social carapace on: glassy panicked smile, apricot lipstick and lots of Elnett.
I tour the room, kissing people and shaking hands. Stewart Pearson addresses me as Hester and then looks rather put out when he’s corrected. ‘Of course – you’re in journalism,’ he says. I always wonder how much spin my parents put on my career. Hester, who teaches history at a well-regarded London girls’ school, does not require their help.
‘If you can call it that,’ I say. My mother inserts a dish of crisps between us. Terry Croft switches his glass of beer from right hand to left, and helps himself.
‘Not a good time to be in newspapers, I imagine,’ he says, compassionately.
‘No, that’s true,’ I say. ‘We’ve just been through one round of cuts, but we’ve been warned to expect more.’
‘Well, I’ll bet you’re a survivor,’ Stewart Pearson says, very jovial. ‘What’s your technique? How do you make yourself indispensable?’
‘Oh – just keep your head down, I suppose,’ I say. ‘Lie low. Dot the eyes and cross the tees. Hope for the best.’
‘Are you working on anything interesting at the moment?’ asks little Val Croft, looking up over her schooner of sherry with shiny impressionable eyes.
This sort of question always throws me. If I told her the truth – that I spend my days correcting spelling mistakes and moving commas around – she’d barely believe it. ‘Well, I’m reviewing a book at the moment,’ I say, rather liking the sound of the words, despite myself. ‘Just getting some thoughts together. Sunil Ranjan’s new novel.’
‘Oh, the Indian chap?’ says Stewart Pearson.
‘Bangladeshi,’ I murmur into my glass of sweetish white wine.
‘I hear he’s a terrific wordsmith,’ he says encouragingly. ‘On my list. Definitely on my list. Just wish I had the time to read. I don’t know when people fit it in.’
And then they’re off, talking about all the other claims on their time: golf, fishing, Rotary fund-raising, church committees, the evening lectures at the local institute. The implication being that reading is a frippery for dilettantes.
Salt of the earth
, I think, listening to them.
Pillars of the community
.
Jesus wept
. I find myself wishing we could talk about something – anything – else: the new vicar, the proposed bypass, Mrs Tucker’s teenaged granddaughter’s pregnancy. As the competitive self-justification goes on, I think I’d even welcome the question I dread more than any other:
So
,
is there anyone special at the moment?
‘Well. With all that to keep you busy,’ I say eventually, to the room at large, ‘it’s a wonder you find time to draw breath.’
As I say it, I see my mother looking at me with her mouth slightly open, as if she’s catching the sound of a distant detonation, and I know I’m on the cusp of going too far.
‘To be fair, though,’ says Terry Croft, ‘Val’s a reader. Always got her nose in a book. Isn’t that right, Val?’
Val Croft flushes pink. ‘Well … I do love my Judy Arbuthnots,’ she admits, in a small embarrassed voice. ‘Not … literature. You couldn’t call it that. Frances wouldn’t, anyway.’
I give her a big understanding smile and then I ask her whether she is still helping out with the local Brownie pack.
‘How is that dog of yours?’ asks Sonia Pearson, dusting pastry off her jersey, as the barking starts up again.
‘Oh – Margot loves it when the children visit,’ my mother sighs, clasping her hands together in front of her, as if she’s about to say a prayer or burst into song. ‘After they go, she always mopes about the house – doesn’t she, Robert? –looking behind the sofa, trying to find them. She simply adores Frances.’
I hear her saying these things, mouthing these lies, and I look at my father, who hasn’t reacted but continues to sip his lager while staring out of the window at the shrubs thrashing around; and then I feel a tremendous urge to laugh, to expose my
I tour the room, kissing people and shaking hands. Stewart Pearson addresses me as Hester and then looks rather put out when he’s corrected. ‘Of course – you’re in journalism,’ he says. I always wonder how much spin my parents put on my career. Hester, who teaches history at a well-regarded London girls’ school, does not require their help.
‘If you can call it that,’ I say. My mother inserts a dish of crisps between us. Terry Croft switches his glass of beer from right hand to left, and helps himself.
‘Not a good time to be in newspapers, I imagine,’ he says, compassionately.
‘No, that’s true,’ I say. ‘We’ve just been through one round of cuts, but we’ve been warned to expect more.’
‘Well, I’ll bet you’re a survivor,’ Stewart Pearson says, very jovial. ‘What’s your technique? How do you make yourself indispensable?’
‘Oh – just keep your head down, I suppose,’ I say. ‘Lie low. Dot the eyes and cross the tees. Hope for the best.’
‘Are you working on anything interesting at the moment?’ asks little Val Croft, looking up over her schooner of sherry with shiny impressionable eyes.
This sort of question always throws me. If I told her the truth – that I spend my days correcting spelling mistakes and moving commas around – she’d barely believe it. ‘Well, I’m reviewing a book at the moment,’ I say, rather liking the sound of the words, despite myself. ‘Just getting some thoughts together. Sunil Ranjan’s new novel.’
‘Oh, the Indian chap?’ says Stewart Pearson.
‘Bangladeshi,’ I murmur into my glass of sweetish white wine.
‘I hear he’s a terrific wordsmith,’ he says encouragingly. ‘On my list. Definitely on my list. Just wish I had the time to read. I don’t know when people fit it in.’
And then they’re off, talking about all the other claims on their time: golf, fishing, Rotary fund-raising, church committees, the evening lectures at the local institute. The implication being that reading is a frippery for dilettantes.
Salt of the earth
, I think, listening to them.
Pillars of the community
.
Jesus wept
. I find myself wishing we could talk about something – anything – else: the new vicar, the proposed bypass, Mrs Tucker’s teenaged granddaughter’s pregnancy. As the competitive self-justification goes on, I think I’d even welcome the question I dread more than any other:
So
,
is there anyone special at the moment?
‘Well. With all that to keep you busy,’ I say eventually, to the room at large, ‘it’s a wonder you find time to draw breath.’
As I say it, I see my mother looking at me with her mouth slightly open, as if she’s catching the sound of a distant detonation, and I know I’m on the cusp of going too far.
‘To be fair, though,’ says Terry Croft, ‘Val’s a reader. Always got her nose in a book. Isn’t that right, Val?’
Val Croft flushes pink. ‘Well … I do love my Judy Arbuthnots,’ she admits, in a small embarrassed voice. ‘Not … literature. You couldn’t call it that. Frances wouldn’t, anyway.’
I give her a big understanding smile and then I ask her whether she is still helping out with the local Brownie pack.
‘How is that dog of yours?’ asks Sonia Pearson, dusting pastry off her jersey, as the barking starts up again.
‘Oh – Margot loves it when the children visit,’ my mother sighs, clasping her hands together in front of her, as if she’s about to say a prayer or burst into song. ‘After they go, she always mopes about the house – doesn’t she, Robert? –looking behind the sofa, trying to find them. She simply adores Frances.’
I hear her saying these things, mouthing these lies, and I look at my father, who hasn’t reacted but continues to sip his lager while staring out of the window at the shrubs thrashing around; and then I feel a tremendous urge to laugh, to expose my
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