by Caron Allan
Hmm. How am I going to make Madison and Steve’s dreams come true? Do I even know what their dreams are? I suppose it’s not exactly rocket science—they want what we all want—to be happy, loved and respected by that one special person who accepts us for who we are, and for whom we don’t have to put on an act or erect some façade to protect our essential nature.
Speaking of which, Matt came in a moment ago. He dropped a kiss on my hair and said his usual “alright Darlin’?” How that used to irk me! But now I just think he’s so sweet and though he didn’t stick around for long, I know he’s there, somewhere nearby, and if there was a problem or anything worried me, I could tell him and he’d sit next to me and listen to me and ask if there was anything he could do to help.
Must plan something special for our first anniversary cropping up in a few months.
And that is exactly what Madison, Steve and everyone else in the world is looking for: to be happy, and to be loved, to be someone’s Darlin’.
Saturday June 27th—4pm
Today, I was quite upset to see ‘For Sale’ boards outside the cottages that used to be Henrietta and Mavis’s, and the others in that row. it looks as though the landlord has decided to sell the whole terrace and realise his assets.
I do hope someone nice moves in—we haven’t got very many really nice people in the village, and the cottages are so central, if they go to weekend villagers from London or somewhere, it will completely destroy the character of the village. We need people who are going to live there all the time and not just for holidays.
There’s a small estate of ‘affordable housing’—basically a modern version of council houses with its attendant strange array of people, dogs, old prams, cars on bricks, plastic flowers and gnomes.
Fortunately, that’s at the other end of the village and tucked around a slight bend and off the main road, so I can’t even see it unless I actually drive past—so it is possible to pretend the whole village is a kind of 1950s Miss Marple type thing.
At my end of the village, there’s myself, the little parade of terraced cottages, which are very attractive from the outside, though inside they are rather poky and dim, the church, the shop, the pub, and about six other houses, quite posh ones though nowhere near as big as mine, Madison’s house, Steve’s house then about another four or five houses of various styles and vintages. Then the farm. So it’s a tiny place. No scope whatsoever for setting up one’s friends romantically-speaking.
Phew! I’m so relieved! Instead of Lill going to Leanne’s place in Milton Keynes, Leanne is coming back here.
Of course this good news is somewhat spilt by the knowledge that this means I will have to put up with Leanne again, pawing my furniture, fondling my draperies—but at least I won’t lose Lill.
What Leanne doesn’t seem to realise is that this means her moron of a soon-to-be-ex-husband will be completely free to go into the family home, change the locks and sit there until the end of the world, snug as a bug. We all know that possession is nine-tenths of the law. She’ll never get that bastard out of there.
Ran into the new Vicar this morning when out for a little jaunt before collecting Billy from playschool. We’ve had a ‘temp’ Vicar for quite a few months, but it seems like they’ve finally found us a permanent chap.
He’s terribly sweet—quite useless, of course. I think he’s a bit myopic, he peers at you over his glasses rather than through them, and he has a somewhat bewildered expression. Rather like my Tom. Speaking of whom, the new vicar bent down to go “coochy coochy coo,” and Tom immediately broke out into loud wails. Vicar withdrew, blushing and apologetic. Poor man.
Hmm. I wonder if Madison would be interested in a sweet but completely ineffectual man of the cloth? She’s got the obligatory mousy, homely genes appropriate to a Vicarage lifestyle.
I feel a ‘welcome to our new vicar meet and greet dinner slash barbecue’ coming on!
Monday June 29th—9.30pm
Tedious but necessary trip to the consultant at the hospital. I’m so thankful that he’s reasonably happy with my progress and I haven’t got to go back for another six months now. It gets up my nose when he tells me every time he sees me, in his stupid headmaster’s voice, “You’re very lucky to be alive, you know.” As I’m some kind of adrenaline junkie who lives for the extreme thrill of jumping off something high or dangerous. Lucky to be alive. What the hell does he think I can do with that? How am I supposed to respond? “Thank you, your worshipfulness for saving my worthless life?” It’s not as if I was high or drunk or walking down the middle of a motorway at eight o’clock in the morning or anything – I was just walking along a village street, minding my own business. So much for the customer is always right and so on. Stupid man.
Then Matt, Tom and I went for a nice little walk around the shops after my appointment. I leant on the buggy for support, so it felt all nice and mundane and normal. When the shops got a bit crowded at lunchtime, we retreated to a quiet pub for some lunch and to give Tom his bottle. Matt was driving and grumbled about not being able to have cider or beer with his ploughman’s and had to settle for a cappuccino. He’s so highly principled—he won’t touch a drop of alcohol if he’s driving—even in these educated and informed times there are still so many people who think a little bit won’t hurt, or they can get away with one more drink. Not that it stops him moaning and being a martyr, of course.
The shopping trip yielded a few new clothing items for the children, a few new catnip mice for Tetley as Darcy and Bingley seem to have taken over the old one, a pot plant for Lill and a couple of bottles of posh beer for Sid. Then I decided (aided by my beloved who said men hate getting clothes as gifts) that boring old jeans and jumpers weren’t much fun for Paddy so we went and got a couple of new dinosaurs for his Jurassic Farm.
I have become so domesticated in the last year. Gone are my days of endless shopping, theatres, spas, etc. Of course, I still go and get my hair done two or three times a month, and obviously one needs to get one’s nails done every couple of weeks, and a regular massage has been absolutely vital for my recovery. Then of course, I could hardly do without my waxing and eyebrow-shaping. And I’m starting back at yoga this week. But apart from that I do nothing purely for myself anymore – I have dedicated myself utterly and completely to domesticity and making life that bit better and happier for my children and family.
When I look back on all that’s happened over the last two years, all the terrible deeds I’ve committed, well, I’m just glad I didn’t get caught. I don’t know how I got away with it.
You know it sort of surprises me that no detective anywhere has put two and two and another two together. I mean, how many people normally love that many loved ones, friends and acquaintances in the course of two years? And yet no one had sat back and scratched their heads and thought “Funny…” Luckily for me.
When we got home there were two police officers in the kitchen drinking tea with Lill and Sid. Gulp! It’s as if the universe—or something—knew what I’d just been thinking.
These were different chaps to the ones I’d seen before. I made sure they saw me carrying my baby, leaning heavily on the walking stick I quickly grabbed from the hall cupboard, and I proceeded to limp dramatically and give the officers a little patient smile, such as someone who has learned to live with pain and misery might give.
They exchanged a look. Then the one in charge said they just wanted to take me back over it all once more, ‘in case’ there’s any small detail that had ‘popped’ into my mind.
Honestly! It’s been eight months since the ‘accident’. It’s just the same as when you ring a helpline and they keep putting you through to a new number and you have to keep explaining everything from the beginning each time.
So for another two hours, we went over it all again and again. They kept asking me why I was so sure it had been Monica who ran me down. There were hints along the same lines as those from my consultant, as if I had simply taken it into my head to
deliberately leap out in front of some poor, unsuspecting motorist. Surely in the police force they are used to the concept of someone being mowed down by someone to exact a terrible revenge? I mean, crime is their thing, isn’t it?
But no, they seem to be still clinging to the idea that it was a) a freakish accident quite possibly due to my own stupidity slash carelessness or b) perpetrated by someone else entirely and Monica was completely uninvolved. Has she concocted some airtight alibi? Wish we’d never aired any suspicions about it being Monica and just reported the accident as an anonymous hit and run.
Anyway, after repeating myself ad nauseum, they finally gathered up all their bits of paper and pens and left. Just in time for dinner.
By the time the children were bathed and read to and put to bed, I was absolutely shattered. What a good thing they are re-running all twenty-four series of Mid-Oxfordshire Murders.
Though I feel like I’m the prime suspect in all this.
Wednesday July 1st—9.45am
Went to bed early last night, leaving Lill in the little sitting room watching her ‘stories’ whilst in the main sitting-room, Matt and Sid were glued to some gang-related violent thing where practically no one got out unbloodied and sound of limb. A friendly between Slough and Bolton, I think it was.
I am already sick to death of Leanne. OMG all that woman does is cry! She’s got no backbone whatsoever. Another good reason for taking to my bed!
Lying there half asleep in the darkness, a cool breeze playing across my face, the occasional sound of an owl speaking from the tall trees in the churchyard, and the rustling of the trees, I felt so relaxed and at peace, and slipped into a lovely sleep that actually left me feeling refreshed and happy this morning.
My initial outrage following the visit from the police has now subsided, although I am still a bit miffed that ‘everyone’—police and medical professionals alike—seem to regard my ‘accident’ as we still euphemistically call it, as being just an example of my ineptness. And that is rather infuriating. But it does indicate that it’s going to be up to me to do something about it. The police just don’t seem to give the proverbial airborne sexual intercourse about the matter, in spite of the severity of my injuries. I’m a bit surprised they haven’t actually come and said they think I tripped over the cat. (Am so proud of my restraint bad language-wise. I am deffo growing as a person now that I am a Mother.)
So—yes—it’s up to me.
A few weeks ago I was so bowed down with misery and depression. But I am so much better now I am back at home. I realise now, I had hardly begun to recover. I’m already in far, far better shape than I was back then. It’s amazing what a huge difference good food, rest, my loving family and getting back into a routine makes, not to mention cuddling my lovely husband and children. Now I am almost—but not quite—ready to tackle Monica. I was impatient a week ago, for Sid’s mate to get back to us, but now I realise it wasn’t time—I wasn’t ready. I feel an almost divine sense of purpose.
In some ways it’s funny. How often I have tried to kill that woman, or thought she was dead! She seems to have wriggled out of every situation and been a step or two ahead of me at each stage. Not this time. I know she will be expecting me to come after her, if she knows I’m out of hospital, and so I know she will be on her guard, looking over her shoulder.
But I’m not discouraged. This time I will make very, very sure she is dead. Really, really dead. Probably in several pieces. That’s usually pretty bloody final.
Thursday July 2nd—11.15am
Lovely evening at Madison’s last night, just her, me, Matt and Steve.
She’s got the little cottage looking so sweet and homely now. Very appealing. It’s not how I would have done it, a bit overly cute, but to each their own. At least she’s trying to do something with her life.
Speaking of moving on, Steve looked radiant in a soft floaty dress with his hair (now it’s a bit longer) nicely done and some really sweet earrings. By comparison, I’m afraid poor Madison looked a bit mousy as usual. I really must do something about her or she’ll never get one of those blokes on the dating websites to give her a second look.
Matt and I took Tom with us in the travel cot, snoozing peacefully in the little sitting-room whilst we had dinner, then afterwards, when we adjourned to the sitting-room, we stuck him in the dining-room, so our chatter didn’t disturb him. But he was a perfect angel, and when he did wake up for a feed and a change, he gurgled and burbled happily away, and Steve was completely besotted. Then once he’d had a little play and been changed, he went back down to sleep again. Tom not Steve. He has been the most amazingly easy-going baby I could have imagined, which is wonderful, considering his less than auspicious start in life.
Madison is talking about hosting a welcome dinner for the new vicar—Cecil Barrowby (sounds about 80 but in fact he’s quite young) and she asked if I’d co-host it with her. Said I’d be delighted. It will be nice to get back into things in this gentle way. She’s coming round later so we can have a proper discussion about the menu etc.
Lill is intending to take round a cake as a welcome to the village gift. She is so thoughtful, and of course everyone loves a nice cake.
Ah. Doorbell! Mads is here. I don’t call her that to her face, I know she wouldn’t like it. She prefers Maddie.
Friday July 3rd—10.20am
I must have been insane. How could I have thought it would be better for Leanne to come here for what seems like FOREVER than for Lill to go to her in Milton Bloody Keynes for three days or so? She is here all the time—she never leaves, it’s just like the last time! I came into the garden room and flomped down into one of the chairs and then when I put my feet up on one of the others, she actually had the gall to frown at me! My chair! Not to mention all the stroking, fondling, straightening, patting and smoothing she does of everything I own. She’s even started moving things around in the family room. She’s got to go! But how?
Saturday July 4th—4.05pm
Huff. What a mess. My fault, mainly. I came across Leanne moving some books around on one of the bookshelves and I completely lost the plot—I yelled at her to leave my stuff alone and kindly remember she was a visitor, and all that. She burst into tears and ran from the room. So then I felt like an ogre and was angry with myself for being so touchy. I was about to go and find her to apologise when Lill came in and was all upset, trying to appease my temper and apologising for Leanne’s behaviour and begging—almost literally begging me—to let her stay a little longer, saying that she was so grateful I was allowing her daughter to stay in my house. So then that made me feel—oh it was awful—it was as if we’d gone back to the old Mrs H and Mrs Barker-Powell days of housekeeper and employer slash lady of the manor.
So then I burst into tears, and Lill burst into tears, and at that moment the garden door opened and Leanne came in and she was still sobbing into one of my hankies, then Sid and Matt and the children came in from God-knows-where-but-their-timing-was-just-bloody-perfect.
The children saw all us women in the kitchen in tears and then the children started to cry…I thought for a moment Sid and Matt were going to cry as well, but fortunately they had more sense.
Sid immediately turned and went back out the garden door, and Matt said, “I’m just off to the pub,” and went out the front door.
We women all hugged and sniffed and said we were sorry, then calmed the children down. Dinner was a tense emotional affair, and meanwhile, Leanne is still here and my books are still sorted according to the Leanne Decimal System rather than the Dewey Decimal System.
What the hell am I going to do? I shall be a total wreck in another week. I have a feeling it will say on my tombstone, “Here lies Cressida, who appeared for a short while, to be making good progress, but it was all a LIE.”
Either that or it will be Leanne who dies. Why can’t she just go home and kick her useless ex out of the house?
Sunday July 5th—6.50pm
Tonight is the ‘Welcome
Vicar’ do at Madison’s. I’m waiting for Matt to finish making himself gorgeous.
From the intelligence I’ve gathered this week, (ie Lill told me what she heard in the shop) he’s already had at least six cakes and casseroles delivered to his door so he shouldn’t need to do any catering for himself for a week. And he’s been into the village pub twice—once at lunchtime and once in the evening—to introduce himself. He’s also been into the village shop to say hello, and apparently politely declined a bag of carrots and a jar of plum jam. And he’s been to the school and the playgroup—so he has kept himself busy winning friends and influencing people.
In fact, pretty much the only place he hasn’t been is here—am a bit miffed. Does he feel God doesn’t need us, or we don’t need God? Surely our souls are just as important as anyone else’s? Matt told me to forget it and leave the poor man alone. I wouldn’t say anything anyway. Or if I did, it would be because I’ve had too many sherries.
Meanwhile I popped down to see Steve’s ‘new’ place—now not so new, he’s been there four or five months. But I felt horribly out of place. He and two ladies from the other side of the village were sitting in the big workroom, singing merrily along to the radio (wouldn’t have thought that was his thing). Steve was sewing a bag, one of the ladies was ironing—sorry pressing—some glorious floral fabric and the other one was pinning pattern pieces onto some other fabric. Quite a little hive of industry.