Marcus had reached out and squeezed my hand in the car. ‘There’s nothing you can do, sweetheart. He’s where he is, and it’s the best place for him. And don’t worry about your mother, she’s as tough as old boots. She’ll recover.’
She was tough, and eventually she did recover, but only after she’d been to stay with us at the farm for a long while. One day I’d popped up to London to see her, unannounced, and as I’d parked the car outside the block of flats, I’d seen her come out of the front door and almost didn’t recognize her. My mum, who wouldn’t have been seen dead walking to the shops at Swiss Cottage without high heels, a cashmere coat and full make-up, was in an old green cardigan, her hair in a headscarf, white face bowed. A neighbour greeted her and she fleetingly raised a hand, but she was crushed. Defeated. And I recognized her condition. Remembered of old the feeling that the weight of the world truly was on one’s shoulders, and that it was physically impossible to hold one’s head up.
I persuaded her to come and stay at the farm, which she did. She was quiet and withdrawn for a long while, but gradually, she picked up speed. Rapidly, actually. And nearly drove Marcus to distraction. He bit his lip stoically as she sterilized all the eggs he brought in from the henhouse which had ‘chicken’s business’ on them, was uncomplaining when she insisted we wash the Christmas turkey inside and out with soap – we didn’t, but I think we got away with it – and only drew the line at her for cing poor Dilly the Labrador to have a bath every day. When she put a Clear Glade air-freshener in the downstairs loo, from which Marcus emerged, informing her that he preferred the smell of shit, we decided that in the interests of family relations, she was better and should go home. She did, feeling much happier, and with her recently coiffed head held high. The entire family, including Dilly, spilled out into the yard to wave a cheery and heartfelt goodbye.
It had taken six months, though – six months, I thought with a jolt as I gathered up my handbag and had a last look around the flat, before she was better. Not many husbands would have put up with their mother-in-law for six months, but then again, Marcus was a bit of a saint. My saintly husband, I thought with a smile as I shut the front door behind me. Don’t suppose many wives could say the same of their spouses without a hint of sarcasm.
When I got back to the farm an hour and a half later, night had well and truly fallen. I turned the MG’s engine off and gazed around, letting the soft night air and the wonderful quiet wash over me. One of the reasons I’d fallen in love with this place was that you couldn’t hear a sound. No noise, no traffic, unlike Lipton Hall up the road, which had the A41 on its doorstep. As I got out of the car, a plane flew overhead, en route to Gatwick. I smiled. Teach me to be smug.
On the other side of the yard, Bill the gardener, whom we’d inherited from the previous owners and who lived in the tiny cottage on the edge of our land, was shutting up the chickens for the night. His bent stance was illuminated in the outside light. I tried to make a dash for the back door, but:
‘Orright then, Henny?’
Damn. Too late. He’d seen me.
‘Yes, thanks, Bill.’ I turned and forced a smile.
When I’d originally heard that a gardener came with the house and would we please keep him on in the cottage, I’d been enchanted. Of course we would, how heavenly. A lovely, sweet, authentic old retainer! And so he had seemed. Weather-beaten and widowed, and with nothing he didn’t know about gardening and farming, Bill was the salt of the earth. And Marcus, who really did know absolutely nothing about country living but was keen to learn, was beside himself with joy.
‘He knows the name of every single plant in the garden, Henny. Imagine, he’s been digging it for forty-five years!’
‘Great,’ I agreed, relieved. A born and bred townie, I was happy to pop a few pansies in here and there and fiddle with the hanging baskets, but I didn’t relish the thought of digging over that huge herbaceous border at the back.
And Bill proved to be a treasure. He worked hard, and I’d have long chats with him at the kitchen table when he popped in for a cuppa, and I’d pick his brains as I tried to learn a bit about flora and fauna. But then the chats got longer and longer, and I needed to get on, and when he finally got up to go – he’d wink.
At first I’d winked back, thinking – sweet. Then one day when he winked, he leered and rubbed his balls. I nearly dropped the teapot.
When I told Marcus, he said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a rough country chap, he was just having a scratch.’
‘Marcus, he winked as he did it!’
‘Coincidence,’ he scoffed. ‘And no, we’re not getting rid of him, Henny, he’s invaluable. You know how impossible it is to get a good gardener round here – you told me so yourself.’
This much was true. I’d rashly told him how Laura Montague – a great local mate and another recent evacuee from London – whilst lunching at a rather grand house belonging to a born-and-bred called Belinda, had seen a gardener out of the window and casually stuck her head out and asked if he had time to work in her garden, too. Belinda nearly threw the salad bowl at her.
‘Never,’ she’d roared, incandescent with rage, ‘ever,’ she screeched, steam pouring from her nostrils, ‘try to poach my gardener again!’ Laura had broken a cardinal rule of country life and had scuttled away chastened, her tail between her legs.
Yes, Marcus had a point. Good gardeners were thin on the ground, and I certainly didn’t want to clean out the chickenhouse or give the horses hay while Marcus was at work. I bit my lip.
‘And don’t flirt with him,’ my husband added.
‘Flirt!’
‘You go all smiley and twinkly. People get the wrong idea.’
I couldn’t speak I was so angry. The man was repulsive! Warty, whiffy, chicken shitty. Flirt!
But then there’d been the knicker-drawer incident. A couple of months back, I’d reached for some pants one morning to find my knicker drawer – usually a riot of untidy, winding garments – completely transformed. Bras and pants had been neatly folded, and arranged in tidy rows. I’d stared, astonished. Then ran downstairs to quiz Marcus.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course I didn’t.’
The children, then. I was met with withering stares. ‘Why would we, Mum?’
Linda, perhaps. She’d turned off the hoover. Leaned on it and sighed. ‘Henny, I never even put your jumpers away, just dump ’em all in the airing cupboard. I don’t go anywhere near your drawers.’
‘Then who,’ I’d shrieked to Marcus, ‘who would do it! Who, in God’s name, would tidy my knicker drawer!’
‘Your mother?’ Marcus had hazarded, eyes still firmly on the golf. Ah, Mum. I rang her.
‘No, dear, I wouldn’t dream of it. Might get ticked off,’ she added huffily. ‘It was bad enough when I threw all those things that were past their sell-by dates out of the larder.’
‘It’s got to be him,’ I’d hissed in terror to Marcus, glancing fearfully out of the window to see if Bill was listening. ‘He’s the only one with a key, for God’s sake, and recently when he’s left a note for me about watering the greenhouse or something, he’s put a little kiss at the bottom!’
I nearly passed out with horror. The thought of his gnarled old hands riffling through my underwear, folding my knickers lovingly – sniffing them, perhaps? I clutched the breakfast-table.
‘At least they were clean,’ remarked Marcus, calmly getting up to switch the television off as the last putt went in.
‘Marcus!’
‘Henny, it was you, I’m sure of it,’ he sighed as he made for the back door. ‘Remember when you ordered another leg of lamb, forgetting you’d already ordered one? And that time when we went to the Hammonds’ party and you realized you’d got odd shoes on? You’re just getting a bit ditzy in your old age, tidying up and forgetting you’ve done it.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous! It would take half an hour to tidy that drawer. I’d remember doing that.’
‘Clearly
not,’ he’d said blithely, and off he’d gone to the stables, unconcerned. Convinced he was right. But I was concerned, bloody concerned. And recently, I’d been cold-shouldering Bill, to see if I could get the message across that way.
‘There’s no one in,’ he informed me with a sly grin as I made for the back door, eyes front. I gave a tight little smile.
‘So I see.’
The gravel drive, I’d noticed, was conspicuously free of cars, which was surprising really, because it was now half past eight and I’d assumed Marcus would be back before me. Must be working late.
‘They was in,’ he went on, leaning in an alarmingly permanent manner on the five-bar gate. ‘But they’ve popped out, see.’
‘Ah. Thank you, Bill.’
Probably popped out for a pizza, I thought as I put the key in the door. Or a curry in town, realizing I was going to be late and there wouldn’t be any supper. I let myself in quickly and shut the door behind me, turning on the lights. The long, low, heavily beamed kitchen with its cheery yellow walls came to life. It was tidy too. Incredibly tidy, so Linda must have stayed all day. No sign of the children, as Bill had said. Ah yes, it was their last night at home, I realized, putting my handbag on the island, so Marcus might well have taken them out. Where, I wondered. Oscars? Yes, probably Oscars. Perhaps I could join them? I glanced at my watch and made for the phone to ring and check they were there, when I noticed the note on the table. I picked it up. Unfolded it.
Henny,
Clemmie rang to see if Lily could stay the night, and Angus is at Tom’s. I’ll pick them up and take them back to their respective schools in the morning. I’m at the Rose and Crown, and will be here for as long as it takes you to clear your things and move out. By all means live in the London flat until we sort everything out.
Marcus
I stared down at the piece of paper in my hands. Realized I didn’t understand the last two lines. I read them again. Then I felt the blood leave my face. My legs felt strange, so I lowered myself into a chair at the kitchen table. Outside, Christopher gave a last, sorrowful crow before he was shut up for the night. As Bill raised his head from securing the latch on the coop, I looked up and caught his eye. It was hard and knowing.
Chapter Nine
I sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the note in my hands. Suddenly I dropped it, as though it were white-hot, burning me. It spiralled to the ground and came to rest on the terracotta floor. I felt quite light-headed. Quite weak and woozy, as I did when I hadn’t eaten for some time. For one surreal moment, I wondered if I’d stepped into someone else’s life by mistake. Someone else’s kitchen, someone else’s marriage. I sat there, staring dumbly at the yellow walls, at the little hanging blackboard we used as a shopping list. It stared back at me. Marcus had chalked up shoe polish and loo paper and someone else – Angus, probably – had added Pringles and stuff. Abruptly, I came to. No, this was my kitchen, my marriage. I felt the blood surge back to my cheeks, anger mounting. In a trice, I was on my feet. Snatching up the car keys and ignoring Dilly who was scratching and whining at the bootroom door, I flung open the back door and slammed out of the house to the car, fully aware that Bill was watching.
Ridiculous man, I fumed as I got back in the driving seat and slammed that door behind me too. Ridiculous! What the hell was he up to? What was he – chucking me out? Out of my own house? For what? Oh stupid, stupid man!
I roared off down the drive, leaving a cloud of dust in my wake and possibly in Bill’s face, and hurtled off through the narrow country lanes. Hawthorn and black-berry bushes brushed the side of the MG as I squeezed past cars I’d normally pull in and wait for, and I got some astonished glances as wing mirrors clashed noisily. As I shot through the village touching fifty, I spotted Val P arsons, parish councillor and pillar of the community, coming out of her house. Only the other day I’d met her in the lanes and spongily agreed that people drove far too fast through our village. I cravenly hit the brakes as I caught her shocked face out of the corner of my eye. Stupid, stupid man, I seethed as I rounded the bend, checking in my rearview mirror that she was out of sight. I picked up speed. What was he thinking of? And what on earth had possessed him to go to the Rose and Crown, our local hotel, in our very small market town, where everyone knew us, and where word would be round in seconds! Oh, Marcus is at the Rose and Crown, didn’t you know? His wife has – well what? What had I done, for crying out loud? I pursed my lips and increased the pressure on the accelerator.
The lanes became broader as I roared on towards town. I mean, yes, all right, presumably something had happened at the flat, I thought, wiping a bead of sweat from my upper lip, otherwise he wouldn’t be in such a state. Something to do with Laurie, I thought uncomfortably, glancing quickly at my reflection in the rearview mirror. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that at some stage, the three of us had all been there in that flat together, which was odd. I racked my brains furiously. No, no it wasn’t odd, because Laurie had taken me back there to sleep off those pills. Was that what was bugging Marcus? Was he so insanely jealous that he couldn’t cope with my boss doing me a good turn? A friendly favour? Oh, the man was barking. He’d gone mad! Was he having a breakdown, I wondered. A midlife nervy thing, like Tessa Parker’s husband, who was found wandering through Flaxton in his jim-jams looking for chocolate? I shot a despairing hand through my hair. Christ, that was all I needed.
And then to hole up here, I thought, careering around the picturesque market square and screeching to a halt in the hotel forecourt, for all the world to see, sneakily arranging for the children to be out for the night so I couldn’t say goodbye to them before they went back after their exeats – ooh, it was outrageous. The man had a screw loose. Needed a good slap.
I hastened up the stone steps and through the wooden doors to the reception of this quaint, olde worlde Elizabethan inn that was now a hotel. I remembered having a drink here, in that very bar, I thought as I dashed past it, with Marcus, when we’d first arrived. We’d had a meal, too, in the dining room, and been surprised at how good it was, having rather looked down our London noses at the over-elaborate menu – guinea fowl in a juniper jalouse with fresh young spinach leaves. As opposed to stale old ones, we’d giggled. I wasn’t giggling now.
‘Excuse me, can you tell me which room Mr Levin’s in?’ I gripped the front desk breathlessly.
‘Mr Levin?’ The receptionist, who was about nineteen, put down her novel and stifled a yawn. She scanned her register. ‘Yes, he’s on the second floor. Room twelve.’
‘Thank you.’ I headed for the stairs.
‘Oh. Er, shall I ring him and –’
‘No, I’m his wife,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ll surprise him.’
I took the flight of stairs two at a time, my jaw set, and stalked off down the second-floor corridor. I rapped hard on the door of number twelve. Then – God, why on earth was I knocking? – I barged in.
The room was spare and functional with hectic orange curtains and a matching bedcover. Marcus was lying on the double bed in his suit trousers and shirtsleeves, arms locked behind his head, a whisky at his side, watching the football on television. I set my hands on my hips and planted my feet apart.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at?’ I demanded angrily.
He looked up at me. Then calmly, he swung his legs around, got off the bed and turned off the television. He found his shoes and came over to stand in front of me. He also put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side. His eyes had a dangerous gleam.
‘I’m sorry?’ he said softly.
‘What the hell are you doing,’ I fumed, ‘here? Walking out, leaving me nasty little notes, telling me to clear out, whisking the children away! What’s going on, Marcus?’
‘I was rather hoping you might be able to tell me that.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, what am I supposed to think, when I pop back to the flat to collect the earrings you left b
ehind when we last stayed there, and which you’d been banging on about, to find the door already unlocked. And, as I follow the sounds of lust and hilarity down the passage to the bedroom, to find you, my wife, lying on the double bed, underneath Mr Laurence De Havilland, your arms and legs wrapped wantonly around him, kissing him passionately, and presumably on the brink of hot sex?’
I stared. My mouth fell open. ‘I was not!’ I stormed. But not quite so vehemently.
‘What? Kissing him, or on the brink of sex?’
‘Either!’
‘Oh, you were most certainly kissing him, Henny, I saw that with my own eyes. Really – you know – going for it. And enjoying it, too. Your mind on the job. Not, I’d hazard, contemplating what you were going to serve at your next dinner-party, or wondering whether the bedroom curtains were too short – in fact, not even looking at the curtains. Shutting your eyes, something we haven’t seen round these parts in a while, and looking quite turned on. In fact, I’d go so far as to say you were the most turned on I’ve seen you in a long while. Really joining in. I expect he liked that.’
I stared at him blankly. After a moment, I fumbled for the bed behind me. Sat down slowly.
‘Kissing him?’ I breathed.
‘Snogging,’ he corrected. His face was white. Set. ‘And lots of hip thrusting. Like this.’ He seized a standard lamp and gave it a forceful, simulated rogering.
I stared in horror. ‘All right!’ I shrieked, my hands flying up. He let it go. The light from the shaking bulb swung crazily around the room. I let my hands fall limply into my lap. Stared at him, aghast.
Not That Kind of Girl Page 13