Summertime Read Free

over the top to lie beneath my heel. Find a spade, and a broom, but no farmer to assist me, so stomp back to the road in a big rage.
    My life seems entirely made up of shit-shovelling episodes, be it dogs, pigs, children or hens. Am fed up with it. Am fed up with David being away, and never being able to speak to him because it’s always the wrong time of day. Whenever he does ring, it is a bad moment and I am in a rush or unable to concentrate and the conversation becomes dyspeptic, or dysfunctional, or just plain disagreeable. He will never want to come back at this rate. Must work out a way to improve this state of affairs, and also my appearance. This is foul, as a few moments in the bathroom after the school run demonstrate. Am loitering in front of the mirror, killing time while The Beauty busies herself with her babies whom she has lined up against the wall and to whom she is administering medicine and dabs of hand cream along with a kindly kiss on the head. This absorbing occupation gives me plenty of time to notice the leaden texture and pallid tone of my skin. Must implement a thorough purification regime forthwith. However, by the time I have wiped all the babies, put away the hand cream and restuffed the whole packet of baby wipes The Beauty has discarded and thrown into her sock drawer, I have lost interest in purification. DumpThe Beauty in her cot, praying that she has forgotten that she now knows how to climb out, and retreat to my own bed, promising, ‘I’ll just lie down for ten minutes.’
    Surface again at midday, flushed with the sense of achievement which comes from having read a whole Georgette Heyer at one sitting, and spurred by the merry dance of true love in
Cotillion
, to a more cheerful level of existence.
    March 16th
    Good cheer is beginning to drain away again as I stare out at the blank sky and try to decide whether it would be more ghastly to do my work or to go to the supermarket. There is no loo paper, no cereal, no washing powder and no milk. After some consideration, choose to do my work, as the shopping option involves more than meets the eye: a multitude of chores will be unleashed by a visit to the supermarket, each one more urgent than the last. Also, it is one thing gliding up and down the aisles with The Beauty, humming away to piped music and wondering which Teletubbies video to buy today, but it is quite another to be back home, dragging vast,splitting bags of stuff out of the car, and into the house where the final insult still awaits in the form of unpacking and putting away, accompanied by a hovering and stamping Beauty who needs her supper. Work, on balance, is the easy option today.
    Five minutes at my desk has me riffling through the waste-paper basket and then my diary in search of something interesting to take my mind off the Vanden Plaz Conference Catering brochure. Discover from my diary that Easter is almost upon us, and telephone my friend Rose in London to invite her to stay. She is out, so have to make do with her answerphone. Try telephoning my mother for a spot of work avoidance instead. She is at home and is sniffing back tears. Fortunately they are of joy.
    â€˜Oh, Venetia, it’s so wonderful. I was just about to ring you. You will never believe this – never. Desmond has asked Minna to marry him and she has agreed.’ There is a pause, and the deep intake of breath required for a huge puff on the celebratory cigarette crackles down the line. I am speechless. I must digest this extraordinary news. My brother Desmond is getting married. Surely he is not grown-up enough? He is certainly old enough, and has been for years, but old is not the same as grown-up.
    â€˜Gosh, that’s fantastic. When? How? Where?’
    Have a sense of urgency, and a potent desire tohave the whole thing sewn up before Minna changes her mind. But perhaps she won’t. After all, they have been together for nearly two years, which is certainly a record for