Pink Wellies and Flat Caps (32 page)

‘It’s all so exciting. I’ve made a nut roast with roast potatoes and stuffed peppers,’ she gushes on my return.

Surprise surprise, and it isn’t even Christmas. Ten minutes later we are huddled around the log burner sipping organic wine that tastes like vinegar. What I would do for a glass of Lidl’s budget plonk right now. Myrna pops a dish of crisps on the table and I try not to look horrified when two of the cats pounce onto it.

‘No Queenie, Mummy said no. She does love crisps,’ laughs Myrna.

She certainly does. Her nose is now poking its way into my hand to get a few of mine.

‘Ah she likes you. Look Philly, she adores Alice. If I remember she took to you in a big way the last time you came.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

How could I forget little Queenie peeing onto my brand new Marks and Spencer boots. Charlie lays his hand onto my knee and strokes it tenderly.

‘Lovely fire,’ he says.

‘So, the big day looms. Is the dress nearly ready?’ asks Phil, passing round a dish of salted peanuts.

‘We’re very excited, aren’t we darling?’ says Charlie, stroking my leg a bit more and looking at me lo
vingly.

Meanwhile Queenie is kneading me like a piece of dough and I keep letting out little squeals.

‘Queenie what are you doing to your Aunty Alice?’ laughs Myrna.

Queenie responds by knocking my wine glass over with her tail sending wine all over me. I make another escape to the bathroom where I consider phoning Charlie’s mobile and impersonating the police to inform him that our flat is on fire. Of course I don’t.
Instead I rub at my silk shirt and pray they don’t eat the cake while I’m here. I take my time having a pee and finally give my shirt another rub down. The time on my Blackberry tells me I have been in here for close on six minutes. Myrna is laying the table when I come back, and the cats are climbing all over it. Phil has a pile of papers on his lap and Charlie is studying them.

‘Michael can organise the media coverage
,’ says Phil.

Oh no, not the animal rights stuff. I reluctantly offer to help Myrna and am grateful when she declines. It isn’t that I don’t want to help. I just don’t want to see what the cats are licking. Ignorance is most certainly bliss in this case. I wander back into the living room where Phil and Charlie are still discussing their next rescue plan.

‘We don’t want the media on this, at least not until afterwards,’ says Charlie.

‘I can see the headlines:
Christmas Turkey is History
,’ says Phil excitedly.

‘Just keep it under wraps until we have the dates, the vans and everything else we need,’ says Charlie looking at me and shifting in his seat.

‘What are you planning?’ I ask suspiciously as Myrna brings in the nut roast and encourages us all to sit at the table.

‘Did you put out the chopsticks Philly?’ she asks.

Chopsticks? Am I losing the plot altogether? I thought we were having nut roast? She sees my puzzled look and smiles.

‘I’m not using cutlery for three months,’ she says proudly, ‘Isn’t that right Philly. You can help too Alice. You give up something for three months. It’s for charity.’

I stare at the chopsticks stupidly. But they are cutlery aren’t they? Perhaps I could give up visiting them for three months. That sounds like a fabulous idea.

‘I’m eating everything with them. It’s to help others so I don’t mind,’ she says in that c
ondescending tone that she has.

Wow such hardship, what can I say?

‘Middle-class giving,’ I mumble.

‘What?’ snaps Charlie.

‘I said it’s good to be giving.’

‘You can sponsor me. It’s to help gays get the treatment they need so they can be normal.’

OH MY GOD.

‘You could give up drinking,’ she suggests, pointing to the wine. Good idea Myrna
, seeing as there will never be a better day to start than today. Heavens, is she hinting that I am some kind of alcoholic?

‘I don’t actually feel that gays need treatment. My friend Cas
…’

‘Yes, well,’ butts in Charlie.

‘That nut roast smells marvellous,’ interrupts Phil.

‘We’re going to save lives from the Christmas dinner table,
’ he adds proudly.

‘Rights for farm animals,’ shrieks Myrna as she drops the steaming nut roast ont
o the table.

My God they are raving mad. I then realise what Phil has just said and my stomach churns.

‘Where are you rescuing these animals from Charlie?’ I ask, feeling my hands tremble.

‘Farms, where else Alice?’ replies Phil.

I fiddle with my fork and say,

‘What farms?’

Charlie stands up.

‘Shall I fetch the vegetables Myrna?’ he asks, exiting to the kitchen.

Before she can reply I have followed.

‘What farms Charlie?’ I repeat, taking a dish of carrots with a Simpsons
’ oven glove.

He picks up a dish of peas and avoids my eyes.

‘A few turkey farms, in Cornwall …’

‘What?’

He sighs.

‘Not Edward’s farm okay, I promise.’

‘Why Cornwall?’ I ask appalled.

‘The
president dictates it. He also lives there. It’s a fabulous chance for me Alice. He thinks I have what it takes to highlight the organisation. He even mentioned an OBE at one point.’

‘People don’t get OBEs for raiding farms Charlie. They get them for kicking a football about.’

‘You have no idea Alice. The president is an influential man.’

‘Why don’t you lick his arse while you’re there then?’

‘For goodness sake Alice.’

‘Charlie you can’t do this. This is people’s livelihood.’

He stops in the doorway.

‘God almighty Alice, whose side are you on? I would have hoped that getting attached to animals on that farm would have made you more aware of just how wrong it all is. Besides
, this has been organised from high up so please don’t shout at me. You should be proud the president trusts me with the operation.’

I wish he would stop making the guy sound like the
President of the United States and himself as Superman. The carrot dish burns my hand and I quickly run into the living room with it and drop it heavily onto the table.

‘Oh dear,’ mumbles Myrna, sawing manically through the nut roast with a chopstick while Phil tops up our wine glasses.

‘Charlie, you will cause a lot of damage to these farms if you remove their livestock.’

‘That’s the general idea,’ says Phil handing me another glass of chilled red wine.

‘This should be served at room temperature,’ I snap and instantly regret it.

‘Oh,’ he says flustered and studies the bottle intently.

‘Shall we partake of this lovely dinner that Myrna and Phil have gone to so much trouble to prepare?’ says Charlie.

Myrna and Phil look at each other. I pile roast potatoes onto my plate while glaring at Charlie.

‘I love your scarf,’ says Myrna finally. ‘Where did you buy it?’

‘Primark,’ I say shamelessly.

She gasps. Charlie dabs at his chin with a kitten patterned serviette.

‘Alice always tries her best to shop ethically,’ he says, ‘but her mother likes Primark. She bought that scarf for you didn’t she darling?’

How dare he lie about my mother?

‘Actually no, I bought it,’ I say angrily knocking back some wine. God, this is awful. Don’t drink too much Alice whatever you do. You’ll end up saying things you’ll regret.

‘You’re aware that child labour has been condemned by human rights groups,’ says Philly condescendingly.

Now I feel dead guilty.

‘It’s only a scarf,’ I say, feeling like I’m on trial and almost adding
your honour.

‘We really feel that consumers need to give a clear message to retailers that this is unacceptable,’ says Myrna heatedly, glaring at the scarf while attempting to scoop some nut roast onto her chopsticks.

‘This nut roast is the best I’ve ever had,’ I say, trying to change the subject and look to Charlie for help.

‘Yes, I agree, and the carrots are cooked to perfection,’ adds Charlie.

Myrna’s face lights up and the tightness leaves her mouth.

‘There isn’t too much garlic in it?’ she asks shyly.

‘Oh no, in fact it’s just right, isn’t it Charlie?’ I lie.

It must be me. There must be something very wrong with me. Myrna and Phil have loads of friends. More friends than I have. I imagine I am the only one who has ever complained about the wine. How can I be so horrid? I stare down into my glass and feel quite despondent, my mind in turmoil. I really want to be a good wife to Charlie and he really does look lovely tonight in his Pierre Cardin shirt. I’ve always liked Charlie in a white shirt. In fact when we get home I’ll ask him to keep it on and make mad passionate love to him. Yes, that’s what I’ll do and hopefully he’ll forget all about Primark and all that slave labour stuff. I may even get him to talk to me about the farm activism he is planning. Myrna leans over with a dish.

‘More nut roast Alice,’

I nod pleasantly.

‘More wine?’ asks Phil.

God, it’s so hideous. Still it is nicely numbing everything. A terrible thought suddenly occurs to me and I feel my knees tremble. What if one day Charlie and I are exactly like Myrna and Phil? No, I resolutely forbid myself to ever become like this and I will never ever serve chilled red vinegar flavoured organic wine. Or, God forbid, eat with chopsticks so that Cas can be normal.

‘I’ll fetch the dessert,’ says Phil.

‘I’ve made a rhubarb and cranberry flan.’

‘Lovely,’ I say.

Let’s look on the bright side, at least that should sort out my cystitis.

‘I hope this isn’t a bloody bomb. I found it on the pavement and thought it looked like Charlie’s.’

I look at the briefcase, let out a scream and cover my mouth with my hand.

‘Quick,’ I say, pulling her in and looking quickly up the steps to the street.

‘Blimey, what’s going on?’ she asks as I shut and lock the front door.

‘We need to get this open.’

‘Don’t you offer me coffee?’ Georgie drops her handbag and strolls into the living room.

‘Georgie,’ I shriek, ‘there’s no time for coffee.’

‘But you invited me for coffee, remember?’

I clutch the briefcase so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I take a deep breath and push back the clip, but nothing happens.

‘It won’t open.’

‘It’s locked,’ says Georgie with a yawn. ‘Why do you want it open anyway? Can’t you just ask Charlie to open it for you?’

I sigh and check the time.

‘Damn it. He’s bound to come back for it.’

I pull Georgie and the briefcase into the living room.

‘You remember I told you that Charlie is planning some kind of farm rescue?’

‘Yes,’ she says vaguely while glancing through a
Hello
magazine.

‘Georgie,’ I shout, ‘the farms are in Cornwall, and he won’t tell me where or when it’s happening. I am worried he’s going to Edward’s farm and I’ve looked everywhere for his plans
, I know there must be some. He left today on a business trip, but I’m sure it’s this liberation thing. If the paperwork is not in the flat then it has to be in this case. Which …’

‘Which he’ll be back for any minute
,’ she interrupts.

‘Oh my God, it could be Edward’s farm.’

By Jove she’s got it. Better late than never.

‘You need the combination,’ she says, studying the case.

Shit.

‘I don’t have it,’ I say miserably.

She stamps her feet in unison with the ringing of my Blackberry.

‘That’ll be him.’

I stare at my phone.

‘Stall him,’ she says, sounding like the cop in a badly written crime novel.

‘Stall him?’ I repeat.

She nods and points to the phone. I grab it and answer in a shaky voice.

‘Alice, thank God you’re there,’ says a relieved Charlie. ‘I must have left my briefcase in the street. Can you check? Some stupid woman fell off her bike and I did my Good Samaritan thing, and must have got into the cab without it. I’m at the station now.’

‘Oh dear I’ll check. Hold on.’

I click the Blackberry onto hold and look at Georgie who is fumbling with the lock.

‘What numbers would he use?’

‘Try his birthday, 1603.’

She shakes her head.

‘How about
my
birthday?’