Having weaved my way through the bucolic scrum and located the makeshift office, which consisted of a trestle table manned by a couple of weather-beaten yokels straight out of central casting, I collected my order of sale card and number, and made my way to the steps which led to the raised platforms around the ring, where the animals were on show. I muscled my way through to somewhere on the third row, ignoring the nudges and stares. Sheep were being paraded round the sawdust circle below, looking lost and panicky and bleating forlornly. As I stood studying the race card, wedged between a couple of burly farmers, and as the droning voice of the auctioneer expertly took bids from the floor, I realized I’d timed it badly – if, indeed, I’d timed it at all. I’d have to stand through an interminable number of sheep, then ducks, then turkeys, before we got anywhere near the poultry. Better to stay, though, than go shopping, perhaps. I’d parked. I was here. Who’s to say I wouldn’t lose heart after an hour in the Waitrose café? Turn tail and head for home?
Two mind-numbing hours later, it wasn’t poultry we were finally closing in on, but eggs. Boxes and boxes of them. Hotly contested, too. On and on it went. Fifty pence for six. Eighty-two pence for six. Seventy-three pence for six. Surely one could buy them for much the same price in Tesco? I ventured this to the farmer beside me. ‘Not fer’ilized, you can’t, love.’ He beamed. ‘Although you never know, these days.’ He winked. He was a big winker. He’d winked at me a couple of times already. I didn’t mind. I took my compliments where I could these days. As the hundred and sixteenth box of eggs was presented I wasn’t sure I could bear the tension. Seventy-five pence? Seventy-six pence? No – eighty pence! It was a wonder I hadn’t bitten through the strap of my designer handbag in excitement.
Finally, though, it was the chickens, which included bantams, and I woke up. Old English Game Bantams are rare birds, not easy to source, but I knew from Ottoline that the strain had been on the farm for ever and I wanted to keep it pure. I’d already ascertained that lot 257 was a box of fifteen such hens. That should keep the boys happy. Almost three to a bed. Cockerel heaven, surely? The crate was presented and a brown-coated chap took a bird out and held it aloft for us to see. She looked rather large to my reasonably trained eye as she was paraded around the ring for inspection, but my burly friend on my left assured me these were particularly fine specimens and he should know. His brother-in-law, Pete, had bred ’em, and a very fine bantam farmer he was, too. He’d snap them up like nobody’s business if he were me.
Snap them up I fully intended to do, and if the last two hours had dragged, cometh the moment there’s something terribly thrilling about bidding at an auction. I felt a frisson of excitement as I waved my number enthusiastically in the air, one or two florid faces turning to stare. So excited did I become that apparently I started bidding against myself and my burly neighbour had to stay my hand in a friendly manner. But no matter. I’d secured my girls for thirty-six pounds, a snip in anyone’s book.
‘Pleased with that, are you, love?’ asked my new best friend beside me with a grin.
‘Very!’ I assured him as he winked at me, then at a friend in the crowd. Golly, I should do this more often, I thought as, flexing aching, numb feet I inched excitedly along the row to the steps. Yes, I should buy more animals. Restock my farm. In the correct gear, of course. Old Barbour, jeans. I could be just like Bathsheba, in Far from the Madding Crowd. She’d been quite a girl, hadn’t she? Well, I could be, too. Show everyone. Take control. Buy a few pigs, even. What had I been doing with my life? I lived on a farm, for heaven’s sake – if anyone could have the good life, it was me! I tossed my head, hoping for a spot of Julie Christie verve.
I’d imagined it would take for ever to collect the birds, but, to my surprise, as I went round the back of the barn they were ready and waiting in their crate, just as soon as I’d handed over the readies to the greasy-looking individual behind the trestle table. He gave me a toothless grin and it occurred to me that in a matter of months I’d know him as Bob, or Bill, or Sid. Be on cheerful, livestock-bantering terms with him. The crate wasn’t heavy, but it was square and awkward with no string, and I was aware of more stares and titters as I tottered with it in my arms to my car, overlarge handbag balanced on top, heels wobbling in the grass, rain soaking the rope soles as it started to drizzle again, the mud splashing up my bare legs. Nevertheless I was thrilled with my booty and stashed it in the back.
I’d decided I’d introduce the girls gradually to their suitors – I didn’t want an ugly rush from the boys, who had absolutely no manners whatsoever. Once home, therefore, I took them to the loose box where Harriet was. I opened the box on the floor and they came out gingerly, stiffly, blinking in the daylight, glancing around cautiously, stretching their legs. They were sweet, brown, gentle and lovely. I’d give them a high perch in the rafters, I determined. Some cosy sawdust and a couple more nesting boxes for their smooth brown eggs, which had been in short supply recently. How nice for Harriet to have some company, I thought, as she left her box to investigate. No fighting, of course; hens weren’t like that. Just a bit of soft clucking. It was almost like a knitting circle already. They’d be on dust-bathing terms in no time. I hurried about getting grain and water.
Ottoline happened to be in the yard, filling up the trough for the ducks – again, too many drakes, I decided firmly, eyeing the flashy green males. I’d tackle them next. She came across to the stable door. My mother was with her, weirdly dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. I’d never seen my mum in jeans before, and she also had a red hanky knotted round her neck at a rakish angle. I tried not to stare.
‘What have you got there?’ asked Ottoline, resting her plump arms on the door as I shut it behind me. I was lowering a tray of water – not too deep or they’d drown; they were still very young – to the floor in the corner.
‘Well, poor Harriet was getting raped and pillaged at every turn,’ I explained. ‘And I tried to wring a few of the cockerels’ necks and failed, so then I thought: Well, I’ll get them some wives to take the pressure off. It’ll also stop them crowing so much in the morning. I’m sure they’re just frustrated.’ I smiled a professional smile.
Ottoline burst out laughing. ‘Providing them with more sex is only going to make them crow more, Ella! If you want to stop the noise you could try shutting the top of the stable door at night. They crow when they see daylight. I’m always up at dawn so it doesn’t bother me, but I have wondered about the rest of the village.’
I stared. ‘Right,’ I said tightly. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘Didn’t want to interfere. Or upset you.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, I assumed you left it open so you didn’t have to bother to shut them up at night. Or let them out in the morning. I know you like a lie-in. And I’ve put a roosting bar up high so the fox never gets them. I imagined that’s what you wanted.’
But didn’t ask, because Ottoline always minded her own business. And didn’t want to draw attention to my lazy ways. Or upset me. Again. That word.
‘And, anyway,’ she went on, coming into the loose box, ‘aren’t these hens going to be too big? They’re not bantams, you know.’
‘Of course they are,’ I said testily. ‘They’re Old English Game. It said so on the race card, or whatever you call it.’
‘Oh, it might have said that, but these are common or garden Rhode Island Reds, albeit young ones. They’ll get as big as Pete Silkin’s chickens down the road.’
‘No!’ I gasped. Pete Silkin’s chickens were huge. Gargantuan beasts. Suddenly I remembered my burly friend’s brother-in-law was called Pete. And when he’d winked into the crowd after I’d bought them, I’d spotted Pete Silkin, possibly on the receiving end. I clutched my head.
‘Old Horace will never get his tackle in there.’ Ottoline pointed. ‘And as for little Sarkozy, he’ll need more than a pair of platform shoes. He’ll have to stand on a dustbin first!’
My mother cackled in a most un
genteel way for her. She rocked back on her tasselled loafers, thumbs in her hip pockets like something out of Cannery Row. And she didn’t like smut. My left eye had begun to twitch manically. A recent problem, I’d noticed.
‘Right,’ I breathed. I surreptitiously reached up to both ears to press hard.
‘And this one …’ Ottoline went on cruelly, bending down to inspect it – she picked it up and turned it upside down. ‘This one’s a boy!’ she cried. She pointed to another. ‘And so is this one. Look, you can see the comb beginning to grow. Oh, Ella, they’re all cocks, they’re not even hens!’
They both roared. Roared and roared.
‘Oh, Ella, you are such a ninny!’ cried my mother, that’s … my mother in the jeans, albeit pressed and from Country Casuals. ‘You can’t even go to an auction and buy a few chickens!’
At that moment, Sebastian, who never took a blind bit of notice of anything that went on at the farm, unless it was to do with his oil paints or his crates of wine – he barely troubled the yard except to go back and forth across it to the pub – returned from just this place. He sauntered across at the cackling.
‘What’s up?’ he said, amiably for him. But don’t forget he’d had a few.
‘Ella went to buy some bantam hens and came back with giant cockerels!’ spluttered Mum, who I actually hated, I decided.
Sebastian grinned. ‘She never could resist a big cock.’
It was just a jokey remark, not a cruel one, and they all laughed good-naturedly, even Mum, who’d clearly morphed into some strange being who wore knotted hankies, went to Calendar Girls, and exchanged dirty jokes with her detested son-in-law. And, actually, if Sebastian wasn’t leaving me, and if Josh wasn’t drifting with him, and if my best friend hadn’t said I was oversensitive this morning – Ottoline, too, in so many words – I might have laughed along with them. Been rather delighted everyone was getting along so famously. It was only a few chickens, after all. And quite funny, when you came to think about it. As it was, though, I pushed blindly through them, welling up as I went. I ran towards the house, wobbling in my stupid shoes. Safely inside I burst into tears and slammed the back door behind me. So hard, in fact, that the glass within the frame shattered, and fell, in a million pieces, on the floor.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A few minutes later, the back door opened. Sebastian appeared. Without even glancing in my direction he calmly stepped over the shards of broken glass and made his way through the kitchen and out to the front hall. I heard him go upstairs. Not long after, he was back, crossing the kitchen. I sat there, wet-faced, slack-jawed and incredulous as he went to step back over the glass and exit as he’d arrived, without saying a word.
‘Sebastian,’ I spluttered as he was almost out of the door. ‘I’m not sure you can just wander in and out of here when you feel like it! I certainly wouldn’t dream of invading your space without asking.’
A lie. I did. Frequently. On the pretext of taking linen and shopping across. Not when he was in, but sometimes when he was out. He never locked a door. I’d put the sheets on the side and have a quick tiptoe around the studio, see what he’d been up to canvas-wise – slightly more, recently, but not much. Obviously I’d never go upstairs. Well, I had once. Or twice. But never opened drawers.
‘Tabitha rang to say she’d left a maths book behind,’ he said coldly. ‘She’s got a test this afternoon and I said I’d drop it by for her.’ He held it up in his left hand, having clearly just retrieved it from her bedroom.
‘Oh. Right. Well.’ I sniffed hard. ‘Why didn’t she ring me?’ I wiped my teary face with the back of my hand, feeling a little foolish.
‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps your phone was off.’
I sniffed again. ‘Yes, perhaps.’ I sat up a bit and held my hand out impatiently. ‘OK, I’ll do it.’
‘No, I’ll go.’
‘How will you go?’ I said witheringly, emphasis on the final word, waggling my head derisively.
‘My licence kicked back in today. I’ll take the car.’
‘Oh. Right.’ The car. My car. His too, though, I suppose.
Ottoline appeared at the back door. She looked down at the glass, dismayed, then up at me. Her face was full of anxiety.
‘Ella, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. And, honestly, it’s not a disaster. I can sort it out. I’ll sell them on eBay, turn them into coq au vin or something –’
‘No, Ottoline, it’s fine.’ I shut my eyes and held up the palm of my hand to her, something I didn’t like when other people did it, as if they couldn’t bear to look at one. But, actually, I couldn’t bear to look at Sebastian’s eyes, which were curious. Not concerned, more … intrigued. And not in a good way, more in an anthropological way. ‘It’s fine,’ I said, into the darkness, still adopting the traffic-cop stance. ‘I will sort the chickens out, and I will sort the glass out. But if I could just be left in peace for a few minutes, I would really, really appreciate it.’
Both disappeared at that. I felt them go, even if I couldn’t see them. And, anyway, I heard the door close.
I opened my eyes and exhaled gustily. Sat there, fists clenched on my knees. I realized a howling gale was coming through the broken panes. I gave myself a moment.
After a bit, I got up and went to the mirror in the tiny downstairs cloakroom. Stared at my reflection. I’d run out of moisturizer a few days ago and, given the choice between Vaseline and fake tan, had chosen the latter as a lubricant, so at least I looked reasonably healthy. But my hair was sticking out of my head at strange angles and my eyes looked quite mad. I flattened my hair a little, fair and fine, and found a comb. Then I breathed deeply in and out, taking air right down to the diaphragm as I knew you were supposed to. I reached up to give the seeds another – ouch – squeeze. I couldn’t help feeling Valium would be more effective. I kept the breathing going, watching my face, waiting for the eyes to calm down. Look less crazy. A bit of mascara would help, instead of the scrubbed look. Even a touch of lippy. What husband wouldn’t leave a wife who looked like this? Ginnie always looked like this, I reasoned. Like an Englishwoman who doesn’t give a damn, but no one would ever dare leave Ginnie.
Before the children came home I swept up the glass and rang a glazier – an emergency one, which cost the earth and I couldn’t afford. I had the door sorted out in no time, which was most unlike me. Ordinarily we’d have a piece of cardboard taped to it for months – had done once, when Sebastian, as I recalled, had done the very same thing in a blazing temper.
Later, Ottoline put her head through the window to say that Lizzie Silkin, Pete’s wife, had been round. Word had reached her that Pete had pulled a fast one and passed some chickens off as bantams and she was appalled. She’d taken them back, returned my money and Pete was firmly in the doghouse. Egg and chips tonight, instead of steak. I managed a smile. Thanked her, knowing, too, that I was the laughing stock of the village, but hey, who cares. I did, actually.
That evening I cooked a proper supper for the children. None of your beans on toast: meatballs, pasta and broccoli. Then I helped Tabitha with her homework. When, after a good fifteen minutes and with the help of a calculator, she’d finally explained to me what a vulgar fraction was, I snuck out to the yard. Got awfully busy in a stable. I reasoned the children had seen a lot of me tonight and probably wouldn’t notice my absence. They didn’t. Neither did they notice that I was strangely elated when I returned and sporting quite a few feathers on my jumper.
Since they both went to bed after me, I went upstairs early and set my alarm for two in the morning. When it went off, I awoke with a horrible start. I lay there wondering what on earth was going on. Was I going on holiday? Early flight? No. Hadn’t had one of those for years. All at once I remembered. I was alert in moments. Stealing quietly downstairs, I threw my coat over my nightie, slipped my feet into my wellies by the back door and, hushing the dogs, who raised their heads sleepily, went out to the loose box where the cockerels were ready and waiting. I pick
ed up the cardboard box I’d prepared earlier. Monsieur Blanc and his vicious friends were firmly within, the box taped shut, a few air holes punched in the top. Not Horace, though; he wouldn’t hurt a fly, and, anyway, my girls had never minded his attentions. Feeling like a French resistance fighter, I put them in the back of the car and drove down the dark, empty lane, heading for the woods on the opposite side of the village.
When the bank of dark trees loomed I followed the road for a bit, then swung right, plunging down a narrow opening in the seemingly impenetrable lines of pines. The foresters drove their Land Rovers down tracks like this, right to the heart, to coppice and stockpile wood. I knew exactly where I was going, had walked the dogs here before. Nevertheless my heart was pounding as I bumped along, headlights bouncing up and down in the pitch black. At the end of the track, in a clearing, I stopped the car. Turned the headlights off. It was jolly spooky but I made myself get out, snapping on my torch and running round quickly to the boot, not giving myself time to be scared. I took out the box, set it on the ground sideways, and opened it.
The cockerels emerged slowly. They stood huddled together for a moment, blinking curiously into the night. Monsieur Blanc glanced up at me, then down at my ankles, as if he might have a go. I neatly sidestepped him behind a tree and shone the torch away into the distance. He cocked his little white head at the bright light ahead, assessing the situation. Suddenly he stretched out his neck and set off, taking the lead, as usual, followed by his merry men, who looked rather excited. Cyril, who was bone idle and very much the lounge lizard of the group, very nearly hopped off the ground and fluttered into flight, such was his brio. I watched as they disappeared into the wilderness.
My Husband Next Door Page 24