On Engagement Diaries

On Engagement Diaries
(2,600 words)
by
Carol McKendrick

I'm not exactly an organised person, quite the opposite actually, so
when I got the diary for Christmas - I can't remember from whom - I
thought I'd use it. Just a small one, to write down engagements,
appointments, that sort of thing. I thought it might help the awful
double booking problems I get into, you know, then you have to make up
something terrible and I hate using illness, well mine, you feel you
have to leave off lipstick all day in case you meet someone. Mind you,
it's only sensible to accept a better invitation, no matter how late in
the day.
Anyway, I was just putting in my first event of the year - Nigel
Kennedy concert actually, March - he was absolutely marvellous - and
there it was written in already. I know, very odd. I couldn't remember
putting it in, I booked the tickets the day I found out about the
concert - obviously - Berlin Philharmonia - and got out the diary to
write it in that evening. And the funny thing was, it wasn't my
writing. Mine's rather all over the place and this was neat as pie -
huge and square written with a great big fat nibbed black ink pen. I
didn't recognise it at all.
So I didn't have to fill in the concert but even more funnily, I
didn't have to fill in anything else either. Whatever I was going to
put in the diary I always found it was already there. And always
written in the same enormous, black, square hand. I've always used blue
ink myself, much more cheerful.
Every event I was to attend or appointment I made, from Mr Hooper - and
you know how impossible it is to get an appointment with him - to
Prudence Green's horribly impromptu little suppers - was entered in the
diary for me. Entries were filled in months, weeks or only hours
beforehand but always before I had a chance of entering them myself, it
always beat me to it.
I couldn't tell if the writing belonged to a man or a woman, although
so annoyingly neat, there was something childish and unformed about the
script. Sometimes I had a nagging feeling I recognised it but no, it
was only because it was so familiar to me now from the diary.
My social secretary was always accurate, surely Louise Hartley/Davis
wasn't getting married again already and I'd only just been to the
dentist but sure enough next day the invitation would arrive in the
post and my filling fall out. Never a blot or a smudge, the hand never
waiverd. And neither did I, nor prevaricate nor make excuses, I'd just
say 'I'll check my diary' a phase which I had heard normal diary
holders use so often and I would look and if the occasion was entered
in the diary I was as good as there.
My social life was simplified but none the less I began to find the
huge black activities looming out of the slim blue pages rather
chilling. More like orders. On nights when I was in I began to leaf
through the diary rather obsessively to see what was in store. The
enormous hand would often lead to abbreviations or initials which made
forthcoming events rather cryptic if I didn't yet know about them but I
usually worked it out.
It was at the beginning of May that I noticed I had nothing penned in
after 30th June and that entry was "12.00"- the time always came first
- "Bent Arms", whatever that meant. I began to feel twinges around my
elbows, perhaps I was overdoing it at the tennis club now I was finally
in. After that, as I say, the diary was a blank, I assumed I must be
off on holiday, flights being what they are the entry probably would
not appear until the day itself. Anyway the next day's entry was clear
enough "1.00 - MG". Although Miffy Griffiths had not yet phoned I knew
I would be lunching with her the following day. What a pain.

"Have you got one then?" asked Miffy waving some sort of
invitation.
"No," I said. I had been friends with Miffy at school, why I have no
idea, she and I had nothing in common and now I had so many new friends
in London I had been trying to drop her for some time.
"Class of '87 Reunion," she said slapping the Xeroxed scrap onto the
table.
"Oh my God ..."
"It'll be fun."
"It'll be awful."
"I'll have to lose weight, do you think I can manage
a stone a month?" she asked, her mouth full of glinting chocolate
profiterole
I reached down for my handbag, I hadn't officially even been invited, I
felt for the little book.
"It's in June," said Miffy.
Maybe this was something it didn't know about. I opened the
diary.
"Some quaint inn at the heart of England - handy for everyone
apparently."
Then I remembered. My elbows ceased to ache there and then.
"Lunch," said Miffy
Twelve O'clock. The Bent Arms.
"Look at the name! You don't think it's some gay bar do you, all a
tremendous joke on Haimes, Franny Dewdop's asked him you know.
Apparently Frances Dewsnap was organising proceedings. Mr Haimes was
our hopeless science teacher whom I rightly blame for my lopsided
performance in University Challenge.
"That's not your writing!" Miffy had picked up my diary.
"I make more of an effort for myself, give it back."
"It's not your writing, I recognise it though," said Miffy flicking
through the pages.
"Do you?"
"No," she said and handed it back. "Won't it be a hoot?"
I put the diary away. Why fight it?
"I'll drive us there," I said.

The night before Miffy cried off, she couldn't get into the dress she'd
bought. I'd booked the day off work and looked stick thin in my dress
so I thought I'd go alone.
It was an absolutely boiling day and the hotel turned out to be in the
back of beyond and it took me ages to get there. I must admit my mind
was rather wandering - thinking of the past and that sort of thing,
always a huge waste of time. It was an all girls convent and quite a
coup to be going out with someone. I remember how surprised I was to be
asked out by anybody so Aidan Rose rather caught me off guard. I can't
say I was particularly interested in him but someone in class had been
very keen on him to the extent of going to see him in a swimming gala
and telling me he was freckled all over, something I was later to
confirm for myself.
The Bent Arms turned out to be a rather charming country hotel with the
Class of '87 Reunion taking place on the back lawn. I sauntered out
unable to see anyone but a pastel herd of middle aged matrons. One of
them, draped in mauve ruched cinema curtains, rushed towards me.
"As beautiful as ever!" cried Frances Dewsnap.
Lopped of her bunches of thick hair that used to sprout at oblique
angles above each ear like a young deer's first growth of antlers she
now looked like a moose with a perm.
Frances seemed to have gone more theatrical than ever. She was
constantly waving, greeting, gesticulating to waiters and circulating
forms to be filled in and lists we had to add ourselves to. I'd been a
little shocked to be described as beautiful but it was rather nice.
Then I noticed her welcoming Binbin McLoud with the same opener who
could not then, now, or at any moment in her life, ever, be described
as beautiful, so that rather took the shine off.
People all around me were becoming familiar. It seemed as if every face
was trying desperately to be recognised, stretching and contorting
itself with smiles and exclamations, for there only 15 years beneath
the crust of Light Defence foundation and Visible Difference cream lay
the faces I knew so well. And sure enough a sudden continental shift of
features and I would see someone so clearly, exactly as they were, my
class mate now in her thirties still trying to be friends.
It was awfully hot. There was a canal running at the bottom of the
hotel garden but for all Franny's gesticulating, no drinks in sight.
Then there was a sudden burst of applause. I turned round and floating
past was a barge dotted with silent standing navy nuns and Mr Haimes
acting as bargeman. The scene had the hyper-reality of a pre-exam'
nightmare and unusually, I began to feel quite desperate for a drink.
Franny helped the Sisters disembark, Heaven knows who had launched them
and from where but with them firmly on dry land I beckoned to a waiter
only to realise I had no money with me.
Tertia Mulchay who was obviously finding it all a bit OTT as well
suggested we share a bottle of white wine for which thankfully she
paid. Anyway I finally had my drink in my hand and Angeline Dove, who
hadn't changed an atom right down to her hysterical religious mania,
suddenly suggested we all sing Shalome and what's worse, we did.

"Why you?"
It happened just as we were going in to lunch. Someone came up to me
and said just that.
"Why you? Everyone else looks different except you. Why you?"
With that she stalked off. I didn't recognise her at all.
In the dining room, pinned to display screens, were sheets of paper,
the bare bones of a souvenir booklet Franny was preparing. We had had
to submit our photo and autobiographical blurb. There was my assailant.
Melanie Wells. My goodness she'd improved. She was Miffy's friend
originally, she trailed around after the two of us for a term before
she finally slunk off to join the God Squad. I'd forgotten all about
her. According to the blurb she was a dietician now and married to a
barrister, so I had no idea what that was all about. She used to be
very plump, her mother and father lived somewhere in Africa, I don't
know what she used to do in the holidays.
"Chatting to Mel about Aiden Rose eh?" laughed Serena Barry handing me
the e-mail address list. Was it Melanie who went to the swimming gala?
God knows! How do people remember this stuff?
Tertia lent me a tenner at lunch which will be worth nothing even if I
do see her at the next reunion to pay her back, which I very much
doubt, but she didn't seem bothered. We went halves on another bottle
and she kept saying she was glad her mother had died so she couldn't
see the mess she'd had made of her life.
Miffy need not have worried about her weight, even Squeakie O'Neill,
the class tart, was fat now. Most people had been on starvation diets
in preparation for the day and were tucking in fit to bust.
By coffee people were table hopping but what with the drive I was
feeling pretty frazzled and just stayed where I was. Melanie Wells came
over. She seemed in a better mood but I but I didn't dare mention
swimming galas, I felt I detected a vague whiff of chlorine. There was
a card going round to sign to say thank you to Franny. Honestly, I
sometimes think of making a sideways move from publishing into the card
business, it may not have the kudos but it must be where the money is.
I rooted in my handbag but that's changing bags, I hadn't got a pen
either.
Melanie said,"I'll sign it for you."
"Thanks," I said as she wrote something then passed the card to Tertia.
I looked at the card to see what people had written and then I saw it,
a flawless forgery of my scrawl - "Golden Memories!" with my name
signed underneath.
I kept staring at the card. I couldn't look at Melanie although I felt
her eyes on me. Then I remembered something. It was the beginning of
the fifth year and new exercise books were being handed out. We were
all writing our names on the fronts and Melanie, who sat across from
Miffy and me, suddenly stopped with an intake of breath. I looked over,
her pen was poised in mid air and I saw she had written my name on her
exercise book.
I remember laughing and pointing out what she'd done to Miffy and
others around us and we all laughed then and every time the excise book
was handed back, my name still visible on the front, unable to be
obliterated, written in Melanie's school girl hand, huge, neat and
square in thick black ink.
I felt cold. The card was handed round. I couldn't look up. The
intricate weave of the white tablecloth became magnified under my fixed
stare. I could see every tight strand of cotton. I mustn't look at her.
I managed to get up and go to the Ladies.
I could barely lock myself in the little pink cubicle my hands were
shaking so. Melanie was filling in my diary. I imagined her each night,
somehow clicking through people's brains, delving into my options,
deciding what I should do each day, taking total control of my life. I
pulled the diary out of my bag and began to rip each page out and tear
it to pieces.
Ten minutes must have passed when through the tiny window I recognised
voices outside, everyone was drifting back down to the canal. I waited
a little longer in the Ladies and carefully crumpled the remains of the
diary in paper towels and put them in the wastebasket.
The dining room was empty. I went straight out of the hotel to the car
park. The hot black asphalt was sticky beneath the soles of my shoes.
It was a small car park edged with flowerbeds, pots and ornamental
urns. I got into the car and started the engine. I looked in the rear
view mirror to back out. Then I saw her, coming towards the car. She
was running. I put my foot right down on the accelerator and the car
shot out.
I hit something immediately. I slammed on the brake. I saw Melanie was
gone. I knew what I'd done. I got out of the car. Melanie was lying
flat on her back on the asphalt, the contents of her bag all over the
car park. A pool of blood was spreading beneath her hair towards her
lipstick, her diary - her diary. I opened it. Thin, spidery writing
covered the pages, barely legible, it was horrible, it was mine.
I shoved the book into my own bag. She'd hit her head on one of the
urns. The blood trickled into the black bed of soil.
I was definitely over the limit but I wasn't going to give anyone the
chance to find out. I just kept going until the motorway. Melanie had
been drinking too, the heat, the emotion of the day, she had stumbled
and cracked her head on the urn, there was no car involved. Mine hadn't
a scratch, I checked it at the first services and chucked Melanie's
diary straight in a litter bin. I was back home by 6.30.
The souvenir booklet arrived six weeks later, it was rather down beat
what with the first class death in the car park. I've never kept a
diary since.