A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “Lie,” I said again. “Be economical with the truth. That’s what you’d do, is it, Alex?”

  He laughed. “Well, if it meant getting myself out of a corner, yes, anything to save face. Eleanor and I were both saying that’s what we’d do, just say—Shit!”

  A plate of spaghetti narrowly missed his ear as it flew past him and smashed on the wall behind him. I was on my feet.

  “Is it!” I trembled. “Is that what you’d do?”

  He stared at me, open-mouthed. Behind him, broken china, spaghetti and Bolognese sauce slid slowly down the magnolia paintwork.

  “Jesus, Imo,” he breathed. “What’s with you?”

  I stared at his bewildered face. His wide astonished eyes. My fists were still clenched, and my whole body felt as though it were about to go up in flames. About to spontaneously combust. With a strangled sob, I turned and fled upstairs.

  ***

  About an hour later, when he came upstairs, I was lying way over on my side of the bed, facing the wall, curled up in the foetal position. I’d heard him downstairs cleaning up: wiping down the wall, sweeping bits of china into a dustpan, chucking it in the bin, then going into the kitchen to wash up. No dishwasher in this tiny cottage. I heard him go out and shut the chickens up—my job—then lock the door and come upstairs. Slowly. Heavily. I listened to the sounds he made as he shuffled prosaically around, brushing his teeth, blowing his nose, using the loo: the sounds of a husband. Then he came into the bedroom and got undressed in the dark. He shut the curtains carefully at the top where I’d pulled them hastily together and where a carrot of moonlight still shone through, and got into bed beside me. We lay there in silence. I could hear an owl screeching far away in the woods. At length I spoke.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He slid across and put his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on top of my head. We lay there like spoons, facing the darkened window. It was very quiet.

  “It’s OK,” he said softly.

  I gripped his hands around my waist. Held on tight. Ask him, I told myself fiercely. Ask him now. Outright. I took a deep breath. Nothing came out. Just a shuddery gust of air.

  “You’re tired,” he said, listening to my erratic breathing. “It’s been a long day and you’re emotionally strung out. It’s not every day your sister gives birth unexpectedly.” He squeezed me affectionately.

  “Yes,” I whispered, acknowledging this was true. Even so. Ask him. Stop this aching inside of you. This terrible, visceral gnawing. Ask him to tell you the truth.

  “I’m fairly shattered myself,” he yawned. “Could quite happily throw some pasta.” He sighed and hugged me again. “Night, darling.”

  My mouth opened impotently in the dark and my eyes widened to the wall. Ask him, my head screamed. Ask him now, you coward!

  “Up at six thirty,” he groaned. “No peace for the wicked. Still, could be worse. Could be moving into an attic room in Chiswick tomorrow—how gloomy would that be?” He nuzzled into the back of my neck.

  Still my voice wouldn’t come. Fear was strangling my vocal chords. I wanted to know, but didn’t want to know. I wanted to talk, but didn’t want to talk. Instead, in desperation, I twisted round. My hands reached for him in the dark. I held his face in my hands like a precious vessel, and my lips found his. I kissed him, tenderly, precisely. And again. I ran my tongue over his lips, slid it in his mouth. We never slept in anything, Alex and I, and I ran my hands down his bare back, over his bottom; pulled it towards me.

  “And you, my little one,” he murmured in my ear, patting my bottom, “have had a very stressful day. You need to get some sleep. And you need to get some cream for your neck too, incidentally. Your eczema’s come back.” He turned over and reached for the alarm clock. Sighed. “Better set it for six fifteen, I’m afraid.”

  I stared, wide-eyed and mute, into the darkness as he set the clock and replaced it on the bedside table. Pulling the duvet over his shoulder, he turned away from me.

  “Night, darling.”

  I gazed at his hunched form in the gloom, at his back. Eventually I heard his breathing, heavy and rhythmic; saw his body gently gather momentum as it rose and fell. I felt tears gather in the back of my throat and fall silently across my face on to the pillow, trickling slowly into my ear. My nose filled up and I wiped my face with the duvet, trying not to sniff, trying not to let him know I was crying. Clutching the duvet like a child with a comforter, I held on tight as though everything I had was about to slip from my hands. The last thing I expected was to fall asleep, but often, when the system’s taken a battering, it’s the body’s only defence. It was for me, that night.

  The following day I found I was almost relieved when he left for London.

  “See you on Friday,” he whispered in my ear, leaning over the bed, his tie tickling my face.

  As I opened my eyes, I remembered. Felt sick. Heavy. But then, the weight dropped off me. Yes, go, I thought. So long as he was away from her, I reasoned, it was fine. I was fine. And Mum had let slip yesterday, on the way back from the hospital, that he would be. Away from her. That he and Eleanor, geographically at least, would be miles apart.

  “Louisa Latimer’s going to be in London next week,” she’d said casually as she’d turned the car down my track. “Going up for the Chelsea Flower Show. We thought we might meet up.”

  “But…Eleanor’s using that flat next week,” I’d said, turning to her. “She’s working in London.”

  “Yes, but it’s only got one bedroom, you see. And Louisa wants it. So that’s rather that. Eleanor’s going to have to work from home. From Stockley.”

  “But she isn’t going to the Flower Show every day, is she?” I’d said, my mind racing.

  There was a pause. “I think Louisa thought she might go up all week,” Mum said lightly. “Do some shopping. Anyway, we thought we’d have a spot of lunch. She’s a nice woman.”

  I’d got out of the car, marvelling at Mum’s capacity to get on with anyone from Dawn to Lady Latimer, and in my exhausted state hadn’t really thought any more about it, but as I got out of bed now, I blessed Lady Latimer from the bottom of my heart for inadvertently scuppering Eleanor’s plans. Yes, I thought, pulling on my dressing gown; knowing they were miles apart meant I could breathe again. Take a break from my demons. Take a break from losing touch with reality.

  Later that morning, when I’d taken Rufus to school and hung out the washing—humming even, I was surprised to note, as I pegged away—I made a coffee and rang Kate, thanking her profusely.

  “Oh, it’s not a problem. The flat’s just sitting there empty. Might as well be used by someone,” she said, brushing away my effusive thanks. “But your sister, Imo—good heavens! Tell me all!”

  So I did, sparing her nothing.

  “Good grief,” she said faintly, when I’d finished. “And they thought they couldn’t have children. They must be delighted. Is she completely over the moon?”

  “I think she will be,” I said cautiously. “I’m not sure it’s sunk in yet. It was such a shock, and Hannah’s a bit of a control freak. Her life is planned with military precision. She doesn’t like surprises.”

  “Well, they don’t come any bigger than this,” Kate snorted. “Still, it’s a dream come true for both of them, surely?”

  “Of course, and I think she’s thrilled. She’s just very tired at the moment.”

  “God, I bet. Well, you can tell her from me that that bit doesn’t get any better. I reckon I’m still suffering post-natal exhaustion and Orlando’s nearly nine. I’m still on my knees.”

  I laughed. “Come and see me, Kate. Get away from it all. You haven’t been down here yet. Take a break from the London treadmill.”

  “I know, I must, and I will. But you know what it’s like.” She sighed.

  I did. It was bad enough with one child, but with th
ree and a large house to run and a frantic social life, Kate was chasing her tail on a permanent basis. I, on the other hand, I thought, walking slowly out to my easel in the meadow, carrying the new picture I was working on, was going to have plenty of time on my hands now. Yes, my life was about to get considerably easier, I thought as I screwed the painting in. I stood back and narrowed my eyes speculatively at it. With a weekly boarder for a husband, I could really let things slide. No pork chops to grill, just a few eggs from the chicken house for me and Rufus; no bed to make properly, just crawl in under the duvet. Heaven, I thought guiltily. Odd, wasn’t it? I picked up my paintbrush. I wanted him so badly, but if I knew he was away from her, from my nemesis, I was also quite happy for him not to be here. Happy without him. The thought brought me up short. But—it was only that I had more time to paint now, I thought quickly. Something which, for once, wasn’t making me feel guilty. I smiled as I mixed my colours on my palette. No, for once, something had happened to ensure I didn’t even feel a twinge.

  After I’d dropped Rufus at school that morning, feeling the need to drive around—anywhere really, just not straight home to that stain on the wall, that glaring reminder of my metamorphosis yesterday into a spaghetti-throwing loony—I’d cruised back through the town, and seeing the wine bar already open, drawn up outside. Molly was washing the front door step like a true Parisian café owner, on her hands and knees, in a long white apron, with a bucket. She looked up when she saw me; sat back on her haunches.

  “Sold one!” she announced with a grin.

  I stared at her through my open car window. My mouth fell open. “You haven’t?”

  “Yep, this weekend.” She got to her feet. Laughed at my disbelieving face.

  “Which one?”

  “The one of the cows in the water meadow that hung over the archway. You’d better get painting. I need another one for there now.”

  “No!” I was still staggered. “How much for?”

  “Well, the asking price, obviously.” She picked up her bucket and went inside.

  “But…” I got out of the car and hastened after her, “we put four hundred pounds on that, I thought it would be a laugh!”

  “So who’s laughing now? You get about three hundred and I get the rest—marvellous.”

  “Blimey…” My mind was still spinning. “Who bought it?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. I wasn’t here yesterday, and Pierre, my new Sunday chap, didn’t know. He paid cash, whoever he was.”

  “Oh!” I sat down heavily on a handy bar stool. It rocked a bit.

  She grinned. “What’s the matter, didn’t you expect them to sell?”

  I looked up at her. “In all honesty, no. Not in a million years.”

  She laughed. “That’s how I felt when someone first came in here and ordered a drink. ‘You want to drink it here? In my bar?’ When someone ordered a meal, I nearly passed out. We’ve got to start believing in ourselves, Imogen. If other people do, and put their money where their mouths are, why the hell shouldn’t we?”

  “You’re right,” I said, looking at her with new eyes.

  “We can do anything,” she said. “Anything. We’ve just got to believe it.”

  Nine thirty in the morning seemed a little early to toast my success with anything alcoholic, so we settled for a cappuccino and a croissant each on her sunny pavement. I’d come away in high spirits.

  Yes, I thought now, raising my brush and narrowing my eyes into the vista beyond the shimmering beech trees; yes, I would believe it. This was my career now, my occupation: not a time-consuming hobby to feel shifty and apologetic about, but a money-making venture. All ironing and bed-making could legitimately be ignored. I had work to do.

  Rufus, though, I thought with a jolt some time later, couldn’t be ignored, and if I wanted to visit Hannah before I picked him up—I glanced at my watch, one o’clock. One o’clock Christ!—I had to fly. I hastily threw my brush in some turps and hurried inside with my wet painting. I had been known to leave it in the easel for the birds to wonder at, but a sudden downpour the other day had made me think twice.

  Hannah was sitting up in bed in a pretty nightdress, suckling the baby when I pushed through the ward door, and my heart soared with relief. Eddie was washing the floor beside her with a mop and a bucket, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest. There were five other new mothers in the ward and it was warm and cosy, smelling of cotton wool, milk, newborn babies and, thanks to Eddie, disinfectant. He paused in his mopping to look on proudly as I sat down beside my sister and pecked her cheek. She looked up briefly to flash me a smile, then gazed down adoringly at her bundle again. I caught Eddie’s eye. He winked.

  “I saw that wink,” murmured Hannah, keeping her eyes on her suckling child, “and I know exactly what it means.” She looked up at Eddie and his eyes widened innocently. “It means you two have been in cahoots, and you,” she cut me a look, “persuaded him to have a go at me.”

  “Nonsense,” I said firmly.

  “Told him to tell me to stop wallowing in self-pity and squirming with embarrassment, wondering what the world would say, and start focusing instead on the most precious thing there is.” She gazed at her baby’s downy head. Her eyes softened. “And you were right. Of course you were right. Who cares? Who cares what anyone thinks when I’ve got him?” She looked up at me, her eyes damp and slightly appalled. “How could I ever have thought public opinion mattered, compared to this?”

  “Hormones,” I smiled. “They do funny things to us women. They should be banned.”

  “Do funny things to blokes too,” chipped in Eddie.

  “Rubbish, you wouldn’t know a hormone if it hit you in the face,” chided his wife. “You men have no idea.”

  “Got a few other things in perfect working order, though, eh?” Eddie’s eyes glinted behind his spectacles as he swaggered across to his bucket. “Got at least one strong swimmer who made it up the old elementary canal, eh?” He waggled his eyebrows at us as he squeezed his mop out.

  Hannah gazed at him in disbelief. She turned to me. “Unbelievable. Un…believable. He stirs the paint then thinks he’s done the decorating. Thinks he’s had the blinking baby!”

  I smiled, pleased to see them joshing and sparring again, the balance of power firmly restored to the distaff side, Eddie, happy in his more familiar role as sidekick, aka the Rock of Gibraltar.

  “What are you going to call him, have you decided?”

  “Well, Eddie likes Seymour, but we’re not having that.”

  “Why not? I like it.”

  She raised her eyebrows at me. “With our surname? Sidebottom? See more side bottom?”

  I gave a snort of laughter. “At least it’s not front bottom!”

  She gave me a withering look. “I think you can safely assume that had there been any prospect of me being called Mrs. Frontbottom, I’d have changed my name by deed poll. Either that or not married him.” She shifted position in the bed. “And he also likes Cyril, but we’re not having that, either.”

  I groaned. “Oh, no, Eddie. Not Cyril!”

  “Why not?” objected Eddie. “It’s a good old-fashioned name.” He stood to attention with his mop. “Sir Cyril Sidebottom. Major General Sir Cyril Sidebottom. Brigadier Sir Cyril Sidebottom…” And off he went, marching down the ward, mop clamped firmly to his shoulder, pulling more and more rank.

  “Isn’t it funny?” murmured Hannah in my ear. “Eddie’s the woolliest liberal on the planet, but put a son in his arms and suddenly he’s conquering the Balkans. Oh, hello, talking of the cavalry…”

  I followed her eyes as, behind me, the door swung open and my parents bustled in, laden with flowers. Dad was beaming from ear to ear, his pink face clashing violently with his orange shirt.

  “Where is he then?” he boomed in his strongest Welsh accent, causing several babies in the ward to throw o
ut their arms in reflex and unlatch from their lactating mothers. “Where is my little grandson, eh?”

  All six babies wailed mightily.

  “Shh, Dad,” I hissed.

  “Sorry, ladies,” he whispered contritely, nodding his apologies as he tiptoed theatrically in. “Sorry. Ooh, look, there he is!” His eyes lit up. “There’s my little lad. Let’s be ’aving him, then—divine!” He stooped to scoop the baby from his daughter’s arms, pausing only to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Well done, pet.”

  Happily his grandson was replete and didn’t object to the change of venue. Mum and I smiled at each other as Dad cradled him in his arms. Dad had a bit of a thing about babies. Apparently, when we were tiny, he’d been the one to get up in the night, warming bottles and jiggling us on his knee as he watched reruns of Kojak at five a.m. Even now he peered into prams in the supermarket, making goo-goo faces.

  “Where’s Dawn?” I asked as he rocked and crooned away, his face wreathed in smiles.

  “Outside in the car,” he whispered hoarsely over his grandson’s head. “Hospitals make her feel a bit woozy. Yes! Yes they do, don’t they?” he crooned as the baby frowned up at him, trying to focus. “Ooh, he’s got his grandpa’s eyes! Look at that—blue, like mine!”

  “All babies have blue eyes, Martin,” said my mother.

  “Not as blue as this. Bit yellow, though, isn’t he?” Dad frowned at the baby, then at Eddie. “Got a bit of Chinkie in you, have you, Eddie, lad? Not that I mind, like, but you might have mentioned it.”

  “It’s jaundice,” said Mum. “Remember Imogen had it? And don’t jiggle him so much. She’s just fed him; he’ll be sick. Here, let me.”

  She went to take him, but Dad swept him swiftly out of her reach. “Ooh no you don’t. If she’s fed him, he needs to get his wind up, don’t you, laddie?” He put him gently over his shoulder, holding his tiny head as he rubbed his back, walking him round the room.

  “‘Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mumma’s gonna buy you—’ Seen my grandson?” He broke off, beaming delightedly to ask the mother in the next bed. “Handsome lad, isn’t he?”