Georgian windows, and notice that it’s already growing dark, and that the evening looms with only each other and the blip of Ollie’s computer games for company.
Recently, Geraldine has been finding it increasingly difficult to sleep. She lies awake at night, next to Clive, and she can feel the quicksand of Downsizers’ Oblivion closing in around them, sucking them in, and she wants to scream for help. And Clive, too, can lie quietly beside his wife, blinking in the absolute darkness, and he’ll think about the important cases he and Geraldine might have been involved in if they had stayed in London, and he’ll think of the humdrum papers on his desk, and of their practice, which is far from thriving and he’ll think, This is hell . This is not what we worked so hard for.
But they always put on a brave face in public. Of course. Not even Kitty Mozely – not even each other – would have guessed how difficult they were really finding it.
11
So. It is tea-time at the Old Rectory on the Monday after the Friday-night limbo party and Kitty Mozely and Geraldine, who have both made a highly competitive point of stopping their non-existent work in time to pick Scarlett and Oliver up from Fiddleford Primary School, are stretched out on the lawn in front of the house discussing the sujet du moment , as they have chosen to refer to it: Fanny Flynn. Fanny is not a popular woman in Fiddleford at the moment.
Geraldine Adams and Kitty Mozely had both been present at the shirt-stripping incident, when she had swept out of the village hall with Louis’s glamorous American arms around her, and they were still there afterwards, when she returned to the village hall with Grey. But neither has yet had a chance to speak to her, which is frustrating for them. It means they are unclear about exactly what happened to whom, and why, and are still, nearly seventy hours later, trying to piece the full drama together.
‘I notice she didn’t come out to the gate after school this afternoon. Did she? To have a chat with the parents – which she might have done. She ought to, really, every day. So the parents can get to know her. But really,’ tutsGeraldine, sitting up slightly to stir saccharin into her tea, ‘after Friday…’
‘After Friday it’s the least she could do,’ Kitty agrees.
‘It’s all very well. But she does have our kids in her care. I personally think she ought to have sent the children home with a letter of explanation. Don’t you? I mean, so many parents were there at the limbo, witnessing…People like us can take these things in our stride of course but a lot of parents…’ Geraldine is briefly distracted by the sight of a chip in the Chocolate Plum polish on her toenail.
‘Absolutely,’ murmurs Kitty, lying back, eyes closed, exhaling cigarette, soaking up the spring sun. ‘That’s absolutely right.’
They lapse into silence, listening idly to the birds twitter, the gentle breeze in the trees. ‘Aaah…’ sighs Geraldine. ‘What a lovely day!’
From inside the Old Rectory they can hear Ollie and Scarlett talking animatedly, or – no, it’s only Ollie, actually. Ollie’s voice, yelling something angry, followed by a loud crash. The words ‘stupid ugly bitch’ ring out across the lovely lawn. But both women are relaxing, taking a well-deserved break from the stresses and strains of work, work, work and motherhood. They both pretend not to hear, and then, after a decentish pause, Kitty says (it could have been either of them; they tend to take it in turns), ‘Isn’t it marvellous how well the children get along?’
Scarlett Mozely is Kitty’s only child, the fruit of a passionate month with a Moroccan cab driver, who has long since driven away. Scarlett was born with lopsided facial features and a twisted back which, though she doesn’t need a wheelchair, means she will probably never be able to walk without crutches. She and Geraldine’s son, Ollie, are both at Fiddleford Primary,
Recently, Geraldine has been finding it increasingly difficult to sleep. She lies awake at night, next to Clive, and she can feel the quicksand of Downsizers’ Oblivion closing in around them, sucking them in, and she wants to scream for help. And Clive, too, can lie quietly beside his wife, blinking in the absolute darkness, and he’ll think about the important cases he and Geraldine might have been involved in if they had stayed in London, and he’ll think of the humdrum papers on his desk, and of their practice, which is far from thriving and he’ll think, This is hell . This is not what we worked so hard for.
But they always put on a brave face in public. Of course. Not even Kitty Mozely – not even each other – would have guessed how difficult they were really finding it.
11
So. It is tea-time at the Old Rectory on the Monday after the Friday-night limbo party and Kitty Mozely and Geraldine, who have both made a highly competitive point of stopping their non-existent work in time to pick Scarlett and Oliver up from Fiddleford Primary School, are stretched out on the lawn in front of the house discussing the sujet du moment , as they have chosen to refer to it: Fanny Flynn. Fanny is not a popular woman in Fiddleford at the moment.
Geraldine Adams and Kitty Mozely had both been present at the shirt-stripping incident, when she had swept out of the village hall with Louis’s glamorous American arms around her, and they were still there afterwards, when she returned to the village hall with Grey. But neither has yet had a chance to speak to her, which is frustrating for them. It means they are unclear about exactly what happened to whom, and why, and are still, nearly seventy hours later, trying to piece the full drama together.
‘I notice she didn’t come out to the gate after school this afternoon. Did she? To have a chat with the parents – which she might have done. She ought to, really, every day. So the parents can get to know her. But really,’ tutsGeraldine, sitting up slightly to stir saccharin into her tea, ‘after Friday…’
‘After Friday it’s the least she could do,’ Kitty agrees.
‘It’s all very well. But she does have our kids in her care. I personally think she ought to have sent the children home with a letter of explanation. Don’t you? I mean, so many parents were there at the limbo, witnessing…People like us can take these things in our stride of course but a lot of parents…’ Geraldine is briefly distracted by the sight of a chip in the Chocolate Plum polish on her toenail.
‘Absolutely,’ murmurs Kitty, lying back, eyes closed, exhaling cigarette, soaking up the spring sun. ‘That’s absolutely right.’
They lapse into silence, listening idly to the birds twitter, the gentle breeze in the trees. ‘Aaah…’ sighs Geraldine. ‘What a lovely day!’
From inside the Old Rectory they can hear Ollie and Scarlett talking animatedly, or – no, it’s only Ollie, actually. Ollie’s voice, yelling something angry, followed by a loud crash. The words ‘stupid ugly bitch’ ring out across the lovely lawn. But both women are relaxing, taking a well-deserved break from the stresses and strains of work, work, work and motherhood. They both pretend not to hear, and then, after a decentish pause, Kitty says (it could have been either of them; they tend to take it in turns), ‘Isn’t it marvellous how well the children get along?’
Scarlett Mozely is Kitty’s only child, the fruit of a passionate month with a Moroccan cab driver, who has long since driven away. Scarlett was born with lopsided facial features and a twisted back which, though she doesn’t need a wheelchair, means she will probably never be able to walk without crutches. She and Geraldine’s son, Ollie, are both at Fiddleford Primary,
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