by Fiona Walker
Feeling awkward, she smiled and waved. Pax looked away without reacting.
‘Stuck-up bitch.’ Bridge turned back and trotted on.
*
Pax usually parked in the tree-shrouded lay-by on Luddford Hill to listen to her husband shouting at her on hands-free. There, she could get a four-bar signal and privacy. But today she’d been turning into Compton Bagot when Mack called, and by the time she’d passed the Old Post Office, the light-up icicles had been a blur. Tears still stung, hot and wet on her cheeks, the lump in her throat like a clenched fist.
‘– you have no idea how damaging this is –’ Mack bellowed on ‘– the sheer madness of this whole fucking week.’ He hammered the emphasis every few words like a Scottish Peston. Pax tried not to jump each time.
The two women on horses were riding away now. How she envied them their freedom. When she’d ridden, all those years ago, she’d felt mythical, like a female Centaur. She wanted to gallop very fast in open country right now, not feel buried up to her neck in a toxic relationship.
A marriage breaking up over Christmas was such a cliché. It happened in soap operas, not to a calm, well-brought-up family tactician like Pax. The festive fight was so not her style, that crazy, wine-fuelled argument in paper hats that ended with the scream, ‘This marriage is over!’
This year, however, Pax Forsyth had, in her husband’s words ‘completely lost it’.
Every day that had passed since made bigger strangers of them. Their week of putting on the ultimate pantomime.
At the most sociable time of year, with its stack of invitations, play dates and family commitments, the ‘Christmas Day Episode’ as Mack called it, had been kept rigidly hidden from view while the Forsyths spread Tidings of Comfort and Joy around their Cotswolds circle with boxes of Prestat and bottles of Moët, but it was a wound bleeding beneath the Boden perfection.
Even at home, they’d remained acidly polite, putting on a united front in front of five-year-old Kes, whilst studiously avoiding being alone together. Pax spent late evenings on the running machine in the garage; Mack glared at a screen or retreated to his parents’ bungalow in the neighbouring village to lick his wounds. He was waiting for a retraction she refused to issue. Not Talking About It was a tacit pact. But as soon as she left the house alone, stepped out of the Safe Zone, he seemed to snap. First came texts, offended questions – Have you really thought about this? Do you realise what you stand to destroy? What do you think you’re doing to our son? Is there someone else? – followed by the call, a sanctimonious monologue.
Today’s, delivered from the loo of the sleeper to Edinburgh, was typical.
‘– you’ve said that you would never put Kes through what you went through when your mother abandoned you, and now this?’
Pax listened, tearfully watching the two riders disappearing from view.
‘After all that I’ve done for you, saving you from rock bottom, giving you everything you could want or need—’
‘On the seventh Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,’ she murmured, ‘seven sleepless nights, six of the best, fiiiive old sins.’
‘I might have guessed spending time with your mother would lead to something like this!’
‘Four cruel words, three Scottish Glens, two hurtful loves and a—’
‘Tishy, are you even fucking LISTENING?’
His voice had conjured Ewan McGregor the first time they’d met, she remembered. Close your eyes and he was no longer a black-haired, rugby-mad civil engineer from Argyll, he was Obi-Wan Kenobi. How naïve was that?
‘I just need some space to think, Mack.’
‘FUCKING WELL THINK FAST!’
‘I am.’ Her calmness infuriated him, she knew, but in her head her outwardly honey-soft words shrilled. Her mind was constantly whirring, her senses heightened, like exam week at university. ‘I think about nothing else.’
She could hear him breathing deeply, that annoying wheeze that signalled a mood change, followed by the gruff laugh she’d loved so unquestioningly once, all fresh air and heather. ‘C’mon, Tishy. Let’s make up, eh?’ Never Pax. Mack had rebranded her when they’d first met, taking old-fashioned Patricia that she’d been christened with and, for a long while, making her feel safe. Tishy was loved. Then, as now, he’d been utterly dogmatic.
‘Let’s stop this silliness.’ His voice was brusque. ‘It’s a new year, a new start.’
She could almost swear she could hear ‘… and I’m feeeeeling good’ in the back of his throat. It was typical of Mack, impatiently expecting her to snap out of it, to fix her charming wife smile back on, show her class. He was always happier north of the border, almost child-like with homecoming joy.
‘We’ll talk about it when you get back,’ she said stiffly. ‘Talk properly, just you and me.’
‘Who says I am coming back?’
She rolled her eyes and threw up her hands with an irritated growl, making the puppy in the back of her car lift its head. This was typical posturing. ‘Don’t let’s go there, Mack. Just don’t.’
The laughter vanished from his voice. ‘Six days ago, you said – and I quote – “this marriage is over”.’
Four words spoken in the heat of the moment had changed everything between them.
Where had her lava of repressed anger erupted from after the Stilton and figs? Yes, she’d drunk too much that day; they’d both overdone the Christmas cognac, but that usually anaesthetised her discontent. Besides which, it was something of a personal challenge to get tight in her in-laws’ bungalow, where the spirits tantalus – kept under lock and key – had not been topped up since the Scottish referendum. There was no blue flame above the discount supermarket Christmas pudding when the Forsyths hosted.
The countdown to Pax’s outburst had been more dyspeptic than distraught. No secrets uncovered, no love affairs, no explosive Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Wolf whisky-slinging. Just the annual skin-grating ennui of a loveless marriage at Christmas. Their relationship had been as stale as Mairi Forsyth’s oatcakes for years. It hardly ever went from dead water to tempest, and although it had been on the rocks more than once before, they knew how to patch up the hull and sail on. Business partners as well as life ones, the couple were adept at keeping up a good show.
Christmas morning had gone much as she expected; Kes opening his stocking at dawn, lots of ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaaahs’ and ‘good for Santa!’, her hangover thumping; losing the fight for the shower (only one hot one possible on their tiny tank); Mack chivvying her to hurry up, his parents looking pointedly at their watches as they waited on their bungalow doorstep at ten; strong tea and shortbread in place of Prosecco and blinis, the Forsyths’ gifts wrapped in last year’s paper – a mountain of Lego for Kes, a set of golf clubs and lesson vouchers for Mack, and bath salts for her, discount price tag still on.
Pax had been no more hurt than usual that her husband was unimpressed by her over-generous gift to him – the still-unnamed deerhound puppy, now asleep in the back of her car – and he’d plainly forgotten that the huge slab of KitchenAid gadgetry he’d given her, for which they had no space in the static caravan, was a duplicate of his gift last year, its twin still in its box in the shipping container that they used as storage. At least they’d both made an effort, and they had lavished Kes with treats. Their one point of mutual, passionate affection was their five-year-old son, as dark-haired and devilishly handsome as his daddy, so hard-won after eight rounds of IVF. The couple’s sexual spark might have died somewhere between laboratory and labour, but a fierce bonfire of parental love had blazed into life with Kes’s arrival, burning their path onwards.
Pax never anticipated that this Christmas she would douse the fire so instantly. Her calmness was legendary. Pax the peacemaker; Pax the level-headed negotiator; Pax who never got angry.
She’d been doing so well, enduring her in-laws’ miserly hosting: folding up paper for next year, a bracing walk, a thimble of Madeira. Thank God she’d brought a hip fla
sk. She’d tolerated Mairi being a well-meaning bully in the kitchen with quiet dignity, undermining her greater culinary expertise (‘this is how Forsyths make bread sauce, Patricia – now chop faster, girl, and I need you to grate that swede next.’). That Mairi had been complimented so effusively over her cold, dry turkey, over-boiled and over-salted veg and Aunt Bessie’s cook-from-frozen roasties, blackened to coal bricks, had admittedly been a surprise, both son and husband in paroxysms of joy (‘You’re the best, Mum!’ ‘Mairi, you have triumphed again!’), her own smile fixed, because relieved as she was that her mother-in-law took all the credit for its awfulness, the food really was awful. But she understood that Mack lavished praise on Mairi because, like all good sons, he loved her so much that she could do no wrong in his eyes. And like all bored husbands, he no longer noticed much of what Pax did. By contrast, every single thing Mack did that day seemed to irritate his wife more than ever.
The way he ate so noisily, talked with his mouth full, filled his own glass and not hers, spoke over everyone, laughed too loudly. The way he encouraged his father to tell those interminable golfing anecdotes, flattered his mother ridiculously, forced both parents to feign interest in his sports bike customisation, every technical detail described in condescendingly over-explained minutiae. His over-competitive cracker-pulling, his badgering insistence Kes try a soggy parsnip until the boy wept. The ‘I think you’ve drunk enough, Tishy’ had been particularly infuriating, as had his pompous ‘Tishy and I will clear up this feast – least we can do after you’ve done all the hard work, Mum.’ It was teeth-grindingly annoying when he handed her back each of the pans she’d washed up to do again. His nasal hum made her want to scream. His lack of eye contact irked her, the way he loaded the dishwasher knives blade up, the sprouts’ fart he let out then blamed on the puppy, his hair combed spivvily sideways, his awful Christmas jumper worn with a suit, his red ears – HIM.
And yet none of that really justified ‘This marriage is over!’ did it? Wasn’t he just having fun while she was a being a miserable, buttoned-up Scrooge?
The petty row had started over fat in the gravy strainer. He wanted her to rinse it down the sink; she insisted it would block the drains, their voices sotto. Next door, Kes was elbow-deep in Lego, the Forsyths watching the Queen’s Speech – volume mercifully high because Muir stubbornly refused to wear a hearing aid. It was Mack who started ramping up the stealth fight, always more combative than she, taunting with his tea-towel matador cloak, goading and arrogant. Talking in undertones, they’d hissed and dismissed, the argument gaining momentum, the venom and despair all too soon pouring forth, hers forty percent proof and 100 per cent truth.
Within just a few short word associations, they’d moved rapidly past the plumbing faults of the eighties bungalow, through how much his parents hated the Cotswolds, touched upon the still unfinished Rectory renovation, the loathsome mobile home, Mack’s aggressive business tactics and the expensive school Kes had yet to settle in, dwelt far too long on her interfering friends, then paid lip duty to their lousy sex life, her drinking, his lack of affection, her mother. Her bloody awful mother whose ridiculously selfish behaviour had fucked up her childhood and killed her father. His words, delivered as dispassionately as a busy oncologist telling a patient they have a large tumour.
‘Maybe being married to you has helped me understand why she left him!’ Out it came, seemingly from nowhere, the first steam of the volcano erupting from beneath the calm blue ocean. The end of the marriage was the one thing she’d sworn never to even threaten, the very last thing she would ever want to do to Kes. Yet it felt like the truth the moment she said it. Breaking the seal on the pressure cooker.
‘Now that’s fucking uncalled for,’ Mack had snarled. ‘But I’m prepared to forgive you because I know how dysfunctional your family are.’ His eyes were osprey-like, unblinkingly fixed and predatory, revealing just how shocked he was. ‘Is that why you were so jealous of Mum’s lovely spread today, you daft wee bird? Those Christmases at the stud were so bloody feudal, you have no idea what it’s like to be civilised.’
Christmases in Compton Magna had been sacrosanct. Adults drunken and laughing, children riotous, music and merrymaking, horses and dogs centre stage, and so much food. Her grandmother Ann had been a glorious cook, Pax at her side, standing on a chair, her kitchen assistant, brining and basting and chopping and whisking just as tirelessly as she had for Mairi, the succulent gamey goose and deeply sweet red beef they’d brought to the table a legend.
At that moment the lonely grief of an unhappy wife had hit her like a tidal wave, carrying all that had been good about her grandparents’ marriage – their companionship, their generosity, their fierce good spirits, their shared passion for horse and country – and smashing it against the rocks of her own hard place.
Thoughts that had been shifting like sea-sucked shingle for months gathered force, that ever-louder shanty echoing through her mind: You don’t love him, you don’t love him, this can’t go on, he undermines you, you don’t love him, leave him, leave him, leave him.
I will never again love Mack, she finally admitted to herself. I don’t even like him.
Their drifting, shipwreck marriage splintered in front of her eyes.
Awash with hip flask Cointreau, post-lunch Armagnac and most of Mairi’s cooking sherry, she’d gulped for air, a silent storm raging, sentimentality and regret wrenching great rips through her calm surface.
Barely able to breathe, she’d watched Mack take the turkey fat and pour it down the sink with a self-important swagger, saying over his shoulder, ‘You sound like you’re coming down with a cold, wee bird.’
‘This marriage is over!’
‘You’ll regret saying that.’ Placing the gravy strainer carefully on the draining board, he’d left the room.
That night, he’d slept in his parents’ spare room.
In the Mack Shack, Pax had let Kes crawl into bed with her and cuddled his small, solid warmth tightly, anticipating a sleepless night of guilt and turmoil, but instead she’d slept better than she had in months. Just briefly, the answer was so simple. All she had to do was stick to her word.
Gazing unseeing at the lane ahead, hearing her husband breathing heavily, Pax berated herself for joining in the pretence that she’d never said it, for her overwhelming need to keep the peace.
Just a few hours later, on the other side of her hangover, in the cold light of day and after a muttered apology from both sides, they had called a truce of sorts to be on show for her family at the stud, too shell-shocked to do anything other than carry on with the festivities.
This, the first Christmas since the legendary Captain’s death, had been the first without a traditional Percy family gathering on the day itself, no Grumps carving the meat in the green-walled dining room. Instead, Pax’s prodigal mother was back, and while Ronnie had wanted all her children to join her at the stud, those bridges would take a long time to build. The hastily cobbled Boxing Day get-together in Compton Magna had been fraught with tension, Pax wearing a fixed smile throughout, ‘This marriage is over!’ still ringing in her ears, grudgingly grateful to Mack and his parents for behaving impeccably amid the cross-currents.
The gathering had deepened her sense of isolation. She needed the stud to stay in the family; it was her bedrock, and her mother’s decision to stay changed things. Ronnie might be a nebulous, turbulent presence, but she was the only one of them equipped with the knowledge and contacts to save it.
Pax remained the only one of Ronnie’s children willing to hear her out and help her out, and whilst it hurt quite a lot to do so, it was already starting to heal old wounds. Her oldest sister Alice’s resentment of their mother burned on unabated while their brother Tim was hiding in South Africa, his second marriage already failing, his inability to commit almost certainly a throwback to their mother, escaping their father’s cold detachment, abandoning them as young children. Maybe that’s what made Pax find her own marriage so hard, h
er need for perfect harmony too perfectionist? In their glory days, Mack had called her his swan, always outwardly calm and serene while her legs kicked frantically beneath the water. Swans mated for life, didn’t they?
Mack and Pax Forsyth mated as rarely as giant pandas these days, especially after a row. Instead of making up by making love, they were two repelling magnets, hostility mounting amid domestic norms, her accusation lingering, new enemies who turned their backs at night, digging trenches in the bedclothes. He spent a lot of time with his parents, pretending not to be bothered; she had hushed, tearful phone calls with her friends, cried in the shower, drank too much vodka and cleaned her teeth a lot to hide it.
It was a relief to have a legitimate excuse to back out of the annual Forsyth pilgrimage to Scotland for Hogmanay. The stud desperately needed extra hands, Pax had explained. The puppy needed looking after. She needed time alone to think. Mack didn’t put up much of an argument. His parents seemed positively grateful. Last night, they’d all headed up on the sleeper and she’d drunk the rest of the vodka.
It didn’t occur to her for a moment that she should question them taking Kes. Her sister-in-law Marianne’s family hosted Hogmanay in their big town house in Edinburgh every year. The youngest of Kes’s cousins shared his birthday, so getting the boys together was always a special treat. Nothing had changed, as Mack kept pointing out. Just Pax.
Now he dropped a strategically planned bombshell to disprove that.
‘Marianne’s found Mum and Dad a Victorian villa with views of Arthur’s seat,’ he told her with relish. ‘We’re going to see it today.’
‘They’re moving to Edinburgh?’ She tried to hide the delight in her voice.
‘Been planning it a while now. They’re going to cash in one of Dad’s pensions to top up the fund from selling up in the Highlands. It’s a tidy sum. They’re only grateful they never invested down near us. The market up here’s much more buoyant.’
At first Pax took this to be very good news indeed. It was no secret his parents had been regretting the move down from Scotland almost from the moment they’d arrived. Having seen her marriage disintegrating in direct proportion to her in-laws interfering, Pax felt much the same way.