‘Mum, how about coming for supper tonight?’
‘No, thank you. I’m clearly a burden.’
‘Of course you’re not a burden! What on earth makes you say that?’
‘I overheard your friend Lottie in the village shop saying what a saint you were to have me. And what a nightmare I was. Criticizing everything.’
I flushed. ‘She’s exaggerating. I’d probably just had a bad day and was having a moan.’
‘Well, bad day or not, it’s obviously not ideal. Indeed, the more I come to think about it, it’s a terrible idea of yours and Ginnie’s. It’s not working, either, is it? As far as your father’s concerned?’
I opened and shut my mouth. My idea? Ginnie’s certainly, but never mine.
‘Give it time,’ I suggested. ‘I’m sure he’ll come round.’
In reality I was far from sure. I’d spoken to Dad a couple of days ago and I’d never heard him so chipper. He’d said he was just off to Zumba, had only got a minute.
‘Zumba?’
‘Yes, it’s a sort of rock-and-roll fitness class.’
‘Yes, I know what it is, but –’
‘You’d love it, Ella. Great fun.’
‘And – and Maureen goes too?’
‘Oh, yes. But there’s a crowd of us. We don’t always dance together.’
‘Dad, has Maureen moved in?’
‘Well, she’s here a lot, if that’s what you mean.’ He’d sounded surprised. ‘But, no, she’s got her own house. Why d’you ask?’
‘Why d’you think I ask, oh, father of mine?’ I’d said, exasperated. ‘I’ve got your wife of forty years, mother of your two children, grandmother of four, going quietly round the bend in my back yard!’
‘She can come back any time she likes, darling. I’ve told you that.’
‘But you won’t stop seeing Maureen?’
‘No, I won’t. She’s my friend. And she likes me. I make her laugh.’
‘Mum likes you.’
‘She doesn’t really, darling. She tolerates me. And she’s polite to me in public. Sometimes. She’s not very polite to me at home.’
I fell silent.
‘I won’t move out of my own home,’ he said, more seriously. ‘Unless forced. Unless she wants a divorce. And I won’t ask her to go. Wouldn’t be so unkind. But if we’re to live together under the same roof for the next twenty-odd years, it’s got to be on my terms too, not just hers. We’ve lived under her regime for the last however many. I want to see my own friends, go out whenever I please, go to Zumba, or to the pub, or the cinema, without asking. And not necessarily go to choir or tend the garden. I’m sixty-eight years old, Ella, and I’ve worked hard. I will have what’s left of the rest of my life.’
I’d put the phone down quietly. A few minutes later I’d picked it up again. ‘Write to her,’ I told him. ‘Put it all down. Like you’ve just told me.’
And he’d promised he would. That had been Friday.
‘Have you heard from him at all? Dad?’ I asked casually, ignoring her refusal of my help and putting her milk and butter away in the fridge.
‘Oh, yes. Some ridiculous letter this morning, about wanting to live his own life.’ She snorted contemptuously.
‘Is that so ridiculous?’
‘Of course it is!’ she scoffed. ‘We’re married! We don’t just cohabit under the same roof and go our own ways; we do things together. And I do not want to take up cycling or go to murder-mystery evenings. Why should I!’
‘No, but you could meet him halfway. Maybe find things you both like to do.’
‘He loves the choir. He loves his garden and he loves all our friends. He’s just being idiotic. Having a late-life crisis. A last bloody hoorah.’ She slammed two tins of Heinz tomato soup down hard on the counter.
Perhaps he was. And a bit of me thought: Good luck to him. It couldn’t be much fun being Mum’s prisoner.
I shrugged. ‘OK. Don’t.’
She swung around, furious. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind but it’s not about that, is it? It’s about that floozy of his!’
‘Mum, I really don’t think she’s a floozy. Honestly I don’t. I’ve told you before.’ Neither did I see much point in continuing this. I changed the subject. ‘I gather you’re going to Ottoline’s pottery group?’
‘Yes, I said I would,’ she said shortly. ‘I’ve been to one already. I rather like Ottoline.’
I’d been putting macaroni away in a cupboard. I turned, surprised. ‘You’ve been already?’
‘Yes, I went last Thursday. I’ve been here for some time, Ella.’
Was it a reproach? Of course it was. Where had she been with me? Not even shopping.
‘She’s a doer,’ she said defensively. ‘Doesn’t come in here telling me where I’ve gone wrong in my life, just fixes the broken drawer, tells me how to work the thermostat and goes away again.’
I ignored the barbed dart in my direction, pleased. ‘Good. I like Ottoline, too. She’s one of my best friends. In fact …’ I was going to go on to say she was one of the reasons I’d stayed at Netherby, that she’d given me strength, supported me, but my mother had never invited this sort of confidence: Ginnie and I had always shied away from sharing, for fear of being derided. Of being told to buck up and stand on our own two feet. I wondered what my mother thought of my own situation. Of my husband in the barn. She’d never commented, never offered any counsel, any shoulder to cry on. Was she really so cold and hard? Did a heart beat within? It must do. It was just jolly hard to find. I knew I should have pressed her to come to supper tonight, perhaps even suggested a trip to Oxford tomorrow, to find her a new coat – she’d had that cape for years – but I didn’t. In my heart I knew I’d never forgiven her for not being the mother I’d wanted. The one I’d seen other girls had. Cosy. Confiding. Forgiving. Was I punishing her? In her hour of need? I hoped not. But I had needs too. And, like I said, she was in my garden, wasn’t she? Wasn’t that enough? I left her to her unpacking.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the event I rang Ginnie and suggested Mum needed a shopping trip. Ginnie, sensing I was now officially at breaking point and in no mood to brook an argument, promptly agreed, saying she’d pick her up at ten on Wednesday, falling over herself to say how grateful she was and how she knew I was carrying the can.
‘It’s fine,’ I said wearily. Although it hadn’t escaped my notice that Ginnie’s charity fair had finished and she hadn’t beetled round, as promised. ‘She’s no trouble, actually.’ She wasn’t. ‘She keeps to herself.’ She did.
‘Yes, but it can’t go on for ever. I saw Daddy yesterday and told him so.’
‘Oh?’ I said warily. At least she’d gone, made the effort, but I wasn’t sure my father in his present state would respond to these sorts of tactics. ‘And?’
‘He told me to mind my own bloody business! Honestly, he swore, Ella, and you know he doesn’t. Said he was having the time of his life and if she wanted to join in and have the time of hers that was fine, but if she was going to be a wet blanket she could stay away. Said he was having a dinner party and needed to get on and caramelize his brûlée.’
‘Oh! But he can’t cook, can he? Who was he having?’
‘He’d made a casserole, he said. Told me he’d followed a recipe and if you could read you could cook and too much fuss was made about it. It’s only the neighbours, I think. But the ones Mummy thinks aren’t smart enough and would never normally have round. Not Angie, but, you know, Jennie, across the road and her husband, Dan.’
‘With the old bangers?’
‘Exactly. And that older lady, Peggy, who Mummy says smokes too much and floats around in bohemian coats.’
‘Oh, yes. God, they’d never usually be allowed in.’
‘Quite. And Peggy’s got a boyfriend who’s a horse dealer, apparently. Lives in some terrible shack surrounded by whisky bottles.’ She shuddered tangibly down the line. I looked across the way to my own husband’s shack, no doubt littered
with bottles too.
‘There’s always another side to the story, Ginnie. He’s probably perfectly pleasant. Anyway, take Mum shopping.’
Had I just given my sister an order? Must be a first.
‘Will do,’ she replied quickly, and I almost sensed her coming to attention. ‘I’ll be round first thing on Wednesday. I’ve got a totally clear morning.’
Morning, see? Not day. Nothing too protracted. I put the phone down. But then she was probably busy in the afternoon. Whereas, aside from attending Ottoline’s pottery group on Thursday afternoon, which I’d decided to do so that Mum and I could be together but not, if you see what I mean, I had a totally clear week. Ginnie’s life and mine were so different in that respect. Acres of white space gazed back at me from the calendar hanging on the back of the larder door. Except, of course, for something tomorrow that couldn’t be written in. Not even in pencil.
I drove into Oxford the following morning having left a note on the fridge for the children, who still had a good few hours’ sleep in them. When I arrived at the café in the High Street, Ludo was already there, reading a newspaper. He was sitting at a corner table: very much a table for two. Not ideal, I thought, heart pounding as I muscled through the crowded room – this was a Carluccio offshoot and popular with yummy mummies, the better-heeled students and young professionals who flocked to its proper cappuccinos. Weren’t we were supposed to be bumping into each other? Not sneaking off to some clandestine spot?
‘You could have been a bit more central,’ I whispered, hovering doubtfully. ‘This looks a bit – you know. Pre-arranged. Lovers at the corner table.’
Ludo looked up from his paper in surprise. Blinked and gazed around. ‘There wasn’t another free table, otherwise I would. Sit down, Ella, it’s fine. We could have bumped into each other at the counter.’ He folded the Telegraph away.
I sat down. Didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. I got up and looked around wildly. ‘There’s one.’
A couple of middle-aged women were preparing to make a move: paying their bill, gathering their shopping. Slowly, though. I shot across, muscling in before a young mother with a buggy who’d also spotted it, and loomed over them, smile rigid. The two women looked startled, then smiled back and made faster tracks. The young mum shot me a filthy look as I sat down resolutely amidst the empty cups and saucers, the screwed-up napkins. Ludo came across with a weary grin.
‘Happier?’
‘Much. This looks a lot less – you know. Furtive. If we were having an affair, why would we sit slap bang in the middle of a busy café!’ I gave a slightly hysterical laugh. A few people turned to look.
‘Yes, well, you might want to keep your voice down,’ said Ludo nervously. ‘At this rate we’ll be accused of something that hasn’t even happened.’
‘Well, quite,’ I said hastily, glancing about. I cleared my throat.
‘How is the gardening business?’ I asked in a loud voice.
Ludo rubbed his temple with a forefinger and grinned. ‘Good thanks. ARE YOU DOING MUCH PAINTING?’ he boomed. People turned to look again.
‘Why are you shouting?’ I gasped.
‘Because you are,’ he told me. ‘Now relax, Ella. And talk to me normally. I’ve missed you.’
When he said this he moved his foot to press against mine. I felt a million volts shoot through me, right up to my eyeballs, which could well be flashing like a fruit machine. But I didn’t move my foot away. It hadn’t escaped my notice that the blue linen shirt he was wearing was exactly the same colour as his eyes, and that he was tanned from working outside. A shaft of dusty sunlight from the window had settled on the top of his head, turning his hair to spun gold. Gradually, as he ordered coffee and we chatted, I relaxed; even managing to smile at a friend I recognized, who saw Ludo, did a bit of a double take, but then waved back as if it were quite normal. I breathed. This was fine. This could work. Occasionally. Not too often or people would most certainly talk, but I liked the fact that it didn’t involve deception – unless you counted the double bluff. It was above board.
‘Actually, how is the art going?’ he asked when the table had been wiped and our coffee arrived.
‘Oh, I’ve nearly finished. A few more illustrations of a sink-estate staircase – you know, fag ends in lifts, beer cans lolling about in gutters – and I can send it off. Wait for the money to roll in. Well, pennies. It’ll be a relief to see the back of it, actually. To unleash it on the prepubescent set.’ I grimaced.
‘Good. But I didn’t mean that. I meant the real art.’
I paused, cup midway to mouth, regarding him over the rim. ‘You know I don’t do that any more.’
‘I know. But why not?’
I shrugged. ‘I told you, no time. I can’t be setting up an easel in the fields when there are mouths to feed, can I?’
‘But you sold quite a few pictures once. Got real money for them.’ He grinned and tapped his nose. ‘I know. I’ve talked to Lottie. I have my spies. Your secrets are not entirely safe, you know.’
‘Oh, Lottie. She exaggerates. And, anyway, I haven’t painted properly for years, wouldn’t know where to begin. How are the girls?’
‘Just because you haven’t done it for years,’ he said slowly, not so easily deflected, ‘doesn’t mean you can’t still do it. And you must be good to have exhibited.’
‘Not nearly as good as Sebastian,’ I said quickly.
‘Of course not. He was a great artist. Once. Everyone knows that. But it doesn’t mean you can’t paint, does it? Just because he’s not coming up with the goods any more? Lost the muse?’
I’d had this conversation before, with Lottie, and felt my way as carefully as I had done with her. People who didn’t create, didn’t understand.
‘You’re right, he has lost the muse,’ I said cautiously. ‘I, on the other hand, have lost interest.’
‘Ah. Right.’ He didn’t look entirely convinced, though. He took a sip of coffee. ‘What sort of things did you do?’
I sighed, hating talking about myself. Some people love it, do it, all the time; you can’t stop them. Lob them a personal question and you’re there for the duration, no end to their autobiographical flatulence. I was the opposite. It was so boring. I knew all about me.
‘Still lifes, chimney pots, skies – anything, really,’ I rattled off. ‘I was pretty amateur. Not very good.’
‘Can I see them?’
I glanced up, alarmed. ‘There’s nothing to see.’
‘But surely you’ve kept some? From your early days?’
I thought of the packed cupboard I’d only very recently opened.
‘Not really,’ I told him. ‘Only sketch books. Anyway, enough of me. How are those girls?’
‘Really well.’ He smiled, his face softening, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, as I knew they would. He rubbed the side of his face with the flat of his hand as he leaned in and went on to tell me fondly about a hockey tournament he’d been to, in which Henrietta had done brilliantly: not boastful, just proud. How he’d got overexcited on the touch line when she’d scored a goal and she’d had to beetle across, stick in hand, to have a word. ‘Dad – not so loud! Not so mental.’
I laughed. ‘You’re one of those competitive parents!’
‘Can’t help it,’ he agreed ruefully, stirring the froth into his coffee. ‘I so want them to win. In everything they do,’ he said fiercely, and I knew about that strength of feeling. That love. About wanting one’s offspring to achieve dreams that perhaps we hadn’t. Thwarted lives and all that. Living vicariously through them, easing our disappointments.
I wondered if hugely successful people were the opposite. Having achieved their dreams and made so much money, might they care less about whether their children did the same? The only truly successful person I knew was Richard, my brother-in-law, and he certainly cared. Was on the board of governors at Harrow, where Hugo had been at school, sponsored every cup in the Pony Club cabinet: oh, yes, he certainly wanted th
em to succeed. The only person I knew who didn’t feel like that, at least in terms of measurable, tangible achievement, was Sebastian. If the children’s reports were bad, he’d say, ‘So what?’ And toss them aside. Tabs’s geography report had once said: ‘Tabitha has not handed in enough work for me to comment.’ Sebastian had roared. And Josh’s first form teacher at secondary school had written: ‘Joshua will either be very successful or be expelled.’ It was the first time I’d seen Sebastian turn to his son with something like real pride in his eyes. Until then I’d thought he didn’t care; he said that he did care, but that it didn’t matter. There was a difference. More recently I wondered if this was true. That it didn’t matter.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Ludo asked with a quizzical smile.
‘Sebastian,’ I said, without thinking.
He laughed. ‘Oh, great!’
‘No, I was just thinking … he says he only wants the children to be happy.’
Ludo made a face. ‘Cop-out parenting. I dare say he says he wants to be their friend, too.’
‘Yes, he does,’ I said, surprised.
‘They have plenty of friends. They only get one father. It’s tough out there, Ella. You’ve got to enable kids. Set them up for the real world.’
This I agreed with too. In fact, I was a bit like that, I realized. Suggestible. Agreeing with whatever was last said, particularly if it was reasonable and persuasive. I wondered idly what Josh and Tabitha would have been like with Ludo as a father? More conventional; more focused, perhaps. Less … I don’t know, wild? Unpredictable?
‘Sebastian again?’
I was obviously staring into space.
‘No, you, this time. I was wondering what it would have been like if we’d had children.’
My Husband Next Door Page 18