Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “Bye!” my family shouted cheerily to his departing back, and it was at this point that I was about to turn to him, really I was. About to smile, thank him, make polite conversation as we headed off down the corridor together, but when I turned, a bright smile at the ready, I realised—he’d gone. In the opposite direction, heading off, presumably to another exit, down the other end of the corridor. Too late, I was going the other way.

  I got to the car park, glancing about for him to no avail. I drove off to the school, feeling cross and confused. Why had I found it so hard to look at him? To talk to him? I hadn’t even thanked him like the rest of my family, but he had rather shot off, hadn’t he? I’d meant to walk out with him, though, thank him then, not with all my family all standing around, which, for some reason, I’d found embarrassing; all eyes on me, as it were—although…why should they be on me? And why should I feel like that? But he’d obviously felt uncomfortable too, to disappear so quickly. I’d made him uncomfortable by being so unfriendly.

  I shifted in my seat, irritated, as I raced down the narrow country lanes towards the village, my wing mirrors whipping the cow parsley heads. Oh, well, what did I care? I pushed a hand through my hair. I didn’t even like the man. I frowned into the rearview mirror as I pulled into a bank to let another car go past. But, then again, he had brought my new nephew into the world, hadn’t he? Had possibly saved his life by delivering him safely. I licked my lips. I wished I’d at least said thank you. Wished I’d managed that.

  Rufus ran across the village green to meet me as I drew up, an alligator made out of egg boxes in one hand, Tanya in the other. I smiled, despite my irritation. This was what I liked about this school: the fact that the kids didn’t consider egg box alligators too immature, or holding hands too uncool.

  “Mum, can Tanya come back for tea with us? We want to see if we’ve got any rabbits.”

  Disappointed, but not undaunted by the conspicuous lack of foxes in their Heath Robinson trap, Rufus and Tanya had turned their attention, less ambitiously perhaps, to rabbits, and created a contraption that was essentially a salad bar with a trap door. My lettuces and carrots were disappearing apace, but thus far, the rabbits were still skipping merrily around the fields.

  “Is that OK with Mummy, Tanya?”

  “Yeah, she says it’s fine.”

  I glanced over her blond head and saw Sheila at the school gates collecting her zillions. She saw me and smiled, nodding that she knew.

  “I’ll whiz her back later, Sheila,” I called.

  “Do not. She can walk,” she yelled.

  I grinned and, as we drove off, listened to the children’s chatter in the back. Any homework they had could be polished off in minutes before racing out to play in the fields, unlike in London where sometimes it took up an entire evening, and for what? Just to bolster the league tables? Just to shin another inch up the greasy juvenile pole? My mind wasn’t really on homework or league tables, though, or even the children; my mind was still, ridiculously, on Pat Flaherty. I’d offended him by ignoring him, and now I was ashamed.

  “Come on!”

  As I parked in the yard, Tanya and Rufus were even now leaping out of the car and legging it through the gate, running in the direction of the meadow and their trap.

  I wandered inside to get their tea, pausing en route to scatter some grain for the chickens. Damn, I thought miserably. Now I’d be back to giving him tight little smiles as we passed in the lanes in our cars, muttering good morning with my head down if I spotted him in the high street. Well, so what, I thought with a jolt as I threw some more corn. Why on earth should that matter? How on earth does offending the local vet impinge on your life, Imogen, hmm? I banged the lid down on the grain bin with a clatter. Not one iota, actually. Not one little jot.

  “Mummy!”

  I turned to see Rufus running back towards me.

  “Mum, come quick,” he panted, his face pink with excitement. “We’ve got one! We’ve got a rabbit!”

  “Oh, Rufus, you haven’t.”

  “We have!”

  “Well, you’ll have to let it go, you know.”

  “I know, we will, but come and see first!”

  I hurried after him across the yard; down the cinder path, through the gate to the large paddock next to the cows’ field, the one full of clover. Tanya was in the middle of it, squatting down on her haunches over a large wooden box.

  “He’s huge!” she squeaked. “Look!”

  I bent down beside her to see. Through the mesh trap door, an enormous grey rabbit with round, scared eyes, his ears flattened to his back, stared back at me.

  “He certainly is. And he’s lovely, guys, but he’s a bit frightened. I should set him free.”

  “I know, we will, but we just want to keep him for a little bit. For observation,” pleaded Rufus.

  “It’s research,” Tanya informed me grandly. “For a school project. Very ejucational. We’ve got to keep him for at least an hour. And anyway, we may have to look after him longer, ’cos I think he’s limping.”

  “Is he?” Rufus bent to see, unused to such ploys to get his own way.

  “Tanya,” I made a face, “he is not limping.”

  “He is a bit,” she insisted. “Maybe we should take him to see the vet?”

  I laughed, straightening up. “We are not taking this rabbit to see the—” I broke off. Stared at her a moment. Settled back down on my haunches beside her.

  “Limping, you say?” I enquired softly.

  “Yeah, look!” she said, thrilled to bits that her little ruse had been so easily bought. “I think it’s his back leg!”

  “Where?” demanded Rufus, peering in.

  “Oh dear. Yes. Poor thing,” I murmured. “Well, maybe we should.”

  Rufus’s eyes nearly popped out of his head in astonishment, unused to his mother being such a pushover. “Really, Mum? Can we?”

  “Why not?” I straightened up. “Just to—you know—check him over. See that he’s OK before we set him free. Wouldn’t want him hoping round on a dodgy leg, would we?”

  “Ye-esss!” The children leaped up and punched the air in delight, thrilled to be taken seriously for once, although I could see Tanya looking at me with something approaching derision. Never in a million years would she have got that past her mother, but then, never in a million years would Sheila need, so very urgently, to see a man about a rabbit.

  Without giving myself a moment to question my motives and with the car keys still in my hand, we retraced our steps across the meadow and piled as one into the car, the rabbit cowering in submission in a corner of his box in the boot. As we drove up the chalky zigzag track, though, my mind was whirring.

  “Um, listen, guys,” I called over my shoulder to the back seat, “I’m not convinced the vet treats wild animals, so we might have to say that the rabbit’s—you know—ours.”

  “OK,” said Tanya quickly.

  “Really?” Rufus’s eyes were huge in my rearview mirror. This was a whole new side to his mother, one he’d never seen before. Not only a pushover, but a fibber too. A very exciting side. He beamed and bounced delightedly in his seat.

  “Yes, we can say we bought him last week,” he said warming quickly to the duplicity. “For my birthday or something.”

  “It wasn’t your birthday last week, Rufus.”

  “I know, but he won’t know that, will he?” he said, justifiably miffed that I’d found holes in his fabrications when he’d accepted mine wholesale. Marvellous moral code you’re expounding here, Imogen, I thought, licking my lips nervously as we belted along the lanes. Marvellous. The boy will grow up with a terrific sense of integrity.

  We were on the outskirts of town now, pulling up in a tree-lined road outside the rather smart Victorian house with the brass plaque, which bore the legend “Marshbank Veterinary Practice.” I’d always rather cringed as I’d driven past, head well down behind the wheel, but now, as the children jumped out with alacrity and ran round to the b
oot to get the box, I got out confidently. Yes, I thought as I followed them up the path to the green front door; and when he saw that the rabbit was OK—Pat, I mean—I could just—you know—have a dizzy blonde moment. Say—oh gosh, is it? How silly of me, I could have sworn he was limping, the children were convinced—or something like that. And he’d laugh delightedly at my charming fluffiness and say—don’t worry, it happens all the time, and then the children would wander off to look at all the other poor, sick animals, and he’d say—why didn’t I have a coffee while I was here? And we’d settle down for a cosy chat, and that would be that. What would be what, Imogen? I wondered fleetingly, as we pushed through the green front door. But only fleetingly. I mean, dammit, we were here now.

  I took a deep breath and approached the desk in the waiting room. I deliberately hadn’t rung for an appointment, knowing there was little chance of getting one at the last minute. No, we’d come as an emergency, and when he heard who was here, I was sure he’d see me.

  The pretty blonde receptionist looked up and smiled: a mummy with two small children and a bunny in a box.

  “Can I help?”

  “Yes, I’m awfully sorry, we don’t have an appointment, but we’ve got a rather sick rabbit here and we wondered if the vet could see him.”

  “Oh dear, poor thing.” She leaned over her desk to peer into the box, then down at her diary. “Let me see what I can do for you. I might be able to squeeze you in. Name, please?”

  “Mrs. Cameron.”

  Her eyes shot up from her book. Her face changed dramatically. It was no longer so friendly and smiley. Quite wintery, in fact.

  “We are rather busy, actually,” she said shortly, closing the diary.

  “Oh, but you did say you might be able to squeeze us in,” I said, shamelessly, particularly since I recognised her icy tones. “The children would be so grateful.”

  The china-blue eyes were cool. She regarded me a long moment. “Just a minute.” She got up with a flick of her blonde hair over her shoulder and slipped her pert little bottom out from behind her desk. Then she exited stage left and went down the corridor.

  “Is he going to look at him?” hissed Rufus.

  “I don’t know, darling. We’ll see.”

  There was only one other man sitting in the waiting room: a huge chap with a bulbous red nose and a bull terrier on a heavy chain. I turned and gave him an apologetic smile, but he glared at me, none too pleased at being shunted down the queue, no doubt. The bull terrier gave a low growl as it lay with its head between its paws at its master’s feet. I dropped the smile and quickly turned back.

  In another moment, the receptionist had returned. She gave a tight little smile. “Yes, OK, the vet will see you. But he’s operating in five minutes, so you’ll have to be quick.”

  “Thank you so much,” I gushed disingenuously.

  “No problem,” she muttered, sitting down again. “Now. Name?”

  “Mrs. Cam—”

  “The rabbit’s,” she snapped.

  “Ah.”

  Rufus, Tanya and I looked at each other wildly. Then we all spoke at once.

  “Bunny.”

  “Thumper.”

  “Cuddles.”

  The receptionist raised her eyebrows.

  “Um, yes. That’s his…full name,” I murmured. “Bunny Thumper Cuddles.”

  “I see.” She filled in the form, her face inscrutable. “And how old is Bunny Thumper Cuddles?”

  More wild looks. I willed the children into silence with my eyes. “He’s…twenty-two months,” I breathed, for some reason, thinking of Pat’s daughter.

  “Twenty-two months,” she repeated slowly, writing it down. “Very precise,” she observed drily.

  I swallowed.

  “And sex?”

  “Good heavens, no, he’s only a baby!”

  “What sex is the rabbit, Mrs. Cameron?”

  “Oh! Right. He’s…a—a male. A man rabbit.”

  She scribbled some more, then glanced up. “Right. Well, if you’d like to take this form,” she said sweetly, “together with your ‘man rabbit,’ down the corridor to the first door on the right, the vet will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” I muttered, almost snatching the form from her, ignoring her heavy sarcasm.

  We scurried away down the corridor, glad to be out of the scrutiny of her glacial gaze. As I turned the handle of the door on the right, I instinctively sucked in my tummy and straightened up, summoning up a gracious smile, a pair of twinkling eyes, as we swept in. He was over on the far side of the room by the sink, in a white coat, his back to us; but even before he turned, I felt a pang of dismay.

  “Mrs. Cameron?” A vinegar-faced man with a Scottish accent, his hair, intellectually withdrawn from his temples, peered at me over half-moon glasses.

  “Oh! I was expecting…Mr. Flaherty. Is he…?”

  “Operating, I’m afraid. I’m Mr. McAlpine, the senior partner. Will I do?” he enquired scathingly, a quizzical gleam in his eye.

  I flushed. “Yes, of course.”

  “Now.” He crossed the room. “Samantha tells me we have a very sick rabbit here. So sick I must delay operating on a Border collie with a malignant tumour. Is that right?”

  My heart gave a palsied lurch. “Well, I—”

  He took the form briskly from my hands. “Bunny Thumper Cuddles aged twenty-two months.” He glanced up. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  I attempted to back towards the door with the box, pulling Rufus with me by his sleeve.

  “Oh, I—I think…” I smiled foolishly, “well, he had a slight limp. But actually, I didn’t notice it in the waiting room just now. And you’re so busy, we’ll come back another—”

  “Nonsense, you’re here now and I’ve broken off my premed to look at him. Come on, let’s be having him.”

  He took the box from my hand and put it on the table in the middle of the room. “Now, laddie,” he turned to Rufus, “would you like to get your bunny out for me?”

  Rufus turned terrified eyes to me. He shook his head mutely. I glanced at Tanya, but she shook hers fiercely too and took a step backwards.

  I licked my lips. “Um, the thing is, he hasn’t been handled that much, so maybe,” I attempted a fluffy laugh. “Well, I’m fairly hopeless with animals and you’re the professional…” My dizzy moment fell on stony ground as he regarded me scathingly.

  “I see. Who mucks him out, then?”

  “Who mucks him…oh! Well, yes, of course I do. But—not very often.”

  He raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  “I—I mean—because he’s frightfully clean. Hardly any ponky-poos at all!”

  “Really. Constipated as well as limping. Well, let’s have a look.”

  He flicked back the clasp, opened the lid and peered in, at which point, the rabbit spun round and, like a Kung Fu boxer, delivered a powerful kick with both hind legs straight to the vet’s face. He caught Mr. McAlpine squarely in the right eye, and sent his glasses flying to the ground. Then he leaped high into the air and sank his teeth into his finger.

  “Jesus Christ!” the vet yelped with pain, shaking his hand vigorously, as the rabbit clung on, then, seeing his chance, leaped away. He jumped down to the floor and fled to a corner of the room, ears flattened back with terror.

  Blood pouring from his finger, the vet looked at me aghast. “That’s not a tame rabbit, Mrs. Cameron,” he roared. “That’s a wild hare!”

  “Oh!” I gasped. “Is it?”

  “I thought it was big,” volunteered Tanya, in awe.

  “What the hell are you doing bringing it in here? It could be diseased, could have anything!” he shrieked, his face contorted with rage.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I thought—I mean—we all thought, it was limping a bit, and we felt sorry for it so—”

  “Limping?” he bellowed, as the hare, desperate to escape, jumped up on the counter, across the sink, and on top of a cupboard, for all t
he world like a Russian gymnast, knocking over bottles, sending test tubes flying and crashing to the ground, and generally creating mayhem. “That hare is no more limping than I’m Olga Korbut! He’s got springs in his back legs that would grace a suspension bridge!”

  The hare was, indeed, extremely well-sprung, and looking horribly agile now as he careered around the room, sending specimen jars full of vile-looking liquid smashing to the ground. We watched in horror.

  “Get him out of here!” he yelled.

  “Right-oh,” I croaked.

  With the children cowering behind me I dithered ineffectually around the room, flapping my arms, waving my handbag, bleating, “Here, Bunny” as I attempted to corner him, but knowing in my heart it was futile. What if I did? I couldn’t touch him, for God’s sake, let alone pick him up.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mr. McAlpine, exasperated beyond belief, advanced on the hare, who, crouched in a corner in terror, was evacuating copiously out of his rear end. I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t follow suit, for terror was surely gripping me too. The vet lunged and caught the animal by the haunches, but the hare wriggled free, and as the vet made a valiant attempt to hang on, he skidded in a mixture of broken bottles, faeces and urine, and landed, with a resounding “Oomph!” face down on his academic forehead. The children and I gasped in horror, but Mr. McAlpine got to his feet, his poo-splattered face set and determined, and advanced again, whereupon the hare, sensing another attack, leaped up and bit him hard on the nose, drawing a spurt of blood.

  “Oh!” shrieked Tanya, her horror betraying a hint of ecstasy.

  The vet swore darkly and made another lunge. There was a palpitating moment when he nearly caught the hare by the ears, but the animal dodged nimbly, causing Mr. McAlpine to bang his head squarely on a cupboard door, just as the hare, spotting the open window above the sink, sprang out.

  “Oh, no!” the children gasped in alarm.

  “Best place for him,” panted the vet, holding his head and staggering to slam the window shut behind him. “Back to the field, where he belongs. Jesus Christ!” He put a hand to his bleeding nose.