“I’m appalled by your behaviour today,” He said.
Quite an opener. What was I supposed to say to that?
“Not just today, Marion. These last few days when you’ve obviously been lying to me about your whereabouts and traipsing around here, there and everywhere behind my back.”
Hardly!
He paused. I think He might have been waiting for my excuses, or maybe he was just pausing for dramatic effect. He does like a good courtroom drama. I just waited for Him to carry on; He clearly had a point to get to.
“I heard Mandy joking about lesbians tonight. Or maybe she wasn’t joking. Was she? Is that the real story, are you and Julie having an affair?”
I laughed, which wasn’t going to do me any favours but I couldn’t help it, it just sort of tumbled out of me.
“Well?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well you can’t blame me for wondering.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I should think so,” He said, getting to his point now, picking up the pace. “I’ve been worried sick. You pick up with someone that you vaguely knew years ago, that you hardly know at all. We meet a complete stranger in the supermarket who gave you a lift and thinks you and Julie are sisters, and you’re clearly meeting up with her behind my back and getting up to God knows what!”
“We had coffee and baked beans on toast,” I said. Probably not helpful and possibly quite unwise, but even if he couldn’t see how ridiculous this all was, I wanted to remind myself that it’s pretty tame as far as matrimonial disputes go. Hardly Jeremy Kyle material.
“Look,” He said, “I don’t care what you had to eat, the fact is that you lied to me about where you were and I’m worried about you. For all you know she could be some complete weirdo. She looks a bit weird. And you have to admit you’re not a very good judge of character, are you? Remember that time you gave a tenner to that guy to help him get a taxi to his sister’s house because his car had been stolen? Totally gullible. I just don’t want you to be taken in by this woman just because you’ve got some misplaced feelings of guilt about blabbing to everyone that she was adopted...”
I shuddered. I still feel guilty about that, even though Julie’s never mentioned it. I could strangle my mum for telling Him, I knew He’d file it away to use again.
“So anyway, I think we should have Julie round here for dinner so that I can check her out properly.”
“But you’ve already met her.”
“Only briefly, and I didn’t know then that you’d be meeting up with her all over the place and trying to make out that she’s your sister.”
Bloody hell.
“OK, I’ll ask her.”
He passed me the phone.
“Not now,” I said, taking the phone off Him anyway. “It’s nearly eleven.”
“It’s Saturday night,” He said. “No-one goes to bed early on a Saturday night.”
“I’ll have to find the number.”
“Great,” He said. “Find it.”
So I rifled through my handbag and found the number and called her. She was asleep.
“Hi Julie, it’s Marion. Sorry to ring you so late but we were wondering if you’d like to come to dinner next Saturday.”
“What?” she said. “Marion, are you all right?”
“Not really,” I answered. But He was looking at me and waiting for me to do the deal and get off the phone. “No, we’re not really celebrating anything, we just thought it would be nice.”
“Do you want me to have something else on?”
“We can postpone if you like,” I told her, trying to ignore his eyes on me, “but we’ll have to get you over sooner or later, so if you can make it this Saturday...?”
“OK,” she said. “Is He there now?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Ring me when you can.”
“Brilliant, about seven then, next Saturday. See you then.”
“Take care.”
I rang off before she did.
“Great,” He said. “I’m going to bed.” And He kissed me on the lips, took the phone from me, ushered me out of the door in front of Him and turned off the lights.
I wash the bleach off his toothbrush again. It will probably still taste a bit odd, but only a bit. It’s poison, I can’t put poison on my husband’s toothbrush, what sort of mad cow would that make me? I’m not crazy. I’m not. What would Julie think? What would my mum say? I know what she would say, she would say never do anything that you’d be scared to admit to. Maybe that makes me a coward. I’d like to think it means I know who I am and what my limits are. I know who I am and I’m not that crazy. I’m a cleaner-up of messes, not a mess maker.
My bathroom is clean, my husband is still asleep, it’s something past three in the morning and I need to get some sleep myself. So finally I run a bath and I take out the shampoo that I took from the shower at the hospital. The smell of it takes me straight back there and I am sitting in the bath with my hair covered in suds allowing myself to cry again, just a little bit. Crying for my lost baby and for myself, and promising my little one that I will, one day soon, do something about all this.
23
I’m sitting in the car. He’s driving and I don’t know where we’re going. “It’s a surprise!” He says. Fabulous. He can’t half pick his moments. I feel like death after four and a half hours’ sleep, my hands still smell of bleach, my hair’s all fluffy and kinks in stupid places because I went back to bed with it still wet and I feel like bludgeoning Him with the Thermos flask for the way he behaved yesterday.
“Excited?” He says.
I just nod and smile. It’s hard to be excited when you have no idea what to expect next.
Wherever it is that we’re going, it’s a fair old trek and it looks as if there’ll be mud or water (or muddy water) involved because I saw Him put wellies for both of us in the boot. He does this every now and then. Decides we need to get out of the house, tells me we’re going out for the day and expects me to be in the passenger seat with suitable clothing and a flask of tea five minutes later. But today he told me to forget the cagoule. “Just come as you are,” He said. But I did grab the flask and put some mascara on.
The whole thing reminds me of the early days before we were married when we used to get up at lunchtime on a Sunday and drive out to the countryside just for a change of scene. We’d always set off in the same direction but never end up in the same place twice. I’d have a flask of tea and a couple of Kit Kats in a rucksack and we’d both still be a bit hung over from the night before. Eventually, He’d decide we’d driven far enough and find somewhere to park up and we’d laugh at the pensioners sitting in their cars, eating their sandwiches from their Tupperware boxes and admiring the view because it was much too cold to get out of the car. No doubt the pensioners had a good old giggle at our expense too, as they watched us head off in jeans and trainers up some hill or other with no map and no real sense of purpose, stopping after five minutes to fuel up on chocolate biscuits.
I look across at Him as we drive up a country road that I’m sure we must have been up before. He doesn’t look back at me, He just puts his hand on my knee and carries on watching the road.
“Some of the bends on these roads are vicious,” He says. “I swear they don’t mark ‘em just to put city folk off from driving round the countryside. Folk from round ‘ere ain’t from round ‘ere!”
He laughs and I find myself laughing with Him. This is the man I fell in love with. He’s still there. I don’t see Him every day. I don’t usually see Him at all. But He’s still there.
“We’re nearly there,” He says.
I look around us and see nothing but bored-looking sheep and dry stone walls as far as the eye can see. Perhaps He’s brought me here to do me in and leave me to rot where no-one will ever find me. Per
haps He plans to bundle me out at the next cattle grid and tell me I can walk home (and without so much as a flask of tea to keep me going). But suddenly, there’s a pub with a sign that says ‘Great Food Served All Day’ outside. The sign has a drawing of two plates with steaming pies on them instead of the double ‘o’ in ‘food’.
“This isn’t it,” He says, “But we may as well stop for some lunch while we’re out, make a day of it.”
Despite the total lack of all human habitation for at least a five mile radius outside, inside the pub it’s packed out. There’s a roaring fire, a dart board and a woman scurrying around delivering plates of food to people all over the place. She’s either not wearing well for her tender years or is incredibly agile for her age. It’s hard to tell which, but apparently it’s her job to take the orders as well as bring the food because, as soon as we sit down, she’s at our table like a shot asking what she can get us.
“Is there a menu?” I don’t know why but I direct the question to Him rather than her; I feel like He’s conjured up this Brigadoon and He’s in charge.
“It’s all on the board, love,” she says, nodding her head towards an enormous blackboard right in front of me that I hadn’t seen until she pointed it out.
“You’ll have to excuse my wife,” He tells her. “She doesn’t get out much.”
We both stare intently at the blackboard as if the correct answer will automatically jump out and present itself if we stare long and hard enough. I keep reading it, again and again, but I’m tired. When I get to the end all I can remember is sticky toffee pudding and as soon as I think of it I don’t feel like having anything else.
“I’ll come back,” she says pointedly after about a minute and a half. I don’t blame her. I’d be running out of patience with me too, if I were in her shoes.
“OK,” He says, “I’ll go and get us some drinks while you have a good look at the board and then when I get back we’ll order.”
“OK.”
“OK. What do you want to drink?”
“I don’t know.”
“Awww, come on. What do you want?”
“I’ll have a lime and soda.”
“Don’t you want a proper drink?”
“You might want me to drive home.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Have anything you like. What do you want?”
“I’ll have a white wine and soda.”
“White wine and soda,” He confirms.
“Yes. No. Actually I’ll just have a white wine.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. Dry white.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure.”
And He bows in mock reverence and goes to the bar, making sure He stands at the end where the twenty-something in the clingy T-shirt is serving instead of the end where the old fella with the drinker’s complexion is in charge.
I look back at the board. Sticky toffee pudding is still the only bit of the menu that’s calling to me but I suppose if I have a cheap main course, like soup of the day with bread roll, He might let me have the pudding too. There’s no way He’d let me have just pudding, that might show Him up, so I need to figure out whether it’s worth gambling on Him letting me have pudding if I’ve had a cheap main or if I should just go for the lasagne and salad and have done with it.
While I’m still weighing up the best strategy I hear my phone. It’s a text from Julie. ‘Not heard frm u since last nite. R U OK?’
I look round to see if He’s watching. He’s engrossed in conversation with Miss Clingy T-shirt and sneaking in a whisky chaser while I’m not looking.
I text Julie back. ‘Am fine. Will call u frm wrk 2morrow.’ I press send and put the phone back in my bag.
“Did someone call?” He says, arriving behind me with a white wine and soda and a pint of bitter.
“I was just checking the time,” I say. “I think they stop serving food at two.”
“Oh, it’ll be fine,” He says. “Have you decided what you want?”
“I was thinking maybe soup?” I say, testing the water.
“Soup? Come on, you’ll be starving by the time we get home if you just have soup.”
“Well, then I can maybe save room for afters and have sticky toffee pudding.”
“I like your thinking, that sounds like a great plan!” And without another word it’s a done deal. He turns round and spots the long-suffering waitress and then I cringe as he clicks his fingers at her.
“Miss,” He calls, “We’re ready to order now.”
She makes a point of spending a few extra seconds chatting with the people she’s already serving and comes over.
“Two soups of the day followed by two sticky toffee puddings,” He exclaims, brandishing the words as though He’s just figured out the winning answer in a pub quiz tie-breaker.
“What sort of bread would you like with your soup?” she asks. “We’ve got white, granary, wholemeal or sundried tomato.”
“I’ll have granary,” I say, apologetically.
“Make that two,” He says, impatiently.
“And what would you like with your sticky toffee pudding?” she asks. “We’ve got cream, custard or ice cream.”
“Cream for me,” He says.
“And would you like your pudding hot or cold, sir?”
“Hot,” He says, “obviously.”
“And hot for me too,” I add quickly before He starts raising his voice. “With custard, please.”
“Thank you,” she says, smiling professionally at me, and scurries off.
We both sit there looking at the blackboard once she’s gone, as though there is stuff written up there that we forgot to look at earlier. We dutifully check in case we’ve made some terrible oversight and have to call the waitress back immediately to change our order.
“Aren’t you curious about where we’re going after this?” He asks.
“Of course I am.”
Silence. More looking at the blackboard.
“Do you want me to guess?”
I know even as I utter the words that this is a nonsensical question. He doesn’t want me to guess. He is like Rumpelstiltskin: if I were to guess the right answer He’d be so mad He’d jump up and down so hard that his foot would go through the floor. But if I don’t guess at all He will be so mad that He’ll probably call the whole thing off. He doesn’t want me to guess the answer. He just wants me to be excited enough to guess.
He says nothing.
“Is it a stately home?”
“No.”
“Sculpture park?”
“No.”
“Are we going to visit someone?”
“No. Well, in a way...”
Luckily, as though my guesses were some kind of prayer, the long-suffering waitress appears with two bowls of unidentified brown soup and two plates with bread on them.
“We’ve run out of granary so I’ve given you wholemeal. I hope that’s OK?”
She doesn’t want an answer, she just wants a polite thank you, but He gives her one anyway.
“To be honest, love, I don’t think either of us would have noticed the difference if you hadn’t told us.”
He grins at her. She gives absolutely no facial expression back.
“Lovely,” she says, “just let me know when you’re ready for your pudding.”
She scurries off to deliver the same bored but efficient service to some other indecisive couple and I’m left eating my soup, watching Him dissect his bread as though planning to feed it to the ducks and putting the chunks in the bowl to become soggy, disintegrating croutons.
My mum says you can tell a lot about a person by the way they eat soup. She says the same thing about gravy. It was a revelation to me the first
time I went to France and saw a woman actively encouraging her child to mop up his gravy with a piece of bread. In our house that was high up on the list of eating taboos: my dad used to do it and I’m not sure whether that’s why she hated the practice so much or whether he just used to do it to piss her off. A bit of both probably. On the soup front, her philosophy is that bread should always be dry, never buttered, and may be dipped but never submerged and it must never ever be used to wipe the remnants from the sides of the all-but-empty bowl. I’m not sure whether she’s got an official line on the tossing of duck food into the still-full bowl: it’s probably a practice so deviant that she hasn’t even thought of it. He always eats soup like that and it’s not only unpleasant to watch but quite revolting when you’re the one washing up afterwards and you have to scrape out the bits of sodden, mushy bread that He’s left behind. I think He does it because soup’s just too liquid; he wants something more substantial in his bowl. We hardly ever have soup at home so that I don’t have to watch Him eat it. Maybe that’s why He’s developed the bread confetti eating style, to put me off giving Him soup in the first place.
“I can’t be doing with soup,” He says, filling his spoon to the rim and then lifting it high above the bowl and pouring it back in. “It’s like smoothies: what’s the point? Why not just eat the fruit or the fucking vegetables?”
What’s He getting so cross about? What are we doing sitting here in a middle-of-nowhere pub talking about soup, not talking about anything that’s happened? Not talking about anything that either of us is thinking about. If He doesn’t mention anything, then it didn’t happen. That’s what He does. That’s what He always does. I just don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. I’m not scared to, which is odd for me. I always have been in the past but today I’m not scared, today I just don’t know where to start or how to put all of that into words. Those big words are too big, much too big for my little mouth today. I hope one day I might be able to get my tongue around them, and get them in the right order and spew them all out before I choke, but that day is not today. Today I will finish my soup, eat sticky toffee pudding and hope that my surprise is a nice one.
The SECRET TO NOT DROWNING Page 15