Ten Steps to Happiness

by Daisy Waugh

  A little frown. Confusion. ‘Grey McShane…I must say that’s a very familiar name. Have we met? I foolishly can’t remember.’

  ‘No,’ said Grey.

  ‘Ohhhh…So?’

  But no further explanation was forthcoming. They were saved from what looked set to be an awkward and quite hostile moment by the arrival of the General, at which point Grey slowly pulled himself up from the sofa and offered to get anyone a drink.

  ‘Oh Grey, you are kind,’ said Morrison, smiling automatically, his mind still rushing…Grey McShane…McShane…Grey McShane…Where the Hell had he heard that name before? Worst case scenario, and he hadn’t managed to discover the truth tonight, he would telephone his secretary in the morning and get her to find out. ‘I’ll have a glass of white wine if I could. That would be lovely.’

  And then Messy came in and he experienced a spasm of pure panic. A million thoughts spun through his head, first and foremost, that it was a setup.

  …But she actually looked much better than she had a couple of weeks ago, he couldn’t help registering. She’d lost weight. In fact she looked – she looked bloody fantastic. In a fat sort of way. But that wasn’t the point. The point was, he was a fool. Under normal circumstances Morrison didn’t commit himself to anything without first ordering abundant and usually quite unnecessary research. But now here he was, utterly unprotected, in a house – beautiful, admittedly – with a doddery, and possibly even slightly insane, General who incidentally drove like a bloody maniac, a bitch from Hell who’d insulted him on live television, a very tall and threatening-looking Scotsman whose name was disturbingly familiar, and God only knew what other odd bods still wandering the corners of this great pile, waiting to pounce on him at unpleasant moments…

  ‘Well I never!’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘If it isn’t my very own nemesis, Messy Monroe! What a – stunning – surprise. How are you? And what on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you,’ said Messy, returning his smile just as she hadn’t intended, because he was shaking her hand so nicely, and looking with such confiding humour into her newly made-up eyes. ‘Hiding out. This is Chloe, my daughter. Chloe, my darling, this is Mr Morrison, who made your mum look a bit of a twit on the telly the other day. And this is Colin. Colin, come and say hello. Colin and Chloe have recently become very obsessed by chickens.’

  In a swift and graceful whoosh Morrison concertina-ed himself down, so that his and Chloe’s heads were on a perfect level. ‘Hello, hello,’ he said, ‘are you a fairy princess? I bet you are!’

  ‘Do you know if it’s nearly supper?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She turned to Messy. ‘Is it nearly supper, Mum?’

  ‘Oh! So you have supper with the adults, do you? Isn’t that lovely?’ He straightened up to look at the mother. ‘Very European. After all they’re only kiddies for such a short time, aren’t they? Blink and you’ve missed it!’ His mind flicked back to when his own children were growing up. He tried to remember them – in paddling pools, sand pits and so forth. On holidays. On the beach. But at that time, as always, he’d been doing a lot more than blinking when he missed it all. He’d been building an empire. ‘No, but seriously,’ he moved quickly on, ‘what I really wanted to talk to you about was your book—’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Messy. ‘Not that again.’

  ‘No! No! Not a bit of it. It was actually terribly remiss of me, but I must admit I didn’t have the time to look at your marvellous book before we went on air all those weeks ago – and Messy, please, accept my apologies for stepping in when I did. The last thing on earth I wanted was to upset you. And I realise, with benefit of hindsight – ha! what a wonderful thing that is – that I did step in, rather, with my size ten boots. And of course you were handling what must have been a very difficult situation, very efficiently – and courageously, if I may say – without any help from me!’

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Messy, melting pathetically, the way people always did in the face of Mr Morrison’s energy and charm, ‘I was so nervous, that was the problem. I’m sorry. I was very rude.’

  ‘Not a bit! Not a bit! But the point is I took a quick peek at the book after the show and it occurs to me that your publicity people have been doing you quite a disservice. Because you’re actually making some very important points. Fascinating points. And funnily enough I’ve been meaning to contact you, because I thought perhaps – if you were willing and I’ve no doubt you’re incredibly busy, but if you can find a moment in your schedule—’

  Messy smiled.

  ‘Ha ha, yes. So easy to say, isn’t it? But, er, what are you up to at the moment?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be writing another book, but I can’t think of anything to write.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He nodded sympathetically. The word hopeless flashed through his mind. ‘Well, while you’re uncertain about that, why don’t you come along and give a few talks to some of our more vulnerable youngsters? Get them into discussion, encourage them to have a really good think about the issues you’ve raised in the book. Because of course I don’t need to tell you, body image among young people today…’

  Grey wandered up. ‘What’re you two witterin’ on about?’ he said.

  ‘Ah, Mr McShane. I was just suggesting to Messy—’

  ‘Oh, hello, Grey. Maurice has just had an interesting – terrifying, actually – but really a very good idea—’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘Because, you know, Maurice, it’s still something I feel very angry about.’

  ‘Well, ha ha—’ They laughed. ‘Messy! Ha ha! Goodness! So I opined! The mind wanders inexorably back to a certain television show! Ha ha ha!’

  ‘It’s dinner time, by the way,’ said Grey. ‘So whenever you’re ready.’

  At Grey’s instigation, Charlie seated Maurice and Messy at opposite ends of the long dining-room table. He put Maurice between Colin and Jo and needless to say, within minutes, he had worked his magic on both of them. He chatted enthusiastically, revealing an ideal balance of knowledge and curiosity in both chicken care and foetal gestation. He questioned Colin about the aggressive nature of bantam cocks – ‘I’ve always been fascinated by bantams, haven’t you?’ He questioned Jo about the nature of her heightened emotional and creative state, about her swollen breasts, vivid dreams, and difficulty in sleeping. They discussed the inferior treatment of pregnant women in western societies, as opposed to those in less developed cultures, where childbirth, they both agreed, was not ‘swept under the carpet’. Maurice Morrison looked interested and concerned, and pretended not to be revolted by the thought of Jo’s placenta coated in olive oil and pepper. ‘Apparently they’re chock-a-block with nutrients,’ he said. ‘Well exactly,’ said Jo. And it transpired they were as appalled as each other by Britain’s record on teen pregnancy. ‘We have to ask ourselves why,’ implored Jo. ‘Why isn’t the message hitting home? Where, exactly, are we going wrong?’ ‘Well exactly,’ said Morrison.

  Charlie looked across at them from the far end of the table, communicating with such enthusiasm and skill, and was reminded of Jo as he’d first met her, shining, as she always could, in the company of handsome, important men. He sighed.

  ‘Don’t you worry about it, Charlie,’ bellowed Grey, from about half a metre away. ‘They’re only talking bollocks.’

  ‘Oh I know that. I just wish I could join in.’

  ‘Thank God you can’t,’ he said. ‘Enough bloody chatter around this table already…By the way,’ he turned towards Messy, ‘Messy…Hey, Messy!’ But she was staring at Morrison again – marvelling, she couldn’t help it, at his ability to talk to people, torn between suspicion and envy, wishing, if the brutal truth be told, that she and Jo could swap places, just for a little bit…‘MESSY!’ bellowed Grey. She jumped. ‘Colin thought of an idea for your next book today. Did he tell you?’

  ‘Colin?’ She laughed. ‘Cheeky little sod. What does he know?’

  ‘I proba’ly know even more’
n you, Messy!’ Colin shouted back at her. He always shouted. ‘So you can hire me as your helper if you want.’

  She smiled. ‘Come on then. What’s the idea?’

  ‘Did you know, for example, Messy—’ Colin yelled, so loud even Jo and Maurice were temporarily distracted. ‘Did you know that the ancient Romans used to eat so much so’s they couldn’t fit nothin’ more in their bellies, and then they used to go and sick it up and start all over again! In’t that disgustin’?’

  ‘See?’ said Grey. ‘He says you should do a history of dieting. Since the Romans. Since the Greeks. The Egyptians. Since they invented bloody diets. God knows. Maurice, you probably do. When did they invent dieting, do you think?’

  ‘Ha ha. Grey, you flatter me. I’m afraid I’ve absolutely not a clue!’

  ‘Probably,’ said the General, winking and beaming at the assembled company, ‘on the same day they invented ladies!’

  It was breathtaking. Maurice Morrison managed to flash a grimace of schoolboy enjoyment at the General and somehow simultaneously roll his eyes with perfectly pitched, world-weary correctness at the women. And not a single person spotted it. ‘Mind you,’ he said seamlessly, ‘I have a sneaky little feeling the book may already have been written. Not that it matters. In the least. And well done, Colin, by the way. Only goes to show how great minds…’ But his last few words were drowned out by the sudden and deafening bray of the entryphone, newly installed at the bottom of the drive for people trying to get through the remote control gates.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the General, sitting bolt upright. ‘Isn’t that the gate buzzer? Did anyone else hear it?’

  ‘Aye, General. Well spotted. That’ll be the Royal stripper then. Anyone with jokes about the Queen an’ all o’ them? Let’s get ’em out now.’

  ‘Really, McShane,’ chuckled the General. ‘You are a shocker.’ He shuffled away, laughing merrily, to go and buzz her in.

  There was something altogether very festive in the air at Fiddleford that night. Everybody felt it. Grey’s dinner had been exceptional. Jo had sold syndication rights to Messy’s exclusive, Charlie had put off the water inspector again, and with the presence of Morrison, and the imminent arrival of Princess Anatollatia and Nigel the tennis player, it seemed to Charlie suddenly – and not just to Charlie but to Jo and to Grey and the General – that their refuge was now not only a reality but a success. A success. Even the chickens had started laying again.

  As soon as his father came back into the room, Charlie stood up. ‘Sorry everyone,’ he said. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I just thought, you know, before the stripper arrived – it was a good moment to propose a toast.’

  Morrison offered one of his less believable chuckles. ‘Who is this stripper you all keep talking about?’

  ‘She sounded rather lower-class,’ said the General, frowning slightly. ‘Jo, you’ve spoken to her. Can you explain that?’

  ‘I wanted to make a toast,’ persisted Charlie. ‘Very very quickly. Before she arrives. Just to say thank you all for being here, really. This house has been – a not particularly happy place in the last few years. Of course you all know about the animal slaughters a few months ago. But some of you may not know, my sister – my twin, actually – Georgie, Georgina, died nearly two years ago. Two years ago in December. And in many ways Fiddleford – I think Dad would agree – has not been – has been a very quiet place since then. But we all do love it – I do. Dad does. I think Jo does…’ He smiled. ‘I know Grey does. Anyway, we’ve had a lot of problems, financial and otherwise, and there have been times when I’ve wondered if we shouldn’t just accept the inevitable and sell up. This refuge idea – which we all four sort of created together – is Fiddleford’s last ditch…If this doesn’t work then I think we all know the game is pretty much up…But now that you people have been brave enough, generous enough, to take the gamble and come to this madhouse—’

  ‘Shame!’ rumbled the General nonsensically.

  ‘…and with the income you’re all bringing in: Maurice; Messy; Annatolah—’

  ‘Anatollatia,’ corrected Jo.

  ‘Anatollatia…And Nigel, tomorrow. And of course the miraculous chickens. Everything suddenly seems—well. Maybe it’s a bit premature, but this evening, standing here now…I just can’t see how we can fail.’

  ‘Too bloody right,’ said Grey. ‘Well done all of us! And God bless Fiddleford.’

  ‘Also. Just one more thing,’ said Charlie. ‘Sorry. I’ll hurry up. But, er, just one more thing…’

  He looked at Jo. She grinned at him.

  ‘Without wishing to be coy…But it seems like a good time to throw it in…’

  ‘Do get on with it, Charles,’ said the General.

  ‘But er – the point is – I mentioned Georgie earlier because,’ he cleared his throat, ‘the point is, I just thought people – Dad, especially – might be interested to know that er…the reason Jo is so grotesquely fat at the moment—’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘—is because we’re actually expecting twins.’ He looked from Jo to his father. ‘So – er. Here’s to the new twins!’

  The General didn’t say much. Like everyone else, he mumbled ‘to the twins’ as he lifted his glass. But his hands shook slightly. Afterwards he stood up and crossed to where Jo was sitting. He hovered over her uncertainly, patting her shoulder. And then in a sudden awkward rush, he swooped and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Wonderful news,’ he said. ‘Wonderful news.’ It was the first time he had ever kissed her.

  ‘Right then,’ said Charlie very briskly. ‘Sorry. If that was embarrassing for everyone. Now am I alone in thinking that before the stripper arrives, perhaps Colin and Chloe ought to be persuaded to go to bed?’

  ‘I’ve seen loads o’ strippers before now,’ yelled Colin.

  Everybody laughed.

  ‘What strippers?’ asked Morrison tetchily. ‘I do wish you’d let me in on the joke.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Charlie, ‘did Dad not say? She’s called Anatollalia—’

  ‘Anatollatia,’ said Jo. ‘Anatollatia von Schlossenerg. She’s some sort of European princess. About fifth cousin of the Queen. And she was a bridesmaid at Princess Di’s wedding. Or rather she was going to be, but they had to pull her out at the last minute because she wet her pants, poor little thing. And wouldn’t stop crying.’

  ‘You what?? And now she’s a stripper?’ bellowed Colin.

  ‘Shh! No! Yes and no,’ said Jo. ‘It’s complicated. Colin, I thought you were going to bed.’

  ‘We got Princess Slozzyberg comin’ here takin’ her panties off,’ shouted Colin, ‘an’ you think I’m goin’ to bed? You’re as mad as a hornet’s nest, you are. Bugger off!’

  ‘Shut up!’ But even Jo couldn’t help laughing. Everyone laughed. Until, from beneath the laughter, there came a sound of someone clearing her throat; it was a refined enough little sound, with more than a hint of refined impatience.

  ‘Ah-hem!’

  She was standing at the door that opened onto the hall, smirking slightly, obviously wanting to make an entrance. But she didn’t look in the least as anyone had expected.

  She was a small woman, barely five feet tall, with a strong stout body and gargantuan breasts which burst forth and sideways, at right angles, from beneath each armpit. She wore a tight, pale beige jersey with a polo neck which stopped around her second chin, making it hard to know where her face began and the chins and jersey ended. Her dark blue knee-length skirt, stretched tight across the hips, left no one in any doubt that she’d remembered her pants that morning.

  She cocked her head to one side, a large, pale head with a mousy blonde bob on the top. And smiled. Her bright little eyes creased up tight, and then tighter still, until finally they disappeared completely beneath folds of smiling skin. ‘Sorry, people,’ she said brightly. Her little eyes pinged open and darted quickly from face to face, looking at everyone, taking everything in. ‘Sorry all and sundry,’ she said. ‘I reall
y hate interrupting!’

  ‘Hey!’ said Chloe in disgust. ‘You don’t look like a princess!’

  ‘You don’t look much like a stripper, neither,’ said Colin.

  The eight faces at the dining-room table looked at her in resentful confusion. This was no Anatollatia.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked Grey.

  Sue-Marie Gunston was not a princess or a stripper. She was an Environmental Health Officer for Lamsbury District Council, come to do one of her spot checks. And should she encounter any cause for it, she explained apologetically, temporarily blinding herself with her own apologetic smile, she would be within her legal rights to ‘close this place down before you people have actually finished your – what is that?’ She peered over Maurice’s shoulder at his pudding plate. ‘Your cakey-gateauy-chocolatey thingummy! Ha ha ha!’

  ‘Is that s’posed to be funny?’ said Grey.

  ‘Ooo, but not to worry!’ she said. ‘I always like to tell people, so as we all know where we are. But it’s ever so unusual. I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

  SOME USEFUL SUGGESTIONS

  Disabled people are individuals just like everybody else…If someone looks ‘different’, avoid staring. Concentrate on what they are saying, not on the way they look…

  If you are talking to an adult, treat them like an adult.

  Insert to Department of Education and Environment’s leaflet DL170. The Disability Discrimination Act 1995. What Employers Need to Know

  (v)

  OUTSOURCE NON-HIERARCHICAL INTERPERSONAL NEEDS

  ‘…Crikey,’ said Charlie eventually. ‘Well. I suppose you’d better have some coffee.’ He headed off to the kitchen to fetch her some and she sat herself down in Anatollatia’s seat. Neatly, unselfconsciously, she opened a depressing-looking black plastic briefcase, pulled from it a depressing-looking walnut-veneer-style plastic folder and from that, an equally depressing yellow form. She immediately started writing.