Virtual Strangers

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  But Rhys smiles and slides a little way along the bench seat towards me.

  ‘He’s right, then.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘We do have a lot in common. The question of your sex notwithstanding, of course. Another drink? Or would you like to go on somewhere. Dinner?’

  Oh.

  11.45 pm

  griffith@cymserve.co.uk

  Well, hello, Griffith with a capital G griffith!

  Just wanted to ring and thank you for putting me in touch with Rhys. We’ve had a super evening. I told him all about my plans for everest and he told me all aboutall the mountains etc. and other things he’s been up. And that I should help shore up nepal’s ecom=nomy by going in tea-houses a lot.. All very edifyimng. All very nice. It’s a shame he seems to thinki might like to go to bed with him at some stage andso on, but there you go. this is what happens, isn’t it, when you get to our age. Rucsh rush rush as my fathercwould say. Trouble is, I have real problems in that department. smilesmisconstruings etc. in actualy fact, he’s not so bad. Is rather good looking, if =n fact. if he lived locally (and Rose was still here, of course), we could discuss wht=ether he had sufficient qqq attributes to make him a contender for our shag lists (I know he’d be on Mjulia Potter’s qqqq, for sure). But I dodn’t have a shag list any more of course, for obvious reasons. Do I? been there, done that, and look where it got me.

  In fact, speaking of obvious, what’s with all the obviouslys? kept reading that email and wondering what it was all about - what the hiddne agenda was there. if there was one of course, which there mightn’t have been By the way, did you notice how I can underline, bold and italicise all at once/ it’s really simple. you just click on all three of those bits at the top. see? I’m not so information-technology-ology - challenged as you might think. or do think, I’;m sure. or whatever.

  Anyweay, just wanted to say hello goodbye and so on. and goodbye mainly.

  Charliexxxxxx

  PS I’m seriously stressedenough as it is, because my father has bought me a four foot. horrible, horrible silver tinsel christmas tree made of tinsel.And it’s horrible. And it cost him ten pounds. How can I bear it? I can’t bear to put it in my lounge. But I feel really guilty, you know? mainly because ten pounds is a lot of money, but also becausewho am I to say that people who like four foot high silverTINsell christmas trees are any less tasteful than I am? And what is taste anyway?” Surely it’s about having what you like and bollocks to everyone else. In which case, now I think of it, why shouldn’t I want a great big lovely chrismas tree like I’ve always had. You know? Anye=way, i’m going to go to hell most probably unless I think of something else I can do with it and I should anyway because ten pounds would have bought him a heck of a lot of fruit and spices and other horrible smelly things and we must be grateful for that at leasmustn’t we? Going to bed now. Don’t email back because it’s much too stresssful.

  Obviously. Goodnight. C.xx

  Chapter 12

  Friday.

  I wake up with a curious, inexplicable feeling of anxiety. Have eaten two extra strength brufen and drunk three mugs of rehydrating tea before I realise that the curious feeling is actually not simply alcohol induced paranoia, but related to a dimly remembered drunken session at the computer late last night. Boot up, log on and scroll madly through the filing cabinet. Find last email sent and bring it up on screen. Then gaze in gut-wrenching, toe-curling horror upon the rambling, inane, manic, puerile, typographically challenged absolute garbage that I have spewed out and sent off down a land line to Adam. Oh no, and then some. Resolve that (as well as avoiding all human contact within Cefn Melin environs for rest of natural life) I must, in the fashion of a recovering alcoholic, not put myself in danger of an addictive relapse. As I take my shrivelled brain off to work, I decide I must take serious remedial action. Will buy a padlock for the study, and give dad the key.

  And as if total humiliation were not enough, I cannot believe some people. No sooner had I returned to the (chiming, salty, be-mirrored etc.) office after an exhausting, emotionally draining morning of accompanied viewings of Cherry Ditchling than I had Mrs Rutland on the phone saying last straw blah, blah, blah etc., etc., as someone has brought dog poo in on their shoe and trod it over most of the house. Also that she was sick and tired of the whole business, very unimpressed with the level of interest generally, and that she was of the opinion that Willie JJ were not putting their backs into advertising, publicity and expediting the sale generally. Finished by informing me that Mr Rutland was of the opinion that if we didn’t pull our socks up forthwith he would be very tempted to tell Willie JJ to forget it and take his business to the more thrusting Metro instead.

  Sod her.

  As I was on my own in the office (Hugh - suspiciously - at the other branch dealing with - suspiciously again - typesetting and layout of a big Willie JJ ad campaign/editorial feature in Homescene) I spent an enjoyable few minutes shouting ‘bollocks, bollocks, bollocks to you’ at the telephone. Had an almost irresistible urge to call Mrs Rutland back and tell her that as the carpets in her house were the colour of dog poo anyway no one would notice, and that as the poo emanated from her own mangy dog and was never cleared away by its slut owner we could hardly be blamed for bits of it being squidged and brought into the house. And that if she was not so bloody insistent that we take everyone down to the far end of the garden in the middle of winter to appreciate the rustic (crappy) summer house built in eighteen forty-whatever by Mr Rutland’s crappy great-whatever - that nobody gives a toss about anyway - then she would not have a dog poo trauma in the first place.

  Had an even greater urge to add that Mr Rutland was a dirty old git anyway, as whenever he had the chance of accompanying me on viewings he always made a big point of going ‘you first!’ up the stairs then hanging around at the bottom long enough to try to get an eyeful of backside etc., so the dirty dog poo problem served them both bloody right.

  But I resisted. Bad vibes (rotten Chi?) seem to be wanging about the office in such abundance that I cannot move without risking getting lanced by one. In the back, most probably. Hmm. Am just debating a weapon of choice in a seventeenth century style misty duel at dawn scenario with Davina, when the phone rings again.

  I pick up with a mixture of desperation and (as more often than not these days) fear, to hear a stressed social worker telling me Minnie’s friend Mr Williams died in the night unexpectedly, which as well as being a shock, obviously, is also a potential disaster, Minnie- wise, as he will not now be able to have her cat after all.

  But, oh! Relief! Relief! Relief!

  I am, thankfully, spared the role of malevolent harpie in the four foot silver tinsel Christmas tree debacle. I am liberated! I am able to embrace all those wonderful spirit-of-Christmas type feelings without a nasty stain on my character during the season of goodwill. Oh, (With all due respect to the soul of Mr Williams, of course) joy!

  Had had an entirely unhelpful email from Dan detailing the exact reasons why I should not flap and fuss about the Christmas tree situation; mainly that as an intelligent, focussed, perfectly grown up person of thirty nine I should not feel stressed about telling my own father thank you very much but the Christmas tree arrangements are already in place. Chiefly because my father is, in Dan’s view, being thoughtless in the extreme; he has spent the last twenty years coming for Christmas and failing to notice that to his darling only daughter, having a seven foot, monster girthed etc. Christmas tree is of fairly profound importance.

  Which is all well and good, but pretty hard on Dad. I think his motives are more along the lines of, no-one in their right mind would spend the best part of a month planning/buying/ shopping for decorations/ spraying things for decorating/ fussing generally over Christmas trees out of choice. He is, after all, a naval man.

  But joy! Was taken aside by my father at 18.47 (window of opportunity between potatoes and curly kale).

  ‘Trees,’ he announced, causing the hairs on my nape to prickl
e. I braced myself against the worktop for another stressful encounter.

  ‘Trees, dad?’ I prompted.

  ‘Yes, trees.’ He confirmed. ‘I’ve been talking to young Ben and it seems he’s rather disappointed -’

  ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘Indeed. About that little tree I picked up.’

  I noted the choice of adjective. He has, I thought, at least got the concept of relative tree size in place. I said,

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Indeed. Seems you’d planned to take him off out tomorrow. To buy a real tree. At a Christmas tree farm, he tells me. He says you do it every year. That it’s a sort of family tradition.’

  Yes, of course! The family tradition of me saying (plaintively, clutching pinny to bosom etc) ‘would anyone like to come with me to choose a tree this year?’ And getting the traditional response of ‘Mu-um! Do we have to?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, beaming. ‘Absolutely! Of course!’

  ‘Well, bless him,’ said my dad with a chuckle. ‘Who’d have thought it at his age? But far be it from me to march in here and play fast and loose with your family traditions, dear. Anyway, the point is, you go right ahead and get his tree for him.’

  ‘I paused for some seconds, not believing my luck.

  ‘Right then,’ I ventured, finally. ‘I’ll do that, then. And I know!’ I added, in a flurry of inspiration and gratitude. ‘We could put your silver tree up in the porch.’

  Rushed straight upstairs and went yes!yes!yes! with bobbing knee manoeuvre, as footballers do, then gave Ben a bumper kiss and hug and promised that a stunt bike was no longer entirely out of the realms of Christmas possibility.

  Am now basking in an aura of warmth and love and gratitude for the frankly amazing show of astute yet sensitive grandparent management from my younger progeny. I am suffused with wonder at such an entirely unexpected display of sensitivity. (Indeed, display of having registered our conversation about the tree-procuring trip at all.) Am managing, obviously, to get some things right. And some wrong, of course, as I have not actually dealt with the situation at all. Still, having raised children to deal so effectively with maternal wimp difficulties must count for something.

  Chapter 13

  Twelve or so shopping days to go. Or whatever.

  Heartwarming development.

  Had an email from Dan tonight (must get another phone line installed).

  Mum, hope you get this. Phone permanently engaged again. I know it’s short notice but would it be okay if Jack came to us for Christmas instead? Her dad has had to change his plans at the last minute and he’s going to be out of the country until the New Year (don’t ask). Jack’s pretty fed up, as you can imagine, but he’s invited us both to join him at Klosters for skiing, in March, so can’t say I’m too upset!!!!!!! But is that going to be okay with you? She can doss in my room.

  I’ll assume yes unless I hear from you.

  Love Dan.

  Very excited. Email straight back.

  Hello darling!

  Yes, of course Jack can come and spend Christmas with us! We’d love to have her! Will she be coming down with you, or is she making her own way here? Let me know when you can.

  Wonderful news about both Christmas and skiing. You lucky thing you! And lucky old me! Looking forward to seeing you both,

  Love Mumxx

  Hah!

  Wonderful, wonderful news indeed. Will have my baby son back in the bosom of his family and will be able to impress the snotty, goggle-eyed madam with fantastical, magical, sublime festive decor, Christmas-tree-to-die-for, and a best-roast-potatoes-in-the-world Christmas lunch. Even if it is eaten in a pokey, semi detached hovel.

  ‘I can almost hear him sitting there singing its praises,’ I tell Rose, gleefully.

  ‘You’re pleased then, I take it? But I thought you couldn’t stand the sight of the girl.’

  ‘Ah, but that was in the Star of Bengal. The dynamic has shifted now. I’m in charge. Though, I have to say, I’m not quite sure what line to take about the sleeping arrangements. We don’t have a spare room any more, of course, and it doesn’t seem fair to turf Dad into Ben’s room -’

  ‘Hmm,’ Rose says. ‘I think I’d just leave them to it.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Well, you have to assume they sleep together, don’t you?’

  ‘Do I? I suppose so. They must do. It’s not the sort of thing you’d ask.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they are,’ Rose decides, with the sublime nonchalance of one who’s eldest is nine. ‘So it’s not like anyone’s pretending otherwise, is it?’

  ‘No, I guess not. But, still. I’m not sure I like the idea of them bonking away on the other side of my bedroom wall. Not sure I like the idea of them bonking, period.’

  ‘Which reminds me. Any new developments with Adam?’

  ‘Developments? Adam?’ I trill disingenuously, while a small rodent gnaws at the pain in my gut. ‘Can’t imagine who you’re talking about. Adam who?’

  Thursday. In a spirit of joy (tinged only marginally by the bonk-question stress/Adam Jones thoughts-avoidance stress/respect for the newly departed etc) I decide to put the tree up.

  In fact; go into garage, remove argumentative protective netting from tree, spray tree with tree saver, have fifteen minute coughing fit, find bucket, find bag of gravel, pour gravel into bucket, put tree in bucket, free hair from tree, take tree out of bucket, re-arrange gravel, put tree back in bucket, take tree out of bucket, raid perimeter of house for supplementary gravel, put tree back in bucket, free hair from tree, wonder why didn’t put tree in bucket while netting still in place, drag bucket plus tree through kitchen, hall, lounge. Position tree in centre of lounge, move sofa, coffee table, magazine rack and standard lamp to other side of lounge, re-position tree in front of patio doors, wonder why didn’t bring tree in via patio doors in first place, adjust tree in bucket, lash tree to radiator pipe for security.

  Go back into garage, find decorative half barrel, bring decorative half-barrel inside, attempt to stand bucket in half barrel, remove half of gravel, attempt to stand bucket in half barrel, detach tree from radiator pipe, reposition tree in bucket, stand bucket in half barrel, put gravel back in bucket, re-lash tree to radiator pipe, step on assorted invertebrate life previously resident in half barrel, check tree for branch symmetry, hack off lower branch on right to achieve, hack off supplementary lower branch on left to balance, place hacked lower left branch on top of sparse lower right region to re-balance, add water to bucket, get kitchen roll from kitchen, mop carpet around barrel area.

  Get decorations from loft, unwind lights, check lights, mend fuse in plug, replace five bulbs, re-check lights, wind lights around tree. Run out halfway down, unwind lights, re-wind lights, run out of lights two-thirds way down, curse, go to local sweet shop, purchase supplementary light set, return, wind supplementary light set around bottom of tree, check lights, find lights don’t work, replace bulb, go upstairs and look for adaptor, take adaptor from Ben’s room, make note to replace later, switch on all lights, say ahhh!, switch off lights, get baubles out.

  Put angel on top, adjust dress, hang baubles, dislike layout of baubles, curse, re-arrange baubles, hang last family heirloom delicate glass bird-of-paradise decoration, hang miscellaneous colour co-ordinated decorations, hang chocolate umbrellas, remember have tinsel, curse, get tinsel, weave tinsel carefully through lights, baubles, umbrellas etc., knock decorations off branches, curse, step on family heirloom delicate glass bird-of-paradise decoration, curse again, remember box of decorations made by Dan and Ben at nursery/infant/junior school, get box, hang falling to bits sugar paper plus glitter plus pasta and pulses decorations on inconspicuous parts of tree, feel guilty, re-hang in pride of place positions, groan, re-hang select few in compromise positions, return remainder to box, switch lights on, curse, check bulbs, curse again, check bulbs again, find culprit, replace bulb, eat chocolate umbrella.

  Spray tree copiously with fake snow, have fifteen
minute coughing fit, realise not fake snow but tree saver again, curse, find snow spray, spray tree copiously with snow spray, get lametta, stand on chair and throw lametta artistically at tree, get down from chair, pick lametta up from floor, get on chair, throw lametta artistically at tree, get down from chair, pick up remaining lametta, chuck handfuls at lower branches, get hoover, hoover needles, lametta and invertebrate corpses from lounge, then hoover kitchen, hall and lower stairs, put hoover away, sit on sofa, fall asleep.

  Wake to sound of insistent ding-donging of doorbell. Go to answer door to find Sheila Rawlins outside, wishing to deliver the Christmas edition of the parish newsletter, plus procure two pounds annual subscription.

  I ask her in and pretend to have left my handbag in the lounge in order that I can lure her into the room to be impressed by my fantastical, magical etc. tree.

  ‘Wowee!’ says Sheila. ‘Your tree looks stunning!’

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘Oh you’re so kind. It’s nothing very exciting really’ etc.

  Give a extra pound for church fund.

  Ahhh. Sleep the sleep of the just and self righteous and dream (obviously unavoidable and possibly quite healing) dreams about hot sexual encounters with nameless GP. I even conjure up a grand scheme for a surreal, crystalline Lapland (uPVC) porch, based loosely on the four foot high silver fake tinsel tree, plus cotton wool, polystyrene chips, branches and glitter. And the four million light set I saw in the market last week.

  Lovely to come in down in the morning, refreshed, uplifted and with the resiny scent of my majestic great fir putting paid to the last traces of father’s most recent excursion into salsas and fermented fruit vinegars. Less lovely to endure a two minute tirade from my younger son about the importance of not interfering with plugs, sockets and electrical equipment arrangements in his bedroom, particularly as the clock radio is the only sure method of waking for school in a house run by a dormouse mother.