A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Frogs. Victoria Clayton

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СКАЧАТЬ ringlet that had once been brown and was now greyish.

      Dimpsie peered into the mirror above the chest of drawers and pulled a face. ‘Evelyn ticked me off the other day for letting myself go. She said she’d pay for me to go to her hairdresser but I don’t know that I ought … she says I should use makeup but mascara always makes my eyes puff up … and who’s going to notice anyway?’

      Dimpsie had been my age, twenty-two, when she married my father. He had been in his final year at medical school. Kate’s imminent arrival had been responsible for this catastrophic mistake. The immediate need for money put paid to his plan of specializing in epidemiology. Instead they moved to Northumberland where he went into general practice. My mother suddenly found herself with a hardworking husband, a house and a baby to look after and no idea how to do any of it. In a spirit of noblesse oblige, Evelyn had invited the new GP and his wife to dinner and my mother had wasted no time in pouring out her feelings of loneliness and helplessness.

      This much I had been told by Dimpsie. I guessed that Evelyn might also have been lonely. She liked to rule and the women who stood high enough in the world to be Evelyn’s friends for that reason declined to be bossed. Dimpsie’s unbounded admiration for Evelyn’s beauty, style, strength of character and knowledge of the world must have been flattering. She was thrilled to be asked to fill out invitations, lick stamps and make telephone calls. But I knew that Dimpsie was more than an unpaid secretary. That mysterious chemistry which dictates true friendship operated in their case. Dimpsie was incapable of deceit, she always said exactly what she thought, and I guessed that Evelyn enjoyed being able to do the same without fear of competition or criticism.

      ‘Never mind.’ Dimpsie did some alternate nostril breathing to dispel negative thinking. ‘There are lots of things more important than one’s appearance … being true to one’s inner being … expanding one’s consciousness …’

      When Dimpsie was in her early thirties, some hippies had formed a commune in the ruined farm on the hill behind our house. The local people had complained of drugs, loud music, uncontrolled livestock and neglected children. Dimpsie alone had been enchanted by them. While Evelyn was busy sacking headmasters, reprimanding matrons for dusty windowsills and sending wife-beaters to jail, Dimpsie used to go up to the commune and sit on mattresses covered with Indian bedspreads, smoke joints, eat beans, and have long conversations about the significance of the Tibetan Book of the Dead. It was a sort of kindergarten, with nothing to do but be self-indulgent, and Dimpsie loved it. For the first time in her life she had found people who accepted her without wanting to change her. The hashish made everyone affectionate and giggly, which must have been in strong contrast to home.

      It was a cause of great sadness when the hippies tired of emptying bucket lavatories and collecting firewood to burn under the pots of beans. One by one they drifted away into advertising and accountancy. The ruined farm was untenanted now but for feral kittens, descendants of the original cats brought by the flower children.

      ‘Oh, blast!’ Dimpsie had picked up the notepad from beside the telephone. ‘Your father’s had to go out on a call. Vanessa Trumball again.’

      ‘Who’s Vanessa Trumball?’

      ‘She moved here about a year ago. She lives up at Roughsike Fell. She must be terribly lonely there on her own – her husband’s left her; such a shame. I thought he was a nice man. Your father has to go up there at least twice a week. It’s lucky for her he’s so dedicated to his profession.’

      I wanted to ask if she was young and pretty but I was afraid of causing pain.

      ‘Never mind.’ Dimpsie hung up our coats, then twirled on the spot with her knee bent and her foot stuck out behind her, a characteristic movement which I had forgotten. ‘We won’t wait for him. Let’s have supper.’

      ‘I must feed Siggy first and let him have a run. He’s been cooped up all day.’

      ‘Siggy?’ My mother looked vaguely about the hall.

      ‘My rabbit.’ I indicated the cage on the flagstones.

      ‘A rabbit? Oh, how sweet!’

      ‘Don’t do that!’ I cried just in time to prevent bloodshed, as she bent down, finger poised to stroke him through the bars. ‘He has the meanest temper. I’ll take him upstairs and shut him in my room so he can run about.’

      ‘But what will your father say?’

      Tom hated animals.

      ‘Need he know?’

      ‘I suppose not. Not telling isn’t the same as lying, is it? Shall I get him some lettuce?’

      I understood that she meant Siggy.

      ‘He’d rather have meat. Preferably raw.’

      It took a while to set Siggy up with a bowl of water, some scraps of chicken breast and a litter tray. Because of being incarcerated all day, he refused to have anything to do with me and sulked among my old shoes in the bottom of my wardrobe. By the time I hobbled downstairs to the kitchen my mother had supper on the table.

      ‘Lentil soup, darling. And homemade bread.’

      I remembered the bread. Dimpsie made it herself from wholemeal flour ground by the watermill in the next valley. It required strong teeth and a stalwart colon. It was, in its own way, delicious. I had a second helping of the soup to gratify Dimpsie. My father considered food a boring necessity, which must have been discouraging for an anxious cook.

      ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Just what I needed after such a long journey.’

      ‘Poor darling.’ She opened the Aga door and brought out a large pie. ‘This’ll set you up. Cabbage and Jerusalem artichokes with a layer of cheesy mashed potato on top.’

      ‘Oh goodness! I hadn’t realized there’d be anything else. I don’t think I can …’ I saw her face fall. ‘All right, because it looks so tempting, I’d love just a little.’

      While my mother spooned the explosive mixture on to my plate, I looked fondly at the kitchen. The walls had been stencilled with vegetables. I knew they were vegetables because I had helped Dimpsie cut them out years ago. We had had much trouble with the bulb of garlic. However we trimmed it and shaped it, it had continued to remind us of the horribly swollen scrotum my father kept in formaldehyde in his study.

      ‘Now, darling,’ said Dimpsie when I had eaten as much of the vegetable hotpot as I possibly could, ‘I’ll make some coffee and we can have a lovely cosy chat before Tom comes in.’

      I answered her questions about my leg with vague reassurances, then I told her about my flat and Giselle and Lizzie and Bella and the other members of the company. Dimpsie rested her cheek on her hand and looked at me with dreaming eyes.

      ‘It all sounds such heaven. Now tell me about the men in your life.’ A note of wistfulness crept into her voice. ‘I’m in the mood for a little vicarious romance.’

      ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there isn’t anyone particular.’ The decision not to tell her about Sebastian was made in a moment, before I had a chance to reflect. Dimpsie was the most broad-minded mother in the world but suddenly I couldn’t bear even the thought of him. ‘I don’t really have time for men at the moment.’ I yawned extravagantly. ‘I’m shattered. I must go to bed. I’ll see Tom at breakfast.’ I saw the disappointment СКАЧАТЬ