Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  I walked shakily back to Mum and sat down mutely beside her. She was dipping her napkin in water now, still dabbing at her lap. She glanced up as I sat down.

  “Are you all right, darling? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m fine,” I muttered. “Sorry about your dress.”

  “Couldn’t matter less. I told you, it’ll come out in the wash.”

  I picked up my plate of food wordlessly from the York stone, but couldn’t touch it. I was aware of someone watching me. Pat, over by the drinks table, was ostensibly talking to my father and Piers, but looking at me. Had he seen me stand up, spill my drink and dash inside like a lunatic? Well, I’d embarrassed myself in front of that man so many times, one more wasn’t going to make any difference, I thought bitterly. And I’d been so sure, I thought, staring blankly back into the drawing room. So sure I’d seen them there together, but—well, that was classic, wasn’t it? Classic jealous imaginings, the mind playing tricks, the green-eyed monster feeding on whom it preys. Of course. Truth or illusion. Illusion or truth. In this case, very much illusion. And it was very hot. Too hot, for May. I glanced around at Dad, fanning himself with his napkin; Mum, beside me, reaching for her straw hat. Yes, that must be it. The sun had got to me. And the Pimm’s.

  Behind me, Piers was bellowing with laughter as he teased Pat.

  “…don’t give me that, Pat. Your place is a complete totty magnet! You’ve got no end of fillies trotting in and out of there. I saw one myself going in only the other day!”

  “Nonsense,” drawled Pat, “that was my Great-aunt Phyllis.”

  “What, with long blond hair, dark glasses and pink jeans?”

  “Ah, you must mean Cousin Dorothy.”

  “Don’t believe you for one moment, old boy. My money’s on that being some poor, unsuspecting bastard’s wife!”

  Everyone’s at it, I thought feverishly, scrunching my napkin tight in my fist. This man for starters. And God knows who else, at every conceivable opportunity. You only had to look over the balustrade into the fields beyond to see squirrels chasing each other into thickets, bunnies fornicating in bushes, sparrows doing it in mid-air. Was my husband at it too?

  “I’m worried about Hannah,” Mum muttered in my ear. “She’s been gone an awfully long time.”

  “I’ll go and look,” I said, getting up again, glad of the excuse to go inside; to get out of the sun, splash my face with water. My head was throbbing now.

  “Oh, would you? Thank you, my sweet.”

  I went, with careful, measured steps, back across the terrace, and in through the French windows to the drawing room. As I crossed the threshold I stood for a moment, my eyes darting around; taking in the mirror that had so recently played tricks on me, presenting me with a false image, and which even now was shocking me again with my own reflection. I raised a hand to my cheek, astonished by my pallor. How pale I looked; how huge and troubled my eyes. I hurried away, and was about to leave the room when my eyes fell on the telephone. It was an integral part of a fax machine, on a table near the chair Eleanor had been sitting in. Glancing quickly over my shoulder to check I wasn’t being observed, I lifted the receiver and quickly pressed redial. After a couple of rings, a clear, fluty voice rang out.

  “Good afternoon, Marlborough College?”

  Marlborough College. Where Eleanor’s elder children were at boarding school. Not the silk flower company she was ordering her pastiche garden from.

  “Hello?” the voice said impatiently.

  “I—I’m sorry. Wrong number.”

  I put the phone down, my heart pounding. Well—perhaps they’d rung her, the flower company, to say they could deliver on Tuesday. I punched out 1471 then pressed 3, but it was the local butcher in Little Harrington, not a silk florist. I swallowed. My mouth was very dry. I barely had any saliva. I could hear my heart hammering in my throat. Was I…not going mad, but being sent mad? By the pair of them? I paused for a moment, steadying myself on the arm of the chair. No, I thought suddenly. No, you’re wrong, Imogen, because of course, she’d been using a mobile, hadn’t she. Had she? I racked my brains feverishly, tried to think back, but my memory was confused. I could visualise her sitting in this chair, talking animatedly, pushing back her brown curls…Had she been on her mobile? Yes, I decided slowly. Yes, I think she had. Was fairly sure, anyway. Because apart from anything else, this phone was attached by a cord to the apparatus. It wasn’t a hands-free, so…would it even stretch? To the chair? I lifted the receiver and tried to sit down with it. Only just. I held it to my ear. And not comfortably. The coiled cord was taut—wouldn’t I have noticed that? If the cord had been—

  “Press nine for an outside line, Imogen.” Piers had stuck his head through the open French windows. “That one doesn’t have a direct line.”

  “Oh!” I threw the receiver down, but missed the apparatus. On the carpet, the receiver thrashed about, like a snake. I flushed as I retrieved it. “N-no, it’s OK.”

  “No, go ahead, it’s just you need to press nine.”

  “I will. Later. It was engaged, you see.”

  “Yes, but you would have dialled the wrong number,” he said coming through the doors. “If you didn’t press nine you—look, try again but this time—”

  “I will. In a minute,” I said through clenched teeth, wanting to bite him. He stopped, astonished. I flashed him a nervous smile, and left the room.

  So stupid, Imogen, I thought as I hastened away, to be caught sniffing around suspiciously, reenacting the scene of the crime, when there wasn’t even a crime. You saw for yourself how entirely innocent it all was—Eleanor on the phone, husband in a cupboard—your eyes had been deceiving you. Yes, my eyes had been deceiving me, I thought with a jolt. That was a well-known expression, wasn’t it? A cliché. And cliché’s wouldn’t exist if they hadn’t been borne out hundreds of times, if countless pairs of eyes hadn’t been deceived over the years, would they?

  After the bright buzz of the terrace, the big empty house seemed cool and still. Its heavy dark boards and oak-panelled passages soothed me as I padded down them. This wasn’t my world, or even the real one, but it was a much more comfortable one than the one outside, with its searching flashlights; its many pairs of eyes, the sun. I made my way to the main hall with its wide, heavily carved staircase, the gallery above running around three sides of it, and for a moment, couldn’t remember what I was doing there. I stopped. Put a hand to my forehead. Oh, yes, Hannah. I went on quickly and tried the loo by the front door. It was more like a study than a lavatory, with its framed prints, humorous cartoons and bookcase stuffed full of paperbacks, an ancient cistern in the corner—but no Hannah.

  Back across the hall I went, turning into a corridor, and pushing through the green baize door to the back passage. This was a different world again, and my footsteps clattered noisily as I swapped soft oak boards and Persian rugs for shiny terracotta tiles. It smelled of dogs and steam irons: a radio played loudly. As I passed the open kitchen door I saw Vera with her back to me, humming away as she washed up at the sink. There was another loo down here, the one I’d tried to use during the dinner party, but that too was empty. I popped back to the kitchen and stuck my head around.

  “Vera.” My voice didn’t sound like my own. Too husky. I cleared my throat as she turned. “Vera, you haven’t seen my sister, Hannah, anywhere, have you?”

  “Would that be the rather large—I mean…” she stopped, embarrassed.

  “That’s it, in a blue dress.”

  “She went upstairs, luv. Someone was in the downstairs one, so I sent her up there.”

  “Thanks.”

  I retraced my steps and mounted the main staircase, my hand brushing the oak rail as I went. Piers’s ancestors gazed sourly down at me through layers of blackened varnish, all with that same cold, disdainful look of his mother. Not for the first time I decided I didn’t envy Eleanor the bed she’d made for herself. My heart gave a sudden lurch. But that doesn’t mean she
envies yours, I told myself quickly. What, swap all this for Shepherd’s Cottage, with its tiny mildewed rooms and a view of the muckheap at the back? Don’t be soft.

  Upstairs was vast, creamy and sprawling, and the first few rooms I encountered looked distinctly pristine and spare. No Hannah. I began to get rather irritated. How far into the bowels of this house had she gone? Exactly how nosy was she being, here? I pressed on further down the corridor and reached another staircase where the rooms were more colourful: a couple had rock stars and models on their walls, another had ponies, and all three were clearly awaiting their occupants back from school. Only Theo’s room had the look of full residency, with soldiers and cars all over the floor and a splodge of red paint on the carpet. And Theo was off next year, I remembered, shutting his door again, so this room would be empty too. I wondered if I could ever send Rufus away, and knew immediately, with thumping great certainty, that I couldn’t. God, I wasn’t even sure I’d let him go to university. Everyone said when they were six foot two and lay horizontal on your sofa all day with their size ten trainers, I’d feel differently, but Rufus I knew, would never be like that. He’d always be nine years old, with dimpled cheeks and russet-red curls.

  As I passed the landing window, I spotted him down in the garden, on the swings with Theo. I paused to look fondly as he soared high into the air, laughing into the wind. Immediately below me, on the terrace, Dad was talking to Mum. I saw her finger his Hawaiian shirt, roll her eyes expressively and then do a quick hula-hula movement with her hands. Dad laughed, taking it in good heart, as Dawn did too, and then Dawn really did do a hula-hula dance, whilst Eddie grabbed the barbecue tongs and pretended to bang bongo drums. Dad then felt compelled to do a spot of limbo dancing, and Mum threw back her head and roared. I smiled. Whatever anyone thought, they were really rather jolly, my family. And anyway, who cared what anyone thought? I did, I thought nervously, craning my neck to see if Piers had spotted the cabaret, but he seemed oblivious, and was helping himself, rather furtively, I felt, to a gin and tonic from the drinks table. Eleanor was talking to Lady Latimer and Alex was there too, looking bored and picking his nose. I jolted with relief. Would he look bored and pick his nose if he were in love with her? Of course he bloody wouldn’t! You are a fool, Imogen Cameron, I decided, moving on. A silly, neurotic fool.

  The next landing looked very plush and private, and I guessed I was entering Piers and Eleanor’s own quarters, judging by the family photos dotted around the walls. I was just wondering which of the four white-panelled doors around me would yield a bathroom and my shameless sister, when I heard a shout of pain coming from one of them.

  “Hannah?” I tried the handle. It was locked. I rattled it. “Are you in there?”

  “Yes!” she gasped back.

  I went cold.

  “Hannah, are you OK?”

  “No, I’m bloody not! Hang on.”

  I heard movement within, and then she unlocked the door, hanging heavily on to the handle, before collapsing in a heap on the cream carpet. I flew to her side.

  “Oh my God—Hannah, are you all right?”

  She was breathing heavily, holding her side. “Appendix,” she gasped. “At least I think that’s what it is. It’s too bloody painful to be constipation!”

  “Appendix! Christ, are you sure?”

  “Well, I had something similar about three months ago,” she panted, “and the doctor said it could be rumbling appendicitis—apparently they can rumble on and on for ever. But it’s turned into Mount Vesuvius now and—ouch!” She gave a shriek as the pain hit her.

  “I’ll call an ambulance.” I got up hastily.

  “No, not an ambulance, just drive me there, Imo, and get Eddie to help me downstairs. I don’t want to make a scene, not here, not—AARRGHHH!!” Her eyes bulged as she shrieked.

  “Oh God, I am so ringing an ambulance, Hannah! I’ll get Eddie up here, but if it’s your appendix, you need to get to hospital fast.”

  I turned to dash away but she held my arm.

  “Painkillers,” she hissed, white-faced, “in the cupboard up there. I’ve seen them, but couldn’t stand up long enough to grab them. Give me a handful.”

  With shaking hands I found the packet, punched out a few, got her a glass of water and held it to her lips.

  “Thanks,” she muttered swallowing them down. “Not that it’ll do much good when it’s up against this sort of eruption.”

  “Well, it’s better than nothing. Now stay there and don’t move. I’ll be back.”

  “I can’t bloody move.”

  “And—here—put this behind your head.” I seized a lacy cushion from a Lloyd Loom chair and shoved it behind her, manoeuvring her so she was propped up against the bath. She looked a bit more comfortable.

  “Better?” I said anxiously.

  “A bit. I might even be able to make it to that chair.”

  “Don’t,” I said dangerously. “Just stay there, I’ll be back. Oh joy, a phone.”

  My eyes had spotted it through an open door into what was clearly the master bedroom—huge, with a four-poster bed and a chaise longue, and all a riot of blue toile de Jouy—on the bedside table. I flew to it. As I punched out 999 I realised I’d never done this before, and was taken aback by the bored tones of the girl who asked me if I wanted fire, police or ambulance. I supposed it might get repetitive if one did it every day.

  “Ambulance!” I barked. “And make it snappy. My sister’s got a burst appendix!”

  God, had it burst? In horror I beetled back down the stairs to get Eddie, because if it had—well, that was bloody serious, actually: blood poisoning, peritonitis…

  I ran through the hall and down the passage, pausing a moment to get my bearings. If only this house wasn’t so flaming big. Yes, this was the way to the terrace. I flew outside at racing speed, but only Mum and Lady Latimer were there, chatting quietly under a huge parasol. They looked up in surprise as I burst out.

  “Where’s Eddie?” I gasped, trying to keep the panic from my voice.

  Mum took off her sunglasses and frowned at me. “Piers took everyone off to look at his aviary, darling. Rufus wanted to see the lovebirds. Why, what’s wrong?”

  “I think Hannah may have appendicitis,” I said, as calmly as I could.

  “Oh God.” She stood up quickly.

  “I’ve called an ambulance, but, Mum, I need you to get Eddie.”

  “I’ll show you.” Lady Latimer, suddenly galvanised, was on her feet.

  “You know where it is?”

  “Well, it used to be my aviary, young lady, so I should do!” she said with some force. She strode off with Mum hurrying along beside her, in the direction of the stables.

  I ran back inside and made for the staircase again, taking the stairs two at a time. Down the long corridor I flew, past the spare rooms, the children’s rooms, on to the next landing, and into the bathroom. I spun around. Empty. No Hannah. No gasping sister slumped on the floor holding her side, berating me for not getting back quickly enough, for taking my time; just acres of cream carpet.

  “Hannah!” I yelped, spinning about.

  No answer. Shit. Had she tried to stagger somewhere more comfortable? A bedroom perhaps? I’d told her not to move!

  At that moment a piercing shriek rang out. It was a primeval sound, full of pain, full of fear, and it went right through me, anchoring me to the spot.

  “Arghhhhhh!”

  I flew in its general direction. It was coming from the master bedroom, the door to which was now shut. I burst through—and a horrific sight met my eyes. My sister was flat on her back on the four-poster bed, dress rucked up, knees bare and bent, legs wide apart—being forced apart—by Pat Flaherty, who loomed over her, pinning her to the bed, his dark eyes glittering as he ripped off her knickers.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” I thundered from the doorway, fists balled.

  “I’m delivering a baby, what does it look
like?” he snapped, his back still to me as he threw Hannah’s pants on the floor.

  “A baby!” I nearly fainted with horror. My hands shot out and gripped the doorframe, crucifix style.

  “Your sister’s in labour. I was in the downstairs loo and heard her shouts from down there—came running upstairs to find her practically giving birth on the bathroom floor. Somehow I managed to get her in here, which was no mean feat, I can tell you.” He paused a moment to step back and assess the situation, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  I stood there, mute with horror. Then: “Oh my God—Hannah!”

  But Hannah couldn’t speak, had neither breath nor vocabulary to draw on, could only stare at me with a mixture of terror and pain, panting hard. Suddenly she threw back her head and howled like a dog. I flew to her side.

  “I’ve called an ambulance,” I gasped, my mind whirring, struggling to comprehend. A baby!

  “Too late for that,” Pat informed me. “She’s fully dilated. Look, she’s pushing already.”

  “Oh my God, she thought she was constipated! Hannah, you’re pregnant, didn’t you know?”

  “Of course I didn’t bloody—AARGH!!” she shrieked as another contraction gripped her. “I want to push!”

  “Well, push, next time that happens,” Pat ordered, his hands—well, his hands somewhere really terribly intimate and personal.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” I shrieked, springing from Hannah’s side to hover behind him anxiously, wringing my hands. “Have you done this before?”

  “I have, as it happens, for complicated reasons, along with countless animal deliveries, but feel free if you think you’d do a better job.” He took his head from between my sister’s legs and turned to glare at me, black eyes flashing.