Chapter Nineteen #2
I heard dribs and drabs as I was standing in queues in the local shops, people wondering where he would live: in a rustic cottage on the road to Tippington?
In one of the thatched abodes, like mine, clustered around the village green?
In one of the sympathetically designed new builds on the outskirts?
Or would he, perhaps, build his own? He could be on Grand Designs.
We could all tune in to find out where he sourced his marble from, how much it had cost him, and what he hadn’t got proper planning permission for.
Then, in a satisfying end to the evening, we could message each other: “Did you see it? Omg, it’s hideous!
” Not that anyone in the village ever messaged me.
However, James had other ideas. For years Langley Hall had sat empty and unloved, until one day a rumor began to circulate that the hall had been sold. To a Hollywood star? To a member of the royal family? To a Mafia boss? No one knew…
Then James’s mother made the big announcement at the May Day celebrations: James had only gone and bought it! Outright—no mortgage! She told everyone who passed.
“Exciting news!” she said to me, as I lurked behind the Maypole. “He wants to throw a ball. Between you and me, I think my James is ready to settle down. I think he’s throwing it with a view to finding his wife.”
“Enchanting,” I said. We could all head up there in time-limited pumpkin carriages and glass slippers. Most of my outfits were made of rags, so I would have to think hard about how I would magic one of them into a ball gown.
Mrs. Dixon nodded. “He’ll be needing a few waiting staff for the night; I could put in a word for you. You’d have to smarten yourself up a bit.”
If only she’d known the twist fate was about to take.
Yet, aside from that, I didn’t give it another thought.
I was still trying to find my feet, living on my own, and I was struggling in every way.
Not only had I had issues with the bed and the TV, but I’d found myself short of an oven, following an incident with a forgotten frying pan and a sleepy head.
“Three cheers for the smoke alarm,” the Fire Brigade said as they left. “It saved your life.” But I wondered if death might not have been a mercy.
The curtains were ruined, but the kitchen window faced the back garden, so I could manage without them. However, the walls were charred, the sink half-melted, and the cooker was unusable. Something inside it had died and not one function worked, no cooktop, no grill, no oven.
The price of an oven was the stuff dreams were made of, and I failed to qualify for a credit arrangement.
So, I microwaved everything I could, turning everything I ate into a three-course meal: veg course, potato course, meat course, and started saving for a new cooker at the rate of a pound or two a week.
I reckoned I could have one in about a year, factoring in overtime at Christmas and the fact that I didn’t have to buy anyone presents anymore.
But living on my own was hard, and one night I needed company more than I needed an oven. I changed into a skirt made from silk camisoles and took my life savings, ￡12 by then, down to the King’s Head for karaoke night.
I was nervous as I approached; I was not liked in the village.
In fact, I was shunned. I’d even noticed that there were people who wouldn’t buy from a shelf in the SPAR if they knew I’d stacked it.
But I couldn’t spend another night on my own in the house, so I had to try.
I walked to the front door and pushed it open.
Inside, I knew everyone. Ted from the garage was there, with his lank hair, his overalls, and his beer belly; Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner from the newsagent’s, the sartorial opposite of Ted; Betty Chambers from the small shop and her associate from Great Beadington; the bellringers, having a drink after bellringing practice.
Samantha Gibson and Euan Saunders, not yet married at that time, were at a table in the middle of the room.
When I saw them I nearly did an about-turn, but they saved me the trouble by downing their drinks and “hummphing” out, Samantha barging my shoulder as she did so.
“What are you having, Daisy?” Mick, the landlord, asked me.
“Pineapple Breezer, please.” I handed my money over and took a glug. Now I was committed to my plan, but no one shuffled up so that I could go and sit with them. I began to ask myself what I’d expected.
Still, once I had the taste for them, the Bacardi Breezers went down well and I began to relax. I drank three and ordered a fourth, but as Mick put the open bottle down in front of me, disaster struck: I was short by 50p.
“Well, you’ve got a problem then,” Mick said, his hand still outstretched for the money I didn’t have. “What are you going to do?” The room fell silent and everyone stared at me.
“What do people normally do when this happens?” I asked.
“Normally one of their friends coughs up for them.”
I bit my lip and began scrolling through my memories for a friend.
Then there was a commotion at the door. The Dixons had arrived, Mr. Dixon, wearing the same clothes he always wore, Mrs. Dixon flaunting an expensive pair of earrings and a new coat.
I didn’t like Mrs. Dixon and I was pleased a few months later when James bought them a villa in Spain and off they jetted.
Behind them came James, sporting a very heavy-looking watch, that I was soon to learn cost nearly two hundred grand, Louis Vuitton jeans, and a Dolce I was working out which bills I wouldn’t pay to save the money, and if this would be instead of an oven, or before it, or after it, as Vern, the karaoke man, packed his stuff up.
“One more song, Vern,” I said. “I’ll let you choose.”
“‘The Sound of Silence,’” he said, and pulled the plug.
“Don’t you have a home to go to?” Mick asked as he collected the glasses.
“Well, yes and no.” I had a house, but it didn’t feel like a home anymore. Mick didn’t stop to hear the details of that.
Then I had an idea. “Do you need any staff?” It would be nice to work in the King’s Head and be there for karaoke every week.
“We’ve got everyone we need at the moment, thanks,” Mick said. And I hadn’t really expected anything else. “Door’s over there.” And with no other option, I went through it.
Outside, the fresh air hit me and I realized how drunk I was, but I could find my way home in my sleep, so it wasn’t an issue.
I took my keys out of my bag and held them between my fingers, just in case.
Upper Iffley was a very safe place, but you can never be too careful.
Then I stepped out off the pavement to the other side of the road, stood awkwardly on the curb, tripped, and dropped my keys down the drain.
“Noooo!” I lay on my stomach and peered down through the grid.
I couldn’t see anything and if I could, I wouldn’t have been able to reach through the slats.
Just like that, the best night since my mum had died had become the worst. I didn’t even know back then what you were supposed to do if you dropped your keys down the drain.
Previously, my mum would’ve let me in. And it was getting cold.
Headlights appeared and I scrambled to try to get up before the car was on top of me, but it saw me and stopped. The door opened.
“Are you alright?” a voice asked and when I looked up, James was standing in front of me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“I dropped my keys.”
“Oh, I thought you were being sick,” he said. “You are quite drunk.” I wasn’t that bad. “I’ve got a car phone and a Yellow Pages in the limo,” he said, gesturing at the long black car behind him, with a chauffeur standing beside it. “We can call an emergency locksmith.”
So, I got into the car and used the only car phone I have ever used—it was already quite retro by then: Mobile phones were just starting to become common.
Then we drove to my house and waited in the warmth of the car until the locksmith arrived and James settled up with him, which was slightly embarrassing, but he insisted and I didn’t have the money anyway.
I didn’t invite him in—I couldn’t because of the mess—but as he was about to leave, James said, “Would you like to go out sometime?”
I wasn’t expecting that!
“Yeah, OK.” I managed to keep my voice calm. “When did you think?”
“Thursday maybe? Or Friday? If you’re free.”