Mrs. Fry's Diary (10 page)

5 Sunday

I took the kids to the local park this morning. It's got everything - a duck pond, a play area, a needle exchange point. It also boasts the 'Unforgettable Woodland Experience', although that's just Mr Jenkins from number 14 hiding behind a hedge. It was a lovely day. The sun was out and the birds were singing. Or I assume they were - it was a bit hard to hear over the police helicopter and loud-hailer. Poor Mr Kowalski. Such a lovely old man. He used to be an Olympic athlete, I understand. And there he was, lonely and bewildered, standing on the edge of the sandpit, threatening to jump.

6 Monday

One of my more exotic specialities for dinner today - Spam-a-llama-ding-dong. Stephen and the kids enjoyed it so much they shot off to Burger King straight after, to prolong the eating experience.

7 Tuesday

What a morning! I had to go to Sweet Dreams to take back the so-called 'Eazycleen' bedsheet I bought only last week. After removing the assistant's earphones, I slapped the receipt on the counter and forcefully demanded a full refund. Needless to say, I was less than pleased when she informed me it was store policy that all refunds were made in the form of scratch cards. I demanded to see the manager but he wasn't available. For 18 months. Twelve, with good behaviour.

8 Wednesday

Took the twins to nursery this morning. One of the other mothers asked me how I tell them apart. I told her it's easy - Asbo has slightly smaller ears and Subo's a girl. I'm generally right around 80 per cent of the time.

9 Thursday

Up to chapter six of
The Vicar Crack'd
. The murderer wasn't Lady Fitzmaurice, after all. She was killed in chapter five. As was Maurice. Both stabbed through the heart with a poison-tipped umbrella. I strongly suspect the singing butler. He had the motive, the opportunity and the poison-tipped umbrella.

10 Friday

Nope. Wrong again. Turns out the butler couldn't have done it as he died in chapter four, when someone emptied a bathful of water over his electric toaster. I can see I'm going to have to pay closer attention if I'm to solve this. Perhaps I'd better take notes.

11 Saturday

Early to bed with my book this evening. Stephen's only wearing his Tarzan thong tonight - I'd hate to be up when the police bring him home.

12 Sunday

Cooked Stephen and the kids a real treat for Sunday lunch this week
-
Gammon Meringue Pie. I spoil them, really I do.

13 Monday

Creative writing cancelled again - the lecturer had a bad night. Something about walking trees and horses eating each other and a man of no woman born. Oh, and he couldn't get his dog Spot to go out either, apparently. Although to be honest, with all that going on, I can't blame the poor mite. Ours has enough trouble with the occasional firework.

14 Tuesday

A most peculiar morning. I was out doing the weekly lager shop in Oddbinge, when I suddenly found myself feeling a little peckish. Now I'm not generally much of a one for snacks as, like most women slightly older than my age, I struggle to maintain my hourglass figure. However, on this occasion I have to admit I succumbed to temptation and before I knew where I was, I found myself standing at the checkout with a basket of Carling in one hand and a Toffeemallow Chocofudge Strawberry Cream Crunch in the other. As usual there was a dear old lady in front of me, trying to pay for her weekly shopping with a jar of pennies and a luncheon voucher. Clearly, the in-store training didn't cover 'ringing for another member of staff to open one of the other 12 checkouts' and by the time she had finished, there were, unsurprisingly, more than a dozen impatient shoppers behind me in the queue. I briskly unloaded my basket onto the conveyor belt and reached into my handbag for my money and mace spray - I find it helps focus the staff's minds - at which point I realised that my purse felt a good deal lighter than usual. A quick rummage revealed it to contain no more than a pound in loose change. I poked inside the lining and was relieved to feel several pieces of paper, which I whipped out triumphantly only to be told by the acne-ridden 13-year-old behind the till that the shop didn't accept scratch cards.

I must have cut a sad figure as I strode home past the Spam factory, head lowered in shame, bag and stomach empty. I stared down at the cards in my hand and was about to screw them up and toss them into the bin when a thought found its way into my bowed head. What if . . . ? I shook myself. I may as well just throw them away. Why bother torturing myself with hope? And yet . . . In spite of myself, I couldn't help wondering. There had to be a chance, however small . . .

When I looked up, I realised I had wandered into the park. I sat down heavily and took in the view. Everyone seemed to be smiling and laughing, from the Afro-Caribbean Senior Citizens' Tai Chi Club to the young couple doing it against the bottle bank and the little boy trying to set fire to a swan. I bit my lip. Didn't I deserve a bit of happiness? Just a bit. It wasn't too much to ask, was it?

I took one of the three cards and scratched off the first silver box with a coin. One teapot. I scratched again. Two teapots! I just needed one more for PS1,000! Nervously, I scratched off the last bit of silver paint. A mug. I sighed. Still, I had two more cards.

I tried the second. One teapot. Two teapots. And . . . another mug. Surprise, surprise. Oh well, I thought, here goes nothing. I began to rub at the final card. Just one more chance left to win The Mugs Game.

One teapot. Again. Two teapots. Again. Three teapots.

No. Wait. Three teapots? That couldn't be right. I stared in disbelief. There must have been a mistake. I drew my reading glasses from my bag and screwed up my eyes. I looked hard. I counted hard. There was no doubt about it. I had won!

15 Wednesday

Couldn't sleep. I spent all night staring out of the bedroom window, wondering what to do with my winnings. Finally, as the sky was beginning to turn pink and the pigeons were ambushing the milkman, I had an idea. Of course! I waited all morning until Stephen had gone out on his taxi shift, then I went straight into the kitchen, popped the kettle on and opened the cupboard above the sink. After shuffling round the large tins of Spam, the family-sized tins of Spam and the large family-sized tins of Spam, I finally found what I was looking for. I took it into the living room, together with a fresh cup of tea and a Garibaldi.

Sipping my tea, I slowly turned the pages of the scrapbook on my lap, heavy with pictures cut from magazines and dreams from a 10-year-old's head. I realised I hadn't looked at it all year. Must have been a better one than usual. Each page bore a title, written in enthusiastic, youthful script - My House, My Family, etc - together with a picture, either one of my own childish (though accomplished) illustrations or a photograph taken from my mother's
Wishful Thinking
catalogue. I scanned the images with a wistful smile on my face. What a hopelessly naive little thing I used to be. An indoor swimming pool? A stable? A husband mowing the lawn? Sheer fantasy! Still, maybe there would be something in there that could help me decide what to do with my PS1,000 . . .

I turned to the My Husband page and sighed. There he stood, my 10-year-old mind's vision of the ideal mate - bronzed, clean-shaven, sunglasses perched on top of his immaculate golden hair, blazer hanging casually over his shoulder. A man with a clear sense of purpose. You could tell from the way both he and his friend were pointing into the distance. I sighed and thought of my Stephen. Perhaps he wasn't perfect, but he was better than most. Well, some. Well, Lighter Fluid Larry at least. I gazed across the room at the empty sofa with its big, Stephen-shaped indentation, and suddenly I knew exactly what I had to spend the money on. A new three-piece suite.

16 Thursday

Chapter 12. Curiouser and curiouser. Lady Fitzmaurice's personal trainer, Girth Johanssen, couldn't have done it because he was in the potting shed at the time with porn star and UN peace envoy, Viagra deLay. Meanwhile, Old Seth the gardener was occupied in the rhododendrons with Professor Hadron's second cousin twice removed, and Lord Fitzmaurice was at it with the lady who runs the gift shop. Of course, the fact that it's a bank holiday and one of Wendlebury Hall's busiest weekends only adds to the confusion. I'd better check my notes again. And the Venn diagrams.

17 Friday

What good news! We're terribly proud of Stephen Junior. He's just got a part in the school orchestra
-
he's on air triangle.

18 Saturday

At last the momentous day has arrived. The day we choose our new three-piece suite! I've looked through countless brochures and catalogues without success, so Stephen's driving me to Wicker World this morning so I can make my choice in person. He wasn't terribly enthusiastic until I informed him that I've already arranged for the current sofa to be collected the week after next (the anthropology department of the local college is very keen to have it. They believe some of the stains on it may hold the key to the missing link).

Lunchtime. I'm enjoying a passable cup of tea and some kind of muffin while Stephen paces round the service station looking for a map. I knew we shouldn't rely on that sat nav. Last time we tried to go to Salisbury Cathedral, we ended up in Sainsbury's car park. Or was it Tesco?

Teatime. Another cup of tea, and another muffin. I must say this is better than the last services we stopped at, though, on balance, probably not quite as good as the third or the fifth one. Stephen's still having no success buying a map, although he does have six Ginsters' pasties, an
I
a
Llandudno
T-shirt and a giant inflatable Loch Ness monster. Looks like we'll have to try again with the sat nav.

19 Sunday

20 Monday

21 Tuesday

Finally arrived at Wicker World. Apparently. Can't wait to look around. Just as soon as Stephen's finished beating the sat nav with his shoe.

Once Stephen had calmed down and put his shoe back on, we tried to locate the store. Unfortunately, we were hampered a little by the lack of daylight, despite it being the longest day of the year. Thank goodness for the flashes of lightning, one of which revealed we had parked in the middle of a roundabout, another, a large hand-painted sign -
Wyckham-on-the-Wold welcomes careful drivers
. Stephen picked up what was left of the sat nav and threw it at a tree. As our eyes adjusted we could make out a handful of dark houses surrounding us, the only light peeking through the curtains of a squat stone building ahead. Another bolt of lightning illuminated a wooden sign hanging above the door - the Sheep's Clothing Inn.

It's surprising how quickly Stephen can move, for a big man. By the time I squeezed through the heavy oak door, he was already seated at the bar with a pint glass at his lips. His second.

I looked around the pub as I removed the wedge of lime and sipped slowly from my bottle of brown ale. It was everything a good old-fashioned British pub should be - assuming we
were
still in Britain. The horse brasses on the walls, the well-worn dartboard, the roaring fire, the pentagram-patterned wallpaper. It would be a shame to go back out into the rain but, as I pointed out to Stephen, we needed to find somewhere to spend the night.

The landlady told us there was a hotel in the next village, not three miles away, but that it would be foolhardy to venture out now, what with this terrible storm, the full moon, the recent rash of unexplained killings and the hotel's lack of satellite television. Instead, she offered us a room upstairs. It was her daughter Tatanya's room, but the bed was big enough for three. She knew that for a fact. She nodded towards the blonde, well-developed 19-year-old who was at that point entertaining the clientele with her oak-beam dancing. The roof rattled beneath a blast of thunder. I asked if there was another room available.

The landlady rested her heavy arms on the bar. And then her heavy bosom on her arms. And then her heavy chin on her bosom.

'Well, there is my husband's room,' she said, staring over my shoulder. 'That should be free . . . tonight.'

I looked back through the window at the full moon.

'He and I have separate rooms, you see,' she went on. 'Ever since . . . well, you know what it's like.'

As she spoke, I felt my body gripped by a cold, clammy sensation. It was Stephen. I gave him a PS10 note and turned back to the landlady.

'So, this room is free, then?' I asked, hesitantly.