Every Woman For Herself. Trisha Ashley

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СКАЧАТЬ (however odd an appearance that would give to prospective house purchasers) I went out to the supermarket and removed as many cardboard boxes as I could fit into my ancient 2CV.

      I also laid in a large supply of long-life consumables, like baked beans, jars of olives, red wine and dog food, before the money ran out altogether.

      Em phoned: the mistress and her children had got into the house, and were laying waste like Angie’s squirrels.

      None of the others had managed to sidestep the Summer Cottage like this, and Em had begun an offensive against the invader. Em did offensive very well. She hoped to have them out before I moved back, but in the meantime the mistress was domiciled in my room! I was highly indignant, even though Em had removed all my personal belongings from it and stored them in one attic, and the two little girls in another.

      She would have much preferred squirrels, and so would I.

      Why did it have to be my room? Why not Bran or Anne’s? Having foreign bodies in my only remaining sanctum was the last straw. Think the aliens were now taking over Yorkshire.

      ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get them out,’ Em said grimly. ‘Father won’t be able to stand them around all the time once the sexual novelty’s worn off – you know what he’s like. Then I’ll put your room back as it was.’

      ‘But it will never be the same again,’ I said sadly, for now I really did feel like a dispossessed person. I was blowin’ in the wind.

      I told Em about Skint Old Northern Woman, and she said it was a wonderful idea, and she would write some inspiring verse for it, or maybe cookery hints, like: ‘In Yorkshire We Eat Faggots’.

      Em has a knack for writing doggerel verse, which is very saleable: practically every greeting card seems to contain one of hers. Now she reminded me that we all had old portable typewriters. Father bought them when it became clear that we weren’t going to write Gondal-type stories in the minute notebooks he kept giving us. Perhaps he thought we needed a bit of twentieth-century apparatus?

      When I found mine, the ribbon had dried to paper tape, and trying to buy a new one proved to be a vain quest, for the computer age had long overtaken me.

      When I eventually did track one down it was the wrong sort and I had to hand-wind it onto the old spools. I feared I may have red and blue hands for the rest of my life. Still, it worked.

       Skint Old Northern Woman

       In this issue:

       Tart up that skirt

       Normal women bulge

       Superfluous hair

       Bulimia for beginners: what to do if your body doesn’t want to part with the food

      My roots were turning slowly silver as the divorce proceedings trundled tumbrel-like towards the final division. I’d always had long hair, but I didn’t think all that dye would come out. It looked quite interesting, though – more badgerish than Cruella.

      My clothes I couldn’t do much about, since they were all black; mostly culled from charity shops and jumble sales. There were one or two floaty Ghost things, purchased at who-knows-what-price or with what credit card by Matt in London, but they were black, too.

      Since I was not the same person who’d eloped with Matt, it didn’t seem right that I should look the same, especially if I was moving back to Upvale. I was going full circle on my life, but surely it should be a different me that returned?

      New To You.

      It was melancholy packing up the house, and my dreams with it. And there was that moment when the auction van removed the marital bed … Very symbolic.

      Not that I ever liked it.

      Angie had been ringing continually, offering to help, but that was just nosiness. And Greg was back, but he hadn’t got in, even though he phoned first to make sure I was here. That should have got the message through.

      Soon he’d be flying off again – they both would – and I need never see them or any of Matt’s other friends ever again, so there was at least one good side of divorce.

       Skint Old Fashion Victim, No. 1

       Criteria for buying second-hand clothes:

       1. It fits you

       2. It has no noticeable holes or stains

       3. You can (just) afford it

       4. It doesn’t say ‘Dry clean only’ on the label

       5. The colour doesn’t make you look like a dead Martian

       6. It conceals/reveals all bulging bits in a socially acceptable manner.

      Phoned Anne’s London flat, and for once found her home. Her normal manner of answering the phone was so indistinguishable from the answerphone that I’d started to leave a message when she broke in.

      ‘Anne, this is Charlie—’

      ‘And you think I can’t recognise your voice after all these years?’

      ‘Oh, you’re there! Good. Is Red there, too?’

      ‘No. Bosnia.’

      ‘I didn’t think anything much was happening there at the moment.’

      ‘It isn’t; he’s coming back.’

      ‘Has Em told you I’m getting divorced?’

      ‘Yes. Bloody good idea.’

      ‘It wasn’t mine, but I’m getting quite used to it. I’ve discovered that although I’m deeply shocked and upset, I’m not heartbroken. Mostly I’m annoyed that I stayed faithful all these years when I needn’t have bothered.’

      ‘Em says you’re selling the house and going home.’

      ‘Yes – I won’t have much money, so I’ll have to live at home for a bit, until I can rent a place of my own. But to do that I’ll need to either sell more paintings or get a job of some kind.’

      ‘Father’s mistress has got in the house.’

      ‘She’s not only in the house, she’s in my room. If Em doesn’t get rid of her soon I’ll have to stay in the Summer Cottage.’

      ‘You might like it. Home but sort of independent. Eat in, live out.’

      ‘Yes … Oh, I saw you on the news a few days ago. Nice waistcoat – khaki suits you.’

      ‘Just as well; never wear anything else. Like you, with your black.’

      ‘I might have a change.’

      ‘Em’s thinking of having a change, СКАЧАТЬ