Mrs. Fry's Diary Page 14

We all went along to watch Brangelina in the school nativity this evening. Mr deClarkson greeted all the parents at the entrance to the school hall. It was lovely he’d taken the trouble to remember our names – we were the only parents to have been afforded such an honour, from what I could tell – although I must say his handshake seemed rather less assured than the last time we met and there was a little more saliva on his chin than I remember there being before.

  The nativity set was very impressive – Miss Campbell had clearly gone to a great deal of trouble to make it as authentic as possible. Although I have to say I thought all the crucifixes were possibly a touch on the anachronistic side. I didn’t mention it to her as she seemed quite fraught as it was. I don’t suppose it can be easy organising a performance with excitable little angels like my Brangelina.

  It all went very well until the final scene when Miss Campbell tried to hand Brangelina the baby Jesus – played, as ever, by Sharon Reynolds’ Little Miss Poopy Pee-pee wrapped in a dog blanket. Instead of taking it and singing ‘When a Child Is Born’, Brangelina just stared wide-eyed at the little doll. Then all hell broke loose. The windows blew in, thunder cracked and Carmina Burana blasted out from the loudspeakers. The audience fled in terror and Miss Campbell cowered behind a children’s Bible.

  I think, on reflection, Mr deClarkson probably regretted choosing Stephen to man the light and sound system, although we did all enjoy the special effects enormously, once we’d removed the shards of glass from our hair.

  Despite the unconventional ending, and rather diminished audience, Mr deClarkson proceeded to give a short speech thanking the children and staff for all their efforts. We were slightly surprised that he chose to give the speech in Swahili and that the bouquet he subsequently presented to Miss Campbell comprised a dozen sticks of rhubarb rather than the more traditional roses, but I suppose it’s the thought that counts.

  23 Friday

  Last day of school before Christmas, so the kids were allowed to take in their toys. So nice to see Mr deClarkson joining in too, even to the extent of having an extremely realistic tantrum and biting one of the Year Three boys when he refused to let him play with his glow-in-the-dark Buzz Lightyear.

  Unfortunately, the fun and games were cut short when the school closed early so that police could seal off the area and attempt to talk down a man on the roof with his underpants on the outside of his trousers and his arms aloft, shouting ‘Super-head!’

  24 Saturday

  Christmas Eve. As usual, Stephen’s gone out to celebrate but not before insisting the children put out the traditional can of lager and kebab for Santa and his reindeer. He’s such a big kid!

  ’Twas the night before Christmas and right through the town

  All the creatures were slurring and tumbling down,

  And I, with my nightcap of Horlicks and booze,

  Had just settled down for a nice winter’s snooze.

  When out in the street there arose such a clatter,

  That I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter,

  And there down below was my very own darling,

  Skipping and dancing with eight tins of Carling.

  The children awoke thanks to Stephen’s daft games

  And he sang as he drank and he called out their names:

  ‘Oy Asbo! Oy Subo! Hugh Junior! Viennetta!

  Oy Brangie! Oy Junior! I’ve ruined my sweater!’

  His heart and his bladder were filled with good cheer

  And several bottles of cheap local beer.

  A sudden warm feeling came over him so

  He signed us his autograph there in the snow.

  He giggled and burped as he reached for his keys,

  A difficult task with his pants round his knees,

  He took out his dongle – a bit of a worry,

  And it shook as he laughed like a bowlful of curry.

  Then up on the roof he espied our pet cat,

  And he slurred as he shouted, ‘What you lookin’ at?’

  Then he yelled as he slipped and collapsed in a bin,

  ‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a large gin!’

  25 Sunday

  Christmas Day! As usual, Stephen was up long before dawn, ripping the paper off his presents. By the time I made it downstairs, he’d been joined by the rest of the kids and they were all merrily playing with their gifts.

  Of course, dinner was a triumph. The cranberry-and-lager-glazed roast Spam was as succulent as ever and the sprouts in blankets were done to a turn. My famous sherry trifle, in particular, proved a great success. Just a shame there was no room in the bowl for the cream. Or the custard, sponge or jelly.

  The crackers Stephen got from Wee Free Kinks were also a big hit – although, despite clearly winning the pull, I had to let Stephen have the novelty condom with the bell on the tip or I’ll never hear the end of it.

  After the meal, we all settled round the television to watch this year’s special Aardman animation. Naturally, I insisted we all stand up. As I said to the children, plasticine or not, Her Majesty’s still Her Majesty.

  After the Queen’s Cracking Christmas Message, Stephen and I had our customary Christmas afternoon doze while we left the kids to get the baby down off the top of the tree. Our sleep was interrupted when Viennetta went into labour, but we managed to get off again after a few Quality Streets. Typical that the baby should come today of all days. That’s another present I need to get now.

  All in all, though, despite everything that’s happened recently, I was pleased and relieved that today was just like any other normal Fry Family Christmas Day.

  26 Monday

  This morning we all went for our traditional Boxing Day family walk. I must say, it was beautiful out there, with the crisp winter sun glinting off the canal. Well, off the shopping trolleys in the canal.

  After a lunch of Spam sandwiches, Stephen finally gave me his Christmas present. Actually, he was several days earlier than usual. And for once it wasn’t a car freshener or a bag of charcoal brickettes. In fact, it wasn’t from the garage at all – it was a book token for Walter Stone’s on the high street. I checked it closely. It looked legitimate enough. I was quite perplexed. Then I spotted it. The small print on the back revealed it was only valid on the 31 December this year. I knew it! He must have got it on the cheap.

  Having said that, it’s still probably the best Christmas present he’s ever given me. And the message in the attached card is terribly sweet:

  ‘To my darling Edna. Merry Christmas. I love you. I thought it was time you knew.’

  I have to admit I could feel my eyes welling up, when suddenly from outside I heard the pitch-perfect, word-perfect carollers. They’d clearly taken all my advice to heart and the result was as beautiful as it was uplifting. Such an effort really deserved a huge tip. What a pity they were a day late.

  27 Tuesday

  Went to the sales this morning. I can’t believe how busy it was. I’m amazed I didn’t lose one of the kids. It’s not as if I wasn’t trying.

  28 Wednesday

  I must say I’m very impressed with the kids’ snowman. It’s so realistic, slumped against the wheelie bin like that with a half-eaten kebab in its hand. I’m sure even Stephen would be impressed. Talking of whom, I wonder where he’s got to? I don’t think I’ve seen him since last night.

  29 Thursday

  Still no sign of Stephen. Obviously out gallivanting again. I’ve finally run out of ways to use the turkey. I suppose we may as well eat it now.

  30 Friday

  So sad to see the snow thaw. The white landscape melt into grey. The magic disappear. On the plus side, I’ve found Stephen. I’d better get him a jumper.

  Once I got Stephen dried off and warmed up, and sent Brangelina and the twins to the naughty step, I sat down to look through the post. Among the bills and junk mail I was surprised to see what looked like a Christmas card. I couldn’t imagine the Post Office was to blame – after all, we received all our other
cards first thing on the 28th, the same as usual. When I looked closer, I realised the reason for its lateness. It bore a Los Angeles postmark.

  Strange, I thought, turning the envelope over and over in my hands. Who on earth did we know in Los Angeles? I was about to tear it open to find out, when it came to me. Of course! That nice, suave, sophisticated, muscular American doctor. Laurie somebody or other, I forget. What was it he said before he left all those months ago? ‘It is my sincere hope that we shall meet again’? Or something vaguely like that, I should imagine – I don’t really know.

  I pursed my lips and carefully pulled open the envelope. I removed the small card with quivering fingers and out fell several sheets of handwritten paper. What did they say? What did he want to tell me? Or ask me?

  Unfortunately, I never could read doctors’ handwriting.

  31 Saturday

  Stephen shot out early today without a word. Another window-cleaning emergency, I expect. I hope he gets back in time for tonight’s Hogroastmanay Hootenanny at Mrs Norton’s.

  The kids are all at the mall, and Viennetta’s breastfeeding the baby. And her own. I think I’ll just have a nice cup of tea and then pop out for a little walk …

  As I meandered down the street and past the gasworks my thoughts meandered along with me. A funny day, New Year’s Eve. A time of reflection, of fond thoughts and regrets. And a time to look to the future. I wonder what our future will hold? A sudden chill blew through me and I held on to my hat.

  Before I knew where I was, I found myself standing cold and alone on the high street. The population of the town must have already made its way to the local hostelries to begin their end of year revelry. No doubt Stephen was with them. I wandered slowly along the pavement, staring blankly at my reflection in the shop windows. I sighed. Who was that woman walking alone down the street in that rather fetching hat? Why was she so sad? What did her life mean? Why was Stephen’s face looking back at her?

  I blinked. It certainly looked like Stephen. His big, beaming face staring out from that poster.

  I took a step back. I looked at the shop sign. Walter Stone’s – Purveyor of Fine Literature and Dan Brown Novels. Then at the doorway. Then at the long queue of people that was protruding from it. What was going on? There was only one way to find out. Steeling myself, I approached the line of people and joined the queue.

  After 40 minutes, I finally plucked up the courage to ask the lady in front of me why we were queuing. She looked me up and down with a confused frown.

  ‘It’s the book signing, of course!’ she said finally. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Book signing?’ I said. ‘What book? Who’s signing?’

  The woman just laughed and pointed to the poster. ‘Who do you think?’

  I screwed up my eyes and stared at the poster. It certainly looked like Stephen. But then, how could it be? He was supposed to be on his window-cleaning round. Or in the pub. Or …

  Oh dear. I felt a cold shudder run through my body. Again. It wasn’t the wind this time, though. I looked ahead. The queue was dwindling. Beyond the half-dozen people before me I could make out a table on which was sitting a large pile of books. And next to the pile was … someone. I couldn’t see his face behind the crowd, just his hand busily scribbling his name.

  Could this man … this writer … this famous writer … this famous man … be … my Stephen? My legs suddenly felt hollow and my stomach began to churn. The queue moved forward.

  Suddenly, someone spoke. I looked up. It was a security guard.

  ‘Could everyone please have their money ready to purchase their signed copies?’ he asked.

  There was a shuffling of paper as people drew out their cash. I automatically reached into my pocket and pulled out my purse. As the queue moved forward again, my shaking hand undid the clasp. I reached inside. Empty! That Brangelina had given herself a pocket money raise! I was about to close my purse and head for the exit when I felt a piece of paper poking out. I unfolded it and held it up. It was the book token. Of course. I checked the date. 31 December – today. What a coincidence! I read the inscription again:

  ‘I love you. I thought it was time you knew.’

  I swallowed.

  The queue edged forward. Now there was only one person between me and the table. Between me and … who? What?

  ‘Excuse me, madam.’

  I looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s your turn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s your turn now.’

  I stared at the guard. Then I noticed something over his shoulder. A flash of red binding and a tantalizing ribbon-marker.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, pushing past him, brandishing my book token.

  So that’s that. Another year over. And another to come. Who knows what it will hold?

  Whatever it is, at least I’ve now got my new diary to write it all down in.

  But first I think I’ll have a nice cup of tea.

  Acknowledgements

  Oh, hello dears. Are you still here? Well, if you are, here are a few people I’d like to ‘thank’ for assisting in the publication of my diary and thereby potentially destroying my marriage.

  Firstly, Mrs Biggins, Mrs Norton and Mrs Winton, who were all extremely enthusiastic proof-readers, even breaking into my bedside cabinet in order to carry out the task, as I recall.

  Secondly, Olivia Guest and Ann Evans of Jonathan Clowes Ltd, who ‘persuaded’ me that publishing my diary would be – and I quote – ‘a good thing.’

  And thirdly, the seemingly lovely, ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ Suzie Dooré, now an editorial director at Hodder & Stoughton. And we all know how she got that promotion, don’t we, Stephen?

  Finally, I would also like to take this opportunity to say a big thank you to all of my lovely, silly Twitter friends. You’ll find many of them listed on my Twitter page but here, in hypothetical order, are a few of the loveliest and silliest:

  @AlanCBoyle, @ashxyz, @Bluesky107,

  @caitlinmoran, @CharlotteSykes1,

  @DaveGorman, @davidschneider,

  @DawgBelly, @DawnCoxwell, @gavin_bonnar,

  @izzywizzy80, @jonholmes1, @justVero,

  @karencleary, @laurashav, @MorganRitchie,

  @ourmissingcat, @Raymondstar, @RedDandy, @RussBass, @Sharon_Corr, @toniwilliamsz,

  @TweetingTimesEd, @veraclaythorne and

  @wendyfarrowart.

  Well, thank goodness that’s all over. Now, where’s that teapot?

  About the author:

  Edna is the devoted wife of Stephen Fry

  and the mother of his various children.