Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “All right?” gasped Pat at length, quite breathless himself, I was pleased to see.

  “Yes!” I wheezed. “Rufus?”

  Rufus had collapsed, spread-eagled on his back on the grass. “Bloody knackered!”

  “Rufus!”

  We gave ourselves a moment, there in the moonlight, panting, wheezing, and coughing, to recover.

  Then, “Come on.” Pat reached down and pulled Rufus to his feet with both hands. “Let’s get you to bed, cowboy.”

  “Yes, bed, Rufus,” I agreed, putting a hand on each of his shoulders and propelling him weakly towards the cottage. We staggered up the path, the two of us, and through the front door; Rufus, completely spent, and on automatic now, heading up the stairs. As I followed him, it occurred to me to wonder if I should make him wash his hands, which were black, before he got into bed, or just wash the sheets in the morning. Just wash the sheets, I thought as he crawled in under the covers, exhausted.

  “Sorry, Mum,” I heard him mutter as I went to shut his door. “I mean, for letting them out.”

  I turned and gave a weak smile in the doorway. “These things happen, darling. All part of country life.”

  When I got back downstairs, Pat was in the sitting room, slumped in an armchair, legs splayed out in front of him.

  “Oh—sorry,” he muttered, hauling himself wearily to his feet. “Collapsed for a moment, there. I’ll be on my way.”

  “No, no, don’t. It’s my fault for getting you up in the middle of the night. D’you want a cup of tea or something? Or even something stronger?”

  “Now you’re talking,” he grinned, flopping back again. “Mind if I help myself to a brandy?” He nodded to the sideboard where the bottles were arrayed.

  “Do, I’m just going to take off my—well, to change.”

  I flushed and disappeared again, flying up to my room. God, I must look a complete fright, and if we were having a drink, I must change. A glance in the mirror confirmed my fears. Mud and slime covered my face, my dressing gown was ripped at the shoulder, and my legs were filthy and grazed. I tore the wretched garment off with a shudder and dropped it in the waste-paper bin—never liked it—then quickly washed my face and pulled on jeans and a jumper. I’d got as far as the landing before I ran back to rake a comb through my hair. Well, I looked such a mess, I reasoned. As I went past Rufus’s door, I peeked in. Fast asleep again, good.

  Pat was crouched down by the hearth when I got downstairs and I realised he’d lit the fire.

  “Oh!”

  “Well, it’s so bloody cold I felt I had to,” he said, straightening up and handing me a brandy. “And I thought you could do with some warmth after that dip in the river.”

  “Thanks.”

  I realised I was shivering, despite having changed. I kneeled down by the fire, which hadn’t really got going yet, trying to absorb its heat.

  “I don’t usually drink this,” I said, wrinkling my nose into the glass. I sipped it cautiously. “But actually, it’s quite nice.”

  He crouched beside me. “Ah, well, brandy tastes different under different circumstances. It’s mercurial stuff. I can’t be doing with it after dinner, but after a shock, it’s always very welcome.”

  I heard the lilt in his voice as he said this. His face flickered in the firelight.

  “It was a bit of a shock,” I admitted. “I don’t often wake up with a jolt and run a steeplechase at three in the morning. Not sure I’m fit enough.”

  He grinned into the flames. “You looked pretty fit to me.”

  I blushed, aware he was referring to my streak through the water meadow and was grateful he wasn’t looking me in the eye. “Yes, well. Thanks to you, it didn’t end in disaster.” I took another sip of my drink. “I don’t know how I can begin to thank you.”

  “Then don’t. Anyway, I’m used to getting up at all hours. It’s an occupational hazard. In fact I thought it was Jack Hawkins, about his bull again.” He eased down on his haunches to sit on the rug.

  “Yes, I suppose broken nights are nothing new to you. Not so funny for Molly, though,” I said, deliberately mentioning her to see what he said.

  He grinned. “She’ll live.”

  Right. Not much.

  “Still,” I went on, “you could have told me to sod off and gone back to bed.”

  “I could,” he agreed.

  “I mean,” I went on doggedly, surprised I was pursuing this, “I haven’t exactly been a model client, have I, dragging you out to look at dead chicks and not even being able to feed my own cows?”

  He smiled. “I’m not sure I’ve ever thought of you as a client, Imogen.” There was a silence as we both digested this.

  “And anyway,” he went on, “we all have to start somewhere. You’re new to the country. I dare say I’d be crap at commuting to the city, probably end up in Croydon or somewhere.”

  I smiled. Somehow I couldn’t see him in a pinstripe suit behind a Telegraph, trundling off on the misery line to Liverpool Street. I looked at him, leaning back on his elbows by the fire, legs stretched out in front of him now, crossed at the ankle, his tall, broad frame encased in jeans and an old navy fishing jumper; at ease, happy in his own skin in that relaxed Irish way.

  “Have you always lived in the country?”

  “No, I lived in Dublin when I was at university, and then for a couple of years in Belfast when I was at veterinary college. I’m not entirely a country bumpkin. My family are from West Cork though, and that’s where my heart is.”

  My own heart, inexplicably, stalled at this.

  “Is that where you’ll go back to, then? Eventually?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? When is ‘eventually’?”

  He stared into the flames. I wanted to say, is that where your wife and child are? But didn’t dare.

  “At the moment, I’m happy being elsewhere,” he said quietly.

  Elsewhere. It sounded as if he was running from something. Ties, perhaps. Responsibilities.

  I licked my lips. “My mother always says you can change your skies but you can’t change your soul.” I looked at him defiantly.

  He smiled. “Sounds like a very wise woman, your mother.”

  “She is,” I agreed.

  A silence fell between us.

  “And anyway, it’s people that make a place,” I went on boldly.

  “You’re so right. And I think…because of that, this place is becoming more than just Elsewhere.”

  Ah, I thought. Molly.

  “Anyway,” he shifted round on to one elbow, putting his back to the fire to face me, “enough of me. What about you? What brings you down here to the sticks away from the glamour of London?”

  I smiled wryly. “We couldn’t afford to live there any more. Couldn’t afford the glamour. Had to downsize, change our lifestyle. So money, I suppose. The root of all evil.”

  “Not always. The human condition accounts for quite a bit too.”

  I wondered what he meant by that, but something about the set of his jaw and a flinty look in his eye dissuaded me from asking. He sipped his drink then glanced up at me.

  “And is that where your heart is, then? London?”

  “Well, up to now, I suppose. I’m a born-and-bred townie, and I never thought I’d take to country life, but actually, I’ll be sad to leave this place.”

  As I said it, I realised it was true. What, go back to London? To Hastoe Avenue? Back to the house I loved, opposite Kate? Surely that would be bliss? But…we weren’t going to London, were we. We were going to Scotland, salmon farming, or—or Yorkshire. Liverpool, even. Yes, that was it. Anyway, we were definitely on the move. I swallowed. So, I wouldn’t be setting up my easel in the buttercup meadow any more, or walking with Rufus to the stream to watch the ducks after school…but presumably there were ducks everywhere…

  “What are you thinking?” He was watching me.

  I smiled ruefully. “That I’ve let this place get to me. And I said I never would.”

/>   “Ah, well, places have a habit of doing that. They creep up on you. Steal into your heart when you’re not looking. People too. Just when you don’t want them to.”

  He looked into the fire as he said this, leaning back on his elbows, but it seemed to me he looked straight into my soul. I hardly dared breathe. I watched the flames lick around the logs, knowing it was imperative not to take my eyes away from them. From those embers. And suddenly, I knew too I wanted to bottle this moment for ever. Wanted to freeze-frame this snapshot of the two of us: Pat, stretched out with fluid grace on the rug, me beside him on the hearth, my legs tucked under me, brandy glasses by our sides, the firelight flickering on our faces. As the implications of this thought trickled through to my consciousness, it simultaneously horrified me. I began to scramble to my feet, but as I did, he laid a hand on my arm.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Well, I just…”

  “Come here.”

  And with those words, he rolled over and took me in his arms. His weight wasn’t heavy against me, just warm and solid, not pinning or constricting: and his lips, when they touched mine, weren’t hard or forceful; they were gentle, tender. I could easily have pulled away. But I didn’t. I surrendered entirely to his embrace, and as his fingers swept through my hair, cradling my head in his hands, I arched my back into him; felt a flood of uncomplicated passion surge through me, then lost all sense of myself in the utter abandonment of the moment.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Seconds later, I was on my feet, my hands clutching my mouth. I stared down at him, appalled.

  “I can’t believe I did that!” I gasped.

  He propped himself up on one elbow and regarded me. “Joint effort, surely?”

  “What must you think of me!”

  “Would you like me to tell you?”

  “No!”

  I dropped the hands, aghast, and began to wring them instead, pacing the room in an agitated fashion.

  “You must go,” I breathed, stopping at the window and spinning round to face him. “Go on, quick!”

  It seemed to me I needed a duster to shake at him, to shoo him away like a dirty fly.

  “I’m going, I’m going.” He got to his feet in one fluid movement, grinning and still looking absurdly handsome.

  “You must think I’m appalling!”

  “You said you didn’t want me to tell you what I thought of you.”

  “No, no, you’re right. Quite right.” I gaped into his amused eyes. “I—I don’t do this sort of thing,” I flustered, hastening him down the passage way to the door.

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “I mean, God, if Rufus had come down—”

  “He didn’t.”

  “No, but if he had!” He turned and I boggled into his twinkling eyes, inches from mine in the narrow hallway “What were we thinking of?” I breathed.

  “Well, I know what I was thinking of.”

  “Yes, but I’m married!”

  “You are. But you’re lonely.”

  The eyes that held me now were steady, less amused. I stared into them.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I spluttered.

  “I’m not being ridiculous. It happens. Good night, Imogen.” He reached up and ran a finger lightly down my cheek. “Take care.”

  And then he went, letting himself out of the front door, sauntering down the path and into the night, or the dawn, actually: a tall, broad figure in a navy fishing jumper, hands in his pockets, moving with casual grace down the zigzag track, silhouetted against the cold pale light that filtered over the distant hills. When he got to the end of the track, he turned to look back at me. Oh God—now he thought I was watching him!

  I slammed the door shut and spun round with my back against it, wondering, for a gaudy moment, if perhaps he were coming back. For more? I held my breath. But when it became clear he wasn’t, I crept through the hall and across to the sitting-room window. I twitched the curtain and peered out. Yes. Yes he’d gone. I clutched the neck of my jumper and stole across to the fire, like a criminal. What had come over me? What on earth had possessed me to behave like that, like—like a teenager, down there on the rug? I gazed at it in horror. It seemed to zoom towards me, magnified, like a shot in a horror movie. One brandy? No, surely not. Surely I couldn’t blame that.

  On an impulse, I hastened to the downstairs loo, switched on the light and stared in the mirror. My eyes were overbright, my hair was mussed and I had—oh God—I had snog rash round my mouth! Just like a teenager. I touched it tentatively. But also…well, also I looked younger too, I decided, moving closer to the glass, fascinated, as if perhaps my reflection might reveal other clues to my new personality, my newfound wantonness. But the moment it threatened to, I snapped the light off. Turned and hurried from the room. On second thoughts, I didn’t want to know.

  I went upstairs, my arms wrapped around myself, holding tightly. It was hardly worth going to bed now, I reasoned, but maybe I’d just crawl in under the duvet in my clothes, just for an hour or so. I wouldn’t sleep, not after all that drama, but I could just lie down. Yes, that was it. Too much excitement; that’s what my mother would have said when I was younger. Running round after cows in the middle of the night—golly, it was bound to lead to trouble. Bound to end in tears.

  I awoke to find bright sunlight streaming through the thin cotton curtains. Rufus was shaking my shoulder.

  “Mummy—Mummy, wake up!”

  “Hmm?” I peered at him through bleary, half-shut eyes. “Wha’s wrong?”

  “We’ve overslept. It’s ten o’clock!”

  “Bugger.”

  I sat bolt upright and grabbed the clock. He was right, it was.

  “Oh God, we’re going to be so late, Rufus!” I threw back the covers, happily already fully dressed.

  “Much too late,” he said decisively. “No point going in now, Mum. Why don’t I have the day off?”

  I paused, midway through scrabbling for my trainers under the bed, midway through shoving my still grubby feet into them, and looked up into his wide, innocent brown eyes. Then I flopped back on to the bed.

  “Good idea. Why not? God, we’ve been up half the night cattle rustling. I think we deserve it.”

  A big grin broke over Rufus’s face and I could tell this was no impulse plan. He’d been dreaming it up over his cocoa-puffs downstairs in the kitchen for the last ten minutes.

  “But this is a one-off, Rufus,” I warned, sitting up again. “We won’t be making a habit of missing school just because the cows get out, OK?”

  “OK,” he agreed, sitting with a bounce beside me on the bed. “It was fun, though, wasn’t it? Seems really weird now, to think we were running round the countryside in our pyjamas. Like a dream.”

  Wish it had been a dream, I thought darkly as I got to my feet, snatching up a towel from the floor and heading off for a shower; particularly the latter part of the evening, the steamier end; but actually, Rufus was right: in the bright morning light, the whole episode had taken on a faintly surreal quality. Perhaps Pat would see it in the same light, I thought nervously as I padded round the bathroom finding my shampoo, conditioner. Perhaps he too could imagine it had never happened?

  It was a glorious, bright spring morning, tiny clouds scudding around after each other in a sailor-blue sky, and as Rufus skipped outside to feed the chickens, revelling in his unexpected day of freedom, I resolved to set to in the house. Yes, I’d give it a jolly good going-over, I decided, getting out the Hoover and roaring around, enjoying the noise as it blocked out thought. I found a feather duster and got up on chairs, flicking efficiently at pictures. Really—you know—get it gleaming, really lose myself in it.

  An hour or so later, I took my head out of the oven and sat back on my haunches, Brillo Pad limp in my hand, shoulders sagging. This wasn’t working. Wasn’t working at all. I wasn’t in the least bit lost. Not remotely. I sighed. It was no good, no amount of elbow grease and sparkling chrome was going t
o exorcise the memory of…you know. I bit my lip. Well, of course it wouldn’t. When had housework ever, ever solved anything? Painting—that was it, I thought feverishly, throwing down my Mr. Muscle. Why wasn’t I painting? Well, because Rufus was around, that’s why, and I wasn’t sure I could immerse myself in it properly with him badgering me for a biscuit every ten minutes, but, on the other hand, I’d managed it in London sometimes, when the evenings had been really bad, so why not here?

  When the evenings had been bad. That brought me up short as I went to get my easel. Yes, painting had been a balm, a salve there, but I’d been happier here. We’d been happier, Alex and I. My chest tightened. Why was I trying to ruin everything, then, by grappling with the local stud? The man who exercised women the same way some men do polo ponies, who had a string of them, and clearly regarded me as a challenge, a bit of married totty to be added to that string—flaming cheek!

  Face burning and hands fluttering, I fell on my oils in the cupboard under the stairs and hustled them outside. I hastened to the buttercup meadow. Here. No, here. No, actually, over here, in the lie of the hill, in the sunshine. Too hot—back into the shade. Under the trees. I set my easel up quickly, trying not to notice my hands were still quivering. This would do the trick. And Rufus was happy in the hay barn. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, whittling sticks with a horribly dangerous-looking knife. Now. That barley field over there, with the old hay wagon in the distance and those scampering clouds above—perfect.

  Somehow, though, I couldn’t get started. Couldn’t capture it. My brushstrokes were tense and agitated, and nothing flowed. It felt all…wrong. All disjointed. After a couple of hours, I stood back in dismay. All I was doing here was wrecking a canvas, I decided grimly as I unscrewed it from the easel. Pouring good money down the drain.

  I went inside for something to eat. Yes, food. That’s what I needed. Hadn’t even had breakfast. Rufus appeared to have made himself a sandwich, judging by the cheese and pickle left out on the side and the uneven fly-walk on the loaf of bread. God, he’d be in care soon. A nine-year-old boy, playing truant from school, getting his own meals, experimenting with knives. Social Services would have something to say about that. I picked up the loaf and the knife. But I wasn’t hungry. Wasn’t hungry at all, I realised in horror as I put them down. Now that was a first. Well, not entirely a first. I’d gone off my food once before, when I’d first met Alex; but that was because I was in…oh Lord.