Stand by Your Man

by Gil McNeil

  A man appears at the top of the stairs carrying a little girl who’s squirming to be let down. He carries her down the stairs and puts her down, whereupon she toddles towards her brother and starts poking him.

  ‘Trying to stop Ezra locking Mabel in our wardrobe, if you must know.’

  Oh my god. It’s the man from the pub. The one Molly said had a gorgeous arse. At least I think it is. Oh Christ. I wonder if he’ll recognise me. I mean it was only a few minutes, and it was mainly Molly who was making all the noise.

  ‘Charles, this is Alice.’

  ‘Hello, Alice.’

  I’m pretty sure he recognises me. He’s sort of smirking. Bugger. How annoying.

  Ezra decides that this is the perfect moment to shove his little sister with his light-sabre, but she’s obviously tougher than she looks because she retaliates by whacking him so hard he almost falls over. And then they both start yelling. Really loudly. Alfie looks very impressed.

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake. Look, I’ve got some chocolate buttons in one of my bags in the kitchen, but only for people who aren’t yelling.’

  Not only can this woman terrify removal men, but both children shut up immediately and even Alfie stands up a bit straighter in an effort to put in his bid for some chocolate buttons. The children all charge after her as she heads off towards what must be the kitchen. The house is enormous.

  ‘Magic, isn’t it? God, we’d be fucked without chocolate, wouldn’t we?’

  How brilliant. A new neighbour who’s not a Stepford Wife, and says fuck. Molly will be thrilled.

  ‘The kitchen’s this way.’

  Charles is holding the door from the hall open for me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did I see you in the pub the other night? I was down sorting out the builders and we popped in for a quick drink. There was some quiz on, I think.’

  ‘Um, possibly, yes. I’m afraid me and my friend drank slightly too much and it’s all a bit vague.’

  God. I sound like I’m thirteen. Me and my friend.

  ‘Well, it looked as if everyone was having great fun.’

  Oh good. He’s not going to repeat the arse thing. Good.

  ‘And it was very nice to hear such appreciative comments from your friend, I must say. Quite made my night.’

  I think the best thing is probably to ignore it, and hope he thinks I don’t really know what he’s talking about. But he’s still doing the slightly smiling, smirking thing. Double bugger.

  The chocolate buttons are distributed, and a young woman called Sam appears and Lola tells her to take the children off to watch television. She doesn’t look that keen.

  ‘God, I hate sulky nannies, don’t you?’

  I don’t really know what to say to this, since I’ve never had a nanny, sulking or not. But I sort of nod and try to be noncommittal because apart from anything else I’m not sure she can’t still hear us.

  But Lola doesn’t seem to care.

  ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of her, although finding another one will be a total nightmare as usual. Charles, is there any gin?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think it’s in the other van.’

  ‘How come everything is in the other van? Jesus, do I have to think of everything?’

  There’s an awkward silence. But Charles doesn’t appear to be too bothered at being told off in front of perfect strangers. I get the feeling it probably happens quite often, because he just ignores it.

  He’s rather handsome in a mildly public-schoolboy sort of way, with lovely blue eyes, and a friendly sort of face. Lola is dark and exotic-looking, fashionably skinny and wearing velvet trousers, which must have cost a fortune, and the kind of cardigan that you can’t buy in Marks & Spencer.

  ‘I’ve brought a bottle of wine – just cheap stuff, but it might be all right – as a little housewarming sort of thing.’

  ‘Fabulous. What an angel.’

  It turns out the corkscrew is also on the other van, but the glasses have been unpacked, and with a bit of shoving and poking Charles manages to get the cork out with a fork.

  ‘It’s like being a student again, isn’t it? I spent half my life at college opening bottles of wine with forks.’

  ‘Did you, darling? How sweet. Why didn’t you just buy a corkscrew?’

  Charles goes rather pink, but Lola doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘So, Alice, have you lived in the village long?’

  ‘Oh only a few years, but I grew up round here – a couple of villages away, actually.’

  ‘Charles had a country childhood too. He’s always banging on about the pleasures of a rural childhood, aren’t you, darling? That’s why we moved really. Well, that and the fact that you can’t buy a decent house in London for under a million any more. It’s getting beyond a joke.’

  We talk about London house prices, and how much more you get for your money in the country, and I pick up all sorts of info for Molly. Lola works in an advertising agency in London, and clearly earns a fortune, and she’s going to set up an office at home so she’ll only have to go up to London a couple of days a week. Her father’s some sort of famous composer, who I’ve never heard of but she’s clearly very proud of him because she mentions him twice during our conversation in slightly reverential tones, although she’s less keen on her mother, who she says has devoted her life to The Great Man, and can’t be relied on for much in the way of motherly behaviour.

  Charles’s parents are obviously very rich because they seem to own a large chunk of Hampshire, which is why Lola decided to move down here, so his mother can’t pop round too often. She breeds Labradors, and is very bossy, and Lola says she’s a complete cow.

  And Charles is an art dealer, who buys paintings in local auctions and then gets them restored and sells them, apart from the ones he falls in love with, which judging by the number of paintings propped up in little piles all over the place must be quite a few. He’s completely different when he talks about paintings, and gets quite carried away when he starts showing me a landscape, covered in layers of grime, he’s just found in a job lot at an auction. And then he finds a picture of a bowl of cream roses that’s really lovely and he starts telling me all about the artist, until Lola tells him to shut up, because he’s being very boring. Which actually he isn’t, but I can’t quite work out how to say this without being rude.

  Lola seems very impressed that I’m an architect, even though I explain that I spend most of my time coming up with plans for extensions rather than knocking off plans for a new Tate Maidstone. She then launches into the inevitable What Can I Do With My Kitchen conversation. That’s the trouble with being an architect: people tend to ask you for ideas even if you’ve only been in their house for five minutes. I suppose it’s the same if you’re a doctor, and people roll up their trouser legs and show you their rash in Sainsbury’s.

  My favourites are the ones who launch into a speech about the evils of modern architecture, and expect you to defend the Millennium Dome for hours. I wish I’d known about all of this before I went to college. Sometimes I just avoid the issue altogether and say that my main job is being Alfie’s mum, because that tends to make people look at you like you’re an idiot, give you a condescending smile, and then wander off.

  ‘Now tell me all about the village, Alice – I want to get to know people. Is there lots going on?’

  Somehow I can’t quite see Lola enjoying the WI or joining the happy clappers at the church.

  ‘There’s a Garden Society – my friend Molly’s joining and there’s a meeting next week, I think. I’m going along too. I’ll ring you with the time and everything if you’re interested.’

  ‘Great. And if you know of any good nannies knocking about, do pass them my way. I’m supposed to be interviewing soon, so if you can think of anyone, tell them to give me a call, but not anyone too needy or neurotic. I’ve had enough of those.’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone at the moment.’

  ‘Is yours any go
od?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your nanny?’

  There’s something about the way she’s smiling at me, in a slightly menacing, too-much-teeth-on-show kind of way, that makes me think Lola might just be the kind of woman who’d nick your nanny off you if you weren’t concentrating, without a second’s hesitation.

  ‘Oh I don’t have one – my mum looks after Alfie for me on the days I’m working.’

  ‘Good god, does she? How fabulous. Do you think she’d like any more? Only Ezra’s at school most of the time, so it’s only Mabel really.’

  Christ. I can just imagine Mum’s face if I tried to foist another toddler on her. I mean she has Lily sometimes, but only as a favour to Molly. She’s not in the business of setting up a crèche or anything.

  ‘Oh no, she’s got her hands full with Alfie.’

  ‘Really? He seemed so sweet, I’m sure she wouldn’t notice another one. Maybe she could pop round for tea and see what she thinks. Shall I ask her?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure –’

  ‘Yes, but she could just come round and see, couldn’t she?’

  ‘Lola, do stop trying to get Alice to sort out our childcare arrangements. I’ve told you, I’m more than happy to cope while we sort something out.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Charles. But your idea of coping and mine are slightly different, aren’t they? I mean if I don’t want the house to look like a smart bomb has hit it we need a professional on the job, don’t we? Anyway, Alice, do ask her, I’d really appreciate it, because I’d prefer someone local if possible – they won’t want the ridiculous amounts of money the London ones charge.’

  Right. So that’s told me then.

  ‘I’d better let you get on – you must have loads to do – but if you need anything I’m just down the lane.’

  Anything apart from sorting out her childcare, although to be fair maybe she didn’t mean to be quite so domineering about it all. I know how desperate people get when it comes to finding childcare. Molly says she seriously thought she’d have to give up work before she found Janice, or hide Lily under her desk or something.

  We find the children watching telly, and Alfie seems to have gone into a sort of trance on the sofa while Sam sits stroking his back. He’s a total sucker for having his back stroked. Sam says he’s a lovely little boy, and looks rather pointedly at Ezra, who is busy unravelling the sleeve of his jumper, but then Alfie begins to whine and we make a swift exit before Sam changes her mind. Lola says Alfie can come back tomorrow and watch the rest of the film, which appears to be something extremely violent involving kung fu.

  I manage to get him out of the door and halfway up the lane before he realises we are heading home to bed, whereupon he kung fu kicks his way into an epic tantrum, hurls his sword into a bush and then demands I retrieve it, and by the time we get home he’s exhausted.

  I put him straight into pyjamas, and read to him from the most boring books I can find until he falls asleep. And then I end up falling asleep in front of the fire and wake up at midnight, with a crick in my neck. I’ll have to get up early tomorrow morning to finish the bloody plans. Excellent.

  * * *

  Molly and I are due at the garden thing at eight, and it’s pouring, so I pick her up in my car and we arrive just as Lola is getting out of an extremely posh-looking brand-new Volvo. She immediately puts us both to shame by appearing to be on a first-name basis with far more villagers than we are, after only living here for a few days. She seems very confident about marching up to people and introducing herself, which is very impressive although I can see Mrs Pomeroy is rather surprised to find herself being upstaged quite so early in the evening.

  Lola’s wearing a fabulous purple tweed suit with very trendy boots, which makes me feel rather drab in my boring old jeans and jumper, but I hope she’s got thermal underwear on because the hall’s going to be freezing. I try surreptitiously to put on some lip gloss, but it’s quite tricky in the dark and I end up putting too much on and then I have to rub it off so my fingers end up all greasy. I hope we don’t have to shake hands with fellow gardeners, or they’re going to think I’m a very messy eater or something.

  Quite a few people have turned up already, and are sitting down on the chairs in front of the stage. Most of them are wearing scarves and what looks like at least two jumpers under their coats, and a couple of them are wearing woolly hats. A committee of ancient villagers is starting to assemble round a table up on the platform, with one man needing the help of two others to get him up the steps. Molly says she thinks we might have got the wrong night, and this is Help the Aged.

  ‘If they start playing bingo, let’s make a run for it.’

  Lola laughs.

  ‘God, it’s freezing in here. Tell me if anything happens. I’m just nipping out to get my coat.’

  She returns wearing a rather startling orange duffel coat, with what looks like real fur round the collar.

  ‘Before you ask, Charles’s mother gave it to me. I think she hoped someone would throw paint at me in Sloane Square. It happened to one of her old-bag friends once when she was wearing her mink. Christ, I wish I’d been there. Anyway I thought it would be perfect for the country – I mean it practically glows in the dark. And anyway the fur’s fake, thank god.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you said that. Are you anti-fur too?’

  Molly used to be a hunt saboteur at university, and once got chased for nearly a mile by some chinless hooray riding an extremely large horse and blowing a bugle.

  ‘No, darling, I couldn’t give a fuck – I’d wear hamster if it was fashionable – but it’s totally verboten, isn’t it, wearing fur.’

  ‘You’d need an awful lot of hamsters to make a decent coat.’

  Lola laughs, and so does Molly, but I notice Lola giving her a rather hard look.

  Then some bossy-looking woman in a startling green hat claps her hands and Mrs Pomeroy begins reading out the agenda and asks everyone to remember to pay their subscriptions, because the new membership cards are ready.

  The final announcement is that someone called Mr Channing had brought his photographs, and if anyone’s going in for brassicas this year they should see him after the meeting. An elderly man waves a packet of photos in the air and looks encouragingly at the audience. One or two members of the committee shift uncomfortably in their seats.

  Lola whispers, ‘What are brassicas?’ rather loudly and Molly says she thinks they might be cabbages.

  ‘You can’t be serious. Good God, it’s like the twilight zone.’

  I wonder what the correct response is when you’re presented with a photograph of a cabbage. You’re probably just supposed to go oh how lovely, like you do when people show their baby photos, even if the baby looks like a piglet. In fact especially if it looks like a piglet.

  The meeting moves on to a discussion about the plant stall at the Summer Fair, and things get a bit lively. A woman in a navy-blue padded jacket says she thinks we should try something different this year, and make up some pots of herbs, and another woman, sitting a few rows away, says personally she doesn’t think you can beat a nice geranium and she doesn’t care who knows it, and she’s won prizes for her geraniums, and people look forward to them. It’s a lot of work getting them all potted up, but if the committee don’t want her to bother that’s fine by her.

  Mr Cabbages then enters the fray and says he thinks herbs are a lovely idea, and would be a welcome addition to the stall, but they couldn’t possibly do without the geraniums as well. Things calm down a bit after that, and there’s a discussion about a new plant-share scheme, but I don’t think I’ve actually got anything to share except for weeds, which I don’t imagine is quite what the committee had in mind.

  Just when I’m hoping they’re about to wheel the tea trolley in a nice-looking woman stands up and begins talking about rose gardens, which is very interesting, if slightly incomprehensible, due to her use of phrases like hybrid-teas and floribundas. She has some pictu
res of her favourites which she circulates round the audience and they all have lovely names like Iced Ginger, and Old Blush China, and then she announces that you have to be careful if you’re going in for a lot of Golden Showers, which gives the three of us a bit of a start, but it turns out to be the name of a perfectly nice-looking yellow rose. Lola is snorting with laughter by this point, and Molly has got the giggles too.

  Two women finally wheel in the tea trolley, and the rose woman is thanked, and Mrs Pomeroy announces a National Design a Garden competition, run by the BBC and some magazine, and says it would be wonderful if the village could come up with an entry because she happens to know that Upper Bridge are already working on their entry, and everybody tuts and says how typical.

  While Molly and I queue for tea Lola goes off in search of Mrs Pomeroy. She comes back and says she thinks she might enter Charles for the competition.

  ‘I mean we’ve got stacks of land, far more than we know what do with, and it’s all boring grass.’

  ‘Is he a keen gardener then?’

  ‘Not really, but he could learn. It’ll give him something to focus on. He spends far too much time wandering about with those bloody paintings, if you ask me.’

  ‘Mightn’t it be better to start off with something simple?’

  ‘Possibly. And I suppose his bloody mother would be bound to stick her oar in. But we’ve got to do something with it – it’s so boring, just lawns and a few old flowerbeds. Totally suburban. I know, maybe you could design us something fabulous, Alice?’

  Bloody hell.

  ‘I bet you could, Alice.’

  I could kill Molly sometimes.

  ‘No, not really. I mean I’d love to help, of course, but I don’t know the first thing about gardens.’

  ‘Oh what a shame. But the Garden Society could help you, couldn’t they? You could do the design, and they could do the plants. We’ll donate the land, and then the village can enter the competition. Perfect.’

  ‘We could make it a community project, and get everyone involved.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know.’

  Actually, I do. It’s a ridiculous idea, I don’t know the first thing about designing gardens, and I don’t know what Molly thinks she’s up to agreeing with Lola, but I feel quite tempted to give her a kick.