As It Is On Telly

by Marshall, Jill

  Pearl: So, who is the real Bunty?

  Bunty (smiling): That’s a very good question, Pearl. I’ve been asking myself that a lot recently.

  Pearl: And why’s that?

  Bunty: Well, my husband had the snip without telling me, and it set off this whole chain of events that had me wondering: Why am I married to this man? What do we have in common? And when it comes down to it, what do I have in common with anyone apart from other housewives these days?

  Finn: He had the snip without telling you?

  Pearl: Finn, trust you to focus on that. Bunty’s baring her soul here. (Turns to Bunty). This issue of wondering where our real selves have gone is one that affects a lot of us as we approach middle age, isn’t it? What did you used to enjoy that you aren’t involved with any more?

  Bunty: Well, ahem, sex.

  Pearl rolls eyes understandingly and Finn starts to giggle.

  Bunty: Nothing unusual. Going out. Live music. Having fun. Talking to other adults during the day about things other than children or the shopping list.

  Pearl: And …

  Bunty: Fencing! I love fencing.

  Pearl: Well! That’s unusual. And is fencing something you could pick up again?

  Bunty: I need to. Right now. The guy’s here to look at the drains.

  Pearl: Pardon?

  Finn rolls onto his side in abject mirth and Pearl, too, starts to giggle.

  Bunty shook herself out of her reverie. She’d completely forgotten that the investigation of the constant pool of water at the bottom of the garden was due today. The excess moisture had churned up the mud near the fence to the extent that her lovely six-foot Waney Lap panels had toppled over in a light summer zephyr. There was no way it was going to survive the autumn, and while she could stomach an impromptu pond, she couldn’t abide the thought of having to replace the wood she had so carefully creosoted then painted a denim blue. Graham was talking about concrete, for God’s sake. She raced to the door.

  ‘Sorry, just … on the loo,’ she told the bemused drainage specialist.

  ‘Fine. I’m Dan,’ he said, holding out a hand, apparently without thinking twice about Bunty just having got off the toilet. He was probably up to his shoulders in crap every day anyway.

  ‘Dan? Dan, Dan the drainage man.’ Bunty clapped a finger to her mouth in an attempt to shut herself up.

  He raised an eyebrow – an attractive auburn eyebrow, exactly the shade the cashier in the supermarket had been aiming for. ‘That’s me. Perhaps I could … have a look at the problem?’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ Bunty pulled herself together and led him through the house and out into the garden.

  Like so many gardens in the area, this was a small, fully enclosed space, half-decking, half-lawn, flanked by the odd rhododendron bush and some random bedding plants. Just to the side of one of the sorry-looking flowerbeds was the offending pool, Bunty’s beautiful pine fencing panels leaning drunkenly towards it like Narcissus hoping to spot his reflection.

  ‘I only noticed it when my fence got wobbly,’ said Bunty, trying to recover from their introduction and sound at least a little sensible. The thought danced across her mind that Dan was probably very used to middle-class, middle-aged housewives simpering, losing their cool. He was rather attractive for a drainage man. Well, for any kind of man really.

  Flexing his green uniform across his burly shoulders, Dan crouched down to study it more closely, looking left and right, and then poking a stick into the depth of it. Bunty tried to ignore his bottom, sitting atop the heels of his muddy boots like a pair of very edible cabbages. ‘It goes down quite a long way. Suspect it’s the overflow from the house behind, running up the road there.’

  ‘Oh, that would make sense. It’s Mary’s garden. She hasn’t been able to look after it properly since her husband died. It is fixable?’

  He grinned. ‘Everything’s fixable, for a price.’

  ‘Price doesn’t matter, but can you save my fence?’ Bunty looked down at him anxiously. ‘I’m very fond of fences. I took a long time over this one.’

  ‘It’s … very nice.’ Dan stepped around the puddle and studied the foundations. ‘You might need new concrete posts. These are quite crumbly.’ Then he smiled at her. ‘But I think your fence will be okay.’

  Bunty smiled back. It was ridiculous, she knew, to be so concerned about a few panels of wood, but her very first job, her Saturday job, had been selling fencing in the local DIY store, and she had held an affinity for it ever since. The feeling of power brought about by being able to inform some rough-skinned, paunchy, middle-aged man (Graham, in fact) exactly what he needed to enclose his garden was completely enervating. She, a tiny fifteen-year-old, had known every variation of fixing, panels, trellises, and capping known to mankind. Womankind. It was hard to believe now, looking back. And for the first time she realised why she was so fond of her fences. For one, they made her feel safe. Contained, but prettily. But for another, they reminded her of the woman she used to be. ‘The real me, Pearl,’ she whispered.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Oh.’ Dan straightened from his prodding and squelching activities. ‘I’ll just get my camera.’

  For a moment, Bunty thought he was going to take a picture of her. Why else would he want a camera? He was attracted to her! Wanted a memento. He might … might even kiss her. She could have sex! Well, why not, she thought, eyeing him surreptitiously. He really was quite tasty, and Graham was tarting around like a seventeen-year-old. What was to stop her? Apart from the fact that attractive drainage men probably got propositioned on a daily basis. She might catch something vile. Just think where those hands were most of the day. And how very clichéd, how very Lady Chatterley.

  It was only when he hauled up the iron square over the drain that she realised what he meant. ‘Your special drainage camera.’ Oh my God, she thought, groaning inwardly. What on earth was wrong with her head these days?

  ‘Are you okay?’ Dan stopped on his way to the van. ‘You’ve gone a funny colour.’

  ‘Just a … a hot flush.’

  He almost winced visibly, and Bunty could have kicked herself again. Now she was menopausal in her late thirties? Nice. She leaned on the fence, fanning herself, as Dan’s green back retreated up the garden. No doubt planning to leap into his van, drive away, far away, and never come back.

  A light touch on her hand made her jump. ‘Hello, Bunty. Are you all right?’

  Mary’s kindly wrinkled face was peering up at her from the garden behind. ‘I was hanging out the washing and saw you there.’

  ‘Mary, how are you?’ Bunty still found it hard to talk to her lovely neighbour without a lump forming in her throat. It was ten or more months since Colin, her equally kindly husband, had fallen down in the supermarket with a stroke from which he had never recovered. Mary was still doing her washing every Tuesday, hanging out her sad, gigantic knickers that must have hung like flags without any wind on her rather wasted frame – another result of Colin’s stroke.

  Mary waved a pair at her. ‘I’m fine thanks, love. Just hanging out my smalls. Is that man sorting your fence out?’

  ‘Oh, Mary.’ Bunty scratched her head. Where to start? ‘He’s a drainage man. We’ve got this pool of water in here, and he thinks it might be coming from your pipes.’

  At that, Mary paled, her hand fluttering to her throat. ‘Oh, love,’ she said in tones of huge dismay. ‘Will he have to dig up my garden? Only Colin spent so long on the borders, and Flinders is buried under the tree. And … oh, it’ll cost a fortune, won’t it?’

  ‘It won’t cost you a thing,’ said Bunty firmly. This was some more tube cutting and diverting that Graham could bloody well pay for, as well as the exhumation and re-burial of Flinders, their tabby. ‘And whatever happens, we’ll make sure they respect everything. Everything.’

  Mary nodded, mollified, her eyes slightly less rheumy than they had been a moment ago. ‘Colin always dealt with all that stuff
, you know. I’m good with the washing and the polishing and Victoria sponge, but tradesmen were always his area.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bunty gently. Theirs had been a happy division of labour, not like hers and Graham’s.

  Of course, at first she’d been content just to be looked after, post Adam. And then there’d been Charlotte. Then kitchen and bathroom renovations, fixing up the drive, painting fences. What exactly had she done for the last few years, though? Charlotte was at secondary school, barely there. Graham was at work, or squash (which she now took to mean ‘at another woman’s’ or possibly ‘in surgery’), and was also barely there. The house was perfect, and so brimful of labour-saving devices that the housework practically did itself. What did she do? What was it that she, Bunty McKenna, actually contributed to this life? Whatever it was, or wasn’t, it had created a pool of festering resentment, not unlike the stagnating puddle at her feet. But Judge Judy, Trisha and any number of daytime chat shows led her to believe that being there for the children was a worthwhile activity, that she should be recompensed enormously for the massive workload of sitting on her sofa watching … Judge Judy, Trisha, and any number of daytime chat shows.

  ‘Better get on,’ said Mary, tweaking on her clothes pegs. Bunty did so much of her drying in the tumble dryer that she would have been hard pressed to say where her paltry stock of clothes pegs actually was.

  Suddenly Bunty grabbed the other end of the peg. ‘Why? Why do you have to get on, Mary?’ She probably looked rather feverish, and Mary did recoil slightly, but Bunty persevered. This was a time for change. For new routines. For not ‘getting on’, but actually getting off if the mood required it. ‘Leave the washing. Go and get some of that Victoria sponge, and come and have a cup of tea with me.’

  Mary looked confused, hesitant, and Bunty realised how much her routine meant to her. She clung to it as if she was hanging onto a bit of Colin. ‘It’ll start to smell if I don’t hang it out. I’ll just end up washing it again.’

  ‘I’ve got a tumble dryer,’ said Bunty. ‘While we’re having a natter, it will dry to a fluffy softness you could never imagine.’

  Mary’s eyes brightened. ‘I’ve only got a bit of Bakewell tart.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Bunty. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  It wasn’t much of a change, inviting a woman in her seventies round for English Breakfast (the closest Bunty had to ‘ordinary’ tea) and a slice of Bakewell tart – tart that the guest had to provide herself due to the sickening healthiness of Bunty’s cupboards. But it was a start. It was something new. She was reclaiming her life. Her Buntyness. And it didn’t involve shagging the gardener, which had to be a good thing.

  But after her naughty hour with Mary, which they both enjoyed with the cheeky glee of kids playing hooky, she answered the phone to a slightly bigger change. A date, tomorrow, with a Croesus Club member called Jason.

  She’d never heard of a rich man called Jason who wasn’t a film star. And she couldn’t even think, when it came to it, of too many of them, apart from the monster that leapt out of the lake in the Friday the 13th movies … Bunty shook her head. Too many movies. Too much TV. Too much goddamn imagination. It had always been a problem.

  *

  To: buntymckenna@ntsworld.com

  From: admin@croesusclub.com

  Dear Bunty,

  Just to confirm the rendezvous with Jason, member 242, at The Pig and Cauli, tomorrow at 7.30 p.m.

  As our consultant, Gemma, will have informed you, as responsible dating management practitioners, we would always advise that you tell someone where you are meeting and check with them afterwards that you are home safe and sound. Meet in an open, well-lit environment and do not invite your prospect to your home until you have had time to ascertain his character. Our vetting procedures, while very thorough, can only go so far.

  Have a lovely time!

  Priscilla.

  To: admin@croesusclub.com

  From: buntymckenna@ntswold.com

  His surname isn’t Dahmer, is it? Or Bundy?

  Bunty

  To: buntymckenna@ntsworld.com

  From: admin@croesusclub.com

  Hello Bunty

  I’m afraid that according to our membership privacy protocols, I am not at liberty to divulge Jason’s surname. If he wishes to tell you himself tomorrow, that is our member’s prerogative.

  Best wishes

  Priscilla

  To: admin@croesusclub.com

  From: buntymckenna@ntswold.com

  Sorry, Priscilla, that was another joke. B.

  To: buntymckenna@ntsworld.com

  From: admin@croesusclub.com

  Dear Bunty

  Your safety is never a joke to us.

  Yours

  Priscilla

  To: admin@croesusclub.com

  From: buntymckenna@ntswold.com

  Hi P, no, I see that, of course, sorry. Sorry. B.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Getting ready for a very furtive date was distinctly nerve-racking. Bunty was quite amazed that Graham actually had the stomach for it, but there he was, lumbering around in the corner of the bedroom, throwing white shorts and a rather armpitty polo shirt into a sports bag in readiness for his ‘squash’ game. Bunty wondered what, or who, he would be squashing, as she turned her nose away from the smell. He had this subterfuge down to a fine art, even packing shirts that had been pre-sweated in his attempts to con her.

  ‘Right, that’s me,’ he said, zipping up the bag with a flourish. ‘I think you could cancel Kristiana, you know. Charlotte can look after herself for an hour and a half until I’m home.’

  Bunty covered her smile by swiftly applying some M•A•C Soft and Slow to her full lower lip. That made sense. If Kristiana were here with Charlotte, she couldn’t be there with Graham. Or even here with Graham, with Charlotte apt at any moment to burst into the room demanding more food, more money, or more electricity for one of her vast array of technological devices.

  ‘It’s illegal,’ she said eventually, as Graham stood with his hand on his hip – his more streamlined hip – waiting for an answer. ‘She has to be fourteen before we can leave her on her own. And quite frankly she needs watching, unless …’ She eyeballed Graham in the mirror. ‘How do you spell vagina?’

  There was a long pause. ‘What?’

  ‘Vagina.’ Bunty said it in as slurred a fashion as she could manage without sounding like she’d been hitting the gin. Didn’t want to give it away. ‘How do you spell it?’

  ‘More like: Why would I spell it?’

  Bunty sighed. ‘Just humour me, Graham.’

  ‘All right,’ he said with a slightly lascivious grin, looking up into the mirror like a kid at a spelling bee. ‘Vagina: V … A … G …’

  ‘Okay, it’s not you.’

  ‘It’s not me?’

  ‘No. Thank God.’

  Big wiggling bums might still be Graham, but she was pretty sure he would know exactly how to spell that so the test was pointless. Shoving her eyeliner back in her makeup bag, she shooed him out of the room, ignoring his bewildered expression.

  Downstairs, the pneumatic Kristiana had already commandeered the remote control and was fighting with Charlotte over whether to watch The Simpsons or Project Runway. Charlotte clearly favoured the latter. ‘That gay guy totally loses it tonight,’ she whined. ‘I’ve been waiting all week to see it.’

  ‘You are too young for gay guys and plunging necklaces,’ purred Kristiana in her peculiarly American-tinged English.

  ‘Necklaces? I’m too young for necklaces?’

  ‘I think Kristiana meant necklines, Charlotte,’ said Bunty from the doorway. ‘And I agree. You are too young for gay guys and plunging necklines. And for looking up rude words on the computer.’

  The brilliant flush that swept across Charlotte’s pimples was all the evidence she needed, but Bunty was temporarily distracted by the appearance of Graham beside her. Would he give himself away?

  ‘Don
’t worry, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Your mum’s losing it. She’s just been asking me to spell rude words too.’

  Kristiana raised a beautifully arched, golden eyebrow. The two together could have been used as an advert for Macdonalds. ‘Mrs McKenna, I have a very good dictionary if you need to borrow it.’

  ‘Thank you, but I know how to spell all the rude words I need to, thank you.’ This wasn’t going quite as planned. Instead of chastising her daughter and making sure the childminder wasn’t bonking her husband, she was coming across as some kind of perverted schoolteacher. ‘Look, never mind, just make sure Charlotte goes to bed before ten, doesn’t go on the computer unsupervised, and doesn’t watch anything she shouldn’t, including Project Runway.’

  ‘Aw, Mu-um …’

  ‘I’ll be back before ten anyway,’ interjected Graham.

  Bet you will, thought Bunty darkly. Quick grope in the downstairs cloakroom as he got Kristiana’s coat for her – she could see it already. She just hoped Jason was going to be up to the challenge.

  ‘What time are you back, darling?’ said Graham solicitously.

  ‘When I feel like it,’ replied Bunty.

  A slight frown passed across Graham’s face, but once again Bunty ignored it as she blew a kiss towards Charlotte, who rolled her eyes, and headed out of the door. She clambered into her Mini Cooper, then paused. Here was an ideal opportunity to see what Graham was actually getting up to when he purported to play squash. Checking her watch, she found she had a full thirty minutes before her meeting with her mysterious millionaire, so she pulled down a side road and waited for Graham to ease by in the company Mondeo.

  As soon as he’d gone by, Bunty pulled out again, sliding down in her seat, almost wishing for a headscarf and dark glasses. She rang Kat. ‘Guess where I am?’

  ‘At the pub? You’ve seen him already and can’t decide whether he’s the pig or the cauli.’