Mrs. Fry's Diary Page 12

  Today is the grand opening, or re-opening, of Le Lion Rouge. I think it’s very much to Stephen’s credit that he’s prepared to set aside his prejudices and pay the establishment a brief visit. I told him he was doing a fine thing as it could only be good for the entente cordiale, but Stephen insists he’ll be sticking to lager.

  29 Saturday

  No sign of Stephen since last night’s text, which simply consisted of those three little words that say so little and yet so much – meklili skaloo phadunk. But that’s Stephen. After half a dozen pints, he’s completely unpredictable.

  30 Sunday

  Still no sign of Stephen, although by all accounts a man answering his description was seen in the Botanical Gardens singing ‘La Marseillaise’ to a giant fern.

  31 Monday

  Hallowe’en – the night he came home. Just in time too. Mrs Winton’s party began at eight. It had a mythological theme – I, of course, made a sensational Aphrodite, while Stephen was some kind of half-man, half-beast. At least, until he changed into his costume. The highlight of the evening was when Mrs Norton and Mrs Biggins both turned up as Medusa. If looks could kill …

  November

  1 Tuesday

  Struggling to get Stephen out of bed this morning. He says he’s not feeling well, poor dear. I’ll try looking up his symptoms on Hypochondria.com. I hope it’s nothing too serious – it’s bingo night.

  2 Wednesday

  How disappointing. I received a letter this morning from the council insisting I give up my little Ednables venture – apparently the school was objecting on the grounds that I was providing unfair competition with my ‘blatantly commercial approach’. Really! It’s hardly my fault if they don’t give out loyalty cards and small plastic toys with their meals! It’s the children I feel sorry for. How are they supposed to complete their Ednimals collection now?

  Stephen’s complaining that he’s feeling even worse today. His temperature’s 98.6 degrees and his blood pressure is 120 over 80. There’s no doubt about it – he’s got man ’flu. Looks like I’ll have to miss my poetry class and do my Florence Nightingale impression. Just as well I kept the cap and lamp from our ‘Kinky Crimea’ night.

  3 Thursday

  Oh dear. It looks like poor Stephen’s worse than I thought. According to the chemist, it sounds like he may have the Common Cold. Obviously, I said I knew there was nothing that could cure that but she directed my attention to a small fluorescent packet on a brightly coloured display stand near the counter. She said Stemsip was still in the experimental stage but that the company developing it was highly ethical and didn’t believe in testing its products on animals, hence it was on sale to the general public for a limited period of time.

  I took a packet from the stand and examined the back:

  1 sachet to be taken, dissolved in water, every four hours, three days or whenever required.

  Warning: May cause drowsiness, blurred vision, inflamed larynx, sneezing fits, dizziness, dyslexia, irrational bursts of aggression and premature death.

  It seemed all right. No different from an average night down the pub for Stephen.

  4 Friday

  Oh, deary me. I’ve given Stephen three doses so far and, if anything, he seems worse. The stutter and hair loss are certainly new. Looks like I’ll have to tell him to miss Le Lion Rouge’s first karaoke night. And he had ‘Joe le Taxi’ word perfect too, poor dear …

  How remarkable! No sooner had the word karaoke passed my lips than Stephen made a full recovery. Those sachets must be better than I thought. I must write a letter to Cold Comfort Pharmaceuticals and thank them!

  5 Saturday

  Bonfire night. Such a pity that living in this area means we have to tape our letterbox closed at this time of year, but if we don’t, the neighbours will only go and complain when the kids shoot rockets out at them.

  6 Sunday

  I was doing a spot of essential cleaning this morning – the teapot, the teacups, the teaspoons – when I came across a folded piece of paper. I opened it up and was startled to see it was the ‘F’ page from our National Treasure Trust handbook! Goodness only knows how it got inside the smoothie-maker – just as well I never use it. I was even more surprised when I examined it closer to find it contained not only Forsyth Towers but a certain Fry Hall!

  Of course, I immediately showed it to Stephen and suggested we have a family trip there this afternoon. He seemed slightly reluctant until I pointed out that he might be related to the owners, then he seemed very reluctant. Honestly, I’ll never understand that man as long as I live.

  Anyway, after much arm twisting and several Chinese burns we finally all piled into the car and were on our way. I have to say, it was a much longer journey than I had anticipated, what with all the winding lanes, dirt tracks and ferry crossings and it was dark by the time we finally arrived. Frustratingly, it had just closed to visitors for the day so Stephen was forced to turn the car round and drive us straight back home again. Funny how the mind plays tricks on you. It seemed a much shorter – and straighter – journey home. Oh well, as I said to Stephen, we’ll just have to try again next week.

  7 Monday

  Bin day. It takes the whole day for the lorry to get round to our street, what with all the different bins we have now – there’s the one for paper, the one for plastics, the one for garden waste and the big one for recycle bin instructional leaflets.

  8 Tuesday

  That’s the last time I let Stephen watch Star Trek. He’s refusing to go out to work in case his actions affect the future. Considering the rate he works I should think that’s highly unlikely.

  9 Wednesday

  Poetry class this evening. I must say, I think I’ve really discovered my ‘voice’. When I finally found the new room (they moved when I was away last week and neglected to tell me, the scamps) I wowed everyone with my two new masterpieces, ‘Under Milk Stout’ and ‘The Rum of the Ancient Mariner’.

  10 Thursday

  One of my favourite days of the year – Christmas baking day. I’ve decided against making my usual Twelve Days of Christmas Pudding this year – it’s getting harder and harder to find good pipers – so instead I’m trying my own variation on the recipe in Delia’s Come On, Let’s Be Having Yule. I only hope Tesco haven’t run out of tuna and hundreds and thousands.

  11 Friday

  A bitterly cold day. Stephen managed to get himself stuck to the lamp-post again. At least it was only his tongue this time.

  12 Saturday

  Finally got our suitcase back from the airline after our holiday – I’d completely forgotten they’d lost it. Just as well, as Stephen was running out of underpants and the baby was starting to get a bit claustrophobic.

  13 Sunday

  Right, the sandwiches are packed, the flasks are filled with tea and the twins are safely secured to the roof rack – Fry Hall, here we come …

  After an almost continual two hours of ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ and my repeated replies, ‘You should know, dear, you’re driving,’ we finally drew up at the gates of an imposing, ivy-covered building. My feet tingled with excitement as we drove up the long gravel path and saw, etched into the masonry above the tall oak door – Hunniford House.

  Stephen shrugged his shoulders, grinned apologetically and pointed at the sat nav. I sighed. Since we were there, we may as well have a look round, I thought.

  In actual fact, Hunniford House was rather nice, with its gables and gift shop, and we spent a fascinating hour or so there but I was all too eager to get on the road again so that we might make it to Fry Hall before nightfall this time.

  After 40 minutes we stopped again. This time we were parked in front of a sixteenth-century moat house. I checked the sign. Noakes Cottage. I looked at Stephen. Again he pointed to the sat nav.

  All in all, we visited 12 Treasure Trust properties today, not one of them Fry Hall. From the Katona Pondlife Centre in Bude to Lorraine Kelly Castle in Auchtermuchtie, defeated and despondent
, we returned home. It’s almost as if that sat nav doesn’t want us to go there – or someone doesn’t.

  14 Monday

  Received an email from Mr deClarkson this morning detailing his latest amendments to the school timetable. On the face of it, it all looks terribly exciting and no doubt has its educational value, but I can’t help wondering about the new phonic approach to Home Economics and what appears to be an over-reliance on balloon animals in the History curriculum.

  15 Tuesday

  Ah, that distinctive musty autumn scent. So evocative. Then all too soon it’s over and Stephen’s changed into his winter pants.

  16 Wednesday

  A slightly upsetting evening at poetry class tonight. Angela (a little informal, I know, but she insisted I call her that – apparently, no one else in the group calls her Ms Wordsmith) gave me my termly review. She said my work was ‘derivative, unimaginative and aesthetically redundant’. If that’s what she thinks of me I can only imagine what she makes of the rest of the class!

  17 Thursday

  Autumn term parents’ evening tonight. As part of Mr deClarkson’s new, forward-thinking educational regime, it was presented through the medium of shadow theatre, each teacher visible only in silhouette behind a paper screen. Despite the new approach, it was still the same standard feedback – only this time the teachers didn’t need to force a smile when they greeted us – but the good news is that Brangelina has been put forward for the school gymnastics team, being the only pupil capable of a full backward somersault with side twist and 360-degree cranial rotation.

  18 Friday

  After Wednesday’s poetry class, I thought I might try something different next term. I’ve been thinking about doing the Life Painting course, but there’s something I’m not comfortable about and that’s the bottom line.

  19 Saturday

  I’ve cooked roast lamb for lunch today. It looks and smells delicious, even if I do say so myself. A shame we’re out of mint sauce, but we’ve got plenty of Listerine.

  20 Sunday

  At last – Fry Hall! After all this time, I can’t believe it! The journey took a while – largely because every few miles Stephen had to stop and get out of the car to make ‘a very important phone call’ – no doubt regarding the very important matter of the 3.30 at Kempton. Anyway, we got there in the end and I have to say it was well worth the wait! The grounds alone were worth the visit, from the Quite Interesting Gardens to the ‘Goodness, What Larks!’ adventure park complete with monkey bars and the thrilling ‘Mr Fry’s Wilde Ride’. And when we finally entered the house, what a vision of opulence greeted our eyes – from the 120-seat silver dining table to the magnificent emerald chandeliers in the Wagner room and even the Elizabethan-style café with its pitchers of Dorian Gray tea and Melchett in Your Mouth chocolate muffins. I was overwhelmed. There was even a giant shield above the fireplace bearing the Fry family crest and motto – ‘Moab … ’ something or other – I assume it was Latin. The only disappointment was all the drapes. Apparently, every one of the family portraits was being restored that weekend and so they were covered from the public during the process.

  Now, Diary, you know I’ve never been one to flout rules but I have to admit that my curiosity did get the better of me. Who could blame me? After all, this place could give us a big clue as to Stephen’s ancestry – and who knows what else? I waited until the security guard was distracted by a child sliding down the banister of the Great Staircase (no idea who it was. Either Asbo or Subo) and sidled up to a particularly grand looking gilt-framed painting at the foot of the stairs. I looked round and when I was quite sure no one was watching me, I reached out and pulled up a corner of the cloth that hung over the picture. All I could make out was a foot and the artist’s signature – a Mr Harris, it looked like – so I raised the material further until eventually light fell on the subject’s face.

  I stifled a small squeal as I stared on those features. Whoever it was standing there on that heath, surrounded by stags and shotguns, was the spitting image of my Stephen! My head in a spin, I raced to the next picture and looked at that. There it was again – Stephen’s unmistakeable face beaming out at me from the canvas. I tried another. And another. Whether a gentleman in his finery, a young boy at his mother’s breast or an old lady screaming on a bridge, each bore the inimitable face of my husband!

  Before I had time to tell Stephen, I was suddenly startled by the wail of an alarm, a deep voice booming out ‘Intruder alert!’ over the tannoy system and a dozen security guards charging into the room. Instinctively, I pushed through a door marked private and turned the key on the inside.

  Breathing heavily, I tried to collect my thoughts as fists pounded on the door. My eyes darted round. I seemed to be in some kind of study. Sitting on a huge, leather-topped desk, a computer hummed quietly. I made my way round the desk and sat in a big chair to see a white screen covered in type and a cursor blinking expectantly. I had just screwed up my eyes to make out what was written when I was aware of a shuffling sound behind me.

  I turned in time to see the long curtain beside the French window twitch very slightly. I looked to the floor and there, peeking out from under the hem, were the tips of two training shoes. I coughed and they sharply withdrew under the material. Taking a deep breath, I stood up silently and reached forward.

  The tannoy suddenly crackled to life again.

  ‘Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!’ it boomed.

  Time slowed to a crawl as I watched my fingers close round the edge of the curtain.

  ‘Do as I say!’ roared the deep voice. ‘The great and powerful Fry has spoken!’

  I pulled back the curtain. Standing there, with a microphone in his hand and an open mouth was … Stephen!

  My mind whirled, my legs felt weak and suddenly everything was black …

  When I eventually woke, I was home. In my own bed. And Stephen and the kids were standing over me with concerned looks on their faces.

  ‘But … what? Oh, Stephen,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m back.’

  He looked across at the children and patted my hand gently.

  ‘But I’ve been away. In a wonderful place. And you were there … and you … and you. And you …’

  They all laughed.

  I sighed. I couldn’t believe it had been a dream – it all seemed so real. But I guess it’s true what they say. There’s no place like a stately home.

  21 Monday

  Oh dear. I’m sorry, Diary. I’m sure I have no idea what happened to me yesterday. At least I got a nice long sleep – my first in ages, what with all the worry about Stephen. And Brangelina. And Stephen Junior. All of them, to be honest. At least I feel better now. I think I’ll take a nice relaxing stroll into town to get a bit of fresh air. Well, air …

  Had a lovely walk. I must say, on a sunny morning, it’s actually not such a bad place. It’s just a shame about the litter, and the graffiti – and the overriding smell of urine. Oh, and all the fly-posters everywhere, covering up perfectly good walls and sides of buses – for a minute I even thought I saw Stephen’s face on the number 68, but before I had the chance to take a proper look, the lights had changed and it was gone.

  22 Tuesday

  After last week’s assessment, I was determined to write something truly exceptional for this week’s poem, but I just couldn’t concentrate with Stephen droning away in the background. I asked him to stop but it made no difference. He just kept going on, demanding my undivided attention. But the most worrying thing is, when I finally gave up and looked round, the sofa was empty. And yet there he was, still talking. I was beginning to think I might be going mad, when I realised it was just the radio! For some reason, it seemed to be tuned to Radio 4 – can’t imagine why. They very rarely play any thrash metal. I turned it off and the room fell silent. What a relief. And yet, it did sound an awful lot like Stephen …

  23 Wednesday

  Missed poetry class this evening. After the business with the rad
io yesterday I just couldn’t settle to writing, so I put the television on, and whose face was grinning out at me in widescreen? Stephen’s! I grabbed the remote and turned over. There he was again. I flicked through the channels. Again his face. Again. And again. I grabbed my coat, shot out of the house and jumped straight on the bus to the medical centre, pretending to ignore his face on the side of it.

  Doctor Tarantino was terribly nice. And awfully understanding. I told him about seeing my husband’s face everywhere I go and he said that I was obviously under a great deal of stress at the moment. He said there was only one cure he could recommend. I needed some time to relax, preferably away from the rest of the family. Ha! Chance would be a fine thing! I suppose I do still have that money from the Daily Herald but there’s no way Stephen would ever let me go away, I’m quite sure of that. He can barely cope when I have a long bath.

  24 Thursday

  Told Stephen what the doctor said yesterday and was amazed by his response. He said he agreed completely and that he’d be only too happy to look after the children while I had a nice relaxing weekend away. He even said he’d find me the perfect place and book it for me himself if I just gave him my credit card details. He seemed genuinely caring and supportive. Now I know I need a break!

  After an hour’s Googling, Stephen proudly announced that he’d found the perfect place for me to unwind. A health spa just a few miles away. He’s booked me in for tomorrow for their special ‘Mmm’ weekend.

  25 Friday

  Goodness, I’m tired. Spent all night preparing meals for Stephen and the kids for while I’m away. I wouldn’t have been able to relax until I knew the fridge was fully stocked with all the delicacies they’re used to. I just hope they can cope without all the other things I provide – the warmth, the love and the over 80 per cent name-recall rate.

  Stephen dropped me off at the health spa after tea. I must say the place looks lovely. All gleaming and white, just like a huge wedding cake but without the bride and groom on the top. Well, without the groom. And to be honest, the bride wasn’t there all that long either. I must say, it was quite a shock to see the spa manageress hanging from that gargoyle by her wedding train, although her successor reassured me that it was just a tragic accident – she had merely been trying on her dress in advance of her impending marriage when the picture on her television had deteriorated and she had quite naturally climbed onto the roof to adjust the aerial – and most certainly not foul play of any kind.