Good Husband Material

by Trisha Ashley

  1) Divest myself of James permanently.

  2) Find out if there’s a secret about my birth, so I can stop worrying about the Incubus.

  3) Find a lovely cottage somewhere else – perhaps Cornwall or Devon near Granny or Peggy – which will make it easier to leave this one.

  4) Make it clear to Fergal that once I move I don’t expect to keep in touch with him.

  When I phoned Mother to ask how she wanted to celebrate her birthday, she said rather stiffly that Dr Reevey was taking her out to dinner and a show, but she expected she would see me before too long, and thank you for the Interflora basket.

  Considering I’d braced myself to endure a large chunk of her undiluted company I was strangely disconcerted by this rebuff.

  I wish something would come of her beau. Perhaps I should ask him if his intentions are honourable.

  She said there were some people interested in buying the house, too, so if he doesn’t propose soon Granny will have to come clean and set Mother up in a little flat after all.

  The key to Mother’s huffiness came at the end of our conversation, when she suddenly burst out with, ‘I simply couldn’t believe it of you, Leticia!’

  ‘Believe what?’

  ‘James told me – he didn’t mean to, but he was so upset, the poor boy! I assured him he’d misinterpreted an innocent situation, but I’m afraid you’re falling under the influence of that Evil Man again.’

  ‘Evil Man? Do you mean Fergal? Oh, I see! You’ve had the St James version of finding me all alone – except for the presence of Fergal’s Aunt Maria, I suppose, but let’s not quibble – in his house at tea time!’

  ‘With his arm around you,’ Mother quavered.

  ‘Yes!’ I giggled insanely. (Or perhaps I’m the only sane one left?) ‘Decadent, isn’t it!’

  ‘How can you be so shameless? Could what James said about you and That Man be true?’

  ‘It comes to something when even your own mother would rather believe your philandering husband is innocent, while you are a tart!’ (But not the Tart of the First Part.) ‘You ought to know me better, and so ought James, if he wasn’t so blinded by misplaced jealousy. I suppose he did mention that he was with a girl when he turned up at Fergal’s – and not Little Snookums Wendy, either.’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe!’ she quavered. ‘But I can tell you now that James won’t have you back. You’ve burned your boats!’

  ‘Oh, whoopi-doo!’

  ‘There’s no need to take that attitude. Worry over this has completely ruined my birthday. And have you seen what That Man has been up to now? Shameless!’

  ‘Mother, stop worrying and imagining things. Go out with your boyfriend and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Boyfriend! At my age you don’t have boyfriends!’

  ‘You aren’t fifty yet, and you don’t look a day over forty,’ I lied valiantly, to perk her up.

  ‘Don’t I really? I’m sure you are flattering me, darling! Though Duncan says I’m a giddy little thing.’

  ‘Does he?’ I managed to say politely. ‘Well, have a lovely time, and don’t stay out too late.’

  She’s easily distracted: from high tragedy to farce in a ten-minute conversation. I only hope her play tonight is half as good.

  Another spin in the Mini with Fergal, but this time I drove round the countryside and we had tea in a pretty little village about fifteen miles away.

  I told him I was sure he didn’t want to be seen in public with a grossly pregnant woman, but he said I was beautiful and he was proud to be seen with me.

  He can’t mean it, but it’s very thoughtful and kind of him to say it, all the same.

  Two customers asked for his autograph just as we were leaving, but no one bothered him until then, which I thought very civilised.

  I know I ought to try to distance myself from him, but it’s very hard to say no when he just turns up, usually now with food packages from Maria, who seems to make enough of everything for ten people and send me half.

  I’m not complaining: my freezer is now full of delicious food, which comes with lightly translated cooking instructions. And he says that if I don’t take it she’ll make him eat it all, and he’ll quickly become twice the man Meat Loaf is.

  Later I went down to ask Mrs Deakin if she knew anyone who’d like a puppy, and she said to let her think about it for a day or two, and she wished she could see them.

  ‘Why don’t you come tonight when the shop shuts?’ I suggested.

  ‘I can’t tonight – it’s the WI. I’ll come tomorrow, though, if you don’t mind. I do love a nice puppy!’

  I didn’t tell her they weren’t nice. She’ll find that out soon enough.

  ‘Dulcie Blacklock says your driving’s coming on a treat,’ she remarked with a sly look. ‘Must be all that practice in Mr Rocco’s funny little car with the checked roof.’

  ‘It does help. It’s very kind of him to spare the time when he’s so busy up at the Hall.’

  ‘That Italian woman come in, and near made me scrub the carrots before she bought them – said she wasn’t paying for mud!’ she said admiringly.

  I wish I had Maria’s gall.

  ‘She’s coming to the WI with me tonight. The lady she used to Do for told her it was a traditional English ladies’ club.’

  ‘I hope she enjoys it.’

  ‘She seems a respectable body,’ conceded Mrs D. regretfully: clearly there would be no goings-on up at the Hall with Maria in residence. ‘There’s your ex going past.’

  ‘James? This is early for him to be back.’

  ‘How’s the divorce, dear?’

  ‘Coming along nicely. Isn’t it amazing how quickly you can get an uncontested one through?’

  The sooner the better now. Can James – or Nerissa – really believe Fergal Rocco is interested in having a fling with me in this condition – or any condition? He could have anybody (and probably has).

  I lumbered home with my bit of shopping and had just made a cup of cocoa for Bob, who was lurking in his shed doing God knows what, when the Shack door slammed and James came stamping across to the house.

  There are more men lurking in sheds in my garden than in any D.H. Lawrence novel.

  I thought he’d carry on round the corner of the house, so he nearly received the contents of Bob’s mug in his face when I turned and bumped into him in the doorway. (OK, my stomach bumped into him, but I was right behind it.)

  He recoiled, and I could see he was in a vile temper because of his scarlet face and the giveaway twitching vein in his temple.

  ‘Bob!’ I called, before he could speak. ‘Bob!’

  Bob shambled out, accompanied by the two Jack Russells and a strong smell of damp sacking. I handed him the cocoa and half a packet of ginger nuts.

  ‘Everything all right, Bob?’

  He paused in blowing the top of his cocoa and stared incuriously at James, who was seething with repressed impatience and temper like a minor volcano.

  ‘Snoddrops,’ he said after a minute.

  I fended a puppy back from the open door with my foot. ‘Snoddrops – I mean, snowdrops – in the garden? Are they out?’

  ‘No,’ Bob said.

  ‘You mean, I’ve got snowdrops, but they haven’t got flowers on yet?’

  ‘Snoddrops,’ he agreed, and demonstrated the size of his mouth by inserting a whole ginger nut into it and revolving it slowly like some strange lip-plate. Then he poured cocoa on top and chomped it down.

  You could hangar an aeroplane in a mouth like that.

  Then he smiled with amiable vacuity and wandered back off towards the shed with his cocoa and little dogs.

  ‘Are you mad employing someone like that? He could be a dangerous lunatic!’

  ‘I only know one of those,’ I told him coldly. ‘You sound just like Mother. Bob’s totally harmless and a good gardener. He must have just picked it up from watching his father and grandfather.’

  ‘I don’t know why we’re talking
about Bob. And I don’t know how you can look me in the face after the other night! By God, I’m beginning to believe what everyone’s been telling me about you!’

  ‘Everyone being Nerissa and Wendy?’ I sighed. ‘Do you want the whole village to share this, or would you care to come in and harangue me privately? Only I need to sit down.’

  He followed me just over the threshold, then halted dramatically and pointed an accusing finger. ‘Wendy’s pregnant, her father and Uncle Lionel are trying to force me to marry her, and it’s all your fault!’

  Isn’t everything? Why didn’t Mother just have me christened Eve and have done with it?

  This time I was determined not to burden Fergal with my boring problems. As it was, he drove me to the solicitor’s despite my protests. He’s so sweet to me already that I keep telling him I feel I’m presuming on his good nature, but he says he hasn’t got one.

  Just because we once went out with each other doesn’t mean he has to feel obliged to look after me now.

  We set off, but he could somehow tell that I was seething over something, for after a bit we pulled into a quiet lay-by where, I’m ashamed to say, with minimal persuasion, I described James’s visit – and his ultimatum.

  ‘Wendy’s pregnant. You know, it must be due about the same time as Margaret Wrekin’s. Oh – you don’t know the Wrekins, do you?’

  ‘No. Go on, though. So the baby’s real?’

  ‘So it seems, and James blames me, because she took the advice I gave her sister seriously! And Alice and Wendy’s father is Something Big in the City, and knows James’s uncle, who’s the head of the firm. So now he knows about the baby they’ve got together to pressure James into getting the divorce sorted out and marrying Wendy quickly.’

  ‘Shot-gun weddings have always been popular,’ Fergal pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but not with the bridegroom! James says this is my fault – first for wanting to divorce him, secondly for telling Wendy to get pregnant, and thirdly and worst, for carrying on with you – sorry, Fergal! – thus making it impossible for him to avoid marriage with Wendy by nobly insisting on not divorcing me, in case I came to my senses and wanted him back.’

  ‘Your fault? None of this is your fault!’

  ‘The best is yet to come: he then said he’d contest the divorce unless, on top of the division of property we’ve already agreed on, I give him ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘The bastard! He’s no right to make demands like that.’ It was as well James wasn’t within reach just then, or he might have had his face rearranged in an unfamiliar pattern.

  ‘I know, Fergal, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since and I just want to get my divorce and be rid of him, even if I have to pay through the nose to do it. He said he wanted the money as consolation for having to marry Wendy – which bodes well for their future happiness! And her father’s going to buy them one of those new detached houses in Lower Nutthill.’

  Fergal looked thoughtful. ‘My immediate reaction was to go round and break both his legs, but it might just be worth paying him off and getting rid of him.’

  ‘If I can! But I don’t have that sort of money to hand, although Granny might loan it to me if I ask her.’

  ‘I’ll lend you the money.’

  My eyes smarted. ‘That’s so kind of you, Fergal. But I couldn’t possibly! I mean, with James already thinking the baby’s yours half the time, not to mention the village, I mean, it would look as if …’

  He shrugged. ‘Why should anyone know? I wouldn’t tell them. You can pay me interest if it makes you feel better. And you’re well into your new novel, aren’t you?’

  ‘The Sweet Wine of Love,’ I said absently. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you needn’t feel under any obligation to me – it isn’t going to put you into my evil clutches, and I won’t try to exercise my droit de seigneur.’

  ‘Really, Fergal! What a thing to say,’ I protested primly, and looked down at my bump, which shifted visibly under the scrutiny. Impulsively, I took his hand and placed it on the Incubus, who obligingly gave him a good kick. I laughed at his surprised face.

  ‘Does it do that all the time?’

  ‘No, thank goodness. It’s quite painful – but when it stops for too long I worry.’

  ‘I think that kick signified approval for the loan, don’t you? So, between the three of us, are we agreed?’

  I nodded, and he dropped a chaste kiss on my forehead. ‘Sealed with a kiss! But don’t worry – that’s as droit as my seigneur is going to get!’

  I wasn’t worrying, but I didn’t say so.

  The solicitor thought I should fight for every farthing I could screw out of James, but I suppose I’m her client and that’s her job.

  She soon saw that to me the priority was simply to get rid of him, a clean divorce, and she thinks the first stage will be through in about six weeks. Then we have to wait for it to be made absolute and that’s it.

  She’s communicating all this to James, and drawing up a new agreement specifying a time limit for moving the Shack and aerial.

  Far from distancing myself from Fergal, I now find I’m under an even greater obligation to him, and I wish there was something I could do to repay him. But probably the best thing I can do is remove myself from his orbit after the baby arrives, so he doesn’t feel he has to take any more responsibility for me.

  Mrs Deakin came round in the evening to see the puppies and, to be honest, with all that going on I’d quite forgotten she was coming. I showed her what I’d done to the house first, and she said it would be very nice when I could afford carpet and wallpaper, despite my assurance that the effect was intentional.

  She was absolutely amazed by the puppies. ‘Well, I never! And look at the size of them!’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed regretfully. ‘They’re going to be vast, and I’ve got to find homes for three of them still. Mr Rocco is having one, and Bob, and Margaret Wrekin is having this one – isn’t it sweet? I love the way its eyes cross.’

  Mrs Deakin leaned down and tickled one under the chin. ‘I might think of someone who would want one,’ she said vaguely. ‘Half-Bourgeois, half—’

  ‘Durex,’ I said irresistibly.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Bess then astounded me by performing the first intelligent action of her life: taking the biggest puppy, the one who made her life a misery by his constant demands for attention (just like a man!) by the scruff, she dragged it across to Mrs D. and deposited it hopefully at her feet, where it chewed thoughtfully on her pinny while lambently eyeing her.

  She picked it up, and I knew she was lost when it snuggled its head under her chin and gave a long, blissful sigh.

  ‘After all,’ she said, as if trying to convince herself, ‘everyone’s got a Labrador, but there aren’t many half-Bourgeois about!’

  ‘That’s very true!’ I agreed.

  ‘And it would be nice to have the company of an evening. I can get the food wholesale.’

  ‘That’s an advantage.’

  ‘And I’ve still got old Bozo’s lead and basket.’

  ‘Even better. But are you sure you’ve got time for such a big dog? And it is going to be big.’

  ‘That Bob – I’ve seen him walking Bess sometimes. Well, he can walk mine, too, if I’m busy. I don’t suppose he’ll mind.’

  Bob could make quite a good thing out of this!

  Mrs D. is going to try to think who might take the other two. I hope she doesn’t change her mind about hers.

  Margaret kindly ran me to my next antenatal visit.

  All the doctor did was take my blood pressure, laugh, and say that if I got any bigger I would have to have the door taken out when I went to hospital.

  Margaret said I looked OK to her, and then we had a mooch around some antique shops and a pub lunch before she dropped me back home, which made a nice change.

  When I got back I found my driving test date on the mat: 4 February at nine thirty.

  It was just as well the le
tter came after I got back from my appointment or my blood pressure would’ve been skyhigh. Fergal said to look on the first test as a practice run, but he doesn’t have the pressing sense of urgency I do. He phoned because his private eye is coming to the Hall tomorrow to report. Fergal doesn’t hang about when he decides to do something!

  I wonder what – if anything – the detective has found out? Probably just that Mother is Mother, and the pregnancy has unhinged me.

  What with that and the test to look forward to, I’m a jangle of nerves.

  The detective, a small innocuous-looking man, was called Mr Rooney (but not another Mickey – I asked). He didn’t look at all familiar to me – I’m surprised James spotted him.‘Shall I go or stay?’ enquired Fergal.

  ‘Stay, of course!’ I said immediately. ‘You know all about it, and if Mr Rooney has found anything out I want you to hear it too.’

  I looked nervously at the detective. ‘Have you found anything out?’

  ‘Well, I’m satisfied that I’ve got to the bottom of the matter, yes, but you must understand that after such a length of time it was impossible to find any hard evidence.’

  ‘If you’re satisfied you know what happened, that’s good enough,’ Fergal said, taking my hand in a warm, hard grip. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It seems that Mrs Norwood went down to Cornwall because her sister was staying there in a rented cottage, in the last stages of pregnancy.’

  ‘Glenda!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mother never mentions her because she ran off with someone when she was sixteen, or at least that’s why I thought she never mentioned her. Do you mean,’ I added slowly as it sank in, ‘that Glenda was my real mother?’

  I didn’t, strangely enough, feel that shocked; after Granny’s hints it all seemed to fall into place.

  Mr Rooney nodded. ‘Yes, it seems pretty certain, although what confuses things is that your parents’ names appear on your birth certificate.’

  ‘But I don’t understand.’

  ‘Glenda called herself Mrs Norwood when she went into the cottage hospital to have you, and I think she was already planning to leave you with her sister when she did so, though whether with her knowledge and agreement or not is unclear. Mrs Norwood may have responded to a call for help, and then been left, literally, holding the baby.’