A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “Like a noose?” murmured Hannah wistfully.

  Eddie didn’t rise. “Come on, let’s go to the pub. That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

  “Ooh, yes.” Mum quickly stubbed her cigarette out and went hastily down the slippery mud bank.

  “Why so keen?” I asked, eyeing her suspiciously. Mum liked a drink or six but much preferred a smart wine bar to a country pub.

  “Your father’s going to be there,” she confided, “and he’s bringing Dawn. You haven’t met Dawn, have you?”

  “Er, no.”

  “Oh, she’s marvellous, Imogen,” she breathed, taking my arm as I fell in step beside her. “Your father met her in Curry’s—she was senior sales assistant on washing machines and tumble dryers—but he’s taken her away from all that, and now she wants to be a doctor.”

  “Oh, right. Is she bright?”

  “Breathtakingly stupid,” she chortled. “Isn’t it priceless? She’s going to specialise in neurology, apparently, and her mother—ooh, you must meet the mother.” She lit another cigarette, eyes sparkling.

  “Must I?” I said nervously.

  “Yes, they come as a package. Dawn never goes anywhere without her mother, a huge woman in a purple coat, who just sits, solidly, for hours on end without saying a word. She looks like Stephen Fry in drag. No one can remember her name, not even your father, and he’s known her for three months so now it’s too late to ask. Oh, they’re terrific, darling.”

  “Great,” I said uncomfortably as Hannah caught my eye.

  It was marvellous that Mum could be so relaxed about Dad’s girlfriends, and lovely that we could all still get together as a family, but the delight Mum took in her ex-husband making a fool of himself was sometimes discomforting. She hadn’t always been so phlegmatic about his love life. When Dad had first gone off with Marjorie Ryan, a great family friend who used to share a house with us in France, and whom Mum had modelled Dior gowns with in the sixties, she was devastated. “Heartbroken?” Kate had asked me once when I was telling her all about it. I’d hesitated. No, but then that wasn’t Mum’s style. She didn’t shatter easily. Didn’t crumble. I think she’d been relieved when he’d moved on to Audrey, a rather dumpy marketing executive with dozens of cats and none of Marjorie’s style, had perked up tremendously when Audrey had been traded in for Michelle, a peroxide-blonde hygienist, and was positively enchanted by Dawn, the shelf-stacking embryonic neurosurgeon.

  “She’s obviously quite tough,” Kate had commented, and I suppose she was. I’d certainly never seen her cry. Her parents, my grandparents, had been killed in a car crash when she was four, and she’d been brought up by her godmother, a rather remote figure who bred Border Terriers in Northumberland. I think Mum—when she was allowed home from boarding school—was treated like one of the puppies; fed and watered, but otherwise expected to get on with it. As a result, she’d grown an extra layer of skin that was quite hard to penetrate. Conversely, though, she was very loving, and Hannah and I had enjoyed an idyllic childhood with plenty of nurturing and cuddles, a far cry from her own upbringing, and, one suspects, deliberately so.

  As we all trooped off to the pub at the end of the road I watched her leading the way, supremely elegant in her floaty linen coat and long, aquamarine silk scarf, genuinely thrilled to be getting another peek at Dawn. I wished I’d inherited a few more of her genes; wished I wasn’t so easily upset. I straightened my back as I held Rufus’s hand along the busy road and resolved to be more like her.

  We passed Hannah’s local, an attractive whitewashed pub with leaded windows and lots of hanging baskets, and went on to a rather forbidding red-brick place called the Royal Oak. A couple of tough-looking teenagers were standing outside, smoking.

  “Why are we going here?”

  Hannah shrugged. “Dad suggested it. God knows why. It’s a dive.”

  Happily it had a garden, albeit practically in the car park, and we limbo-danced around the dustbins and beer barrels to get to it. Dad was already in situ, having commandeered a large wobbly table with benches and a brolly, and sure enough, beside him was a girl decidedly younger than me, I thought with a pang, and opposite her, a woman in a purple coat.

  “Imogen darling,” boomed my father in his best John Gielgud voice, which is nothing like his native Welsh one, as he stood up to greet us. “How simply wonderful.” He kissed us all, including Mum, and pumped Eddie’s hand. “Now, I don’t think you’ve met Dawn yet, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I agreed, smiling as I shook hands with the pasty-faced girl with too much eye make-up and artificially straightened dark hair.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi,” she muttered, avoiding my eyes.

  “And her mother…” went on Dad, “er…” He gestured hopelessly. I put out my hand but Dawn’s mother was either consumed with shyness or hadn’t heard. She clutched her handbag grimly and gazed past me, making no attempt to take my hand.

  Dad rubbed his hands. “Er, right. Now. Drinks, everyone?”

  “I’ll do it,” Eddie offered.

  “Right you are, lad.” Dad beamed and sat down smartly, notoriously tight.

  My father had been considered rather good-looking in his day: his piercing blue eyes and high cheekbones were quite startling, and he had a lot of dark hair, which Hannah and I were convinced he now dyed, but he was only about five foot eight and as such, suffered rather from small-man syndrome. He never walked, always strutted importantly, head thrown back, very much the actor, sweeping his hair back from his brow and making grandiose, theatrical gestures with his hands. His acting career when we were young had mostly revolved around the theatre, but now it was more television-oriented he was becoming slightly better known. Recently he’d carved something of a niche for himself as the Attractive Older Man, and appeared regularly in a hospital soap opera, as well as having the odd cameo role in period dramas. Increasingly, Alex and I would be having supper, trays on our laps in front of the telly, and Alex would cry, “There’s your old man!” as Dad, hand on hip, would swagger into view in a powdered wig and gaiters, or sweep round a hospital corridor, white coat flying. He was always delivering lines like, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brown, I’m afraid it’s terminal,” whilst a dewy-eyed nurse looked on adoringly, or, “Quick, man, saddle the horses!” as he swept out of a manor house in breeches. Sometimes he simply forgot he wasn’t on screen and swaggered down Winslow High Street, where he’d recently bought a little terraced cottage, in much the same way. As he got up now to help Eddie with the tray, it seemed to me he swept an imaginary cloak over his shoulder first.

  “How about some crisps, laddie?” he boomed.

  “Oh, sorry, Martin, I’ll get some.”

  “No, no, these are on me,” Dad said loudly, brushing him aside and striding ostentatiously to the bar as if he were making some extravagant gesture. When Eddie had sat down and Dad was out of earshot, Mum turned innocent eyes on Dawn.

  “I gather you’re going to be a doctor?”

  If Dawn found it odd to be lunching with her boyfriend’s ex-wife she didn’t show it. She sipped her Baileys nonchalantly and stared opaquely at Mum.

  “Yeah, well, I was, only I can’t now ’cos I haven’t got biology GCSE, and the fing is they say you need that to go on to the next bit.”

  Mum’s brow puckered. “Oh, what a shame. How very demanding of them. But then I suppose, if one is cutting people up, one should know the basics…?”

  “Yeah, I suppose, but the fing is it would take too long for me to do it now.”

  “So what are you going to do instead?”

  “I’m gonna be a beautician. Gonna go to college an’ that. And I’m still helping people, aren’t I? I reckon it’s still health care?”

  “Oh, very definitely,” Mum purred. “In fact the girl who does my nails wears a white coat, which says a lot, doesn’t it?”

  “Ye
ah,” Dawn brightened. “Yeah, it does.”

  “I’d hazard you could even have a watch too.”

  “Watch?”

  “Yes, you know, hanging out of your top pocket.”

  “Oh. Yeah!” Dawn looked enchanted and Mum winked at me but I ignored her, uncomfortable. When her sarcasm had been directed at Marjorie, an aspiring interior designer whose only work experience had been tarting up her own home in Fulham at vast expense in Colefax and Fowler, Hannah and I had chortled along with her, but Dawn was a bit of a soft target. I turned to the mother.

  “That’ll be handy then,” I smiled. “Having a beautician in the family.”

  Even as I said it, I knew it was a mistake. She retreated back into her many chins and regarded me blankly. “I mean,” I stumbled on, “for leg waxes and things.”

  “Mum doesn’t really go in for that sort of fing,” said Dawn.

  My own mother was trying to catch my eye, and I just knew she was trying to direct my gaze to the luxuriant growth sprouting beneath Purple Coat’s fifty deniers. Luckily Dad came back with the crisps.

  “That’s what I like to see,” he said, tossing them on the table and rubbing his hands together as he sat down, “all my family around the same table together—marvellous. Cheers! God bless us all.” He raised his pint and beamed around, and actually, you couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Cheers, Dad.”

  Yes, as dysfunctional families go, I thought as I sipped my lager, ours didn’t do badly. All thanks to Mum, of course, who kept us steadfastly together, and actually, who could blame her her occasional digs at Dawn when she managed to put her feelings aside to ensure her family always spent the odd weekend and Christmas and Easter together? But then, as Hannah had once remarked, it was precisely because she had no feelings for Dad that she was able to do it. She’d moved on, she didn’t love him any more, and although I sometimes wished there could be someone in her life, she didn’t appear to need anyone. In fact, when I’d tentatively raised the subject, she’d shuddered.

  “What, go back to running around after a man again? All that cooking and socialising and wondering if we owe the Fergusons—no, thank you. I’m much too selfish, darling.”

  She wasn’t, actually; she was generous to a fault, but she’d learned how to look after number one. Life was on her terms now, and she was comfortable with it.

  “Have you seen Dad’s shoes?” Hannah murmured in my ear.

  I nodded. The white Gucci loafers with elaborate tassels hadn’t escaped me.

  “And the black leather jacket,” I muttered back.

  “Well, what do you expect from a middle-aged man with a twenty-six-year-old girlfriend?”

  “Twenty-six!”

  “Apparently. One of the mothers at school told me. She knew Dawn when she was…oh God, he’s not.”

  “Not what?”

  Hannah swung round. I followed her eyes. Dad and Dawn had got up from the table, and Dawn, her arm linked through Dad’s, was leading him away conspiratorially, up the garden path.

  “They have karaoke hour at lunch time sometimes in this pub, and I’ve got an awful feeling that’s why they wanted to—”

  “Oi, listen, you lot.” Dawn turned back importantly. “Martin’s gonna sing ‘Love Me Tender’ in the saloon bar if you wanna watch, and I’m doin’ ‘Stand by Your Man’!”

  Mum’s face was a picture. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she breathed, stubbing out her cigarette and getting hastily to her feet. Dad and Dawn were already halfway up the garden now, Dad’s head thrown right back, his hand trailing behind his tight-bottomed jeans as he minced away in a rather camp fashion.

  “Mum,” Hannah shot out a restraining hand and grabbed her arm. “He makes a complete tit of himself,” she hissed. “Our neighbour was in here the other day and saw him do it, and Dawn’s tone deaf.”

  “Is she?” Mum’s eyes widened. “Oh, what heaven. Come on, Rufus, quick, before we miss it.”

  “Mum, d’you really think Rufus should—” But he’d scampered off before I could even finish, without giving me a backward look.

  “Consider it part of his education,” said Hannah, drily. “The first time he saw his grandfather on stage. A defining moment.” She got up.

  “You’re not going too?” I said, appalled.

  “No, I’m all through with being defined by Dad. More prosaically, I need a pee.”

  She squeezed with difficulty between the bench and the table and made her way heavily up the garden path. Eddie and I watched her go.

  “Eddie…”

  “Yes, I know,” he said quickly. “She’s put on weight.”

  “Lots of weight, Eddie,” I turned to face him. “Why?”

  He shrugged miserably. “I don’t know. She just doesn’t seem to be able to stop eating, and when I ask her if she’s unhappy, she snaps—no, just hungry. She’s touchy about it, Imogen. I can’t talk to her any more.”

  “What—about anything?”

  He hesitated. “This weight thing is everything, as far as she’s concerned. And I know she’s eating for a reason, but…” he trailed off miserably.

  “But the two of you are fine? I mean, as a couple?”

  “Oh, yes, couldn’t be happier. It’s just,” he hesitated. “Well, I know she feels there’s something missing.”

  “Eddie…” I licked my lips. “Have you thought of adopting?”

  He looked at me. “We went down that route a year ago.”

  “Did you?” I was astonished.

  “Yes, didn’t she tell you?”

  “No. She didn’t.” I felt hurt.

  He shrugged. “She didn’t want to tell anyone at the time in case people got their hopes up for us. And then—well, then when we got turned down, she didn’t really want to talk about it.”

  I swallowed. “Why did they…?”

  “Turn us down? Oh, you know. Our combined ages, the state of the house, Hannah apparently being medically obese, that kind of thing. It was all there in a charming letter sent back from the authorities.” He sighed. “No. Evidently only young, slim, tidy couples can adopt babies, no matter how much love you’ve got inside to give. It’s the outside that counts.”

  I was silent. She’d gone down that route and been rejected. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how that must hurt.

  Eddie shifted in his seat, a regrouping gesture. “But as I say, that was a year ago. She’s over the disappointment now, and we’ve accepted it. It was our last hope, and now that it’s gone we’ve got some sort of closure. The baby business is over as far as we’re concerned. We’ll never have them. Or she’ll never have them. And that’s the problem, Imo. As a man, I can sort of accept it. But I know she feels unfulfilled.”

  “But having children isn’t everything. I mean—she has such a full life! She’s a wonderful teacher, all her kids adore her, and all that Sea Scouts and Brownies and youth club and everything—she never stops. And at home, always baking and cooking and—”

  “But that’s just it. She never stops. Never stops to pause for thought. It’s almost as if she daren’t, because the sadness would overwhelm her. She’s got to be busy.”

  I swallowed. “She’s grieving, Eddie. It’s a phase, but she has to go through it. It’ll pass.”

  “I know.” He nodded sadly. We were silent for a moment. Then he straightened up beside me on the bench. “I thought we might get a cat.”

  “Oh!”

  “You don’t think that’s a good idea?” He looked at me anxiously.

  “No, it might be. It’s just the way you said it. Like—instead of.”

  He shrugged. “Well, in a way it would be. And I’d prefer a dog, but what with both of us working…I thought Rufus would like a kitten too.”

  I smiled. It was typical of Eddie to think of Rufus. “He’d love it,” I
said warmly.

  He nodded, pleased.

  “Come on,” I said, before his mood could dampen again. I got to my feet and pulled him up with me. “We’re missing the cabaret.”

  ***

  Inside, the pub was heaving. Even in the garden we could hear the music from Grease being belted out of a sound system with a throbbing bass, and as I walked down the passage towards the saloon bar I recognised my father’s tones booming out “You’re the One That I Want!” at full volume. It was still something of a shock, however, when I pushed through the smoky glass door.

  Up on a makeshift stage at the far end of the room, my father, aka John Travolta, was on his knees and leaning back, the collar of his leather jacket turned up, as Dawn, aka Olivia Newton-John, stood astride him, hands on hips as she ooh, ooh, ooh, honeyed, down. The room was full of people urging them on with my mother and Rufus at the front, convulsed with laughter. Hannah appeared at my elbow from the Ladies, looking horrified.

  “This is practically my local,” she yelled in my ear. “What is he thinking of?”

  “Well, it’s my local too now, so let’s get him off after this.”

  The song ended on a rousing note and Dawn leaped into Dad’s arms with a flourish as they took their applause. Dawn was helped off the stage by admiring hands, but as Dad was about to step down too, the opening chords of “Brown Sugar” struck up. His face registered a flash of recognition and in another moment, he’d resisted Eddie’s outstretched hand of help and scrambled back on stage. Suddenly his leather jacket was shrugged halfway down his back, his pert bottom thrust out, lips pursed like a gorilla—and he’d morphed into Mick Jagger, strutting about and punching the air aggressively.

  Hannah moaned low. “Tell me it’s a bad dream.”

  “I wish.”

  “Someone pull the plug!” she wailed. But Dad was unstoppable. The crowd loved him and wouldn’t let him go, clapping along, joining in the chorus, and breaking into raucous applause at the end, yelling, “More—more!”—Mum and Rufus the most vocal. Mum even put two fingers in her mouth and executed a wolf whistle. By now, Dad was on a roll, but as the opening chords of “Satisfaction” struck up and he strutted about complaining he couldn’t get no—no no no! Hannah and I looked at each another determinedly. As one, we hustled to the front, elbowing our way forwards. We saw “Satisfaction” through to the bitter end, but before the mournful opening chords of “Angie” had even struck up—we seemed to be stuck in something of a Rolling Stones medley here—we’d formed a pincer movement, and like a couple of bouncers, had bustled on to the stage and hustled him bodily off the other side, Hannah taking his microphone away as if he were a naughty child.