Pink Wellies and Flat Caps (6 page)

‘No of course, after all everyone has to start somewhere.’

What! Maybe they do but not on my sodding head. Why couldn’t he have started on the old woman with the blue rinse sitting opposite me? Why did I even say that? Why is it you can never say no to a hairdresser? My usual blonde highlights I feel sure now have a ginger tinge to them and my once full fringe is now some flimsy thing that is more lopsided than my breasts ever were. When my mother saw it her helpful comment was,

‘Well things come in threes. First the broken engagement, then the pay cut and now the arsed
-up hair.’

What she meant was the
fucked-up
hair but she can’t say the ‘F’ word so she replaces it with arsed. I let out a sigh and Georgie strokes my fringe playfully.

‘The hair is great. You look lovely Alice. Maybe Cas is right about the pearls though.’

‘Oh, do you think? I thought it would just add a little something.’

‘Yeah, a kind of Princess Ann
e little something that you could well do without,’ offers Cas while fighting off the wasp.

‘Sod off you little bugger. Honestly if it pricks me I will swell up.’

‘What’s new,’ Georgie and I say in unison.

I set the
satnav to take me to the Cornwall address, and check the ETA.

‘So I’ll phone you in five hours,’
I say hugging them both tightly, ‘and you must come down the first possible weekend.’

‘Try and stop us darling,’ says Cas, squeezing me so hard that I can barely breathe.

It has been just over two weeks since I had signed the contract over my divine tea at Claridge’s. I had handed in my notice the next day. There had been a few oohs and ahs but nothing really sincere. Charlie had arranged to go over the inventory at the flat while I was at work so he wouldn’t have to see me. In just one month I had called off a wedding, given up my flat, quit my job and was now heading west to begin a whole new life. To say I am nervous would be an understatement. I am shit scared.

‘And you must text and phone every day,’ I say, shuffling about by the car.

‘Oh God, I can’t go,’ I blurt out and feel the wetness on my cheeks as the
tears run from my eyes.

‘I’ll be as useless as shit in the country, you know I will.’

‘You’ll be fanbloodytastic, that’s what. You’ll be talking West Country in no time,’ blubbers Cas who cries at weddings, funerals, bar mitzvah’s and the opening credits of
Brokeback Mountain
. Georgie squeezes my hand.

‘It’s the best way to get over farty Charlie,’ she smiles.

‘Farty farty farty Charlie,’ giggles Cas.

A part of me is hoping that absence will make the heart grow fonder, but knowing my kind of luck it will be more a case of out of sight out of mind where Charlie is concerned. I climb into the car. After all, I’ve signed a contract now so there is no going back. It could be worse. At least I will be working in a stately home. You never know I may well meet Prince Harry, and who knows where that will lead, and then Charlie will be sorry. I watch Casper in the rear
-view mirror, dancing and waving his hands like some gay street entertainer. Georgie is waving, although I am not sure if she is waving at me or trying to fan away the smoke from my exhaust. God, I will miss them. I turn the corner and they disappear. Cornwall here I come.

‘Who’s next?’

Thank goodness. I’m starting to feel like I am waiting my turn in a soup kitchen rather than at Costa Coffee. I am about to give my order when an enormous woman pushes in front of me. Or I should say her breasts push in front of me. In fact they practically send me sprawling. Let me tell you, she is only not hanging badly but hanging to the point of scraping her knees and dragging along the floor. I can’t imagine what Justine would make of her. Mind you I’m not so sure Justine would be able to get near enough to measure. In fact, I feel quite certain Justine would not want to get near. I’ve already backed off several feet. I’m not saying she smells bad or anything, but she certainly isn’t oozing Issey Miyake if you know what I mean. An equally fat, but shorter and breast-free child pushes in after her.

‘What do ya
want?’ bellows the woman to the child.

‘Coke,’ responds the child through a mouth full of sweets.

Not diet, obviously.

‘One
coke, one hot chocolate with lots of cream and …’ She turns to the child and in the process nearly takes my eye out with her left breast. Christ, she could rob a bank with those tits. No one would dare say no to her.

‘What cake do-ya-want?’

I let out a sigh and she gives me a dirty look.

‘What’s your problem?’ she asks aggressively.

Shit, I only sighed for goodness sake. I open my mouth to speak.

‘We was in front of you and you shoved in. So don’t you go giving me all this,’ she yells, clicking her thumb and fingers tog
ether presumably to imitate me
giving it all this
, whatever
all this
is.

‘Well
…’ I begin.

But she
wallops me again with her breasts and shoves the brat towards a table.

‘Sit there Paris, and don’t fucking start.’

Paris? Where did that name come from? Not the place of conception surely? But I suppose you can’t call a child Wapping can you? Oh dear, this is what service stations do to me. I find myself thinking horrible things about people. Don’t you just hate these places? Where there are all those toothless women that you never seem to see anywhere else but always here and the men with their pot bellies pushing though their button-popped shirts. Not to mention the screaming kids. I feel like every child in the country is in this service station. If there were a terrorist attack here the entire generation would be totally wiped out. I only stopped because I needed a coffee to keep me awake. I’m starving, but there is no way I am eating at this place. I swear the food on the streets of Calcutta is safer than the slop that they are dishing up here. As for those Cornish pasties outside, well say no more. Okay, I know I’ve got to start getting into the feel of everything Cornish, but I really would prefer not to start at the Taunton Deane service station.

‘Can I have a
latte please?’ I ask the assistant, ‘to take out.’

‘Decaf
latte or normal, cream or milk, soya or normal, skimmed or full fat, eat in or take out?’

The assistant licks her lips and quickly applies some salve while I try to decipher her words. Her hair is tied back in one of those perfect messy buns. You know the kind I mean. It looks all messy but you can see it has been expertly done. I can never do that. Within seconds my hair has slipped through the slide and is hanging back down again. She chews at the gum in her mouth and lets out a tired sigh. Didn’t I say take
out?

‘Erm, normal with normal and skimmed,’ I say stupidly, feeling that none of that made any sense.

‘Oh, and to take out please.’

‘You want normal milk, not skimmed, you mean?’

‘Erm yes, and to …’

‘Medium or large?’

‘Medium and …’

‘Eat in or take
out?’

I feel like a contestant on a game show. She’ll be telling me I’m the weakest link
next.

‘Take
out please,’ I answer pleasantly.

Why is it I can never be rude to people? Not even when they are rude to me. Is this something serious that is lacking in me. I take my
coffee and negotiate my way out of the crowds. I am two hours from Truro and getting more nervous by the minute. All kinds of things had occurred to me in the car. The kind of things that I really should have voiced to Lady Fairfax-Mason at my interview but didn’t. Even her confirmation email didn’t say much to enlighten me. I had hoped she would tell me the exact number of staff I would be managing, and their names. I was just told that everyone was looking forward to meeting me, whoever everybody was, and if there were any problems to email her directly. I constantly tell myself to stop being so anxious; after all, I’ve been managing people for years haven’t I? I find myself stupidly wondering if Charlie is thinking of me and whether he is missing me. Most likely he is not. After all, I’ve only been gone a few hours. I walk into the loo and it’s suddenly like I’ve entered a surreal dream. In front of me is a row of men with their penises out, and in full flow. Holy shit! What are they doing in the ladies? More importantly what am I doing in the mens’? Oh buggery bollocks. I turn sharply and almost fall over another woman who is following me.

‘No don’t go in there,’ I yell.

‘Oh my God, …why not?’

‘It’s the gent’s loo.’

Her eyes widen so much that I feel sure her pupils will pop out.

‘And you went in there?’
she squeals.

Crikey, does she have to look quite so appalled. It’s the gent’s loo, not a live sex show.

‘Well, yes …’

‘Oh my God,’ she gasps, and quickly heads to the ladies, ‘you poor thing.’

Heavens, it wasn’t that bad. Just a few more penises than one would normally see at any one time. Some might call me lucky. I push my way into the ladies, and dash into the nearest cubicle which of course has no toilet paper. Sadly I have reached that stage where a woman can wait no longer.

I finally make my way outside, past the Cornish pasty van and the strong smell of fry-ups and cigarette smoke, and head to my little old Beetle. I make a firm decision that any more toilet breaks will be made behind a bush. It can only get better from here on. I find myself thinking of Charlie again and allow myself a quick glance at the photo of him that I had shoved into my purse. After a
few seconds I start the engine and reverse out of my parking space leaving my customary cloud of white smoke behind me. I turn left onto the motorway and continue westward.

‘You have reached your destination.’

I
sigh with relief. I have been driving for the past hour in heavy rain and am quite relieved to have finally made it. But I know an estate when I see one and a tiny country church at the end of a lane does not constitute an estate. Already the satnav has misdirected me three times. Once down a no-entry road, another time to turn right which meant demolishing someone’s house to do so. It had later told me to take the fourth exit on a roundabout that didn’t exist. I strain my neck to see a building that resembles some kind of stately home. I study the map Lady Fairfax-Mason had sent me and realise the bend that she has highlighted, along with the road leading to the house, was the one I had been on five minutes ago. I take a few moments to check my appearance in my compact mirror and climb from the car to straighten my clothes, grateful it has now stopped raining. It has been a long drive. I’m sure the staff will not expect me to emerge looking like royalty but I want to look the best I can.

It had occurred to me, as I was driving, that there may well be situations where I may need to curtsy. What if Lady Fairfax-Mason’s son, Edward, has royal visitors? As the estate manager I am bound to be introduced. I’ll have to ask the staff how to do it properly. In fact, right at this very minute they are probably worrying where I am. I imagine the kettle has been on and off for the past hour. I really should have asked Lady Fairfax-Mason for the house phone number. My stomach rumbles and I wonder what the cook will have made for dinner. Apart from breakfast I have only had an apple and the coffee at the service station. I turn back and take the bend again only to find the road marked in red is some kind of dirt track. That can’t be right, unless the estate is at the end of the track, but surely the road to the house would be better than this. No, this can’t be right. After resetting the satnav I find myself, five minutes later, sitting outside the church again. This is ridiculous. There should be
a Brideshead Revisited
drive somewhere. I spot a woman walking her dog and jump from my car as she enters the church gates.

‘Excuse me, can you help with directions,’ I call
, flapping my map in the air.

She gives me a warm friendly smile.

‘Where is it you’re going to?’

Her dog yawns and paw
s my leg which I tactfully move away. The last thing I need is paw prints all over my tights.

‘Down Rocky!’
she snaps.

Rocky, surely that’s a name for a
bulldog, not a cocker spaniel?

‘I’m looking for the
Trenowyth estate.’

She raises her eyebrows.

‘Trenowyth you say?’

I nod.

‘Do you know it?’ I ask eagerly.

Rocky
wags his tail excitedly and stares up at me.

‘Why would you be going there?’ she asks curiously and her eyes travel over my two
-piece and stop at my feet.

It’s not really her busine
ss is it but as I can’t be rude I reply,