A Rural Affair

4



Death has a way of sorting the men from the boys. Some people kept their distance fearing they’d trigger emotion, be responsible for a nasty scene. There were those who’d walk right around the pond on the green just to avoid me, and if they did have to pass me, would scuttle on by, head down. Men, mostly. Others couldn’t resist bringing it up at every opportunity. Outside the village shop, for instance, at the school gates; would positively leap the pond to be by my side. Women, mostly. They’d lay caring hands on my arm: ‘How are you? Are you all right, Poppy, are you coping?’ Looking right into my eyes. Too much sometimes, but so hard to get right. Then there were those who cut the crap and made lasagne for you, picked up the kids, were keen to set you back on track, genuinely wanting to help. Friends, mostly. And Jennie in particular.

Some weeks after the funeral she burst in through my back door on a blast of cold air and let it slam behind her. ‘Right, money,’ she announced firmly, putting a blue casserole dish on the side.

‘Money?’ I turned to her abstractedly, sitting as I was at the kitchen table in my dressing gown, staring into space as Archie had his morning sleep. I did a lot of that, these days.

‘Have you thought about it?’

‘Not really,’ I said dully.

‘Well, did he have much?’ she asked impatiently, flicking the kettle on behind her and sitting opposite me, still in her coat. ‘Were you doing OK, or was it seat-of-the-pants stuff, like me and Dan? Smell of an oily rag?’

Dan was self-employed, and now that the recession had bitten hard, seemed to go less and less to London. Perhaps people were drinking less wine? I hadn’t mentioned it.

‘No, I think we were doing OK. I mean, there was always enough in my account and I did very well on my …’

‘Housekeeping,’ Jennie finished drily.

Jennie had always been rather scathing about Phil’s financial arrangement whereby he put a certain amount into a monthly account for me, out of which I paid all household expenses.

‘But what if you want a new coat or something?’ she’d say.

Jennie and Dan had a joint account from which they both helped themselves, not that there was anything in it, as Jennie would remark tartly.

‘Well, I either save a bit each week, or I ask him. He’d probably say yes,’ I’d say uncomfortably as her eyes would grow round.

‘Yes, but it’s the whole idea that you have to ask. It’s so nineteen-fifties.’

‘It’s his money,’ I’d say defensively. ‘At least you earn a bit, Jennie.’ Jennie was a cook and rustled up dinner parties for friends, food for freezers, that sort of thing. ‘He earns every penny of ours.’

‘Well, I won’t go into the fact that you’ve given up a career to raise his children,’ she’d say, ‘or that my children are at school so I can work, and you’ve still got a baby so can’t,’ and I was glad she didn’t. And in turn didn’t go into the fact that Phil called my monthly allowance my salary. I could hear her squeal of horror at twenty paces.

Now, though, it seemed I might not get away with keeping too much dark. Jennie had that determined look on her face which meant she intended to get to the bottom of something.

‘Did he have a life insurance policy?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Poppy, has all this completely knocked the stuffing out of you?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, even the most grief-stricken widow might, in an anxious moment, have wondered whether her chickens were going to be provided for. Are you going to get dressed today, incidentally?’

I glanced down at my towelling robe. ‘D’you think I should?’

‘I do, as a matter of fact; you didn’t yesterday. Who took Clemmie to school this morning?’

‘Alice’s mum picked her up for me. Has done for a bit.’

‘Right. Good. But … well, brush your teeth at least, won’t you?’ she said awkwardly.

I shrugged. So demanding. And so many questions.

She swallowed. Licked her lips for patience. ‘OK, Pops, back to basics. Money. Where did Phil keep his papers?’

‘In there.’ I pointed vaguely behind me, through the open kitchen door to the sitting room, where a walnut bureau sat under the bay window.

‘Would you mind if I …?’

‘Be my guest.’

She was in like a rat up a drainpipe. Shimmying out of her coat and tossing it en route on the sofa, she hurried across the sitting room and spent the next half-hour getting very busy. I watched her flicking through his files, which, typical of Phil, were organized and methodical, but which somehow, even though I’d walked across to the desk a few times and stared at it, I hadn’t been able to face opening. I turned and resumed my contemplation of the tiny back garden, the sheep in the field beyond. All ewes now, grazing peacefully. Were they happy to see the back of Shameful, I wondered? Or was any man, demanding or otherwise, better than nothing? They looked pretty content to me, munching away out there.

Behind me I could hear the rustle of papers as Jennie burrowed deeper. I sat on. On the one occasion I did glance around, it was to see Angie peering through the sitting-room window from the road, perfectly plucked eyebrows raised enquiringly under her fur hat. Jennie gave her a quick thumbs up. Angie nodded and swept by. Apart from the kitchen clock ticking and the occasional snuffle of my darling Archie through the baby alarm, the house was silent.

At length she came bustling back, brandishing bits of paper.

‘Right. Well, the good news is, he did appear to have a life insurance policy, but I have no idea what’s in it. He also appears to have had a solicitor, who I’m sure can tell you more.’

‘Oh, good.’ I tried to raise some enthusiasm.

I looked beyond her. Funny. I’d never noticed that damp patch on the kitchen wall. I might have to put a picture on that.

‘No will – at least, not that I can find – but that’s quite normal. It’s probably lodged with the solicitor.’

‘Ah.’

‘Shall I make you an appointment?’ she said impatiently.

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Yes, I think it is. You’ll have a lot to talk about. Sometime this week?’

‘Couldn’t it wait?’

‘No it couldn’t. I’ll have the kids for you.’

She’d already whipped out her mobile. Punched out a number which she’d gleaned from the letterhead in her hand. Why couldn’t I make the appointment, I wondered. Because she thought I wouldn’t do it, perhaps. Would I? Hard to say. The feverish adrenalin which had rendered me almost manic a few weeks ago, arranging the funeral like a whirling dervish, putting a notice welcoming all comers in the village shop, rushing from one thing to the next – beetling away from my husband’s grave – had left me now. Something else had moved in. I felt very cold. Very numb. Had done for over a week now. Ten days, to be precise. Ever since that knock upon the door. It was as if I needed to sit here forever, all day, just to conserve energy. I managed quite well when the children were around, forced myself to be chirpy, but most evenings, and in the mornings when Archie was asleep, I sat here, in this chair.

‘Right, well, that’s all organized. Tomorrow at four. OK?’ Jennie went to pocket her mobile, but it rang. ‘Hello …’ She swung away to hide her face. ‘Yes … yes, I’ve done it,’ she said quietly as if the eagle had landed. ‘Pretty low still, I’m afraid.’

‘Who was that?’ I asked absently.

‘Um, Peggy. Wanted to know if I was, er … going to the shops. Now, shall I put it in your calendar?’

‘If you must.’

Clearly. Within a twinkling she’d flicked over a page muttering something about me being a week behind, and was pencilling it in, then underlining it for good measure.

‘OK?’

‘Couldn’t be better.’

‘And I’ve put a shepherd’s pie in the fridge for you. That’s if you’re absolutely sure you won’t come over.’

‘Absolutely sure.’

Jennie asked me over pretty much every night, as did Angie and Peggy. I’d been to Jennie’s a lot in the first few weeks, taken the baby alarm with me, but recently I was happy with my chair.

‘Although I couldn’t help noticing there was one in there already.’

‘One what?’

‘Shepherd’s pie.’

Ah. She’d put it there at the weekend. And I’d forgotten to give it to the children.

I sighed. ‘I like crackers, Jennie. So does Clemmie. But thanks. I appreciate it, really I do.’

She gave me that hassled, worried look I’d seen a lot lately. I pulled my dressing gown around me and tucked a lank piece of hair behind my ear. I did hope she was all right. Had Dan been stopped for speeding again? He’d only just got his licence back. I must remember to ask her. To enquire. But somehow, dredging up words about anything these days was hard. Where did they come from, all those words? I’d see women gossiping in the street – what about? Such an effort. Like washing my hair. Or going to the village shop. God, it was miles, wasn’t it? I’d forgotten we lived so far away. Lucky Jennie, who was just that bit closer. Five yards at least.

‘And I thought I’d walk up to the nursery with you later.’

‘You don’t have any children at the nursery.’

Jennie’s children were older: Jamie, twelve, and Hannah, seven, were both at the local school, which didn’t chuck out until three-thirty.

‘I know, but Leila could do with the exercise. And I daren’t go back into the forest with her.’

Leila had been known to chase the deer up there, an offence which carried a fifty-pound penalty from the deer warden, who had threatened to shoot to kill next time. ‘Can I watch?’ had been Jennie’s riposte. I’d been with Jennie on this last occasion, when, as usual, she’d foolishly let the dog off the lead, then, as usual, spent the next half-hour crashing through undergrowth hissing, ‘Leila! Leila, you bitch, come here!’ Not too loud, you understand, so as not to alert the warden. We’d crashed about some more, when suddenly, in the distance, there’d been an ominous rumble of thundering hooves. To get the full Serengeti effect you have to imagine the stampeding does, the whites of their eyes, the clouds of dust as we flattened ourselves against a tree, pulling Archie’s pushchair in sharpish, and then, in their wake, an Irish terrier, shooting us a delighted look, tongue lolling, galloping joyously. Obviously the warden was crashing through the bracken moments later in his Land Rover, puce in the face with rage, and obviously Jennie was given a fine on the spot and sensibly hadn’t been back. But still, a walk to the nursery, two minutes up the hill, hardly constituted exercise for our Leila. And don’t be deceived by the terrier word, incidentally. With Irish before it, it’s more like a small horse.

I sighed. ‘OK,’ I said obediently, as I tended to these days.

‘And then, later on, I thought you might like to come to choir practice with me.’

‘Really? Why?’ I felt alarmed.

‘Because we’re singing the Gloria tonight, and you’ll enjoy that.’

‘But I don’t sing.’

‘Anyone can sing. And anyway, I’ve stood next to you in church and you’ve got perfect pitch. Frankie’s going to babysit for you.’

‘Right,’ I said flatly. Sing. I couldn’t remember how to talk.

Sure enough, as I set off with Archie an hour or so later, Jennie appeared miraculously from her front door with a straining Leila – I’d swear Peggy’s curtain twitched opposite – and we set off up the hill. We collected Clemmie, and walked back down the hill, all of which took about fifteen minutes, a little longer than usual as Jennie had a furtive word with Miss Hawkins, but still not enough for Leila, who needed a good hour.

As Jennie said goodbye, she bent down to talk to Clemmie.

‘That’s a pretty dress, Clem.’

‘I know. It’s got a rabbit on the front.’

‘It has. And a bit of gravy. You were wearing it yesterday, weren’t you, darling?’

‘Yes, and every day. Six. I’ve counted. Mummy said I could.’

‘Good, good.’ She straightened up. Looked anxious again. I must remember to ask about Dan.

‘Seven o’clock, then?’

‘Hm?’

‘Choir practice. I’ll send Frankie round, but I’ll have to meet you there because I need to take Jamie to scouts.’

‘Righto.’

Submissive. Punch bag. Best way.


The children and I had just about finished our tea when Frankie appeared sometime later. She was a sulky, skinny girl with a washed-out face, not helped by heavy, dark eye make-up, and over-long, bleached blonde hair. She was at the local comp where everyone tended to look like that, but where had that sensitive, rather pretty eight-year-old gone, I wondered, as she sat in a heap at the kitchen table, picking gloomily at her black nail varnish. Archie grinned and banged the table enthusiastically. He responded well to her sulky charms.

‘Hi, Arch.’ She took his soggy offering of a masticated biscuit and his eyes widened delightedly. ‘Crackers and lemonade, yum. We’re never allowed that for tea.’

The children beamed proudly.

‘Yesterday we had a Hula Hoop sandwich,’ Clemmie informed her grandly.

‘Good for you, Clem. Why bother with the old five a day, eh?’ She turned to me. ‘Jennie says you’re going to choir practice with her. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? You’ll be doing the church flowers with her next.’

‘Your mum’s very busy, Frankie,’ I told her. ‘And someone’s got to do it.’

‘Why?’ she said belligerently. ‘No one would notice if there weren’t any flowers in church, would they?’

‘Some people would.’

‘People like Jennie. So she does it for herself, in fact.’

I could see she was pleased with that. Was probably storing it away to deploy on her stepmum later, when Jennie came home, tired. Normally I’d defend her, tell Frankie if everyone thought like that there wouldn’t be any community in the village, but somehow I couldn’t be bothered. Couldn’t raise the energy.

‘It’s like dusting,’ she was saying. ‘She’s got this thing, right, that you don’t do it any more, don’t hoover either, but what does it matter? So what if the dust builds up? Who was it said it gets to a certain level and doesn’t get any thicker?’

‘Quentin Crisp,’ I said distantly. Dust? Why were we talking about dust? Oh, as in ashes to ashes.

‘You see?’ she said admiringly. ‘You know things like that. Cos you read, which is more than Jennie does. Who was he, anyway?’

‘The last of the stately homos. At least that’s what he called himself. D’you want a cracker, Frankie?’

‘No, you’re all right. You’d better go, though. She’ll get stressy if you don’t turn up. D’you want to brush your hair?’

‘No, thanks. Do you?’

‘Not really. Shall I do Clemmie’s?’

‘Sure.’

My daughter slipped down shyly from the table and ran off to get her Barbie hairbrush. Such was her admiration of Frankie, she could hardly speak for the first five minutes of her visit. I got heavily to my feet and went to pluck my coat from the back of the door.

‘School breaks up soon,’ Frankie said abruptly, apropos of nothing. ‘Half-term. Can’t wait.’

‘So it does,’ I agreed. Ages away, actually; but for a sixteen-year-old it was like a drink in the desert. A reprieve from the daily grind winking away in the distance: lie-ins in the mornings, night life in the evenings. Never quite the reality, obviously: lashings of rain and endless boredom with the odd gnomic exchange with an equally bored mate in McDonald’s, but the idea was good. Like most ideas. Marriage. Children. In fact wasn’t most of the joy in life derived from the planning, the theory? I must remember that. Plan more, do less.

‘So what are you going to do with yourself this holiday?’ I forced myself to say conversationally. Never let it be said I couldn’t string two words together, something I’m sure I heard Yvonne in the shop say about me to Mrs Pritchard, as I left her premises earlier today with my pint of milk.

‘I thought I might get pregnant.’

I was shrugging my coat on at the door, facing away from her. I turned.

‘Why not? Mum did it.’

‘Jennie didn’t –’

‘No, my mum. She was sixteen.’

‘Oh.’

We stared at one another. She gave a hint of a smile. ‘You’re not that far gone, are you? Not completely mental.’

Ah. Shock tactics. ‘Nice one, Frankie.’

‘Still, I might, though,’ she said defensively.

‘Got anyone in mind?’

‘No,’ she said sulkily, deflated in an instant, alive to the poverty of her plan. I wished I hadn’t asked. ‘There’s Jason Crowley at school, but he’d never shack up with me. Just want a quick shag. That’s the whole point,’ she said, dark eyes flashing.

‘What, a quick shag?’

‘No, to shack up, get out of there.’ She jerked her head next door. ‘Or there’s Mr Hennessy, my biology teacher; he’s really fit, but he’s got a wife and kids which isn’t ideal, is it?’

‘Not … ideal.’ Where was I going? I stared at the door. Oh, yes, church.

‘Single mothers get priority with council flats, though,’ she told me. ‘You jump the queue.’

I sighed. ‘Frankie …’

‘Anyway, he doesn’t fancy me. Mr Denis does – physics – but he’s properly weird; he fancies everyone. Or I suppose I could nick your new intended? Come along to choir practice.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

She got to her feet as Clemmie came back with her brush and a mirror from my dressing table, struggling under the weight.

‘Oh, salon stuff!’ Frankie relieved her of the mirror and hoisted it onto the table. ‘A French pleat, madam, or shall we cut it all short?’

‘All short!’ sang Clemmie, jumping up and down, ecstatic with excitement.

Frankie grinned. ‘Nah, yer mum might notice that. Then again,’ she grimaced and shot me a look, ‘in her state she might not. Here, give me that.’ She took the brush from her. ‘We’re going to go for a pleat, right? And then we’ll give Archie a comb-over.’

My son had yet to collect much hair, but what he had was long, wispy and very much around the edges. Archie beamed and offered her some more cracker, clenched and soggy in his fist. She took it and put it on her tongue, which was pierced.

‘D’you dare me?’

Clemmie nodded. Frankie swallowed. The children roared with laughter, delighted.

‘Don’t underestimate those harpies, though,’ she went on as I turned to go out of the back door. ‘Once they put their heads together, you’re sunk. Trust me, I should know. Oh, and you might want to take your dressing gown off under your coat. They’ll need smelling salts if they see that.’ I glanced down to where two inches of pale blue towelling protruded from my navy reefer. ‘Then again, you might not. Personally I like the layered look. But our Jennie’s got ever so bourgeois recently. She’s not so into the Quentin Crisp philosophy.’

I took her advice, removed the dressing gown, replaced my coat, and putting one foot in front of the other, went off down the road to choir practice. In a small corner of my mind I was dimly aware that Frankie had given me a searching look as I’d left and, for one crazy moment, I’d almost turned and shared with her. Almost come back in, shut the door and blurted out my troubles, just as she’d blurted hers. I hadn’t, though. Of course not. Because there was no one I could tell. Not even Jennie. Not because I’d be mortified – I would – but because once it was out, I’d have no control over it. Dan would know. Then someone in the pub would know. And my children, so damaged already, must never know. Never hear from someone at school. I clenched my fists fiercely in my coat pockets in resolve. It must be a closely guarded secret. My secret. No one must ever know that their father, my husband, hadn’t found me enough, emotionally. That he’d had another life with another woman. That she’d been to see me ten days ago, paid me a visit. That she’d been there at his funeral and I’d never known. Been in our lives and I’d never known. Filled a void in Phil’s life I hadn’t been able to. They must never know that their father had been unhappy, desperate. It was my shame and I must bear it alone. Tears fled down my cheeks, soaking my face as I walked on.