Before and After (19 page)

I
am telling you this, so that if you too should find yourself in a similar position, you can take my advice, and make the most of the here and now. After all, I had many troubles on my mind: The Ambles, Archie’s
most
upsetting public speech, his disappearance into the night in a condition that could plausibly be described as a trifle unwell, the lurking, but easily banished thought that I
might
just have overdone it with Archie’s ridiculously low tolerance levels with the speech enhancer and the upcoming necessity of The Treatments. But did I lay and worry all night? No. And neither should you.

Rule
Number Nineteen

“
Unexpected
visitors
are
,
by
their
very
nature
as
welcome
as
a
woodworm
in
a
17th
century
commode
.
They
must
be
shown
no
mercy
and
granted
not
even
the
smallest
kindness
.”

At ten the following morning Archie Amble was still hoping desperately for sleep to overtake his battered and strangely raw body. Every nerve ending felt exposed and vulnerable to the slightest draught or stroke of sheet and blanket. The fact that he managed to navigate his way home was proof that the training of young men in public schools by bogus para-military organisations works. He remembered the smoky hours filled in a Soho bar reminiscent of the drinking hole in Star Wars (did they
ever
close?) that he had felt for moss on the trees in the park, knowing that moss didn’t grow on the north side. Somehow, armed only with that knowledge and a pair of feet that seemed to want to walk to Scotland, he found his way home. It had been broad daylight and he had had just enough cash, and could quite easily have hailed a cab, but somehow he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to. He’d needed to walk. Also, the thought of encountering the supercilious or, worse still, knowing matyness of a taxi driver had been unthinkable. No, no, he would get home by god under his own steam, he’d thought. Shank’s pony. Best foot forward. Big boys don’t cry. Wonder what happened to nanny? No thinking about that sort of stuff now. Sleep, that’s what’s called for. Everything will seem better once some sleep has been had. No, no, don’t think about Sir George again, sort that out later. Why does this bloody sheet insist on twirling around the mattress like a boa constrictor? And why is it so bloody cold in here? No wonder sleep is elusive, it’s like trying to snooze on an alpine ski run. Dry, dry mouth. No water by the bed. Get up and get some? Are you mad? Sleep. How can anyone sleep when their eyes are wide open, glued apart with paranoia and doubt and rapid heartbeat that could turn into a stroke stop and Flora sitting in his hotel like a grotesquely forward and racy caricature of Sylvia (surely the woman didn’t expect him to – no, no banish
that
thought) and Lady Pat breast feeding small furry mammals with her oh god stop stop now sleep stop no job no job no job sleep please. God. Yes, god that was it. Please god let me sleep. Hello, is anyone there?

No
reply.

He
heard the door of his room open, and he feigned sleep like a child on Christmas Eve catching his parents hanging his toy bulging stocking at the end of the bed. Best that they don’t know that he knows that they know. He felt rather than heard Sylvia bend over him, and check his breathing from a rapid pant to deep slow breaths. The only thing that he could genuinely feel pleased about was at least it was Saturday and there was no fearful racket from downstairs, where the builders were turning his once peaceful home into a circle of hell.

Sylvia
left her husband sleeping and descended the rubble-filled stairs looking for Maria. She was about to gently chide her about being late with her morning fruit juice and prairie oyster, but Maria was nowhere to be found. The ringing of the doorbell and the absence of Maria made Sylvia move slowly towards the front door, feeling aggrieved.

A
blonde woman, looking faintly dishevelled stood in front of her. Disappointment filled her face.

“Oh.”

Oh indeed, Sylvia thought. But managed to say as pleasantly as she could, “Yes, can I help you?”

Shyness
and then determination filled the other woman’s face and she began to stutter an explanation.

“Umm,
I’m looking for Flora, Flora Tate? I believe she lives here? I’ve knocked on so many doors and rang so many bells, I knew it was this road but…. Oh sorry, I mean, I’m Victoria, I don’t know if she said anything about me, but I’m, well, I want to see her, no, I need to see her, the thing is you see, that she bought me some shoes, I mean she doesn’t know me or anything but -“

“You’d
better come in.” Sylvia said as kindly as she could muster, standing aside to let the stranger enter her house, wondering, not for the first time, what Flora actually
did
. Buying footwear for complete strangers seemed an unlikely occupation for Flora, but then, you never really knew. No-one
ever
really knew anyone, Sylvia thought as she stepped delicately over a roll of cable left by the builders.

Victoria
followed Sylvia to the kitchen, managing to trip only twice over gaping floorboards, snagging the heel of her chocolate brown suede shoes rather badly. She winced and stroked the scuff mark tenderly.

A
quick glance around the decimated ground floor of the house left her reeling – what an awful mess. Draughty, cold and unwelcoming with unsafe-looking props holding up walls and ceilings. It wasn’t how she’d imagined Flora living. Not at all. Flora deserved something better than this. And Victoria knew the very place for her.

Sylvia
switched the kettle on and the two women settled down over the age old paraphernalia that entails the brewing of a nice cup of tea.

Bella was sitting in a warm bath with a more than healthy dose of a cloudy antiseptic in it. The tattoo was looking puffy and scabby. Perhaps Flora could look at it when she got here. Bella hoped that it wasn’t going to turn septic.

Marmaduke padded down stairs and took up residence by the front door. Like all animals looking for a familiar he was aware when his mistress was nearing the premises, and he could tell that I was sitting in the back of a taxi, just about to turn into the road.

I had with me a swathe of brochures that I’d picked up from a travel agent. The cloudless blue skies and limpid pools that floated out of every page were an impossible mirage, one not contaminated in any way by the boorish guests, biting flies, badly -cooked fish and starving cats that seem to proliferate in such idylls. I was convinced that the time was right for such a trip for at least two members of the Amble family. But which two? That was the question. Some time away from the builders mess into some winter sunshine was undoubtedly what was needed. None of them, for various personal reasons, would
want
to go, but that could be easily overcome. Really, if I wasn’t so happy in my chosen path I could easily be a saleswoman selling ice to the proverbial Eskimos. Or Inuit’s as we are all now meant to call those charming seal-eating people, with their fifty-seven different words for white. I greeted Marmaduke and, calling out that I was home, let myself into the kitchen which was the only possible place to be in that wretched home at the moment.

I
didn’t immediately recognise the woman sitting with Sylvia at first, and when I did, an unpleasant jolt went through me.

ROAK’s
were
not
meant to turn up like the proverbial bad penny. I greeted Sylvia and smiled pleasantly at her, plonked the brochures on the table, and sat down. In my experience it’s best to let people get things off their chest, so I was prepared to give Victoria five minutes of gushing thanks for the footwear, before I enquired after Archie, or let the idea of a far flung holiday drift inexorably over Sylvia with the unstoppable force of a grand piano being pushed from a ten story building.

So
I began, as expected, and graciously allowed Victoria a full minute of effusive thanks and held up my hands in a charming self deprecating manner to signal her to stop.

But
no.

The
creature was
relentless
.

“
– and so the simply marvellous thing is that Sylvia has explained who you are and what you do here and says that you are nearly finished really, so do you see, it seems as if it was
meant
, doesn’t it?”

I
leant back in my chair and closed my eyes briefly through sheer tiredness. After all, I’m not superwoman and do have needs of my own, one of which includes a decent breakfast which the hotel had
not
been very helpful with. I would have thought that kippers were not too much to ask for in a five star establishment of the British Isles, but it had seemed not. Something to do with an unpleasant odour in the restaurant. Ridiculous. If Victoria thought for one moment that I was going home with her she was sadly mistaken. Simply not enough money or space or scope. I opened my eyes and glanced sharply at Sylvia. To my surprise Sylvia looked quite pleased about it. This wouldn’t do at all. A surge of annoyance swept through me. Had everyone taken leave of their senses? I had nowhere near finished here, and Sylvia was trying to, well, the sickening phrase,
palm
me
off
, occurred to me. Surely not? No. Of course not. Impossible. I must be mistaken. I re-assured myself that I had done
everything
I could for the Ambles and that I was
appreciated
.

I
jumped to my feet, imperiously drawing myself to my full height - a very regal five foot two and a half, (and mark my words well here - a half inch is always
very
important) - and swooped down on Victoria, practically dragging her from her seat.

“My
dear woman, you simply must get along, I have so much to do here and so little time, no, no time to finish your tea I’m afraid, is this your coat? yes I rather thought it must be,
so
nice to see you and thank you
so
much for taking the time to stop by-“ I had her in the hallway now and was on the home run. “
Do
take care of yourself won’t you. Good bye.” I pushed her out the front door and closed it firmly behind me. I opened it again briefly and called out “And do put a touch of polish on that nasty scuff mark on your heel, won’t you?” I banged the door shut again and felt a wave of relief swoop over me. Done and dusted.
Back
to the kitchen I trotted. I simply dread to think of the number of miles I must cover every day on other people’s errands. Why
I
should have to show the woman out was beyond me, but, there you are, the standards these days have slipped so much it’s a miracle that we get any sort of service
whatsoever
.

I
tried to gauge Sylvia’s mood as I entered the kitchen, but the woman was annoyingly hard to read this morning. Still, she politely started to chatter to me, omitting any reference to Victoria, I was pleased to note,

“So
Flora, how did it go last night? I think Archie must have got home before you –“

At
least he got home, I thought complacently, banishing the dark thought that I’d had in the night about Archie ending up at a party on the outskirts of Manchester and not arriving back for three days.

“-
and Maria’s nowhere to be found so I’ve had to make tea myself! Would you like some?”

I
sat at the table and let Sylvia know all about last night. Well, nearly all. I omitted the speech enhancer and concentrated on the gory details of Lady Pat’s dress, which I knew would amuse her.

“And
so,” I recounted, “Archie’s speech may have upset Sir George just a
little
, but I think it’s all for the best really. You know Sylvia, I don’t think Archie’s really happy in his work, do you? Now might be a good time for a change. What do you think?”

She
looked quite horrified at the idea. I quickly passed her the bundle of brochures and we poured over the merits of the Caribbean versus Asia, pool versus beach, island-hopping versus cruising. Sylvia dutifully bowed her head and concentrated on the travel speak that dotted the pages of print in her hands.

“Oh,
Flora – what do you think about Phuket?”

“I
don’t think it’s quite pronounced like that Sylvia, but it has merits nevertheless,” I said smiling at her.

Sylvia
laughed, then abruptly pushed the brochures away from her.

“Quite
impossible, I’m afraid.” She said with real regret in her voice.

“But
why
?” I practically blurted out, forgetting for a moment that I held control.

“Archie
and I both have the most awful sun allergies. It’s why we honeymooned in the Lake District –“

So
that’s
why she’d worn so much underwear underneath the dress – to keep out the invidious creeping damp chill of the northern climes.

“Oh,
but you mustn’t let a little thing like that stop you,” I cried, “No, no, one must push on and rise above it, besides anti-histamines are very effective in most cases, or hypnosis or –“