‘And what did they say?’
‘Nothing. Irma just laughed.’
Cape shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. ‘Did you tell your husband?’
‘God, no. I doubt he would have believed me anyway.’
Cape rubbed his chin. ‘Anne Marie, I have to say that I’ve never heard anything like this in my life. How do you cope with it?’
She gave a little shrug. ‘I – I don’t know.’
‘Because I seriously wouldn’t put up with behaviour like that,’ he told her. ‘Tell me it’s got better since then.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t, because it hasn’t.’
‘But they speak to you at least?’
‘Monosyllabic answers and groans of protest.’
‘And how long have you been living like this?’
‘Grant and I got married four years ago.’
‘And he has no idea that his daughters treat you like this?’
Anne Marie didn’t answer for a moment. ‘No.’
‘Then he sounds like a big part of the problem,’ Cape said. ‘You need to tell him, Anne Marie. You can’t be expected to share your home, your life with these bullies. And that’s what they are – make no mistake. They might only be children, but they’re bullies and that’s totally unacceptable.’
Anne Marie stared at him, hearing his words, but unable to respond for a moment. ‘But they lost their mother when they were so young,’ she said at last.
‘That isn’t an excuse to treat you the way they do.’
Anne Marie sighed. She’d reached out to the girls so many times, trying to understand how they must feel to have a new mother figure. It must have been so hard for them, but Cape was right: that didn’t give them an excuse to treat her so badly.
‘I mean, I can’t tell you what to do here,’ Cape continued. ‘It isn’t my place, but I hate to think of you so unhappy. You deserve better than that.’
She nodded, thinking how kind he was and realising that she’d been more honest and open with this man in the brief space of time that she’d known him than she had with her husband over the course of their marriage.
‘Promise me you’ll at least say something,’ Cape said, reaching out and taking her cold hand in his warm one and squeezing gently. ‘I can’t believe your husband hasn’t noticed you’re unhappy.’
‘I’m very good at hiding it.’
‘But you shouldn’t have to hide.’ Cape cocked his head to one side to try to catch her eye. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
It was then that Poppy ran up to them. ‘Look at this, Daddy!’ She was holding a massive weed in her tiny fists and didn’t notice her father quickly dropping Anne Marie’s hand.
‘Did you pull that up yourself?’
‘Of course!’
‘Wow! My strong girl. You’ll get big muscles.’
‘I hope not,’ she declared. ‘Muscles wouldn’t look nice in my tutu.’
They watched as she skipped away, intent on pulling up even more weeds.
‘She’s wonderful,’ Anne Marie said.
‘Yep.’
They watched Poppy for a moment and then Cape turned to Anne Marie again.
‘You will think about what I’ve said, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ she promised.
He gave her a smile and she found herself smiling back.
She spent the rest of the day thinking about what Cape had said to her and how he’d made her promise to do something about her situation, to say something to Grant. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became with herself. What was wrong with her? She’d spent the last few years living like some kind of slave, moving to the beat of somebody else’s drum. She had made no protest, had never stood her ground and had turned into a kind of nonperson. Perhaps one of the problems had been that she’d never really had anybody to talk to. All of her friends had families and problems of their own and it wasn’t in her nature to bother them.
She couldn’t talk to her mother and, even if she did broach the subject, her mother wouldn’t believe anything was wrong because she adored Grant. To her mind, he was just the sort of respectable husband Anne Marie should be with. Marrying Grant was one of the few things Anne Marie had managed to do right as far as her mother was concerned. And she couldn’t exactly confide in her clients. She could just imagine how that would go.
Please find attached my notes on your manuscript. Now, I’d like to tell you a bit about my dysfunctional family.
She wasn’t sure how she got through the rest of the day in the garden. Now that Cape had planted the idea in her head, she could think of nothing else. Suddenly, all the years of subservience, of being nothing more to the Keely family than a personal punchbag, came rolling forward to taunt her. How had she let things go on like this for so long?
She managed to work until four o’clock before nearly self-combusting with her emotions. It was no good – she had to get home.
‘Cape?’ she said, walking up to where he was doing his best to get a rotten fence post out of the earth.
‘Hey – you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Okay if I leave a bit earlier today?’
‘Sure. Whenever you like.’
‘I feel bad because there’s still a good hour of daylight left, but there’s something I’ve got to sort out.’
‘No worries,’ he told her.
‘I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. Bye, Poppy.’
‘Bye, Anne Marie!’ Poppy chimed, looking up from the patch of earth that she’d successfully cleared all on her own.
‘You off, my dear?’ Dorothy said, raising her head from a tangle of ivy she was trimming as Anne Marie walked by.
‘Got something to deal with that can’t wait a moment longer.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ Dorothy said.
‘It is,’ Anne Marie said and, because she really couldn’t wait, she forewent her usual route through the church and walked straight down the main driveway.
Once home, she tapped on Grant’s study door.
‘I’m back!’
She heard a grunt of acknowledgement from within the depths of the room and sighed. Her husband really should be called Grunt rather than Grant, she thought with a mutinous grin. It fitted him perfectly.
She went upstairs. The thump of an obnoxious bass was coming from Irma’s room and she could hear Rebecca humming to herself which probably meant that she was plugged into something.
Anne Marie went into the bedroom, taking off her earth-encrusted clothes and having a quick shower before putting on a fresh pair of trousers and a clean jumper. She knew what she was going to do. She’d been thinking about it all afternoon, though having it planned out in her head wasn’t keeping the nerves at bay.
She took a deep breath and walked downstairs and into the kitchen where she made a cup of tea which she took through to the living room. As usual, she watched the clock on the mantelpiece, waiting for the second hand to reach five. When it did, she gave a little nod, only this time, for the first time ever, she wasn’t going to walk through to her husband’s study with the cup of tea. This time, she went and sat on the sofa, picking up a book from the coffee table and drinking the cup of tea herself. She felt a mixture of nerves and wonderful rebellion, wondering when Grant would notice that she hadn’t come in with his five o’clock cup of tea.
It didn’t take long. It was about eight minutes past five when she heard his study door open.
‘Anne Marie?’ he called.
She waited a moment before responding. ‘Yes?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in the living room.’
He appeared in the doorway with a frown on his face.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m reading a book.’
‘But it’s after five o’clock.’
‘Yes,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘You didn’t bring me my tea.’
�
�Didn’t I?’
‘No,’ he said, his tone perplexed, almost angry. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘But you’ve got a cup of tea.’
‘Yes.’
He scratched his head. ‘But you always make me a cup of tea at five o’clock.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’m trying something different today: making myself a cup of tea. You should try that, you know.’
‘But I’m working.’
‘And I’ve been working too.’
‘At the garden?’
‘Yes.’ She waited for him to ask her more. Maybe he’d ask about the progress of the walled garden or how the group was getting along. But he didn’t. He merely shook his head and left the room. A moment later, she heard him clattering about in the kitchen, obviously making himself a cup of tea.
I’m going to sit here and do nothing, she told herself, although every bone in her body was urging her to go through and help him, but only because that was what she was used to doing. She had been conditioned to do that and she never got any thanks for it. Not that she did it because she expected to be thanked. But she did expect to be loved. That was the thing that was missing here. A lot could be overlooked if you knew somebody loved you. You wouldn’t mind the tedious repetition of chores if you received a gentle squeeze or a sweet kiss every so often. But to give so much of oneself and not receive anything – that wasn’t a good deal. She was empty with the lack of love she received from the Keely family. She felt wrung dry by it and she knew she had to end it.
When had the end truly begun, she wondered? When had Grant turned his attention so resolutely away from her and into his books? Anne Marie thought that it was little by little. It must surely have been or else she would have noticed, wouldn’t she? When had she stopped being the very centre of his attention? When had she morphed from lover to housekeeper?
She glanced at the photograph of the two of them taken at Ullswater on their honeymoon. That week in the Lake District was still so fresh in her mind. They’d visited the haunts of Wordsworth and Grant had quoted Lyrical Ballads at every opportunity. They’d sat on great boulders overlooking deep waters, strode across high fells hand in hand and spent cosy evenings in local pubs talking and talking. Why didn’t they talk anymore? Where had that love gone, she wondered?
But, perhaps the biggest question of all was, why had she accepted things for so long? How had she taken on this role that Grant had given to her? It made her so mad now that she thought about it. She’d allowed herself to be used like this, to turn away from all the hopes and dreams she’d once had.
More clattering was heard from the kitchen and then she heard him return to his study, the door closing behind him a little louder than normal. His way of a protest. Anne Marie couldn’t help feeling disappointed, but what had she expected? Had she imagined that realisation would dawn on Grant? That he’d instinctively know that her not making him a cup of tea was symptomatic of something that ran much deeper? No. He probably just thought that she was being odd and that the moment would no doubt pass.
But it wouldn’t, would it? The moment she was now living in meant that she could never go back. By listening to Cape and acknowledging all she had been slowly coming to realise over the past few months, she had set herself on a course that meant that her future might be uncertain, but she was heading straight towards it with eyes wide open.
Anne Marie wasn’t aware that she’d been sitting on the sofa thinking and reading for so long until Irma’s voice pierced her ears.
‘I’m hungry,’ she complained. ‘What’s for tea?’
Was it seven o’clock already? She looked at the clock. No. It was half past seven. Late enough for Irma to realise that something was amiss.
‘I said, what’s for tea?’ Irma repeated.
Anne Marie shrugged. She felt very silly pretending to be petulant, but there was also something wonderfully freeing about it.
‘Have whatever you want,’ she told her step-daughter.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you’re a fifteen-year-old girl. You should be able to fix yourself something for tea by now.’
Irma frowned, looking a lot like her father as she did so. ‘But you always make tea.’ She sounded like him too.
‘Yes, but not anymore.’
‘Are you on strike?’
‘Maybe.’
Irma stared at her and Anne Marie thought that she saw something approaching respect in the girl’s eyes, but the moment was interrupted as her sister came into the room.
‘What’s going on?’ Rebecca asked. ‘Where’s tea?’
‘She hasn’t made any,’ Irma said.
‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’ Anne Marie said. ‘Because half the time you two don’t want any or only eat half of it or sulk over it. I simply thought, why bother? I’m done with tea.’
Rebecca looked shocked. She’d obviously never been challenged in such a way before.
‘You’re being silly,’ Rebecca announced.
‘She’s on strike,’ Irma said. ‘We’d better have toast.’
The two girls left the room and Anne Marie almost had to sit on her hands to prevent herself from getting up and helping them find something to eat. It was ridiculous. She never got any thanks and yet she felt this compulsion to take care of them all. What was that about? How long had she been a doormat? Grant and his daughters were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. They could all cook, clean and tidy up and yet they seemed to have happily forgotten these skills the moment she walked into their lives.
It was after nine that night when she dared to knock on Grant’s study door.
‘Come in,’ he called back gruffly, looking up when she approached his desk.
‘Hello,’ she said, suddenly feeling intensely shy.
‘No dinner tonight?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said.
He didn’t question her and she bit her lip, feeling that she’d been childish and mean in not making them dinner. But then she took a deep breath, refusing to let Grant make her feel like that anymore.
‘I thought you might want to make dinner for a change?’
He frowned. ‘I’m writing a book.’
‘Yes, but you’re always writing a book. You can’t not eat whenever you’re writing a book.’
‘But you always make din—’
‘Grant,’ she interrupted, ‘we need to talk.’
He looked confused by this declaration. ‘Well, I’m busy.’
‘You’re always busy.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘And we never talk anymore. Haven’t you realised that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ she turned around looking for a chair to perch on, but there wasn’t one. The last thing Grant would want would be anybody else sitting down in his study. ‘I mean, we never spend any real time with each other and just talk. You’re always working and I’m always – well – working around you working.’
‘What do you want to talk about?’ he asked, removing his glasses and gazing at her and, for a brief moment, she thought she glimpsed the man she’d fallen in love with. ‘Because I’m really making good progress with this and want to get back to it.’
And there it was, she thought. That’s where she stood with him.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.
‘It’ll wait?’ he asked.
‘Yes. It’ll wait.’
That night, Anne Marie found it difficult to sleep. She lay awake in the dark bedroom, Grant tossing and turning beside her. He wasn’t happy. Like his daughters, he was used to getting his own way and she had challenged that. She smiled, wondering what Cape would say when she told him what she’d done. It was funny how often she thought of him and she couldn’t wait to see his face when she recounted her evening. She could imagine him smiling, perhaps even laughing. Maybe he would even take her h
and in his again. She caught her breath at the thought of it. There was something about Cape that made her feel so very safe, which was a feeling she hadn’t had in a long time. He made her want to be honest, to speak the truth about what she was thinking and feeling. He also made her realise that somebody did care about her and that it wasn’t her husband.
But the glow from her brief victory soon faded as she remembered the scene in the study and how Grant had made her feel so worthless with the utterance of just those two words, ‘It’ll wait?’
She stared at the ceiling for a bit before reaching her hand across the bed to touch Grant’s shoulder.
‘Grant?’ she whispered into the dark. ‘Are you awake?’
He mumbled something incoherent.
‘I really need to talk to you.’
He mumbled something else that sounded suspiciously like a string of curse words.
‘It’s important,’ she tried again, waiting for a moment in the hope that he would rouse himself. ‘Grant?’
There was no response and she soon heard the soft regular sound of his snores.
The next morning, she got up while it was still dark. Grant was asleep, his bare back facing her, exposed. She paused a moment and then reached across the bed, pulling the duvet up so that it gently covered him. The so-familiar shape of him brought tears to her eyes because she knew this was the last time she would look at him that way, with this closeness and intimacy. But the man she’d been sharing her bed with, her life with, didn’t really notice her or even take the time to talk to her. She truly felt that she could have been anybody. It didn’t matter to him who cooked his meals and kept his house and slept alongside him. She didn’t matter.
She picked up a small suitcase and quickly packed a few things, and then went to retrieve her laptop from her study. She’d come back for her few other personal possessions another time when she wasn’t feeling so emotional. For now, she just had to get out of there.
It was too early to go to Morton Hall so she drove around the country lanes for a bit, parking in a village she’d always adored and taking a footpath that led up to the Ridgeway. She’d grabbed a blueberry muffin from the kitchen before leaving and she ate that now as she walked up a steep hill, passing the sleeping thatched cottages and breathing in the icy February air. Snowdrops shivered in the frosty shadows and she spied a pair of red kites circling in the pale blue sky.
The Heart of the Garden Page 19