‘Oh, you always were a Daddy’s girl. Always got round him. Always saw his point of view. Well, that’s fine. You side with him. As usual.’ She plucked her thin wool cape from the back of her chair, swept it round her shoulders and gathered her enormous navy handbag to her chest. Gripped it tightly. ‘Come, Ginnie. I shall stay with you instead. Your spare room at the nursery end of the house, the one you keep for visiting children, will suit me perfectly well. I won’t take the main one. I know you have lots of guests, but that blue one will do. And I’ll manage very well sharing a bathroom with the children. Come along. We won’t stay where we’re not wanted.’
Panic had made my sister’s eyes extra large. And she had a bit of a thyroid problem, anyway. She looked from me to Mum, then back again, horrified. But my mother was already making for the back door, which, on account of her regal bearing, Ottoline, in some spear-carrying capacity, was automatically swinging wide for her: almost snapping her heels. Mum swept through it without a word, scattering the chickens, who always dozed on the sunny back step having been fed, in her wake. Her cape, caught by the wind, shot out horizontally behind her as she strode across the yard to her car. All she needed was a broomstick.
There was a moment’s silence, then:
‘Shit!’ Ginnie yelped. She got to her feet. Cast me a terrified look. Shot rigid fingers through vertical hair. I shrugged helplessly.
‘But – but, Ella, this is a disaster! I can’t – I mean, we can’t –’
I made a hopeless face. Raised the palms of my hands to heaven.
Ginnie looked at Ottoline, in desperation. Ottoline shrugged vainly back.
‘Fuck,’ my sister was heard to hiss as she grabbed her car keys, took to her heels and hastened away.
CHAPTER TEN
Ottoline slid away tactfully. Ginnie and Mum stood by the car in the yard talking for a long time, as I knew they would: buffeted by the wind, talking talking talking. My sister, her cheeks pinched, entreated my mother earnestly, setting out her case, highlighting bullet points – what else? – with her finger in the air. But always with a look of caring concern. My mother’s back, as I scurried around the kitchen throwing things in the dishwasher but still with one eye on the unfolding action, was stiff and defiant. Her hand was already on the car door handle. The next time I looked, though, her hand was off the handle and she wasn’t staring haughtily into space any more; she was at least listening to what Ginnie was saying. Ginnie was going back over those crucial points, spreading her arms wide now for emphasis, even giving Mum’s arm a little squeeze. And always the loving smile. I knew she’d prevailed. Knew, before she nipped round to release Buster – Buster! – from the boot. Before she’d carefully turned her elderly parent round and escorted her, one hand under her bony elbow, back to my door. She opened it. At least, I heard it open, but was busying myself at the Aga, wiping the hob lids, deliberately keeping my back to them.
‘Mummy’s had a change of heart,’ Ginnie said gently.
‘Oh, really?’ I said lightly. I turned. ‘I thought I was the disloyal, uncaring daughter? And you were the good daughter, Ginnie?’
‘No, no, she realizes that was unjust, don’t you, Mummy? And that you were only trying to help.’
‘By driving all the way to talk to Dad at my busiest time in the holidays? With beds to change, the children at home and a million animals to feed? By installing her in one of my cottages, a cottage I’ve now cancelled the guests for?’
‘Well, quite,’ Ginnie purred. She pushed my mother bodily into the kitchen. Buster slipped in too. ‘And she’s just rather emotional at the moment.’
‘I can see that,’ I said testily. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘I’m so sorry, Ella, but he chases the cat. Constantly. Up the curtains, down the lane, into the woods. And you don’t have one.’
‘I’ve got everything else, though, haven’t I?’
‘I know, and I’m really sorry. But she disappeared for two days in terror. Araminta was beside herself. You know how she adores Bathsheba. Floods of tears and she was out searching with a torch most of the night.’
‘Right.’
‘And Mummy understands that it’s only right that you should be supportive of both parents. That it would be very odd if you weren’t. Don’t you, Mummy?’
‘As I said,’ Mum said stiffly, face set, ‘you always were a Daddy’s girl. Bound to take his side.’
I felt my fists clench.
‘Yes, well, be that as it may,’ Ginnie went on smoothly, ‘I think tempers are bound to be a little frayed at the moment, on all sides. And when that happens, people say things they don’t mean. But, as I explained to Mummy, she really won’t want to sleep near the children with their loud music and telephone calls at all hours. Much better to be here, in her own peaceful little cottage, and of course with her own independence.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Ginnie,’ I said, thinking she should surely have been a politician. ‘What about that spare room at the top of your back stairs with the little sitting room next to it? That’s nowhere near the children.’
‘Except I’m planning to redecorate it,’ said Ginnie evenly. ‘And it’s still not quite the same, is it? As having your own place?’
‘It’s quite clear neither of you wants me,’ said Mum sharply.
‘No, no!’ we both said instantly.
‘Of course we do, Mum,’ I said quickly, ashamed. ‘And Ginnie’s right,’ I added, swallowing hard. ‘The cottage will be quieter for you.’ I shot my sister a flinty look. She cast me a craven, obsequious one back.
It was always the way, though, wasn’t it? Ginnie getting exactly what she wanted with none of the agro. I handed her the pile of sheets Ottoline had put on the side.
‘Right, well, if she’s staying, I’d be grateful if you’d take some clean sheets over there and put them in the ottoman in her bedroom. I’ve got a duck house to clean.’
Ginnie took the linen gratefully, sycophantically. She even executed a little bow before hurrying Mum away, shushing her as she asked imperiously: ‘How often do they get changed?’
I set my mouth in a grim line. Flung my dishcloth in the sink. Then, as is so often the way, went to take it out on the Eastbourne residents. They were now in total cinematic darkness, with curtains drawn – if they’d ever been opened. It had obviously been deemed ‘late afternoon’: they were clearly planning to push on through until midnight. Horizontal on a sofa apiece, rugs up to chins, all three dogs snuggled in beside them, they were silent and inert, in thrall to the flickering screen. Buster, having come from a very different establishment, quietly licked an old crisp packet on the floor, wide-eyed, thinking it must be Christmas.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, get dressed and open the curtains and bloody well clear up in here!’ I screamed.
The two of them raised their eyebrows incredulously at each other. The dogs slid down first, then the residents. They got languidly to their feet.
‘Do pipe down,’ Josh told me as he shuffled past in his rug. ‘It’s not really worth getting dressed, is it? We’ll be going to bed soon.’
Realizing I’d lost whatever tenuous grip I’d once had on my household and sympathizing with any mother who resorts to physical violence, I watched them drip upstairs, knowing that if I opened my mouth I’d regret it. I went back to the kitchen, fuming. On the side were the remains of two enormous family-sized pizzas. They could have shared one, but clearly had both wanted different toppings so, hey, let’s open two and leave what we don’t eat. Without sitting down I rammed the remains of the cold pizzas into my mouth, chewing furiously and rhythmically like a cow – or even a pig – so hungry was I. I even ate a few handfuls of dry Coco Pops for pudding. Finally, sated and disgusted with myself but no less cross, I stalked back to the playroom and snapped the television off with a flourish. Any victory, however small, had to be celebrated with a flourish these days. The house was silent now, but with an annoyingly reproachful air to it as if I’d spoiled eve
ryone’s fun. Making a great deal of noise I threw sofa cushions on the floor to bash some life into them, brushed crisps onto the carpet, got the Hoover out and vrmm vrmm vrmmed around. Then I shut the dogs in the boot room – they’d crept there anyway – and savagely flicked up the dishwasher door with my foot, hurting my ankle. Breathing heavily from the exertion of all this and wondering if that was normal or if I should go to the gym – or even the doctor – I stomped upstairs to my room, and to what was laughingly called ‘my work’.
Slamming the attic door shut behind me I leaned back on it and shut my eyes tight. Oh, to run away. To no longer be somebody’s mother, somebody’s sister, or somebody’s daughter with divided and complicated loyalties. Not to mention somebody’s wife, I thought bitterly, as, opening my eyes, and gazing through the famous north window at the far end of the room, I saw Sebastian emerge from the Granary, yawning widely. He stretched and glanced across to where Ginnie had disappeared into the Stable with her pile of sheets, installing them in the chest at the end of the bed. Oh, she’d be a veritable hive of activity now, working fast before Mum changed her mind. He frowned, but, being Sebastian, and not a great fan of Ginnie’s anyway, was too disinterested to wander across. It occurred to me that I hadn’t discussed this latest arrival, the newest addition to our ménage, with him; but although he wasn’t necessarily an enthusiastic supporter of my mother, he was unlikely to object. Sebastian didn’t object to anything as long as Majestic Wine delivered, he had a plentiful supply of oil paints, and he was left alone.
Miserably I peeled myself off the door. The once-lovely attic studio, earmarked for Sebastian years ago, was half full of rubbish now: more attic than studio. Suitcases, boxes of old toys I couldn’t throw away, a dinner service I’d never used but which had been a wedding present, Christmas decorations in bags, broken lamps I’d been meaning to mend, children’s books, were all piled down one side, the one with the sloping roof. At this end, by the door, was a large sash window, just as there was at the other, where I worked overlooking the yard. I crossed the room to hover over my desk. Gloria the Glow Worm was valiantly trying to stage a comeback under the pristine piece of paper I’d placed firmly on top of her, but I knew I must ignore her, as I ignored so many artistic impulses, if I was to feed this ever-increasing number of people and keep them in discarded pizza.
Instead I sat down and turned my attention to the juvenile delinquents of fictitious Huddersport. Leanne, and her dysfunctional family. I picked up my pencil to carefully draw Reg, the alcoholic stepfather, Arlene, the listless, drug-fuelled mother on the sofa, Dylan, the bullying, tattooed stepbrother. And always, of course, Leanne, the feisty young girl who would turn all of their lives around, in a mere forty-six pages, with her will of iron, her ponytail, her freckles, and her skinny frame. Feisty young girls always had skinny frames. I sketched and shaded away, telling myself that very few people did what they loved for a living, and I was lucky to be drawing.
When I glanced up an hour or two later, thinking at least I didn’t have children who asked what was for supper, but foraged for themselves in the holidays, it was to see a man who’d managed to make a career out of doing what he loved best. Ludo’s green Land Rover was bumping across what we derisively called the drive, and coming to a halt outside the house. A door opened. One long, jeaned leg was elegantly followed by another, then a denim shirt rolled to brown forearms, a mop of blond hair and, finally, those piercing blue eyes. Flashing up at me the briefest of glances, he walked round to the back of the house as I in turn got up and ran to the other end of my studio. I flung up the sash. As I leaned out, my heart did a little Irish jig in my ribcage. He looked up as he came round, saw me and grinned. His face creased delightfully and triggered a huge smile to break out on mine in true Pavlovian response. Even if I wanted to be cool about Ludo, that smile of his would render it impossible.
‘ ’Ello, missus,’ he called up in a soft, mock-cockney accent. ‘Prune yer creeper for yer?’
‘Actually, my man,’ I said haughtily. ‘Ai thought I might grow it this yarr.’
‘As you wish.’ He doffed his forelock.
Ludo had long since ceased to have any gainful employment on my farm. Once the vegetable garden had been installed – and then shamefully neglected – his work had finished. I certainly couldn’t afford to employ a gardener myself, let alone a garden designer, which, in the pantheon of countrywomen’s indulgences, was up there with the personal trainer. But, since we needed to see each other, Ludo had invented the fiction that checking on the veggie garden was all part of the after-care service, which obviously no other customer received, but which enabled us to stroll around the raised beds together letting our hands brush over the overgrown parsley, thinking tender, wistful thoughts whilst Ludo murmured things like, ‘Your fennel’s a bit straggly.’
‘I know,’ I’d whisper back. ‘And don’t even look at my radishes.’ We’d take a moment then to hold hands over the turnips, eyes locked.
As I raced downstairs, trying, for the children’s sake, to look nonchalant and normal, I thought that, yes, I was a hussy, to have my heart turning somersaults thus for a married man, but that, actually, this man, and the feelings I had for him, were ironically the glue that kept this disjointed family together. Without him, I knew I’d be gone. Not physically, because I couldn’t do that to Sebastian or the children, but, mentally, I’d be sunk. That’s what I told myself, anyway. Without the green Land Rover, the long, jeaned legs, the sunny smile, the optimistic ‘one day’ that we always talked about but knew probably didn’t exist, I’d be a crabbed old misery guts and of no use at all to my family, I thought defiantly, as I went sailing out to meet him, plunging my feet joyfully into my boots en route.
Having taken a fork from my tool shed and a battered old bag from the back of his van, Ludo was already making deliberately for the vegetable patch, so that the delight as we saw each other was shielded from view as I fell into step beside him. I had an old pink cardigan of Tabs’s over my ancient summer dress, wellies on my feet. Hardly dressed up. God, he was handsome, I thought, as he grinned down.
‘That was nice,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Seeing you working at the window like that. Head bent, rapt. Totally absorbed as I drove in. I’d like to bottle that.’
I blushed and looked at my boots. ‘Important to lose yourself somewhere,’ I told him. ‘Even if it is at the coal face of semi-literate fiction. What about you, Mr Pritchard? Busy day at the office? Half the women in Oxfordshire vying for your forking technique, as usual? All losing control of their beds?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know about vying, but in these financially straightened times forking technique is certainly about the size of it. You can forget the landscaping. I can’t remember when I last designed anything on paper – probably for Puffy Trumpington, and that was ages ago. These days all they want is their wisteria pruned or their raspberry canes cut back. Yesterday I spent the entire afternoon poo-picking at Longhorn Manor. There’s very little creative impulse there, I can tell you. Speaking of which, is he still at it?’
He nodded his head towards the Granary as we approached.
‘Of course. Is he ever not?’
‘Well, not when he’s in the Fox and Firkin.’
‘True.’
Ludo lowered his voice as we went past. ‘What’s he painting at the moment, portraits still?’
‘Nudes.’
‘Oh. Right. Anyone in particular?’
‘Ottoline, mostly. Who, of course, he’s done a million times.’
Ottoline was indeed stark-naked and puffing away on one of her little cheroots as we passed the side window – reclining on a couch and reading The Week. No problems with nudity at all. And although usually a little flag was hung out if someone was posing, she gave a cheery wave as we went by. Ludo looked at the ground. Sebastian, if he saw, ignored us.
‘Does she mind?’ he whispered, when we were out of range.
&nbs
p; ‘Not at all. She says it gives her a chance to catch up on world affairs.’
‘And does he pay her?’
‘For catching up on world affairs in the buff? No. And she wouldn’t take it, anyway. She says it’s a very good way of switching off. You can’t move – can’t scratch your bum without him harrumphing – so you just … unburden yourself. Mentally. Ottoline’s very spiritual. She likes to let it all hang out. All she insists on, is that it’s warm. She brings her heater because she said that once, in January, her tits nearly dropped off.’
Ludo laughed. ‘And do you ever … you know?’
I smiled, knowing he was trying to be open-minded and avant-garde about it, as most people pretended to be, even though they were quietly agog.
‘No. Not any more. I used to, of course. Just as he did for me.’
I knew a vivid mental image had reared up in his brain, which, if you’ve never painted from life, and most people haven’t, is obviously titillating.
‘What happens when you’re drawing the – you know …’ Lottie had once asked me, breathless.
‘What d’you mean, what happens?’
‘Well, d’you feel a bit … I don’t know …’
‘Randy?’
‘Well …’
‘It’s just like drawing anything else, Lottie. You’re so bloody intent on getting the proportions right, and the light, and the shade, and the form, you don’t think: Golly, I’m drawing his dick. Anyway, I always used to paint Sebastian from behind. He’s got a lovely bum.’
Obviously I didn’t voice this now to Ludo as we strolled on towards the lichen-covered steps which led down to the vegetable patch and the river, but I did think it was a very long time since I’d done a life drawing.
‘Oh, God – duck,’ I said quickly, seizing his arm and pulling him down. My mother was coming out of her cottage on the slope above us. She was shaking a bright blue rug covered in starfish, which I’d bought in Newlyn, in a disappointed manner. No dust at all flew up – hence her disappointment – because whilst I might be a slattern in my own home, any rented accommodation I leased out shone like a new pin. She sniffed it disparagingly and went back inside.
My Husband Next Door Page 14