“But you’ve got perfectly decent trellis.”
“But at the back?”
“What? Over there?” He walked to the scrubby end of the garden and stood under an apple tree by the shed. He stood still for a minute, sizing something up, while Fergus and I tried to find the caterpillar, and then he came back.
“Not much point,” he said. “What were you thinking of growing up it?”
“Wisteria?”
“Too dark,” he countered. “You’d do better growing that up the back wall of the house. You could train it in with the ivy.”
“Well what about that then?” I said.
He laughed. He said, “You don’t really know what you want, do you?”
I said, “No.”
He said, “I tell you what I think. I think it’s just general maintenance you need. The basics are all here, but it could do with a bit of love and attention, couldn’t it?” He put his hand out and cradled the head of a hydrangea. It was blue. I thought it might change to pink any minute.
“I think general maintenance might be a good idea,” I said.
I looked at him straight on for the first time. I had tidied up his face in my mind, ironed out its irregularities. His eyes were closer together than I’d remembered, and his mouth was almost the same freckly color as his face so that it seemed to disappear into it. But he was still more handsome than anyone else who’d ever been in my garden. I could still imagine how you might want to put your hands in his tufty wavy hair, run your fingers along the knotty veins in his forearms.
I cleared my throat. “I’d better get dressed,” I said.
“You don’t have to on my account.” He smiled. He was tapping his hands on his trousers, his fingers wide apart from each other.
“Do you want coffee?” I said.
He looked undecided. “Ooooh,” he said in a “go on then” tone of voice. And then the door went again. “Actually no,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’re busy. I’d better be off.”
“No, stay,” I said.
I went to the door. Pete came with me and sidled out as I opened it. “Hello,” he said to Rachel and Harry, who were standing there. “I’m off. Cheers,” he said to me.
“Are you sure about the coffee?” I said.
“Nah. Give me a buzz if you think you need me.” And then he was gone.
Rachel raised an eyebrow and said, “Not dressed?”
That day, it got hotter and hotter. For the rest of the morning, Harry and Fergus splashed about in the wading pool, raiding the kitchen cupboards for utensils with which to empty the water on to the flowerbeds and then demanding the hose for refills. Harry was fine until Rachel came to pick him up, when he developed a sudden passion for Fergus’s spatula and threw himself onto the grass in despair when the passion turned out, at Fergus’s insistence, to be unrequited.
“Oh honestly.” Rachel sighed heavily. “I just don’t know why these children don’t get on. Fergus, please share.”
It was quite an innocuous comment, but it was just weighted enough in her own son’s favor to ignite something in me, to set me stamping off across the unexploded mine-field that is competitive motherhood. I said, sympathetically, “Oh dear, is Harry a bit tired? Is he still waking up every night?”
She said, “Yes, but you can’t have everything. At least he’s a good eater” (a veiled reference to Fergus, who, as Jake said, lived on snot and air). I surrendered then, arms up.
This is how we measure out our children’s days.
She had a quick cup of coffee before going. She told me she’d seen Lucinda out for a jog with the dogs across the common; that even in the throes of physical exertion, she still looked immaculate. “Hair band?” I said.
“Absolutely,” she answered. “I think she sleeps in it. Probably more comfortable than all those pins you need for a bun.”
I told her Jake was away again. Rachel’s husband, Guy, who was a physicist, didn’t get out much, let alone abroad. There was still some tension zinging in the air so there was a little too much sympathy in her response. She said, “Oh, poor you. It’s a bit much again, isn’t it? Does he have to go away so much or does he choose to?”
I mumbled something or other. And then she said, “Do you think it would be different if you were married?”
Smiling broadly, I said, “Not a jot!”
She stirred her coffee absentmindedly—dipped her little finger in sideways to remove a tiny floating object. “Why aren’t you married?” she said. I’m sure she’d asked before. Most people asked at least twice.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It just always seemed too late.”
“It would be nice, though, wouldn’t it?” she said. “For the children.”
After she left, I felt miserable, but it wasn’t long before Mel got there. She had Milly with her so she must have left work in the end. I greeted Milly at the door with a big hug and, arms outstretched in an attitude of despair, greeted Mel with the news that the Pete plan was in tatters, that he’d come that morning and left. She didn’t seem too concerned. “Oh well,” she said. “Nice idea. Never mind. Got anything to eat? I’m starving.”
Later I told her what Rachel had said about Jake and me not being married. Mel laughed and said I was being stupid and that it didn’t make any difference and that a blind man could see Jake loved me. “How is he, by the way?” she said.
“Away,” I said.
She laughed “Oh, well he clearly doesn’t love you that much then.”
“Still no sex,” I said.
“Give him a chance, Maggie, he’s away. Wait till he gets back . . .”
We were lying on a blanket on the grass, cups of tea making scalded patches on either side of us. The children were filling the wading pool with earth from the flower beds. “Shall I . . . ?” said Mel.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “Leave them.”
It was too hot to move. The air was heavy, like a rich pudding, silent except for the distant roar of traffic. I was about to ask whether she really did think he still loved me, when she plucked a blade of grass and, putting it in her mouth to chew, said, “Actually, I went on a blind date last night. And it was such a disaster, I didn’t really feel up to meeting someone new today anyway.” She spat the grass out, tucked the bottom of her shirt into her bra to sun her midriff, and lay back down again. I sat up.
“A blind date?” I felt suddenly outraged as if my gardener wasn’t good enough for her.
“Tara, our receptionist’s brother. Called Leo. Works for some bank. In the City. Divorced.”
“And? Kids?”
She turned over. “Two. Nine and seven. It was fine. He was perfectly nice. Talked a tiny bit too much about his ex-wife. And didn’t quite pick up the signals that I wasn’t that interested in paint balling.”
“What sort of signals?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Putting my finger down my throat and pretending to be sick. That sort of thing. Funny, really, because Tara’s such fun. Anyway never again.”
“Did he try and kiss you?”
“Did he try and kiss me? They always try and kiss you, Maggie. You’ve been out of the game too long. But I turned just in time and he got my ear. Milly! Not in his mouth. He’s only a baby.”
“Gave you an earful then?” I got up to comfort Dan, who had a mouth full of flowerbed. From behind me, Mel said, “What I don’t understand is, why you didn’t nip to a phone and ring me? About the gardener being here, I mean. I could have been here in five minutes.”
She said it wonderingly, but not so inquiringly that I felt I had to answer. I was busying myself with Dan, finding an animal cracker to cheer him up. But then she said, all singsong, her voice a stick to poke me with: “I know. You fancy him yourself, don’t you? Maggie? Am I right? Are you blushing?” I was about to turn round, about to say something, when there was a yowl from Fergus.
“Nyowooooooooo,” he cried, clutching the side of his neck. “Mummmmmmyyyyy. NYoowooowowwo.”
/> “What darling? What?”
He was sobbing. There was a bright spot on his neck, with a surrounding welt getting wider by the minute.
“Oh dear. Has he been stung?” said Mel coming to look.
“Poor Fergus,” I soothed. “It must have been a wasp. Is it better now?”
“Nerrrrrrrrrrrr. Nerrrrrrr,” he said, which I took to mean no.
You always think you’ve got Bactine, you can visualize it at the back of the bathroom cabinet, underneath old tubes of whitening toothpaste and, in my case, all the free samples of Zap-it Jake brought home from work, but when you go to find it when you really need it, it turns out to be hemorrhoid cream or insect repellant. I couldn’t remember either if it was bicarbonate of soda or vinegar you’re supposed to apply, but Mel, the doctor, said, “Oh don’t bother. All that matters is that he hasn’t gone into anaphylactic shock,” while Milly went to get her Teletubby doll to cheer him up.
“You can borrow it if you like,” she said. After about ten minutes Fergus stopped gulping, reached out for the Teletubby, and put his head on my shoulder.
“Poor Fergus,” Mel cooed. “Wasp stings really hurt, don’t they?”
He lifted his head. “Where’s the wasp now?” he said.
“In the garden,” I said.
Mel and Milly left soon after that. They wanted to get to the shoe store before it closed. If they’d stayed a little longer, I’d have answered her question. It wasn’t like I had anything to hide.
Chapter 8
Jake didn’t ring on Wednesday evening—which was unusual. Normally he tried to talk to Fergus before bedtime. He spoke, Fergus nodded, or said, regardless of what he’d been asked on the other end, “Yup, yup, yup. Byeeee.” And he didn’t ring on Thursday morning either, which was doubly odd. No playgroup for the summer break, so we met my mother for an early lunch—“a quick bite to eat”—at the café attached to the local garden center.
“Does ‘Jake’ have to work so terribly hard?” she said among the hardy perennials. My mother didn’t really approve of advertising. Or of Jake, to be honest. I don’t think she ever entirely forgave him for not marrying her daughter. Or, for that matter, for The Snot Goblins. Then she said, “Still, is it rather nice to have the bed to yourself for a bit? I had another terrible night last night. Tossing and turning like a ship at sea. And I’ve run out of my pills. I must get a new prescription.”
I was in listening mode so we got on fine, the two of us (and she had a point about having the bed to myself) until we were in the snack bar and were halfway through lunch. The children had gotten down from the table, unimpressed by their broccoli tart, and were mucking about in the flower bed just outside the door, so we were alone at the table. And when a silence unexpectedly gaped in the middle of my mother’s latest anecdote—“My Traumatic Trip to Waitrose”—I said, “It’s funny how relationships can change, isn’t it? I mean, it’s good that Frank’s so supportive, not every man would ask to see the manager on your behalf, not just over an out-of-date pack of sausage meat. I mean Jake . . . well . . . At the moment I think he’d definitely leave customer complaints to me . . .”
“Hmmm,” said my mother, thoughtfully exploring the zucchini quota in her vegetable stirfry.
I carried on: “We’re not really communicating at the moment. Well I hope that’s all it is. Actually I’m beginning to feel a bit worried . . .” I looked up to see her expression, but her face was turned away. Her attention seemed to have been caught by a woman at the next table, bleached hair, forty-odd, who was feeding a sweetly compliant baby in a high chair. I moved my own head forward, and I could tell then that my mother was about to strike up conversation because she had a bright smile on her face.
She said, in a high, approachable, interested voice: “How old is your little . . . oh grandson! Oh . . . Eight months!” This, wonderingly. Then, “Oh, the same age as Daniel.” She gave a nod to the open door. Then she said, with an undercurrent of sharpness, “Is he crawling yet?” She made a moue of concern. “Oh dear. Gracious. Oh well.” A beat and then, vaguely, “Of course, Daniel’s been crawling for a couple of months now!”
“Mum,” I hissed. “You don’t say things like that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said firmly. “You’d think you’d be glad that I take an interest. Very common,” she mouthed when they’d gone to the cashier to pay.
We didn’t stay long after that. Fergus, who had been standing on one of those industrial-sized plant trolleys shouting “I’m a dirty rascal,” fell backward into a display of heartsease. “They’re going to seed anyway,” said my mother, bending to help me repot.
“Aren’t we all,” I said.
When we got home, Jake had called and left a message. I couldn’t make out most of what he said because of the background noise—hollering and laughing as if he was in a bar or at a dog track. He broke off halfway through the message to say something to somebody else—“Mine’s a Pilsner,” I think. I tried to call him on his mobile, but it was switched off. “What’s your father doing in a bar on a lovely day like this?” I said to Fergus.
“Hunting,” he replied sagely.
“He’d better not be,” I said. I opened the back door.
“WASPS!” shrieked Fergus, fleeing back into the bowels of the house.
“It’s all right—they’re not here now. There’s nothing to hurt you in the garden. I promise.”
He went out reluctantly and hovered on the steps. I took Dan, who’d fallen asleep in his car seat, up to his crib, lowered him gently in, and then tiptoed gingerly across to the door. The last board creaked. It always does. I stood in the doorway listening to him stir and then whimper, and then open his lungs and cry. He was standing up and shaking his bars when I went back in, so I picked him up and took him downstairs again. “My life,” I muttered to myself. “Where has it gone?”
The phone was sitting by the back door. I picked it up and dialed. Just like that. He picked it up straight away. His voice sounded drowsy.
“Were you asleep?” I asked.
“No, no,” he said sleepily, rubbing the dust from his voice. Or rather, “Neouw, neouw.” No one, child or adult, ever likes to admit to having been dozing.
I said, “Do all Australians either use loads of vowels or miss them out all together?”
“Come again?”
“You see, you just said, ‘Cm ‘gaeyn.’ ”
“Who’s speaking please?”
“It’s Maggie. From Chestnut Drive.”
“Hello, Maggie from Chestnut Drive.”
“Hello. Sorry. I just . . .”
“Mumeeeeee.” Fergus was calling from the garden. He sounded desperate. Maybe it was another wasp.
I sped up. “Look, just to say, I’d be really keen if you could fit me, fit my garden, into your busy schedule . . . I really do think it needs it. So whenever suits you really.”
“Mumeeeeeeeeee.”
“Hang on, let me just look in the date book.” There was a rustle. I wondered what his date book looked like. A big brown folder with bits of paper falling to the ground like leaves, loose-sheafed and chaotic, notes and numbers scrawled, a manly, outdoor kind of date book.
“Okay,” he said, “Palm Pilot at the ready. Just wait for it to boot up. A-ha. I’ve had a cancellation tomorrow afternoon. Would that do you?”
“Mumeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”
“Tomorrow afternoon would do me fine,” I said.
When I got out to Fergus, he was sitting on a deck chair. “There you are!” he said with that disconcerting shift of tone that children have, like the sun poking its head from behind a cloud. “I needed you, but now I don’t.”
I was half expecting Jake home that night, but only half, so it wasn’t that much of a surprise when he rang instead.
“Hi, hon,” he said, all soft and conciliatory. “How are things?”
“Fine. Where are you?”
“In my hotel room,” he said, as if it w
as obvious.
“It’s just that you . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I thought he’d be on his way back by now.
“When are you coming home?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, as if it had always been the case.
“Oh right. You’ve missed Fergus. He’s in bed. He was whacked.”
“Oh well. Kiss him for me. Has it been all right?”
“Yes, it’s been fine. I told you. How’s it going there?”
“Tortuous. Crap hotel in the middle of nowhere. Horrible sandwiches for lunch. And we’ve just been stuck in this room, going round and round in circles. We’re just fighting our corner really.”
“What corner is that?” I said.
“You know, the new Kyushi Pondura. Hatchback. Second car. Kyushi wants to target women twenty-five to forty. They want the same advertising campaign throughout Europe, and we want it to be ours. So I’ve got to get them to accept my brief.”
“You’ll be fine, won’t you?” I said reassuringly.
Jake snapped, “I don’t know.”
“All right, you don’t have to snap.”
“I’m not snapping. I’m just saying I don’t know. I hope so.” He took an intake of breath, a suspiciously sharp intake.
I said, “Are you smoking?”
“No,” he said, breathing out loudly. “No. Hang on, got to go, that’s Ed at the door. We’re meeting the others down in the bar at nine.”
“Okay then, bye,” I said. “Love you,” I added. But he’d already hung up.
It is an unpleasant but unavoidable truth that women who don’t work soon become resentful of the fact that their husbands do. The office can very quickly become The Other Woman. Jake’s Other Woman was young and glamorous and hung out in bars and spoke with a sexy cigarette-laced foreign accent. She drove a Kyushi hatchback. And she ate sliced bread. And her skin had blemishes. I began to feel better.
I was standing in the kitchen, looking out of the window at the darkening garden. A month ago, in June, it had looked fresh, budded, full of expectation; it was beginning now to look overblown, straggly in places. But never mind that, I thought, tomorrow Pete will be here and he’ll make it look beautiful again. I went upstairs to the bedroom and tried on lots of summer clothes. And then, with the windows open and a light breeze ruffling the curtains, I danced around the room in my underwear. And then, when it was quite dark outside, I curled up on the sofa in my pajamas and watched a movie on Channel 5 about twin sisters, one of whom has an affair with the other’s husband before being murdered—or you think she’s the twin that’s been murdered, but in fact it’s the other one; it turns out the husband did it to be with her sister. A true story, it said. Honestly, other people’s lives.
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