A Rural Affair

8



Of course, it took more than a couple of glasses of white wine to sort me out. More than an evening with the girls. Apparently I hadn’t been terribly well. Hadn’t been … coping. And evidently going without sleep for nights on end wasn’t normal. This was all explained gently and carefully to me by my friends, and then the very next day Angie marched me off to see her GP, a pleasant, middle-aged woman who had seen Angie through her separation from Tom. She gave me some little white pills. They certainly helped me sleep but also made me feel an awful lot better in a matter of days, although that could have been psychological. I took them avidly, marvelling at the change in me. After a while, though, I began to feel a bit turbocharged, as if I might take off, exhaust fumes billowing out behind like a cartoon character, so I flushed the rest of the pills down the loo.

Meanwhile I seethed, rumbled and roared around my house. It seemed to me it trembled with me, like the one belonging to the giant, the one with the beanstalk outside. Fee fi fo – I strode about with eyes like saucers, pausing occasionally to ask, ‘What? He did what?’ incredulously of the fireplace, or the bookshelves, pacing in circles which got ever larger, and encompassed the upstairs bathroom where I showered every morning long and hard, washed my hair furiously and came down clean and steaming, hair tied back, wearing freshly laundered jeans and a shirt, nostrils flaring.

The house was tackled next. I dusted and hoovered it from top to bottom, then I hired a steam cleaner. I washed the windows, polished the furniture, mended a broken curtain track in Archie’s room, scrubbed the tiles in the shower – getting right into the grouting with something so toxic it nearly took my fingernails off – and tidied all the drawers and cupboards. I then removed all traces of my husband. I saved cufflinks, a watch and his dinner jacket for Archie and a watercolour he’d liked for Clemmie, but I took all his clothes to a charity shop, and the rest, the things no one would want, I burned in the garden when the children were asleep. I stopped short of burning photos or anything hysterical like that and put them in a box in the cellar, but there was, nonetheless, a faintly heretical gleam to my eye as his Lycra cycling shorts (three pairs), his gloves, silly shoes, ordnance survey maps and stopwatch went up in acrid flames. As the tongues licked high into the velvet sky, crackling and popping in the night, I felt a profound sense of exorcism. Of release. Humming – yes, humming – I turned and strode back into the house for more. Trophies and medals had gone into the cellar along with the photos, but all those sci-fi books could burn, along with his self-help manuals – how to be rich, how to be popular, etc. – and one which I’d never seen before and had found nestling under his side of the bed and was charmingly entitled: How to Live Without the One You Love. Screeching, I ran downstairs and frisbeed it into the flames. Glancing up I saw Jennie’s startled face at her bedroom window. She took in the situation in an instant, gave me a huge thumbs up and went about her business.

The children were next, spruced to within an inch of their lives. All clothes were washed and hung out to dry on the line, faces scrubbed, sweets and crisps banned, the television turned off, and there were lots of cuddles at bedtime and chat at teatime, which included broccoli and carrots. In other words, business as usual. The smiles and laughs came back too, not slowly as they might with adults, but instantly, children being so forgiving and immediate, which made my heart lurch. But if I had any temptation to beat myself up about their past eleven days of enacting life on a sink estate, I told myself it had been only that: eleven days. And that real grief, and the side effects on a family, could last a hell of a lot longer. That hadn’t been grief; that had been shock. A very nasty one at that. I rang Dad and told him not to panic, I was fine, and knew he could tell by my voice I meant it. His relief was tangible and he rang off with a cheery goodbye and an assurance that he’d try not to come off the enormous chestnut hunter he was breaking in for somebody else to fall off on the hunting field.

In the mornings, after I’d taken Clemmie to school, I went for long bracing walks in the forest above my house, borrowing Leila, Archie’s hand in mine. The three of us would stride through the autumn leaves, Archie kicking them up in his wellies, laughing as colours as bright as jewels – amber, ruby and gold – fluttered down around his head. Just occasionally I’d stop, in this five-thousand-acre wood with not another soul in sight, to clench my fists and shout, ‘Bloody hell!’ to the treetops. ‘Bloody HELL!’ Archie laughed delightedly and they were, unfortunately, his next words. The burnished autumn colours seemed to inflame me more than ever, though, like that fire in my garden: fury was in my heart, my belly, and I’d return refreshed, but incensed. Truly incensed that Phil could have done that to me.

Thank God he was dead, I thought, surprisingly, one morning. At least, it was a surprise to me. I voiced it too, to the bird table, as I had a piece of toast at the kitchen window, then glanced guiltily to the heavens as two sparrows fluttered up to tell. But suppose he hadn’t died; suppose he’d carried on with Emma for years, deceiving me, making a mockery of my life – yes, thank God he was dead, I decided fiercely, throwing my plate in the dishwasher.

‘Thank God,’ repeated Archie gravely behind me, eating his Weetabix. Ah. I’d have to watch that.

The following day I saw Jennie in the shop as I went in for my paper. My newspaper. Which I hadn’t bought for weeks. Had had no interest in the outside world.

‘Choir tonight, isn’t it?’ I said cheerily.

A couple of elderly women in the post office queue turned, surprised.

‘Yes, seven o’clock. Oh, look at you, Poppy, you look so much better.’ Jennie beamed. ‘You’ve had your hair cut!’

‘Doesn’t she look a treat,’ agreed old Mrs Archibald, nudging her neighbour, Mrs Cripps, who agreed with a toothless grin. ‘Like the whole world has lifted from your shoulders, love.’

‘It has,’ I assured them, taking the apple Archie had grabbed from the fruit rack and passing it to Yvonne to be weighed. ‘In fact,’ I told them, ‘I feel blooming marvellous. Better than I’ve felt for years.’

If the old dears looked a trifle surprised at this, it was only to be expected, I thought, as I went on up the hill with my children to nursery: they didn’t know the minutiae, the background. Not many young widows could go from catatonic inertia to full-blown euphoria in days, but this one could. Oh, yes.

Miss Hawkins, too, looked delighted to see the three of us looking so clean and sparkling, and for the first day in a long time, Clemmie skipped in with her friend Alice without hanging on to my leg, or Miss Hawkins’s, or both.

That evening, when Frankie arrived, I was almost waiting by the door, keen to be off.

‘God, look at you,’ she said, struggling with her enormous bag of books to the kitchen and dumping it down on the table. ‘You’ve got make-up on and everything. You look loads better.’

It occurred to me she didn’t. Her hair was greasy and lank and there were spots on her chin; misery around the eyes. I must talk to Jennie.

‘Yes, it’s extraordinary what undiluted fury can do for you,’ I assured her.

‘Oh, yeah, you found out he was a love rat, didn’t you? Who would have thought. Your Phil.’

‘Who indeed,’ I said grimly, seizing my handbag.

‘I mean, he looked so, you know …’ She bit her thumbnail.

‘Dull?’

‘Well, I was going to say harmless.’

‘Nerdy? Unattractive to women?’

She looked uncomfortable. ‘Except he’s dead, isn’t he? Perhaps we shouldn’t … you know.’ She shrugged.

‘No, perhaps we shouldn’t,’ I agreed, but somehow I knew it would be difficult. And it was heartening to know Frankie hadn’t thought much of him.

‘What was she like?’ she asked, following me to the door.

‘His mistress?’

‘Yeah. Jennie said she called round. Bloody cheek.’

‘Quite attractive, actually. Surprisingly pretty.’

‘And so are you. So he must have had something,’ she said meditatively.

‘I suppose he must,’ I said, turning to her at the door. ‘But it wasn’t enough, Frankie. Not to excuse that sort of treachery. I’m delighted he’s gone.’ I knew I’d thought it, but was surprised to hear myself say it.

Her kohl-blackened eyes widened. ‘Check you out.’ She stared. Gave it some thought. ‘Course, he was a married man, wasn’t he, which has its own attractions. For her, I mean. Someone else’s property and all that.’

‘Right.’ I held her eyes a moment, remembering the biology teacher. ‘See you later, Frankie. Archie’s bottle is in the fridge.’

Someone else’s property, I reflected as I strode off to the church. Well, she was welcome to him. Perhaps I shouldn’t have burned his things? Should have taken them round to her house, dumped them on the doorstep, said: here, have him. Which perhaps I would have done if he hadn’t died. If I’d just found out. Yes, how would that little scenario have played out, I wondered as I pushed the gate into the walled churchyard and walked up the path, slippery with leaves, the wind in my hair. Obviously I’d have divorced him and he’d have gone to live with her, but then it would have been so much messier for the children. Alternate weekends, chunks of the holidays, like Angie; plus a stepmother … a stepmother. I stopped. Rocked on my feet on the church step, worn smooth with age and generations of worshippers traipsing through. I glanced up. Thank you, I assured Him from the bottom of my heart as I pushed open the door. Thank you so much for sparing me all that.

Jennie was late, having dropped Jamie at scouts, but I knew the rules now and made firmly for the back row, away from Molly, where I saved my friend a place. As it happened, that put me beside Angus Jardine, he of the silver hair and silken tongue. Angus was a pond-leaper, but protocol required him to turn to me with a look of concern and clear his throat.

‘How are you, my dear? I say, I saw the report of the inquest in the local paper today. Hadn’t realized his death had been caused by one of those wretched easyJet planes. Terrible thing to have happened. Terrible.’

‘Oh, no, not really,’ I assured him placidly, shimmying out of my coat. ‘Could have been a lot worse.’

‘Really?’ He looked astonished. Paused to consider. To frown. ‘In what way, exactly?’

‘Well, he was having an affair. Phil, I mean. If he’d lived, it would have been a great deal messier, sharing the children, that kind of thing. I was just thinking that as I came up the path.’

His rheumy old eyes boggled in shock. ‘Euh,’ he muttered uneasily. ‘Good Lord.’

‘Yes, very good Lord, Angus.’ I raised my eyes and pointed to Him upstairs. ‘I was just thinking that too!’

Angus didn’t know what to say. He looked like he’d swallowed his dentures.

‘And sorry to have shocked you,’ I said more gently, putting my hand on his arm, ‘but the thing is, I’m not sure I can play the grieving widow any more when, frankly, I don’t feel remotely sad. Not now.’

Angus gave me a level stare for quite a long moment. Eventually he nodded. ‘Quite right. Good for you, old girl. Why be hypocritical?’

‘Why indeed.’

I held his gaze and then we both faced front in silence, digesting this. I knew I was a bit over the top at the moment, a bit out of control, but I couldn’t help it.

‘Has Peggy asked you about the book club?’ I asked at length, changing the subject.

‘Peggy? No.’

‘Oh, well, a few of us girls are starting one. Thought you might like to join.’

He smoothed back his flowing, Heseltinian locks delightedly. ‘I say …’ he purred, mouth twitching. ‘How sweet of you to think of me. D’you know, I don’t know …’

‘Oh, come on, Angus, you’ll love it.’ I nudged him. ‘Nattering away about Robert Harris’s latest thriller with a glass of Muscadet on a Tuesday? Got to be better than Panorama, surely?’

‘Yes. And Sylvia plays bridge on a Tuesday …’ You could see the wheels of his mind turning.

‘There you go, then. No reheated cauliflower cheese with an enormous baked potato on a tray.’

‘No.’ His eyes widened. ‘Quite. Well, I might.’ He looked enormously chipper suddenly. ‘Tell Peggy I might well.’

‘Might well what?’ said Jennie as she slipped in breathlessly beside me, just as, coincidentally, did Sylvia, only she had to sit on the pew in front, as there was no more room. She glared at her husband for not saving her a place.

‘I was just telling Angus about the book club,’ I breezed.

‘What book club?’ asked Sylvia, quick as a flash.

‘Oh, er … I’ll tell you about it later, my love,’ said Angus, as, fortuitously, Saintly Sue tapped her lectern to get us to our feet. We all rose obediently.

‘Is he coming?’ Jennie asked me softly, alarmed.

‘Think so,’ I told her.

‘We’ll have to ask Sylvia, now,’ she said nervously.

‘No we don’t,’ I said brazenly. ‘That’s not what Peggy had in mind at all. We don’t want Sylvia.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Jennie muttered as Sylvia’s head half turned at her name.

‘And anyway, she’s got bridge on a Tuesday.’

I raised my chin. Opened my mouth to fairly shout the Gloria to the heavens, feeling empowered and euphoric. In fact my voice rang out so loud and clear above the others that Sue glanced at me in delight.

Luke, true to form, was late. This time I took more interest as he bounced boyishly down the aisle, blond hair flopping, music under his arm, eyes twinkling behind his specs. Hm. He’ll do, I thought.

Jennie shot me a horrified look. One or two people in the pew in front turned to grin.

‘What?’

‘You just said, “He’ll do”!’ she hissed.

‘Did I? Oh, well. Nothing like a bit of clarity, eh?’

More titters at this. Meanwhile Luke bounded up the steps to his organ, raised his sensitive hands and struck a chord which we all dutifully followed, launching into the Gloria again.

Afterwards, as we gathered up our hymn sheets and shuffled out, I made purposefully for our new organist as he descended from his instrument at the far end of the church. Jennie was on my heels, though, a restraining hand on my arm.

‘Steady,’ she muttered.

‘What? I’m just going to see if he wants to join.’

‘I know, I can tell, but some people might not understand the eager gleam in the young widow’s eyes. Might misconstrue it for callousness.’

I frowned as I hastened on. ‘Phil was having an affair, Jennie. For four years. I hate him for that. I hate him for lying to me, deceiving me and betraying me. I didn’t have a life, not a proper one; he saw to that. I just want to get on with what’s left of my life now. See what else is out there.’ I shook her off and strode towards the door, our organist ahead of us.

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Jennie was saying, scurrying after me. ‘It’s just that social conventions being what they are, people will expect a tad of grief nonetheless and –’

‘Well, they shouldn’t,’ I told her firmly. ‘Not under the circumstances.’ I beamed as I bore down on Blondie.

‘Hell-o there! It’s Luke, isn’t it? I’m Poppy Shilling.’

He turned, a sheaf of music under his arm; smiled, surprised. Then, as the penny dropped, so did his countenance. He regarded me gravely.

‘Oh, Mrs Shilling. Oh, yes, I heard. I’m so terribly sorry. Please accept my sincere condolences.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ I said, waving my hand airily. ‘That’s all over and done with now, dead and buried even – hah! Now look, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but a few of us gals,’ I waggled my eyebrows jauntily, ‘are forming a bit of a book club. Didn’t know if you’d like to join?’

He gazed, startled. Was he all there, I wondered?

‘It’s on a Tuesday night,’ I went on more slowly, kindly even, in case he couldn’t keep up, ‘at Angie’s place. That’s Angie, the very attractive divorcee, who’s not here tonight although she’s usually in the choir. And her house is the pretty manor house you pass just as you go out of the village. We’ll have drinks and nibbles at seven and nothing too serious book-wise. In fact we might not even have books at all!’ I turned to grin at Jennie, who was looking strangely horrified. Odd, my friend Jennie: one minute she wanted me to snap out of it, the next, to snap right back in.

‘What Poppy means,’ she purred, shoving me out of the way and walking beside Luke as he went to get his bike from the church porch, ‘is that we won’t be tackling Dostoyevsky immediately, if you know what I mean.’

‘Oh, right. Jolly interesting, I expect, but a bit heavy, I agree.’

Was it my imagination, or was he shooting me interested glances over his shoulder as he bent to apply bicycle clips to his trousers? I could overlook those, I thought as I posed coquettishly on the church step, one arm stretched high above my head on the door jamb, the other on my hip.

‘Who’s jolly interesting?’ Oh Lord, Saintly Sue was looming from the shadows, breasting her music, cheeks very flushed. The Only Virgin In The Village, Peggy called her; desperate to be plucked.

‘Dostoyevsky,’ Luke told her, straightening up. ‘Jennie and, um, Poppy here, are starting a book club.’

She almost bounced on the spot, cashmere embonpoint jiggling. ‘Oh golly, how exciting! Can I join?’

‘No,’ I said quickly. Jennie shot me an aghast look.

‘Of course you can!’ she gushed.

I blinked. ‘Can she? I thought we didn’t want any more women? Bearing in mind …’ I covertly inclined my head Luke’s way.

‘No, no, I meant too many older women. Didn’t want it getting too, you know, pensioner-ish.’ She cast Sue a collaborative look. ‘But of course Sue can come, Lord yes. See you both next Tuesday, then.’ She had my arm in a vice-like grip. ‘Seven o’clock. Oh, and it’s going to be at Peggy’s house, not Angie’s – the one with the white picket fence. Toodle-oo!’ She frogmarched me off down the path at speed, leaving Luke gazing after us blankly; Sue, as if she’d been shot.

‘Have you been drinking?’ Jennie hissed.

‘No, why?’

‘Because you’re behaving as if you are completely and utterly pissed. You’re being outrageous, Poppy!’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, and I end up looking like some ageist bigot just to get you off the hook!’

I stopped in the lane. Felt my forehead. I did feel a bit inebriated, actually. A bit light-headed. I was aware that my timorous desire not to rock the boat had been replaced in some fabulously epiphanic way by a desire to be true to myself whatever the consequences. The trouble was, my feelings had been suppressed for so long without the valve being even slightly loosened, that now the lid was off, the contents were not so much out, as all over the walls.

‘Sorry. Sorry, Jennie.’ I walked on, slower now. ‘But the thing is,’ I said carefully, feeling my way, ‘I feel the truth is so … well, crucial, suddenly. Of such vital importance, you know?’ I turned to face my friend earnestly. I felt faintly visionary about it; might even get a bit evangelical. ‘I mean, it’s so liberating, isn’t it?’ I urged. ‘Why don’t we all just say what we mean all the time? Always?’

‘Because polite society dictates that we don’t, that’s why,’ she said heatedly. ‘Just because you’re a widow, doesn’t mean the bridle can come off, you know. Doesn’t give you carte blanche to say whatever comes into your head. You still have to exercise restraint; can’t just trample on people’s feelings!’

I blinked, suitably rebuked. ‘No, I suppose not,’ I conceded. ‘Except … everyone tramples on mine?’

‘Phil trampled on yours,’ she reminded me. ‘Not everyone.’

‘Why are we going in here?’ I ducked as we made a sharp right turn and went into the pub under a low beam.

‘Because if you haven’t had a drink,’ she told me as she steered me into the snug of the Rose and Crown bar, ‘then perhaps you should. Two large gin and tonics, please, Hugo.’ This, to the barman, a local teenager in his gap year, as she parked me firmly on a bar stool. Still looking distinctly harassed she flourished a tenner at him. ‘And even if you don’t need one,’ she told me, collapsing in a heap on a stool beside me, ‘after that, I jolly well do.’