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  Nevertheless, employment would have to be found, and quickly. Her father might be something big in the city, but he was not something big in the handing out money to daughters situation. Fay was held up as the very pinnacle of how to get ahead, how to succeed in love, life and work. Her mother’s mantra was, ‘Fay has got herself a lovely boyfriend (married actually), a happy, contented life (mixed up actually) and a great job (it stank actually). In spite of the sibling rivalry both real and imagined, Judy would have liked to look up to her sister, the three inches that Fay had on her would have made it easier, but they had lost the art of communicating on any, but the most basic level. Do not fret however, time will heal this rift.

  An insurance broker in Thames Ditton was looking for a trainee adviser. The pay was poorer (much) than she wanted, but the prospects could well compensate for that. A family run firm too so she reckoned it would be friendlier and perhaps cosier than a larger concern. Alas, she was mistaken. The women she shared an office with, Rose and Suzanne were extremely easy to get along with and were a great help in aiding her negotiate the minefield that is domestic insurance. All was going well enough until that fateful day, the day of the adventure of the paper clips. Judy buzzed up to Mrs Danvers (honestly!), the office manager/dictator.

  “Mrs Danvers, I appear to be running short of paper clips so if you are doing a stationery order can you add papers clips to it please?”

  “What do you mean, running short?”

  “Well, just that, I am down to my last few.”

  “Right. I’ll come down,” thundered Mrs Danvers into her mouthpiece and as a consequence in Judy’s earpiece.

  Mrs Danvers’s footfall could be heard as she traversed the three floors down to the waiting and vaguely apprehensive Miss Kennedy. Rose and Suzanne were both engaged in phone calls, but managed to convey with their pained expressions that a faux-pas had been committed. Mrs Danvers appeared in the doorway looking for the world like an avenging angel, but with demonstrably non-angelic features.

  She held her hand out. “Show me,” she barked.

  “Show you what?” Judy answered, a little puzzled.

  “Show me your papers clips, Judy.”

  For Judy, it had echoes of being asked by the Gestapo for her papers, not that she had ever been asked by the Gestapo for her papers. Obviously. Judy reached inside her top drawer and produced a virtually empty box which formerly housed the items under discussion. There could be no argument over the facts; the paper clips were fast disappearing. All the same, Judy was somewhat bewildered when Mrs Danvers dropped to her hands and knees and scoured the floor, presumably for errant paper clips, unless she was praying thought Judy, suppressing a giggle.

  “Rose,” shouted Mrs Danvers, “can you lend Judy some paper clips?”

  “But that will leave me short, Mrs Danvers.”

  “Good God, girls can you not manage your stationery better than this? By my reckoning there should be one hundred and forty seven papers clips left. We can’t have waste like this; it’s the thin end of the stationery wedge.”

  Judy should have known better, she really should, but she spoke up again. “I am short of A4 envelopes too, Mrs Danvers.”

  “I don’t believe it, have you requested some more?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was this?”

  “Er...just now, Mrs Danvers.”

  “Do you think paper grows on trees, Miss Kennedy?”

  “Well...”

  “Were you going to be facetious there, young lady?”

  “Absolutely.”

  That ‘absolutely’ was the beginning of the end for Judy’s career in insurance. Add to the paper clips incident the saga of the post incorrectly stacked (large ones at the bottom, small ones at the top, Judy), the failure to wash her mug one Friday morning and having the temerity to leave five minutes early one day. But don’t worry, Mrs Danvers made sure she made the time up.

  19 Now defunct. But not in any way due to MH.

  Chapter Seven

  Early Days

  “Do you think we should get our folks together?” asked Michael as they danced (not literally, not with his dodgy knees) around each other in Judy’s kitchen one evening.

  “Do you think you should get out the kitchen before I put this knife to an almost certainly illegal and possibly life-threatening use?”

  “Hey, Jude, (could be a song that) I am helping.”

  “Really? You call that helping?”

  “Look. Wooden spoon. Pan. Stirring.”

  “Look. Pan. No heat,” Judy laughed, slapping him with a tea-towel, not very hygienic admittedly, but considerably more so than being slapped with one of Michael’s.

  The better part of valour being discretion, Michael retired to a safe distance, while keeping an eye on both knife and tea-towel.

  “My question then Jude, should we get them together?”

  “Shock! Horror! All sorts of goings on in Clapham. Call the tabloids. I don’t know about your folks, but I don’t think mine are cut out for wife-swapping.”

  “Very funny. Do you think it’s too soon?”

  “I think it’s a good idea, break the ice before the wedding, yep let’s go for it.”

  It was decided that this breaking the ice event should take place at a neutral venue, a restaurant. The best their money could get them which, painful to relate, was not commensurate with the term ‘best’. Still, it had a menu to suit all tastes, fads and not overly bulging wallets. They opted for an eatery with a growing reputation for South American cuisine which Michael had visited in his professional role. Fortunately for the positioning of their table that evening his review had been favourable. The chef was from Ecuador via Berkhamsted (plus a detour to Tring) and his own reputation was growing as markedly as the restaurant’s.

  The evening should be adjudged a success for the conversation flowed as freely as Michael and Judy would have wished. Unfortunately, the conversations were between the senior Hamilton’s one to another and the Kennedy’s also took this opportunity to catch up on their own news freed from domestic ties for the evening. The city, the magistrate’s court, the horses and the Women’s Institute remained blissfully as ignorant of each other as when the pre-drinks order arrived. It was not for lack of suitable encouragement from their collective offspring.

  “Dad, why don’t you tell Geoffrey that funny story about loss adjusters?”

  “Eh, Fay? I mean, Judy. What story?”

  “You know, the one about the loss adjusters going to the races.”

  “No, can’t recall it. You obviously can so you tell it.”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t paying that much attention, Dad.”

  Geoffrey edged into the conversation.

  “Brilliant!”

  “What’s brilliant, Dad?”

  “That story of course.”

  “But he didn’t tell it, nor did Judy.”

  “Well,” he blustered, “I’m sure it would have been brilliant.”

  “Mum had a celebrity grace the shop she works in last week didn’t you, mum?”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes, you know, the guy from that new talk show,” Judy urged.

  “Ah yes, Neil Warman. Cute too,” Elspeth Kennedy added, thereby adding to her daughter’s embarrassment. “Much better looking in the flesh so to speak.”

  Geoffrey and Margaret Hamilton shook their heads in unison, neither knowing or particularly caring who Neil Warman may be. As they shook their heads, Michael and Judy scratched theirs, if scratching heads can be said to show a resigned air then their joint efforts shouted it to the rafters. But the evening could still be rescued; it would only take one conversational spark to turn it into a chit-chat conflagration. Unfortunately this was destined to be a spark free night.
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br />   “Your mother had to send a local councillor down last week, Michael,” said Geoffrey Hamilton. “Terry Phipps, do you remember him? He was a champion jockey.”

  “Why don’t you tell Mr and Mrs Kennedy about it?”

  “About what?”

  “The champion jockey and his misdemeanours.”

  “He isn’t a champion jockey anymore, he is a town councillor. Although he might not be one now. Do town councillors get struck off? Or come to that, do champion jockeys get struck off?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Michael replied, “Does anyone know?”

  No one knew.

  “I’m sure Tom and Elspeth would love to hear about it.”

  “But I just told everybody, they’re not deaf are they? Should I speak up?”

  Why do those closest to us embarrass us the most?

  The evening lurched from one conversational false start to another. On the plus side everyone seemed to enjoy their llapingauchos with carne de res although there was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm for cuy[20] once Michael had explained just what kind of meat it was. The net result of the evening was food-two, parental bonding-nil.

  There was always the wedding surmised Judy optimistically, back in the comfort of Michael’s flat. He kissed her. It seemed the appropriate response.

  20 Guinea pig.

  Chapter Eight

  Happy Days

  22nd November 2003. Pre-proposal. One of the pre-proposal happy days of which there were many. There were many happy pre-proposal nights too, but we will draw a veil over those nocturnal activities where even dodgy knees are no barrier to pleasure.

  22nd November 2003. Australia vs England Rugby Union World Cup Final. Canford Road, Mike’s place.

  “We could have watched it at my place, Mike. My TV is bigger for one thing.”

  “Size is no guarantee of quality, Jude.”

  “Oh, I know that only too well!”

  “What?” queried Michael, putting on that hurt face of his that she knew so well and ignored so ably.

  “And we would have a proper breakfast too.”

  “I’ve got us something, Jude, I haven’t neglected our needs.”

  “I thought I heard you in the kitchen while I was showering. What have we got then?”

  “Crisps.”

  “Just crisps?”

  “Three different flavours and peanuts.”

  “It didn’t occur to you to provide some mouth-watering fruit or parma ham with wholemeal rolls and a choice of yoghurts or anything at all which doesn’t belong to the crisps and peanuts family of food?”

  “Actually, no, but there is fruit in the fruit bowl, Jude.”

  “Oh yes, so I see; one apple and two bananas which look as if they have seen better days, maybe two months’ worth of better days..”

  “Sorry, Jude.”

  “Ah, you silly man, I love you.”

  He kissed her, it seemed the appropriate response.

  “Would you like a beer?”

  “A beer? For crying out loud, Mike, it’s early in the morning! Yes please!”

  A hushed arena. Kate Ceberano steps forward. Sings ‘True Colours’. Now, the Sydney Children’s Choir and what’s this, ah the Rugby World Choir. Very nice rendition of ‘World In Union’, but can we have the rugby now please? Or failing that, ‘Advance Australia Fair’ and ‘God Save The Queen’. Handshakes, interminable handshakes. And the whistle blows...

  “Did you see that, Jude? Why was Jason Robinson there? He had no chance of stopping Tuqiri.”

  “I’m sitting right here, of course I saw it!”

  “It’s all going to go wrong, I know it.”

  “Early days yet, Mike.”

  Jonny Wilkinson to the rescue, two penalties.

  “Great move, shift it out wide to Robinson. That’s it. Yes! Yes!” Did you see that?

  “I’m sitting right here, of course I saw it.”

  Half-time. England up 14-5. The dream is still there. Michael wanted to say, ‘This is it Jude, this is the real deal, sitting here with you watching rugby. I love you so much for what you are to me, for what you share with me. I want to marry you.’ What he actually said was, “Would you like another beer?”

  “What? Two pints this early in the morning? I don’t think that’s quite right. Yes please.”

  “I can’t believe the ref has given them another penalty.”

  “What was that one for?”

  “Hmm, I didn’t quite see the infringement, Jude.”

  “Was our guy offside?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Oh Mike, you don’t know do you. You can just say you don’t know, I won’t think any less of you for not knowing the laws of Rugby!”

  Michael smiled in such a way as not to alert Judy to the truth of her statement and in a perhaps misguided attempt to steer her away from those baffling (to him) rugby laws suddenly realised there were more nibbles that were sitting patiently in the kitchen awaiting their introduction to the morning.

  “Pork scratchings.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I have pork scratchings too.”

  “Perhaps you should see the doctor about that.”

  A hushed Telstra stadium, well not that hushed, but you get the idea. England leading 14-11. A few seconds to go. Penalty.

  “That bastard has given them another penalty, did you see?”

  “I’m sitting right here, of course I saw. What did he give it for?” asked Judy mischievously.

  “I couldn’t see, my line of sight was obstructed.”

  “Hmm, pop another scratching in, darling. Flatley might miss.”

  But he didn’t. 14-14. Extra time. One more penalty apiece. 17-17. Thirty seconds to go. England get the ball and advance towards the Australian line.

  “Give it to Jonny, give it to Jonny,” screamed Michael, “look, Jude, he’s in the pocket waiting, can you see?”

  Judy was far too excited to respond with another dose of, ‘I’m sitting right here...’ and instead screamed, “Give it to Jonny, give it to Jonny!”

  Behind Jonny Wilkinson was the Australian captain, George Gregan who had a look on his face which exhibited as broad a range of emotions as any actor who ever trod the boards; bemusement, fear, resignation and despair for he knew as the ball left Jonny’s foot that England were seconds away from being World Champions. And so it proved to be.

  Michael hugged Judy. Judy hugged Michael. Michael kissed Judy, it seeming like the appropriate response. Together they celebrated the triumph in the time honoured-way. It was not Jonny Wilkinson who put a smile on Michael’s face the rest of that day, but Judy, several times in fact. Even with his dodgy knees and his insides full of pork scratchings.

  Chapter Nine

  Present Day

  Perhaps it would be best to leave the garden/wilderness to the spring Michael thought. Surely that wouldn’t hurt. His best efforts so far had resulted in not very much by way of improvement or any discernible progress. Perhaps after all, it was a challenge best postponed and he was sure Judy would agree, although not that sure. In fact, perhaps all projects on the house could wait until spring...or summer. There was no great urgency to the plans they had made to the house. It was unlikely to fall down around their ears.

  Michael had made his fourth trip to Uplyme that day to collect the girls from school and then to the garage once more to collect the ingredients for a cunning little risotto he was going to foist on his family. He succumbed to the girls’ entreaties and bought them a small lolly each. No burger.

  The soon to be replaced hob behaved itself perfectly and the risotto was declared a success of the highest order. Feeling suitably emboldened by this rush of good feelings toward him he invited offers and voluntee
rs to wash up.

  Michael washed up.

  The spacious kitchen felt even more spacious when he was the only one it. There was something about the kitchen tonight that seemed different, out of place somehow. At first glance everything was as it should be, at second glance everything was as it should be so why he should feel that these impressions were wrong? Why did all the appliances looks as though they had shifted imperceptibly? Or was he imagining it? He had to be surely. Kitchen appliances as a rule are not known for almost imperceptible wanderings. Judy would know, he reasoned. His reasoning being that Judy spent more time in the kitchen than he apart from doing the dishes obviously plus the fact that she knew so much more than him about everything, save tying shoe laces.

  “Hey Jude (could be a song that), you’ll think I’m going mad...”

  “More than likely,” shouted Judy from the soon to be re-decorated lounge.

  “...but I think there is something odd about the kitchen.”

  Judy appeared in the doorway and surveyed the scene. For several minutes she surveyed the scene.

  “The freezer, the fridge and the microwave; they have all moved.”

  Judy, from the doorway, surveyed the above-mentioned appliances. For several minutes she surveyed the above-mentioned appliances.

  “No doubt about it, Mike,” she pronounced.

  “You see it, you agree?”

  “No, you are going mad!”

  In the way of these things, Michael now could see there was no change at all in the kitchen and its contents. Must be my eyes he thought or too many trips to Uplyme. Or lack of burgers. A bottle of wine was extracted from the reassuringly static fridge and Michael and Judy settled down in the soon to be re-decorated lounge. Katy and Annabelle were stretched out on the rug in front of the fire intent on pre-bed reading. They had the notion that if they read very slowly then bedtime could be averted, postponed or downright cancelled. Unfortunately, this notion was never fully put to the test as they always fell asleep long before bedtime and had to be woken ahead of being put to bed.