Free Ordinary Miracles by Grace Wynne-Jones Page B

apart from typing reams of letters, poor Bronwyn keeps having to bring huge trays of teas and coffees and chocolate digestives into Ms Armitage’s office. It also turns out that Ms Armitage doesn’t have time to talk to a large proportion of the people who phone her, so Bronwyn keeps having to tell people she’s ‘at a conference’ or has ‘just gone to a meeting’ – which is probably true anyway. But the callers are clearly no longer accepting these excuses without a protest. They keep asking when Ms Armitage will return so that they can phone back.
    Mr McClaren’s world is very sedate in comparison to Ms Armitage’s. In fact I feel something of a memsahib as I sit here, leisurely unwrapping the new paperback I bought at lunchtime. It’s called Lesbianism: Old Myths – New Realities. I hope it may give me some insight into Katie’s sexual predicament.
    Katie and Sarah are arriving this evening. I’m glad I had to come to the office, because otherwise I’d be dashing round the house in a panic. I’ve been hoovering and tidying every evening this week, and worrying hard while I did so. When I told Susan I didn’t know why all these worries surfaced so suddenly, she said that they’ve obviously been there all the time. I’ve been repressing them, she said. Repressed worries are, apparently, like a jack-in-the-box. They stay quietly hidden for a while, then they suddenly jump up and leer at you.
    My attitude towards this forthcoming weekend with Katie and Sarah somehow reminds me of a booklet that I found in our house when I was twelve. It was about what to do in the event of a nuclear holocaust.
    The main thing I remember from it is an illustration. The nuclear family featured had collected all its essentials in one small corner of the house. They had constructed a sort of semi-triangular shed, using planks and blankets that sloped from floor to ceiling. Squatting in this sad little cubby-hole was their attempt at safety. Obsessive advance planning and frantic polishing seem to be mine. I’ve even taken to scattering diluted fabric conditioner on the carpets to make them smell ‘Summer Fresh’.
    Though my marriage is now a wasteland, some vestige of family life must somehow be salvaged for Katie’s sake. If I do not manage to do this she will, of course, turn into a drug addict who feeds her habit through prostitution or petty crime. I’ve had recurring and graphic dreams about this lately in which court scenes are prevalent.
    ‘It’s all my mother’s fault,’ a tear-stained Katie tells the judge. ‘She left my father because he borrowed her hairdryer.’
    I stand up in the dock to protest. ‘No, no, your honour, it was a hair grip! He took my fake diamond hair grip.’
    While I say this Cait Carmody appears in a short skirt and starts serving hors-d’oeuvres to the jury. And when I look at the judge more closely I realise that, under his wig and false moustache he is, in fact, Bruce.
    At this stage of the dream I usually wake up in a cold sweat and take one of those little pills Susan got me from h er Chinese herbalist. Then I lie in bed for a while and feel foolish.
    ‘Hundreds – thousands of women find out their husbands have been having an affair and don’t make such a fuss about it,’ I think. ‘And anyway, if I’d been a better wife he wouldn’t have strayed. My lingerie has always been too sensible and Bruce so likes suspenders. I should have taken more interest in Avril too. Just a little more effort would have done the job. Just a little more dedication.’
    At times like this my thoughts sometimes stray to the sock I tried to knit at primary school. The teacher kept making me rip up the heel and start again. ‘Try harder, Jasmine,’ the teacher kept saying. ‘Follow the pattern – that’s all you need to do.’ I never did finish that sock. This was a pity because it was in quite nice blue wool. I suppose deep down in my ten-year-old heart I knew that knitting the perfect