Ten Steps to Happiness

by Daisy Waugh

  Colin had campaigned for a lesson in ‘being a Tennis Champ’ from the instant Nigel arrived. But when he finally succeeded in dragging the world’s 87th-ranker to the moss-covered court, he discovered that the game was a lot more boring and difficult than it looked. So while Nigel obligingly threw him balls, every one of which he missed, Colin chattered, and along the way delivered a garbled rendition of the standing of everyone in the house.

  ‘You’ve got to move your feet,’ Nigel interrupted him every now and then. ‘It’s no good just standing there swiping.’

  ‘So I reckon Sleaziburg’s got a bit of a thing for you,’ Colin said, flapping his racquet in the air while another ball drifted peacefully past his elbow. ‘’Cos o’ the way she looks at you. And they wanted her naked in the magazine, so she’s proba’ly got lovely boobies when she acsherly gets ’er shirt off. Even if you can’t exactly see…’

  ‘You’re not looking at the ball,’ said Nigel methodically.

  Nigel was not generally open to any new suggestions, but Colin’s comments about Anatollatia left quite an impression. Partly because Nigel, although too shy to answer when she spoke to him directly, had spent the last three days quietly admiring her. He liked her yellow hair and the glamorous way she changed her clothes each evening. He liked the way she was always laughing. Also, and for obvious reasons, he hadn’t noticed how dense she was.

  ‘You’ve got to step into the ball, Colin,’ he said. ‘Watch the ball, and then step into the ball.’

  ‘Plus I reckon she needs a fellow to take care o’ her,’ Colin puffed, swiping and stepping this way and that. ‘She’s not as bright as all that, you see. Whereas you’re good at sport. You see? An’ you know what? Bein’ a Royal lady and all that, I bet she’s loaded.’

  At supper that night, Colin insisted on organising the seating. First he put himself next to Chloe, then he put Messy next to Grey (for a moment it looked as though Maurice had shimmied his way between them, but then Grey, without saying a word, slowly walked all the way round the long dining-room table and sat himself down on her other side). Then he put Anatollatia and Nigel together.

  ‘Don’t worry if he’s a bit shy at the beginnin’,’ he yelled at Anatollatia as they settled side by side. ‘Why don’t you ask him stuff abou’ playin’ tennis? ’Cos that’s somethin’ he definitely feels super about. And don’ ask him about the cheatin’ thing, OK? Not unless you want your head bitten off!’

  Later, when he could squeeze a word in, Charlie interrupted Anatollatia and Nigel to ask him how Colin’s tennis lesson had gone, and Nigel said evenly, ‘Colin’s very enthusiastic, but we had a bit of trouble getting him to focus on the ball.’

  ‘Did he manage to hit it?’ asked Charlie. He glanced down the table to the end where Colin and Chloe were flicking peas at each other. ‘Colin? How did it go this afternoon? Nigel says he can’t get you to concentrate, which seems hard to believe. Did you manage to hit the ball even once?’

  ‘Bloody nearly,’ yelled Colin.

  Everyone laughed, except Nigel, who explained that it wasn’t really Colin’s fault. It was the tennis court.

  ‘The moss is very bad, isn’t it?’ said Charlie. ‘But everyone’s so bloody busy. There’s never time to do anything about it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do it,’ said Nigel. ‘If you’ve got the weedkiller. I can’t stand seeing a court in that kind of a state.’

  At some point during supper the General had commented to his neighbour on how tired Jo was looking and soon afterwards, much to her annoyance, a table-wide squabble had broken out about who among them should relieve her of which mundane chores. Jo resented even the mildest suggestion that at eight-and-a-bit-months-pregnant-with-twins she was any less capable than she usually was of anything. Her father-in-law’s observation had turned it into a matter for discussion by the entire household, and now Messy – Messy – was insisting on doing the shopping for her. The conversation must have coincided with an upsurge of some dreaded emotion-enhancing pregnancy hormone, because poor Jo, normally so self-controlled, dissolved into quiet tears.

  Messy was the first to notice it. She leant across the table, across Maurice (surreptitiously reading a text message on his mobile), and reached out for Jo’s puffy, pregnant hand. ‘Jo!’ she whispered warmly. ‘Please don’t worry! You mustn’t worry. It’s just a – fucking nightmare being pregnant. But it does – I mean – I know it’s hard to believe but you do feel normal again…eventually.’

  At which point Jo lost it completely. Her shoulders heaved, everybody stared, Charlie leapt from his seat at the opposite end of the table and rushed to comfort her. Suddenly they were all demanding that she and Charlie take some time off together. With swollen, blurry eyes she looked across at Charlie. He looked back at her and smiled. And through all the clamouring voices they lost themselves for a moment, just imagining the pleasure of being somewhere on their own…

  But the next morning as they were packing their suitcase and it seemed that nothing could puncture their happy mood, the subject of Messy’s departure date came up. It was a subject they’d been skirting around for several days. On this occasion their carefree mood made them less cautious than usual, and within seconds the conversation had turned into a row.

  Except during the small hours, when Jo lay awake and fretted about the threat she posed, she was never entirely clear what it was about Messy which offended her so much. She was good company. She was helpful and very kind. She spent hours hard at work in the kitchen garden, and just as many with Colin and Chloe, either teaching them both to read, or ‘optimising productivity’ as Colin had learned to call it, searching for stale eggs around the chicken run.

  ‘But it’s something we’re going to have to get tough about at some juncture,’ Jo said to Charlie. ‘She’s not exactly front page news anymore, so there’s really no need for her to be here now. And unless we lay down some sort of precedent none of our guests will ever leave again.’

  Charlie laughed.

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘I know it’s not funny. But it’s not very likely either. The whole point is that people should stay until they feel up to facing the world again. That’s the whole idea. And, Jo, thanks to you she’s paid us a bloody fortune.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s our bloody home, Charlie,’ she snapped. ‘And I should have thought we’d both be allowed to decide who lives in it and who doesn’t. Don’t you think?’

  ‘But it’s also our business, Jo. And you can’t just turf people out because they’re—Because you’re—Because they’re making you feel—’ He stopped.

  ‘Making me feel what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What? Making me feel what?’

  ‘…Oh come on, Jo. It’s obvious. She’s looking…I mean she’s lost a lot of weight, and Maurice and Grey are buzzing around her like a couple of moths…And you’re pregnant, for Christ’s sake. You’re probably feeling—’

  ‘Fuck you!’ She stormed out of the room.

  Charlie looked regretfully at the half-packed suitcase on the bed and considered going after her, as he assumed she was assuming he would. Distantly he heard her office door slam, and thought better of it. She was right, of course. It was her home. It was outrageous to expect her to share it with anyone she didn’t want to – however stupid the reason. But he didn’t feel like admitting as much just yet. He didn’t feel like going anywhere near her.

  He strode angrily out into the autumn sunshine, and headed, as he always did, for the farmyard, where he found Les having a tea break outside the sheep pen. He was struggling over one of the tabloids.

  ‘Hello, Les,’ said Charlie. ‘I didn’t know you read that old rag!’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, stuffing it under his jersey.

  ‘Oh. OK.’ Les denied everything, regardless of what it was, or of the evidence. It was one of the reasons, Charlie suspected, he was quite a boring conversationalist. ‘Have you seen the children?’

  ‘Children
? No!’

  ‘Thought they might like to see the new piglets.’ He signalled the pen behind him. ‘Must have farrowed last night. By herself. Five of them. Have you seen?’

  ‘I don’t know where the children are.’

  ‘Right then…Never mind.’ Charlie put his hands in his trouser pockets and was about to move off. ‘Incidentally, Les,’ he said mildly, ‘I hate to be meddlesome but why are you here? I thought you were in the bottom field today.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m just on my way.’

  ‘Fine…Good.’ But Les still sat there. ‘Well, go on then,’ said Charlie.

  ‘…Only I was jus’ wondrin’, Charlie,’ said Les, obstinately refusing to budge, ‘I was jus’ wondrin’ if you happen to know much about these plazmie television screens?’

  ‘These what?’

  ‘One of them reporter chappies was tellin’ me it’s like havin’ a cinema in yer own home.’

  ‘Really? How lovely,’ Charlie said vaguely. ‘No. I know nothing about them at all, I’m afraid. Never heard of them. If you see the children will you tell them the sow and her litter are down in the pen? And Les,’ he added as an afterthought. It was so obvious it seemed almost rude to remind him, but then – as Jo so often remarked – nothing was too obvious for Les. ‘These reporters hanging around…You know, don’t you, never to let them in?’

  ‘Yes I do, sir,’ he said quickly. ‘Yes I do most certainly.’

  ‘I mean, I hate to say it, Les, but you shouldn’t even be talking to them, really…Because once they know you’re working here they’re not going to leave you alone. They’ll offer you money to get information out of you.’

  ‘Will they?’ said Les, registering the surprise with such enthusiasm his voice leapt at least an octave.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie seriously. ‘And you’ve got to refuse. Are there reporters in the village today?’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen.’

  ‘OK. But if you do see any you won’t let anyone in, will you?’ Les didn’t reply at once. ‘Les, you are clear on that, aren’t you? It is vital that you never let anyone in through the gates. Not without passing it by Jo or me first.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Have you tried the tennis court? Young Colin’s been going on abou’ the tennis.’

  ‘Oh! Good. Fine.’ Charlie frowned. ‘Why do you keep calling me sir?’

  Instead of the children, he found Anatollatia, sitting on the spectators’ bank and cheering monotonously as Nigel, a basket of balls beside him, slammed one perfect serve after another over the net.

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Charlie wistfully.

  ‘God, it’s absolutely…’ she tried to think of another way of putting it, ‘amazing. Isn’t it? What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you and Jo were having a little holiday.’

  ‘Bit of an argument,’ he mumbled. ‘So we cancelled.’

  ‘Oh! Shame!’

  ‘By the way, Nigel,’ he shouted, to discourage her from pursuing the subject, ‘if ever you’re looking for someone to knock up with…I used to play quite a lot. And I would be…Well, I’d be honoured, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Nigel, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt, and revealing, to Anatollatia’s delight, a meaty but decidedly masculine stomach. ‘Yeah, well, maybe. Nothing much else to do round here, is there?’

  ‘Ooh, I wouldn’t say that!’ said Anatollatia flirtatiously.

  He smiled at her blankly, awaiting specifics, and it occurred to Charlie that he should probably move on.

  He was making a reluctant path back towards the house, preparing himself to forge some sort of peace with Jo, when he thought he heard voices coming from the hay barn behind the old stables. Les had complained about the children always being in there so he took a detour to get them out. But as he drew closer he realised that the muffled voices did not belong to children.

  ‘Who’s in there?’ he shouted. ‘What’s going on?’

  He pushed past the tractor, between the hay bales and almost fell on top of them, just where he was about to put his boot, both of them naked, except for a few strands of hay.

  Charlie burst out laughing.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Grey said irritably. ‘Fuck off, will you, Charlie? I thought you and Jo were away today, anyway.’

  He stepped back, tactfully looking away while Messy fumbled to cover herself. ‘Sorry to butt in,’ he said unconvincingly, and chortled. ‘I mean barge in. I thought you were journalists.’

  ‘Well!’ Messy said gamely. ‘Reassuring to know you’re so vigilant!’

  ‘Reassuring to see our guests are getting on so well.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Grey.

  ‘All right. I’ll, er – leave you to it then.’

  ‘No, no, not to worry,’ said Messy. ‘Funnily enough we were just leaving.’

  ‘No we bloody weren’t,’ said Grey, pulling her with him back into the hay.

  And so Charlie moved on again.

  It occurred to him as he walked away that he and Jo had created a matchmaker’s paradise here at Fiddleford, a love nest which seemed to work wonders for everyone except themselves. They were so embroiled in the running of the place they never seemed to have any time alone. And when they did he was probably talking about the council, or the water board, and she was boring on about her sodding pelvic floor. Or they were squabbling about Messy…Messy…looking good, he couldn’t help noticing. Better than good…Oh shit. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t Jo’s fault. But the fact was, thanks to the twins, he and Jo hadn’t managed a decent fuck for well over a month…

  He sauntered on, still more unwillingly, back towards the house and his angry wife. He was feeling uncharacteristically self-pitying. Did all marriages unravel as quickly as theirs was, he wondered, or was it his fault? Or was it hers? Or was it nobody’s? Or everybody’s? Or Messy’s? Or Maurice-bloody-marvellous-Morrison’s?

  But then, as he approached the old stables, he was distracted by voices once again.

  ‘…This was undoubtedly the concern, Derek. So I believe…’ came the unforgettable, nasal, monotonal whine which was Sue-Marie Gunston’s. ‘…Very hazardous, yes indeed. This isn’t strictly speaking my area, as you’ll be aware. But I would certainly envisage formal proceedings being the next logical step…’

  They were standing side by side, she and the man called Derek, in the archway beneath the stable yard’s rickety clock tower, both wrapped tight against the autumn warmth in brightly coloured anoraks with hoods which sat up and rubbed against their ears.

  The old stables had been built in the 1890s, soon after the original stables were destroyed by fire, and they were handsome but they weren’t exceptional. Built in the same red stone as the house and set around a paved courtyard, they were, however, exceptionally decrepit. One end was still used for his sister’s retired hunter, but the rest had for years now been used mostly for storing junk. So the stables were a magical place, filled with forgotten spoils: old paintings, dining-room chairs, sewing machines, broken sofas, old jewellery boxes, writing boxes, broken gramophone players…Somewhere amid all the mess, in one of the loose boxes to the left of the tower, there still stood a barouche which had belonged to the General’s great-grandmother. As children, Charlie and his twin had spent many forbidden hours rummaging around in there, searching for hidden treasure in the debris of their family’s past…

  ‘What the Hell,’ said Charlie, ‘are you two doing here?’

  When she saw Charlie a flicker of panic passed across Sue-Marie’s face. But it was swiftly replaced by the sprightly, blinding smile.

  ‘Hello there – Charles! Goodness! Certainly didn’t expect to see you. Out and about. Not on a chilly day like this!’

  ‘Who let you in?’

  Sue-Marie didn’t answer. ‘May I introduce you,’ she said instead, ‘to my colleague Derek Stainsewell? Derek also works with the Environmental Health Unit. He’s in Structure
, Preservation and Planning.’

  ‘Mr Stainsewell,’ said Charlie, choosing not to notice the hand that was proffered, and keeping his own in his trouser pocket. ‘How did you get in here?’

  Derek Stainsewell didn’t answer either. Instead he said, ‘As a matter of fact I was just on my way to find you. Apologies, Charles. I should have done so right away. However since you’re here, perhaps we could have an informal chat about these tremendous old stables…’ He looked politely at Charlie and waited for a response. When Charlie didn’t offer one, he continued anyway. ‘Apart from the preservational point of view, which I shall come to shortly, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, in its current state this building is a real hazard to public safety.’

  ‘It’s on private property. As of course are you.’

  ‘But there’s a public footpath four hundred yards that-a-way,’ chipped in Sue-Marie. ‘If a pedestrian should stray from that path…’ She shrugged, unable to articulate the horrendous possibilities. ‘Also of course, there are your “celebrity guests” to think about…’

  ‘Indeed I was saying to Sue-Marie, as a precautionary measure we really ought to be in our hard hats today.’

  Out of the corner of his eye Charlie spotted Les slithering off towards the village. For an early lunch. Or possibly another elevenses. ‘Les!’ Charlie shouted. Les jumped, but otherwise pretended not to hear. He continued walking. ‘LES!’ Charlie shouted again. ‘I’m over here!’ Les threw a guilty look over his shoulder, which was a mistake, because he caught Charlie’s eye. ‘Could you lend me a hand, please?’ Les shuffled reluctantly over.

  Charlie waited patiently until Les had joined them. ‘I don’t know – I can’t imagine – how these people got in, Les,’ he said coldly.

  ‘I didn’t let ’em in! I never seen ’em before in my whole life.’

  ‘—But could you show them out again, please? And lock the gate behind them. And when you’ve finished could you come and see me? I’ll be waiting for you at the house. I think you and I need to make a couple of things clear.’ He turned back to Derek and Sue-Marie. ‘And by the way you’re trespassing,’ he said. ‘Next time, either make an appointment. Or keep to the footpath, please.’