We live in a rural idyll, for heaven’s sake, and Waitrose, with its remarkable camemberts, is only a short drive away. It would have been cheaper to stay put. More importantly, it would have avoided the dreadful, miserable thud of the homecoming.
So much for absence making the heart grow fonder. At the end of our French adventure, sight of the Dream Home did not exactly fill me with glee. Nor did the prospect of the long school term ahead. It occurs to me, actually, when I picture their cheerful, brittle faces, that my fellow lady-mums are every bit as desperate as I am — possibly even more so, since they don’t have a decent outlet (hello, reader) into which to vent their groans. During the holiday I have been ruminating on their situation and mine. Mostly mine, of course: I have been forming secret plans.
Which is why, as our journey ended and the car drew up beneath the house, instead of bolting, as all my senses swore I should, I stuck around and helped with the unloading. We — husband, daughter, son, and dog — scrambled up the long hill to the front door, squabbling about who was carrying what, and how carefully. And then the children slithered quietly away to reunite themselves with the television.
They did not, nota bene, slither quietly into the garden to build dens and pick blackberries; nor into the nearby fields to be reunited with the local fox. Come to that, neither did the husband or I immediately set about exploiting any of the rich advantages of our life in Paradise: no bracing walk in the fresh country air for us, nor even a tea break to admire the view from our beautiful, undulating terrace. No. He disappeared into his office to talk to a film producer in Bombay. And I, having discovered no chocolate biscuits in the biscuit tin, spent an unsatisfactory half-hour on the internet, skimming through Popbitch.
Meanwhile, yet again, the dog escaped. I’m not especially fond of the dog, as it happens, but, as a fellow Prisoner of Paradise, I’m developing a grudging admiration for her relentless quests for freedom, which is partly why I don’t police her as well as I probably should. She has my mobile number on her collar, and I get called at least once a day from some sour-mouthed, disapproving killjoy who has taken it upon themselves to entrap her yet again. Poor thing. I had to rescue her from the dogs’ home once. Some officious bastard, presumably wanting to teach her owners a lesson, had dumped her there instead of telephoning.
Advertisement
In any case, I was still on Popbitch when who should arrive, panting at the front door, but the unstable missionary’s daughter. She was clasping our dog under one beefy arm, seeping with sweat and animal lovers’ indignation.
“Alison!” I cried, full of phoney friendliness. “And the dog!” “I found her,” she spat, through oddly grinding jaw, “all the way down at the garden centre. You’re lucky she didn’t get run over.” And without another word she dumped the dog at my feet and stomped away.
Alone again, we looked at each other, the animal and I. She seemed cowed and vaguely uncertain and yet, in spite of everything — her hopeless plight, the sure knowledge of the trouble she was in — her docked tail still wagged on obstinately. Something about it reminded me of my lady friends at the school gate. I’ve got to get out of here.