Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  He nodded to the teacher and came out, closing the door behind him, and made to move off down the corridor. I was still rooted to the spot though, watching Rufus nervously take his place at an empty desk over by the window, all eyes on him.

  “He’s allergic to tomatoes,” I whispered, as Rufus took his pencil case out.

  Daniel Hunter came back. “Well, he can help himself at lunch time, so I’m sure he can avoid them. Shall we…?” He attempted to usher me down the corridor.

  “And if there’s any cross-country running, could he not participate? Only the one time he did it, he was sick. Terribly sick.”

  “I assure you, we don’t make them go cross-country running aged nine.”

  “Oh, and if they’re using glue and he gets it on his fingers, could he be sure to wash it off properly? Only he has a habit of rubbing his eyes and—”

  “Mrs. Cameron.” There appeared to be a firm hand on my left elbow. “I promise you, Rufus will be fine. Shall we leave him to it?”

  He didn’t exactly escort me from the building, but there was something very authoritative about the way he ushered me down that corridor and out of the double swing doors to the playground.

  “Three fifteen?” I asked, anxiously.

  “Three fifteen,” he agreed with a ravishing smile, almost as if he were agreeing to a date, I thought with a jolt. “Give him a couple of days and he’ll be right in the thick of it.”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  I nodded and hurried away, knowing full well that he wouldn’t. If Rufus wasn’t in the thick of it at Carrington House, what chance did he stand here?

  I drove back through the lanes, one hand on the wheel, the other at my throat as I itched my neck nervously. But then again, perhaps a completely different environment was the answer? Maybe Rufus would thrive in a more robust atmosphere? And, of course, co-ed was so marvellous. Girls had such a softening influence. I put my hand back on the wheel but noticed, in the rearview mirror, the tell-tale signs of eczema at the base of my throat.

  As I arrived back at the cottage, the usual bestial reception was waiting for me. I ran the chicken gauntlet to the front door, then slammed it shut behind me, irritated. God, this was going to be a pain on a daily basis. What if I was laden with shopping? Or picking my way carefully down the cobbled path in witty little heels—as I fully intended to do occasionally—on my way out to some charming little bijou restaurant with my husband? I didn’t want filthy feathers sticking to my tights. Suddenly a thought occurred. What was it Kate had said about them being hungry? I wondered when Piers wanted us to take over the feeding from his farm manager. Was he going to pop down and see me, this morning perhaps, knowing I’d got Rufus off to school? I glanced at the list Eleanor had left by the telephone and rang him, rather efficiently I felt, on his mobile.

  “Is there a problem?” Piers barked immediately.

  “Er, no. No problem.”

  “Right. Sorry, Imogen, it’s just that if I get tenants on the phone they’re usually bellyaching about something. A blocked washing machine is the norm, and I generally suggest something as prosaic as a plumber.”

  That put me in my place, didn’t it? A tenant.

  “No, nothing’s wrong. I just wondered when you wanted me to start feeding the animals,” I said pleasantly.

  There was a silence. “I assumed you started two days ago when you moved in. I ran you through it at dinner the other night, remember? Please don’t tell me you expected me to walk you through it too?”

  Out of the window, a posse of tight-beaked hens, and behind them, a row of wide-eyed, reproachful cows, waited with bated breath for my response.

  “No, no, of course not,” I croaked. “I meant…feeding them—you know—vitamins. Extra nutrients, that type of thing.”

  “Oh, I don’t hold with any of that nonsense,” he said impatiently. “Supplements are a big con on the part of the manufacturers. The cows get enough nutrients from the hay, and there’s everything but the kitchen sink in the chicken feed. I don’t mollycoddle my animals.”

  “Right,” I whispered. “Just checking. I’ll…pass, on the vitamins.”

  As I put down the phone it seemed to me the whole window filled up with emaciated, Biafran-like animals: the cows, bellies shrunken, ribs like toast racks, eyes like sad lakes gazed at me, whilst the chickens’ eyes were no longer cross and beady, but dull with hunger, their heads drooping. My hand flew to my mouth. Oh God. I was starving them. Oh, how awful!

  I tore outside—the chickens hot on my heels—and ran to the large covered barn. Right, now think, Imogen, think. I spun around wildly, looking at the various bins and sacks. What was it he’d said? Hay for the cows, and corn for the chickens? Or was it the other way round? I opened a dustbin full of yellow popcorn stuff. The chickens gathered eagerly, goading me on. Ah yes, this must be it—with a handy scoop too. I dug deep, took the brimming scoop out to the yard, threw it up into the air and, as the grain rained to the ground, the hens fell on it, famished.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I whispered, as they pecked away furiously. “I’m so sorry, my chick-a-dees. I’ll make it up to you, I promise!”

  One huge brown hen waddled out from under a bush with a row of yellow chicks behind her. My eyes popped. Chicks! I didn’t even know they existed! Oh, how divine! And to think I’d nearly killed them. Oh—and water? They must have water! Happily, I discovered that the water in the water butt seemed automatically to run into a shallow basin. Well, thank God for that. At least I hadn’t parched them to death. I scattered a bit more corn—too much, probably, but I was Lady Bountiful now—and turned my attention to the cows. Their heads were over the yard gate and they were bellowing balefully as usual, up to their knees in mud. Not much grass in that field.

  “I’m coming, my darlings, I’m coming—oh, you poor things!”

  I tore back to the barn. Hay, that was what I needed. Four bales, apparently. Oh, so stupid, Imogen, to listen to your husband. What was it he’d said the other night? Don’t wade in until you’ve been told? Well, I had been told, at dinner, but as usual, hadn’t had the courage of my convictions. Not in the face of Alex, who seemingly knew better. Never mind, never mind, you’re doing it now, Imo. Just grab one of these bales. Attagirl. I seized one from the top of a stack by its binder twine, but—Jesus. I buckled under its weight. Literally, collapsed in a heap. I boggled at it, huge and yellow in my lap. It was nearly as heavy as me. Nearly as big as me. There was no way I could carry this. I wriggled free and, covered in hay, dragged it backwards out of the barn, across the yard to the gate, panting with exertion as the cows bellowed louder, pushing and jostling excitedly at the sight of it.

  “Just a minute,” I muttered through gritted teeth, “it’s coming.”

  Somehow, I managed to open the gate, drag the bale through, and shut it just in time behind me. The cows were on top of me now, snatching at the hay with their teeth, and frankly, I was bloody terrified, but I wasn’t going to give up; wasn’t going to just leave it in the mud to be trampled underfoot. Oh, no, I was jolly well going to put it in one of those jolly old roundel things like Piers had told me; would do it if it killed me. Except—no. I tottered precariously as they jostled me. I didn’t want to be killed. And these were big beasts.

  “Steady, Homer…easy now, Bart…” Rufus had had a hand in the naming. “That’s my foot…don’t push, don’t—oh!”

  The next minute, Santa’s Little Helper had given me an enthusiastic head butt in the backside and I nose-dived into the mud. And not just mud, mind, but…oh…Lordy. I picked myself up, wiping my poo-streaked face on my sleeve and admiring the Armani jacket I’d neglected to take off. I had, by measuring my length, though, made it to the roundel, and keen to complete the task—but knowing I didn’t stand a chance of tossing the bale over as Piers had teasingly suggested—I began laboriously to work the hay free of its binder twine and chuck it over in handfuls. I tore at it and tossed it up in the air, but the wind was against me, and as I t
ossed, it blew straight back in my face, sticking to my moisturiser, my lipstick, my cow shit. Marvellous. And only three bales to go.

  Each bale, I worked out over a soothing cup of coffee some time later, would take precisely fifteen minutes to get out of the barn, drag to the field, break into sections, and throw over into the roundels. Ergo, each day, it would take me precisely one hour to feed the cows. Well, that was fine, I reflected as I sipped my coffee in my dressing gown, my clothes gurgling away in the washing machine behind me, jacket in a bag to take to the cleaners. After all, I had nothing else to do, did I?

  I gazed over the rim of my mug to the fields beyond. Nothing else to do. My heart lurched with fear. It was quiet now that the animals had been fed, very quiet. I pulled my dressing gown around me. What I’d generally do now, of course, I thought, running my finger round the rim of my mug, was pop upstairs to my studio. I narrowed my eyes out of the window. I should go and buy that sketch pad. Go into town right now, get some watercolours too. Despite my show of enthusiasm for Rufus, though, my heart wasn’t in it. I gripped my mug, feeling panic rising. Well, I didn’t always paint in London, did I? Sometimes I’d force myself to have an admin day. And then pop over the road for a coffee with Kate, I thought with another rush of panic. Well, I couldn’t do that. Couldn’t pop and see anyone; didn’t know anyone. A lump rose in my throat. Apart from Eleanor, of course, I thought quickly, and I knew she’d be keen to introduce me to her friends, but…I sort of knew what they’d be like. Hannah had already scathingly suggested they’d be riding to hounds with one hand and juggling charity committees with the other. Hannah’s friends, then? No, equally scary. Terribly worthy and right-on. I’d probably have to save the rainforests whilst simultaneously singing “Ging Gang Goolie.” Neither group exactly appealed, but hey, there were other girls round here, weren’t there? What about the mothers at school? I took a quick gulp of scalding coffee as my eyes bulged with terror. Right. Looked like I was going to be friendless. I licked my singed lips. As well as occupationless. But…wait a minute…I narrowed my eyes out of the window. It was a beautiful day and the sun was dappling the grass in the orchard, throwing the distant hills into hazy relief and making it look like a film set. I sat, watching as the shadows from the waving trees played in the long grass, the wind rustled the leaves above, seeming almost to beckon me on. Yes, of course. Of course.

  In a trice I’d abandoned my coffee and nipped upstairs, discarding my dressing gown on the landing and flinging on jeans and a jumper in my bedroom. Then I ran back down again and opened the cupboard under the stairs. I’d carefully, and rather ruefully, stashed my easel and paints in here, thinking that without a studio they’d be there for some time. But why? Why should they stay in here when I could paint outside? I dragged them out. Why not set my easel up in the garden—or even the field? My heart raced with excitement. Also in the cupboard were about a dozen of my paintings—the rest I’d put in storage—brought on the pretext that I might want to fiddle with them, touch them up, but actually, I thought, flicking quickly through them now, I knew they were perfect. No, what I’d really wondered was whether some little country restaurant might like to hang them on their walls with a price tag on them. I hadn’t had the nerve to attempt such a thing in London, but one of these days—I dragged my easel down the hall—one of these days, I’d summon up the courage to pop them in the back of the Volvo and have a go. Today, though…I kicked open the front door and the sun poured through like liquid gold; oh, no, today was definitely a creative day.

  I set up my easel in the orchard, deliberating for ages on the best view, moving it back and forth, but all the time, glancing furtively about. I felt guilty about painting at the best of times since it didn’t constitute gainful employment, but here, out in the open, I felt even more vulnerable. Anyone could wander up, peer over my shoulder and say incredulously, “What on earth is that? Call that art? My six-year-old could do better than that.”

  Happily, though, apart from a few inquisitive lambs nudging my duffel bag full of paints, there wasn’t a soul in sight. I threw my old smock over my head, seized my palette, and squeezed out Prussian Blue and Cameron Yellow in thick swirls, savouring the heady smell I’d missed. I felt almost faint with relief. Then I raised my eyes to the view—and blanched in surprise. God, those colours! Look at the way the sun was glancing off that field of rape in the distance, and the grass—much more vivid than I’d imagined. I needed more yellow. I squirted it out excitedly. Much more yellow—and white. Now. I raised my brush again. I never sketched before painting, finding it too restrictive, too controlling, but as a result, my first brush strokes were often tentative. Today, though, emboldened by the landscape and also, by a sense of urgency—a feeling that I had to catch this perfect light before it disappeared—I set off with a flourish.

  I worked fast, my brush moving swiftly as it darted from palette to board, palette to board, following my eyes, my mind becoming less and less engaged as my senses took over. Colours were rapidly filling the white space as I layered the paint on thickly, using broad, confident strokes. I didn’t notice the passage of time, only that the sun, as it moved slowly overhead, began to cast different shadows: sharper, shorter ones. But far from it being a problem, this shifting subject matter became more interesting. It was working…it was really working, I thought feverishly, trying to control my excitement. The sun went behind a cloud, throwing a ploughed field on the horizon into relief, and I was about to capture it in its more subdued, less garish state, squeezing great coils of paint out impatiently, when I became aware of a familiar noise behind me.

  “Mooooooo…Mooooooo.”

  I ignored it and painted on.

  “Mooooooo…MOOOOOOOOO!!” More insistent, this time. More demanding.

  I turned, exasperated. The cows were in a row again, staring at me with huge brown eyes, their heads over the fence.

  “What?” I snapped. “You’ve been fed, now jolly well shut up.”

  They stared balefully back. I resumed my contemplation of the ploughed field. There was silence for a moment, then it started again. Loudly. I turned. They stopped. I turned back to paint—they started. It was a bit like playing Grandmother’s footsteps. Every time I swung round to face them, they shut up, but the minute my back was turned, they bellowed again. Finally I flung my brush down with an angry flourish and stalked across.

  “What?” I demanded shrilly in their faces. “What is it?”

  They gazed mournfully back. The hay, I noticed, hadn’t been touched. Most of it was still in the roundel, but some had been pulled out and trampled underfoot.

  “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you eating it?”

  I reached through the fence rails, picked up a handful and offered it—rather bravely, I thought—to Marge. She turned her head away. I frowned, tried to tempt another one, Santa’s Little Helper, but she coughed, hoarsely, in my face. Coughed? Did cows cough? Were they ill? What was wrong with them, for God’s sake. Why weren’t they eating? Suddenly I realised there was one missing. Where was the fifth cow? The little brown one called—don’t ask—Princess Consuela Banana Hammock?

  I ran up the fence line a bit, but the cows didn’t even attempt to follow me. I hopped over nervously, keeping an eye on them, but they just stood still, heads hanging, eyeballing the ground with dull, listless eyes. I picked my way fearfully through the mud until I got to grass, then ran towards the copse of trees. I had the most awful feeling. The most awful feeling. The fifth cow—where was she? Was she in the copse? I ran fast, glancing wildly round the field as I went, until I got to the clump of beech trees where I’d noticed they sometimes sheltered from the rain. Inside the copse was a clearing. I pushed my way through to it, protecting my face from the brambles with my arm; and there, in the middle of it, in a shallow ditch, lay Princess Consuela Banana Hammock. She was stretched out on her side, eyes shut, mouth gaping, surrounded by flies. My heart leaped in my throat. I stole across and gazed down. Not a flicker. Not a raising of
an eyelid, not even a hint of a heaving side to suggest a struggle for life. Oh God—she was dead!

  Chapter Twelve

  I backed away from her, but as I did, I saw a great glob of green slime flood from the corner of her mouth. It was all over the earth beside her mouth, puddles of it, and there were bubbles in it. Foam. She was foaming. My eyes shot to her feet. They were stiff, and her cloven hoofs were sticking out straight, peculiar in their rigidity. I crept forward and bent down for a closer look. On the bottom of her hoofs were white lumps. Like giant clumps of acne. My eyes went back to her mouth, then to her feet again; from foot…to mouth…foot…to mouth…And then I turned and fled. I raced across the field, splashed through the mud, over the fence, across the orchard and, wrestling with the little iron gate, my heart pounding, flew up the garden path and into the cottage, not bothering to shut the door behind me. I raced to the kitchen and with trembling hands, rifled through a pile of papers on the table by the phone. Where was it? Oh, where was it, that handy list of numbers Eleanor had so thoughtfully—ah, there.

  I pounced on it, the paper shaking in my hands, and punched out the vet’s number. The knacker’s yard was actually what I wanted, I thought desperately as it rang and rang, but presumably someone had to come and look at the corpse first; verify it.

  “Marshbank Veterinary Practice,” purred the receptionist.

  “Um, yes, hello.” I could barely speak. My breath was coming in short shallow bursts and my voice wasn’t working. I tried to get some air into my lungs. Tried to get a grip.

  “One of my cows has died and I think it might be foot-and- mouth,” I said in a rush.

  There was a silence.

  “Where are you?”

  “My name’s Imogen Cameron,” I rattled on, “and I’m just looking after the cows, they’re not actually mine, but her feet look extraordinary and there’s this like, green foamy stuff coming out of her—oh!”