A Rural Affair

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ Jennie hissed.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Because you’re behaving as if you are completely and utterly pissed. You’re being outrageous, Poppy!’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes, and I end up looking like some ageist bigot just to get you off the hook!’

  I stopped in the lane. Felt my forehead. I did feel a bit inebriated, actually. A bit light-headed. I was aware that my timorous desire not to rock the boat had been replaced in some fabulously epiphanic way by a desire to be true to myself whatever the consequences. The trouble was, my feelings had been suppressed for so long without the valve being even slightly loosened, that now the lid was off, the contents were not so much out, as all over the walls.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry, Jennie.’ I walked on, slower now. ‘But the thing is,’ I said carefully, feeling my way, ‘I feel the truth is so … well, crucial, suddenly. Of such vital importance, you know?’ I turned to face my friend earnestly. I felt faintly visionary about it; might even get a bit evangelical. ‘I mean, it’s so liberating, isn’t it?’ I urged. ‘Why don’t we all just say what we mean all the time? Always?’

  ‘Because polite society dictates that we don’t, that’s why,’ she said heatedly. ‘Just because you’re a widow, doesn’t mean the bridle can come off, you know. Doesn’t give you carte blanche to say whatever comes into your head. You still have to exercise restraint; can’t just trample on people’s feelings!’

  I blinked, suitably rebuked. ‘No, I suppose not,’ I conceded. ‘Except … everyone tramples on mine?’

  ‘Phil trampled on yours,’ she reminded me. ‘Not everyone.’

  ‘Why are we going in here?’ I ducked as we made a sharp right turn and went into the pub under a low beam.

  ‘Because if you haven’t had a drink,’ she told me as she steered me into the snug of the Rose and Crown bar, ‘then perhaps you should. Two large gin and tonics, please, Hugo.’ This, to the barman, a local teenager in his gap year, as she parked me firmly on a bar stool. Still looking distinctly harassed she flourished a tenner at him. ‘And even if you don’t need one,’ she told me, collapsing in a heap on a stool beside me, ‘after that, I jolly well do.’

  9

  A few days later I received a surprisingly efficient missive from my solicitor in the form of an email, apologizing for our disorganized inaugural meeting and wondering if I had time to ‘pop in for a second attempt’. I did, as it happened, the following afternoon, and since he too was free, a meeting was arranged. As I sat in his supremely tidy waiting room, watched over by a pleasantly plump blonde matron with pussycat-bow chiffon blouse, navy skirt and red nails, I realized something of a sea change had occurred here since my last visit. When I was shown into his office it became all the more seismic as Sam Hetherington stood up to greet me, spotty tie firmly in place, suit jacket on, papers and files previously littering the floor now neatly aligned on shelves behind him, no half-empty mugs of tea, and no sign of the very dead spider plant wilting on his windowsill.

  ‘You’ve scrubbed up,’ I said in surprise as we shook hands across his desk.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Funny. I was thinking the same about you. Didn’t know one was allowed to voice it.’

  I laughed. ‘I meant your room, actually.’

  He looked taken aback. ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, it’s just Janice insists I wear a tie so I assumed you meant … However, you do look better,’ he concluded awkwardly as we both sat down.

  I smiled. ‘Thanks. I’m feeling much better.’

  I realized the last time I’d been in here I’d been sporting clothes that had seen better days and hair that hadn’t seen a brush for a while. It also occurred to me that his own dark wavy hair together with eyes the colour of good Madeira was my most favourite combination.

  ‘Janice makes you wear a tie?’ I said as I settled back into my seat.

  He sighed. ‘Janice rules my life in very many ways. And thank the Lord she does. She has an uncanny insight into the mind of the prospective client and their sartorial expectations. Apparently shirt sleeves and an open collar simply will not do, suggestive as they are of a chaotic mind and careless approach to business and not a tireless toiling over the brief. So yes, she makes me wear a tie.’ He smiled. ‘Now. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You asked me to come in.’

  His dark eyes widened in surprise. ‘So I did. So I did.’ He hastened to collect himself and shuffled some papers around. ‘It’s all coming back to me. Of course. There’s a will.’

  ‘And where there’s a will, there’s a relative,’ I quipped.

  He frowned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Oh, er, bad-taste joke,’ I said hastily, remembering Jennie’s terse reprimand to behave. I sat up straight. ‘You’re right, I’m here about my husband’s will.’

  ‘Which I’ve got right here.’

  He picked up a wad of papers from his desk and flourished it triumphantly, almost as if that in itself was something of an achievement. Then he put it down and gazed reflectively. Glanced up and met my eye.

  ‘You’re a wealthy woman, Mrs Shilling.’

  I blanched. ‘Am I?’

  ‘Well, compared to me you are. Compared to most people. Your husband ran a flourishing private-equity firm and made a lot of money which you’re now entitled to. Added to which he also took out an insurance policy in 2002 which has quadrupled in value in the last eight years.’ He passed a piece of paper to me across the desk, swivelling it simultaneously. A sea of figures swam before my eyes. ‘Bottom right,’ he said kindly, pointing.

  There, nestling in the column he indicated, was a figure so colossal I wondered for a moment if it had been translated into drachmas. If Phil, who after all had had a secret mistress, was also secretly Greek? But there was a pound sign before it.

  ‘Good grief. Have we always had that much?’

  ‘No, it falls in on his death. It’s insurance.’

  ‘And is it all mine?’

  ‘On an annual basis, yes.’

  ‘Annual. You mean … not a lump sum?’

  ‘No, that’s what you’ll receive every year.’

  I looked up. Stared. He gave me a level gaze back.

  ‘Blimey,’ I said somewhat inadequately. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘He provided for you very well.’

  ‘Yes. Gosh. Didn’t he?’ I said humbly. I realized I’d been less than complimentary about my late husband recently. ‘But you’re sure it’s all entailed on me?’

  He retrieved the paper. Whisked it around to peruse it. ‘ “In the event of my death,” ’ he read out, ‘ “all my estate to be bestowed on my wife.” ’ He looked up. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Seems clear enough.’

  ‘No other dependants?’

  ‘Well, your children, obviously, if you die.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘But no bequests to other relatives, no.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not a detailed will, but then it wouldn’t be. People don’t expect to die at thirty-four.’ He started to shuffle it all back together.

  ‘You’ve read all of it, have you?’ I said nervously. He was a bit more on the ball today but he had struck me as slightly shambolic, previously.

  He paused. Looked up. ‘Yes, I’ve read all of it. I passed my law exams too.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just …’

  ‘There’s a mother?’

  ‘Well, yes, but –’

  ‘There often is.’ He glanced at the papers again. ‘No, not provided for.’

  ‘A sister too,’ I said, playing for time. ‘Cecilia Shilling?’

  He ran his eyes over it again. ‘Nope.’

  ‘And, um, someone called … Emma Harding.’

  ‘Emma Harding.’ He frowned. ‘Why do I know that name?’ He read again. Took his time this time. When he’d finished, he looked at me more intently. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive.’
r />   ‘May I see?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  He passed the relevant page across and I scanned it quickly. Then I breathed out slowly. When I looked up, he had his head on one side. He was regarding me closely, brown eyes watchful.

  ‘Relieved?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Special friend?’ he said gently.

  ‘So … I was led to believe.’ I swallowed. Passed the will back. There was a poignant silence.

  ‘Mrs Shilling …’

  ‘Poppy.’

  ‘Poppy. Often people – well, men, in particular – promise all sorts of things, all kinds of – provision, and then never follow through. I’ve seen it before. Family, inevitably, comes first. Most people are careful about that.’

  ‘So it seems. In fact it seems …’ I hesitated, ‘that he’s been extremely … careful.’ I felt a stab of guilt, remembering how I’d recently maligned him. Very publicly. In church, no less, to Angus. Said I was delighted he’d gone. Told Mrs Cripps in the shop I felt blooming marvellous. I had felt marvellous. Euphoric even. But suddenly I felt wretched. Could feel myself shrivelling. Life was so complicated. My feelings were so complicated. Mood swings, violent ones, flung me this way and that as if I had no control, as I lurched from one revelation to the next. A good revelation, in this case: Phil had more than provided for us. But when would I find an even keel? A little perspective? It was all so exhausting.

  Sam’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘He has indeed. Temperament, of course, is key. Was he a methodical man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tidy?’

  ‘Oh God, yes. Obsessive.’

  ‘Those are often the ones who squirrel money away. And if they do it early – in your husband’s case the moment you got married – it mounts up quickly.’ He sighed. ‘People who live by the seat of their pants, on the other hand, often discover there’s nothing for their dependants in the kitty when they look. See my ex-wife on this one.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. She married my best friend, who’s infinitely more solvent than I am.’ He grinned. ‘So all’s well that ends well.’

  I was taken aback. ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘That he’s richer than me?’

  ‘No, no I meant …’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He paused.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said quickly, blushing. ‘Absolutely none of my business.’

  ‘No, but then again I brought it up.’ He seemed to hesitate. Then he shifted in his seat: a regrouping gesture. ‘Anyway, back to you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘This colossal sum of money will plop reassuringly into your bank account on an annual basis unless you leave further and better particulars to the contrary. Unless you have plans perhaps to reinvest it on the stock market, or on the roulette tables of Monte Carlo, the horses in Deauville …?’

  ‘No, no plans. Let it plop.’

  ‘In which case I’ll leave instructions with the bank for that to happen when all the paperwork’s been seen to. This copy is yours,’ he handed me a pristine document, ‘to peruse at your leisure, and I’ll keep this one for the files.’

  ‘Right. Thank you, Mr Hetherington.’

  We looked at each other. The meeting appeared to be over.

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Sam.’

  I stood up, not without a tinge of regret. Tall. Very tall, I thought as he also got to his feet, to shake my hand. I’d forgotten that. Burly almost, with that rugby-player physique, as he came round the desk to show me out. Nice eyes that crinkled at the corners and almost disappeared when he smiled, like now, as he went to open the door for me.

  As I passed under his arm, a thought occurred. I turned.

  ‘Do you read, Sam?’

  ‘Read?’

  ‘Yes, books. For pleasure. Novels, that kind of thing.’

  He shrugged. ‘A bit. Biographies, mainly. Oh, and Nick Hornby, if he’s got a new one out. Why?’ He smiled down at me.

  I smiled too, trying to replicate the crinkling-eyes effect. ‘Just wondered.’

  Jennie had had the children for me and I popped next door to collect them when I returned. As I entered her kitchen a clutch of ghosts turned to look at me. Closer inspection revealed that Hannah, Jennie’s youngest, was making cakes and that everyone, including my children, was covered in flour. Jennie looked harassed.

  ‘You are a star, Jennie,’ I said, going quickly to relieve her of at least two of the young chefs. ‘Have they been all right? No trouble?’

  ‘Total heaven.’

  Archie opened his mouth and started to wail.

  ‘But of course they always do that when their mother appears. How did it go?’

  ‘Really well,’ I said eagerly, scooping Archie up, then I became aware of Clemmie’s huge eyes on me as she caught my tone. Perhaps not the moment.

  ‘Pas devant les enfants,’ Jennie agreed quickly. ‘Tell me later. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘You’re smiling in a funny way, like you’ve got a headache. Your eyes are all crinkled up.’

  ‘I thought it was attractive.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Oh – here, Archie did a picture.’ She thrust a still-wet painting into my hand then hastened round the table to where her daughter, on a stool, was tipping an entire packet of currants into the mixing bowl.

  ‘Not all of them, Hannah!’ she cried.

  I left her to it, but her phone rang as I passed it in the hall. I stopped, Archie on my hip.

  ‘D’you want me to get it?’ I called back.

  ‘Please. And I’m not here. Hannah – darling, woah!’

  I picked up the receiver. ‘Oh, hi, Dan.’

  Jennie stopped what she was doing. Her back stiffened, hunched over the mixing bowl. She turned, in listening attitude, as I listened too.

  ‘OK, hang on,’ I told him. I cleared my throat. Put the phone to my chest.

  ‘He’s at the station,’ I relayed calmly. ‘But he’s had a teensy bit too much to drink, so he thinks the responsible thing might be not to drive home.’

  ‘Which station?’

  ‘Our station.’

  ‘I thought he was staying the night in Leeds?’

  I replaced the phone to my ear. ‘She thought you were staying in Leeds?’ I listened. Turned back to her. ‘The meeting was cancelled because the media buyer’s mother was rushed to hospital. He just had lunch there and came back.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ said Jennie grimly. ‘Bloody man took my overnight case instead of his. I’ve just found his, all packed and ready in the wardrobe. Idiot.’

  ‘That’ll teach you to have smart his and hers luggage,’ I told her.

  ‘There’s nothing smart about this marriage, Poppy. So he wants me to pick him up, does he?’ She said testily, her hands covered in sticky gloopy flour.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said quickly, as her nostrils began to flare ominously.

  ‘Bloody man. So irresponsible. Why does he always have to get pissed? And then we’ve got another car sitting at the station – marvellous!’

  ‘We’ll both go,’ I placated her. ‘And then you can drive the other one back. Come on, Jennie, it’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘It’s the beginning of the end of the world,’ she grumbled, wiping her hands on a tea towel and grabbing her car keys. ‘Frankie!’ she yelled upstairs as she marched down the hall towards me. ‘Can you come and finish Hannah’s cakes? I’m going to get your father.’

  There was a silence. Then: ‘I’m busy.’

  Jennie looked fit to bust. ‘Just come down now and look after your brother and sister for me for two minutes!’

  Frankie appeared at the top of the stairs. Her face was very pale.

  ‘Of course, Jennie. Whatever you say, Jennie.’

  I followed Jennie down the path to my car.

  ‘She all right?’ I said lightly as I strapped the children in the back.

  ‘Frankie? No, she’s a comple
te and utter nightmare at the moment.’

  I was silent. I never found her so. ‘Maybe she feels she’s a bit put-upon? Babysitting all the time? She does a lot.’

  ‘She’s their sister, Poppy, of course she does.’

  ‘Yes, but if she’s busy, you know, doing her homework or whatever …’

  Jennie snorted. ‘Don’t give me that. She’s up there running up her mobile bill and gassing to her friends about how to pull a boy – or worse.’

  I looked at her as we pulled out.

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ she mumbled. ‘You know I don’t mean that. But she’s tricky, Poppy. It’s a tricky age. And I lose patience sometimes.’

  ‘But you encourage her, you know, in her work, and everything?’ I persevered.

  ‘Well, I don’t sit testing her on trigonometry, if that’s what you mean. I assume she’s of an age when she’ll get it done and still manage to help me out occasionally.’

  I fell silent as I drove. There weren’t many areas Jennie and I disagreed on, but this was one of them. I knew Frankie felt like unpaid labour and I deliberately overpaid her whenever she sat for me, which I knew she enjoyed: the peace and quiet of a house where young children were put to bed early, my kitchen table all to herself. No demands made on her, no rows, just silence. We drove on past the fields where the race horses galloped, then swung into the station forecourt, which was only a mile or so down the road, but, with Dan’s track record, not to be driven from under any circumstances if he was even vaguely over the limit. Jennie’s rule, obviously, which he’d sensibly adhered to, and I was about to remind her of this, but a glance at my friend’s stony profile beside me dissuaded me. It was a look I’d seen on her face a lot lately, and one she’d never worn when we were younger. Now it would flit across her face regularly, and I tried to put my finger on what it was: oh yes, resentment. Something else too. A faintly hectic gleam to the eyes. Defiant, perhaps. Something Peggy said the other day almost drifted back to me, but not quite. About Jennie. Something surprising. When we were talking about forming the book club. What was it? Laying no claim to a hair-trigger memory, though, and having been recently struggling under a blanket of black cloud, I couldn’t remember. I sighed. Lost for ever, no doubt, beneath the fog of shock and numbness and downright crippling depression I’d been feeling at the time. I gave myself a little shake. Thank heavens that was over, anyway.