Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “How’s the flat?” I asked.

  “Well, sumptuous, as you might imagine. Kate doesn’t skimp on the décor, even for a nanny flat. I should think it all came from designer showrooms in Chelsea. Have you not seen it?”

  “No, because Sandra was always there. Maybe I’ll come up.”

  “Do! Leave Rufus with Hannah and come up for the night. We could see a play or something, have dinner.”

  I glowed with pleasure. “I will. And maybe Kate and Sebastian could come with us?”

  “They could, but it’s you I want to see. I don’t see you all week, don’t want to share you. Anyway, as you know, Kate and Sebastian’s social whirl dictates that nothing can go into the diary without three weeks’ notice. I tried to ask them out for supper this week, to thank them for the flat, and Kate said, ‘This week? Oh, no, Alex, we can’t do anything until the end of the month!’”

  I laughed. “I shall have words with her. Tell her she’s turning into a real card-carrying member of the glitterati. So what will you do for supper tonight, my darling?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, pick up a curry in Putney High Street and eat it in front of Sky footy, I expect.”

  I smiled. “Bachelor life has its compensations.”

  “Not many,” he said gloomily. “Sleep well, my love.”

  “And you.”

  I put down the phone in a glow of warmth and happiness. Clutching the tops of my arms I went to the window, threw back my head and gazed out at the clear night sky with its sprinkling of stars. Oh, the relief. The relief to be natural and light-hearted with him, without a shadow lurking over us. Without Her between us. Think of the time I’d wasted! The time I’d spent not feeling light and carefree like this!

  I drew the curtains and pulled my dressing gown around me as I went up to bed. It would have been nice if he’d asked after Rufus, I thought ruefully as I climbed the stairs; nice if he’d asked how his day had been, but hey, that was being picky, I told myself hurriedly. He was so busy, and anyway, all that would come, in time, when my plans for our new life had been instigated. He’d have more time for Rufus then, be more of a father to him. I poked my head around my sleeping son’s bedroom door and smiled. And anyway, it wasn’t as if Rufus was missing his daddy. Wasn’t asking when he’d be back, how long he’d be in London, but all that would come too, I reasoned, going across the landing to my room, come the start of the Cameron family’s new life together. Come the revolution. I got into bed with a smile and turned out the light.

  At three twenty, I was awakened by Rufus shaking me vigorously.

  “Mum. Mum! Wake up!”

  “Hmm? Wha’?” I peered at him blearily.

  “Mum, the cows are out! The cows are out of the field!”

  I frowned. “Don’t have any cows,” I mumbled. I turned over and went back to sleep.

  “MUM!” He shook my shoulders violently. “Come on, get up!”

  He threw back my duvet, and in that instant, stark naked and curled up in the foetal position, I came to. My eyes widened at the wall and I sat bolt upright.

  Shit! The cows were out!

  I ran to the window. Down below, Marge was casually snacking on a few tea roses in the front garden, whilst Princess Consuela was busy tap-dancing on the lawn.

  “Christ! How the hell did they get out?”

  “I think I might have left the gate open,” Rufus cowered. “I gave them some grass cuttings ’cos Tanya said they liked them, and I must have forgotten to tie up the gate!”

  “Jesus wept! Well, come on, we’ve got to get them back in again!”

  Seizing my dressing gown, I flew downstairs, shoving my arms into the sleeves as I went.

  “Wellies on,” I panted, scrabbling around and finding mine by the front door.

  “What—in my jim-jams?”

  “Yes, in your flaming birthday suit, if need be. Now come on!”

  We flew outside, me waving my arms and shouting like a banshee, whereupon Marge and Consuela, alarmed by a mad woman in a Chinese silk dressing gown complete with dragon motif, lolloped out of the garden, past their open gate, and on down the track.

  “You frightened them, Mummy!” yelled Rufus. “You need to be calm, and controlled, that’s what Tanya says!”

  I’d give him calm and controlled. I’d give him Tanya too. “Get behind them!” I screeched. “Run round the back and we’ll drive them back in a pincer movement!”

  “But hadn’t we better shut the gate? Otherwise the others will get out?”

  “Then how are we going to get this pair in?” I screamed.

  “I could stand guard at the gate and open it at the last minute! When you’ve got them lined up to come through!”

  Good plan, good plan. Wish I’d thought of it myself, although what I really wished I’d thought of was being the gate opener, I decided as I hustled off to get behind them. I wasn’t too keen on being the herder. I was reasonably au fait with cows now, but only from the pretty end. Wasn’t sure about Going Round The Back. One hand clutching my dressing gown, since it had lost its cord, I nervously nipped around the beasts. Marge and Consuela eyed me with interest as Rufus ran to shut the gate—just in time, before Homer and Bart came ambling out. He shooed them away, and they shuffled off into the darkness. Good boy, good boy. Got his father’s brains.

  “Right. Ready?” he yelled, standing by at the gate.

  “Ready!”

  “Then drive them towards me!”

  Easier said than done, actually. As I ran behind Marge’s large brown bottom, she flicked her tail and ambled forwards amiably enough, but then the other one slipped away in the opposite direction. As I ran to chivvy that one, the first one slipped off too. For all their bovine bulk, these beasts were like bleeding quicksilver.

  Finally, though, with much swearing and cursing, I’d got them lined up sufficiently to yell, “Right—open it, Rufus! Open it now!”

  He did, and Marge went straight in. Rufus whooped with delight and went to shut the gate but, flushed with success, I yelled, “No, keep it open! I can get the other one in too!”

  “No, Mum. Wait till you’ve lined her up properly.”

  “Keep it open!” I shrieked. “I’ve got her!”

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite, and when Rufus opened the gate, she darted in the other direction. Instinctively we both lunged after her, and as we did, Marge and Bart slipped past Rufus and began galloping joyously after Consuela, who was lolloping down the hill, even giving little bucks occasionally, thrilled to be out in the open country, the moonlight on her back, her disciples behind her.

  Rufus and I watched in dismay.

  “After them!” I hollered, careering down the chalk track.

  “No! Take the car!” called Rufus.

  I stopped. Good plan. Good plan.

  I came tearing back, ran inside for the car keys, then back to the car. Rufus was already in the front seat.

  “If we get the other side of them, we can use the headlights to drive them back in the right direction,” he explained. “I’ve seen it in films.”

  I nodded, mute with admiration, but also, fear. Oh, thumping great fear because—what would Piers say? His prize herd, his exotics, disappearing into the next county, injuring themselves perhaps, on barbed wire, keeling over in ditches, dying even—what would he say? He’d say get out, that’s what.

  “Maybe we should ring Piers?” said Rufus, bouncing up and down on the seat beside me as we bumped down the track. “Ask him to help?”

  “No!” I yelped. “No, we can manage this together, Rufus, just you and me. Here they are!” Three broad bottoms with whisking tails trotted plumply ahead of us in the headlights. “Right, I’ll drive up on this verge, get round the other—oh shit, SHIT!”

  “They think you’re racing them!” squealed Rufus.

  They surely did. As I drew up alongside them, they put their heads down and charged, Consuela rolling her eyes and shooting me a flirtatious, catch-me-if-you-can look, thrilling
to the chase.

  “Slow down, Mummy, slow down. They’re heading for the road!”

  I hit the brakes as the cattle stampeded on. They’d clearly decided this had become a big night out and were heading for the bright lights—as bright as they got around here, anyway—the beckoning twinkle of the A41. Oh God, I thought in terror, now someone would die! And it wouldn’t just be a cow, it would be a human being, driving along—a nurse perhaps, returning from a night shift, a very nice, innocent person anyway, not a drunk returning from a pub crawl—and SMACK! into the cows she’d go, swerving off the road, into a ditch, dead in seconds.

  “This isn’t working!” I yelled. “The car’s frightening them. We’ll leave it here and get out!”

  As we stopped, the cows, placid, inquisitive creatures by nature, stopped too and turned to look at us, sides heaving. Then they promptly put their heads down and grazed, greedy for the uncharacteristically lush pasture. We crept up on them, Rufus and I, like Red Indians, and there then ensued much scampering about in the fields, much waving of our arms and cajoling, but we were outnumbered.

  “It’s no good, Mummy, we need someone else! Every time I get Consuela, Bart goes running off again!”

  In the moonlight Rufus was scarlet behind his freckles, and I could tell from his voice he was close to tears.

  “Pat’s house is just there.” He pointed to the brick and flint lodge, the proximity of which hadn’t escaped me. “Why don’t I go and get him?”

  Holding my sides and panting hard, I hesitated. The last, the very last person I wanted to involve, aside from Piers, of course, was that man. But actually, things were getting out of control here, and if I wasn’t careful I’d have an accident on my hands. I swallowed my pride, which was about the size of a baked potato, and nodded.

  “Wait here,” I muttered. “I’ll go.”

  I ran across the fields and down the lane beside the little stone wall, clutching my dressing gown to me as I threw open his front gate. We’d move, obviously, after this. Yes, move house. Somewhere far flung, somewhere remote, where no one knew us. Yorkshire perhaps. Yorkshire had farms. No, no farms. No cows. Liverpool, then. No cows in Liverpool. I rang the bell. He didn’t answer. Well, of course he didn’t; it was nearly three in the morning. Shutting my eyes for courage, I rang again, leaning on it this time. Scotland, I decided. Right up in the Highlands. Back to the salmon farming.

  Eventually there was a shuffling sound down the passage: a light went on in the decorative fanlight above the door, and then it opened. Molly peered at me, clutching her own dressing gown and looking dazed.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I breathed, taken aback. “It’s me, Imogen.”

  “Imogen,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

  “Um, Molly, our cows have escaped and I just wondered—is Pat in? Only I’m rather hopeless and I’ve only got Rufus.” It all came babbling out in a rush. “You see the thing is, they’re almost on the road now and I’m so worried there’ll be an accident!”

  My voice sounded as small and cracked as Rufus’s.

  “Oh Lord,” she said sleepily. She turned. “Pat…oh.”

  A pair of tanned legs in boxer shorts and a bare bronzed torso emerged down the hallway behind her. Instinctively, I glanced away.

  “I’m so sorry,” I gasped, keeping my eyes firmly on the architrave around the door, “but our cows have escaped, and I just wondered…only there’s only me and Rufus—”

  “Hang on.”

  As I glanced back, he’d turned and legged it back down the hallway. He reappeared seconds later, thrusting his legs into jeans as he hopped along, a fishing jumper over his head.

  “I’d offer to help,” mumbled Molly sleepily, “but I’m afraid I’m terrified of cows.”

  “Such a townie,” said Pat affectionately, ruffling her hair. “How many are there?” This to me, not so affectionately.

  “Oh. Three.”

  “Fine. With Rufus we can handle that. Go back to bed, Moll.”

  Needing no further prompting she turned, gave us a weary backward wave, and floated back inside.

  Pat grabbed a handful of walking sticks from the umbrella stand in the hall and a torch from the table and we hurried off down the path. I couldn’t resist turning at the gate and looking back at the house. I saw her, by the light of the bedroom window, shrug the dressing gown off and slip naked back into bed, before turning the bedside light out. I gulped and snuck a glance at him. Blimey. Quite a coolie, wasn’t he? Bedding one beautiful woman after another like that? And here I was dragging him away from it all.

  “I’m really sorry,” I mumbled, flaming face trained to the ground as we hurried along in the darkness. Thank God for the darkness. “I didn’t know what else to do, and Piers will freak.”

  “He will,” he agreed grimly. “Where are they?”

  “Just down the track, over by the water meadow. Luckily the river runs between them and the road and they were grazing quite happily beside it. I told Rufus to stay with them, not to try and move them but—oh!”

  As we rounded the bend, I swung about in horror. The track was empty; no Rufus, no cows, just black fields laced with dry-stone walls.

  “RUFUS!” I screamed, terrified now. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

  “I’m here!” an equally terrified voice screamed back out of the night. “I couldn’t stop them, Mum!”

  I swung round the other way, and as Pat shone his torch, we saw Rufus, in his red checked pyjamas, pointing desperately as the three shaggy Longhorns ambled into the distance. They’d crossed the stream and were heading for the road, for the ribbon of halogen glowing in the night, for the action of the A41.

  “Oh Christ, that’s exactly what we don’t want!” said Pat, already running in the general direction. “Come on, we’ll have to cross the stream and head them back.”

  He was fast and sure-footed, much, much more sure-footed than I, and it was dark, damn it, and the terrain was rough, and he had the torch. As he leaped the stream at its narrowest point, Rufus following, I tried nimbly to follow suit—and slipped and fell.

  “All right?” he called back over his shoulder, still running, I noticed.

  I wasn’t at all—my ankle was killing me—but I struggled, soaked to my knees, and scrambled up the bank on all fours. As I got to my feet I was almost annoyed to find my leg was not broken.

  “Yes!” I bleated, completely sodden, both boots full of water, plastered with mud and pond weed.

  “Right.” He paused a moment, swinging round to give us orders. “Now we need to take a cow each and get behind it, got it?” His dark eyes flashed in the moonlight as Rufus and I stood panting before him like the poor bloody infantry. “And then, with outstretched arms, like this—” he demonstrated a crucifix position—“and with a stick in each hand, like so—” he showed us, then handed us some sticks—“we drive them forwards. Calmly, OK? But if they cut up rough, don’t be afraid to whack them on the backside. Rufus, you take the brown and white one, and, Imogen, that one’s yours. I’ll take this stroppy little madam.”

  For a moment I thought he was looking at me, then realised he meant Consuela. Expertly wielding two sticks, like a Kung Fu fighter, he began to turn her around, and head her back across the stream, towards home. Rufus got the idea and Bart followed suit, but Marge, clearly a good-time girl, was still intent on partying, and shot off in the opposite direction. Multiple pile-ups swam before my eyes.

  “Run around her!” yelled Pat, still shepherding his cow, “and spread your arms out like this!” I knew exactly what he was demonstrating, but pretended I hadn’t heard because obviously I couldn’t do that. I had to clutch my dressing gown because it had no cord and I was completely naked underneath. I waved a stick feebly with one hand and ran after Marge, but every time I got behind her and tried to drive her forward, she dodged and doubled back on herself.

  “STICK IN EACH HAND!” Pat hollered. “ARMS OUT!”

  “Yes I KNOW!” I screamed back, still clutchin
g my Chinese silk to me. Marge ducked round me again, grinning almost, it seemed, tongue hanging out, and galloped joyously towards the road. Headlights came towards us.

  “IMOGEN!” roared Pat, furious.

  Fuck. Oh fuckity-fuck!

  Sticks held aloft, I charged after her, zoomed around her rear end, turned her expertly, and with my dressing gown streaming out behind me, came running back towards Pat and Rufus, arms high. A good look, I felt; naked but for sticks and Wellingtons.

  “Happy?” I screeched, as the cow obediently trundled towards them.

  Pat’s eyes were on stalks. “Very,” I think I heard him say, but I expect I was mistaken.

  As Marge fell into line with the others, the cows crossed the stream in unison and we followed. They were going at a fair old lick, though, and we struggled to keep up, but at least they were going the right way. I’d managed to clutch my dignity back again too, much to my son’s relief.

  “Mummy! You’re naked!” he hissed as he came up beside me.

  “Well spotted, darling,” I panted, gasping for breath.

  To my relief, I saw that the cows were stampeding up the track to our cottage now, and if Pat sprinted ahead…I struggled up the hill, almost on my knees now, exhausted beyond belief, holding my side, watching as Pat put on a spurt to overtake them—and to swing open the gate. Rufus ran on gamely in his red pyjamas, but he was going to struggle to get all three in on his own so…I gritted my teeth, and with one last superhuman effort and a mighty roar, “GOO ON!” I urged, running up beside him and whacking Marge’s backside.

  She shot in, followed by the others, and the gate swung shut, with a decisive click, on Bart’s bottom. The three of us clung to the top bar, panting hard. I thought I was going to pass out, actually. Either that or vomit.