Secret codes
Our unwanted guests out-stay their welcome! What to do?
We had a large bay window at the front of our house, right on the high street, so it was among the best vantage points in the village when the bonfire society procession came down.
For the last three, since we were married, more and more people popped in to enjoy the procession – with a quick drink, of course, and some of my parkin.
“It is so great to be at the heart of things,” my husband said, as we filled our supermarket trolley a few days before. “Bonfire Night is the highlight of the local social calendar.”
“Hmm,” I said.
Olly worked in London, while I worked at home.this meant that I was usually the one preparing the house for November 5.
“Parkin?” he asked, and I saw the eager look in his eyes. I’m a northerner, and when I first made it for Bonfire Night, my parkin – a kind of squidgy, treacly gingerbread – was a revelation among my neighbours. None of the softy southerners had ever heard of it.
“Yes, parkin,” I said.“i’ve made four slabs, but I’m wondering . . .” “Wondering about more?”
“Yeah.”
On the day, I laid out newspaper at the door, for our guests to leave their wellies on when they came in.
They brought with them the sort of sophisticated“offerings” that people in posh Sussex villages bring to dinner parties – a piece of cheese made in an artisan dairy; biscuits made by Belgian monks.
“Offerings are interesting things,” I said to Olly.“i remember when my family moved to live in Cornwall, a lot of my mum and dad’s friends visited us for years. I suppose it was a useful place to come to, by the sea and everything.”
“Did they bring plain chocolate flavoured with . . . white pepper and lime?” Olly asked, holding up the present from the lady at the manor house.
“Well, I remember our Cornwall visitors brought those . . . what are they called? They were all the rage back then. Jellied fruit things. My parents – they can be so mad – they used to waltz around the kitchen singing,‘jelly fruits, jelly fruits’.”
“Your parents,” Olly said,“have to be the most embarrassing people on the planet.”
My mum and dad were bonkers, and when I was young I hated that.walking into the kitchen to find them singing about jelly fruits – the memory could make me cringe.
Back then, they’d whisper or warble about jelly fruits, I remembered, even when nobody had brought any!
Although it was gratifying to be so popular, our Bonfire Night guests were a lot of effort.the parade was late, and after it finally passed by, people stayed on. I sent Olly to the cellar for the emergency crisps.
By 10 o’clock, I was feeling that I needed to get rid of them, and even Olly looked tired.
“We have six verbena-scented candles,” he said quietly, as he set another gift on the kitchen worktop.
Mrs Skinner from the horticultural society came in with a large mobile phone in her hand.
“Would you mind awfully if my pal Judy pops in? She’s down from London, and she’s never been to a proper bonfire society do! Can you imagine?”
“Will she bring a verbena-scented candle, do you think?” Olly asked.
Mrs Skinner blinked at him. “Sorry?” she said.“shall I just say yes to Judy? Super.”
When she’d gone, I turned to Olly. “A verbena-scented candle?”
“I think that object will for ever remind me of unwanted guests,” he said.
And for the rest of the night – which went on and on – the phrase popped up. When somebody said they were just nipping home to check on the dog, and came back asking for another glass of white.
“Verbena-scented candle.”
When our next-door neighbour sent her teenagers in for“a bit of something to soak up the booze”, Olly asked a passing 15-year-old if she happened to have a verbena-scented candle. He got an embarrassed stare, which made me think of me at the same age, and jelly fruits, and my mum and dad.
At some point after 11, the last guest went home.
“I’ve just realised,” I said, after a while. “What?”
“Jelly fruits. It was my mum and dad’s code for unwanted guests! After a while, when they were sick of people sponging off them just to spend time at the seaside for free, they began to use that phrase to make each other laugh.”
“What’s that smell?” Olly asked“wafting in from the kitchen, it’s –” “Verbena-scented candle!” we cried in unison.
“Are we turning into your mad parents?” Olly asked.
“And would that be such a bad thing?” I took his hand. “They were so happy in those shared moments, and using those words that held meaning for them, their secret codes.” Olly made me shift over in the big armchair so he could squeeze in beside me.
“So we’re developing our own codes now?” he asked.
“That’s what makes a marriage, I guess,” I said.“little mad things – they’re the key.”
He nodded.
“Let’s just hope our next little mad thing doesn’t smell of verbena!”