The Foster Husband

by Pippa Wright

  Only it turned out that this was typical of me, trying to get my own way through manipulation instead of respecting Matt’s decisions. Which was typical of him, taking a unilateral position on something and refusing to budge, no matter how wrong he was. Which was typical of me, making out it was all his fault when I was the one who refused to contemplate moving outside a mile-wide radius. Which was typical of him because . . .

  Winner: a surprise entrant, the estate agent.

  It turned out he hadn’t actually gone to call Relate. In sheer desperation he had called back to the office to be reminded of the absolute pointiest roofed homes they had on their books. And a property had been added that very day, only one street away. A tiny Victorian terrace with an undeniably slanting tiled roof and absolutely no extension on the back. It had a garden, but only a tiny patio, big enough for a table – Matt agreed this was acceptable. Okay, so if you stretched out your arms you could touch the walls in the second bedroom, and damp bubbled up the base of the kitchen walls, but it was a house, a whole house. And four months later it was ours.

  The day we moved in it poured with rain, which I tried not to take as an omen. A box of crockery got smashed when the sodden cardboard gave way in the middle of the hall. The removal men somehow lost a kitchen chair, and it turned out – oh irony – that the pointed roof leaked into the second bedroom.

  But Matt and I couldn’t stop smiling. When we’d paid the removers we ran around the house, from room to room, up and down our stairs, into the garden and back again at great speed because of the rain. We sat on the sofa – our wet hair dripping onto the thick plastic wrap that we hadn’t yet removed – and just grinned at each other. It was ours; we owned it together.

  That night we sat on the living room floor eating fish and chips straight out of the paper since all the plates were smashed. It turned out that the former owner had mean-spiritedly taken out all the light bulbs when he left and, as we hadn’t noticed until it was dark, we had to eat by the light of a hastily unpacked scented candle. Matt produced a bottle of champagne, and we drank it from plastic cups that he’d bought from the corner shop. I couldn’t have been happier.

  Or so I thought.

  Matt got up to throw away the fish and chip papers and I could hear him rustling in the boxes we’d left in the kitchen.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I called out. Surely there was no point in trying to unpack in the dark?

  ‘Nothing,’ he answered, but he carried on shifting boxes around. It started to annoy me. He’d only go putting everything in the wrong place. Why didn’t he just sit down and enjoy our first night in our new home?

  When he came back he held a book in his hand, which was odd, because I’d told the removals men to put all the boxes of books in the living room.

  ‘This is for you,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘Present.’

  ‘Morality: An Introduction to Ethics,’ I looked up at him quizzically. ‘Wow. Thanks, Matt. It’s just what I’ve always wanted, you total fruit loop.’

  He sat down next to me on the floor. ‘Well, you once told me you were a girl with morals, so I thought it looked right up your street.’

  He was trying to keep a straight face, but his eyes gave him away. There was something weird going on. Had I moved in with a lunatic? Was he only revealing his true self now that we were locked together in a mortgage?

  ‘I know all I need to know about morals,’ I said. I put the book down and reached for his cheek to kiss him, but he pulled away.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, picking the book up insistently. ‘You see, I’ve been thinking about what it means for a girl with your strong morals to be living in sin.’

  ‘That’s hardly troubled you before.’ I laughed. ‘Living in sin!’

  ‘Well, it troubles me now,’ he said gravely. ‘Deeply and disturbingly. I can think of nothing else. Which is why I think you should read the section on the ethics of love.’

  ‘Matt, are you drunk? Have you been taking some sort of mind-altering substance out in the kitchen?’

  ‘Just read it.’

  I sighed and took the book out of his hand. I could tell he wasn’t going to let this drop, so I’d indulge him for now and get it over with.

  ‘Page seventy-eight,’ he prompted, as I scanned the contents page.

  I turned to the page, but there was something odd. It had a hole in it. In fact the hole went through every other page after page seventy-eight, creating a hidden recess inside the book. And there was something in it.

  I looked at Matt, who was trying to look cool.

  ‘I’m pretty sure it’s morally wrong to mutilate a book, Matt,’ I teased. ‘Let alone a book on morality.’ I turned the book upside down and shook it. A small black velvet pouch, secured by two tightly pulled strings, fell out onto the floor.

  I suppose if you were the kind of girl who had long dreamed of long-stemmed roses and sparkling diamond solitaires, you would have instantly known what this meant. But Matt and I had never once spoken about getting married. So, of course, I responded with the deeply unromantic, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Kate, will you just open it?’ said Matt, picking it up with obvious exasperation.

  I untied the strings and peered into the pouch.

  And inside was . . . you think I’m going to say a ring, don’t you? But it wasn’t. Matt knew me better than that. Inside, rolled up tightly like a tiny scroll, was a note, which said, ‘I’d like to put a ring on it. But if you think I’d dare choose one without you, I wouldn’t be your future husband. Marry me?’

  I looked up, astonished. I’d never seen him look so nervous. He kept pushing his hair back over and over again with the flat of his hand. I was too surprised to speak.

  ‘Well?’ he said at last.

  ‘For the sake of morality, Matt,’ I said. ‘Yes. Yes, I will, yes.’

  And to celebrate I’m afraid we proved beyond doubt, on the plastic-wrapped sofa, that neither of us had any morals worth speaking of.

  20

  After days of endless rain – good for my decorating efforts, bad for my mood – Minnie and I greet the few isolated rays of sunshine that struggle through the clouds this morning with giddy enthusiasm, skipping along the beach by the Cobb as if we haven’t been here for weeks rather than days. We celebrate the break in the weather by running up and down to the shoreline, throwing stones to skim on the surface of the water (me) and eating disgusting things discovered in the seaweed (Minnie).

  I am reassured to discover that something as simple as a little sunshine can lift my spirits, despite my circumstances. It makes me feel as if happiness is still a possibility, even after everything. Or perhaps it’s not the weather at all, but my newfound sense of purpose. My days are suddenly and satisfyingly full with transforming Granny Gilbert’s bungalow. And all the while I am transforming Ben with my undercover training programme.

  I will say this for my sister’s fiancé. When he has learned a lesson, he doesn’t have to be reminded of it again and again like some people. Now that we have established I do not clear up after him, he puts his own plates in the dishwasher every time. Admittedly, I have seen him allowing Minnie to lick them first, which is quite disgusting, but I feel it is better to praise the good behaviour than criticize the bad. Nagging never worked on Matt.

  There is still room for improvement of course. The day before yesterday I overheard Ben on the phone, inviting a friend round to watch the football tomorrow night. I have waited patiently for him to tell me of this plan, since it means I am effectively banished from the living room unless I fancy spending the evening listening to the kind of tedious beery banter that greets a well-timed fart as the height of humour. As yet he has failed to mention it. But instead of finding this annoying, I can’t help seeing it as another training opportunity.

  Things are getting better. I can feel it.

  Minnie and I pause our walk along the seafront to sit on the low concrete wall for a while, soaki
ng up the weak rays of the sun. Well, I sit still, while she digs in the shingle for crabs to chase. Above us on the boardwalk, two old men lean on a painted rail, staring out at the horizon.

  ‘Looks good out there, Bill,’ says one.

  ‘Depends what you’re looking at,’ says Bill tersely.

  ‘Well, I’m looking at Pam Curtis, I don’t know about you,’ says the man who isn’t Bill, and he points far out, towards an orange buoy in the water.

  Only, when I follow the direction of his finger I see it’s not a buoy at all. It’s a bobbing swimming hat. And it’s not a Saturday. Mrs Curtis is breaking the rules again.

  As we watch, the orange hat zigzags in towards the shore, propelled by Mrs Curtis’s impressively powerful breast-stroke. Her goggled face pulls above the water for each breath, and then sinks below the surface so the petals of her hat appear to float like lotus flowers.

  ‘Morning, Pam,’ calls the one who isn’t Bill. As Mrs Curtis nears the shore, she stands up in the water to wave, exposing her dark green swimming costume as she shakes her head to one side to get the water out of her ears.

  Minnie runs down to the waterline and then shies back, barking at this unexpected figure emerging from the sea. Mrs Curtis shoos her away from the pile of clothes she has left on the beach, and reaches for a towel to rub herself down.

  ‘Morning, Bill, Peter! Hello, Kate, dear!’

  She pulls off her swimming cap and replaces it with the pink knitted hat I have seen before. Holding the towel around herself, she wriggles out of her swimsuit and drops it on the pebbles, fishing with her hand for her underthings.

  ‘Now I see why you’re standing here, Peter, you dirty old sod,’ says Bill with a chuckle.

  ‘She’s never dropped that towel yet,’ Peter answers wistfully.

  I hear Bill give a loud cough, and suddenly they both seem to realize that I am there below them, listening to every word.

  ‘’Scuse me, miss,’ says Peter, and both of their heads disappear guiltily back behind the railing.

  ‘Wasn’t that Prue Bailey?’ I hear Bill ask as they retreat in haste.

  Mrs Curtis advances up the beach, waving; her towel rolled tightly under her arm. Minnie skirts her heels, sniffing suspiciously, still not convinced that she should trust this sea creature.

  ‘It’s glorious out there today. Glorious!’

  She drops her voice to a confidential whisper as she reaches me. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Eddy need know nothing about this, dear. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’

  I nod, but don’t agree in so many words. I’m not one to tell tales, but I can’t help agreeing with Eddy that it’s probably not safe for his grandmother to swim alone each morning, even if she is watched over by a couple of elderly swains.

  ‘You seem to have a few admirers, Mrs Curtis,’ I tease. ‘One of those chaps was watching you swim like his life depended on it.’

  She shrieks with laughter and clutches at my arm. ‘Not Peter Turner! Oh my good lord, no, Kate, dear. That silly old fool, he’s been after me for years. But I have absolutely no interest in a man at my age.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ I ask. Surely your interest in the opposite sex doesn’t just fade away with your hair colour?

  Mrs Curtis shudders dramatically, grimacing. ‘Oh dear, no. I had quite enough of that with Mr Curtis, thank you very much. Are you heading back home?’

  I say that we are, and Mrs Curtis and I fall into step with each other, or I should say that I fall into step with her. I’d started off slowly to accommodate her advanced age, and the steepness of the hill that leads back up towards the cul-de-sac from the Cobb. But she is having none of it, and sets a hearty pace that I struggle to maintain. Luckily my breathlessness is disguised by the fact that she does most of the talking.

  ‘While there is much to be said for marriage as an institution, like all institutions, it is only when you are out of it that you realize how much freedom you have. Don’t you think, dear?’

  She turns her sharp brown eyes on me enquiringly.

  I’m not sure if I would categorize my unemployed aimlessness as freedom, or even as an escape. It’s far too soon for me to really know whether I have got out of the institution at all.

  ‘Mmm,’ I say, partly because I am unsure of my answer, and partly because I am having trouble catching my breath on the hill. But it’s enough to encourage her to continue.

  ‘Not that I don’t miss Mr Curtis. He was a dear, dear man.’ She sighs. ‘And positively an animal between the sheets. Don’t look shocked, dear, these things matter. As I’m sure you know. The only problem was that he was an animal between a lot of sheets, if you know what I mean. And I think you do, dear, judging by what I’ve heard.’

  ‘I’m not sure I—’

  Mrs Curtis holds out her hand to interrupt me, stopping for a moment to turn back towards the bay behind us. Wisps of hair have escaped from her pink knitted cap, and they curl around her face, lending her the appearance of a deeply tanned and wrinkled baby.

  ‘You will find, dear, that these things hurt less in time. Really. Of course the sting is always there. The betrayal, that is. But it fades. The question you must ask yourself is, is your marriage worth more than that?’

  She fixes me with her beady gaze, head tilted as she waits for my answer. Minnie looks up at both of us as if she, too, would like to hear what I think.

  ‘Well, dear, is it?’

  I turn to look out to sea, leaning on the wooden fence posts that have supported many a breathless tourist halfway up the hill. We have climbed high enough to be able to see the bay spread out below us, all the way to Portland. Grey clouds are massing on the horizon; the break in the weather is already at an end.

  ‘How do you know?’ I ask.

  Mrs Curtis leans on the fence next to me, though while my breath is still ragged, she doesn’t seem to need the support. Her red nails trace an unseen pattern on the wooden posts.

  ‘That is the question,’ she says. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘With Mr Curtis,’ I say. ‘You forgave him. But you said the sting was still there. How can you move forward after something like that? How did you put it behind you?’

  Mrs Curtis dips her head to pick at a knot in the wood. ‘You just do, dear. Or you don’t. You never know, you just decide. That’s the hard bit. The deciding.’

  ‘But what if you make the wrong decision?’

  Mrs Curtis laughs brightly, as if I have said something funny. She pats my hand in a brisk fashion, more as if she’s administering a gentle slap than reassuring me.

  ‘I know you hope I will tell you what to do, dear. I was just the same. But there is no right answer. You decide, and then you do the best with the decision you’ve made.’

  ‘You forgave him,’ I say. ‘But you wouldn’t get married again. Is that because you wouldn’t be able to trust someone else?’

  ‘Oh no, dear,’ says Mrs Curtis, hooting with laughter. ‘Not to trust anyone ever again – what a sentence that would be. I’d be punishing myself if I thought that. Of course I could trust again. But dear, at my age – eighty! I know I don’t look it – there are a lot of widowed men who simply want to be looked after. Well, I’ve done enough of that. I like to look after myself now.’

  She spreads her hands out on the fence, and then tilts her head up to the sky, squinting at the clouds that are rolling in above us.

  ‘That’s all. Ooh, dear, was that a spot of rain? We should get back. Unless, dear,’ she turns her bright eyes on me imploringly. ‘I didn’t bring my purse with me, but maybe you might treat an old lady to a cup of tea?’

  21

  Mum is on the doorstep on the dot of six, as I knew she would be. She’s holding a bottle of wine and she looks so happy, her cheeks all pink and glowing from the cold, that I almost feel guilty for using her like this. But for all that Ben has been a tremendous help with the decoration, he still has several lessons to learn. And I am teaching him one of the
m tonight, with the unwitting assistance of his future mother-in-law.

  ‘What a sweet idea to ask me round,’ she says as she kisses me on the cheek. ‘You know I’ve been longing to see what you’ve done here. Ben’s been all mysterious about it at the office. Said I had to wait and see.’

  She casts her gaze around the hall, and I’m alarmed to see tears spring into her eyes.

  ‘Mum?’ I ask anxiously, taking hold of her arm.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, really.’ She puts her hand on top of mine and squeezes it reassuringly. ‘Just, I suppose it’s looked the same for years. And now – goodness, it looks so different, doesn’t it? You’ve made such an improvement.’

  She runs her free hand over the new, smooth wall. No more textured wallpaper, dented by Prue’s and my childhood bikes, or the scuffmarks from Granny Gilbert’s walker. No more stained beige carpet. Now the walls are a cool pale green, soothing and welcoming. A mirror hangs by the front door, and the coat cupboard has been painted a matt white. The parquet floor has been buffed to a brilliant shine thanks to the machine that Ben discovered in the hire shop; his passion for a new gadget has transformed the floors throughout the entire bungalow. It is also now impossible to walk anywhere in socks without incurring a serious and painful fall, and Minnie tiptoes around the house with extreme caution, but it seems a small price to pay for the improvement.