The following morning, Ottoline popped her head round the back door. I’d just got back from the shops.
‘You might want to stay inside,’ she warned. ‘I’m going to go and deal with the cockerels. Dispatch the little buggers.’
‘It’s all right, Ottoline,’ I told her calmly. ‘I’ve seen to it already.’
‘Have you?’ She looked startled. ‘Golly. Well done. Good for you.’ My mother, still glued to her side like the Sundance Kid, and this morning, I kid you not, in dungarees, looked astonished. And a mite put out.
‘You have, Ella? You’ve killed the cockerels?’
‘Yes, I have, Mother. I live on a farm, remember?’ Sometimes I wanted to slap her. Often, actually. Hard. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’
‘We’re sorting out the rose garden today. Ottoline lent me some clothes. It’s a terrible mess, you know,’ she scolded.
I kept my temper. ‘Yes, yes, it is. But obviously the holiday lets keep me very busy, Mum. And then there’s that career of mine too, remember? You know, as an illustrator?’
She looked stung. ‘There’s no need to be fresh, Ella.’
Ottoline looked surprised too, and I realized there wasn’t any need. Here was my mother, throwing herself into country life, being helpful, even looking the part, and I was sneering? What was wrong with me?
Later, when I went to the farm shop for Layers Pellets and dog wormer – I get all the glamour jobs – I bumped into two people I knew, both of whom asked me if I’d been on holiday. A glance in the rear-view mirror when I got back in the car confirmed my fears. Three days of sluttishly not bothering to buy moisturizer and being unable to cope with a tight face had deepened my complexion to a dark mahogany. This couldn’t go on. I’d look like that man on that antiques programme soon, with the glasses on a chain. I couldn’t be bothered to go into town, but I stopped at the village shop instead.
‘ ’Ello, luv, you look well. Been away?’ asked Mrs Nicholls, who ran the store.
‘Um, no. At least – well, you know. Country air, I expect. Er, I looked on the shelves but couldn’t see any Nivea?’
‘No, luv, we’ve run out. Try up the road in Hertsmere. We’re waitin’ for a delivery.’
Back to the car I went. Annoying. Hertsmere was hardly up the road. A good couple of miles up the hill. Nevertheless I got in and set off, bound for the next village, and then home, for three solid hours of work, I determined, during which time I would lose myself and not think about my marriage, my lover – who wasn’t even my lover, I thought bitterly – my children, my parents, or my parents’ marriage. I would just think about me and what passed for my career, but which, in the words of ‘Desiderata’, framed in the downstairs loo, was nonetheless a precious thing, in this ever-changing something something world. And which would become even more precious. Bigger and better, too, I decided, setting my mouth grimly. No, I would not be told glue-sniffing Gary was all I was fit for. I would create my own children’s book, around characters I wanted to bring to life. Characters who would leap off the page because I wanted them to. I might even – and this was a bold thought, a really rogue one I hadn’t had for years – I might even paint again. I swerved violently in the road. Since everyone else trampled all over my feelings, I thought, feeling terribly sorry for myself, I might not consider theirs so assiduously. I might get my jolly old easel out of the jolly old cupboard, set it up – under cover of darkness naturally, I wasn’t that brave – and … good God.
I screeched to a halt as I saw him on the edge of Hertsmere common. Braked so suddenly that I caused the car behind to swing past dangerously in an angry blare of horns and fists. But I was oblivious. I just gaped. There, in a lay-by, which was actually a bus stop, was Monsieur Blanc. Looking for all the world as if he were waiting for a bus. Behind him – oh, God – were his henchmen, in a row. A queue, one might say, even. Sarkozy, Oscar, Blenheim, Cyril – all the thugs. I stared, aghast. My window was open and I swear Monsieur Blanc stared back. To my horror, there was a flash of recognition. His beady black eye glinted at me and he ran towards the car with that fast, rolling gait, his cronies, after a moment’s hesitation, firmly in his wake. I hit the accelerator. Shot off straight into the – happily empty – lane, and made a sharp left turn at the end. Not to the village and the Nivea pot, but straight home, glancing fearfully in my mirror as I went.
What were they doing here? I’d dropped them miles away. What were they, homing pigeons or something? They wouldn’t actually make it home, I reasoned, my heart pounding. There was a fairly main road between them and our village, and quite a few fields, but still, they were having a damn good try. I went cold. Suppose they really did hop on a bus? Sail into town or something? Oh, don’t be silly, Ella. It was hardly ideal, though, was it? If Ottoline saw them she’d know I’d lied to her. And my mother. I shrank from their disapproval and disbelief. Not to mention that of the village. I raked a nervous hand through my hair. I’d assumed they’d – you know – go native. Split up, run away, turn on each other, in a Lord of the Flies-type way. Get eaten by the fox, you mean, a little voice in my head said. Well, of course. I’d told myself that was a far more natural death than being strangled. It had been at the back, if not the very forefront, of my mind.
Over the course of the next few days, at least three people told me I was looking well and then asked me if I’d lost any chickens. No, I lied. Oh, it was just that, bizarrely, some walkers had come across some in the woods, on the other side of the village. How extraordinary, I said, chickens in a wood! Most peculiar! I waited, dry-mouthed, like a murderer who hopes he’s covered his trail thoroughly enough and the police won’t come knocking. Yes, three chickens, in a clutch, Mrs Nicholls told me, when I went in for a pint of milk. Really? Two had gone, then, I thought, pleased but guilty, as I crept out. I’d released five.
Reports varied, as they do, when not much happens in the country. They weren’t chickens at all, old Mr McEwen said, but wild guinea fowl. Nonsense, Mrs Appleyard told him, they could be heard crowing at night; they weren’t guinea fowl, but they were a terribly rare species. Only seen in this country on two or three occasions and usually in Scotland. Even then, only on grouse moors.
‘Were they grouse?’
‘No, no. Much rarer than that.’
At this, Celia Harmsworth pricked up her ears. She had her man steal out at dusk in an estate vehicle, catch them up and bring them home, which he did easily, seeing as they were very tame. She was frightfully pleased with herself. Made them a special pen – or got her man to do it. She even informed the local zoo, until someone told her she hadn’t got some splendid rare breed at all, but a few mangy cockerels, who were past their sell-by date and made a noise surprisingly like the ones that used to wake everyone up at Netherby Farm. Whatever happened to those, they asked me accusingly, when I was next in the shop. Those cockerels? At the mention of the C word, I couldn’t speak.
‘Mum wrung their necks,’ Tabitha, who was with me, told them proudly, before I could stop her.
I crept away clutching my Wholemeal.
Ottoline, giving me a strange look, asked if I’d heard about the rumours of poultry in the woods? I lied and said I hadn’t.
Numbers went down to one. One lone bird, a gigantic creature, vicious as anything, it was said. Pure white, who roosted in trees and dive-bombed walkers, screaming at the dawn, terrifying even the foxes, who wouldn’t go near him. This monster molested rabbits, badgers, children. Quite true, I thought, remembering how he’d chased the holiday-let kids.
In a peculiar way, I found myself slightly rooting for Monsieur Blanc, who, in the days that followed, pretty much ruled the village, let alone the roost. Tales of his deeds got yet more dastardly, until one day the gamekeeper from the Longhorn estate – rather piqued at being made a fool of – went out with his gun and shot him. It was a fitting end, I felt, for one who had lived by the sword. Enormous, we were told this bird was, although, interestingly, no body was produced. His c
omb and spurs were apparently preserved in aspic for posterity and kept in the Harmsworths’ game larder, where, renamed ‘Napoleon’, a label was stuck accordingly on the jar.
All this time, of course, real life was continuing apace and in earnest in my valley. By real life, I mean the only one that mattered: the one conducted in the secret chambers of the heart. Ludo’s texts were getting more and more gently persuasive, urgent, even. Naturally they were. His wife was seeing someone – not that he knew, but surely every cuckolded man suspects? Sebastian was moving out. There was no earthly reason why the two of us should not be joined together in – OK, nothing holy, but certainly relief and abandon.
He’d write to my phone:
I love and miss you so much. Let’s at least have some time together. I want to walk in the hills with you, lie in the fields, gaze up at the clouds with you.
Romantic. Persuasive. Seductive.
Without the bloody dogs
he added, and I smiled.
I rang him in a quiet moment; told him about the cockerels. He roared. Loved it. Loved me, he told me, all the more for it. Really? Not mad? I asked anxiously. No, not mad. Just lovely. I felt calmer. Happier than I had in weeks. I was loved for being me. Sebastian would have thought I was crazy; Ottoline, too. And recently even I’d worried that I was going a bit … odd. Apparently I wasn’t. I was lovable. I felt something scrunched and tight inside me, like a ball of discarded paper, flatten and flutter gently down to rest. Nonetheless he needed to see me, Ludo said. Needed to love me properly.
He favoured the Quantock Hills in Somerset, for a long weekend. Or there was a delightful yet secluded little pub he knew called the Flower Inn, and which, in my head, I came to think of as the De-flower Inn. I dithered and prevaricated, not because I didn’t want to, I did, but because … what then? Yes, Eliza was seeing someone, but would she and Ludo split up? Who knows. Did he want them to? Impossible to say. He always spoke of our ‘one day’ but family was everything too, remember? Like the Mafia. It was why I loved him. Did I want them to split up? Two weeks ago – not necessarily. Today? In the most clandestine cloister of my heart … yes. Of course. Because I no longer had a back-up plan. A plan B. With Sebastian out of the frame, what would become of me? Would I become – ghastly, red-letter word – the mistress? And all that that implied? Twanging suspenders, high-heeled shoes, a voracious appetite for sex and no thought for sisterhood? For the wronged wife? Except, she wasn’t wronged, remember? She was twanging her own suspenders once a week in London. So … why didn’t I tell Ludo? Nudge him along a bit, a little voice said. After all, he was carefully preserving something that didn’t exist. Why go through the charade of staying together, when, unbeknownst to each other, they were pursing different lives and could both be happier elsewhere?
Henrietta’s pale face at the fete, her eyes trained anxiously on her sniping parents as she scratched the eczema inside her arm, which I knew from Ludo to be a problem, came back to me. That’s why. Sacrifices had to be made. For those we love. Whilst my own children, I thought, my heart clenching with fear, found the split infinitely preferable and were ready to jump ship to Oxford with their father at a moment’s notice. Unfair, unfair, I scolded myself, as I walked in the damp fields with the dogs, Maud, who adored autumn, scampering through the yellow-gold leaves, scattering them in delight.
I texted Ludo back.
I love you, too. I just need a bit more time to think.
He replied:
Take as long as you like. My teeth may be in a glass by the bed and you might have to help me on with my socks afterwards, but I’ll be there.
I smiled, loving the fact that he always saw the funny side and would, I knew, wait for ever. My phone beeped once more.
However, I do think we deserve it.
I pocketed it, thoughtful. Did we deserve it? ‘Because You’re Worth It’ went the famous cosmetics slogan, which seemed to me to sum up this age: not of enlightenment, but entitlement. We all felt owed. And, yes, I did too. Owed some happiness. But if I felt like that now, how would I feel six months into the affair? Entitled to a whole lot more, surely? I sighed and trudged on through the swirling sycamore leaves which fell softly to the ground, turning my phone off as I went.
When I returned after a long and circuitous trek through the woods, I came back down the hill, approaching the farmyard from the rear. I paused a moment, taking in the view. It was beautiful, of course it was. I should count my many blessings. The huddle of stone buildings crouched in the valley, their dark-slated roofs framed by the hills in the background, the gently trickling stream, the flat meadow freckled with sheep and not another house in sight. Closer inspection would reveal that many tiles were missing from the charming outbuildings and plenty of damp was galloping up the picturesque walls. However much I hastily painted over it at the beginning of each holiday-let season, it always staged a blazing comeback at the end, which, thankfully, was almost upon us.
Even Jason was going back to school next week, his cold subsiding to a few sniffles. Right now, though, down by the stream in the daisy-strewn meadow, he and his mother were feeding the ducks, which was a rather touching scene. As she’d told me cheerily the other day, ‘Not many ducks in Streatham, luv.’ They moved on to stroke Brodie, the donkey, over the fence. Error. Brodie was notoriously bad-tempered and Jason was picking grass to give him, but not holding it in the flat of his hand. I opened my mouth to warn him – too late. Jason let out a yowl as his finger was squarely bitten. Brodie looked at me innocently, as if to say: What? I ducked behind a chestnut tree as Mrs Braithwaite, fussing over her son, hastened him off for yet another visit to the medicine chest, surely about to demand a refund. When I was certain they’d gone I emerged to fix Brodie with a reproving eye. I knew full well he could take grass from a clenched fist if he felt like it, he just obviously didn’t.
Following the stony path as it plunged down the hill, I came through the back yard, shutting the five-barred gate behind me. As I passed by the Granary I resisted the urge to look through the window, but, actually, even with eyes half averted, I could easily see the flag was flying from the mast, which meant Ottoline was sitting. Since Sebastian couldn’t paint without natural light he didn’t draw the curtains, but the flag of St George, hoisted and fluttering, at least let the rest of us know not to peer. As I opened my back door, though, I turned at the sound of a car crunching out of the yard. I frowned after it. Ottoline’s red Clio was purring away, bound for the direction of town. I remembered that she and Mum had hatched a plot to go to Highgrove today, Prince Charles’s garden, which occasionally was open to the public. Who could it be, then? Sitting for my husband?
Curiosity got the better of me. Within moments, and after glancing furtively about, I was tiptoeing across the yard. Sebastian always stood with the north window behind him, his easel facing it, so that was the one I chose, knowing I’d at least get his back. I flattened myself against the rough outside wall. Then, very cautiously and slowly, I inched along, turning my head when I reached the glass pane. The window was high, though, the Granary being raised on saddle stones, and I couldn’t quite see without standing on something. I cast about. By my back door, an old terracotta pot with a dead geranium in it fitted the bill.
I ran to get it, tiptoed back, emptied the earth, which came out in a dry lump, and turned it upside down. Then I resumed my position, but higher now. Flattened beside the window I turned my head to look. It took my eyes a moment to become accustomed to the light inside, but then, sure enough, on the floor I saw a tumble of clothes: a bra – not old Mr Forester from the village, then, who sometimes did the honours – and the electric fire blazing for warmth. The tatty chaise longue where sitters reclined was slightly shaded by a screen, but if I edged to the side of the pot … and craned my neck, I could just see … painted toes, slim, naked legs … and working my way up a naked body … Shit! I gripped the windowsill, bug-eyed with horror. Wobbled, precariously. The old pot gave way under the pressure and o
ne foot went straight through it with a crash. As I landed, both hands clutched my mouth in horror.
‘Mum!’ I gasped.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Within a twinkling, it seemed to me, certainly too fast for me to make a move in any direction, the Granary door was flung wide. Sebastian stood a short distance away, towering and glowering, terrible in his fury.
‘What the fuck are you doing!’ he barked.
I limped towards him, the flowerpot on my left foot hampering my progress, but, for once, not so terrified by my husband’s temper as wanting to see for certain. To view, through the naked eye, without the possible distortion of glass, what I thought I’d seen. Ignoring Sebastian I ducked my head under his arm, which held the door open, and stared into the room. Sure enough, reclining on the chaise, but now with a shirt snatched up to cover what remained of her modesty, was my mother, looking astonished, but angry, too.
‘Mum!’ I inhaled sharply, jaw dropping.
‘Eleanor. What on earth are you doing?’
Anyone would think I’d disturbed her having a nap.
‘What are you doing, more like!’ I spluttered, when I’d finally found my voice.
‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m sitting for Sebastian.’
‘Yes, but –’ I gaped, impotently. Many, many things sprang to mind. You don’t like him, for one, but, chiefly, you don’t do this. This was not my mother, sprawled naked and supine for her son-in-law’s paintbrush, for heaven’s sake.
‘Mother, I am shocked!’ I said forcefully.
‘Shocked? Oh, don’t be silly, Ella. I’m surprised at you. Do grow up. This is art, for goodness sake.’
My Husband Next Door Page 25