Chapter 32
Ladies who lunch

Email To: Barb
From: Leslie Ann
Date: 1 November
Subject: Getting in the groove

Dear Barb,

Things are picking up socially over here for me, especially with the self-unemployed female set. As in San Francisco, they are sooo available for lunch and girlie things. They know the best gyms, where to go for a pedicure and, more importantly, who is a reliable house painter and where to find a good chimney sweep. I’ve noticed, though, that some things are off limits, like who gets regular Botox injections and who goes to London for facial overhauls. That just might be a bridge too far for English women.

Love,
Leslie Ann

One of the truly wonderful aspects of village life is that there really is life in the village and never more so than during the summer fete season and the months leading up to Christmas. All activities seem to materialize by magic, as if they had been waiting in the wings of some lavish Victorian theatre, to be beckoned on stage for the year’s performance. Notification of all our community events comes in the form of the Stretton Newsletter, a quarterly flyer edited by Sue, the village historian. Within these pages we receive tidings from the parish church and incur a slight nudge regarding any special charity or fundraising project that might be in the offing. We can also read about local council elections, conservation issues and the latest details about missing cats. Lottery winners are announced, poets are paraded in the ‘Corner’ section and social gatherings get promoted. Stretton has enough activities going on to keep even the most anti-social person distracted while daylight hours begin to shorten to a sliver. Soon, house curtains will be drawn at 4 pm, formally announcing the arrival of winter.

November is a particularly busy time of year with harvest festival preparations under way, Bonfire Night, Remembrance Sunday service for the war dead and a singalong in the pub that just happens to correspond with my birthday and Halloween. Don, the party organizer, and I share the same birthday, so like a caboose to a train I hitch my plans to his. It doesn’t take long for word to spread. No invitations are necessary and no one is excluded. Dressed in his usual stove pipe jeans and neatly tucked T- shirt, worn to show off his trim figure, he assumes his position at the bar, his guitar in one hand and a beer on order. Plucking away at old standards and popular war songs, he finishes his set with a touching rendition of ‘Nothing Could Be Finer Than to be in Carolina in the Morning’. It is my birthday gift.

Pubs are not the only game in town for social activities. Local parish churches often provide a venue for cultural events such as concerts, flower shows, recitals and recitations as well as for the obvious. With fewer than 8 per cent of the population attending religious services some churches are only open to the public by special arrangement with the vicar. This is a shame for many in our area date back to Norman times and have some of the finest stained glass windows in the country.

Nevertheless, to spend time in a fourteenth-century sanctuary is always a contemplative affair. Just being inside the pale stone walls has a calming effect. That is unless you are there to attend the piano recital of Beethoven’s ‘33 Variations on a Waltz by Diabelli’, a concert billed as not for the ‘faint-hearted’, always an unsettling description to read once you’ve taken your seat in a hard front-row pew only an arms-length away from the pianist.

Richard, my knowledgeable friend sitting on my left, calculated he could tell the difference between twenty-three of these pithy little tunes before falling into a deep trance. Bless Bill, he never made it past number six before his chin was resting comfortably on his chest. Fearing that I too would fall under the spell, I began to look around for some diversion that could keep me awake for the remaining ten variations. Noticing a bundle of electrical wiring stretching skywards, I traced the path of each cable as it scaled the stone columns in the nave. The beautifully lit grotesques crowning each pillar seemed to be peering down upon the gathering of the numb and nodding, some of whom resembled drugged zoo bears rocking back and forth in hope of finding an escape route. That evening I think the gargoyles had the last laugh.

Once this little exercise had run its course, I was again in deep trouble. With my hands folded in a ladylike fashion on my lap, well hidden beneath my violet wool cape, I discovered quite by accident that my abdomen and pelvic core had become amazingly tight after ten months of Pilates classes. Poking around at my ribs and tummy, I felt smug about my firm body and began a series of lateral breathing exercises until I noticed an uncomfortable silence had enveloped the church. The kind lacking the familiar sounds of fidgeting and squirming, coughing and sighing. When I gazed behind me towards my fellow music lovers I realized I was the only one still upright and alert. The rest were now collectively in a comatose state. I wondered if they had dutifully taken their cyanide tablets in their KoolAid? Rather a shame I thought, for Variation Number 33 was actually quite lyrical.

It is often said that strange events come in threes; however, not having been forewarned about the lecture we dragged our neighbour, Tim, with us to another forgettable night of local fun, a talk on Stamford and the shops of Saint Mary’s Hill. Hopeful as ever of an engaging evening, we grabbed front-row seats which was tantamount to putting ourselves on death row as there was no way out when the lights were dimmed for the lengthy presentation. With the rhythm of a metronome, and without benefit of humorous anecdotes, the curator launched into a two-hour diatribe about the history of each of the sixty-four buildings located on the Hill, commencing with their origins in the sixteenth century.

Now much wiser about the ways of the world, Bill and I read with suspicion a notice that appeared in our mailbox for another upcoming cultural talk on the ‘Manhole covers of Old Stamford’ to be given by Ms Philomena Monotone. Her honorary degrees included a PhD in D.R.O.N.E. According to the flyer the lecture was expected to last four hours with an interval after three hours to remove those with the onset of rigor mortis. The sponsorship of this event was due to the kind financial support of Insomnia (UK) Ltd, makers of NODOFF tablets. This time forewarned was to be forearmed. If, as P.T. Barnham famously said, ‘There is a sucker born every minute,’ Bill and I had no intention of adding our names to his list of easy marks.

Travelling still further afield for new social adventures, I relied on my ever-increasing female network. There is just no substitute for girlfriends no matter what continent you live on. Like diamonds, you can never have too many. They have the power to make a dreary day sunny, or at the very least bearable. They will be your roommate when your hubby is out of town for the night. They have different friends from you and are a constant source of new introductions. They plan girlie things to do. They always write thank you notes and will gladly drink a bottle of white wine on their own then profess in public that they only have a capacity for two glasses a night. We all know how to play the game.

Trusting in my group of new-found friends, I went to my first manor house luncheon wearing a little navy blue number discreet enough to blend in with any Osborne and Little floral print sofa, yet smart enough to be noticed without upstaging the hostess. A string of pearls and coordinated red pumps and Louis Vuitton handbag topped off my ensemble. Carol, my neighbour and part-time social director, had organized the outing. Once the assembled guests were comfortably arranged in her green Peugeot, we were told the theme of the occasion. Apparently, while I had my head buried in packing crates, an American ‘get rich quick’ ruse had made its UK debut—the ‘you won’t lose your original investment, trust me’ pyramid scheme.

The postage stamp-sized village, a perfectly lovely setting for the affair, reminded me of a Phillip Treacy wide-brimmed hat. One side was flat and open; the other slightly upturned with the manor placed discreetly on the edge, visible without overpowering the look. The luncheon venue benefited from a pair of stone pillars at the entrance to the private drive, which was covered in crunchy, honey-coloured gravel that sounded like breakfast cereal when trod upon. There was even a gardener dead-heading flowers and a modest lake for reflection to complete the scene.

The two border terriers that greeted us at the front door presumably replaced a butler who was otherwise engaged. Upon entering the all-weather-gear strewn entrance hall, we took an immediate left turn that brought us into the drawing room. It was comforting to see such a plush assortment of home furnishings: several deep, plump settees, Persian carpets, silver-framed family photos atop numerous end tables and my personal favourite, ‘stiffies’ prominently displayed on the fireplace mantel. These are not to be confused with that playful little sexual innuendo we all know about. No, these hard card, social invitations often embossed with gold crests, preferably purchased from London’s quality stationers Symthson of Bond Street, are just the ticket for subtly displaying one’s popularity to guests. Heaven forbid they should be placed in a drawer or diary marked ‘private’. Mantel mounting a parade of invites to weddings, summer garden parties, teas and balls makes a much more impressive statement.

Introductions were graciously made on arrival. Glasses of chilled semillon soon followed to grease the get-acquainted session before the official presentation was launched by a most charming London import. However, no amount of perfectly applied Bobby Brown make-up or her pencil-thin silhouette could distract the minds of the punters—oops, guests—as the family pooch decided to do the unspeakable on the exquisite Oriental carpet in the centre of the room. De-worming is not a pretty sight from any angle. The bitch made several attempts to complete the operation until a stiletto heel finally caught her in the ribs, toppling the pup onto her side. Wisely, lunch was announced before she could make a second attempt.

Soured years earlier by such schemes floated in America, I turned my attention away from money making to the assembled women who shared my table as we lunched on smoked salmon, mixed salads and warm rolls. Trusting both my instincts and my powers of observation, I proceeded down my personal checklist based on hairstyles, attire and body language. I placed mental bets on who would shell out money and who would sit on the sidelines. Spotting the players over here is slightly more difficult than in, let’s say, Palm Springs. There everyone is a player but, more importantly, women do not disguise their power. Here, the demure middle-aged woman wearing a twin-set and pearls is more than likely to also wear the pants in the family.

As the pitch resumed after lunch, feathers began to ruffle. The merits of the scheme were debated, dashed and deployed, but not without some bloodletting. Frankly, the debate about the morality of the proposal was better than the pre-lunch doggie show. It became a demonstration of good breeding over heated banter, one that I decided was best watched from the sidelines. After all, I was wearing my Sunday best and dependent on a ride home. Still, in my opinion, the world would be a lesser place without the ‘ladies who lunch’. Undaunted by the paralysis of work, they are the lubricants of polite society and always a pleasure to be around.