A Rural Affair

27

I stared at the door as it shut behind her. Remained motionless a moment, engrossed, it seemed, in the paintwork. Then I went into the sitting room, crossing to the window to watch as her car drew away from the kerb, headlights going on against the gathering darkness, faint drizzle sparkling in their beam. Across the road the Fishs’ light went on too, briefly illuminating their front room, before their curtain swished shut. Archie was still crying, his wails gaining momentum upstairs, but I seemed transfixed by the spot Angie’s car had just vacated in the road. Eventually I turned and went mechanically to the fridge for a bottle of milk; warmed it in the microwave. Well, it had probably been a slip of the tongue. And taken out of context too. I didn’t know the full extent of the conversation. I’d give her a ring in a moment, when I’d given Archie his bottle. When she’d had time to get home and put the car away. I could hear her voice on the phone now: ‘Oh no, Poppy, he was just genuinely concerned about you, about how you were going to cope, that’s all! After all, he is in finance and he probably wondered if you needed advice.’ Yes, that would be it.

When Archie’s eyes closed I laid him down; went back downstairs to the kitchen and rang Angie’s land line. But as it rang and rang, and just as I was about to try her mobile, a funny thing happened. Suddenly I wasn’t sure I wanted her reassurances, didn’t want to hear her falling over herself to assure me that I’d taken it the wrong way. I didn’t want any damage limitation, because, it occurred to me, I didn’t particularly want a reason to believe. Would be very happy without one. In fact it seemed to me it might even be a relief. It was quite an epiphany.

I quietly replaced the receiver. The phone sat on the dresser, which was antique pine and rather old hat in these days of space-age designer kitchens, but I still liked it. Still liked the blue and white Asiatic Pheasant plates that ranged across it, a collection I’d made over the years, piece by piece. What I didn’t like, I realized, was the toby jug that sat in the middle of the top shelf. Phil had bought it on a trip to Yorkshire years ago: an ugly old man, his belly the swell of the jug. He’d placed it there, in pole position, and since everything else on the dresser had been chosen by me, I hadn’t had the heart to protest; so it had stayed. It had been there so long I’d almost forgotten it was there, or that I disliked it. Which was how things took root, wasn’t it? Accommodated out of a sense of duty, one becomes accustomed to them, and thus a permanence is achieved. I reached up for the jug, took it to the kitchen bin and dropped it in. The bin was empty, so it smashed, rather satisfyingly, on the bottom. Then I went back to the dresser and picked up the phone.

He’d have gone to some trouble, I knew: buying ingredients, concocting something really rather delicious, poring over cookery books – perhaps casting around for advice, ringing his sister even. Still, it couldn’t be helped. And better now than later. Because later, who’s to say I’d have the nerve? Who’s to say I wouldn’t paper over this crack, as I’d papered over many others in my time? Have it explained away as a nothing, when I knew, in my heart, it was a something?

He answered breezily; a little harassed perhaps, not relishing the phone ringing in the middle of his culinary devotions.

‘Hello?’

The walls of my throat had closed up a little. ‘Hi, Luke, it’s Poppy.’

‘Poppy, hi! You just caught me shelling the prawns. To tell you the truth I had no idea they came with their coats on; had to consult Delia on how to disrobe them. Slippery little devils, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, I suppose. Although actually you can buy them already shelled. Um, Luke, I’m terribly sorry, I’m not going to be able to make it tonight.’

There was a silence. When his voice came, he sounded crestfallen. ‘Oh no, what a shame. Why not?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not feeling too good.’

‘Really? Oh dear, what’s wrong?’ He was doing his best to hide his disappointment and sound concerned, but his voice had an edge to it.

‘I’m not sure. Sorry, Luke.’

My brevity wrong-footed him. There was a silence. Then he rallied. ‘Oh well, never mind. I expect I can freeze it. Sure you won’t change your mind?’

‘Quite sure, thanks.’ I realized I needed to get off the phone now. Before I said something I regretted. I realized I was furious.

‘Let’s get together soon, eh? I’ll ring you when you’re feeling better.’

‘I’m sure I’ll see you around.’

Luke wasn’t stupid. Far from it. Very astute, in fact, and he recognized the finality in that. Recognized too that I wasn’t even inventing a malaise – complaining of a tummy upset, a headache, saying a child was ill – and I wondered, for a brief moment, if he knew the real reason I was cancelling. No. How could he? But as we said goodbye, he did sound slightly shaken.

I, however, felt completely bloody marvellous. I was fizzing with fury but, boy, it felt terrific. I bustled around my kitchen like a whirling dervish, sweeping toys from the floor in armfuls, rescuing a Lego man from the vegetable basket, flinging yesterday’s paper in the recycling bin, wiping down surfaces, getting behind things I’d never got behind before. Then I seized the mop and gave my terracotta tiles the sloshing of their life. And once the superficiality had been achieved, I went for the profound. Thus Peggy found me, five minutes later, on my hands and knees, giving my Aga a jolly good seeing-to, wiping down the front for all I was worth: Jif in one hand, a new and very brutal Brillo Pad in the other.

‘Oh, hi, Peggy.’ I sat back on my heels. Gave her a dazzling smile.

‘Oh – I thought I was late,’ she said breathlessly, coming in on a blast of cold air in her mauve velvet coat. She shut the back door behind her. ‘How come you’re not dressed?’

‘I’m not going,’ I told her, opening the door of the cooler oven and disappearing with a wire brush. ‘Decided against it.’

‘Right,’ she said faintly. She was still out of breath and took a moment to watch me, bewildered. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘My oven needs cleaning,’ I told her, brushing furiously.

‘Oh.’

After a second I sensed her sitting down at the table behind me. Heard the click of a lighter. Smelled smoke.

‘And that’s reasonably crucial, is it? On a Friday night? A clean oven?’

‘Reasonably.’

‘Nothing else detaining you?’

I sat back again. Turned. ‘Oh well, since you ask, there’s also the very real prospect that Angie told Luke that Phil had left me a lot of money. I have an idea he wasn’t that interested in me per se, but rather in my inheritance. In fact I believe he was initially keen on Saintly Sue, but changed his tune when he heard I was an heiress. Or as good as it gets in these parts. The Jackie Onassis of the Chilterns,’ I snorted. ‘I’ve put him off. I’m not going, Peggy. I can’t afford to make another mistake, you see.’

I felt her thoughtful presence behind me as I resumed my scrubbing. She didn’t gainsay what I’d just told her, didn’t rush to pour scorn: for Peggy was a proper person. A grown-up. I went for the really caked-on bits on the oven floor which ordinarily I didn’t attempt, just left to carbonize or whatever they eventually did. I’d pull the fridge out in a moment, I decided, clean behind it, which I hadn’t done for months. Years, even. Defrost the freezer. Oh yes, it was the day of reckoning.

After a moment Peggy spoke.

‘Perhaps Angie thought by giving him a little nudge, it would help you both on your way? You know what she’s like. Very well meaning, if a little misguided. I do know she told him you were gorgeous, and he made a face and said, “Two kids.” Maybe that’s when she mentioned the money.’

I crouched back on my heels. Stared into the cast-iron cavern. I knew Peggy was deliberately enlightening me. Giving it to me straight. Not allowing me to be under any illusions. I could visualize the sort of face he would have pulled too. A couple of weeks ago, I realized, this might have brought tears of self-pity to my eyes; might have had me reaching for some pills. It was nice to know I was better. Nevertheless I kept my eyes firmly on the oven wall at the back. After a bit, I turned.

‘Something wasn’t right, Peggy. The rather abrupt change of gear. I was supposed to trek to London to meet him for lunch, then all at once he changed it to dinner at the King’s Head. I thought: why so ritzy? And at my convenience? I had the feeling there was something strategic about the whole thing. And he was great fun and everything, we had a laugh, but when we got onto the subject of him starting his own business, he suddenly clammed up. Changed the subject when I asked about capital. He kept complimenting me too, really randomly, like he was ticking boxes. I couldn’t work out why, from being rather blasé, he’d suddenly got so terribly keen. I should have smelled a rat. Knocked it on the head much earlier.’ I regarded her squarely. ‘Why do I attract them, Peggy? Rats? Is there something wrong with me? Why do I pick men like Phil and Luke? Or are they not rats at all? Is that actually what men are like? Is there, in fact, nothing wrong with Phil having a mistress for years as long as no one finds out and no one gets hurt, or with Luke cosying up to me because I might be just what he needs to start a new business? Is that the way of the world? Am I being difficult? You said earlier the thought of these men is always much nicer than the reality. D’you really believe that’s true?’

Peggy tipped ash into the palm of her hand, considering. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said carefully. ‘I was being flippant. And neither are you being difficult. The fact is you picked a couple of duds.’

‘Or they picked me. Saw me coming. Thought: ah yes, Poppy, she’ll do. She’s malleable, biddable – rich even, now. If only I were lovable.’

‘Poppy,’ she admonished gently.

I grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’m in no danger of breaking down about it. Luckily I’m livid and, actually, very calm. I shall never marry again, Peggy, never.’ I said it dispassionately. Knew it to be true. I got to my feet and I threw my Brillo Pad in the sink. Then I turned back to her. ‘Why is it I’m surrounded by lovely women, fabulous girlfriends, have always had such terrific luck in that department, but never, ever with a man? Why is that, Peggy?’

‘Because you’re not looking in the right places,’ she said briskly. She poured herself a glass of wine from the bottle Angie had left on the table, and one for me too. I sat down beside her and gratefully took the glass she offered. ‘You go around looking in bargain basements and then you panic-buy. You riffled around in the sales and found Phil, and then when he’d gone, you went as far as the church across the road, found a thirty-five-year-old organist with a failing business lurking in the shadows and thought: he’ll do. Literally the first single man you met. And why is he single? At thirty-five? Why isn’t he married?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You let all your friends tell you he’s perfect because they want you packaged off and happy, and you don’t stop to wonder if you think he’s perfect. You wouldn’t buy a new winter coat like that, Poppy; why on earth a man? The trouble is, you aim too low. You’ve no confidence. And if you aim low, you get low. You get a loser. And you are more than worthy of a winner. There are plenty of them out there too. I should know, I married one.’

‘Roger.’

She didn’t talk about him much. Barely at all, so I never did either. Angie probed occasionally, but got nowhere. But she did once say that the fifteen years she’d been married to him had been the happiest of her life. He’d died of testicular cancer at forty-five; no children.

‘Yes, Roger. And because of him, because he was such a find –’ Her eyes shone suddenly. ‘Oh, Poppy, if only you’d met him. Such fun. So alive. And such a safe pair of hands too. Because of him, I won’t marry again. No one will ever match up. Oh, I know I play it for laughs and flirt with all the eligible old bachelors, but that’s all it is. A laugh. I haven’t been with another man since Roger died.’

I tried to hide my surprise. He’d been dead a long time.

‘But you’ll meet someone,’ she urged. ‘You’re young, you may even marry again, but Poppy, never, ever settle for anything less than perfect.’ She eyed me steadily over the rim of her glass. ‘A good marriage is the best thing in the world, but a bad one is the very worst. If a racing certainty doesn’t come along – and it might not – stick to your own company.’ She smiled. Touched my glass with hers. ‘We’ll be merry widows together. Deal?’

I smiled. ‘Deal.’ I felt my anger subside and something like relief flood through my veins. To be like Peggy. To end up like Peggy, who I’d always admired, would not be so bad. Would be pretty terrific, actually.

‘And there are some nice men out there,’ she mused. ‘Jennie’s Dan, for instance, albeit in short pants.’

‘Yes, Dan’s lovely,’ I agreed.

‘Angie’s Tom too.’

We regarded each other guiltily. We both liked Tom, even though he had behaved very badly. But then, Angie probably wasn’t the easiest woman to live with. There were two sides to that story, as there often are.

‘Did I tell you I saw him the other day?’ she said casually.

‘No, you didn’t. Where?’

‘I ran into him in town. Had a drink with him.’

‘Really?’ I was intrigued. ‘Does Angie know?’

‘No, she doesn’t, and don’t tell her.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Apparently she rang him.’

‘Yes, she did, and he didn’t return her call. She’s devastated.’

Peggy didn’t say anything for a moment, then: ‘Angie’s either devastated or thrilled to bits. Cast down or euphoric. Never anything in between. That can be quite exhausting. Tom knows he behaved like an arse but sometimes … ’ She hesitated. ‘Well, sometimes we all need some space. Just to get things into perspective.’

I snorted with derision. ‘Space. That sounds horribly like psychotwaddle to me, like some garbage some counsellor’s told him. And I wouldn’t call a middle-aged man running off with a twenty-six-year-old groom and leaving his wife and children perspective. Last drop?’

‘Why not,’ she said, looking at me with interest as I poured. Normally I agreed with most things she said. Was easily persuaded. But my nerve endings were still quite exposed from the last ten minutes, and much as I liked charming, good-looking Tom and had had some riotous evenings in his company, I wasn’t prepared to make too many excuses for him.

‘Are you going to that?’ Peggy asked, changing the subject. She nodded across at the dresser where, amongst the blue and white plates, I propped the occasional invitation. I followed her eyes to a stiff white card embossed with an elaborate italic script.

‘Oh. No, I doubt it.’

It was a ticket to the hunt ball, which had been dropped through my door. By Mark, I assumed. ‘Compliments of the hunt’ had been scrawled on a slip of paper inside the envelope. But then, I had made quite a large donation to the hunt. A handsome cheque, which I’d popped through his door earlier. And Mark had rung me, overwhelmed.

‘We can refurbish the kennels, Poppy, keep all the staff. I was going to have to let the kennel girl go. It’s so generous. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t say anything.’

And then the ticket had arrived pronto, by hand through my door. And, actually, my plan had been to ask Luke, tonight. See if he’d come with me. Waltz in with my new boyfriend. But that would have sealed the deal, wouldn’t it? And my fate along with it. Knowing myself as I did, it would have been hard to stop that stone rolling into a relationship.

‘In fact not, I’m definitely not,’ I said with some relief, and only a little regret at the thought of the glittering occasion I knew I would be missing. It was being held at Mulverton Hall, Sam’s place. Even more reason to waltz in with Luke, a bit of me had thought. I realized I’d felt ridiculously betrayed on discovering he’d been married to Hope. Had wanted to trump him. Why was that? And naturally everyone in the area was keen to go to the ball this year, being held as it was, not in the usual soggy marquee in a field at the kennels with a sticky dance floor and overflowing portaloos, but at the local manor, which no one had been inside for years. Oh yes, even the most fervent anti-blood-sport types would be there: never underestimate the snoop factor. There was talk of a vast black and white hall with a gallery and sweeping staircase – Mrs Briggs knew someone who cleaned – and there Sam would be, at the foot of it, handsome in black tie, with Chad and Hope too. The three of them in an eternal triangle. I wondered how much Hope enjoyed that? Sam shooting her haunted looks? No, that was uncharitable. I didn’t know the woman. It probably tore her apart. Not as much as it did Sam, though. I gave myself a little inward shake. Other people’s lives. Get on with your own, Poppy.

‘I take it you’re not going either?’ I asked Peggy, wrapping my dressing gown firmly round my legs. It wasn’t really her thing. Peggy had an aversion to establishment socials, preferring instead her usual corner at the Rose and Crown, where she played backgammon with her cronies.

‘Yes, I thought I would, actually. Tom was sent a double ticket. I might go with him.’

I was astonished. ‘Really? Golly. Square it with Angie first, don’t you think?’

‘No, I didn’t think I would,’ she said calmly, draining her glass. ‘Tom quite wants the surprise element.’

‘Right,’ I said, boggling. Quite bold of Tom to show his face, and even more bold of Peggy to accompany him. ‘That’s very much Angie’s fiefdom,’ I told her nervously. ‘She’ll be queen bee, top table.’

Peggy shrugged. ‘As Tom was for years. And all his friends will be there and he hasn’t seen them for ages. His girls will be going too, don’t forget. They’d love to see him. I’ve talked to Clarissa about it.’

‘Have you? Isn’t she away at school?’

‘Yes, but I’ve got her mobile number. She thinks it’s a good idea.’ She gave me a steady, impenetrable look I couldn’t fathom. ‘Anyway, we’ll see. Haven’t decided yet. Night, Poppy.’ She got briskly to her feet and blew me a kiss. Peggy didn’t do embraces. Didn’t go in for much bodily contact at all, come to think of it. ‘And well done you.’ She smiled down at me. ‘Good decision. Cleaning that oven.’

I smiled. ‘Thanks.’

Peggy left the same way she’d arrived, via the back door. I got to my feet and stood in the open doorway, watching her go down the garden path, from where she’d disappear through the gate, then into the field and around to the front. Suddenly it occurred to me that she might not have run into Tom in town. She might have arranged to meet him, to talk to him. Persuade him to come to the ball, knowing he’d been sent a ticket. For Angie’s sake. She might, in fact, be working some sort of magic. Now that Tatiana had gone, and now that Angie appeared to be softening slightly, was less bitter. Now that both husband and wife had had time apart to think, she might be judging the time was right. Because Peggy was like that. A good judge. Or … was I endowing her with powers she didn’t have? Perceptions that were beyond her? I didn’t think so somehow. Odd, wasn’t it, how some people had that sage-like quality. Did it come with age, I wondered? Or had it always been there? As Peggy’s mauve velvet coat disappeared in a flurry through the garden gate it reminded me of something. I couldn’t think what. Ah yes, an illustration in one of Clemmie’s books. Merlin.

I stood in the open doorway a long time after she’d gone. The ewes grazed quietly now without Shameless, and I loved the way the enormous chestnut tree spread its boughs over them. In summer the huge dark leaves hung like a protective swirling skirt and although they were almost bare now, the branches still seemed to offer shelter. The late climbing rose by the door brushed my cheek, its scent redolent of warmer days, and drizzle dampened my face. In the certain knowledge that my fringe was beyond redemption, I let it fall: let it frizz. I realized, with a start, that I was quite content. Was, in fact, relishing being alone. I smiled up at the chestnut tree and was about to go inside when, suddenly, the French windows next door flew open. Frankie shot her head round.

‘Oh, thank God you’re there. I thought I heard you. We need you right now, Poppy. Jennie has gone completely mental. Can I come in?’

Before I could reply she’d leaped the little wall that divided our gardens and nipped inside my kitchen anyway. From her own house I could hear the sound of voices raised in anger. Then an outraged scream, shouting, and the sound of things being thrown. Something smashed against our party wall. I jumped, clutching Frankie’s wrist.

‘Jesus. What’s going on?’

‘Jennie, right, has completely lost it,’ she told me breathlessly as we listened. ‘She’s convinced it’s not my test, which it bloody isn’t, and she knows it’s not yours or Peggy’s or Angie’s, or even by immaculate conception Mrs B’s, so she’s decided the only logical conclusion is it’s Dad’s. That he’s having an affair, brought someone back here, and she dropped it in the basket.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I gasped, incredulous.

‘I know, bonkers; but I told you, she’s lost the plot.’

We listened, clutching each other, as Jennie, at full volume, which we knew to be loud enough to penetrate ancient walls, told Dan exactly what she thought of him, followed by what sounded like the toaster being flung across the room. Dan yelped in pain.

‘Shit – you bitch – my ankle!’

‘Shall I go in?’ I breathed.

‘Oh yes, please,’ begged Frankie tearfully. ‘She’s going to kill him, I know she is. I honestly think she might – Oh!’

No doubt also believing this to be true, Dan was even now leaping the garden wall. The next thing we knew, he was in my kitchen, cowering shamelessly behind his neighbour and his daughter, even going so far as to clutch my dressing-gown cord. His wife, however, was only moments behind him: in very hot pursuit, leaping the wall and brandishing a golf club.

‘Jennie, no!’ I screamed, springing forward to seize her wrist as she charged in brandishing the club. As the five iron flailed in the air Mrs Tiger Woods sprang to mind.

‘Let go of me! LET GO OF ME!’ she roared.

‘No, Jennie!’ I flung her arm to the left with a monumental effort, so much so that the club flew from her hand. She cast mad, wistful eyes after it as it hit a framed poster from the Royal Academy on the wall, smashing it. The sound of breaking glass did nothing to deter her, though; in fact it seemed to galvanize her. Her eyes came back to her prey, who was shrinking back down the kitchen, white-faced.

‘BASTARD!’ she screamed. As Dan turned and fled she pushed me out of the way, but as she ran past I managed to swing and grab her jumper. I held on tight as Frankie, with great resourcefulness, rugby-tackled her ankles and brought her down. A terrific struggle ensued, with Dan, I noticed, not helping in the least; he watched, petrified, peeping out from behind the doorway into the hall, as Frankie and I pinned his wife to the floor.

‘Let me up! LET ME UP!’ she insisted hotly.

Relenting only a fraction, we tentatively allowed her to at least struggle to a sitting position against the wall, where we crouched beside her like jailers, Frankie holding tight to one arm, me to the other.

‘In my bed,’ she was spluttering, ‘some tart, while my children slept!’

‘Jennie, don’t be ridiculous!’ I yelled. ‘You’re out of your mind!’

‘You’ve gone properly weird,’ gasped Frankie.

‘He wouldn’t, Jennie, he just wouldn’t!’ I urged. Dan shook his head vehemently, in helpless agreement, but knowing better, perhaps, than to utter. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my other neighbour, Mrs Harper, at the far end of her back garden, peering around the pyracantha on the party wall, possibly even standing on a flower pot.

‘Oh yes, he would!’ Jennie seethed, mad eyes leaping out of their sockets, her face crimson with rage. ‘That’s just it, he bloody would! He is not the man you think he is, Poppy, not harmless lovable Dan, can’t help getting into scrapes, poor lamb. He would do that and I know he did it because I found a black lacy bra UNDER MY BED!’

‘It’s mine!’ wailed Frankie, distressed. ‘I told you it’s new. I tried it on in your room because you’ve got the best mirror – I must have left it there!’

‘You lie!’ she spat, her head spinning round to her daughter like something out of The Exorcist. ‘I wash your underwear constantly, young lady, and you possess nothing of that nature. You lie to protect him! You both lie!’

‘No!’ Frankie cried, tears springing to her eyes as, at that moment, her younger brother and sister materialized in their back garden. Jamie and Hannah were even now climbing over the garden wall in their pyjamas. Jamie helped Hannah down. They crept, terrified, into my kitchen. If anything would stop my hugely maternal friend in her tracks, it was this: the sight of her two frightened, vulnerable children, little faces bewildered, Hannah still clutching her teddy, dragged from their beds by the screaming. But Jennie was too far gone. Her tether, which, as we know, some would dispute her ever having been in possession of, had well and truly snapped. Despite her jailers she struggled to her feet and balled her fists.

‘WELL, WHOSE IS IT, THEN?’ she bellowed as we held her arms tight, her face a strange purple colour. ‘The sodding test? If it’s not yours, and it’s not your father’s and it’s not Poppy’s or Peggy’s or Angie’s, WHO THE HELL DOES IT BELONG TO?’ she screamed.

There was a silence. It seemed to me the entire village held its collective breath.

‘It’s mine,’ came a voice to our left.

We swung around as one. Twelve-year-old Jamie, not thirteen until the winter, in his M&S jim-jams, getting taller by the minute but still very much snub-nosed and freckled, still very much a child, gazed back at us. Two spots of colour were high in his cheeks and I saw him swallow. A gasp went up from the assembled company. Jennie, still in a half nelson of sorts, still in some sort of custody, went limp in our hands. She let out an anguished cry, the sound of an animal in pain. Then she bowed her head and slipped slowly down the wall on her bottom, to the floor.