‘Why is she having a crisis or why do I think that?’
‘Both.’
‘She came on an alpaca walk.’
‘Jesus.’
Maz nods, a faint smile on her face, which counts as animated. ‘She booked herself in online, like a regular customer.’
‘When?’
‘Last week. And when she turned up, she pretended not to know me, just took Mabel’s reins and went off.’
‘So what did you do?’
She shrugs. ‘Pretended not to know her too. I think we’ll get on much better that way.’
I take a slug of my wine, ruminating. ‘So, what’s the crisis?’
‘Mabel wouldn’t say.’
I ponder. Last time I saw Rose was when she summoned me to Stroud to help her move some garden furniture, and she spent the afternoon complaining bitterly that her next-door neighbours were getting a hot tub installed. It was the beginning of the end, apparently – next it would be pampas grass and keys in a bowl. Then she told me I was thickening around the waist and I’d best start ‘reducing’ or Robbie would get a wandering eye. When I look back now, I really don’t understand why I didn’t just piss on her pristine patio, but of course that was Old Clover, who dutifully shifted her mother’s new Laurel outdoor dining set, arranged the bunch of flowers she’d bought without getting a word of thanks, and caught the train back via Swindon in time to make the kids’ tea.
‘Maybe she’s met someone.’ I’m thinking about the hot tub, how there seemed to be a degree of pique in Rose’s voice when she talked about swingers. Our mother has a number of what she calls ‘gentlemen friends’, but they seem to exist only to give her lifts into town and squire her to local events. Then there’s the owner of the Redcliffe flat . . . The idea of my mother as a sexual being makes me want to heave but I force myself to consider it. Her merry widow act might have palled; oh God, what if she’s getting married and intends to have an actual wedding? Rose would love that . . . She’d have me and Maz trussed up as middle-aged bridesmaids, with herself in virginal white . . . I reach for the bottle of wine and drink straight from it. New Clover will be able to sort this out, even if she personally has to firebomb all the bridal shops in the Cotswolds. I will not walk down the aisle behind my mother.
‘What did you conclude?’ Maz points at the now empty bottle.
‘She’s getting married.’
‘How nice.’ Maz drinks steadily, draining her glass. ‘She can put right all the wrongs from your wedding.’
‘At least she won’t have to invite Cousin Jack.’
‘She’ll do it at Christmas, so she can spray everything with fake snow.’
‘She’ll book King’s College Choir to sing.’
‘At Westminster Abbey.’
‘Princess Anne will be her maid of honour.’
‘Jacob Rees-Mogg will give her away.’
‘For a substantial fee.’
‘How nice.’
By this point we’re laughing, wheezing, gripping the stems of our glasses, our noses near the table. I briefly begin to cry, because I’ve got a big evening ahead, but soon pull myself together. Maz doesn’t say anything about it, but squeezes my hand and stands, picking up her bag.
‘Shall we go on an alpaca walk?’
I blink back tears, confused. ‘I don’t think we’ve got time to nip to Crediton.’
She smiles her slow, sea-cow smile. ‘Sometimes you don’t need a real one. The imaginary ones are actually better behaved.’
So, outside the pub, we each take a rein, and walk towards the restaurant with our animals. Maz says she always names her pretend-alpaca Geraldine, ‘after the goat in The Good Life,’ so I name mine Barbara. We agree Barbara has good energy, unlike Geraldine who has pugnacious tendencies and seems inclined to veer left. But both of them give us comfort, as we stroll through the quaint streets of Clifton admiring the Brighton-coloured cottages, festooned with fluttering Jubilee bunting. It all has a seaside holiday feel, as if everyone – not just me – is taking the day off. Looking towards the Mendip Hills, we spot a hot air balloon that punctuates the deep blue sky like a full stop. It’s in the shape of a giant koala head, with two round ears poking out and a piece of eucalyptus emerging from its mouth. I feel glad to be surrounded by these gentle beasts – Barbara Good, Bigwig, and the floating marsupial – as we prepare to confront a more dangerous one. When the kids were younger, Robbie and I used to take them to Bristol’s annual balloon fiesta, watch the great gasbags inflate and lift off, holding hands and staring open-mouthed at the multi-coloured vista above. I feel sad that they don’t want to do it any more, don’t want to hang out with us. Maybe Hazel will let me go on marches with her, and Ethan will let me . . . sit in his room. I rub Barbara’s head affectionately and she butts me for treats.
I now have not one but two support animals to sustain me through the difficult night ahead. Part of me is dreading it, but another part is rubbing her hands. It’s time to get on, lay the ghost. It’s time to shake that tree, and see what falls.
31
‘Do you believe in God?’
The producer of Songs of Praise asked the question like any other in an interview, in the same way she asked how I got into television, and where did I see myself in five years’ time. In any other job, it would be irrelevant and maybe even inappropriate, but I guess for this one it was OK.
‘Um, I’m sort of ambiguous. Agnostic? But I do believe in fate.’
Oh, I believed in fate. In karma, kismet, destiny. But not in a serendipitous way. I believed in a universe that required a strict balance of goodness versus evil, of happiness versus misery. If you had too much of one, you were due a dose of the other. In my case, it was best to be as good as possible, and avoid too much joy, lest it provoked a corresponding hit of hardship. However, at that point in my life, I felt I was in line for a windfall, which was why I was there. I was daring to take a step, even if it meant treading on a butterfly.
‘Well, of course it doesn’t matter either way. An openness to the possibility is helpful though.’ The producer pointed upwards, presumably to indicate God’s potential presence.
I embraced that openness, simply because I would never presume to deny His existence, as it would have felt like far too much of an affront, a taunt or provocation that invited a thunderbolt from above. I didn’t want to get into any fights, even with a potentially non-existent supreme being. As far as God was concerned, I was Switzerland.
‘And why do you want to work on Songs of Praise?’
Because I wanted to get drunk with Susie on location – not the kind of drunk where I tearfully confessed what happened in my last job and sobbed harder when I saw her look of horror, but the kind of drunk where we hiccupped hysterically and tottered back to our hotel, our arms around each other to keep ourselves upright. I wanted to hear choirs sing and revel in the righteous boom of their voices, and wander round churches, letting their sacred majesty seep into me and purify me, and I wanted to make a new start working in a different kind of television where I could leave the ghosts and ghouls behind. Because I wanted to be an assistant producer, without needing anyone to elevate me to that level. Because I really, really wanted to leave Beatnik. I wasn’t sure I believed in God, but I was sure that all those things could make me better, tip the balance back towards happiness.
‘I’ve always admired the show, and think that you’re doing really interesting things with the format.’
