Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  Fizzing with excitement, I carried the seascape and the street scene downstairs. I’d take them into the framer’s tomorrow, I decided. The one in town. I’d heard he was good—in fact, I’d take six or seven. My heart pounded. I’d never had so many pictures framed in one go; usually did them one at a time, never had the confidence. But I’d worked the money out in my head in the car, and I realised I had over two thousand pounds. Two thousand pounds! My heart flipped with excitement.

  As I propped up the paintings by the front door ready to put in the car—carefully, always back to back so as not to scrape the paint—and made to dash upstairs for more, I realised there was post on the doormat. I picked it up and instantly felt sick. Two envelopes, one cream, one blue, both written in hands I recognised. One from Alex, and one from Kate. I dropped them; had to sit down on the stairs I felt so wobbly. I stared at them on the mat for a long while. Couldn’t touch them, just sat there, staring at them. I could feel my fizzy excitement dripping off me, soaking into the carpet, like so many raindrops.

  After a while, I stood up. I collected the letters, and also a pen from the hall table. Then I sat down on the stairs again. I narrowed my eyes and gazed out of the tiny hall window to my cows, all lying on their sides, slumbering peacefully in the sunshine. Dad had once told me it was the ultimate insult, but also the ultimate in personal dignity. I carefully crossed out my address on each envelope, and then readdressed them, back from whence they came. No. No thank you, Alex and Kate. I don’t want your fawning apologies; don’t want to think about either of you right now, don’t want my bubble burst. Oh, I knew I’d be speaking to Alex about Rufus soon enough, organising access, but I’d contact him. I’d write to him, in my own time, on my own terms, when I was good and ready. And when Rufus was good and ready too. But Kate? I gazed out of the window. No. Never.

  I thought of the hours of agonising, the hours of writing and rewriting that had gone into those letters, the collaboration, perhaps. Kate’s full of, “You don’t know how many times I tried to stop myself, don’t know how I’ve hated myself, how dreadful I feel”—trying, as if she hadn’t taken everything else from me, to steal feeling dreadful as well. And Alex’s, full of much the same, but with possibly some “Can you ever forgive me?” thrown in, or possibly not, but either way, it didn’t matter, because I’d made up my mind. No, I couldn’t. And wouldn’t forgive him.

  As I put the letters on the hall table to send in the morning, I thought of the expressions on their faces as they received them. I went back upstairs for my next two paintings, feeling slightly less sick, feeling my spirits returning, my equilibrium making a heroic comeback. Good, I thought as I managed to spring up the top two stairs. As my dad would say, nil desperandum—or, don’t let the bastards grind you down. Well, I wouldn’t.

  I made two more trips up and down the stairs until I had seven boards in all stacked in the hall, and was just chewing my thumbnail and dithering over whether or not to make it eight—that still life, perhaps, of the fruit and flowers, but then at sixty pounds a frame that would swallow up nearly a quarter of my earnings—when the phone rang.

  I leaped in alarm, for some obscure reason thinking it might be Alex, having miraculously received his redirected mail, ringing up in high dudgeon, but of course it couldn’t be. I picked it up. Was about to say hello, when Rufus’s voice, without waiting for mine, came down the line. It was shaking with emotion.

  “I can’t believe you knew they’d be killed! I can’t believe it! You knew Pat was going to put them down. I’m never speaking to you again. Never!”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Rufus. Rufus!”

  But he’d gone. The phone had been slammed down. I hastily dialled Piers’s number but the line was engaged. I tried again. Still engaged, presumably Rufus had slammed it down, missed and run off. Damn! I thought for a moment, then grabbed my car keys and ran outside. Rufus didn’t get like that, didn’t sound like that. He was such a calm, controlled little boy. I hadn’t heard him so upset for ages.

  I dived into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, crunching the gears. And how come it was all my fault, I thought as I lurched out of the yard, pushing hair out of my eyes. How come I was the villain? I mean, of course the puppies shouldn’t be killed, but what was I supposed to do about it? Give seven or eight mongrels a home, a start in life, like something out of One Hundred and One Dalmatians? And if I didn’t, well, then I was Cruella de flaming Vil, all swirling fur coats and cruel red lips—Jesus!

  I roared up the hill, bouncing along the chalky zigzag track and then along the lane and down the back drive to Stockley. I went round to the back yard again, knowing that the dogs all slept in the boot room, and hastened in through the back door, half expecting to interrupt the murder scene: half expecting to find Piers and Pat, plucking puppies from a basket by the scruff of their necks, Pat poised with a bucket of water for drowning purposes, two small boys hanging on to his arm pleading piteously whilst Biscuit barked and circled frantically, but—the boot room was empty. Just the usual serried ranks of Wellingtons, Barbours, fishing rods and shooting sticks prevailed.

  I ran down the corridor and pushed open the kitchen door. Piers’s lurchers, lying under the table, raised their heads and bayed a welcome, thumping the floor with their tails, but no Biscuit. And no Piers either, sitting at the table picking his teeth, or Vera washing up, and certainly no Rufus.

  I ran on—“Rufus. Rufus!”—throwing open the laundry door, the playroom door, but there was no sign of anyone. Perhaps they were all upstairs? Feeling a little uneasy about charging around someone’s house—but not that uneasy, I decided, recalling Rufus’s hysterical tones—I flew up the back stairs, taking them two at a time, ran across the landing, and down the passageway to Theo’s room. The door was wide open and piles of Lego and Playmobil castles littered the floor, but no little boys. As I was about to leave, I spun about, spotting Piers out of the window on the terrace below, admiring his roses. I flew to the window and flung it open.

  “Stay there!” I ordered, as Piers glanced up, astonished, before dashing back downstairs, out of the French windows, and tracking him down in his flowerbeds, secateurs poised.

  “Piers!” I gasped.

  “Oh, hello, Imogen. I’ve been trying to get hold of you but your phone just rang and rang.”

  “I’m looking for Rufus,” I panted, clutching my knees, trying to catch my breath.

  “Yes, that’s why I was ringing. I’m afraid I’ve rather upset him. One forgets how sensitive these small boys are, and I told him—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but where is he?”

  “Well, I told him Pat had taken Biscuit away because she might need a Caesarean section, and then I, you know, told him what might happen to the puppies—and he shot off on Theo’s bike after him.”

  “On a bike!”

  “Yes, I know. I’m terribly sorry, Imogen.” He looked distressed. “I tried to stop him, didn’t think you’d want him cycling into town, but my office line went and it was my stock man with a problem about some gypsies in the lower meadow, so I was distracted, and when I turned round—he’d gone.”

  “OK,” I nodded quickly. “Not to worry, Piers. I’ll find him.”

  Piers was still calling his apologies after me, but I waved them aside as I ran off to the car. Cycling into town alone! At nine! Rufus didn’t know the first thing about roads and traffic, particularly windy country lanes with thundering great hay lorries and tractors. He’d enjoyed a degree of independence since we’d been here, but not to that extent.

  I sped to the vet’s surgery, but not too fast, I thought suddenly, slowing down dramatically. I didn’t want to be the one to knock him off his bike, I thought in panic as I glanced left and right—he could easily be on the wrong side of the road—but there was no sign of him. At the vet’s I parked creatively outside, front wheels on the pavement, and ran up the steps and through the open door. Pink Jeans was sitting behind her desk in reception, looki
ng poised, blonde and bored. Her face darkened when she saw me.

  “Where’s Pat?” I gasped, clutching her desk, no pride now.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Panting for him now, are we, dear?”

  “Just tell me where he is, dear.”

  “He’s out on a call,” she said shortly. “Someone’s bitch was in trouble. Wasn’t you, was it?”

  “No,” I ground my teeth, “it was the Latimers’, but he’s not there now. I assumed he was here. My son’s following him.”

  Her pale blue eyes widened. “Oh, so the entire family’s chasing round the countryside after him now, are they? You’ll be laying traps for him next.”

  I wanted to slap her. “Do you or do you not know where he is?”

  “No idea,” she said crisply. “If he’s got any sense he’s barricaded himself into his home. Away from desperate women like you.”

  “But he’s got a sick dog with him—wouldn’t he bring her here?”

  She looked under a pile of papers. Then under her desk.

  “Can’t see him, can you?”

  “Can’t you ring him on his mobile?”

  “He’s turned it off. Don’t blame him either, do you?”

  I glared at her and made for the door.

  “My pleasure,” she murmured.

  As the door swung shut behind me, I pushed it open again and poked my head around.

  “Oh, by the way, d’you ever change those jeans?” I flashed her a sweet smile and left.

  So where the hell was he, I thought as I ran down the steps and back to the car. He’d picked Biscuit up from the Latimers’, Piers had thought he was bringing her here for a Caesarean—was there another surgery? Somewhere closer? I should have asked, but then again, I was hardly likely to get a civil answer from the She Devil, was I?

  I roared back down the lanes, wondering, if, in fact, Rufus had simply cycled home and I’d missed him. So off the lane I turned and down the bouncy zigzag track—to an empty cottage. I swung around helplessly in the yard, narrowing my eyes into the distance. Right. Don’t panic. Just…don’t panic. I jumped back in the car and slammed the door—one way and another my door-slamming arm was getting a lot of exercise today—because there was now only one obvious place they could be and that was Pat’s house. Perhaps he’d decided a home birth would be best. In a paddling pool, complete with womb music. Christ alive. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and headed off towards the lodge.

  I realised, as I roared down the narrow lane banked either side with cow parsley, that mentally I’d been rather hoping I wouldn’t have to do this, to go there, but now, here I was, turning into the main gates to Stockley and approaching Crumpet Cottage, and there, sure enough, in the front garden, casually discarded on its side, was a bright red Raleigh bike. I heaved a monumental sigh of relief. Thank God. And by the look of it—it wasn’t tangled and twisted, or even mud-spattered—he was in one piece.

  I hesitated on the doorstep. Maybe I should get back in the car and just beep the horn? Keep the engine running and shout, “Come on, Rufus!” through the open window. Maybe I didn’t have to go in? Too late. The door swung back, and Pat stood framed in the doorway.

  “Oh. Hi.” He looked surprised.

  “Hi!” I gulped, and rocked back slightly in my trainers.

  He looked gorgeous. Tall and bronzed from the sun, wearing an old checked shirt over a white T-shirt and jeans, sleeves rolled up to reveal broad, tanned forearms. Suddenly I was aware of the attractive apparition I must present: hot and sweaty with my fringe plastered to my forehead, the rest of my hair frizzing nicely, no doubt, no make-up, grubby old jeans.

  A quizzical look came into his eye and he stretched a lazy hand up the door frame, leaning casually on it, a slightly droll smile playing on his lips.

  “Looking for your son?”

  “I was, actually.”

  “Come right in. He’s in the sitting room, along with Biscuit, and, apparently, HobNob, KitKat and Jammy Dodger.”

  “Or Garibaldi,” warned Rufus as I went in. He was sitting cross-legged on the rug by the fireplace, a tiny puppy cradled in his arms. “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Oh!” I crossed the room and sank to my knees beside him. “She’s had them!”

  “About twenty minutes ago.” Pat came across and stood over us. “I picked her up from Piers’s, thinking she might need a Caesarean she was in such a bad way, but she went into labour in the back of the car. I quickly pulled in here thinking, shit, I’ve got no apparatus, but before I knew it, she’d popped out four pups on the rug in front of the fire.”

  “Four?”

  “One died.”

  “Of natural causes,” put in Rufus pointedly. “It was stillborn.”

  “Rufus, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think. When Piers said he was going to put them down I just assumed that was what country people did. I thought objecting was a bit like squealing when you saw a pheasant shot, then tucking into it for Sunday lunch.”

  “Some country people do behave like that,” agreed Pat, “and Piers is one of them. A lot of farmers drown litters of kittens rather than have the place overrun with unneutered cats, but I wouldn’t have done it. We can usually find homes for puppies, especially if we put cute photos on the notice board in the surgery.”

  “And anyway, these have all got homes,” said Rufus. “Theo’s having one, Pat’s having another, and I’m having this one, Jammy Dodger. Dodger for short.” He eyed me defiantly.

  I swallowed. “Right.”

  There didn’t seem to be any answer to that. Under the circumstances I didn’t appear to have a leg to stand on, and I certainly didn’t want to make a scene in front of Pat. I glanced up at him.

  “You’re having one too?”

  He crouched down beside us, a hand resting on the floor between his knees to steady himself. “Your son has some very persuasive arguments. Apparently I need a dog. Apparently I’m not a proper vet if I don’t have one. I can’t imagine what I’ve been thinking of all these years. Can’t imagine why I’ve even got a practising certificate.”

  I laughed. “Yes, he’s good at getting his own way.”

  “I might draw the line at KitKat, though. People might think I’ve got a screw loose if I call that in the park, think I can’t distinguish between a kitty-cat and a dog. Might get struck off.”

  I giggled. He was very close to me now. His knee, as he crouched, was brushing my arm. It felt as if it was on fire. I was jolly glad to see Rufus safe and sound, but right now, I wished him a million miles away. Couldn’t he run into the garden and play with the tiny scraps? Throw them a ball? No, clearly not. One of them hadn’t even opened her eyes yet. Couldn’t walk, let alone chase a ball. Biscuit nuzzled them proudly as they suckled.

  “She’d done jolly well for an old girl of seven,” Pat observed. “That’s about forty-nine in human terms.”

  “Good for you, Biscuit.” I stroked her silky ear. She looked knackered.

  “And I’m pretty sure they’re half Collie. Old Geoff Harper has got a very randy sheepdog that’s always sniffing around. That’s a good cross. They look nice, and they’re intelligent too.”

  I wished I looked nice and felt even remotely intelligent. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I was conscious of him being very close and that my breathing was getting a bit heavy. I could hear it whistling in my ears, billowing and blowing around the room. Anyone would think I was the one in labour.

  “And of course, there are some Labrador crosses you really wouldn’t want. A poodle, for example, or a dachshund.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a bit difficult anyway?”

  “What, you mean the copulation?”

  I blushed. Oh, splendid, Imogen. You’ve brought up doggy sex and the problems associated with canine penetration at this very spine-tingling moment. Well done.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.” He laughed. “Where there’s a will—or a libido—there’s generally a way.”

  He looked at me, quite�
�you know…smoulderingly. Intently. His eyes were like two dark, glittering chips of coal. I knew I was pink already, and I felt myself going even pinker. Would I combust soon, under his gaze? Go up in flames? I didn’t know where to look, so I glanced at the walls.

  “Oh!” My mouth fell open. “My pictures!”

  I stood up, astonished, almost tripping over KitKat, who happily, Rufus shielded from my foot. I stared in amazement. Over the fireplace was the billowing hayfield I’d painted a couple of weeks ago, and opposite, above the sofa, was the same field but earlier on in the year when it was still pasture, with the cows in the foreground. They were big pictures. Expensive pictures.

  He stood up too and looked embarrassed. “Er, yes. I bought them at Molly’s. Had to buy both of them because I felt they kind of went together.”

  “W-well they do,” I stuttered. “They’re two studies of the same view, but…”

  “There’s another one in the bedroom,” piped up Rufus. “I saw it when I went to the loo. In here.”

  He grabbed my hand. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, I let myself be dragged back through the hall, through another door, and into the bedroom, where I found myself looking at the very first landscape I’d ever done here, that first day I’d painted, of the weeping willows dripping in the stream. That day…well, that day, actually, when he’d come to see the chickens that I was starving to death. He’d have driven past my easel, seen the painting from the track. And here it was, bold as brass, above an equally bold brass bed.

  “You bought three!” I said astonished.

  He ran his hand over the hair on the back of his head awkwardly. “Four, actually. There’s one I bought earlier in another room. But yes, I bought three in one go. Obviously had a drink too many at Molly’s party.”