A Rural Affair

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Dan must be pleased? That you two are back on track?’ I hazarded, closing the machine door with an effort. Too full.

  ‘Yes, even though it’s slightly at his expense and he’s been cast as the tyrannical Dickensian father.’

  ‘That was just shock talking.’

  ‘I know, and Frankie knows it too. Yes, Dan’s pleased. In fact I’d go so far as to say he was positively smug last night. I assumed he’d be asleep when I finally crawled upstairs after my session with Frankie, but there he was, propped up on pillows, bright-eyed and banking on me being extremely grateful.’

  ‘Ah.’ I laughed. ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘Actually I rather enjoyed it. Didn’t seem like the onerous duty it sometimes does. I joined in for a change, rather than viewing it entirely as a spectator sport.’

  ‘Slightly too much information, Jennie.’

  ‘Sorry. Just explaining the baggy eyes this morning.’ She grinned sheepishly and hid them in her coffee. They twinkled a bit. ‘Anyway, we made a sort of pact to go away on our own for a few days after Christmas. Get to know each other again, as they’re so fond of telling us to do in women’s magazines.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll have the kids.’

  ‘Thanks, but I think Frankie will be fine if you’d just keep a weather eye. Lob some fresh fruit over the fence every now and then.’

  It occurred to me that a few weeks ago Jennie would never have trusted Frankie to look after the younger ones. They must have had a very good chat.

  ‘And what about you?’ She eyed me speculatively. I flinched. I knew that look. Once Jennie had sorted out her own life there was nothing she liked more than getting to grips with someone else’s. I wriggled under her laser beam but was trapped, like a moth on a microscope slide. ‘I thought you were going out last night? How come you were still skulking in your dressing gown when we burst in like the Addams Family?’

  ‘Ah. Well.’ I told her about Luke. About Angie. Then about Peggy.

  She looked thoughtful a moment. Compressed her lips. ‘Bit of a knee-jerk reaction?’

  ‘What, mine?’

  ‘Well, yes. Angie casually mentions you haven’t exactly been left destitute, and suddenly his motives are all wrong and he’s a gold-digging fortune-hunter and you drop him like a hot coal.’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘You’re not exactly Jackie Onassis, Poppy.’

  I flushed, remembering I’d compared myself to the very same woman last night. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You’ve just been left enough to buy a decent house and educate your kids, which the widow of any professional man who’s built up a business might expect. Luke could have worked that out for himself. And you’ve still got two children, as he rightly observed to Angie. Still come with baggage.’

  I stared at her. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying you’re leaping to conclusions, courtesy of Peggy, who only thinks in black and white. Roger was the love of her life, ergo there will never be another. End of story. So she gads about teasing the elderly bachelors but will never bring herself to land one. Is that what you want?’

  I sat down slowly. ‘Well, put like that …’

  ‘Life is not black and white, Poppy, it’s very grey, to the point of being grimy. There’s a great deal of compromise and shading of areas – ask me and Dan. Just because you went so wildly wrong with Phil, doesn’t mean all men are shits and you’re going to go disastrously wrong again.’

  I gasped. ‘Did you have a glass to the wall?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, that’s what I think! What I told Peggy – that I will go wrong!’

  ‘I know, I can tell. And Peggy’s encouraging you to be forensic, to settle for nothing but perfection. She would. She’s all or nothing. Which is fine if you’re happy with nothing. Personally I like a little something.’ She crossed her legs.

  I gulped, horribly confused. ‘Oh God. Oh God, I don’t know, Jennie!’ I wailed, shooting anguished fingers through my hair. I clutched at the roots. ‘When I talk to Peggy, I think – yes yes yes; and when I talk to you, I think – yes yes yes too! Why is that?’

  ‘Because you’re suggestible, like my husband,’ she said calmly. ‘Not a sheep, exactly –’

  ‘Oh, thanks!’

  ‘But very persuadable.’ She brushed an imaginary bit of fluff from her knee, warming up nicely. ‘It’s terribly simple really. Do you like him?’

  ‘Who, Luke?’

  ‘Yes of course Luke, not Dan. Although you’re more than welcome to him.’

  ‘Um, yes.’ I bit my thumbnail.

  ‘Enjoy his company? Enjoy spending time with him?’

  I thought back to the pub lunch we’d shared: how he’d flipped beer mats to amuse Clemmie. Made me burst out laughing at the King’s Head.

  ‘Yes, I enjoy his company.’

  ‘Enjoyed kissing him outside your house the other day?’

  I stared. ‘Bog off, Jennie,’ I muttered, blushing.

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘No. I mean … I don’t know.’

  ‘Exactly, of course you don’t! And why should you? You’ve only known him a few weeks. But give it a chance, Poppy,’ she urged. ‘You don’t have to decide tomorrow, or next week, or even next year, but how will you know if you don’t at least give it a chance? And if you’re worried about the money thing, just ask him.’

  ‘Oh, right, like – Luke, are you after my dosh?’

  ‘No, but you could happen to mention how Angie exaggerates like crazy – which she does – and has told half the village you’re rich as Croesus. Laugh it off.’

  Half the village. I thought of Odd Bob propositioning me. Stalking me, even. Saintly Sue telling me she couldn’t compete with me in That Department.

  ‘Oh, Christ. Thanks, Angie,’ I muttered.

  ‘He’ll know that’s true, about Angie exaggerating, and you can even say she got it wrong and it couldn’t be further from the truth – he’ll be so confused he won’t know what to believe. Then see if he sticks around. Personally, I bet he will. I’ll bet the money’s got nothing to do with it. He’s a nice guy, Poppy. Don’t write him off entirely.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked anxiously. ‘You really like him, Jennie?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but it’s what you think that matters.’

  ‘But that’s just it, I don’t know!’ I yelped. ‘Don’t know my own mind any more. Not sure I have one as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Course you do.’ But it wasn’t said with much conviction and I slumped miserably at the table, holding my head theatrically in my hands. I knew she was being extra punchy because she’d made a fool of herself last night and was roaring back from the dog house, but still.

  ‘When’s Leila due?’ I asked, jerking upright, keen to plunge her back into her own domestic crisis.

  ‘Leila,’ she spat. ‘Who knows. Dogs are supposed to have a fourteen-week gestation period, but since she’s half devil it could be any time. She’s not fit to be a mother, Poppy. Quite aside from her mental-health issues she’s a serial shagger and that’s not nice, is it? I’d ask the vet to terminate her but the children would never forgive me. And anyway, how d’you stop a She-Devil whelping? She’d find a way to squeeze them out, just to spite me.’

  I grinned. Jennie huffed and puffed a lot of hot air, but I knew very well that cometh the hour, cometh the midwife. She’d be up all night, installed in Leila’s whelping box, coaxing her along, holding her paw during contractions, and then be besotted by the litter; never leaving the house, so busy would she be mashing Weetabix and scrambling eggs. In fact there was every possibility she’d keep the lot. A rather satisfactory vision of eight, fully grown Leilas on the end of eight leads, propelling Jennie at speed through the village, sprang to mind.

  ‘You know, it might be the making of her,’ I mused.

  ‘Leila? I doubt it. She’ll probably give birth in a nasty wet bush and be off in moments, sniffing for trouser aga
in. Looking for another Peddler to do some brisk fornicating with. Wasn’t that the name of the dog?’

  ‘Peddler? Oh God, of course. Mark said she’d been seen with him. They might be Peddler’s puppies! Oh, Jennie, I’d really like one if they are.’

  ‘Would you?’ She looked surprised. Then she brightened. ‘Okeydoke. But there might be some demand, you know.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Despite my own misgivings, Leila is well liked around here. Might be expensive too. But I’ll put you on my list.’

  Typical. Really typical. She was back in control again. Imagining herself saying, ‘No, Mrs Fish, I’m not convinced your garden is big enough.’

  ‘She’s definitely pregnant, is she?’ I warned. ‘That test might not be accurate on a dog.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely so I rang the vet. He said it’ll be pretty conclusive, the hormones are much the same. And as Dan tastefully pointed out, she’s dugging up a treat.’

  ‘Right. Bugger. Why isn’t it starting?’ I gazed at my unlit washing machine.

  ‘Because you’ve put too much in.’

  Annoyingly I knew she was right and I stalked to open it and pull out a sheet. It had got caught somehow and I tugged at the clod of linen but it was stuck fast, so that when I pulled really hard, the whole contents of the drum came out in rush, which had me falling on my bottom. At which point the doorbell went.

  ‘D’you want me to get that?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘And then I’m going to have her spayed,’ Jennie told me decisively as she marched to the front door. ‘That’ll take the wind out of her sails.’

  ‘They get fat and bad-tempered,’ I warned.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ she snorted. ‘Spayed or not.’

  I separated a double duvet cover from the herd and stuffed the rest back in, resetting the dial. Away it went.

  ‘Thank you,’ I heard Jennie say to someone at the door. She came back down the hall. ‘Hey, look at this.’

  I turned to see her bearing a bunch of white roses with pretty blue cornflowers tucked in between. She handed them to me. ‘For you, apparently.’

  Astonished, I took the paper-wrapped bouquet. Then sat down and opened the note. It was a long time since anyone had sent me flowers. In fact … no. No one at all.

  ‘They’re from Luke,’ I said slowly, reading. ‘Hope you’re feeling better, lots of love.’

  Jennie peered over my shoulder. ‘Oh, what a shitty thing to do,’ she said vehemently. ‘Gets stood up at a moment’s notice and then sends flowers. I ask you.’ She folded her arms.

  After a moment I glanced up guiltily. ‘I’ve misjudged him, haven’t I?’

  She shrugged. ‘I dunno. It depends on who you last spoke to.’

  It was supposed to be a joke but it was a bit sharp and she knew it.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘Didn’t mean that. Tell me to mind my own business, Poppy. It’s just … I really want some happiness for you.’ She swooped to give me a quick hug. ‘And thanks for everything yesterday,’ she said gruffly in my ear. ‘I couldn’t do without you, you know.’

  I nodded dumbly; touched. But no wiser. As she went to the back door she turned.

  ‘Oh, you’ll never guess what Angie told me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About your solicitor chappie, Sam Hetherington. The one in the splendid red hunting coat.’

  I felt my heart thump. I already knew.

  ‘He was once married to Hope Armitage. Years ago, apparently, but still.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know, can you believe it? Why on earth did they come here in the first place, one wonders. If he was living here?’

  ‘Sam wasn’t here when they came,’ I said mechanically. ‘He was still in London. The Hall was rented then. Had tenants.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t relocate with your new husband to your ex’s patch unless there’s some pull in that direction, surely? Why are you looking so stricken, Poppy? And when are you ever going to oil this door?’ She was struggling with my back-door latch, as everyone did.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said suddenly. I got up quickly and went to the dresser. Plucking the invitation, I put it in her hand. All at once everything was as clear as day. I definitely wasn’t going now. ‘Mark at the kennels sent me this. Why don’t you and Dan go? Half the county’s going, you’ll have fun.’

  She looked at it doubtfully. ‘Are you sure? Don’t you want to go? Couldn’t you ask Luke?’

  ‘I could, and I was going to, actually. I just think that’s possibly not the right venue. I won’t write him off,’ I promised quickly, ‘but I don’t think I want to go public, as it were.’

  ‘OK,’ she said slowly, understanding. She nodded. Then her eyes came up from the invitation. They sparkled. ‘Well, if you’re sure … we’d love to. D’you know, this is just what Dan and I need. A bloody good knees-up. Thank you.’ She smacked the card into the palm of her hand and went off beaming, giving the back-door latch a monumental twist; never giving it a second chance.

  Archie was gurgling on the baby alarm and I slowly climbed the stairs to get him, dragging my hand along the polished rail. As I came down with him in my arms, he flicked my lower lip, which ordinarily would make me smile. Odd, then, that I couldn’t raise one for him.

  29

  When I’d settled Archie with juice and a biscuit, I arranged the flowers and sat looking at them. Clemmie wandered through from the sitting room where she’d been involved with her Sylvanian Family dolls all the time Jennie had been here. She could play quietly with her toys for hours, something which hitherto had been a great source of pride but, more latterly, bothered me slightly. Clutching the tiny parents in her hands, she gazed at the flowers in wonder.

  ‘Did they grow in the garden?’

  ‘No, darling,’ I laughed as she clambered onto my lap and reached out to touch. ‘Someone sent them.’

  ‘Why?’

  I hesitated. ‘As a present.’

  ‘Who?’

  I took a breath. ‘D’you remember that man who came to the pub with us? Luke? He sent them.’

  ‘The one who could make an eyebrow wiggle?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Is it your birthday?’

  ‘No, he just sent them.’

  ‘There’s a card.’ She seized it. Stared. ‘It … oh. What does it say?’

  I swallowed, wishing I’d thought this through a bit. ‘It says, “Hope you’re feeling better, lots of love.” I … had a bit of a cold.’

  ‘When?’ She twisted on my lap. Brown eyes huge. I flushed.

  ‘Um, a few days ago.’

  ‘Oh.’

  As she gazed at me the whole chasm between childhood, and her being grown up one day, seemed to yawn at me. A time when her own innocent little world of Sylvanian Families and truth would be over. When she’d be quicker at spotting lies like the one I’d just told her. Oh, I told her plenty: put your coat on, it’s cold out there – it wasn’t, but it might be later; teddy wants you to eat your carrots – who was I to know the workings of a stuffed bear’s mind? We definitely started them early, the small white ones. Introduced them gradually, like solid food. But this was a proper one. I wondered if she’d spot it. How grown-up was she? Was I training her well? But a few days ago was an eternity for a four-year-old.

  ‘Are you going to marry him?’

  No flies on Clemmie. Forget the cold, spurious or not; cut to the chase. After a sharp intake of breath, I laughed nervously.

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Oh.’ Her gaze went back to the flowers. ‘Becky’s mummy got married and she woz a bridesmaid.’

  My heart gave a jolt. ‘Did Becky like that?’

  ‘Yes, she had a pink dress and a bogey.’

  ‘A bouquet.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And does Becky like her new daddy?’

  She shrugged, bored with the finer nuances of her story. ‘We saw pictures at Circle Time. It was long, like a p
rincess dress.’

  ‘Ah. Lovely.’

  ‘Can I have one like that?’

  ‘Well, darling, I’m not sure I’m going to get married. That would mean you would have a new daddy, you see.’

  ‘We could ask him?’

  ‘Um, well, no.’ I scratched my neck. ‘I don’t think we’ll do that.’

  ‘If you do, can I have the dress?’ She slid off my knee, uninterested now that there seemed only a slim chance of sartorial splendour amongst her classmates.

  ‘Clemmie, do you ever think about Daddy?’

  The health visitor had said I should ask things like this. I didn’t. Ever. It wasn’t my instinct. My instinct screamed: protect! Don’t mention it! So I hadn’t. Clemmie was on the floor with her tiny parents. The irony didn’t escape me.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. Carefully, almost. Too careful, for a four-year-old.

  ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’

  ‘He was a bit grumpy,’ she said eventually. To the floor.

  And Phil was; had been. Had increasingly regarded the children as an irritant, particularly when he was trying to work. But I didn’t like the way she’d had to search her memory bank to come up with even this picture. Then again, I hadn’t provided her with one.

  Clemmie sat back on her heels and looked triumphant. ‘And he had a pink shirt.’

  I smiled. ‘He did, didn’t he, Clem.’

  Later, when she was watching CBeebies with Archie after lunch, I went through the drawers in the bureau. Eventually I found what I was looking for, but it had been a search; I’d hidden them well. I found a couple of frames and popped one in each of their bedrooms. Photos of Phil, smiling. Yes, of course he smiled occasionally. Archie’s was taken on holiday in Majorca, and Clemmie’s on our wedding day. He may not have been perfect, but he was their father and you only get one. Clemmie could only remember him grumpy, but that would surely fade, and then she’d have this smiley photo to take its place. I didn’t put them in obvious positions, by their beds or on their walls, but on top of their chests of drawers, so that they’d come across them later, by accident maybe, when they were a bit older, then assume they’d always been there. I didn’t want Clemmie remembering a cross father. I wanted her life to be perfect, to the extent that I would erase those memories and replace them with nice ones, just as I took her dirty clothes and replaced them with clean ones. And I’d talk about him more, I determined, as I went downstairs. Remember happy times; make them up. Lovely picnics, bluebell walks. I could do that for them, my children. Lie. Let’s face it, I did it already. As I filled the dishwasher I wondered if he could become a bit of a hero, secretly in the SAS, trouble-shooting in Afghanistan, which would explain why he hadn’t been here much? But then one day, when she was a famous actress and on Who Do You Think You Are, she might discover he’d been a cycling nerd with a mistress in the next village. Perhaps not. Stick to the smiling photos and the bluebell woods.