Ten Steps to Happiness

by Daisy Waugh

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlie. To burst in on you like this. Only I didn’t know what else to do. After all you’ve done for me…and I like you both so much. I didn’t feel I could sit on it any longer. And watch your marriage unravel because of a simple miscommunication. Do you see?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t be silly.’ Charlie pushed back his chair to indicate that the conversation was over, forced a smile, and thanked him. Once again. ‘Once again,’ he said, ‘thank you. Thank you, Maurice. We seem to spend our lives thanking you.’

  ‘Not at all. My pleasure entirely.’ Maurice shook the hand that was held out to him and quickly slithered out of the room again. He stopped at the door. ‘By the way,’ he whispered, ‘if you want Messy, she’s in the drawing room at the moment. On her own.’

  Charlie groaned. He had better get on with it then.

  Tap tap tap.

  Jo was on the telephone in her office. ‘Anatollatia isn’t doing any press at the moment. None at all. I’m sorry. She’s had quite a rough ride recently. She’s feeling pretty battered, and she’s here just trying to unwind. That’s right. It’s what Fiddleford is for…’ He heard her laughing at something.

  It was disconcerting, he thought, how professional she sounded when you couldn’t actually see what she looked like. She looked like a hot air balloon. Like a total freak—Christ! What a nightmare thought. What if Messy had twins? She’d be disgusting! Quickly, to distract himself, he tapped on Jo’s door again, a little harder this time.

  ‘…Anatollatia doesn’t read the papers at all anymore. No! And, no, she certainly was not responsible for that. It was a member of staff who has since been fired…I know. Of course I know that and I must admit that was our initial assumption. But people can change. She—Well, a little bit, yes, I think she has. She rides – we’ve got an old horse here. Plays with the children. Feeds the chickens. Actually she tidies a lot, funnily enough. Which is lovely for us! She just potters about, really. Recovering. She loves it here. All our guests do. In fact they love it too much. We can’t seem to get any of them to leave!’

  Tap tap tap. Maurice came in. He hated waiting.

  ‘So anyway, thanks for calling, and I’ll certainly let you know if anything changes. Yes. With Nigel. But he’s not doing press either. No. As I say. Right now neither of them’s giving any interviews at all. So it’s a No. No. No!’ She laughed. ‘Goodbye, Paul!’

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Maurice.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Maurice,’ she said warmly. ‘Come on in.’ Maurice’s visits to her office usually started so well. She still hadn’t noticed how depressed they always left her feeling. He would encourage them to begin with a lively conversation about Jo’s disillusionment with New Labour, with party politics in general (and so on), during which Maurice would wait patiently and patiently nod, and patiently wait and nod patiently…Until it was time to make a delicate reference to the Messy dilemma, drop a delicate hint that things were getting worse, and mop up with some delicate support.

  ‘Jo, darling, you’re going to be livid. I’ve done something a bit naughty. Actually more than naughty. Something terrible.’

  She laughed. ‘What on earth have you done?’

  ‘Only I’ve been feeling so bloody awful for you. I just couldn’t stand to watch it any longer.’

  ‘Watch what?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘I had a word with Charlie. Sort of man to man. Yes, yes, I know.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘And all that nonsense! But I couldn’t stand it any longer. I told him—Jo darling, I told him you were very suspicious of what he was up to. I’m sorry, angel. I know it’s absolutely none of my business and you’re probably furious. You have every right to be furious. Are you furious?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said automatically.

  ‘But the important thing is he feels terrible. Bloody awful. Of course. Who wouldn’t? I actually think they are a teeny bit in love with each other – in a silly adolescent sort of way obviously. I mean silly. A silly way. Nothing to worry about. Of course. The point is he knows how important you are to him. How important you are to the house…So anyway…’ Maurice shrugged. ‘He’s in the drawing room now. Telling her to go, I imagine…’ He smiled at Jo, a little smile of victory, which she was supposed to share with him. ‘I think we’ll find she’ll be out of Fiddleford by lunch time.’

  ‘Right,’ Jo said finally. She’d had enough. She hauled herself up from her chair and left the room.

  ‘Jo? Jo, where are you going?’

  He followed her out into the corridor. ‘Maurice,’ she said, ‘thank you for everything you’ve done and said, and I’m sure it was all done with the very best intentions. But I think you’ll appreciate in the end this is something between me and my husband. So…If you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Of course. I’m sorry.’ He stepped quietly back into the shadows.

  When she opened the door to the drawing room she saw Charlie sitting on the sofa beside Messy, one hand pushing back his thick dark hair, the other hovering above Messy’s knee. He was looking at her, trying to work out the kindest, most tactful way to begin. He glanced up, saw Jo and instinctively snatched his hand away.

  ‘Charlie?’

  He leapt to his feet. They stared at each other while she waited hopefully for some other explanation, an explanation which might persuade her to stay. She clung onto the door handle, saying nothing, while the world around her crumbled. It occurred to her that until then – until that moment – she had never really believed it was true. But the look of guilt on his face, his lack of words, his refusal to say anything to bloody well explain himself…

  ‘…Charlie?’ she said again.

  ‘…Jo?’ said Messy innocently. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Jo, darling,’ Charlie stuttered, ‘I was just—We were just—’

  But the humiliation of standing there, trying not to faint, listening while he fumbled for an explanation, was much more than she was willing to wait for. She walked away.

  She locked her bedroom door behind her and started to pack. When he followed her, stood on the upstairs landing and pleaded and shouted and even tried to kick the door in, she ignored him. She put on a Walkman to drown his voice out.

  And when she came out and tried to edge round him with her great big belly, Charlie had no choice but to carry her great big suitcase downstairs.

  And put it into the boot of the car.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, as she squeezed herself in front of the steering wheel. ‘Please, Jo. Where are you going?’

  She tried to close the car door but he held onto it.

  ‘Jo? Tell me, please.’

  She started the engine and started driving anyway, but he clung onto the door handle.

  ‘Where can I find you?’

  Maurice, lingering impotently by the library curtain, could only stand and spy. ‘Bugger!’ he muttered to himself as her car accelerated out of view. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’ Somehow or other he’d gone and got rid of the wrong girl.

  He was about to wander away when he saw the Land Rover hurtling up the drive after her. So he was following, was he? Well, well. While the cat’s away the mice will play. And so on.

  Or perhaps…He smiled. Perhaps he should have put that the other way around?

  Put on protective clothes before entering a food area…Protective clothing is designed to protect food from contamination and you from harm. It should be:

  suitable to the task

  clean and in good condition

  light coloured so that dirt will show easily, prompting you to change into clean replacement clothing

  easy to clean…

  Typical examples include: overalls, jackets, trousers, aprons, neck scarves, hats, hair nets, beard nets, moustache nets.

  Always put on [nets] before you put on other protective clothing to avoid displacing hair.

  Food Safety First Principles Workbook, Chartered Institute of Environmental Health

>   (viii)

  INITIATE ZERO-TOLERANCE STRATEGY TO CONFRONT ADVERSE BEHAVIOURS

  It was a subdued crowd which gathered in the drawing room that evening. Nobody had heard a word from Charlie or Jo since they’d sped off in their separate cars, and neither was answering their mobile. So while Messy, Grey and the General gnawed half-heartedly at the bones of a pointless conversation the others – even Colin – sat very quiet and bewildered. Everyone was waiting to start supper, only Maurice – eccentrically, since it had been dark for hours – had disappeared on another of his runs.

  They all jumped at the sound of the intercom.

  ‘About bloody time too,’ said Grey. ‘Stupid buggers must o’ gone off without their gate controls.’

  ‘They jus’ went off to ’ave the babies,’ Colin yelled happily, leaping up. ‘So there’ll be four of ’em now. And the little ’uns’ll be squarlin’, for bottles of milk or nappies an’ so on.’

  But when the General returned from buzzing them in he hardly looked the ecstatic new grandfather. ‘It’s that abominable council woman again,’ he said. ‘The plain one. She’s banging on about the kitchen. I think we need Mr Morrison. Does anyone know where he’s gone?’

  They all headed off in different directions to go in search of him. ‘I say, McShane,’ the General called apologetically. ‘In the absence of Charlie and Jo, I don’t suppose you’d mind sticking around, would you? Only the woman was talking so much bloody nonsense into the machine, I’m not sure I’ll understand anything she says.’

  Sue-Marie arrived with her prohibition notice in an envelope which, as she stood on the steps outside the front door, she proceeded to open herself. ‘I’ve addressed it to you, Mr McShane, as well as to Mr Charles Maxwell McDonald…Is he here?’ She moved her head to one side and squinted into the space between Grey’s chest and the General’s shoulders. But the hall behind them looked empty.

  ‘He’s not,’ said the General.

  Grey took the papers from her and shoved them into his pocket.

  ‘Will that be it then?’ said the General. ‘Thank you very much,’ and he started closing the door. But she put her foot in front of it.

  ‘Actually it’s not quite as simple as that,’ she said. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘No,’ they both said.

  ‘Your emergency prohibition notice, which is effective immediately, will need to be displayed at the kitchen entrance and, as I recollect, there are several doors offering access. So I’ve provided you with copies. Do you have some Sellotape?’

  ‘Do we have what?’ said Grey.

  ‘You should understand that, with regard to preparation of all or any bibulations and/or edibles, it is illegal for you to continue using the premises, any part of said premises, or any equipments described by me in Paragraph Two.’

  ‘What? What the Hell is she talking about?’ said the General. ‘Can’t you persuade her to speak English?’

  ‘Furthermore,’ she continued, ‘you should understand that you shall not be permitted to use the specified prohibited premises, part premises or equipments at this location until either a court decides you may do so, OR, as in Paragraph Three, the local authority issues you with appropriate certification to enable such action.’

  ‘But what’s the point in speaking,’ said the General in exasperation, ‘if you refuse to make any sense?’

  ‘Anyone who knowingly contravenes this notice,’ she ploughed heedlessly on, ‘is guilty of an offence for which offenders are liable to be fined and/or imprisoned for up to two years. Now. I need to ascertain that the notices are duly affixed to all equipments and access points. So shall you open the door or must I refer this to the authorities?’

  The General gazed at her. ‘Good God,’ he said at last, and slowly stood back to allow her in.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said pertly.

  The kitchen had changed since she’d last been in there. She found Charlie, Colin and Chloe’s newly laid, non-porous floor tiles. She found Grey and Messy’s cupboards perfectly sheathed in the recommended easi-clean white gloss paint. She found Jo’s brand-new probe thermometer, and beside it a book to record the temperature of every dish at time of serving. She found Anatollatia’s colour-coded cooking utensils hanging in regimented rows, the General’s colour-code chart on the wall, which explained to Grey (as if he honestly cared) that the utensils with green stickers were meant for cooking vegetables. She found a second fridge installed, with a sign on the front which read RAW MEAT ONLY.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, obviously put out. ‘Goodness!’

  Maurice hadn’t mentioned any of this.

  ‘Aye. I thought you’d like it,’ said Grey.

  But it was too late to turn back now. Not without looking a fool. Besides, the floor tiles, when wet, would almost certainly be slippery. And if Maurice Morrison said there was a mouse infestation, then a mouse infestation there clearly was. If Maurice Morrison said the kitchen should be closed, so be it. Emotions aside (impossible of course) Mr Morrison knew what he was talking about. He was a Government Minister whose Health and Safety systems had been used as a prototype at her Health and Safety college. If something happened in this kitchen now, and she had ignored his recommendations, she would find it very hard to defend her position to him, let alone to her team leader. Besides which, anyway, she didn’t like the people here. They thought they were so wonderful. They thought they could do what they liked.

  So without risking another word on the matter, she set about affixing her notices, and Grey could do nothing but stand and watch.

  ‘What,’ he said eventually, leaning against the Aga, which was still (and Grey could only hope she didn’t notice it) exuding all the tantalising smells of their dinner, ‘are we meant to be doing for food, darlin’? There’s ten of us living in this house. Give or take. Should I notify the Social Services that we’re in danger of starvin’ to death out here? Perhaps they could send us some o’ their meals on wheels? Or don’t you do those anymore?’

  ‘I’m sorry that’s not my problem. But I do reiterate, anyone caught acting in breach of a prohibition order is liable to two years’ imprisonment. So I should think, Mr McShane, with your previous experience, you might find it worthwhile to pop that nice dinner you’ve prepared into the bin, and nip out for some ready-made sandwiches.’

  ‘Och, fuck off.’

  During the long drive back to London Jo had racked her brain for an alternative, but after nearly five hours she had been forced to acknowledge that there was really only one person she could face under the circumstances. She swallowed her pride and checked in with her mother.

  Mrs Smiley lived alone in a tiny but very tastefully decorated mews house in Hampstead. Recently divorced, she’d taken up painting with great verve and claimed to have started writing a novel. But since she spent most of her time abroad these days, travelling with an old girlfriend to various developing nations, taking interminable photographs of the indigenes looking life-affirming under difficult circumstances, it was unlikely that the novel had progressed far.

  Mrs Smiley was not a particularly warm woman, and she had been disappointed by Jo’s choice of husband from the start. She didn’t approve of marriage anyway – not since her own divorce had come through. And Charlie Maxwell McDonald was a far cry from anything she had envisaged for her advanced, metropolitan daughter. He was pleasant enough, and kind, and certainly good-looking – if you liked the athletic, film star look (which Mrs Smiley claimed she didn’t). But Mrs Smiley, who only watched films if they were showing at the ICA, who only ever read unreadable literary novels, who regurgitated the Guardian editorial comment on every issue of the day, and still believed she was delivering an independent opinion, who described Umbria as her ‘spiritual home’ and who loved eating pulses, felt justified in confiding to all and anyone that her heroically attractive and uniquely decent son-in-law was ‘ever so slightly dim’.

  So although of course she was saddened, she also felt quietly vindicated when she dis
covered Jo, with whom she had a civilised but distant relationship, standing in floods of tears on her doorstep.

  ‘You’re lucky you caught me, Jo,’ Mrs Smiley said, as she made her daughter a cup of ginger and camomile tea and settled down beside her at the new wooden breakfast bar. ‘Jean and I are off to Uzbekistan the day after tomorrow. But I can rearrange if you like. Really. It’s no trouble at all.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Jo said dutifully.

  ‘Oh. Are you sure, darling? Because of course I can…’

  There was a knock on the door.

  Jo’s heart leapt. ‘That’s him!’ she whispered. And tried again. ‘That’s him,’ this time trying to hide the hope in her voice, not just from her mother but from herself. ‘I think he’s been following me all the way. If it is, Mum, you mustn’t let him in!’

  Mrs Smiley frowned. Though she loved her daughter as much as she loved anyone, she also happened to have plans for the evening, which she was now obviously going to have to cancel. ‘What happened between the two of you?’ she said irritably. ‘I mean it’s terribly bad timing, isn’t it, darling? With the twins.’

  ‘Shhh!’

  They heard another knock and then the telephone started to ring. Fearing it was Charlie, outside and using his mobile, Jo leant across and quickly lifted the telephone off the hook. Mrs Smiley didn’t notice.

  ‘Jo!’ she heard Charlie shouting. ‘Jo! I know you’re in there! Jo! Please! Come out!…I don’t know what fucking mad and stupid ideas you’ve got in your head, but please…Jo…Please…What’s happening to us? Come to the door…For Christ’s sake, JO, I LOVE YOU!’

  ‘This is intolerable,’ Mrs Smiley said briskly. ‘I refuse to be barracked at inside my own home.’ She stood up.

  ‘No!’ Clambering to intercept her, sending her chair flying, whacking her tumid belly against the corner of the table, wincing with the pain, Jo grabbed at her mother’s cardigan. ‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare go near that door…He can’t stay there for ever, can he?’ she said. ‘Eventually,’ (the realisation was accompanied by a fresh wave of misery) ‘eventually he’ll have to leave.’