I would’ve been embarrassed for anyone to see the house, but I didn’t have it in me to make a change. Yet, change was on its way.
***
At that time I was too preoccupied to notice when word spread that James Dixon was returning to Upper Iffley.
I heard dribs and drabs as I was standing in queues in the local shops, people wondering where he would live: in a rustic cottage on the road to Tippington? In one of the thatched abodes, like mine, clustered around the village green? In one of the sympathetically designed new builds on the outskirts? Or would he, perhaps, build his own? He could be onGrand Designs. We could all tune in to findout where he sourced his marble from, how much it had cost him, and what he hadn’t got proper planning permission for. Then, in a satisfying end to the evening, we could message each other: “Did you see it? Omg, it’s hideous!” Not that anyone in the village ever messaged me.
However, James had other ideas. For years Langley Hall had sat empty and unloved, until one day a rumor began to circulate that the hall had been sold. To a Hollywood star? To a member of the royal family? To a Mafia boss? No one knew…
Then James’s mother made the big announcement at the May Day celebrations: James had only gone and bought it! Outright—no mortgage! She told everyone who passed.
“Exciting news!” she said to me, as I lurked behind the Maypole. “He wants to throw a ball. Between you and me, I think my James is ready to settle down. I think he’s throwing it with a view to finding his wife.”
“Enchanting,” I said. We could all head up there in time-limited pumpkin carriages and glass slippers. Most of my outfits were made of rags, so I would have to think hard about how I would magic one of them into a ball gown.
Mrs. Dixon nodded. “He’ll be needing a few waiting staff for the night; I could put in a word for you. You’d have to smarten yourself up a bit.”
If only she’d known the twist fate was about to take.
Yet, aside from that, I didn’t give it another thought. I was still trying to find my feet, living on my own, and I was struggling in every way. Not only had I had issues with the bed and the TV, but I’d found myself short of an oven, following an incident with a forgotten frying pan and a sleepy head.
“Three cheers for the smoke alarm,” the Fire Brigade said as they left. “It saved your life.” But I wondered if death might not have been a mercy.
The curtains were ruined, but the kitchen window faced the back garden, so I could manage without them. However, the walls were charred, the sink half-melted, and the cooker was unusable. Something inside it had died and not one function worked, no cooktop, no grill, no oven.
The price of an oven was the stuff dreams were made of, and I failed to qualify for a credit arrangement.
So, I microwaved everything I could, turning everything I ate into a three-course meal: veg course, potato course, meat course, and started saving for a new cooker at the rate of a pound or two a week. I reckoned I could have one in about a year, factoring in overtime at Christmas and the fact that I didn’t have to buy anyone presents anymore.
But living on my own was hard, and one night I needed company more than I needed an oven. I changed into a skirt made from silk camisoles and took my life savings, £12 by then, down to the King’s Head for karaoke night.
I was nervous as I approached; I was not liked in the village. In fact, I was shunned. I’d even noticed that there were people who wouldn’t buy from a shelf in the SPAR if they knew I’d stacked it. But I couldn’t spend another night on my own in the house, so I had to try. I walked to the front door and pushed it open.
Inside, I knew everyone. Ted from the garage was there, with his lank hair, his overalls, and his beer belly; Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner from the newsagent’s, the sartorial opposite of Ted; Betty Chambers from the small shop and her associate from Great Beadington; thebellringers, having a drink after bellringing practice. Samantha Gibson and Euan Saunders, not yet married at that time, were at a table in the middle of the room. When I saw them I nearly did an about-turn, but they saved me the trouble by downing their drinks and “hummphing” out, Samantha barging my shoulder as she did so.
“What are you having, Daisy?” Mick, the landlord, asked me.
“Pineapple Breezer, please.” I handed my money over and took a glug. Now I was committed to my plan, but no one shuffled up so that I could go and sit with them. I began to ask myself what I’d expected.
Still, once I had the taste for them, the Bacardi Breezers went down well and I began to relax. I drank three and ordered a fourth, but as Mick put the open bottle down in front of me, disaster struck: I was short by 50p.
“Well, you’ve got a problem then,” Mick said, his hand still outstretched for the money I didn’t have. “What are you going to do?” The room fell silent and everyone stared at me.
“What do people normally do when this happens?” I asked.
“Normally one of their friends coughs up for them.”
I bit my lip and began scrolling through my memories for a friend.
Then there was a commotion at the door. The Dixons had arrived, Mr. Dixon, wearing the same clothes he always wore, Mrs. Dixon flaunting an expensive pair of earrings and a new coat. I didn’t like Mrs. Dixon and I was pleased a few months later when James bought them a villa in Spain and off they jetted. Behind them came James, sporting a very heavy-looking watch, that I was soon to learn cost nearly two hundred grand, Louis Vuitton jeans, and a Dolce & Gabbana T-shirt. We’d all heard of James’s incredible wealth, but this was the first display of it that we’d seen.
“What’s happening?” James asked, looking around.
“Daisy here is about to perform a magic trick and make 50p appear from thin air,” Mick said, nodding at the open bottle.
“Daisy ordered a drink and she hasn’t got enough money to pay for it,” Ted explained to James’s puzzled face.
“Luckily, this is my round!” James said and handed a credit card to Mick. “Keep hold of that, the drinks are on me for the rest of the night.”
