Summertime by Raffaella Barker Page A

Araminta indeed. No one has called my mother anything so informal in years. She perks up no end upon hearing that Hedley Sale teaches classics.
    â€˜Oh, good. A classicist is just what we need around here,’ she says, as if it were very useful to the community, like being a fireman or a childminder. ‘I should like to meet him.’
    I am about to say that I have met him, and to give a graphic description of both my encounters with this paragon, when Desmond interrupts, clicking the heel of his cowboy boot irritably, and snapping his fingers in a bid for attention.
    â€˜Look Mum, I think we need to get this playlist sorted out.’ My mother and the vicar look at him blankly.
    â€˜He means the order of service,’ I translate, moving towards the door. ‘I’ve got to go, but will you remember that Minna’s most favourite song in the world is “Jolene”, by Dolly Parton, and try to incorporate it?
    Maybe it could be instead of the usual Wedding March at the beginning, or what about during the signing of the register? God, I wonder if Minna will wear a red wig? And are you dressing as Elvis, Desmond?’ He grins, pushing me away, whispering, ‘Let’s get this bit over and we’ll talk later.’
    My mother, humming ‘Abide with Me’, sidles over to the sherry bottle. I close the door as she trills, ‘More sherry, Trevor?’
    April 7th
    Everyone is talking about Hedley Sale. Even Mrs Organic Veg, who I always thought was above such things, arrives on her moped with my delivery of spring greens, cabbage, onions and potatoes. Always anxious for a diversion from work, I rush out to help her carry the precious, mud-caked items into the larder.
    â€˜Lovely day, isn’t it?’ I say, as I always do, even if it’s raining, as it is some kind of social reflex with me and anyone who arrives to deliver something.
    She wipes her hands on a big cloth she keeps in the box on the back of her moped and looks up at the sloppy sky.
    â€˜Could be worse,’ she agrees cautiously. ‘It wasbetter yesterday, though. The sun came out just as we were meeting with the new Mr Sale. It went very well.’ She pauses for effect, and I deliver the expected encouragement.
    â€˜Oh yes, what did he say?’
    She continues, ‘We were only talking about the land we rent, and he offered us the walled garden as well. It’s just what we need.’ Another pause.
    â€˜So what was he like?’
    â€˜He was a bit excitable, a bit prone to shout when he saw some boys walking round the lake. We had to remind him it’s a public footpath, in fact. But he was nice enough to us.’ Rags wiggles over to sit on her feet and she bends to pat her, adding, ‘I’ve heard his wife ran off with another woman, but you’d never think it, would you? Unless she just couldn’t bear his temper.’
    I agree, without knowing what you wouldn’t think, and return to my study to write a document on the way people spend their money in shopping malls. This is the most lucrative piece of work I have ever been offered, and also the most boring. It outstrips conference brochures by miles for tedium, and is responsible for my work-avoidance techniques becoming refined to the point of insanity. Standing in doorways leads to close examination of the backs of my hands, to be followed, when I am about to burst due to the build-up ofdisorganisation in my life, with a medley of unnecessary telephone calls to people’s answerphones. If I accidentally telephone anyone who is in, I tend to put the phone down. They then employ 1471 and ring back, puzzled, a few moments later. I think there is another number you can dial to stop anyone knowing it is you who has rung, but I shrink from making use of this, as it is the stuff of perverts and maniacs.
    April 10th
    David has contributed most wonderfully to my work-avoidance programme, by organising access to the