Mrs. Fry's Diary (4 page)

And to think, everything seemed so perfect this afternoon. A relaxing stroll along the '1.609344 kilometres d'Or', a light lunch at the 'Folies Burger' and when I got back Stephen was out of bed and even putting on his dinner jacket and dickie bow. I, of course, slipped immediately into the bathroom to change into the evening dress I wore last time we enjoyed a sophisticated evening meal together. For some reason, it seemed to take a little longer to put on than last time, but I believe fine fabrics are prone to a little shrinkage, particularly after 16 years. Finally I emerged from the bathroom, like a beautiful swan in a hat. Stephen was truly gobsmacked, even if I do say so myself. He was absolutely speechless for several minutes before finally kissing me softly on the cheek, saying 'See you later,' and leaving the room, hurriedly.

Stephen's bladder has seen better days so I made my way downstairs to wait for him in the dining room. Madame LaRue made a pretence of being surprised to see me - no doubt Stephen had informed her of his little subterfuge - and ushered me to the one unoccupied table in a darkened corner of the room (presumably their most romantic table). I selected a bottle of the exotic sounding 'Vin de Maison' and waited . . .

If anything, the third bottle of Vin de Maison was even more delicious than the first two and by the time my Creme Sarkozy arrived, I'd almost forgotten that Stephen wasn't there. In fact I might have forgotten altogether, had it not been for Madame LaRue's sudden rousing burst of Manhattan Transfer's 'Chanson d'Amour'. I'm not generally given to public displays of emotion but I have to admit I welled up. Then my shoulders started to shake. Then tears began to flow down my cheeks. Then I punched the accordionist. Rat-a-tat-a-tat, indeed!

I've no idea what time Stephen finally made it back to the hotel. Hopefully in time to pay for the taxi I charged to our room. Exhausted by the events of the evening, I slept all the way home.
Au revoir
, Paris.

15 Tuesday

16 Wednesday

Gave Stephen the silent treatment yesterday. He didn't notice. Tried the noisy treatment today. Still nothing.

17 Thursday

Tried the crockery treatment today. I think I'm beginning to get through to him.

18 Friday

I need to get out of the house - all that shattering china's put my nerves on edge - so I'm just popping round to Mrs Norton's for a quick cup of tea. Hopefully that will help calm me down and get things in perspective.

19 Saturday

'So, how was your holiday?' she asked me. There was an edge to her voice - I didn't know how, but it was almost as if she knew something had gone wrong. Well, I wasn't going to give her the pleasure of telling her about that awful last night, so I simply replied, 'Didn't you get my postcard?'

'Oh yes,' she said, taking it down from the mantelpiece, '"
Having a glorious time in the City of Love. So much nicer than those awful British seaside towns you and Graham are so fond of. Your dear friend, Edna x
"'

'Well, there you are then,' I said curtly.

'So you really enjoyed Paris, then?' she said, a grin widening across her overly rouged face.

'Yes,' I answered. 'Of course. Why wouldn't I? It's the most beautiful city in the world.'

'Is that right?' she said chirpily.

And then she showed me.

The postmark.

Clear as day. Well, almost.

BLACKPOO

Honestly! I haven't been so humiliated since Monday. I grabbed the card and Mrs Norton's holiday gift, a stick of authentic Parisian rock (I'm beginning to think even that may not be genuine now) and charged straight back home.

I confronted Stephen with the evidence and under extreme duress he was forced to admit it. I'm not proud of my methods, but I had no choice. I'd hit rock bottom.

20 Sunday

Visited Stephen in hospital this morning. The surgeons were able to remove it successfully, although they had to break it in several places first. I knew it. Blackpool all the way through.

21 Monday

Can't be bothered to cook today so it's frozen lasagne. I'm sure the kids won't mind - they've got strong teeth.

22 Tuesday

Stephen finally admitted he was in the wrong today. He even gave me an apology gift - a jigsaw of two babies sitting in a big plant pot. I had to forgive him. What else could I do? I'm a sucker for jigsaws. And plant pots. Besides, there was a note inside. It simply said: 'You complete me.' Beautiful.

23 Wednesday

Made Stephen's jigsaw. There was a piece missing.

24 Thursday

Decided I need something to occupy my mind so I'm finally going to clear out the attic this weekend. I haven't been up there since I inherited this house from my dear great-grandmother, although Stephen used to be up there all the time before he got his shed. I'd start today but Stephen's taken the ladder on his window-cleaning round - apparently he lost the other one. In a game of poker.

25 Friday

Stephen spent the evening in the Dog & Duck, crawling home around midnight. Unusually, I had a lovely, undisturbed night's rest. Stephen was asleep as soon as the pillow hit his head.

26 Saturday

Spent a good five hours rummaging around in the attic. Once I'd finally negotiated the dust, cobwebs and back issues of
Ladybitz Monthly
, it was quite an eye-opener. My first find was a huge, ancient portrait of someone I assume was Stephen's great-grandfather, although he's never mentioned him. Whoever it was looked almost identical to Stephen, only 50 years older. Fifty years and five hours by the time I'd finished up there, oddly . . .

I also stumbled across a few hundred metres of toy train and Scalextric track, countless marbles, several fingerless Action Men and dozens of Panini sticker albums, but the most exciting find of all was a large wooden chest. It was sitting in the corner of the attic, beneath a pile of Bay City Rollers albums and a space hopper and clearly hadn't been touched for decades. I wondered what on earth could be inside. Could it contain a hoard of valuable antiques, a body - or something more sinister? Sadly, I didn't get the opportunity to find out as pandemonium erupted from downstairs. Strange, as Brangelina's pandemonium lessons are normally on Wednesdays.

27 Sunday

Successfully managed to evade Stephen's Sunday morning fumblings and shot straight up to the attic again to see what I might discover inside that old chest. The lock was rusted over but one swift blow from Stephen's collector's edition double O gauge Flying Scotsman was enough to open it.

I peered excitedly inside and saw an extraordinary collection within - bundles of letters, photographs, all kinds of official-looking documents. I spent the next few hours poring over the contents. Some were mundane - a gas bill, a gin receipt, a quarterly bill from the local brothel. Others, romantic - a selection of love letters took me back to Stephen's and my own exchanges. (To this day, Stephen keeps my adolescent outpourings in a shoebox under the bed and I keep his on the cigarette packet he scrawled it on.) And yet others far sadder - I enclose a copy of the message my great-grandmother received in 1916 from the Ministry of Defence, composed by renowned wartime greeting card poet, Gettwell Sassoon.

It must have been a frightful wrench,

To hear your hubby's in the trench.

Imagining such dreadful scenes

Like being blown to smithereens,

Or falling prey to sniper fire,

Entangled, screaming, in barbed wire,

Or flailing wildly in the mud,

While spattered in his comrades' blood.

So, joyfully this card we send

To bring your worries to an end,

Let doubts depart your pretty head,

Your husband Reginald is dead.

I have to admit to the odd tear on reading that. Fortunately, Stephen's cycling proficiency certificate was in a box nearby and proved surprisingly absorbent. All in all, it was an astonishing find. To think of so much of my family history just sitting up here undisturbed for almost a century. It was at the same time exhilarating and exhausting. So revealing and yet so many questions unanswered. Who was this mysterious 'Victoria' my great-grandmother referred to in her diary as 'biological Mama'? What was the Gentlemen's Hellfire and Dominoes Club, whose badge was embroidered on my great-grandfather's cravat? How much would it all fetch on eBay? I resolved there and then to find out more, and so tomorrow I shall head straight to the municipal library to see what, if anything, I can discover.

28 Monday

Library closed. How frustrating! Will have to go tomorrow instead (between 2 and 2.30, apparently).

Fish and chips for dinner tonight. With a bottle of Tizer. Stephen and I may not have much, but we'll always have Blackpool.

March

1 Tuesday

The library was unusually busy this afternoon. Local children's author Brian de Sade was reading from his new book,
Daddy's From Mars, Mummy's From Venus
. It was a big surprise to see him there, particularly after last year's reading of
The Very Horny Caterpillar
and his creative use of the hole on page 12.

It was a little difficult to concentrate with hordes of screaming children running up and down between the shelves, many of them mine, but Mrs Blessed, the librarian, was terribly helpful. She took me to a small archive viewing room where the library stores over a hundred years of the local paper, the
Local Gazette
.

It was fascinating, leafing through the dusty sheets. Evocative headlines shouted out tales throughout history - 'Local Man Feared Drowned In
Titanic
Disaster', 'Local Man Loses Limb In Freak Soda Syphon Accident', 'Local Man Savaged By Ocelot'. I began to wonder just who this poor, unfortunate chap was. I spent a hugely enjoyable hour reading through all the stories of death and destruction, but sadly there was nothing to help me on my quest. However, Mrs Blessed did suggest that the local church records might be of some use, so I'll take a trip there later in the week to see what I can discover.

2 Wednesday

Went round to see how Mrs Biggins is bearing up. Her cosmetic surgery may have gone dreadfully wrong but at least she's smiling on the inside.

3 Thursday

Popped along to St Barnabas' Church, or TGI Sunday as it's been rebranded to attract new members. Reverend Timberlake kindly took time from choirboy practice to show me the church register. It was an enormous leatherbound tome, with entries stretching back to the Middle Ages. I scanned the heavy pages keenly but nothing jumped out at me, except Reverend Timberlake who had mistaken me for a choirboy. I trudged disconsolately home, none the wiser but slightly warier.

4 Friday

I have to admit, I'm at a loss. I wondered whether Stephen and I should apply to go on that television programme,
Don't You Know Who I Am?
, but as Stephen pointed out, that's only for celebrities to find out about their ancestry, not a simple window cleaner and his wife. In desperation, I thought I'd try the internet to see what that might yield. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, Stephen had changed the computer password again - no idea why. I believe a marriage should be based on trust above all things, even food. As it turned out, it was more difficult than I'd expected to figure out his password. I typed in all the obvious possibilities - lager, karaoke, kebabs - to no effect. I even tried the names of our children - at least, those I could remember - but nothing. I was on the verge of giving up when it suddenly came to me - Wagner! Of course! I pressed the keys and the screen flashed to life. Silly me. Fancy forgetting how much he loved
Hart to Hart
.