Authors: Deborah Moggach
‘I’ve never read the
Express
before,’ said Rosemary. ‘I happened to see it at the dentist’s.’
‘Me too,’ said Amy. ‘At the doctor’s.’
The two of them had checked in at the same time. It turned out they were sharing a twin-bedded room.
‘Our host looks vaguely familiar,’ said Rosemary. ‘Perhaps I’ve met him somewhere before.’
‘He’s an actor,’ said Amy. ‘I did his make-up once, for a
Miss Marple
. I’ve only just realised.’
‘Is that what you do? How glamorous!’
‘Not really.’
‘I adore
Miss Marple
. Especially when what’s-her-name plays her.’ Rosemary unzipped her suitcase and started pulling out her clothes. ‘I haven’t shared a room with anyone but Douggie for forty years,’ she said. ‘Still, I don’t mind if you don’t. As long as you don’t snore.’
‘I don’t think I do,’ said Amy. ‘Nobody’s complained.’
‘Douggie did, like a warthog in labour. Had to jab him with my elbow.’ Rosemary pulled out her sponge bag. ‘At least we’ve got our own sink.’ She looked at the washbasin. ‘Haven’t seen avocado since Edward Heath was PM. Before your time, dear.’
Amy was relieved to have a room-mate of senior years. Some willowy creature in a thong would make her feel even more inadequate than she felt already. Rosemary was a big-boned woman from Aldershot; she wore a navy skirt and floral blouse. Her husband had apparently been in some regiment or other before he had retired and promptly decamped with the waitress at his golf club. ‘What an utter ass,’ Rosemary said. ‘No fool like an old fool. God knows what she sees in him.’ All this Amy had gathered before they had dumped their suitcases on the beds.
In truth, Amy was glad of the company. The recession had hit the film industry; she hadn’t had a job for six months and had been spending far too long alone in her flat. Worse still, the illegal immigrants upstairs had disappeared and been replaced by a couple with a baby. At night its wails morphed into the cries of her own dream-baby, newborn and snuffling at her nipple. A tiny Neville, it gazed up at her with such love that her insides melted. And then she woke up to the desolate reality. She was thirty-five, with no boyfriend and the clock ticking.
‘I’ve brought my gardening trousers,’ said Rosemary, carrying them to the wardrobe. ‘I presume we’ll get covered with oil, fiddling under a bonnet or something. They’ve already been demoted from my going-to-the-shops trousers, they’re pretty disgusting.’
Amy had just brought another pair of jeans. This was lucky as there were only four mismatched hangers in the wardrobe, and Rosemary had bagged three. She had, however, brought along a couple of spare jumpers as Wales was rumoured to be cold. It
was
chilly; the sash window seemed to be jammed, slightly open, at an angle. Rosemary had found a blow heater which blasted out a smell of singed fur.
The room must once have been gracious. Now, however, a piece of hardboard blocked the fireplace and the floral wallpaper had faded. On the wall hung a photograph of John Gielgud as Prospero (studio lighting, plenty of slap), signed with a flourish to
dearest Bridie
. It was on the top floor; she could see over the rooftops to the hills, where the sky was heaped with bruised, mutinous clouds.
Amy’s spirits lifted; she felt the alert buoyancy of the new arrival. It was good to get out of London. Though she had travelled all over the world she had never been to Wales and the first sight of the mountains, seen from the M5, had thrilled her, despite the ominous rattle in the engine of her Punto. Still, this Nolan Evans, whoever he was, would surely be able to identify the problem and sort her out. He was the course tutor. And already, as the sky darkened, she could smell the promising aroma of dinner cooking.
Buffy found it hard to believe that it was actually happening. Despite all the planning, an air of unreality still hung over the whole enterprise. It had failed to disperse, even with the arrival of six strangers who were now thudding around in the rooms upstairs, getting ready for dinner. He had imagined it for so long that his dreamed guests floated like a hologram over the solid human beings, he couldn’t connect them up. Still less could he visualise a five-day course on car maintenance actually materialising. He was filled with panic. The whole idea was insane. What happened if Nolan didn’t turn up and he was left with a houseful of people shuffling around like penned cattle, the rain streaming down the windows? What could he do with them – play racing demon?
But then, eighteen months ago, he couldn’t have imagined running a guest house in a small town in Wales. How unlikely was that? It still felt odd to be in possession of a credit-card machine. More often than not, his guests had become his friends. He remembered a pleasantly inebriated afternoon with a brass-rubber called Mavis. The heating had broken down; she lay curled in a blanket on the cracked leather sofa and told him about an affair she had conducted with a long-distance lorry driver, how she had crouched in a roadside ditch to insert her Dutch cap and got stung with nettles. He had told her about his breezily uninhibited first wife, Popsi, how she used to sit on the lavatory, squirting cream on her diaphragm with the skilled insouciance of a
pâtissier
anointing a tartlet. They had moved on to disastrous sexual encounters, a conversation which had become increasingly competitive and which they had finally agreed a tie. The following morning it had felt weirder than usual to trouser her cheque.
‘Fuck off, Fig!’ India kicked the dog away and turned to Buffy. ‘Can’t you lock him up somewhere?’
The kitchen was filled with steam. She and Voda were furiously chopping and frying, India acting as sous-chef. India had volunteered to help for the five days. Buffy was deeply touched; it warmed the cockles of his old heart, that she had driven all the way from London to support her stepdad. ‘No worries,’ she said. ‘I needed a break.’ Besides, she had fallen in love with Knockton, with its jovial butcher, its thrift shops run by raddled hippies, and Audrey’s dusty emporium, with its tottering cardboard boxes of bedroom slippers. ‘Is this what it’s like everywhere?’ India had asked. ‘When it’s not London?’ She was staying at Voda’s cottage as – for the first time – all the bedrooms were occupied.
Buffy gazed fondly at the two young women, their faces damp with sweat; at the nicotined ceiling, the strip light bespattered with flies; at the sink heaped with pans. If this wasn’t real, what was? And now the doorbell was ringing with a late arrival; it would soon be time for him to pull off his apron and take charge behind the bar.
‘I’m
so
not a beach person,’ said Lou, spearing a carrot. ‘I mean, what’s the point of lying around in the sun? I like to learn something on my holidays.’ Munching, she ticked off the courses she had attended – Scuba-Diving, Spanish for Beginners, the Courage to Sing. ‘Actually, I’m not that interested in cars – if mine goes wrong I just call the AA. But this was the only course with any vacancies left.’
Lou worked in a secretarial position for a law firm in Droitwich. She had sallow skin, pitted with acne scars. For a small person she could certainly pack it away, but then the food was delicious – tomato ‘n’ basil tart followed by Welsh lamb and roasted vegetables, with plum syllabub for pudding. Her eyes flickered around the room. Amy recognised a fellow lonely heart – the ruthlessly straightened hair, the eager perusal of the assembled company, the chronic disappointment.
‘Silly me,’ Lou sighed. ‘I should have realised it would all be women.’
There was, in fact, one bloke. Amy had chatted to him over the welcoming drinks. She hadn’t caught his name and it was too late to ask now. Otherwise, Lou was right. There were nine women of various ages sitting at the two tables, eating dinner in the candlelight. Some of them were staying elsewhere; they had the faintly wistful, excluded air of day pupils at a boarding school. For the residents had already bonded, chiefly in the queue for the bathroom.
‘Not quite the facilities I expected,’ said Rosemary, who was sharing their table. ‘But that’s part of its charm. Douggie would have kicked up a fuss but he’s not here, is he? Rather a relief actually.’ She snorted with satisfaction. ‘Now
she’s
got to put up with his grumbling. And his snoring. Serves her right, the conniving little cow.’ Douggie had tried to take the car but she had hidden the keys. ‘I can just see them, shivering at the bus stop in the rain. Love’s young dream or what?’ She drained her glass. ‘I give the whole thing three months.’
Rosemary had enrolled on the course in a spirit of rebellion. Apparently Douggie had patronised her, along with women drivers in general; he was forever rolling his eyes when watching one attempting to park. When Rosemary herself drove he would sit rigid beside her, drawing in his breath sharply, and, when she braked, jamming his foot on the floor and theatrically slumping forward.
‘Actually, I’m a much better driver than he is. He’s one of those crawlers who slows down when he’s talking. Sometimes he’ll come to a complete standstill in the middle of the road. So maddening. And he parks about a hundred miles from the pavement. But I’ve always kept quiet to save his stupid pride. That’s what you do when you’re married.’ Rosemary’s voice shook. ‘And look where it’s got me.’ She averted her face and wiped it with her napkin. ‘Bloody hot flush.’
Amy wanted to put her arm around Rosemary’s shoulders; she looked so large and abandoned. But Rosemary was an Englishwoman of a certain generation and a military wife to boot; she wouldn’t welcome such a show of affection. Instead Amy said: ‘I bet he comes back. He’s just having a midlife crisis.’
‘Bit late, at sixty-five.’
Amy thought of her own ex, Neville, whose girlfriend was now pregnant. She wished nobody had told her; it felt like a knife through her heart. She remembered that terrible evening:
Do you think we ought to have a baby?
Why had she taken such offence? Neville might have put it clumsily but she had loved him and now she had lost him forever.
‘My boyfriend’s never coming back,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to stand on my own two feet. Car-wise and everything-wise.’
‘I’m sorry, dear.’ Rosemary patted her knee. ‘I’m sure you’ll find somebody else, a pretty girl like you.’
‘Actually, he wasn’t much help with the car. He didn’t drive, you see. He rode a bike. I relied on people at work – crew members – to sort me out.’
‘Are you an air hostess?’ asked Lou.
‘She works in films, dear,’ said Rosemary.
‘But I haven’t had a job for months,’ said Amy. ‘It’s made me realise how dependent I was. That it’s time I grew up.’
‘Have you met any celebrities?’ asked Lou.
‘She’s met our host,’ said Rosemary. ‘He used to be quite a well-known actor.’
‘But he’s so fat,’ said Lou. ‘And old.’
‘He wasn’t, once. In fact, he was quite the matinee idol.’ Rosemary looked at their host, who was sitting at another table. ‘I seem to remember him in some Noël Coward thing at Guildford. With what’s-her-name, you wouldn’t know. And of course he has such a wonderful voice, so deep, like molasses.’
A glass tapped. Silence fell. Their host rose unsteadily to his feet.
‘Welcome to you all,’ Buffy boomed. Florid, bearded and portly, he wore an embroidered waistcoat and green velvet jacket. ‘Just a few housekeeping rules.’ He paused, surveying the room. Amy, who was familiar with actors, settled back in her chair. You could trust a real performer to make a drama about anything, even tampons down the toilet.
Having done this, the dog yapping in excitement, he outlined the course. Their tutor, Nolan Evans, would meet them at ten o’clock the next morning in the garage behind the house. These sessions would last three hours, with time for questions. A buffet lunch would follow. Afternoons would be taken up with individual tutorials for those who had brought their own cars; otherwise students would be at leisure to explore the surrounding countryside or sample the local attractions. After dinner various entertainments would be on offer – film screenings in the bar, a music gig at the pub. ‘Thursdays are Comedy Night,’ he beamed. ‘This week it’s our local stand-up, Falafel George. We make our own entertainments here.’
A voice piped up. ‘One evening, could you read us some poetry?’
Heads turned to gaze at an intense, dark-haired woman. Cowed by the attention, her voice faltered.
‘I just remember, when I had my hysterectomy, I heard you on the wireless reading
The Faerie Queene
. It was as if you were in the room, smoothing my brow.’
Voda and India had come in to clear the plates. They clapped their hands to their mouths, stifling their giggles.
Nolan was using Buffy’s car as a demonstration model. It was a clapped-out Citroën CX, 104,000 miles on the clock, and not ideal as a teaching tool due to the Citroën’s idiosyncratic hydraulics and electrical system. Buffy, however, had insisted that it be the guinea pig as it would get a good going-over – indeed, a free service – and, besides, the pupils could get their own cars seen to during the afternoons.
Nolan had agreed. He was an amiable chap and Buffy was the boss. Besides, he needed the money. He had been out of work for a year now, having lost his job on the roads due to the council cuts. It pained his heart to see the effects of the recession on his beloved home town. The tarmac had broken up during the harsh winter but the potholes remained unmended. When it rained they filled with muddy water which splashed pedestrians when vehicles drove by. Weeds were choking the playground of St Jude’s, his old primary school. It wasn’t just him who was redundant, of course. Half his mates were out of work and frying their brains with skunk. And then there were the closures. The youth club was boarded up; the bus service slashed. Even the Old Court House, next to Myrtle House – a noble building, the pride of Knockton – was up for sale.
It was lucky he was an optimist. He had to be, for his mum’s sake. They lived together in a council house beyond the bypass and he was all she had in the world.