A Rural Affair

11



‘She’s infuriating!’ Angie stormed the next morning when she and I popped round to Jennie’s for a cup of coffee and a post-match analysis. ‘She’s like some ghastly Carry On character: how hot is your furnace, Pete? Do you ever take your shirt off, Pete?’ she mimicked. ‘I mean, honestly.’ She sank down in a heap at Jennie’s kitchen table. ‘I thought: any minute now she’ll be feeling his biceps!’

Jennie and I exchanged a guilty glance. After Angie had left early – in a bit of a huff, it has to be said – there had been a bit of bicep comparing. Quite a few people had rolled up their sleeves in a bid to compete with Pete’s monumental brawn. But, in our defence, we had all been terribly drunk, what with Peggy’s Calvados slipping down a treat and not having had any supper apart from a few meagre bits of smoked salmon. It had all got faintly giggly. Possibly out of hand. Angie had missed quite a party.

‘Peggy just gets a bit overexcited,’ I assured her, trying not to recall the arm-wrestling match between Peggy and Saintly Sue, with Pete as referee, the rest of us cheering them on. Sue had turned out to have quite a wild side. Blonde hair askew, pale blue eyes on fire, a button of her already overstretched shirt popping undone, she’d slammed Peggy’s arm down on the table then punched the air, roaring, ‘Yes!’ Her halo definitely hitting the deck. Luke, hooting with laughter, had swept her into his arms where she’d clung like a slug, planting a smacker on his lips. As I say, we were all very tight.

‘Yes, but if anyone’s allowed to flirt with Pete, it’s me; he’s my farrier,’ Angie said petulantly. ‘She’s supposed to fancy Angus.’

‘Peggy flirts with everyone,’ I soothed, recalling how strangely watchful Peggy had been as Angie had flounced out. ‘Good,’ she’d observed to me quietly, taking a thoughtful drag of her cigarette. ‘Important to save Angie from herself sometimes, don’t you think? Nice to see her having a bit of fun, but we don’t want her making a complete fool of herself.’ I’d blinked in surprise. A bit of me had even wondered if Peggy had a master plan going here; if this seemingly frivolous book club she’d organized for her friends had a deeper design. One which made us turn around and take a close look at ourselves, at our motives. Before I had time to reply, though, Peggy had disappeared down to the other end of the room, where she was busy organizing a team game which involved popping a coin down a shirt and jigging about until it appeared from trouser leg or skirt, then passing it on. Simon’s coin would keep getting stuck on the way so Peggy was instructing him in the fine art of helping it along. The porcelain expert’s face had been one of pure delight, and as Peggy threw her head back and roared, I’d thought: no, no master plan. Unless it just involved getting her friends laughing again.

‘Simon was nice, wasn’t he?’ mused Jennie, cradling her mug and gazing out of the window, a distant smile on her face. ‘Remember him hopping around on the sofa, trying to dislodge the coin?’

‘What coin?’ said Angie grumpily.

‘He really loosened up,’ Jennie went on distractedly. ‘His family home is in the next village, that’s why he’s standing for candidacy round here. He stayed there last night. He loves this part of the world. “My little corner of England” he calls it.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘In fact he said he might not wait to buy a cottage, might rent and commute into town.’

‘Why isn’t he married?’ demanded Angie. ‘He must be over thirty. He’s not gay, is he?’

‘There’s someone he never got over, apparently. He’d known her for ages, first girlfriend and all that, and they were going to get married a few years back; they were engaged and everything, but she kept postponing the wedding. It turned out she’d fallen for someone else. He told me all about it. I really liked that about him,’ Jennie observed. ‘His lack of guile. The way he didn’t try to build himself up. Some people wouldn’t have mentioned they’d been ditched but he’s not like that. He’s a really nice man, actually.’

We digested this quietly. ‘Bit smooth for me,’ Angie sniffed eventually, disingenuously too, I thought. She’d done quite a lot of hair-flicking when she’d talked to Simon. She made a pious face and helped herself to the percolator.

‘I like smooth,’ Jennie said with feeling. ‘Haven’t had smooth for years. Decades. Ever. Could very easily get used to smooth.’

I tried not to notice her hands were clenched; just as, last night, as I’d wandered back through the village at midnight, I’d tried not to notice that Simon, as I reached my gate, had just left Jennie’s. I’d been in time to see Jennie disappear inside as Simon turned to walk the two miles up the hill to his parents’ home in Wessington, presumably leaving his car at Peggy’s. A moonlit walk. A contemplative walk, perhaps. Whilst Jennie had gone inside and up the stairs in her dark, sleep-filled house, feeling just a little bit warmer, a little bit happier. And what was wrong with that?

‘You won’t be getting used to anything,’ Angie reminded her brutally. ‘You’re married.’

‘Yes, I know. To Toad.’ Jennie threw back her head and scratched it energetically with both hands. ‘Oh, I’m not about to leap into bed with the man, Angie, but surely this old heart of mine is allowed to quicken occasionally? Even skip a beat? Allow me a little extra-marital flirting, please. It’s surely not a crime to have a tiny light shining in some dark corner of my life?’

There didn’t seem to be much to say to that. Jennie got up to refill the kettle noisily and banged it down with a clatter on her hob. She turned and leaned on the Aga, folding her arms and staring determinedly out of the window, gimlet-eyed. Angie sat up. Cleared her throat.

‘Well, if you’re not going to – you know – take it any further,’ she said, ‘do you mind if I do?’

Jennie and I turned slowly to stare at her. ‘What, with Simon!’ spluttered Jennie.

‘Well, as you say, he is rather nice. Much nicer than I thought, and not at all slimy when he loosens up; and I am single, Jennie. And since Peggy’s so set on Pete, who, frankly, was only a joke, some twenty-something farrier –’

‘You just said he was smooth!’

‘And as you so rightly say, nothing wrong with that.’

‘I think that’s a bit rich, Angie!’ Jennie snorted. ‘You can’t just cruise in and nick my – my, you know –’

‘What?’ demanded Angie.

‘My book-club partner,’ she said primly. ‘Just because Peggy’s nicked yours!’

‘Book-club partner?’ scoffed Angie.

‘We agreed to swap notes,’ said Jennie stiffly. ‘When we’d finished the book.’

‘I bet you did.’

‘Now look,’ I said nervously, as my two friends glared at one another across the room, ‘this is all getting a bit out of hand, isn’t it? We’ve only had one meeting and we are supposed to be discussing literature here, not matchmaking. Shall we all calm down?’

Angie and Jennie looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ they both muttered sheepishly.

‘Totally pathetic,’ added Angie. ‘Talk about frustrated housewives. And anyway, the whole point was to get you back on track again.’ She looked at me. ‘Give you a bit of fun. What did you think of Luke?’

‘Nice,’ I said evenly. Patiently. ‘Easy to talk to.’

‘When she could get him away from Saintly Sue,’ remarked Jennie. ‘I noticed she was very quick to play hide the fifty p with him.’

I sighed. ‘I’m in no rush,’ I said, meaning it. ‘I’ve got the rest of my life, haven’t I?’

As I said it, the enormity of that simple statement, the freedom it conveyed and the joy, threatened to explode within me. I got to my feet as Archie wailed. The feverish rage of the last few days had left me as abruptly as it had arrived. That white-hot outrage at Phil’s betrayal had gone, and in its place a kind of calm acceptance together with an astonishing clarity prevailed. After a few minutes I said goodbye to my friends. Archie was getting cranky and needed his sleep, but, also, I wanted to savour that feeling on my own. Wanted to cradle my new-found freedom to myself as I cradled my son while he nodded off in my arms. How wonderful it was: I had the whole of my life to choose better, if at all. I shut Jennie’s front door softly behind me and walked down the path. It hadn’t escaped my notice that Sue had made a major play for Luke last night, but as the coin appeared from his trouser leg and as Sue, like a crouching tiger on the floor, had grabbed it with a shriek, I’d been happy to slip away. Been happy to go quietly. I certainly wasn’t going to fight for a man I hardly knew. And anyway, aside from our earlier conversation, he hadn’t exactly sought me out.

As I turned into my garden I wondered if it was true that everybody had a soulmate out there somewhere, or if most people just patched and made do? Met someone appropriate and in a fit of youthful enthusiasm turned a blind eye to any imperfections, thinking: perfect, you’ll do. Just after Phil and I got engaged I found a list in the breast pocket of his jacket which he’d left behind at my flat: pros and cons, with my name at the top. That should have been my moment. To call the whole thing off. Instead, I ran a fevered eye down and realized, with relief, that there were more pros than cons. One more. ‘Quite tidy’ had been the deal-clincher for Phil. Shaming. But don’t forget I’d been feeling very desperate at the time. Very much like a stale bun on a shelf.

Well, I wouldn’t be feeling that again, I determined as I went up my path and delved in my bag for my key, flushing with anger as I remembered. Wouldn’t be Making Do. I’d be very happy with Clemmie and Archie; yes, thank God I had children. That, of course, was pivotal in the desperation game: wanting – needing those. That biological urge. But now that I had them, we could be on our own for ever. I’d never have to panic-buy again.

‘I say, Poppy!’ As I turned to shut my front door, I saw Angus hurrying towards me, Spectator under his arm, fresh from the village shop. I went down the path to meet him, the autumn sun warm on my face, late hollyhocks brushing my arm. Angus raised his hat as he approached.

‘Hello, old girl, wasn’t that fun last night? And I gather I missed the best bit. Gather the party really got going!’

I smiled, shifting Archie in my arms so his head lay on my shoulder. ‘Well, it was eased along by almost the entire contents of Peggy’s drinks cupboard so it’s hardly surprising.’

I had a vague memory of her bringing out something green and vile, peering myopically at the label and saying, ‘I think I brought this back from Paxos in 1997.’ That had been my exit moment.

‘Yes, well, I was just going to say that next week Sylvia is visiting her sister in Cirencester, so happily I can join in the – you know,’ he winked broadly and rubbed his hands together, ‘fun and games!’

‘Oh, I’m not sure every book-club meeting will be like that, Angus. I mean, we didn’t have a book to discuss, did we? Next week, when we’ve all done our homework, I’m sure it’ll be much more cerebral.’

‘Euh.’ His rheumy old eyes looked downcast. Then brightened. ‘Oh yes, once we’ve done all that malarkey, but there’ll still be lots of time for fun too.’ He lowered his voice. ‘When I was in the army we played this terrific game at an all-ranks dance where you had to guess the bare backside. Blindfold, you know? Really broke the ice.’

‘I’m not convinced much ice needs breaking,’ I said uneasily, remembering Simon and Jennie chatting very quietly in a corner, heads bent so close together they almost touched.

‘Nevertheless I think I’ll bring one along.’

‘What?’

‘A blindfold. Scarf, or something. Got some marvellous Glenmorangie too that my brother-in-law gave me last Christmas; pretty sure Simon will like that. I’ll bring that too. Toodle-pip!’ And off he scurried, thrilled to bits, an entire screenplay playing out in his head, his Border terrier on a tartan lead trotting along beside him.

Later that morning, as I left the house to collect Clemmie from school, old Frank Warner, who’d been sitting outside the Rose and Crown across the road having a pint with Odd Bob, put his glass down on the bench and shuffled towards me.

‘Hello, Poppy.’

‘Hello, Frank.’

‘Um, Poppy, I gather there’s a bit of a book-club thingy occurring at Peggy’s place these days. Wondered if I could join?’ Frank was late sixties, an ex-squadron leader, widowed, vast moustache, excessive dandruff. He spent a lot of time outside the Rose and Crown sinking pint after pint with Odd Bob, who never said much but nodded sagely as Frank held forth about Harrier Jets. Bob, slower in every respect, had now joined us, it having taken him that much longer to circumnavigate the pond.

‘Bob would like to join too,’ Frank assured me firmly, as Bob nodded mutely. Bob was the closest thing we had to a village idiot. He was a tenant farmer who lived in the filthiest farmhouse imaginable on the road out of the village. If, perchance, as a favour to Angie, one ever popped the parish magazine through his door, such a cacophony of dog barking and howling would start you’d hear it all the way home, and then the geese would start honking and the whole village would turn and look accusingly at you when you returned.

‘Um, right. Well, I’m not quite sure, to be honest.’ I scratched my leg nervously. ‘Can I get back to you? Only – I’m not really organizing it. I’ll have to ask the others.’

Frank smoothed his luxuriant moustache in an alarmingly Terry Thomas manner. ‘If you would, my dear. And put in a good word for us, hm?’

‘Of course.’

He gave me a huge wink. ‘Ding dong,’ he murmured.

I hastened off up the hill with my buggy.

I told Jennie about it when I got back. She was weeding her front garden and leaned on her fork to listen.

‘Oh God, that’s nothing,’ she told me. ‘When I was in the shop just now, Dickie Frowbisher sidled up to me and said he’d read a lot of John Grisham and did that count?’

‘Oh dear God. What have we started?’

‘A book club,’ she said firmly. ‘With an exclusive, restricted membership. No new members unless they’ve been thoroughly vetted and agreed on by all existing members; and, as of next week, we get down to the serious business of talking books. Angus should drop them off today and then we can get reading.’

‘Exactly.’ I agreed. My eyes roved down. ‘What’s wrong with Leila?’ The usually irrepressible Irish terrier was lying at Jennie’s feet looking morose, a huge plastic collar, about a foot wide, like a halo around her neck. ‘Why has she got that on?’

Jennie regarded her hound speciously. ‘She self-harms,’ she told me gloomily.

‘No!’

‘Well, no, OK, she scratches herself. So she has to wear that stupid collar. D’you think I should blame myself? For her mental-health issues?’

‘Oh, shut up, Jennie. How long has she got to wear it for?’

‘Till she stops scratching, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, she’s in therapy now.’

‘Leila?’

‘Well, not me – yet. There’s a girl in the next village offering free dog-therapy sessions because she’s just starting.’ She made a face. ‘After Leila, she might be just stopping.’

I giggled.

‘Anyway,’ she grinned, ‘on, on.’ She stuck her fork in the ground and started digging. Humming too, quite merrily for her. And she hated gardening. As I went up my path, the window above her porch flew open. Dan appeared half dressed, hair askew.

‘Can’t find any ruddy socks!’ he roared.

Jennie put down her fork. ‘Coming, darling,’ she said, in an unusually mild voice. I watched her walk inside, in astonishment. Such a statement would normally be met with a sharp rebuke to bloody well find them himself and even Dan blinked down at me in surprise, ocean wave flopping. He grinned.

‘Hi, Poppy. Enjoy your evening last night?’

‘Yes, thanks, Dan, it was fun.’

‘Good. Well, I must say I’m all for it. It’s done wonders for Jennie’s humour; can’t think what’s come over her. She really ought to get out more. Well done you for organizing it.’

‘Oh, er, it wasn’t really me. It was Peggy,’ I said uneasily, shifting the blame.

‘Well, good for Peggy. You girls need some stimulation in your lives. Can’t be running round after your bloody husbands and children all the time, can you? And think of all the books you’ll read. Great stuff!’

And with that he popped his head back in to greet his brand-new wife, who, perhaps not enjoying entirely the stimulation Dan had in mind, and with a different sort of fantasy fiction evolving in her head, was at least less susceptible to the irritations he provided.

Was that such a bad thing, I wondered as I went inside, lifting Archie from his buggy and refusing Clemmie’s demand for a biscuit before lunch. I took their cottage pie from the oven and let it cool a moment on the side. If living in one’s own head made one more amenable to others, more accepting of the real world and the people one lived with, so what? Surely that was OK? Up to a point, I decided, as I scooped out a bit of pie for Archie and broke it up with a fork to let the steam pour out. The problem came when one lived more in one’s head than in the real world. It had always been a safe place for me to go, both as a child when Mum had died and later on as my marriage failed. But if we all moved around in our private worlds, we ended up living with strangers.

I sat a moment, gazing out of the window, remembering Dad and me in the early days after Mum’s death; being so careful, so polite to each other.

‘I thought we’d give her clothes away to one of those charity shops,’ he’d said one day, coming in from the fields. ‘You know, Save the Children or something. Too many memories.’

‘Sure. Whatever you think, Daddy.’ And he’d gone off back to the yard. Meanwhile my head had screamed: ‘You mean, someone else gets to smell my mother on the collar of her suede jacket? The one I sneak out of her wardrobe and inhale daily?’

And then later with Phil:

‘Cycling in Majorca in August,’ he’d say, closing the guide book decisively. ‘We’ll leave the children with your father.’

‘No. No. Cornwall. Rock pools, with the children,’ my head had raged, too tired to fight. All fought out. I’d heard Phil’s arguments before, every year.

‘When they’re older, Poppy, of course we will,’ he’d say patiently. ‘But sand and nappies don’t really mix, do they? Be reasonable.’

We had gone to Cornwall once and he’d hated it. ‘I don’t get it, Poppy. I’m sorry, I just don’t. A ham roll on a freezing rock with a flapping Telegraph?’

I’d seen only my baby in the sand, little Clemmie, gazing in rapture as a minute sand crab shifted sideways down the beach at speed. Later, building a small castle; building poignant memories too. Mind you, I also remember my husband’s skinny white legs protruding from a towel and his clenched expression. It was the look of a man controlling himself in impossible circumstances. So off we’d gone to Majorca the following year, and Phil had been happy and I’d once more retired to my head. So much so that once, in a restaurant in Palma, when Phil asked me what I wanted, I said I’d have a pasty.

I’d have to keep my eye on Jennie.