Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

No one had ever asked to come and visit me before. The social worker made an appointment, and the meter reader just turned up. I was conscious that Raymond’s previous visits had not been very pleasant for him – or me – and decided to try to make amends. I put on my jerkin and headed out to the corner shop. Mr Dewan looked up from reading a newspaper at the sound of the electronic alert. It must drive him to distraction, bleeping all day like that. He smiled cautiously at me. I took a basket and got some milk, Earl Grey teabags and a lemon to slice, in case Raymond preferred his tea that way. I spent a considerable amount of time in the aisles, somewhat overwhelmed by the choice. In the end, I plumped for Garibaldi biscuits, throwing in a packet of pink wafers too – apparently, it’s nice to offer guests an option. I wondered if Raymond might prefer something savoury, and so I got some cream crackers and a packet of cheese slices. All bases covered.

I stood in line with my basket, not eavesdropping but nonetheless forced to overhear the conversation of the couple in front of me as we waited our turn. Eventually, I felt compelled to intervene and provide assistance.

‘It’s “tagine”,’ I said.

No reply. I sighed, and leaned forward again.

‘Tagine,’ I repeated, speaking slowly and clearly and, I thought, in a passable French accent.

‘Sorry?’ the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. The man simply stared at me, in a manner best described as mildly hostile.

‘Neither of you can remember the word for the – as you described it – “ceramic pot with the pointy lid” that “Judith” – whoever she is – had put on her wedding list, leading you’ – here, I indicated the woman with a gentle nod of my head – ‘to describe her as a “pretentious cow”.’ I was quite enjoying the occasional use of the waggling finger gesture now that I’d got the hang of it.

Neither of them spoke, so I felt emboldened to continue.

‘A tagine is a traditional cooking vessel of North African origin,’ I said helpfully, ‘generally made from fired clay and decorated with a brightly coloured glaze. It’s also the name of the stew that is cooked within it.’

The man’s mouth had fallen open slightly, and the woman’s had slowly changed shape to form a very thin, very tight line. She turned back to him and they began to whisper together, looking round more than once to steal a quick glance at me.

Nothing more was said, although they glared at me as they walked out, having paid for their goods. Not a word of thanks. I gave them a little wave.

Mr Dewan smiled warmly at me when I finally reached the till.

‘The levels of rudeness and the complete lack of awareness of the comme il faut amongst the general population never ceases to disappoint me, Mr Dewan,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘Miss Oliphant,’ he said, smiling in an understanding way. ‘How nice to see you again! You’re looking very well.’

I felt myself beaming in response.

‘Thank you very much, Mr Dewan,’ I said. ‘It’s nice to see you too. Pleasant day today, is it not?’

He nodded, still smiling, and scanned my items. When he’d done that, his smile faltered slightly. ‘Will there be anything else today, Miss Oliphant?’

The bottles behind him glittered in the glare of the overhead lights, red and gold and clear.

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’ I leaned over to the newspaper stand and picked up a Telegraph – I was itching to get back to the crossword again.

Back home, I lit the gas fire and laid out the teacups. I wished that they matched, but I was sure Raymond wouldn’t mind. I sliced the lemon and arranged the biscuits as alternating spokes on a wheel on my nicest plate, the one with flowers on it. I decided to keep the savoury items in reserve. No need to go crazy.

Being somewhat out of practice, I was only halfway through the crossword when the doorbell rang, a bit later than I’d been expecting. Due to hunger pangs I’d been forced to have a few biscuits, so a couple of the spokes on the wheel were missing now. Too bad.

Raymond was holding a cardboard box with handles in one hand, and a huge, bulging plastic bag in the other. He seemed very out of breath, placed both items gently on my hall carpet without being asked, and started to take off his jacket, still puffing and blowing like a beached porpoise. Smoking kills.

He passed me his jacket and I looked at it for a moment before realizing I was supposed to hang it up. I didn’t have anywhere suitable, so I folded it into a square as best I could and then put it on the floor in the corner of the hall. He didn’t look very pleased, although I had no idea why. It wasn’t an expensive-looking jacket.

I showed him into the living room and offered him tea. He seemed quite excitable. ‘Later, maybe. I’ve got to tell you about the surprise first, Eleanor,’ he said.

I sat down.

‘Go ahead,’ I said, bracing myself. My experience of surprises is limited and not particularly positive. He fetched the cardboard box from the hall and placed it on the floor.