekend was not opportune. And how was I to know it would happen like that?

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. We finally got home last night after a five-hour drive from the North via Milton Keynes, during which Jeffrey showed off his manly, indomitable spirit by driving consistently at three miles per hour over the speed limit. Once home, no sooner had Natalia helped us with our bags and put the kettle on than the doorbell rang. We were both puzzled. Could it be Reginald, with another health and safety form to fill out? It was not.

  When I opened the door I was confronted by the sight of Tanya and Mark—still wearing his stockbroker braces—surrounded by boxes, with a hunted look in their eyes. There was a screech of tires as their taxi rushed away down the road. I thought better of asking what had happened to their Porsche. Trying not to panic, I welcomed them in and asked Natalia to help with their things while I rushed over to Jeffrey, who was striding down the hall to see what the fuss was about. I quickly whispered to him the gist of the situation, and he turned portcolored. Luckily, however, he is well bred to the point that it is usually impossible to tell what he’s thinking.

  Once they were settled in the guest room, I whipped up a few omelets for dinner, which we ate in silence. I would have asked Natalia to cook, but she kept staring mutinously at the new arrivals and saying “I not understanding.” Neither did Jeffrey. Neither, really, did I.

  MONDAY, APRIL 21

  I cannot write for long. I must buy some casserole steak and give it a good going over with the tenderizing mallet. In doing so, I hope to make amends with Jeffrey. He was manifestly unhappy about the Mark/Tanya situation when I got to bed last night. I could tell by the way he clutched his book so hard that the tips of his fingers went white. It was the most upset I had seen him since I accidentally decluttered the spare room of his favorite golf clubs.

  TUESDAY, APRIL 22

  The atmosphere in the house is tense. Jeffrey didn’t get home until after eleven last night, by which point my tender steak casserole was a congealed mess. Mark and Tanya must have noticed. He said he had been working on an important case, but when I was carrying his briefcase upstairs it fell open and four back copies of Golf Monthly along with an Andy McNab novel spilled out.

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23

  Bell ringing last night. Although I was anxious about leaving everyone at home to their own devices, I didn’t want to miss practice, especially with the national ringers’ contest coming up in a few months. Such divided loyalties are a woman’s lot. Reginald certainly needs someone to help him focus: he looked quite pale and apprehensive last night. He told me that David showed no signs of relinquishing Scientology, and kept trying to convince him that Jesus—if he existed—came out of a volcano. What’s more, we will have a health and safety inspector poking his nose into our practice next week. Apparently, our form did not reassure him that everything was under control. As if to prove his point, Gerald put his back out. Miss Hughes had asked him to help her pull her rope, feigning a weakness at odds with her oxlike strength. Gerald shuddered with what must have been excit
ement as he took hold of the rope and Miss Hughes briefly clasped her hands over his. It was too much for him. He yelped and rolled onto the flagstones, like a footballer after a flamboyant tackle. Miss Hughes knelt beside him and stroked his hair, which quickly revived him. He jumped to his feet and left, muttering his excuses. I do hope he won’t be out of action for long.

  When I got home, Jeffrey wasn’t back and Mark and Tanya had gone to bed. There were Chinese take-out cartons and leftover prawn crackers in the bin. Tanya is still clearly not on good terms with “scratch.”

  THURSDAY, APRIL 24

  Once again, I sneaked out of my fractious household to attend one of my regular activities—Church Flowers. It’s just as well that I did. A wonderful thought occurred to me. Pru had not brought Ruth along this week because her daughter was going to a “chakra” class or something at the community center straight after school. I asked Pru what this meant and she said, in a monotonous, downtrodden sort of voice, “Chakra is the study of wheel-like vortices of energy.” I raised one eyebrow, and stared at her in silence for several seconds. She relented. In something like her usual tone, she whispered vituperatively, “It’s mumbo jumbo.” I nodded sympathetically. And then, in my old adversary, I suddenly recognized a kindred spirit to poor dear Reginald, and an opportunity. Was Reginald not going through exactly the same ordeal with his son David? Might two young people forget their odd spiritual hobbies if they got together and focused on normal things, like two-for-one cinema vouchers and dinner at Pizza Express? I can only hope so. As I watched Pru at work with the gladioli, her pink and white polka-dot neck scarf drooping into the flower heads and her worried frown cutting creases into her forehead, I felt a strong urge to tell her my idea, but I held back. I need time to formulate a plan; especially after last time.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 25

  Mark and Tanya have been in the house for five days now. I feel it is time to take stock of this arrangement.

  The advantages: