Free A Surrey State of Affairs by Ceri Radford Page B

to share long walks and Sunday lunches.
    (Notes: After Ruth, straightforward is good. Likes animals. And perhaps she will drag Rupert out of his flat and put a little color in his cheeks.)
    Now all I have to do is give him a call. Wish me luck!
    6:32 P.M.
    I have called Rupert. It did not go as planned. Everything has been in vain: my research, the little talk I had rehearsed ten times in my head before picking up the phone, the profiles I had printed out. How can one boy be so stubborn, so resistant to either reason or romance?
    The conversation went something like this:
    “Hello, Rupert, how are you?”
    “Fine.”
    “How’s the job?”
    “Fine.”
    “How’s the flat?”
    “Fine.”
    “Now, Rupert, I’ve been thinking. I don’t want to be intrusive, but I keep reading about how hard it can be for young people to find their soul mates in today’s highly pressured environment, and I wondered if you had ever considered online dat—”
    “MUM!”
    “Please don’t interrupt, Rupert. I am sure you could meet a very good sort of girl on the
Daily Telegraph
Web site. In fact, I’ve already found three. Now, listen to this: ‘Straightforward country gal. Love horses, dogs, country pubs—’”
    “MOTHER!”
    “Now, Rupert, please don’t interrupt. What have you got to lose? You wouldn’t even have to go to the bother of writing your own profile, because I’ve done it for you. Listen to this: ‘Handsome, professional twenty-six-year-old with own flat and teeth seeks respectable lady for companionship and potential marriage—’”
    There was a click. He had hung up. If I didn’t have to hurry off to bell ringing, I would spend the evening wallowing indespondency, visualizing a towering hat aisle whose wares are always positioned just out of reach.
       WEDNESDAY, MARCH 5
    Once again, bell ringing drew me out of myself. I was forced to abandon all mournful thoughts of yawning empty marquees and apply myself to ringing. Bell ringing is a far more intricate and demanding activity than people realize. I feel certain that counting out the complex rhythms has helped Miss Hughes maintain her mental sharpness. She was back last night in her usual form, poking Daphne when she mistimed her entry and asking Reginald why he had failed to make sure the floor was swept. I looked at her, and I looked at Gerald, who was sniffing loudly in between rings, and I wondered.
    Gerald is fifty-nine, shuffling his way toward retirement from the history department of the boys’ school. He is currently an emotional car wreck, but prior to Rosemary’s departure he was a steady, contented sort of man, who collected and pressed rare wildflowers and would take his children on holiday to Hadrian’s Wall. Happiness to him was a rare orchid, or a well-preserved portcullis.
    Miss Hughes, on the other hand, is slightly his senior, retired from a career as a doctor’s receptionist. I believe she used to find happiness in informing patients that there were no available appointments until a week from Thursday. She has substituted this for waving her stick at the village youths for dropping litter. I doubt whether Kindred Spirits would award them a “five heart” compatibility rating, and yet I believe there are reasonable grounds for hope.
    Gerald is now meandering hopelessly through life, threadbare, at a loss; his closest relationship is with a four-month-old blackLabrador. Miss Hughes could be just what he needs to whip him back into shape. And Gerald might be just the project she needs now that she has successfully stripped all the ivy from her privet hedge. With this in mind, during our tea break I decided to ask Miss Hughes some questions designed to cast her in a favorable light for Gerald.
    “Tell me, Miss Hughes,” I said. “Have you ever been tempted to get yourself a dog to keep you company in the cottage?”
    “A dog?” she said, one thin eyebrow arched, before informing us all that the only purpose of dogs was to collect