Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  I threw it back over. “I was about to!” I said chummily. “Catch!”

  He caught it and glared at me. “Tosser.”

  He ran back to his game.

  “What’s a tosser?” asked Rufus, when he was out of earshot.

  “It’s someone who…tosses the ball back,” I said faintly. “In a ball game.”

  “Oh.”

  We walked back to the car and got in silently. My hands felt rather clammy as I fumbled for the ignition and I wondered, nervously, if all the boys were like that. They all seemed to have skinhead-style haircuts; looked rather rough. Well, maybe the girls then. I glanced back at the playground and swallowed. Right. So what if they had pierced ears and were all chewing gum? I really mustn’t be such a snob. It was fine, he’d love it. It was just a bit more…rough and tumble than he was used to, that’s all. Terribly good for him, actually. Less precious.

  “Mummy, what’s that sign there for?”

  “Well, what does it say?” I muttered, irritated now. I was trying to pull out, and as I looked in my rearview mirror for traffic, I could see that boy again, showing off in the playground, bouncing the ball on his head and not letting the others get it.

  “No shagging on the grass.”

  My head spun round a hundred and eighty degrees.

  “Playing,” I breathed. “No playing on the grass. Someone’s crossed out playing and graffitied over it.”

  “Oh.”

  We drove on in silence.

  “Is shagging like playing, then?”

  I licked my lips. “Um, a bit. In a…more grown-up sort of way.”

  “And did he like it?” demanded Kate down the phone, now.

  “Quite,” I said cagily. “It—you know—gave him a flavour, anyway.”

  “Well, let me know how it goes. Orlando’s going to start fencing next term, isn’t that adorable? Apparently Peregrine’s daddy’s a bit of a star and he’s going to give them lessons.”

  “Lovely,” I said faintly, thinking that the only fencing Rufus would be doing at that school would be buying and selling stolen goods. I put the phone down and rang Hannah in a panic.

  “No, no, it’s a lovely school,” she chided. “You’ve obviously just got a bad glimpse of it. It does very well in the league tables and I hear the children are delightful.”

  “You hear? You mean you don’t know any of them?”

  “Well, one or two are in my Scout group, but not a lot because they mostly come from the private school in Highmore…”

  “Right.”

  “And yes, OK, they are quite noisy and boisterous, but they’re little boys, Imo. They’re hardly going to be sitting in huddles doing tapestry, are they?” She laughed and I tinkled along merrily; felt sick inside.

  “And the headmaster’s a real honey.”

  “Is he?” I said eagerly, grasping at this like a drowning man to a float.

  “Yes, the children love him. Quite strict, apparently, but very approachable. You always see them hanging round his legs. The mothers too.”

  “Oh!”

  “Well, he is rather gorgeous. I’m surprised you haven’t heard. Quite the local heartthrob, and unattached too, so quite a lot of panting one way and another.”

  “Well, I don’t think Eleanor’s endeared herself. When I spoke to him on the phone he was complaining about her dogs defecating in his playground.”

  “Yes, well, I wouldn’t imagine the Latimers are quite his type. He doesn’t think much of the local nobs throwing their weight around, and Piers and Eleanor are inclined to do that. They recently asked if the School could take its lunch break inside for a few days because Piers was putting some pheasants down in a nearby field. Said the noise was disturbing them.”

  “Good grief. How did that go down?”

  “Like a cup of cold sick. Apparently the children were told to play a boisterous game of British Bulldog on that particular day, organised by the head himself. Daniel Hunter is not one to tug his forelock to local landowners with delusions of grandeur. Anyway, you’ll meet him tomorrow. Apparently he always makes a point of greeting the new children. Has a little chat.”

  “Right.”

  Well, that sounded promising, anyway. Hannah was clearly rather taken with Mr. Hunter; he’d obviously made her bleeding heart beat a little faster, and my sister was not easily charmed. Maybe he’d turn out to be Rufus’s defender and champion, and all would be well. Maybe he’d recognise Rufus’s leadership qualities and make him—I don’t know—form captain, or something. And maybe all the other boys would look up to him. Time would tell, I thought gazing out of the window and watching Rufus run after a butterfly with a fishing net. I reached into the fruit bowl for an apple and took a bite out of it. It was sourer than one would have hoped.

  Chapter Eleven

  The following day when I tried to take Rufus to school, we could scarcely get out of the house.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous,” I spluttered as we opened the door to twenty, tight-beaked, beady-eyed hens, all jostling for position like very determined Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Come on, darling, let’s make a run for it.”

  We legged it to the car, slammed the doors and roared off, scattering feathers, no doubt, in our wake.

  “But where do they live, Mum?” asked Rufus, twisting in his seat and gazing out of the back window. “I mean, where do they go at night?”

  “Well, most chickens live in a pen but these are free range, so—God knows. Up in the trees, I expect.”

  “Oh. Can they fly?”

  “Of course they can fly. They’ve got wings, haven’t they?”

  I glanced at the clock. Christ, we were going to be late. First day, and we were going to be late. Alex had left early and forgotten to reset the alarm for us, so I’d woken, literally about twenty minutes ago, to the sound of birdsong and pale yellow light streaming through the thin, muslin curtains. We’d scrambled into our clothes and I’d poured some cereal into Rufus, but he was still swallowing his toast and Marmite beside me now in the car.

  “So do they migrate?” he asked, wiping butter off his mouth.

  “What?”

  “You know, fly south in the winter like other birds?”

  “Not sure,” I said absently, flicking on the radio for a time check. Come on Terry, less of the Irish charm. Half-past eight by my watch. Or was I fast? I was, sometimes.

  “What, all the way to Africa?”

  “What? No, of course they don’t migrate. They stick around, stay on farms and things.”

  “Like the robin.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” I glanced in my mirror and raked a hand through my hair. “Pass me my scent, Rufus. It’s in my bag at your feet.”

  “Oh, look, another lamb’s been born!” Rufus dumped my bag on my lap and leaned out of his window as, sure enough, just as we’d witnessed yesterday, a tiny long-legged lamb was suckling its mother, its tail whisking the air.

  “Just two minutes, Mummy—please! I want to see!”

  I stopped, nervously chewing the inside of my cheek, one eye on my watch, one ear on Terry, as the ewe tenderly turned to nuzzle her baby, which was palpably only hours old but already standing squarely, albeit on wobbly legs. Alex, Rufus and I had seen the first lambs yesterday as we’d enjoyed an evening walk in the meadow and been amazed at their precociousness. Right now, though, we didn’t have two minutes to be amazed.

  “You’ll see it this afternoon, Rufus,” I said shifting into first and accelerating brutally up the track. “When you get home.”

  “But I won’t know which one it is!” He swung back.

  “I’ll remember,” I promised. “The mother had a black face.”

  “They’ve all got black faces,” he pointed out sulkily, twisting forward in his seat. “We spotted that last night.”

  Yes, last night, when Alex had finally returned from work after a bloody commute—“Two hours door to door,” he’d announced bitterly as he’d slung his briefcase on a chair. “So much for an
hour and ten minutes!”—we’d gone out into the fields, the three of us, to try to remember what the hell we were doing here. We’d walked in silence for a bit, and I’d felt him seething quietly beside me; but the crab apple blossom was heavy on the boughs over our heads, and beneath it, the new lambs skipped around bleating in the lush spring grass. It would have taken a heart of stone not to succumb.

  “Worth it?” I’d hazarded at length, looking up at my husband’s profile beside me.

  “Worth it,” he agreed, his face relaxing as he squeezed my hand. “Sorry I was in such a foul mood earlier.”

  We stopped to lean on a low, mossy stone wall and gazed into the misty blue yonder. Alex narrowed his eyes to the vista; a couple of fields away in the dip of the valley, a stream, clear and glistening, rushed on its way fringed by nodding buttercups, and beyond that, the hills rose up in a comforting swell, green and wholesome. He nodded. “This is exactly what I wanted for us, Imo. What I envisaged. Just you, me and Rufus, far from the madding crowd. What could be better?” He’d bent his head to kiss me.

  Something tight and clenched had unfurled within me, like a fern releasing its fronds and stretching out into the light.

  “I honestly think that in time we might buy somewhere of our own down here, don’t you?” he went on, hugging my shoulders. “The cottage is fine for a bit, but in six months’ time—well, who knows? It’ll be so much cheaper than London.”

  “Who knows,” I agreed blithely as he kissed me again. Oh, yes, I thought, hanging on to the wall for dear life, anything was possible if Alex was as loving as this. Anything.

  Rufus had turned at that moment and wolf-whistled, and we’d laughed and strolled on, but the look of pleasure on my son’s face hadn’t escaped me. It couldn’t be much fun, as a solitary nine-year-old, to have your parents yelling and screaming at each other as we’d done the night before. As Alex hoisted Rufus up on his shoulders and took my hand and we’d walked, the three of us, back to the cottage, I’d felt like we were a family in a cereal commercial, strolling in slow motion through a daisy-strewn meadow, shiny hair bouncing. That was yesterday, though, and right now, my hair lacked bounce and we had to get down to the village school pronto.

  The children were all pouring in through the gates as we parked by the Spar—not too close—and made our way across the road, assisted by a smiling lollipop lady. Encouraging, I felt, as we exchanged a cheery good morning. Even though I’d been short of time I’d made a bit of an effort for Rufus’s first day, throwing a little Armani jacket over my jeans and cowboy boots: a mistake, I now realised, as most of the other mothers looked like they’d just crawled out of bed. The bare legs, trainers and anorak look I’d spotted earlier abounded, and I felt horribly self-conscious in my London yummymummy kit. Had I overdone the scent? It had all been rather de rigueur in Putney, particularly on the first day—Kate always looked like she’d just stepped out of Vogue—but here, an overcoat over pyjamas seemed more the norm. One mother appeared to be giving her children—all five of them—bowls of cereal in the back of a rusty Honda, before bundling them out and giving them a swift clip round the ear for not being quick enough. Secretly appalled but desperate to ingratiate myself I gave her a sympathetic smile as I passed. She glared back. I was also uncomfortably aware that Rufus appeared to be the only one wearing a blazer. Was uniform optional, I wondered.

  To achieve the school gates we had to negotiate a clutch of mothers who’d clearly already dropped their children and gathered for a gossip. They stared at me with hostile eyes as I approached, jaws rotating as they masticated gum, looking rather like the cattle I’d just left behind. They made no effort to move.

  “Excuse me, please,” I said pleasantly.

  An overweight, pasty-faced girl nudged her companion and they parted for me grudgingly, ostentatiously moving buggies and kicking toddlers. “Go on, move it, Darren.” They all had identical stripy blonde hair with black roots and were pierced liberally. They looked about eighteen. Rufus and I muttered our thanks, but we were both blushing and I could feel their eyes in our backs as we went through. Too much scent. Definitely too much scent.

  “Do I go straight to my class?” asked Rufus nervously as we pushed through a swing door to a noisy corridor, thronging with children.

  “No, we go and see the headmaster first. He’s down the end on the right, apparently, but that must be your class,” I said, as we passed a glass door marked Year Five. “Doesn’t it look nice?”

  It didn’t, in fact. All hell was breaking loose as two boys at the back of the room stood on desks and lobbed books at some other boys below, who were flicking rubbers back efficiently with their rulers and goading them on. Elsewhere children were banging desk lids shut and shouting across the room at each other. There wasn’t a teacher in sight.

  Rufus went pale. I swallowed and hurried him down the corridor to the office at the bottom.

  “Mr. Hunter: Headmaster” it read in reassuring gold letters on the door. Well, that was something, surely? Someone was at the helm.

  I knocked, and a clipped voice barked back, “Yep?”

  I pushed on through. Mr. Hunter’s head was buried in some papers, but he raised it when he saw us. Smiled.

  “Mrs. Cameron?”

  I nearly fainted with relief. At least someone was expecting us. “That’s it.”

  “And you must be Rufus.” He came around the side of his desk, proffered his hand, and Rufus shook it. I relaxed. Good. This was more like it.

  “It’s lovely to have you here with us,” he told Rufus, bending down to his level. “You’re going to be in Year Five and I hope you’ll be very happy at St. John’s.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Rufus shyly.

  “We, um, passed his classroom, actually.” I pointed tentatively back over my shoulder as Mr. Hunter straightened up. “But there didn’t appear to be anyone…?”

  “Ah, no, Mrs. Harding’s on her way. She got struck in traffic, just called in. Sit down, sit down.” He waved us into seats as he went back and resumed his. We perched on chairs on the other side of his desk.

  “No doubt you saw it in uproar then,” he grinned. “But don’t worry, in no time at all you won’t hear a pin drop. Ah, look, here she is now.”

  He swivelled around in his chair to face the window and I glanced out of it behind him. I half expected to see a greyhaired battleaxe emerge from her battered Escort, but instead, a red Mini performed an emergency stop under the window and a ravishing blonde in a short skirt and long black boots got out. She grinned up at the window.

  “Mrs. Harding doesn’t take any nonsense,” he said as she slammed her car door.

  I swallowed. I bet she doesn’t.

  “Neither does Mr. Harding. He runs the PE department,” he went on as a tall, thick-set blond man got out of the passenger side and gave us a theatrical stagger, hand to brow, presumably referring to the traffic.

  Mr. Hunter turned back to me. “Did you think I was running more of a zoo than a school, Mrs. Cameron?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, embarrassed. “It’s just—”

  “It’s not quite what you and Rufus are used to?”

  “Sort of.”

  He nodded. “I understand. I used to teach at a very similar school to Rufus’s. Not far from you actually, The Falcon, in Barnes.”

  “Oh!” I was surprised. The Falcon was a very sweet school. “So…how come—”

  “I ended up head of a rural state school when I could still be in the cushy private sector?”

  I blushed. Hannah was quite right. This man was devastatingly good-looking and had a very direct, engaging manner. Despite the slightly old-fogey corduroy jacket and the hornrimmed spectacles, he had a head of springy tawny curls and a pair of bright blue eyes, which were fixing me intently.

  “I needed a change,” he said simply, swinging his feet up on the desk suddenly. “Teaching well-behaved boys like Rufus,” he nodded at him sitting quietly in his chair, “was a delightful pastime, bu
t not terribly testing. It got to the stage when I could do it standing on my head. Running a school where discipline was a dirty word and the children pretty much ruled the roost was a little more challenging. It’s been an uphill struggle and I’ve had to bring in some new blood to replace the tired old guard—a bit traumatic, as you can imagine—but it’s worked. You’ll be pleased to hear you’re not joining us in the eye of the storm. The battle’s been won. Ofsted have recommended us for commendation, this year.”

  I smiled. “I’m impressed.”

  He grinned and scratched his head sheepishly. “Sorry. Blowing my own trumpet. But it’s the kids I’m proud of, not me. Having said that, I warn you, they’re no angels. We’ve still got a few reprobates, and there’s no controlling what they do out of school.”

  “Yes, we, er, saw the sign. On the grass outside the Spar?”

  “Ah.” He grinned. Swung his feet down. “Yes, the lad concerned will be setting to with some elbow grease and a bottle of white spirit this afternoon.” He sighed. “Unfortunately the staff in the shop don’t exactly endear themselves to the children, don’t encourage much entente cordiale. Anyway,” he straightened up, “enough of village politics. Let’s show Rufus to his class. If we don’t hurry up it’ll be playtime.”

  He came round his desk to swing the door wide for us, ushering us out, then overtaking in the corridor to lead the way. Rufus and I hurried after him. Sure enough, the room we’d passed earlier was now in silence. Through the glass door we saw all the children working away quietly at their desks, while Mrs. Harding, her back to them, wrote sums on the board.

  I glanced at Rufus. “All right?”

  He nodded, still very pale.

  “Good luck, darling,” I whispered, feeling sick.

  Daniel Hunter guided Rufus through the door with one hand on his shoulder. For a moment there I nearly scuttled in after them, but a surprised look from the headmaster just stopped me. I waited in the corridor.

  “This is Rufus Cameron,” I heard him say. “He’s just moved to the village and he’s starting here today. I want you all to be kind to him and help him find his feet. Er…yes. Damien Phillips, you’ll be in charge of looking after Rufus for the rest of the week, showing him the ropes et cetera. Thank you, Mrs. Harding.”