A Rural Affair Read online

  ‘Good. And you’re mad about him?’ She poured me a drink and we perched on a box.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And does he make you laugh?’

  ‘Oh – laugh. Last night we went to see Airport and we couldn’t stop laughing!’

  ‘I think you’ll find that was Gene Wilder making you laugh, but good, Poppy. I’m pleased. Shit. Hang on.’

  She’d moved like lightning, legging it up the stairs to meet Frankie, aged four, who’d appeared damp and tearful at the top, still wetting her bed at night.

  I finished my drink and left her to it; went home hugging my happiness. My settled-ness. My all-organized-ness. And if, for a moment, I had any doubts, they were only really tiny ones, like the way he spoke to waiters. The way he’d said to that young girl in the bistro: ‘I’d like my salad dressing without vinegar. What would I like my salad dressing without?’

  She’d glanced at him, surprised. ‘Vinegar.’

  ‘That’s it.’ He’d smiled thinly. And she’d smiled too, relieved.

  ‘I have to do that,’ he’d confided quietly to me when she’d gone. ‘Otherwise they forget, and I can’t abide salad with vinegar.’

  Of course not.

  A few months later Phil proposed, and things got even better. We went around Peter Jones with our wedding list and discovered, to our delight, that we had exactly the same taste. We inclined towards the red Le Creuset rather than the blue, the retro fifties toaster, the antique weighing scales, eschewed a dinner service in favour of hand-painted Portuguese plates, more conducive to cosy kitchen suppers which we infinitely preferred to dinner parties, decisively ticking our lists attached to clipboards. Another box ticked. A big one, we felt as we gazed at one another under the bright lights of China and Glass.

  We also both agreed we wanted to get out of London.

  ‘Too frenetic,’ Phil said, frowning thoughtfully, ‘and too …’

  ‘Superficial,’ I continued and he smiled. Heavens, we were finishing each other’s sentences now.

  He favoured Kent, where his mother lived, but I wanted to be near Dad, so we looked at villages in that direction, within an hour’s commute of town. Eventually we decided, somewhat sheepishly, that Jennie and Dan really had done their homework. That it was hard to better theirs. Sleepy, idyllic, with two pubs and a duck pond, but a functioning village too, with a shop and a school.

  ‘But do you mind?’ I asked her anxiously, when a house at the other end of the village had come up for sale.

  ‘Mind?’ Jennie shrieked down the phone. ‘Of course I don’t mind, I’d love it!’

  She had made one friend, she told me, a lovely girl called Angie, frightfully glam and rich and great fun, but apart from that was bereft of kindred spirits, and couldn’t think of anything nicer than having her best friend down the road. For moral support if nothing else, she said grimly, which she needed at the moment, what with dealing with daily tantrums from Frankie, and Dan’s increasing inability to pass a second-hand car showroom without buying a banger – they were a four-car family at present – which he drove at speed down the country lanes, parp parping like Toad. Not to mention the dawning realization that she appeared to be pregnant.

  Unfortunately the house at the other end of the village fell through, but then she rang me to say there was one for sale next door.

  ‘Bit close?’ I said doubtfully. ‘I mean, for you, not me. I don’t want to – you know, cramp your style?’

  ‘Trust me, I don’t have a style. Unless you count heartburn that makes me belch mid-sentence, or piles that have driven me to adopt the post-natal rubber ring two months prematurely. Please come, Poppy, before I change the e in antenatal to a vowel I regret.’

  I shot down to look at the house: a dear little whitewashed cottage, low-slung, as if a giant had sat on the roof, with bulging walls, a brace of bay windows downstairs – one on either side of the green front door – two more poking out under eaves, a strip of garden that gave onto farmland at the back and the forest beyond. It was attached to Jennie’s similar cottage on one side, and next to a sweet terraced row on the other. Inside was a mess: low, poky rooms and an outdated kitchen and bathroom, but Phil and I decided we could knock through here, throw an RSJ up there, just about have room for an Aga over there. ‘And lay a stone hallway here,’ he said, indicating six square feet just inside the front door.

  ‘Yes!’ I yelped, thinking how uncanny it was that I’d been thinking the same. ‘Limestone or slate?’ I asked, hoping for the latter.

  ‘Slate, I think,’ he said thoughtfully, and I almost purred.

  We moved in, already engaged, and, once the structural work had been done, got to work. We stripped the walls together, sanded doors, rubbed down floorboards, re-enamelled baths, working every weekend, evenings too, radio blaring so not much chat, whilst Dan and Jennie, who’d got a team of decorators in to do theirs, popped round to marvel. Jamie was in Jennie’s arms now and Frankie was still sucking her hair and scowling. Well, of course she was, Jennie said staunchly; her mother might have drunk too much and run off with an Argentinian polo player, but she was still her mother, for crying out loud. She missed her.

  So Phil and I scrubbed and varnished and stippled and dragged, and even found a window of opportunity one Saturday to get married, arranged with military precision by Phil, both of us agreeing on the music, the number of people, the flowers; as I say, the only fly in the ointment was the tandem to go away on, the surprise googly, as it were. Another year of tireless house restoration followed before we sat back on our weary heels and looked at each other, delighted. With the house, at least. But I do remember, as I regarded Phil that day, spry and fair, putty scraper in hand, slightly narrow lips which didn’t smile that often, remember looking at him as if I hadn’t seen him for some time, had seen only Designers Guild samples, Farrow and Ball paint charts, and it being … quite a shock. As if I’d taken a year-long nap. Was this my husband? This man, so free of jokes and wit and laughter, but full of plans for the garden? This man who had ideas for opening up the inglenook fireplace, growing roses round an arbour – both romantic notions, I felt – but who made love so quickly and quietly, almost … stealthily? Who was disinclined to linger in bed afterwards but wanted to get those tulip bulbs in, wanted to get on?

  Joyless was a word horrifyingly close to my lips. And as I sat on my heels and looked at him and he asked if I’d ordered the bedroom carpet, and I replied I hadn’t yet, he held my eye. ‘That’s the second time I’ve had to ask you, Poppy,’ he said slowly. I went a bit cold.

  ‘There’s a sample in the kitchen drawer,’ he went on. ‘In the file marked Floor Coverings.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘On the back you’ll find the John Lewis number,’ he added patiently, when I didn’t move. ‘Do it now, please.’

  I got slowly to my feet. Moved kitchen-wards.

  In retrospect that should have been my moment. Before children. My moment to take a deep breath and think: what have I done? Marrying this man who knew his way around B&Q blindfold but not the human heart? Who could spot a speck of damp at twenty paces but not a faint tremble of misgiving from his new wife? A small cry for help? But that way horror lay. And anyway, I told myself, getting the carpet sample from the file, one of seven files, all neatly labelled in Phil’s precise hand, we were so good together. Everybody said so. Such a good team. I ordered the carpet and then went quickly to boil the kettle with the curly spout, the one we both liked and had bought in a junk shop. I made us some tea.

  If this all seems a trifle submissive for a hitherto sparky girl, a typical product of the twenty-first century and not the nineteenth, let me say something about confidence. Mine had taken a battering: first on losing Ben, and then, it seemed to me, losing everyone else. So many happily married. And I’d experienced quite a bit of loss in my life; didn’t want to experience any more. Which brings me to family. I didn’t have the backing of a big happy one to wade in and give advice, sit around k
itchen tables cradling mugs of tea before brandishing motherly or sisterly handbags if needs be. I had Dad. Who was lovely, but – well, a dad. And I’d never missed Mum so much. Never wished so much that I could talk to her, that she hadn’t died. Which perhaps explains why I’d flown to my best friend’s side. I’m not making excuses here – of course I should have been more punchy, answered back, told him to order the bloody carpet himself. I’m just outlining mitigating circumstances. I’d only been married a short while; I wanted to keep the peace. Wanted us to be happy. Didn’t want to throw saucepans at this stage.

  And after all, what would I do without Phil? Phil, who pitted his wits against the entire building industry, plumbers who plumbed in radiators upside down, tilers who used the wrong grouting, the distressed-pine kitchen fitter, who disappeared mid job, with four out of seven cupboards unfitted, and who, when we rang, leaving messages on his answerphone, seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Phil eventually tracked him down. His wife, it transpired, had had a miscarriage. But Phil had him back working in an instant, albeit looking as distressed as his cupboards, I thought, as I took him a cup of tea.

  ‘It’s the second baby they’ve lost in two years,’ I told Phil as I joined him in the garden, where he was tying up runner beans.

  ‘So I gather. But life goes on.’

  I shot him a look. ‘I hope you didn’t tell him that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be terribly tactful.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe not, but it does.’

  We continued to do the beans in silence.

  Teamwork, that was the key. And of course it would be an even stronger team when we were three. When we had a baby. Even I could spot the sink-estate mentality inherent in that notion, but it disappeared the moment I discovered conceiving wasn’t that easy; when nothing happened for a year or two, when we had something else to pit our wits against, another cause to campaign for, besides the house.

  Phil read books, went on the Internet, and declared that the first thing to do was to identify the culprit.

  ‘The culprit?’

  ‘Yes. See whose fault it is.’

  ‘Bit soon, isn’t it?’ I said doubtfully. ‘Shouldn’t we – you know – try for a bit longer first?’

  ‘What, and waste more time?’

  ‘Might be fun. I read somewhere that if you do it every night for a month you stand more chance of hitting the egg. Blanket bombing.’

  I smiled flirtatiously, but he’d already turned back to the computer. And within a twinkling, had made appointments for us both in Harley Street. Me to have my tubes blown, him to fill a test tube, assisted by a girly magazine. This fascinated me. Not that a smart Harley Street joint provided such a thing, but the idea of Phil looking at one. The results came back and we were both declared innocent, which I could tell surprised Phil.

  ‘Why, did you think you were firing blanks?’

  ‘Oh, no, I knew I’d be OK.’

  After that our marriage roared into action, with Phil at the helm, morphing swiftly from house restorer to infertility doctor. He knew the temperature of my body to within a whisker, knew when my ovaries were ripe and rumbling portentously, could pinpoint to the hour when conditions were ideal for copulation. He knew when I was hot, in the strictest, David Attenborough sense of the word. There was to be no blanket bombing, but once a month he’d ring me at work to tell me to hustle home sharpish and get my kit off, and if that sounds sexy, it wasn’t. Not when your husband is grimly plunging his testicles into freezing-cold water beforehand without cracking a joke – I tried one, about cold fish, and it didn’t go down very well – and not when I was instructed to lie doggo for at least an hour afterwards, the only laugh coming when I suggested he lie with me. Personally I wondered if the tight Lycra cycling suit he squeezed back into afterwards and wore ninety per cent of the time was helping matters, but since I was rapidly losing interest in the whole project, I decided not to mention it.

  Why was I losing interest? Why was I finally succumbing to what can only be described as torpor as I rumbled home every night on the train from the West End to what should have been my enviable country love nest? Because everyone has their saturation point. And happy as I wanted us to be, little by little, drip by drip, as the months, then the years ticked by, I was coming to the mind-numbing conclusion that I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

  My epiphany came as I was standing at the kitchen window one Thursday morning, on one of my precious days off from work, looking at the list of ‘Things to Do’ he’d left me, the last of which read: Have your hair cut.

  I reached for the phone to tell Jennie I needed a coffee, pronto, and also to tell her I was leaving him. Her answering machine was on. I knew she was in, though, because I’d seen her in the garden a few moments earlier. I was about to go round and tell her, when I stopped off in the downstairs loo, and saw the pregnancy test he’d left me. It was open, with a note propped on one of the sticks.

  Poppy – pee on this today. You’re day 14.

  I sighed but peed on it nevertheless, thinking it was the last thing I would ever do for him. Then I watched the blue line darken, and realized I was pregnant.

  As I slowly went back into the kitchen, the telephone rang.

  ‘Poppy? Did you ring?’

  ‘Hm? Oh. Yes, hi, Jennie.’

  ‘You OK? You sound a bit down.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine.’

  ‘D’you want to come round for a quick coffee? I’ve got literally twenty minutes before I pick Jamie up from school.’

  ‘Er, no. Better not. I’ve got the ironing to finish.’

  ‘This afternoon? Cup of tea?’

  ‘Actually, Jennie, I think I’m going to have my hair cut.’

  3

  The funeral took place a week later and was indeed dreadful. Much worse than I’d imagined or even Jennie had prophesied, but perhaps for different reasons. The brightness of the day and the pure blue sky didn’t help, adding poignancy somehow, throwing the occasion into relief. Ancient yews cast long dramatic shadows across the churchyard and villagers were silhouetted starkly as they left their cottages, one by one or in hushed groups, following the haunting relentless toll of the bell, wreaths in hand ready to lay at the church door. Inside a sorrowful aroma of dank stone, polish and candle wax prevailed. Our tiny church was full, as Jennie had also grimly predicted, the respectful silence broken only by the odd hushed whisper or rustle of skirts as people took their seats, casting me sympathetic glances the while as I swallowed hard in the front pew, biting my lip. One week on and I felt utterly drained and exhausted. A small part of me was relieved at that. How awful would it have been to stand here at my husband’s funeral singing ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ and not to have a lump in my throat? Not to have to count to ten and dig my nails hard in my hand as the organ struck a mournful chord, everyone got to their feet, and the coffin processed up the aisle?

  Three of Phil’s cycling cronies were pall-bearers: tall, skinny and anaemic-looking to a man. Each what my dad would call a long streak of piss. The fourth was my father himself, who’s tiny, so that the coffin, I realized in horror, leaned precariously his way. And his shoulders sloped at the best of times. The congregation collectively held its breath as the coffin made its way, at quite an alarming angle, to the front, Dad’s knees seeming to buckle under the strain with every step. The cyclists had to stop more than once to let him get more of a grip, but finally the altar was achieved. I shut my eyes as the coffin was lowered. There was, admittedly, a bit of a clatter and a muffled ‘Fuck’ from Dad, but I think only I heard. My father glanced round as he straightened up, unable to resist making eye contact, to suggest he’d done really rather well, under the circumstances.

  I gave a small smile back as he puffed out his chest and stood respectfully a moment, head bowed over the coffin. The other pall-bearers had dispersed. That’ll do, Dad, I thought nervously, as the seconds ticked by. My father may be small, five foot sev
en in his socks, but he’s frightfully important-looking, as small men often are. In his youth, when he hadn’t been riding point-to-pointers or driving all over the country to do so, he’d done a lot of am-dram, and something in his manner suggested there was still a chance he’d sweep a cloak over his shoulder, hold Yorick’s skull aloft and proclaim to the gallery. When he’d milked his moment for all it was worth he turned on his heel and came, head bowed, to sit beside me, clearly relishing this particular performance.

  The vicar meanwhile, after we’d sung the first hymn, manfully launched into the eulogy. Manfully because he’d never met Phil, so he was really quite at sea. I’d decided to leave it to him, though, despite his anxious ‘Really, Mrs Shilling? Sure there’s no one else?’ ‘Quite sure.’ And now he was telling us what a helluva guy Phil was, what a pillar of the community, what a loss to the village. All nonsense, of course, because Phil had never been involved in village life; had indeed never been inside this church before now, except to get married. But then the vicar said what a marvellous father he’d been and what a loss to the children, and that’s when I welled up. He hadn’t been marvellous, but any father is a loss. You only get one, and my children would never have another Christmas with him, another holiday with him, not that they’d necessarily want to cycle through the Pyrenees being yelled at constantly to keep up, or … OK, he’d never make speeches at their eighteenths, twenty-firsts, that sort of thing. Actually Phil had only ever made one speech to my knowledge, a best-man’s speech for a cycling crony, which had gone on for forty-six minutes, and been so turgidly dull that eventually, when everyone began coughing and nipping to the loo or the bar, the bride’s father, a bluff Yorkshireman, had got to his feet and said firmly: ‘That’ll do, laddie.’ I couldn’t have put it better myself.

  I sighed. Still. My poor babies. Clemmie, in particular. Archie, at twenty months, was too young to understand, but Clemmie had listened soberly when I’d told her the bad news the following morning, sitting her down before nursery school, explaining carefully exactly what had happened. Her brown eyes had grown huge in her pale little face, knowing, by the tone of my voice, rather than the content, that this was bad.