A Surrey State of Affairs (7 page)

We were at an impasse. Ivan downed his vodka, and Rupert, who is normally a restrained drinker, followed suit. Emboldened, my son said that there was no question of the dog coming home with him. Jeffrey said that there was no question of “it” staying here, and sneezed. Eventually Gerald came forward, with tears shining in his eyes, and said that he would give the poor abandoned, neglected creature a home, and that Natalia could visit as often as she liked. This placated her enough to clean the vomit off the rug.

Afterward, the evening passed in something of a blur. Jeffrey turned up the music, Ivan the Terrible took hold of Ruth and whirled her around so fast that her glasses fell off, and he trod on them with his crocodile-skin loafers.

I felt like Rupert was doing the same thing to my heart. He drank vodka, ate fairy cakes with his mouth open, and threw his Jeremy Clarkson book on the fire.

  
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2

11 A.M.

I woke late today, to the sound of my mobile bleeping. It was a text message from Rupert, which read:
Dear Mum, tks for party + presents. Sorry re dog. Poppy will be v happy with Gerald. Love, Rupert.

This is more contrition than Ivan the Terrible is likely to muster, despite the fact that he trampled mud into my carpet, smashed a valuable porcelain vase, and manhandled the girl I had earmarked as my son’s future bride.

When I went downstairs he had already commandeered the kitchen, strewing it with various jars of grotesque pickles, which reminded me of miniature amputated crocodile limbs, and drinking vodka from my Denby Imperial Blue teacup. He was whistling some kind of garish folksy tune which he interrupted to say “Good morning, Konnie” (I could tell it was a
K
) and slap me on the bottom.

Jeffrey emerged, looking well rested. He kissed me briefly on the cheek and said, “No hard feelings, eh?” which could have meant either that he did not resent me, after all, for triggering his allergy or that he wanted to check that
I
did not begrudge
him
for banishing an innocent puppy. My husband is a man of few words and many possible meanings.

In any case, both men left to play golf, leaving me to tidy the house and ponder the previous evening. I think I can draw the following conclusions from the unfortunate events:

I will need a more subtle and ingenious method to overcome Rupert’s natural shyness and net him a wife.

As Shakespeare would say, “Sweet are the uses of adversity.”

  
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 3

Just occasionally, it feels as though God answers my prayers. In church today, Reginald instructed us to take a few quiet moments to commune with the Holy Father, open our minds to Him, and lay bare our hopes and fears. I closed my eyes and asked Him to get rid of Ivan, who left two dirty towels on the landing floor this morning. When I got home, I found a note on the kitchen table from Jeffrey (who couldn’t attend church because of a headache, poor man) saying that Ivan had business in London and that he had taken him to the station.

I suppose that, in the spirit of Christian compassion, I should spare a thought for Ivan’s colleagues, whoever they may be, now forced to bear his company. His employment is a source of some mystery to me, allowing him, as it does, frequent and extensive free periods for hunting, shooting, golfing, and importuning the wives of his friends. Ivan claims that he is in the “dynamic human resources solutions” business and holds investments in commodities. I think this is the Russian way of saying that he has his fingers in a lot of pies. I hope that at least one of them burns him.

  
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 4

I decided to write a letter to Sophie today ahead of our ski trip. She prefers to correspond by e-mail, text message, or, more frequently, telepathy (this is the only possible explanation for her long bouts of silence), but I remain attached to the more
traditional means of communication. Proper letters do not constrict one to a minuscule number of characters (my texts always spill onto two, three, or sometimes six messages) or carry computer-demolishing “viruses.” Besides, I like the smell of envelopes.

This is what I wrote:

  
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 5

I decided to buy Natalia some new underwear today. The girl needs cheering up. This morning I saw her standing in the utility room with a half-empty box of dog biscuits in her hand
and a tear dripping down her plump cheek, causing a streak in her orange makeup.

She may still be upset about Poppy, her temperament may be naturally surly, but I’m sure that the constant chafing of her polyester underwear can do nothing to help. After combing through her drawers to find her size (34C, and 10, something I last aspired to in 1983), I went to Marks & Spencer and bought her a box set of T-shirt bras and briefs in beige, white, and pale pink. Mother would no doubt be shocked at the thought of giving a “servant” such a personal present, but times, and cotton/elastane mixes, move on.

When I got back, I interrupted Natalia as she was flicking a duster slowly back and forth across Jeffrey and my wedding photo with a faraway expression on her face. She has the attention span of a Ritalin-dependant gnat. I told her I had something for her, and she jumped, no doubt feeling guilty for her slapdash dusting. She looked confused as she pulled the boxes out from the shopping bag, but when I explained that it was a present to make up for Poppy she started crying yet again. The poor girl. She must have gotten really attached to that dog. I do hope I haven’t misjudged things. It was so much easier in Mother’s day, when all one had to do was give them a sixpence at Christmas.

  
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 6

Last night we welcomed a new visitor to bell ringing: Poppy. Gerald, who is clearly the sentimental type, didn’t want to leave her home alone. She may well possess a better innate sense of rhythm than Daphne, but her manners are markedly worse. She started howling as soon as the ringing got under way, pausing only to leap at the fluffy handholds on each rope. I had to feed
her all the chocolate biscuits I had brought for our break to distract her. She was not grateful. After gobbling the lot, she trampled on the biscuit crumbs, barked twice, then urinated on Miss Hughes’s handbag. Gerald had to throw himself in front of Poppy and act as a human shield to prevent Miss Hughes from beating her to a pulp with her walking stick. He will not be bringing her next week.

  
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 7

A text message arrived from Sophie:
Yo big momma, got gr8t hair cut, its wikid!! Can u transfur more cash 4 ski jumpa? Luv soph xxx.

I did not feel that it merited a response, far less a financial transaction.

  
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8