I was about to get out of the car, when I sank back in my seat. Stared ahead through the windscreen into the night. Self-protection. Was that the same as not wanting to see the truth? Not wanting to know the truth? Had there been moments in my married life when I’d been deliberately blind? It was a question I’d asked myself a lot lately. And the answer was always no. I’d never had an inkling about her. There were definitely occasions when, even in the privacy of my own head, I’d been dishonest about certain things – about loving Phil in the early days, for instance – but this was not one of them. She’d come as a bolt from the blue. Yet she’d played such a huge part in my life. Had been there for four years. I narrowed my eyes into the night.
Suddenly, on an impulse, I put the key in the ignition and started the car again. Without giving myself time to think, I drove back up the lane. It was early. Ten past eleven. And I’d told Felicity, who was babysitting, twelve. I had time. And no children to inconvenience me, either. I’d attempted this the other day, but Clemmie had complained, wanting to know why we were sitting in the road outside someone’s house, Mummy, and Archie had started grizzling, so with a pounding heart I’d driven away. The heart was still pounding, I decided, and I knew I should probably turn around now, in that lay-by, go home, but I found myself driving through the next village. Then up the hill. I sped along the common, wide and spreading but eventually narrowing almost to a verge, where the houses set behind it were closer to the road. One of which was hers.
I’d found it the other day, a tiny flint cottage, seemingly in the grounds of a bigger one: Meadow Bank Cottage and Meadow Bank House. It did appear to have its own little walled garden, though, so it could be separate. Anyway, I wasn’t interested in the set-up, more in the woman inside. Why? Why was I sitting here in the middle of the night, post-date, engine purring, heart racing, crouched at the wheel like some private detective? Because presumably she’d sat outside mine, I reasoned. And I felt that to know her was to understand her a bit better. But Phil was dead now. Surely I should move on? Not before something was silenced, I reasoned. Something inside me wanted to lie down and be quiet, and in some warped way I felt that once that had happened I could go on dates and not have a sinking feeling in the pit of my tummy, not feel detached. I wanted to be able to bang my palm on my forehead and say: ah, I see. Now I get it. Now I can toss those pills away and go out on the town. I wanted to make some sense of the last four years, and, since Phil was no use to me now, I was left with Emma.
Stupid, I thought later when I’d sat across the road and watched the dark little house for ten minutes, eyes wide like a rabbit’s. What are you doing, Poppy? Go home and leave the past behind. She’s nothing to you now; get going. Still I sat. It helped, somehow, that the cottage looked empty and forlorn. Perhaps she was sitting inside in the dark feeling sad, as I did sometimes? Unable to light the fire, turn on the lights. More probable, of course, was that she was out. I smiled wryly to myself in the dark. Look at you, Poppy. Look at what you’ve become. A stalker. And not even stalking a man.
Giving myself a little inward shake I turned the key in the ignition, and reversed with a flourish into a driveway. Then just as I was about to turn left into the road, a black Mini Cooper swung past me into the little gravel drive opposite. It disappeared around the back of the flint cottage. It all happened terribly quickly, but not so fast that I didn’t make out the blonde driver and the briefest glimpse of a male passenger beside her. I sat, frozen. Turned off the engine and slid right down in my seat, pulling my scarf up over my face. A few seconds later, the downstairs front room of the cottage sprang into light. Emma came towards me across the room, laughing, head thrown back. She was wearing a tight pink cardigan with lots of silver chains around her neck, white jeans which showed off her figure, and her face was alight, blonde hair flopping over one eye. She reached for the curtain cord with one hand and flicked her fringe back in a practised fashion with the other, before turning, no doubt to the man who’d followed her into the room, as the curtains swished shut.
I sat there as if I’d been shot. Barely breathing. I tried to marshal my thoughts which were spinning like a kaleidoscope. So Emma had a man. And she definitely had him, there was no doubt about that: no mistaking the body language, the tight clothes, the flirtatious laugh. And she was looking good too, which surprised me. She’d scrubbed up. Moved on. Stepped right over Phil, over his grave. For this was not a girl to let the grass grow under her feet, particularly the grass on a mound. Why was I surprised? Because I’d thought true love would last a bit longer? Because Phil was barely cold? But perhaps it hadn’t been true love for her. Perhaps she hadn’t been besotted with him. But if not, what had been the point? Just sex, I supposed. An affair. For four years. I took a deep breath. Exhaled shakily. You really do need to get out more, Poppy. Need to grow up.
I drove home slowly, trying to work out how I felt before I had to make small talk with my babysitter. It was one in the eye for Phil, surely? Emma wasn’t exactly beating her breast and rending her hair, so stick that in your pipe, Mr Shilling; nobody’s mourning you now. I glanced guiltily up to the heavens, feeling bad. Guilt. Another feeling that had ambushed me lately. But why should I feel guilty? Emma should be the one with her life turned upside down, yet she was way ahead of me. No life on hold for her. Oh no, just the money, please, I thought suddenly. I could see her holding out her hand, clicking her fingers impatiently, nails freshly painted. Just hand it over. I gripped the steering wheel hard. Yes. Right. We’ll see about that. Had it helped my resolve, I wondered, seeing that little vignette? D’you know, I believe it had. As I drove up to my house I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, caught my own eye, as it were. For some reason it reminded me of Mum. Or … was it the woman I might have been, had Mum not died? Whoever it was seemed flintier than me. Had more of a glint to her eye. She seemed to say: find a bit of inner strength, Poppy dear. A bit of steel, hm?
Felicity was just putting my phone down hurriedly when I went into the kitchen. She went pink.
‘Oh, I hope you don’t mind, Poppy. I couldn’t get a signal on my mobile.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, unwinding my scarf and thinking that every time Felicity babysat I found her on my phone, something that never happened with Frankie.
‘Gosh, I love your bag,’ she gushed in a confident manner. ‘Is it new?’
‘No, I’ve had it for years, but thanks.’
Flattery to ingratiate, I thought uncharitably as I took my coat off. Understandable, of course, in a fifteen-year-old who’s been found running up my phone bill. She flicked back her long tawny hair as she crossed the room to retrieve her bag from the table, just as Emma had crossed the room to the window and swept back her fringe. Some girls knew the way forward, didn’t they? Had the savoir faire, the pretty learned manners. Did I want Clemmie to flick back her hair with a jewelled hand? I wasn’t sure. I tailed Felicity thoughtfully down the hall to the door.
‘Have you seen anything of Frankie, now you’re back?’ I asked. The girls had been at the village school together.
‘Frankie?’ She turned at the door. ‘Um, no, I haven’t. I must get in touch with her.’
Somehow I knew she wouldn’t. Since she’d gone to boarding school, Felicity’s social path had been very different to Frankie’s. Not her fault, of course, but a shame, when they’d been close.
‘But it’s nice she’s got a boyfriend, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Frankie? I didn’t know.’
‘Oh. Well, I may have got that wrong. Maybe don’t say anything to Jennie? Just in case?’
In case of what, I thought, nevertheless agreeing as I closed the door behind her. In case he didn’t exist? Or in case he wasn’t suitable? The latter, probably. I did hope Frankie hadn’t been serious about flirting with the teachers at school. Don’t be ridiculous, Poppy. Nevertheless I couldn’t help thinking that if it was just a sixteen-year-old boy, why hide it? Why wasn’t Jennie up to speed? I went back to the
kitchen to turn out the lights. Perhaps she was and didn’t want to share with me. Recently Jennie had become more secretive, and I respected that. We couldn’t know everything about our friends, could we? If we did, where would it end? Laying bare the contents of our heads and hearts and saying: here, take a gander at that? Imagine the shock on their faces.
The following morning, on my way to the village shop with the children, I felt perkier. On a scale of one to ten – always my acid test – I was five, rather than four. It was a beautiful blue-sky morning, so perhaps that helped, and being late in the year, long dramatic shadows were cast at my feet as I walked across the green. Trees mostly, but also the shadow of a man, right behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. Odd Bob, dressed uncharacteristically in a tweed jacket and tie, appeared to be tailing me. I turned. Stopped.
‘Hi, Bob.’
How bizarre. He appeared to have a buttonhole. A little white carnation in his lapel. He beamed. Caught up with me.
‘Hello, Poppy. How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks. You look very smart.’
‘Oh, you know. Thought it was about time.’
For what, I wondered as we continued to the shop together.
‘Um, Poppy. I wondered if you’d have dinner with me next week.’
I stared. Couldn’t believe my ears. Odd Bob? Jacket and tie? Outside the village shop?
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes, I thought maybe we could go to the King’s Head. How about Saturday?’
I blinked rapidly. Found my voice.
‘Well, that’s very kind, Bob, but I’m afraid I’m busy on Saturday.’
‘Sunday?’
Sunday wasn’t a natural night for a date, but Bob, minus a social compass, wasn’t to know that. I knew if I refused he’d say, ‘Monday?’ And so on until Christmas.
‘I’m afraid I’m not really ready to go out yet,’ I said, more kindly.
‘Really? You look fine. Just brush your hair, or something.’
I swallowed. ‘No, I don’t mean … sartorially. I mean, because my husband’s just died.’
Disingenuous, of course. And Bob was on it like lightning.
‘So how come you were ready last night?’
None of the usual codes and conventions to let him down gently would be of any use; it was like dealing with a child. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the usual posse of mothers who loitered outside the shop with their babies in buggies after buying milk and papers. They’d ceased their chatter and were listening avidly, amused.
‘Well, I suppose that’s what made me realize I’m not quite ready,’ I said finally. And oddly, it had a ring of truth about it. ‘I didn’t know, until I went.’ This was obviously deeply unchivalrous to Luke, but it was said quietly, out of hearing of the mothers. And since Bob, like a child, only understood the truth and not coded subtlety, it was the way forward. His face cleared.
‘You didn’t enjoy it.’
‘I wouldn’t say I didn’t enjoy it.’ I felt hot. Hoped my antiperspirant wasn’t going to let me down. ‘I wouldn’t say that, but it felt a bit strange to be out.’ True again.
‘You wouldn’t with me,’ beamed Bob.
Wishing my own social code didn’t prevent me from seizing him by the lapels and roaring, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bob, stop this silly nonsense now!’ I found myself inclining my head, as if conceding that this was indeed a possibility. Suddenly I wondered if, total pushover that I was, I’d find myself next Saturday night at the King’s Head, opposite Bob, who might even bring his twelve dogs along; and who might, the following week, be supplanted by Frank, or Dickie Frowbisher, and all the other oddballs of the parish thereafter.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, quite firmly for me – remembering the inner strength, remembering Mum and the steel I was going to find – ‘but I simply can’t make it. Goodbye, Bob.’
And with that I pushed my buggy and my small child past him and headed into the shop for provisions. The eyes of the village, I felt sure, were upon me.
16
The Gloria was finally given an airing the following Saturday, but not, it transpired, for the couple who had originally chosen it to be sung at their nuptials.
‘Why not?’ I asked Angie as we slipped into the choir stalls together.
‘She dumped him, apparently,’ Angie told me rather too gleefully as we collected our hymn sheets. Angie was more than slightly anti-men at the moment.
‘Who did? The bride?’
‘Yup. Word is, she got cold feet. Called the whole thing off a week ago. The invitations had gone out, wedding presents had been opened – the whole bit. Takes some doing, don’t you think? The week before?’
Blimey. It did. And I remembered how close I’d got to it with Phil during that terrible final week; the overwhelming feeling of panic as the whole thing gained momentum, like a runaway freight train, without me behind it. My mouth getting drier, not sleeping, everyone thinking it was excitement. Dad, Jennie, all looking at my wide eyes and thinking they were starry, not seeing the fear. Jennie, telling me all brides lost weight before the big day. Only my dressmaker looking concerned, because every time I had a fitting she had to take the ivory silk in a bit more. I remembered having my legs waxed the day before and the young girl asking if I was excited, and me suddenly sobbing, ‘No!’ How it had come out in a horrible, choked voice. She’d looked terrified and ripped those strips away in silence, the fastest leg wax in the world, whilst I’d pretended the tears streaming down the side of my face were due to the pain.
I sighed, shuffling along the pew a bit as more people arrived. It did take some doing, and I hadn’t had the guts. Or the neck. Or the stomach. Or whatever part of the body it took to let a hundred and fifty people down – but not yourself. I was full of admiration for Miss Anna Braithwaite, as we gathered she was called, not a spinster of this parish, but yet another Londoner who’d wangled her way into our idyllic village church by dint of having a distant relative who lived nearby, where she’d lodged her suitcase for a couple of weeks, and become a bona fide country dweller. So yes, neck had been her particular body part; the one which had enabled her, first to swing the bucolic setting, and then to break a man’s heart.
Would I have broken Phil’s heart? I picked up the Gloria song sheet as Angus slipped in beside Angie on the end, Sylvia electing the row in front. I couldn’t exactly imagine him prostrate with grief, punching walls into the night in a Heathcliff manner. More tight-lipped and furious. Livid. Nonsense, Poppy; you’re rewriting history. He was actually very much in love with you. He just hid it well.
‘So who’s getting married, then?’ I asked Angie, thinking: never again. Never.
‘A local couple, apparently, which is much more satisfactory. They got engaged last week and wanted to get married immediately but were told they’d have to wait ages for a slot. They were about to get hitched in the registry office but then this came up, so they grabbed it.’
‘Good for them,’ I said admiringly.
‘No order of service sheets, of course, because it was too late to get it all organized, but when you think about it, how much nicer to get married just like that. Next week? Good friends will always just drop everything to come, and you don’t get any of the fuss. None of the usual pre-nup merry-go-round with lists at Peter Jones and bridesmaids getting the hump because they’re dressed as shepherdesses; just an incredibly spontaneous, romantic occasion. A really lovely joyous expression of … shit.’
‘What?’ I frowned. She’d ducked her head down and was furiously pulling her fringe over her eyes.
‘Bugger. It’s Pete. Passion-Fuelled. Back row of the church. Don’t look now. Don’t want him to see me.’
‘Why not?’ I said, nonetheless following her furtive glance to where Pete, blond and gorgeous in a dark suit, was indeed collecting a hymn book and joining the growing congregation.
‘Made a bit of a fool of myself,’ Angie muttered.
‘Really? When?’ I was intrigued. ‘You
never said.’
I turned to stare at her in wonder. Pete was surely a harmless crush. A fantasy figure, like a member of a boy band, to pin on a bedroom wall and drool over. He was also a good ten years younger than Angie.
‘What did you do, wrestle him into the back of his mobile forge?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Angie reddened.
I blinked. ‘Please tell me you didn’t rip off his leather apron? Have him over his anvil? Hammer hammer hammer?’
‘Oh, shut up, Poppy.’ She swallowed. ‘No, he just … Well, he sussed that I was getting him out on false pretences, that’s all.’
‘Getting him out? What d’you mean?’
‘Horses only need shoeing every six weeks or so. Pete was doing mine slightly more regularly than that,’ she said tightly.
‘Oh.’
It occurred to me that I did see Pete’s van go past my house most weeks, and if I wandered past Angie’s house with Archie, Pete was quite often parked in the stable yard round the side.
‘Of course I always had some spurious excuse up my sleeve, about how their feet grew quickly and needed trimming, or I was worried a shoe was loose. I even wrenched a shoe off myself in the middle of the night, nearly put my bloody back out, just so I could get him round.’
An image of Angie in her stables, under cover of darkness, with a startled horse and a pair of pliers, sprang to mind. My mouth twitched, but I was surprised too. Didn’t know she had it so bad.
‘What happened?’ I said gently.
‘One day he said he thought my horse was in danger of being over-manicured, and was there any particular reason I’d got him round. He looked me right in the eye and asked if there was anything else that needed servicing?’
‘No!’ I breathed.
I tried to imagine the shy, taciturn Pete saying that, but was aware I’d only seen him out of his milieu, at the book club, not handling a nervous horse, a red-hot firing iron in his hand.
A Rural Affair Page 20