A Rural Affair

13

On Monday night at choir practice I thought we were going to be lynched. Three people on the way to church told me it was outrageous they weren’t allowed to join, particularly since we’d allowed the Armitages; and once I’d achieved the church and was in the choir stalls, Sylvia told me she’d even moved her bridge evening.

‘We decided Wednesdays were much better,’ she told me firmly, turning round from the pew in front. ‘So I’ll read Angus’s book when he’s finished and see you there. We thought one copy between the two of us would be fine.’ Sylvia was notoriously tight.

‘No, Sylvia, I’m sorry,’ Jennie butted in beside me – Sylvia had pointedly addressed me, not her – ‘we’ve reached our limit. Otherwise the group is too large and people feel intimidated. They won’t pipe up.’

I doubt if Sylvia had ever felt intimidated in her life, particularly when it came to piping up. I also doubt whether anyone in the village had ever stood up to her. Her left eye began to twitch manically and she looked fit to burst her tubes. Happily Saintly Sue was tapping her lectern importantly, reminding us we’d be singing at the real thing soon so it had better be good, and Luke was flying through the door, so Sylvia didn’t have a chance to come to the boil. But I saw Angus, who’d been studying his brogues during this little exchange, glance up to give Jennie an admiring look. Whether he’d be allowed out to play with the rest of us now was, of course, debatable. I had a feeling he’d be in his carpet slippers, toying gloomily with his cauliflower cheese in front of Panorama. Sylvia wouldn’t want him mixing with the Americans if she wasn’t allowed to; although her curiosity might get the better of her. She might want him there as a spy, taking notes, so she could quiz him later.

As Luke bounded boyishly up the steps to the organ, blond hair flopping, he flashed me a grin and I smiled back. Smiled, though, not glowed. And as Angie and Jennie either side of me exchanged a delighted glance, like proud parents – one they clearly thought I didn’t notice – I hoped I wasn’t going to disappoint anyone. He was nice. Very nice. And good-looking too. So perhaps it was just the fact that he was always late and then basked self-consciously in the tiny spotlight this afforded that annoyed me? Or maybe he was genuinely busy and lost track of time? At Peggy’s I’d liked him more, I decided, as he played the opening chord in a dramatic manner. We’d perhaps even had a moment as we’d chatted over a glass of wine by the darkened window – which, let’s face it, was a far more conducive environment than this one. The organ didn’t help, this chilly, damp church didn’t help, and as we all launched into the Gloria and Molly into ‘Nights in White Satin’, I knew that didn’t help either.

After choir practice, I found myself walking out of church alone. Angie and Jennie were up ahead discussing dishes Jennie was making for Angie’s freezer, when Luke materialized beside me.

‘Hi.’ He pushed his fringe out of his eyes.

‘Oh, hi, Luke.’

I’d been looking in my bag for some money for Frankie. I hated rooting around for it while she stood waiting; liked to have it ready, so the transaction was swift and clean, prey as I was to the usual ridiculous middle-class hang-ups about paying anyone to work for me. As he wheeled his bike beside me, I eyed it warily. Hm. Now admittedly it was just a common or garden pushbike, but one thing could lead to another and before you know it he could be head to foot in blue Lycra.

‘I thought we pretty much nailed it tonight.’

I couldn’t help smiling at his rock ’n’ roll way of putting it. ‘I agree. We’re nearly there.’

Don’t be mean, Poppy, he’s just making conversation. And he was satisfyingly tall and slim but not skinny, I decided, as he strolled beside me in the light of a full moon.

‘D’you find it hard, that he’s here?’ he asked, glancing around. That endeared him to me immediately. Many people would have conveniently forgotten my husband was amongst us.

‘Not in the least. For one thing I don’t believe in ghosts, and for that reason I’ve always found graveyards rather comforting places.’ I thought of the one I visited quite regularly on the other side of Aylesbury. ‘Quite sleepy and peaceful and not remotely spooky, even at night. I’m glad he’s here and not in some urn on my mantelpiece. It means the children can come later if they want to. Have a chat.’

‘And even if there are ghosts, who’s to say they’d be more scary than the living? I can’t help thinking they’d be rather serene and calm, not having to live in the real world any more. Being well out of it.’

‘Exactly.’

We walked on.

‘I used to be fascinated by tombstones. Still am a bit,’ he admitted. ‘Imagining the people, their lives.’

‘Oh, me too,’ I said, surprised.

‘I mean, look at this.’ We stopped at a lichen-covered stone. ‘Imelda Ruskin, beloved wife of Arthur Ruskin.’

‘Yes, I know. When equally beloved wives, Rachael and Isabella,’ I pointed, ‘are buried over there.’

‘And Isabella was only twenty-two when she died,’ he reminded me, as we paused at her grave. It was one I knew well, had often wondered about. ‘Childbirth, d’you think?’ He nodded at the tiny grave beside her. ‘We know she was mother of Patrick.’

‘Or poison, to move Arthur on to wife number two perhaps?’

He laughed. Shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? And was Arthur a warty old dog exercising a spot of droit de seigneur or a dashing young blade?’

‘Oh, a young blade,’ I said emphatically.

Arthur had always been a bit of an attractive cad in my eyes. Cutting a swathe through the damsels in the village, who all swooned for him, before popping his clogs elsewhere, somewhere more exotic. For Arthur wasn’t buried along with his wives in this churchyard. And nor would I be, I determined suddenly. Wouldn’t stay here for ever, to be slotted in beside Phil.

‘D’you ever make it up to London, Poppy?’ Luke said easily. ‘I thought we could have lunch.’

Well, I’d pretty much known he was going to ask me something like that. But London. No, I didn’t, as a rule.

‘Or a pub lunch here?’ He waved his hand at the Rose and Crown.

‘No, I make it to London,’ I said, thinking of Arthur and his travels. ‘I’d like that. Thanks.’

‘Good. I’ll book a table somewhere. West End? I imagine you’ll be shopping.’

‘Oh, er, yes. I imagine.’

‘What about next Tuesday?’

‘Perfect.’

We’d reached my gate now. Stood facing each other in the moonlight. ‘Goodnight, Poppy.’ He reached out and tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear, before lightly kissing my cheek.

Why should that small gesture disarm me?

I turned to open my gate, simultaneously swinging my bag over my shoulder, but it was a clumsy manoeuvre and the strap caught on the picket fence. As I unravelled myself I turned quickly to see if he’d noticed, and just caught his eye. By the time I’d smiled nonchalantly he was well on his way.

I walked up my path thoughtfully. Well, I was out of practice. Flirting. But I’d have to do better than that. One man leaves a message on my answering machine and I’m twirling round the kitchen, another touches my hair and I’m fighting my own garden fence? I shook my head. Any woman’s magazine worth its salt would point out that, recently widowed and bereft in so many other ways for years, I was vulnerable. And susceptible to any man’s attention. Any man, I thought soberly, being a great deal better than Phil.

I could barely get the tenner into Frankie’s hand before she’d sidled past me with the briefest of muffled thanks, and out into the night. I turned and watched her go. Towards the pub across the road. Into the pub? No. Surely not. It was full of locals; she’d never get served. She hurried past the saloon-bar door and went round to the yard where the barrels were stored. A car seemed to be waiting, engine running. She slid quickly into the passenger seat. I watched as it sped off. Oh well, it was still early, I reasoned uneasily as I went inside. And she was sixteen now. Hardly a child. I didn’t want to make things hard for Frankie, and as Jennie kept reminding me whenever I raised it, she really wasn’t my problem.

I found myself dressing rather carefully for my meeting with my lawyer. I gave my hair two washes, wishing it was thicker but pleased it was still satisfyingly blonde from the recent highlights, and blew it dry with a round brush instead of just giving it a hasty blast of hot air. It hung in a fair sheet around my shoulders. Spun gold, Mum used to say when I was little. Then she’d brush it for me, my head in her lap. My face was a bit pale, but a spot of blusher and lipstick and a bright pink scarf improved it, although I did remove the silky skirt and replace it with a navy one. And my new boots, not bare legs. Years ago I’d still have been head to toe in black, I reminded myself, and this was a meeting, not a date. Nevertheless my heart quickened as I tripped lightly downstairs, one hand brushing the rail. I hesitated at the bottom. Ran back upstairs for some scent.

The heavy oak front door onto the high street had been varnished, I noticed, and there was a new sign on it: Sam’s name in gold letters picked out just below that of the senior partner. The stairs, as I climbed the two flights, had been carpeted in something cream and expensive, with gilt stair rods. Very Harley Street, or whatever the legal equivalent was. Wigmore? No, that was teeth. Very private practice, anyway. Maybe we could share a joke about that? Except we’d already done one about makeovers. Anyway, something quick and witty would come to mind, I decided, as I bounded up with a new authority and sailed into Janice’s waiting room. I was feeling decidedly sparky today.

Janice’s room was more than just tidy, it was freshly painted, with flowers on the desk. After she’d greeted me with a beaming smile I admired the decor and the flora, and then we indulged in a spot of girly chat about how we both loved lilies. She ushered me on through, assuring me Sam was waiting for me, and I noticed the new carpet continued seamlessly into his room, which was also immaculate. Although the half-empty packet of Orios on the desk, I decided with a small smile as I turned to shut the door, was a nice familiar touch. I wondered what pretext he’d manufactured for this meeting?

‘Poppy. Thanks for coming in again.’ He stood up with a smile.

‘My pleasure.’ I gave a dazzling smile back, taking the seat he indicated. I noticed the shirt was pink today with a button-down preppy collar and a dark blue tie. A good combination. No social peck on the cheek, but perhaps later, when we said goodbye. And Poppy was a very good start, not Mrs Shilling.

‘And I’m sorry if my message alarmed you in any way.’

‘It didn’t at all,’ I said, surprised.

His face, as he sat, was serious; devoid of laughter lines. I suddenly realized I should be alarmed. Very alarmed.

‘Why? Is something wrong?’

‘I’m afraid Emma Harding has crawled out of the woodwork. She’s making a claim on your husband’s estate.’

My heart plummeted. All the skippy excitement of the morning went with it. It seemed to me it seeped out of my boots and right through the creamy carpet and the spongy new underlay to the floorboards below. I felt old. Tired again. And not because of the claim. Not because of the money. But because suddenly I was plunged into a world where my late husband had been sleeping with another woman for years. A world I thought I’d left behind; one I didn’t want to return to. Not when I’d been happily choosing between Sam’s broad shoulders and Luke’s hair-tucking technique.

‘I see,’ I said miserably. I remembered Emma Harding’s scrubbed, anxious little face in my sitting room, saying she didn’t want a bean. Yeah, right. I crossed my legs, noticing a tiny ladder on the inside of my knee.

‘How much does she want?’

‘She wants half.’

‘Half!’

‘Well, she claims she’d been his partner – in the domestic sense – for four years, and in the professional sense for longer. Nine, in fact. Four at Lehman’s, and five at the new firm. She claims they left to set it up together, albeit under his name, and that during those years any wealth he accumulated was due largely to her, because she was responsible for new investment. Apparently she gathered most of the clients. She says your husband was only a success because of their partnership, ergo she’s entitled to half his estate.’

‘But that’s outrageous. She wasn’t married to him, hasn’t got children by him. God – I hope not!’

‘No, no children,’ he said quickly.

‘And if she was so instrumental in the business, how come I’d never even heard of her? She certainly wasn’t one of the directors. I knew them. And OK I knew her name but, honestly, that was about it!’

‘Well, that’s … hardly surprising, really, is it? Under the circumstances.’ It was said kindly. And he was looking at me in a detached, speculative way, rather as a doctor would a patient. If he’d had half-moons he’d have been peering over them.

‘No. No, I suppose not.’

A silence ensued. He shuffled some papers awkwardly. ‘She was only on a basic salary because she’d been promised a share in the business when it was sold later this year. If that had happened, incidentally, it would have made millions. It won’t now. Not without your husband at the helm and his Midas touch. Investors have lost confidence, it seems. It won’t affect your inheritance but it’s not in such good shape. It’s still trading, but Miss Harding has been eased out.’

‘She’s lost her job?’

‘So it seems. And of course she’s lost your husband’s protection. The other directors were jealous of what they felt to be her elevated position. It appears she also sailed close to the wind trading-wise, which worried them. She was a bit of a chancer.’

‘Right. Good.’ I clenched my fists. That nice Robert Shaw, who Phil had also taken with him from Lehman’s. Ted Barker too, with whom we’d been to dinner. Classy men; old school tie. Too right she was a chancer.

He cleared his throat. ‘Her claim, however, has the backing of your late husband’s mother and sister. They both support it.’

I stared at him. Could feel my mouth opening and hanging. ‘Marjorie and Cecilia?’

‘Yes.’

‘They knew her?’

‘It appears so.’

‘How come?’ But I knew how come.

‘They met her. Originally, they’re keen to stress, in a business context. As a colleague of Phil’s, and in order to discuss their own personal finances. But later, under more friendly circumstances. They had lunch together after various meetings in London, apparently. And she was a visitor to their house in Kent.’

My heart began to hammer. Sam looked deeply uncomfortable.

‘But … why? Why would they do that, support her?’ The walls of my throat were closing in, but I got the words out.

‘The letters I have from both parties state that Mr Shilling was, ah, miserable at home, and only stayed for the sake of the children.’ He looked studiously down at the letter before him, avoiding eye contact with me. ‘Quoting this one from Mrs Shilling, she says, “My son had wanted to leave his wife for years.” ’

I was shocked. Profoundly shocked. Over the weeks I’d come to terms with the fact that a whole world had been continuing somewhere without me; a world of Phil and Emma, Emma and Phil, and these visits of Emma’s to Phil’s family home only sketched in additional appalling detail. More grotesque background. But before, it was just the two of them. More people somehow gave the picture a density that I knew I was going to struggle to push against. It would be like holding back the tide to suggest that all four of these people had been wrong, had judged me unfairly, and that I was a perfectly pleasant human being. A doddle to be married to. Why should they all be mistaken? And yet it wasn’t true. It wasn’t fair. My breathing became laboured. I was a nice girl, surely? Not the girl in this picture?

I did try, though. To push. ‘He wanted out!’ I said shrilly, knowing my nostrils were flaring and my knuckles white as I gripped my handbag on my lap. ‘He only stayed for the children? Oh no, that was me! I was only there because I thought they were so young, so vulnerable.’ My throat filled with tears. I gulped them down. ‘I was the one who wanted to go – always!’

Even as I was protesting, part of my mind was wondering how often he’d heard this sort of thing. Sam, the divorce lawyer. Two people slugging it out unattractively, over children, money. But once I’d started, I felt compelled to finish.

‘I was the one who felt trapped. How dare he say he stayed with me for form’s sake! Out of duty! Ask my friends, ask anyone; they’ll all tell you. God, those bitches,’ I seethed. ‘I can’t believe my own in-laws, my children’s grandmother, their aunt, Aunt Cecilia – Christ!’ I could hear hysteria rising in my voice as I tumbled over my words.

‘I can see that’s very hard to reconcile.’

‘Very hard? Very hard!’

I wanted a cigarette badly and I hadn’t smoked for years. Instead, I twisted a strand of hair rapidly around my finger, another ancient method of restoring composure. I wondered what Phil had said to his mother and sister. Phil, who could do no wrong. Wondered if he’d told them I was a cold fish who gave him no comfort. Oh, I could picture the whole thing. Could see Phil taking Emma to Kent in her smocky white top, looking very different to the girl his mother and sister had met for lunch in London, a business lunch, to discuss their finances, in her power suit and heels.

‘You remember Emma?’ he’d have said, with no awkwardness. Phil didn’t do awkward; he had a towering sense of his own self-importance. His own entitlement. And Emma, with a bunch of flowers perhaps, would execute her practised, anxious smile.

‘Hello. How lovely to see you again. What a pretty house.’

Later, after coffee, Phil would confide in his mother, whilst Cecilia and Emma took a walk in the garden. This girl had brought some much-needed sunshine into his life. Much comfort. He’d never leave me, of course, never. He knew where his duty lay. But this was the real thing. True love. And Marjorie would nod, touch his hand. Her poor boy. Trapped in a loveless marriage. Of course, she’d always known it was a mistake. That dreadful father. She’d shudder. Whisky on his breath. That house, which she’d heard about from Phil. A slum, almost. Oh no, she wouldn’t condemn Phil. Instead, she’d say later to her daughter: poor boy, he deserves some happiness, and how like him to insist he can’t leave Poppy and the children. So little happened in Marjorie and Cecilia’s lives, I could see them thoroughly enjoying the subterfuge. Knowing something I didn’t; having a secret. It would exact a certain kind of revenge, which, let’s face it, was always best eaten cold. And they wanted revenge. They’d felt so robbed, you see, when we hadn’t gone to Kent to live, but had settled near my father instead. My friends. Their fury at the time had been unnerving.

‘But we assumed!’ Marjorie had spat at me in her immaculate kitchen, tight-lipped, spectacles glinting. ‘Cecilia and I had always assumed that you’d come here, to Ashford. That you’d stay near the village!’

And look after us, was what they meant.

But I’d put my foot down. And at the time I’d thought it the greatest expression of my fiancé’s love for me. The greatest capitulation, probably. One he’d immediately regretted.

‘Jesus,’ I muttered, only half to myself.

‘It certainly is a very unusual situation, I must say,’ Sam said uncomfortably.

I glanced up. Yes, of course it was. And as suddenly as the door to my fury had flown open, it slammed shut and another door gaped. Embarrassment. In it roared. This man, this lawyer, Sam Hetherington, didn’t know me. Not really. He didn’t know Marjorie or Cecilia, either. They could be quite delightful. They certainly had delightfully old-fashioned-sounding names. They could be sweet, gentle souls, sending anxious letters from Rose Cottage, the house on the letterhead. And I could be simply ghastly. With my powdered face and laddered tights. My overdone scent. My flirtatious manner. It seemed to me yet another door closed too. Softly, but firmly. Eyes glittering, I turned and stared out of the window at the day. It was still warm and clement, lovely for October, but the breeze through the open window seemed languid and heavy, whereas this morning it had been sweet with possibility.

‘And I’m afraid mother and daughter are also intending to make a claim. Join the ugly rush.’

I turned back to him. Nothing surprised me now. ‘Oh? On what basis?’ My voice came from elsewhere, detached.

‘On the basis that apparently your husband said he would provide for them in their dotage.’

‘They’re not in their dotage.’

‘No, but neither of them works, living as they do off your late father-in-law’s pension. But it wasn’t index-linked and is running out. Your husband knew that, and to that end intended to make a will which would be inclusive of them. That was why he’d gathered so much life insurance before he was killed.’

I regarded him steadily for a moment. This rang true. The only thing so far. Phil had gathered an unusual amount of life insurance. For a reason. I cleared my throat. ‘Do they have a case?’

‘In my opinion, no. You, as the wife and mother of his children, have rightly inherited his sole estate, as, I might add, most wives do.’

‘But they’ll fight it? I mean, if I refuse?’

‘Oh, they’ll fight it.’

‘Then we’ll fight back.’ Yesterday I’d have willingly given them some. But not now. Not when they’d so publicly humiliated me. ‘Write back and tell them so immediately. Tell them I won’t part with a penny.’

He made a quiescent face. ‘Could do, but that’s a fairly aggressive step. And you want to avoid slugging it out, particularly in court, which is heinously expensive. Although it might, eventually, be inevitable.’

Court. A vision of me trembling in the dock of an oak-panelled Old Bailey sprang to mind. Twelve stony-faced men and women staring accusingly at me. Cecilia and Marjorie in the gallery, weirdly wearing the hats they’d worn at my wedding, complete with quivering bird on Marjorie’s, except it was no longer a peacock, but a bird of prey. Their barrister, a hatchet-faced man, was cross-examining me: ‘Were you a good wife, Mrs Shilling? Were you?’ Silence. The judge reached for his black cap.

‘Right,’ I said miserably. ‘So … what would you advise?’

The fight had gone out of me and I felt like writing out a cheque. Three, actually. One to each of them. Emma, Marjorie and Cecilia. Oh no, four. I probably owed Sam too. Just leave me alone.

‘I would advise doing nothing at this stage and see whether they proceed. They haven’t actually issued proceedings, just written a couple of letters. Let’s see if it’s all hot air.’

‘Yes. Fine,’ I agreed.

I liked doing nothing. I was a big wait-and-see girl. My entire married life, it occurred to me, had been like that. Wait and see what happens. It might not be so bad. It was. Always. Why did divorce get such a bad name? Surely what I’d done was as bad? This ghastly acceptance? Surely it would have been braver to leave? Something small and hard and angry formed within me. I needed it to grow. I needed to take a steer on my life, that much was clear. I couldn’t let these Shillings walk all over me. I had to see them off, not just pathetically scramble clear of them occasionally, as I had done for years, dodging their blows.

‘Cup of tea?’ Sam asked quietly. I obviously looked very shocked.

‘Please.’

This small kindness touched me, and as he went to the door to ask Janice if she wouldn’t mind, I had to blink very hard.

He came back and sat down again; said one or two comforting things about people making threats all the time, and whilst it sounded dramatic, it was quite another thing to employ a solicitor, which they hadn’t yet done. Hadn’t put money where their mouths were. And anyway, even if lawyers were involved, it was often sorted out via correspondence.

‘I won’t have to see them?’ I asked, my voice coming from somewhere distant as Janice came in with the tea.

‘Not unless it goes to court, but we’ve already decided to try to avoid that at all costs.’

I nodded. Sipped my tea as he chatted, leaning forward with his arms on his desk. He offered me a biscuit, which I took but couldn’t eat, and even though I felt numb, a bit other-worldly, I couldn’t help noticing the elbow of his suit was very worn. The right one, the telephone-propping one, and the handle of his black case beside his chair was broken and tied with binder twine. Phil wouldn’t have been seen dead in a jacket like that or with a tatty briefcase, and I thought how much I liked Sam for it; and for somehow knowing I’d needed tea and a chat before I took to the high street.

Finally, when it became apparent that I couldn’t decently, or even indecently, take up any more of his time, that I’d been in his office for a good forty minutes and we both knew his next appointment had been sitting outside a while because Janice had popped in and told us so, I got to my feet. I felt warmer from the tea, if a little trembly.

‘You going to be all right?’ It was said briskly, but there was no doubting the concern. God, he was nice. But then most people were, weren’t they? I’d just been unlucky.

‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you. And thank you for your advice.’

It was a shame I saw him surreptitiously consult his watch as he walked me to the door. He smiled and we said goodbye.

Outside in the street, something made me glance back up at his building, my eyes finding his window on the second floor. But if I was expecting to see him standing there watching me go down the street, hands in pockets, a wistful expression on his face, I was disappointed.