Mrs. Fry's Diary Read online

  Free of the joys of parenthood, Stephen and I spent the day by the pool topping up our tans. Although I have to say, I’ve never been much of a sun-worshipper myself. I find it a poor substitute for more enriching activities, like making a nice pot of tea. Just as well I bought something to read at the airport, otherwise I would have been bored out of my mind. I was delighted to discover, hidden among the usual chick-lit titles, a genuine classic – the tale of a young female Victorian biologist’s struggle to make her way to the top of a male-dominated world: Flora and Faunacation. It’s a thoroughly absorbing read. So far, her father, successful industrialist and big-game hunter Jedwardiah Strobe, has threatened to cut her off without a penny unless she gives up her ‘votes for animals’ campaign and agrees to head his forthcoming dodo-culling expedition.

  18 Thursday

  Woke up this morning to the familiar sound of rainfall. Switched on the television to see if we could find the weather forecast, but the only channel we could find seemed to be showing a Columbo marathon. Fortunately, the resort has plenty of indoor activities – room service, a minibar …

  19 Friday

  The kids’ big show tonight. They’ve been rehearsing all week. Such a shame we couldn’t make it, but it was the episode where Columbo befriends the big action-movie star, only to discover he murdered his own stunt double. To think he would have got away with it if he hadn’t tried to escape by jumping into that ravine.

  20 Saturday

  Went down to breakfast and found ourselves sharing a table with the Middlesmiths, a delightful family from Tunbridge Wells who must have arrived today. Adrian is an accountant and his wife Samantha is a chiropractor, or as they put it, he crunches numbers all day while she crunches spinal cords. Stephen found that as hilarious as I did, once I’d explained what a chiropractor was. And an accountant. Their children, Sheldon and Maisy, were adorable, if a little less socially confident than our kids, although I have to say their table manners put our children’s to shame. They seemed to know instinctively which cutlery to use when – and, in fact, to use cutlery at all.

  I’m afraid Stephen and I aren’t really ones for making friends on holiday. It’s far too easy to get chatting with some seemingly pleasant couple, only to find yourselves being forced to spend your entire holiday time with a pair of over-familiar, thick-skinned bores. However, when we met Adrian and Samantha, I knew immediately that wouldn’t be the case. In fact as soon as we had finished our breakfasts, I suggested we all meet up tomorrow evening at the Seaside Spit-roast. I must say, this holiday is finally beginning to look up!

  21 Sunday

  Went to the Spit-roast this evening. A wonderful time was had by all – all, that is, apart from Adrian and Samantha, who must have forgotten about it. Despite my reminder over breakfast this morning. And at lunch. And the notes I delivered this afternoon. I can’t imagine where they could have got to. I only hope they’re not ill – I’m sure I heard a very quiet coughing noise when I pushed the fifth note under their door.

  22 Monday

  I can’t think why Stephen brought his laptop – after all, there are real poker tournaments and topless women here – but at least it does allow me to keep a check on how Viennetta’s coping without us. Such a shame she wasn’t allowed to fly. Nothing to do with her pregnancy – some Interpol thing, apparently.

  Clearly the poor dear’s struggling on her own, although, according to her Facebook page, she’s having a little get-together tonight. Her Party For Getting Pregnant is due to start in just a few hours. It’s nice that she’s having a few friends round. I only hope they don’t go into mine and Stephen’s bedroom. We can’t afford another lawsuit just yet.

  23 Tuesday

  Honestly, if it weren’t for the organised day trips, Stephen would never leave the side of that pool. Among the choices on offer were visits to the local condom factory and the maximum-security prison. As Stephen has a severe latex allergy and I had no desire to spend any more time in jail, we plumped for a nearby vineyard while several of the other guests took the prison trip in order to catch up with friends and relatives they hadn’t seen since last year’s holiday. I asked Adrian and Samantha if they’d like to come along with us but they said they were busy taking care of little Sheldon. It seems he’s still recovering after one of the girls at the Fun Club jumped up and down on his head while her twin brother and sister stole his toy dinosaur. Really, I thought these supervisors were supposed to know how to look after children. I hope Brangelina, Subo and Asbo aren’t having similar problems.

  The vineyard – famed for its unlicensed brand of Champagne, ‘Cristalini’ – was enchanting. Our tour guide Shondrelle was terribly informative, although it was a little difficult to understand every word. Bolton, I think she said she was from. I must say the production process sounded awfully complicated, with the grapes apparently being crushed by bear feet. Then the fermentation takes place in oak barrels for anything up to six days, ensuring that ‘distinctive, fresh, bubble-free experience’. At the end of our tour we were treated to a complimentary glass each and, while it took a few sips to really appreciate its unique taste and viscosity, by the time we had drained ours (and those of the other tourists who’d inexplicably had to leave early), we were under no illusions that we had sampled something we would never taste the like of again. Largely because of the European Union’s prohibitive quality control laws.

  24 Wednesday

  25 Thursday

  Dear Diary, so sorry to neglect you again yesterday but I simply didn’t have time to pick up my pen.

  I was desperate for a little cultural stimulation, and as there was still no sign of the Middlesmiths I left Stephen topping up his tan by the pool and headed for the ferry port. I must say, the ferry was rather smaller than I’d anticipated. Neither had I expected to be rowing a good part of the way but, according to the captain, it was very hard to get staff in the holiday season. Finally we docked at the mainland. The captain informed me that I had five hours before the boat left on its return journey. I smiled wearily, handed him the oar and set off along a dusty road. Hopefully that would give me enough time to explore the nearest village.

  As it turned out, the nearest village was no more than half a mile away. I wound my way eagerly through the maze of medieval streets, ducking from time to time to avoid the washing lines that stretched from one balcony to another. I gazed up at the crumbling edifices, shuttered against the fierce noon sun. The locals were clearly enjoying a cooling siesta as the alleyways were empty, save for myself and a rather foamy-mouthed dog.

  While the peace and solitude were most welcome after the hubbub of the resort, I was delighted to finally hear voices. Turning a corner, I saw what appeared to be some kind of taverna – a charming white building with some exotic plant twisting round its small arched doorway and a distinctive aroma of cigars, aftershave and hard liquor.

  A little tentatively, I pushed open the swing doors. The buzz of conversation and local insects stopped as my shoes tapped across the ceramic tiles, carrying me to the one unoccupied table in the small, dark room. Just as my eyes were beginning to adjust to the dim glow from the wall-mounted candles, my table was cast into darkness by a looming figure.

  ‘Drink?’ came a gravelly voice.

  I looked up and could just make out a swarthy, moustachioed face.

  ‘Er, yes,’ I replied, my eyes darting across to the next table. ‘I’ll … er … have one of those, please.’

  ‘Very good, madam.’ The barman grinned. ‘Or is it … miss?’

  ‘Madam,’ I said, shortly.

  ‘Of course.’ The barman bowed. ‘What a shame.’

  I looked back at the three women at the next table. They had now resumed their conversation and were huddled together, clearly discussing something utterly hilarious as sprays of the mauve liquid from their glasses regularly shot from one or other of their noses. In spite of their traditional local dress there was something vaguely familiar about them, but I couldn’t quit
e put my finger on it.

  ‘Your drink.’

  The barman placed a small glass in front of me. I reached for my purse but he grabbed hold of my hand.

  ‘Not necessary.’ He smiled, the ends of his moustache raising slightly. ‘Is on the dwelling.’

  ‘House,’ I corrected, withdrawing my hand.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He grinned apologetically as he backed away from the table. ‘Of course. The house.’

  I looked around the taverna. It was neat and tidy but clearly lacked a woman’s touch. Tablecloths, the odd doily, a teapot …

  The three women at the next table were now much quieter. They had been joined by an altogether haughtier creature in a ludicrous hat who, from what I could gather, seemed to be relating, at considerable length, some tale about her good-for-nothing husband to the trio. They were clearly unimpressed, even sniggering together when she turned her back on them to order a drink. Really, it never ceases to amaze me how oblivious some people can be.

  I looked back at my drink. It combined the hue of a dawn sky with the consistency of cough medicine. I raised the glass to my lips. Suddenly, I was aware that the room had fallen silent once again. I glanced up to see everyone watching expectantly. I cast them a confident smile. I certainly wasn’t about to let them think I was some weak, feeble foreigner unable to handle their little local concoction …

  The heat must have affected me more than I thought because I seemed to have succumbed to a short nap. When I looked round, the taverna was empty apart from the barman, who was busying himself with a mop and bucket.

  ‘You are awake,’ he said, without stopping.

  I adjusted my hat and looked at my watch. The heat must have affected that as well as all the numbers appeared blurred. Suddenly, I sat bolt upright.

  ‘My ferry!’ I yelled. ‘Have I missed it?’

  ‘What time your ferry?’ enquired the barman.

  ‘Five o’clock.’

  He leant his mop against the bar and took a small pocket watch from his trousers. He examined it closely.

  ‘In that case, yes, you are miss your ferry.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eleven thirty-two.’

  I couldn’t believe it. I glared at him accusingly. ‘Did you put something in my drink?’

  He frowned. ‘What you mean, put something in your drink?’

  ‘I’ve heard about men like you,’ I bristled. ‘Preying on poor, unsuspecting holidaymakers. Getting them to join your harems and having your wicked way with them on a rota basis. I’ll call the authorities! I’ll call the British Embassy! I’ll call Jeremy Kyle! Tell me, my man, I demand to know! Did you spike my drink?’

  The barman stared at me, a look of horror in his dark eyes.

  ‘How dare you?’ he said. ‘I have never been so insult in all of my life. Not even by my ex-wife. Spike your drink?’ He stuck out his strong chin proudly. ‘I would never do such a terrible thing.’

  I could see he was genuinely upset.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just …’

  ‘Pah!’ he spat. ‘Antonio would never stoop so low. I would never weaken my drink in this way.’ He picked up his mop again. ‘Now, please excuse. I am very busy. The bar, she is open soon.’

  ‘Isn’t it a little late?’ I asked, tentatively. I didn’t wish to upset him further.

  ‘No,’ he replied, mopping furiously. ‘I always open the bar at noon.’

  I laughed. ‘You mean midnigh …’ I looked across at the window and stopped. A bright glow framed the curtain. ‘Oh, good lord!’ I exclaimed. I must have slept through the night! ‘I … er … think I’d better leave. Do you know when the next ferry is due?’

  Antonio stopped mopping again. ‘Is not possible. All the boats, she are cancelled until tomorrow. We are have the very big wind arrive this evening. They say on all of the television station. Except the Columbo channel, of course. They have been say about Tropical Storm Edna all this week. They say she bring chaos and devastation wherever she go.’

  I shuffled in my seat. ‘Is … that so?’

  ‘Yes, that is why you must to stay here. This Edna, she is very dangerous.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Please accept my hospitality. My dwelling, you dwelling.’

  I smiled weakly. ‘Very well,’ I said.

  He smiled and extended a hand. ‘Antonio,’ he said.

  ‘E … thel,’ I replied.

  ‘Ethel. That is a beautiful name,’ said Antonio, taking my hand in his and kissing it gently.

  ‘Is it?’ I said, blushing.

  26 Friday

  Back on the island at last. As I approached our hotel room door, I thought back to last night. The wonderful meal Antonio cooked for us both – some kind of exotic chicken dish from his mother’s own recipe. The storm, the candles, the local wine …

  I shook myself. Goodness only knew what Stephen must have been thinking for the past few days. Poor man. He must be sick with worry. Bracing myself, I reached for the handle and went in.

  It turns out that Stephen has been sick, but not with worry. He’s been in bed, delirious, for two days. I warned him not to drink the water. He’s just not used to it.

  27 Saturday

  Boarding the flight home, I felt a strange mixture of relief and sadness. As luck would have it, though, we found ourselves sitting next to the Middlesmiths, so I was able to spend the four and a half hours chatting happily with them while Stephen buried himself in the in-flight magazine and his Mile High Club Sandwich. The time flew by and before I knew it we had landed and the pilot was thanking us for travelling with Fight Or Flight Airlines. I quickly exchanged contact details with Adrian and Samantha (I say exchanged, I gave them my details. Apparently, they had only recently moved and couldn’t remember their new phone number. Or house number. Or town), and we disembarked.

  Now there was only one more ordeal to go through – customs. To this day, we haven’t made it through without Stephen causing some sort of fuss. I braced myself as the customs officer asked him if he had anything to declare but he simply waved a straw donkey at them.

  I sighed with relief as the officer asked me the same question.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I didn’t do anything. Honestly. It’s just that there was this storm and I had rather a lot of wine and …’

  I was about to proceed through the gate myself when I felt a hand on my shoulder and I was escorted to a small windowless room for a so-called ‘random search’. (I seem to have to undergo a lot of random searches whenever I travel anywhere with Stephen for some reason. Of course there’s never anything to find).

  ‘Look,’ I snapped at the large uniformed gentleman behind the desk, ‘I don’t know what this is all about …’

  ‘Ssssshh,’ said the man, holding out his fist towards me. ‘What is this?’

  He slowly opened his fingers to reveal a small clear bag filled with some kind of fine powder. I couldn’t believe it! All the time Antonio was wining and dining me, he was just using me to smuggle illegal substances for him. He must have slipped it into my pocket when I took that nap after the meal. No doubt he had some contact here who would find a way to get it back off me when the time was right. I was furious. And sad. But mostly furious.

  28 Sunday

  Spent last night in the airport high-security wing. Surprised to see Adrian and Samantha there. Had a lovely chat. Who would have thought they were international jewel thieves? At least that explains why they were so evasive. Actually, I’m quite relieved. I was beginning to think they didn’t like Stephen.

  29 Monday

  Home at last. They finally released me, thank goodness. Apparently, the results had come back from the lab and they couldn’t charge me with being in possession of a secret blend of 11 herbs and spices. It would appear that the wine we had with our meal was somewhat stronger than I realised. I do hope Antonio’s mother will forgive me for taking a small sample of her secret recipe while under the influe
nce.

  30 Tuesday

  Oh well. Back to normality. Stephen went off in his taxi as usual this morning and I did the unpacking. Funny – I don’t remember taking a toy dinosaur.

  31 Wednesday

  Still experiencing those post-holiday blues so I went to town for a spot of retail therapy. My new advent calendar and Easter eggs really cheered me up.

  September

  1 Thursday

  Wonderful news! Stephen Junior’s been accepted into the Young Offenders’ School for the Dramatic Arts. A Fry in the acting profession! Who would ever have thought it? Of course, Stephen had to give his customary ‘No son of mine’ speech (honestly, if I’ve heard it once I’ve heard it a thousand times, most notably at Hugh Junior’s birth), but in the end he was forced to relent, albeit grudgingly, so a week on Monday will be Stephen Junior’s first day at YODA.

  2 Friday

  Stephen’s such a typical bloke. He’s just stuck his Football League fixture list on the bedroom ceiling. You can barely see the mirror now.

  3 Saturday

  Took the kids to Poundsweater to get their new school uniforms today. Of course, I wouldn’t normally countenance such an outrageous extravagance – usually, Hugh Junior wears Stephen Junior’s hand-me-downs, Brangelina wears Viennetta’s and the twins wear each other’s. This only leaves Stephen Junior and Viennetta, but as they spend most of their time on suspension – generally for not wearing the school uniform (or in Viennetta’s case, very much at all) – that’s never been a problem.

  This year, however, things have changed. Not only have the primary, secondary and nursery schools amalgamated to save money (a logistical nightmare, as every classroom now legally requires state-of-the-art computer equipment, the complete works of Shakespeare and a sandpit), but following Ms Tripplemount’s early retirement the local council has brought in a new ‘super-head’, Mr deClarkson, in a last-ditch attempt to ‘turn the schools round’.