Virtual Strangers

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  I could hear Dan’s voice from the hallway, closely followed by the jumpy yellow incandescence of a torch.

  ‘Must be a power cut,’ he said. ‘Everything’s off. Except, hold on -’ the torchlight dimmed and disappeared momentarily. ‘No. Can’t be that. Next door’s still got their lights on.’

  ‘So what happened? Dan, find me the other torch, will you? It must be a fuse that’s gone, something like that.’

  He found me the torch and we went into the kitchen. The trip switches had all tripped, which told me nothing I didn’t already know. I flicked up the big grey one and we peered for some seconds.

  ‘To be honest,’ I told him, ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  He shook his head. ‘Me neither. A short? I don’t think we should touch it.’

  Dad shuffled in. ‘Get away from there, you two. Let me have a look.’

  He took my torch and climbed up to inspect the meter box also. Some moments elapsed. There was much grunting and clucking. Then he clambered down.

  ‘Well?’ We both asked him. ‘The verdict?’

  ‘Don’t know. A short? I don’t think we should touch it.’

  25th December. Ding dong merrily.

  We have no electricity. We anticipate having no electricity for the rest of the day. So, to kill time, I will either kill the cat, or, if I fail to establish the whereabouts of the cat before the market re-opens after the Xmas break, I will kill the man who sold me a life threatening set of outdoor festive four million winking fairy lights for my porch in the certain knowledge that they could not withstand the effect of even a pathetic single millilitre of liquid. Cat pee is surely not that dissimilar to rain. Or is it? Wish I had a more specific knowledge of acids.

  I should not kill the cat, though, but the real culprits. Had Jack and Hester not spent the entire evening griping, grousing, niggling, fighting etc., I would doubtless have heard Kipling’s miaow to go out. And would not have a pee puddle in the porch. Would still have power. Girlfriends. Who’d have them?

  Speaking of which, have father’s girlfriend in a sulk at the breakfast bar. Have son’s girlfriend in a sulk in bed. Have younger son in a sulk in the lounge. Have elder son in a sulk in the study, and have father (who is a naval man and therefore a pragmatic sulk-free zone) in a pan-banging fury at the kitchen sink. I am about to preside over potentially the most harrowing Christmas day since the Great War. Wish I could defect now. Still small voice of calm too still, too small to register.

  I decide to defect anyway, in an unprecedented yuletide on foot pre-lunch excursion to the Dog and Trouserleg, on (happy development of) my elder son’s arm. Village looking as it would do on any cold, drizzly midwinter late morning (i.e. cold, drizzly), except with the addition of an All Wales Leylandii Light Show in gardens and tantalising glimpses of the insides of adequately lit lounges where festive board games and sherry-lubricated jolly veg preparation sessions are most probably already underway. But I also recall the year of the extended Simpson family Christmas Brunch some years back and I’m reminded that my present covetous mood stems not from warm glowing memories of similar happy Yuletides, but from a highly selective memory re. just how enjoyable it is spending the day with a bunch of discordant and hungover relatives. Particularly when said hungover relatives have spent a uncomfortable night on various unsatisfactory bed-type assemblages, and have queued for forty minutes to get into a bathroom that has been recently vacated by other hungover relatives who spent Christmas Eve eating a half ton of nuts. No wonder the sherry is generally gone before noon.

  The pub is full, fuggy, warm and welcoming. The clientele are red-faced, chortling and predominantly male. I drink two very large glasses of wine before my seasonal bonhomie is restored.

  ‘Isn’t this nice?’ I tell Dan, perching on a bar stool for safety and draining my third. ‘So nice to have you all grown up now and legal and able to escort your mother to the pub. Legally. And so on. And so forth.’

  He glowers into his pint.

  ‘I suppose,’ he says. ‘Would have been nicer if it wasn’t with the knowledge that we’ve got to go back and face Jack and Grandad and Ben and that Hester woman and have to sit in the dark with no telly. It’ll just happen all over again, I’m sure.’

  I attempt a tut but it comes out as a ‘tch!’ Bad news.

  ‘Dan, you really shouldn’t call her “that Hester woman,”’ I berate. ‘Anyway, all the more reason to hang out in here for a while. They could have come, couldn’t they? So sod them. Besides, to tell the truth, I’ve about had it with Hester and Dad. They’re beginning to cloy. And what about Jack?’

  He turns. ‘What about Jack?’

  ‘What’s the thing with her, really?’

  ‘Thing?’

  ‘Why is she so...well, so...so...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Uptight. Argumentative. As if...’ Choose very very carefully here. ‘As if she’s, oh, I don’t know..unhappy with life. She gave Hester a bit of a roasting, you must admit.’

  He gulps another inch. ‘Which she deserved.’

  Give up now. He can’t see it.

  ‘You can’t see it, but...’

  ‘Mum, of course I can see it. But you have to know where she’s coming from. She’s had a shit life, basically. Oh, there may be plenty of money but her parents are both completely hyper and self-obsessed and, well, sad. You know?’ (Do I?) ‘It’s just the way she keeps it together. You should try being her for once. She has such a lot of shit to put up with. And at least she has some principles. You just don’t - oh, look! Doctor Jones is over there! I wanted to talk to him. We had these amazing cadavers with -’

  Rats. Why is that man so all bloody wise bloody nice bloody friend-to-the-family bloody Dan’s bloody hero bloody perfect bloody lovely? He is wearing a leather jacket. A black, jacket shaped one. With pockets. That his hands are in. Plus jeans again. Plus big black boots. Boots! I hate him, I decide.

  ‘Give him a break, Dan,’ I lob into the body count. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk shop today.’ I force myself to ignore his crestfallen look. Then spy Bill Stableford approaching. ‘Ah, Bill!’ I beckon. ‘How are you? Merry Christmas and all that!’

  ‘Hello, hello, hello!’ says Bill. ‘What brings the Simpsons to the pub this fine morn?’ He glances around. ‘Not driven to escape by my sainted mother, perchance?’

  Dan chokes on his beer with such grace and aplomb that the only evidence is a rush of crisp shards in the glass.

  ‘As if!’ I chortle merrily. (And having drowned my conceptual grasp of irony in Chenin blanc.) ‘It’s his and hers G and Ts and a friendly tussle over the root veg. We thought it best, Dan and I, to leave the love birds to get on with it. That and the lack of electricity.’

  I explain, slightly manically. Bill chortles.

  ‘It’s a bit of a turn up, all this, though. Eh, what? Never thought the old bird had the -’ he makes a sound through his nose like a rhinocerous farting. Which I presume means libido, or virility, or horn, even. Who knows? ‘Goodness me,’ he goes on. ‘And what with your Ben and our Frankie, good grief, Charlie, you and me’ll soon be related!’

  It’s a sobering thought, so I pick up my wine.

  And, of course, I forgot to keep a weather eye on the Doctor. Always a bad move to second guess a GP. On this occasion, particularly so, because when I decided I needed to lose some of the wine already on board, who should have decided to avail himself of the facilities at exactly that moment? Him.

  I threw myself at the (heavy, unyeilding) door to the Ladies and managed to dive out of sight just in time. The mirror reproached me. How, it said, could you go out in public with a face like the one you’ve just cobbled together? I turned my back on it and scowled at the warm air dryer. The toilets were busy but one flushed soon after, emitting Julia Potter, in black polo neck sweater and meringue coloured jeans. Looking absolutely perfect. I’d not spotted Richard.

  And wouldn’t. She told me she was here agreeably husband-less.


  ‘For the sake of my sanity,’ she explained. ‘You decided to get pissed as well?’

  ‘It seemed sensible,’ I replied. ‘It was either that or chop my father and his girlfriend up and feed them to the cat.’

  ‘Christ, me too! Richard, for quite unfathomable reasons, is making some sort of vegetarian loaf thing, and my mother is doing something despicable with giblets, as usual. So I bolted.’ She ran her hand over the top of her hair and it sprung prettily forth in little snowy blonde peaks.

  ‘You look great,’ I said, feeling like a half ton of dog bones.

  I spent a few moments loitering and pretending to be doing something constructive with a blunt eyebrow pencil (the only thing in my bag - the only hope for my face), then decided enough time had elapsed and emerged.

  The secret, of course, was to time my exit so as not to coincide with his. Finally I inched the main door open. The corridor was empty. So far so good. I went back into the lounge.

  Dan had got me another glass of wine, which he held out to me, smiling. But then I realised he wasn’t smiling at me, but past me.

  ‘Hi, Doctor Jones!’ he said.

  ‘Adam, please. Dan, it’s good to see you. How’s Med School?’

  Rats. Rats. Adam took the pint that Bill Stableford passed him. And didn’t look at me at all. Which made it even worse.

  ‘Mega,’ said Dan. ‘Harder work than I expected, but the anatomy’s been great. I’ve been giving mum all the gruesome details, haven’t I?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Yeuch!’ I trilled, not looking at him either, and concentrating instead on downing my wine.

  ‘Hard but enjoyable, I trust,’ Adam ventured, tapping a beer mat on the bar top. ‘Work hard but play hard -’

  ‘Hem, hem!’ I announced. ‘Well, that’s me! Let’s be off!’

  I slapped down my glass and they all turned to look at me.

  ‘Mum, I’ve still got all this left to drink!’ Dan exclaimed.

  ‘Well, hurry up then,’ I told him, looking pointedly at my watch. I couldn’t, for some reason, make out what the hands said.

  ‘In a hurry?’ asked Bill. ‘It’s not even one yet. Thought you were anxious to -’

  ‘No, no,’ I answered, gesticulating wildly. ‘I’ve got an old lady in hospital to visit.’

  ‘You have?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Yes, I have. My friend, Minnie Drinkwater.’

  Adam nodded. Dan frowned.

  ‘First I’ve heard of it,’ he said. ‘Besides, you are pissed, Mum. There’s no way you can drive anywhere.’

  Ah.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m going by taxi.’

  Bill laughed. ‘Don’t be daft. You’ll no more get a taxi today than a ride on a donkey.’

  Adam’s hand brushed my arm. ‘I can take you, if you like.’

  His eyes, like the Thunderbirds mole, bored into me. ‘No you can’t.’

  ‘Yes I can. We’re not eating till four. I’m not expected back till three. So I can.’

  ‘No you can’t. I mean, I’d rather you didn’t, actually. Look, er... it’s terribly kind of you - Dan! Come along. We are going, and now.’

  ‘But I don’t want to go. You go off with Doct- Adam. I’ll meet you back home. Where’s the problem with that?’

  I trained my eyes and hoped. It was obviously rusty and weak from disuse, but I gave him the zap anyway and, thank heavens, it worked.

  His eyes dropped.

  ‘Okay, come on. Let’s go then.’ With a bemused shrug towards Adam, he steered me outside.

  It suddenly seemed like a long walk home. A long disagreeable one.

  ‘What is it with you, Mum? What was all that about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But you never said anything about visiting anyone in hospital.’

  ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t remember, Dan. Does it matter?’

  Evidently. He stopped on the pavement and propped the back of his hands on his hips, snorting little white clouds of angry breath into the drizzle.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ he said. ‘Actually. Because if it was so important then why didn’t you? And why were you so stroppy with Doct- Adam, when he offered to drive you there?’

  I walked on, head down. Those eyes. ‘I wasn’t stroppy.’

  He followed. ‘Yes you were.’

  ‘Was I? Was I really?’

  ‘Yes. And he was only trying to be helpful. Honestly, Mum, just because you don’t like Davina doesn’t mean you have to tar Adam with the same brush. You may not have noticed, but he’s actually a very nice guy.’

  My fit of pique is of such intensity that I find it leads me to the (entirely unrelated) conjecture that my elder son’s sniffiness where the goggle eyed witch is concerned is generated more by thoughts of a free winter sports holiday than by an excess of sociological distress. Which (I realise before we’re even home) is just about the crappiest, most mealy mouthed thought I’ve had in a long time, and not in the least appropriate to my generally good and very principled son. More, a reflection on a juvenile mother. This is what happens, then, when you get bogged down in crap stuff. I feel like a maggot. Must wash my mouth out with soap.

  Chapter 15

  New Year’s Eve.

  I remained bogged down and maggoty throughout the whole of Boxing Day, and decided to embark on a frenzied and full time programme of mental self-flagellation. I hoovered obsessively, made any number of casseroles and cleared out six month’s worth of odd socks from Ben’s room. I instigated a family outing to the Sales, and even (cannot now believe that I did this) produced a carrot and walnut cake the size of a hat box that I eagerly pressed upon Dan and Jack when they left. But even as the low cloud of self reproach began lifting, New Year’s Eve beckoned, to thrash me anew.

  Into each life and so on.

  Everybody has to have some downer in their life. Everybody has to have their own personal bête noire. A well managed bête noire is like a dose of cod liver oil. Whatever social ordeal I find myself enduring, I can always remember I could be worse off. My most enduring bête noire is the habit of barn dancing, particularly as applied to the Cefn Melin community hall during a blizzard. And, boy, did we have a blizzard that night.

  I have nothing against barn dances per se. This is not a blanket grievance. But neither do I have a fully toned pelvic floor. Plus I don’t care for cowboys, I don’t much like hay, I loathe Country and Western music, and I can’t doh-se-doh.

  But despite that, we went. We went because Ben and Dad and Hester thought it would be fun to traipse through the snow and spend an evening in the village hall being bullied by a man with a fiddle. I, understandably, did not think it would be fun, and though that might lead me to suppose that everyone’s needs would be best served by them going and me staying at home with a curry and a bottle of wine and the video of Trainspotting (for self-esteem restoration purposes), they, it seemed, did not subscribe to this view.

  Their considered opinion was that it would be fun only if I came as well. Because (so the reasoning went) if I didn’t come then they’d be forced to come home early and see the New Year in with me, because if they didn’t come home early to see the New Year in with me they were convinced (to a man) that I would sulk or cry or feel quite unreasonably sorry for myself, and seeing as how I’d been so funny just lately, they all decided it was just too big a chance to take. And though my father had the good grace not to mention my hormones, I could tell he had not ruled early menopause out.

  Thus it is with families. But I drew a firm line at Hester’s spare gingham skirt.

  And I had a fine time, as you very often do when your expectation is one of only stupefying boredom and wet pants. We did have to leave early, however, as Ben’s asthma had grown steadily worse through the evening, not helped by the hay and the chilly night air. As the two of us walked the snowy half mile home, he was breathing in gasps and continually coughing, and had run out of discs for his inhaler as well.


  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’d had enough anyway. And there’s bound to be something mindlessly entertaining on TV.’

  Which no doubt there was, but by the time we arrived home, TV was the last thing on my mind. It was with some relief that I put my key into the lock.

  The telephone was ringing as I opened the front door.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  My Dad.

  ‘Something up?’ I replied.

  ‘No, no, dear. Everything’s fine. It’s just that I’ve just brought Hester home and the weather, quite frankly, well, it’s looking rather nasty, and she suggested I stay the night. She has a Z-bed and a sleeping bag and we thought... well, what do you think? Will you be all right, dear?’

  Bless him.

  ‘Dad, I’ll be fine. (I’ve been fine thus far, haven’t I?) I’m going to call the GP out and get Ben fixed up with some steroids or something. I have Hester’s number. If I need you, I’ll call you. Okay?’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean if the lad’s really poorly, then I think my place is there with you.’

  ‘Dad, don’t set out again now. You’ve just trudged a mile in the opposite direction. We’ll be fine here. Really..’

  ‘I don’t know. Are you sure?’

  ‘Dad, I’m sure.’

  ‘In that case -’

  ‘Night night.’

  I realised that my father was no more in control of his primeval urges than Ben. And that the probable only difference between the wooing of Stablefords senior and junior was in the viability of the evolutionary outcome. So that was it. Here we were. All alone and being snowed on. Me and the cat and my poor sick child.

  Since being on my own, I dreaded the boys being ill. It was the time when the fact that it was all down to me crystallised most sharply on my consciousness; became the most stark of all those stark parental realities. The doctor, the hospital, the emergency services; all were just a phone call or short drive away. But that overwhelming sense of being the one they relied on sometimes threatened to overwhelm me.