‘Something in the water?’ My blood ran cold, until common sense reasserted itself, and I realised that this was just a genetic freak among the village cats that had been nurtured instead of stamped out.
‘Well, she has very handsome markings,’ I conceded magnanimously, preparing to go on my way.
He gave an evil smile. ‘I’ll save a kitten for you next time, if she have one the same. Her generally do.’
As I began to hotly deny any desire to own a multi-toed feline, the bus appeared round the bend and I had to run, so I only hope the senile old fool forgets all about his promise.
The bus was surprisingly full, but as we approached the next village all was explained by banners advertising a country fair and, while waiting my turn at the post office, I read a small poster describing the delights on offer: demonstrations of sheep-shearing, spinning and weaving, beer tent, antiques, handmade clothes …
Irresistible!
Shortly I was walking up the lane to the farm where it was being held. I say ‘farm’, but it was more of a small manor house.
There were lots of little stalls around the edge of the courtyard, where I bought honey, homemade fudge and a picture formed from pressed local wild flowers.
The sheep-shearing was surprisingly gory, long snicks appearing as the sheep grew pinkly naked, so I wandered past the little fair and inflatable castle, and into the beer tent.
Hot and tired, I sat in its grass-scented darkness with a nice chilly lager and lime until it was time for the next bus.
There was one stall just at the exit where you couldn’t really get out of buying a ticket (‘a prize every time’), but I discovered, unsurprised, that my numbers were not winners. As I turned away, the youth behind the counter suddenly thrust a plastic bag containing a very small goldfish into my hand. I recoiled and tried to hand it back.
‘But I didn’t win anything! Besides, I don’t want it.’
He fielded the bag away. ‘Consolation prize.’
Irresolutely, I stood on the hot field. The fish was very small and already the plastic bag was warm to the touch.
I wandered disconsolately away, trying to adjust all my small, awkwardly shaped parcels without capsizing the fish, but in the end had to go back and purchase a patchwork holdall. Once everything was in it, I managed to hold the goldfish bag so that it hung down inside, which at least gave the poor thing some shade.
By now I’d missed the bus and had to start the long trek home, wishing I hadn’t gone to the fair at all. The bag was filled with lead, the goldfish gasped, and I felt hot and sticky.
When I made a stop to let some air into the goldfish bag, a car full of youths pulled up, shouting: ‘Frying tonight!’ and other witticisms, and then persistently offered me a lift. I repelled them, but then another car pulled up behind me only ten minutes later, and I turned with a stream of hot invective on my lips only to discover the vicar in an aged green half-timbered Morris 1000. I changed my scowl into a weak smile and gratefully climbed in.
The vehicle was totally unrestored and very noisy, which meant we drove mainly without conversation. He declined my invitation to come in, saying his wife awaited him with afternoon tea, which sounded very vicar’s wife-ish to me.
Bob was still working in the back garden and his shallow blue eyes lit up at the sight of the goldfish glassily circling its bag.
‘Go-fish!’ he said delightedly, prodding the bag with an earthy finger. ‘Go-fish!’ But I knew that in the ungrateful manner of its kind, it would soon turn into a Stop-fish.
Then an idea of amazing brilliance struck me. ‘Bob, would you like the goldfish? To take home?’
‘To keep? Me?’ He capered delightedly.
I handed the small prisoner over. ‘Here you are, then. Now, wait a minute while I get the envelope for your mother.’
I came back with his (very reasonable) wages sealed in an envelope. ‘There. Be careful not to lose it, and give it straight to your mother when you get home.’
His eyes, hideously magnified through the bag of water, remained as blank and clear as usual, then he nodded slowly and lowered the fish.
‘Envelope for Mum. Go-fish for Bob.’
‘That’s right. Goodbye, Bob.’ I retreated into the cool kitchen with relief.
His lumbering footsteps went off round the side of the house and he seemed to be talking to someone: probably the goldfish.
There can be no more blissful feeling on earth than taking off your sandals and pressing your hot swollen feet onto cold quarry tiles: practically orgasmic.
And I swear the glass of water hissed going down.
James, when he came home, ate all my fudge.
Tomorrow being Saturday I wanted him to drive me in to buy tiles for the bathroom, and then chip off the old ones; but he informs me he’ll be too busy setting up his radio equipment. He’s knee-deep in transmitters, manuals and things, and is constantly coming and going between the house and what he now calls his Shack. I’m still deeply hurt by his underhand attitude in ordering the things and arranging a bank loan without telling me about it (and he called
me
secretive!), and now he won’t even help me with the house.
I was so annoyed that I phoned Mother – I had to talk to someone. But it was no good, because Golden Boy had got in first. I’m sure she likes him more than she likes me. In fact sometimes she doesn’t seem to like me at all.
But I suppose that’s silly, because she’s smothered me with intense possessiveness since birth. (‘This is my doll and you can’t play with it.’) I’m sure she was disappointed that I wasn’t a conventional, fluffy little clone of herself.
Anyway, Mother burbled on about men needing a hobby, and how it gave them an interest at home (at home, with half the garden between us?) and she was obviously the worse for drink: at the careful, garrulous stage.
James came back from the Shack at midnight and let the Bourgeois Bitch into the bedroom.
On Monday Mrs Peach delivered her eggs as usual and went to take a look at Toby, who was, as ever, delighted to see her.
‘Bloody hell!’ he screamed, bobbing his head and shifting up and down his perch in a dance of joy. ‘Bloody hell!’
Then, as she was leaving, she turned to ask abruptly, ‘How’s yer Old Fertilities?’
‘What?’ I said blankly, thinking that surely James hadn’t been discussing our marital affairs down at the pub with all the village listening in.
‘Them Old Fertility pear trees out back,’ she elucidated. ‘They may look past it, but they bear wonderful. I noticed you’d pruned them right back.’
That was ages ago! ‘They look all right to me, Mrs Peach, but we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’
She didn’t say anything else, but went off. I can put up with her strange ways now I know her secret.
This was another day when James forgot to kiss me goodbye. He’s done it a few times now. No kisses, no cuddles … I don’t feel loved.
I wish I had a close friend I could talk everything over with, but perhaps I could tell the doctor about some of it? I ought to see her about stopping the pill and irregular periods and things anyway. Last time I was too worried about the Lump to think of it.
I made an extra effort at dinner that evening – chilli con carne – but James was very disgruntled because it wasn’t meat and two veg, although I told him less meat and more beans was healthier. He said red beans are poisonous, and anyway, he’d rather stay unhealthy than eat this sort of rubbish.
I was hurt, since I’d never made chilli con carne before and thought it was very good, though a bit hot. Bess liked it, too.
Later, when I found an enormous spider in the bath, James flatly refused to come back from the Shack and remove it, so I had to deal with it myself.
First I warned it (from the doorway): ‘Spider, if you aren’t out of the house in two minutes I’m going to kill you!’
It wasn’t, so I bludgeoned it to death with a leftover piece of tongue and groove pine and disposed of the remains down the toilet.
Ugh!
Next day James and Bess were both suffering appalling flatulence, which James insisted was due to the poisonous red beans in my chilli. But I was perfectly all right.
Bess kept exploding awful stenches and then looking at me accusingly, which made me a bit doubtful about accepting Margaret Wrekin’s invitation to go back with her for coffee when we bumped into her again in the village.
I hoped the worst was over.
There really is only a front bit of old cottage with an enormous modern house built on the back, and in the garden two dark-haired, pretty little girls played with a ball, watched over by a small Malaysian woman in a swinging hammock. Margaret let Bess out to play with them, to my relief.
The woman cowered in the corner of the swing seat – not one of Nature’s Dog Lovers. I can sympathise with that.
‘That’s May, the mother’s help,’ Margaret explained, and I almost said, ‘Yes, and I’m Mrs Bun the Baker’s Wife,’ but restrained myself.
‘This house is so big that I said to Ray, “I just can’t manage with only a cleaner,” so we advertised and got May. She’s the sweetest girl, and her English is coming on beautifully. The girls love her.’
I accepted coffee in a fine porcelain cup, and one of those yummy French coffee-iced biscuits. ‘I didn’t realise before that you had children.’
‘You don’t have any yourself?’
I shook my head. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
We exchanged a smile.
‘Plenty of time – and if you have girls like me they’re as good as gold! I hardly know they’re there.’
That was probably due to May, the martyred help, but I doubt if we could afford a mother’s help, or any other kind of help, and anyway, as I pointed out to James when he was waffling on about boarding schools, there doesn’t seem much point in having children if you don’t want them around. What had Margaret had children for?
What did
anyone
have children for?
The inside of the house is very lush, with quilted Designers Guild curtains, huge showy tassels, and the biggest rose Dralon sofa in the world.
I felt distinctly grubby in my dog-haired tartan trousers and green T-shirt, but Margaret was so impressed and enthusiastic about my being Marian Plentifold the author that I relaxed and we had a nice long chat.
I think we might become friends in time; I hope so.
Mind you, I nearly didn’t live long enough to make friends with anyone, because when I got home and went to hang Bess’s lead up, I fell into the Underworld.
Well, that’s what it felt like at the time, but it was actually a secret cellar – and only secret to us, at that, because it’s obvious the last owner of the cottage knew about it.
The door is what I thought was just wooden panelling at the back of the cupboard under the stairs, until I overbalanced and nearly broke something falling down a flight of stone steps.
When I recovered from the shock, I got the big torch out and shone it down into the cold, stale blackness, feeling much as Howard Carter did at the entrance to Tutankhamen’s tomb.
Little shelves at the side contained the last owner’s collection of Wondrous Things: bits of old candle stump, a rusty tin box, and a broken umbrella.
Without even taking the basic precaution of pushing Toby ahead first to test the air, down I went, with Bess following hard on my heels, shivering, her cold wet nose pressed into my hand.
At the bottom was a little arch-roofed cellar with a flagged floor, stone slab shelves, and a vast stone table, which must have had the house built around it since it wouldn’t have fitted down those stairs.
The whole thing was obviously older than the cottage and must have been part of the Dower House originally – Mrs Deakin was right, as usual. I could see where arched doorways had been blocked off on two sides.
It was entirely empty and, while I admit to a slight disappointment that it wasn’t filled with treasure, equally I would have been highly aggrieved had I found a skeleton chained to the wall.
How on earth did the surveyor miss it? You can sue for compensation if your house turns out to be smaller than its description, but what do you do if it is significantly larger?
James was amazed.
He stalked around like a cat marking its territory, then looked lingeringly at the stone slab table with a very strange expression on his face and remarked that the cellar would make an original party room.
‘Not for the sort of parties I go to,’ I informed him coldly.
‘Well, then, a wine cellar.’
‘You don’t seem able to keep a bottle of wine in the house for more than a day at a time, James, though I suppose you could use it to store the empties.’
‘Anyone would think I was an alcoholic to hear you talk!’ he exclaimed, his voice muffled since he was examining the shelves for forgotten treasure.
But I’d already found it: the tin box at the top of the stairs contained forty-three silver threepenny bits.
Even if I can’t think of a use for the cellar at the moment I can have electricity run down there and give it a good vacuum.
I’ve given the spiders notice.
Fergal: June 1999
‘THE SHOW MUST GO ON
Goneril go onstage in USA as heiress girlfriend of
lead singer Fergal Rocco is rushed into hospital …’
Exposé
magazine
I told Nerissa before I went on tour that I thought she should find someone else, and my brusque – if not brutal – brush-off at the airport must have given her some hint that I meant it, you’d think.
Her only response was to threaten to kill herself if I didn’t carry on seeing her.
I don’t like being manipulated.
It’s lucky Sara warned me it’s a device she’s used in the past, especially to bring her father to heel, but there’s no way I would believe she’d destroy herself anyway. Her body is her temple and she worships it constantly.
We were about to go on stage for the last American show when I got a telegram from her father, saying what had happened and that it was all my fault for breaking his little girl’s heart and I must fly back immediately.
I sent one back, saying, ‘Get Well Soon, see you in a couple of days when we’re back.’ He showed it to the papers, who had a field day with it.