A Crowded Marriage (12 page)

“Yeah, I suppose, but the fing is it would take too long for me to do it now.”

“So what are you going to do instead?”

“I'm gonna be a beautician. Gonna go to college an' that. And I'm still helping people, aren't I? I reckon it's still health care?”

“Oh, very definitely,” Mum purred. “In fact the girl who does my nails wears a white coat, which says a lot, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” Dawn brightened. “Yeah, it does.”

“I'd hazard you could even have a watch too.”

“Watch?”

“Yes, you know, hanging out of your top pocket.”

“Oh. Yeah!” Dawn looked enchanted and Mum winked at me but I ignored her, uncomfortable. When her sarcasm had been directed at Marjorie, an aspiring interior designer whose only work experience had been tarting up her own home in Fulham at vast expense in Colefax and Fowler, Hannah and I had chortled along with her, but Dawn was a bit of a soft target. I turned to the mother.

“That'll be handy then,” I smiled. “Having a beautician in the family.”

Even as I said it, I knew it was a mistake. She retreated back into her many chins and regarded me blankly. “I mean,” I stumbled on, “for leg waxes and things.”

“Mum doesn't really go in for that sort of fing,” said Dawn.

My own mother was trying to catch my eye, and I just knew she was trying to direct my gaze to the luxuriant growth sprouting beneath Purple Coat's fifty deniers. Luckily Dad came back with the crisps.

“That's what I like to see,” he said, tossing them on the table and rubbing his hands together as he sat down, “all my family around the same table together—marvellous. Cheers! God bless us all.” He raised his pint and beamed around, and actually, you couldn't help but smile back.

“Cheers, Dad.”

Yes, as dysfunctional families go, I thought as I sipped my lager, ours didn't do badly. All thanks to Mum, of course, who kept us steadfastly together, and actually, who could blame her her occasional digs at Dawn when she managed to put her feelings aside to ensure her family always spent the odd weekend and Christmas and Easter together? But then, as Hannah had once remarked, it was precisely
because
she had no feelings for Dad that she was able to do it. She'd moved on, she didn't love him any more, and although I sometimes wished there could be someone in her life, she didn't appear to need anyone. In fact, when I'd tentatively raised the subject, she'd shuddered.

“What, go back to running around after a man again? All that cooking and socialising and wondering if we owe the Fergusons—no, thank you. I'm much too selfish, darling.”

She wasn't, actually; she was generous to a fault, but she'd learned how to look after number one. Life was on her terms now, and she was comfortable with it.

“Have you seen Dad's shoes?” Hannah murmured in my ear.

I nodded. The white Gucci loafers with elaborate tassels hadn't escaped me.

“And the black leather jacket,” I muttered back.

“Well, what do you expect from a middle-aged man with a twenty-six-year-old girlfriend?”

“Twenty-six!”

“Apparently. One of the mothers at school told me. She knew Dawn when she was…oh God, he's not.”

“Not what?”

Hannah swung round. I followed her eyes. Dad and Dawn had got up from the table, and Dawn, her arm linked through Dad's, was leading him away conspiratorially, up the garden path.

“They have karaoke hour at lunch time sometimes in this pub, and I've got an awful feeling that's why they wanted to—”

“Oi, listen, you lot.” Dawn turned back importantly. “Martin's gonna sing ‘Love Me Tender' in the saloon bar if you wanna watch, and I'm doin' ‘Stand by Your Man'!”

Mum's face was a picture. “Wouldn't miss it for the world,” she breathed, stubbing out her cigarette and getting hastily to her feet. Dad and Dawn were already halfway up the garden now, Dad's head thrown right back, his hand trailing behind his tight-bottomed jeans as he minced away in a rather camp fashion.

“Mum,” Hannah shot out a restraining hand and grabbed her arm. “He makes a complete tit of himself,” she hissed. “Our neighbour was in here the other day and saw him do it, and Dawn's tone deaf.”

“
Is
she?” Mum's eyes widened. “Oh, what heaven. Come on, Rufus, quick, before we miss it.”

“Mum, d'you really think Rufus should—” But he'd scampered off before I could even finish, without giving me a backward look.

“Consider it part of his education,” said Hannah, drily. “The first time he saw his grandfather on stage. A defining moment.” She got up.

“You're not going too?” I said, appalled.

“No, I'm all through with being defined by Dad. More prosaically, I need a pee.”

She squeezed with difficulty between the bench and the table and made her way heavily up the garden path. Eddie and I watched her go.

“Eddie…”

“Yes, I know,” he said quickly. “She's put on weight.”

“
Lots
of weight, Eddie,” I turned to face him. “Why?”

He shrugged miserably. “I don't know. She just doesn't seem to be able to stop eating, and when I ask her if she's unhappy, she snaps—no, just hungry. She's touchy about it, Imogen. I can't talk to her any more.”

“What—about anything?”

He hesitated. “This weight thing
is
everything, as far as she's concerned. And I know she's eating for a reason, but…” he trailed off miserably.

“But the two of you are fine? I mean, as a couple?”

“Oh, yes, couldn't be happier. It's just,” he hesitated. “Well, I know she feels there's something missing.”

“Eddie…” I licked my lips. “Have you thought of adopting?”

He looked at me. “We went down that route a year ago.”

“Did you?” I was astonished.

“Yes, didn't she tell you?”

“No. She didn't.” I felt hurt.

He shrugged. “She didn't want to tell anyone at the time in case people got their hopes up for us. And then—well, then when we got turned down, she didn't really want to talk about it.”

I swallowed. “Why did they…?”

“Turn us down? Oh, you know. Our combined ages, the state of the house, Hannah apparently being medically obese, that kind of thing. It was all there in a charming letter sent back from the authorities.” He sighed. “No. Evidently only young, slim, tidy couples can adopt babies, no matter how much love you've got inside to give. It's the outside that counts.”

I was silent. She'd gone down that route and been rejected. I couldn't even begin to imagine how that must hurt.

Eddie shifted in his seat, a regrouping gesture. “But as I say, that was a year ago. She's over the disappointment now, and we've accepted it. It was our last hope, and now that it's gone we've got some sort of closure. The baby business is over as far as we're concerned. We'll never have them. Or she'll never have them. And that's the problem, Imo. As a man, I can sort of accept it. But I know she feels unfulfilled.”

“But having children isn't everything. I mean—she has such a full life! She's a wonderful teacher, all her kids adore her, and all that Sea Scouts and Brownies and youth club and everything—she never stops. And at home, always baking and cooking and—”

“But that's just it. She never stops. Never stops to pause for thought. It's almost as if she daren't, because the sadness would overwhelm her. She's got to be busy.”

I swallowed. “She's grieving, Eddie. It's a phase, but she has to go through it. It'll pass.”

“I know.” He nodded sadly. We were silent for a moment. Then he straightened up beside me on the bench. “I thought we might get a cat.”

“Oh!”

“You don't think that's a good idea?” He looked at me anxiously.

“No, it might be. It's just the way you said it. Like—instead of.”

He shrugged. “Well, in a way it would be. And I'd prefer a dog, but what with both of us working…I thought Rufus would like a kitten too.”

I smiled. It was typical of Eddie to think of Rufus. “He'd love it,” I said warmly.

He nodded, pleased.

“Come on,” I said, before his mood could dampen again. I got to my feet and pulled him up with me. “We're missing the cabaret.”

***

Inside, the pub was heaving. Even in the garden we could hear the music from
Grease
being belted out of a sound system with a throbbing bass, and as I walked down the passage towards the saloon bar I recognised my father's tones booming out “You're the One That I Want!” at full volume. It was still something of a shock, however, when I pushed through the smoky glass door.

Up on a makeshift stage at the far end of the room, my father, aka John Travolta, was on his knees and leaning back, the collar of his leather jacket turned up, as Dawn, aka Olivia Newton-John, stood astride him, hands on hips as she ooh, ooh, ooh, honeyed, down. The room was full of people urging them on with my mother and Rufus at the front, convulsed with laughter. Hannah appeared at my elbow from the Ladies, looking horrified.

“This is practically my local,” she yelled in my ear. “What is he
thinking
of?”

“Well, it's my local too now, so let's get him off after this.”

The song ended on a rousing note and Dawn leaped into Dad's arms with a flourish as they took their applause. Dawn was helped off the stage by admiring hands, but as Dad was about to step down too, the opening chords of “Brown Sugar” struck up. His face registered a flash of recognition and in another moment, he'd resisted Eddie's outstretched hand of help and scrambled back on stage. Suddenly his leather jacket was shrugged halfway down his back, his pert bottom thrust out, lips pursed like a gorilla—and he'd morphed into Mick Jagger, strutting about and punching the air aggressively.

Hannah moaned low. “Tell me it's a bad dream.”

“I wish.”

“Someone pull the plug!” she wailed. But Dad was unstoppable. The crowd loved him and wouldn't let him go, clapping along, joining in the chorus, and breaking into raucous applause at the end, yelling, “More—
more
!”—Mum and Rufus the most vocal. Mum even put two fingers in her mouth and executed a wolf whistle. By now, Dad was on a roll, but as the opening chords of “Satisfaction” struck up and he strutted about complaining he couldn't get no—
no no no!
Hannah and I looked at each another determinedly. As one, we hustled to the front, elbowing our way forwards. We saw “Satisfaction” through to the bitter end, but before the mournful opening chords of “Angie” had even struck up—we seemed to be stuck in something of a Rolling Stones medley here—we'd formed a pincer movement, and like a couple of bouncers, had bustled on to the stage and hustled him bodily off the other side, Hannah taking his microphone away as if he were a naughty child.

“But I was going to do ‘Don't Go Breaking My Heart' next,” Dad complained.

“You'd have broken mine if you had,” Hannah said crisply as we marched him out.

“We do that as a duet,” Dawn informed us, tottering after us in her high heels. “Goes down a storm.”

“I think let the others have a chance, hmm?” I cajoled with a sweet smile, wondering exactly who the parent was here as Dad sulked all the way back to the table in the garden, slumping down on the bench with crossed arms.

Mum and Rufus followed us, Mum sinking weakly into her chair, mascara streaked down her face where she'd cried with laughter, Rufus still giggling uncontrollably.

“Did you enjoy that, lad?” Dad ruffled his hair, perking up a bit.

“You were awesome, Grandpa,” Rufus assured him, hiccuping.

Dad beamed. “It's all in the timing, lad, you see. All in the timing. Now, another drink? Do the honours, Eddie, there's a good chap.” He put an arm round Dawn's waist and pulled her towards him on the bench crooning “Don't Go Breaking My Heart” into her ear whilst taking little pecks at her shoulder.

“No, thanks, Dad,” said Hannah firmly as she and I gathered up coats and bags and put the glasses back on the tray. “I think we'll get off home. I've got some cakes in the oven.” We glanced around, keen to go, but there was no sign of Dawn's mother.

“Perhaps she went back inside and we missed her? I'll go in and take a look,” suggested Mum, and I blessed her for that. Whatever she might think of Dad's domestic arrangements, she was too well-mannered just to slip away and tell Dad to say good-bye for us. When she reappeared two minutes later, her eyes were like dinner plates.

“Come and look at this!” she urged from the pub doorway.

We dutifully hastened back, and when she'd ushered us excitedly down the passage and back into the smoky saloon bar, our jaws dropped. There, on stage, in a red spangly dress that had clearly been under the coat the whole time, was Dawn's mum, standing under a spotlight, singing Barbra Streisand's “Evergreen.” Our jaws slackened even further as we listened, spellbound, to the tones of pure gold that rang out. The whole bar stood in awe-struck silence, and when she'd finished and the final wistful note drifted beautifully away over our heads, there was a moment's silence—then everyone broke into spontaneous and enthusiastic applause. Dawn beamed and clapped the hardest.

“She used to be an opera singer,” she shouted over the din, “but she gave it all up after she had me. Good, i'nt she?”

We all agreed that she certainly was, and as I said to Rufus on the way home later that afternoon, it just went to show that you should never judge a book by its cover.

“Or even,” he added sagely, “by its purple coat.”

When Rufus and I got back to the cottage there was a reception committee waiting for us. The chickens, seeing our car draw up, left whatever they'd been pecking in the yard, and rushed up in an enthusiastic gang. Rufus and I peered from the car windows in alarm.

“Why do they do that?” Rufus whispered.

“They're just…terribly tame, darling. They've come to greet us.”

“Oh. I don't really like it when they chase me, though, Mum. Can I have a piggyback?”

I swallowed, looking at the squawking, clucking squad that had surrounded the car with their fierce, beady eyes. I'd quite like a piggyback myself.

“Right. Climb on my back then.” He clambered across the front seat and put his arms round my neck as I opened the driver's door. Gingerly I put one foot out. “Off we…go!”

With Rufus bouncing around on my back I sprinted across the yard and up the front path as fast as I could. Chickens can run jolly fast, though, and as I ferreted feverishly in my bag for my key, they swarmed around my legs, pushing and shoving. Hadn't they got a coop to go to, I thought in panic as feathers and—ugh—
beaks—
brushed my legs. I was all for free range, but they'd be in the house soon if—“Oi!” One large mother-clucker put her head down and steamed through the gap before I could stop her.

“No! Out!” I grabbed a cushion from a chair and shooed her out as Rufus hid behind the door. When she'd gone, we clutched each other.

“I don't like that, Mummy. I don't like that they're so tame they want to come in.”

“No, I'm not wild about it either,” I admitted. “They'll be sitting up in bed with us soon.” I dropped the cushion and gazed around. “Oh, but, Rufus, look at
this
!”

“Cool,” he agreed.

Vera and her team had worked wonders. The wooden floorboards shone like a ship's deck, and bright, jewel-coloured rugs had been put down to cover the knotty bits. The windows gleamed, and through them, the fields, green and pleasant, shone back. The few sticks of furniture we'd originally been allocated had been replaced with basic, but much more comfortable sofas and chairs in a cheerful floral pattern. Pretty green checked curtains hung at the windows, and upstairs, all our linen had been unpacked, the beds made, and our clothes hung up in wardrobes. “Golly,” I spun around in wonder as I came back down. “Mary Poppins has been in.”

Rufus's eyes were huge. “
Has
she?”

I laughed. “No, but you'd think so, wouldn't you? And look at this.” A huge bunch of flowers sat in a blue and white striped jug on the kitchen table, and next to it, a bowl of fruit with a note. I picked it up.

Dear Imogen,

There's milk and eggs in the fridge and a pile of logs outside should you need a fire. The chimney's been swept so it
should
work! Hope everything is OK.
So
sorry you saw it in such a state yesterday.

Love, Eleanor

“How kind,” I murmured. “She must have brought the fruit and flowers down herself.”

“It does look amazing, doesn't it, Mummy?” said Rufus anxiously, jumping on a sofa and bouncing. I could tell he wanted me to be pleased, not the complaining, carping mother of yesterday. “It's very kind of Eleanor and Piers, isn't it?”

“Very,” I smiled. “And it looks fantastic. And actually, Rufus, I think we're going to have a lovely time here.”

“But where will you paint?” His brow puckered up as he stopped bouncing. “You haven't got a room like you had at home.”

“Well, I can paint in here.” I sat down at the little table under the window. “Not oils—too smelly and messy—but I can do watercolours. You know, try some book illustrations, like I've always meant to do. I'll get a sketch pad.”

“Yes, and draw the lambs and stuff! Look, you can see them from the window.”

I smiled. So I could. And I liked the sheep. They dotted the green hillside attractively, like bits of cotton wool; all sort of pastoral and calming. They kept their distance too. If only the cows could be encouraged to do the same, but the cows were lining up even now in a rather alarming manner at the gate, mooing horribly. Were they supposed to do that? All day? They'd been doing it when we'd left this morning—surely they'd need to do some grazing now and again, stop shouting at me? They didn't seem to have grasped the concept of personal space.

I moved around the cottage, familiarising myself with it, opening cupboards, marvelling at all our china stacked neatly on shelves, all the cutlery in drawers. They'd even put our crystal glasses in a hanging corner cupboard in the sitting room. I was touched. And all under Eleanor's instruction, no doubt. I wondered, rather guiltily, if I'd got it all wrong. If she really did just want to help, and for us to be happy? I remembered her worried face and twisting hands this morning—“I would so love us to be friends”—and how I'd snubbed her. I went upstairs. From the landing window I could see that the grass around the cottage had been mown, and that the manure heap in the yard had miraculously relocated to a corner of a far field. In Rufus's room, all his soldiers were lined up on shelves in his bedroom, his slippers under his bed. Part of me wondered if I'd have liked to have done that, but most of me was jolly grateful. On an impulse, I went back down and picked up the phone. Eleanor had thoughtfully put a list of numbers by it—her own private line, the doctor, farmer, vet—and I dialled her number.

“Hello?”

“Eleanor, it's Imogen. Listen, thank you so much. We've just got back here and I can't tell you how pretty the cottage looks. Vera and her girls have done a brilliant job.”

“You like it?” I could almost feel her flush with pleasure at the other end. “Oh, Imogen, I'm
so
pleased. I was a bit worried you'd think they'd gone too far, unpacking all your stuff, but otherwise you'd have come in to piles of suitcases and—”

“It's perfect,” I said, cutting her short. “Honestly, Eleanor, you've saved me a backbreaking day tomorrow. The whole place looks fab, and wonderful views now that you can see them!”

She laughed. “Apparently they had to hose the windows down, they were so filthy. Oh, good, I'm so glad you're pleased. I took the liberty of choosing the sofas for you from Piers's mother's barn—it was much the best stuff—and if you want to light a fire—”

“The logs are out the back. I saw your note. And thank you for the fruit and flowers.”

“My pleasure,” she said happily. “I was wondering if you'd like a kitchen supper with us tonight? Only yesterday was a bit like Piccadilly Circus here; we hardly got to speak to you.”

I hesitated. I quite wanted a quiet supper down here on our first night, but didn't want to appear rude. “That's really kind. Tell you what, can I ask Alex when he comes in? I'm not sure how bushed he'll be after the commute. I'll give you a ring later, if I may?”

“Oh, but he's here now. I'll ask him, shall I?”

I paused. “Sorry?”

“Yes, he's around somewhere, hang on—ALEX!” she called.

My heart began to pound. He'd gone straight to her house on returning from work? Hadn't even bothered to come to the cottage first? Was this to be a pattern? He came on the line.

“Hello, darling, had a good day?”

“Alex, what are you doing there?”

“What d'you mean, what am I doing here?”

“Well, why didn't you come back here from work?”

“Oh, I haven't been to work, darling.”

“What?”

“No, I didn't go in the end, because by the time Piers and I got back from walking around the farm, it was nearly midday. Simply wasn't worth it. Piers had a meeting to go to, but Eleanor and I went to a really nice bistro in town. Apparently you were invited.”

I couldn't speak I was so angry.

“Why didn't you come and have lunch with Hannah and Eddie?” I hissed eventually. “With us!”

“I tried,” he said patiently, “but there was no answer from their house, and your phone was switched off.”

“You could have tried the pub! You might have known we were in the pub!”

“I did, actually. Eleanor and I stopped at that pretty whitewashed one with the hanging baskets, but there was no sign. I'm sorry, darling. I did my best.”

I had to sit down I was so furious. I massaged my brow feverishly with my fingertips. Shut my eyes tight. “Right,” I said quietly. “Right. OK. Fine. You're coming home now, I take it?”

“Well, Eleanor's asked us for kitchen supps. They've got a brace of pheasants from the freezer so—”

“COME HOME NOW AND FUCK THE PHEASANT!”

There was a long silence.

“Right,” he said eventually. “I won't do the latter, if it's all the same to you, but I'll be back shortly.”

The line went dead. I sank back in the kitchen chair, arms hanging limply, the phone dangling in my hand. I'd behaved like a crazy woman. A mad, unhinged, deranged woman. And I imagined the scene unfolding now, in the Latimers' kitchen: Eleanor, wide-eyed, whilst Alex, replacing the receiver carefully, explained that I was a bit…overwrought. A bit tired, perhaps, from the move. It had been a trying time, and—and maybe we'd have a quiet night in. Eleanor would be nodding, pretending to understand, making sympathetic noises about how she'd feel just the same, about how stressful moving was, or—or maybe, I thought suddenly, they'd just smile secretly at each other. Shrug, as in, oh, well, at least she's getting the message, before falling into each other's arms and kissing the life out of each other, his hand shooting up her skirt. My hands flew to my mouth. My lips felt very dry. Was I going mad? Were they deliberately sending me mad, were they having a steaming, torrid affair, or was it all in my mind? Was this an Othello-Desdemona-type thing, this jealousy of mine, all of my making? I tried to remember the play from school. There hadn't been anything in it in the end, had there? And didn't he end up killing her, or something? Oh God. I moaned and lowered my forehead slowly to the table. Had I overreacted, as usual? I eyeballed the pine. Yes, of course I had. I'd behaved appallingly. She was an old family friend, who was simply trying to help us through a financial hiccup, and here I was, behaving like a…like a…

I was aware of a rustle behind me. I turned. A little white face was watching me through the banisters.

“Are you all right, Mummy?”

“Yes, love. I'm fine.”

“Is…Daddy coming home?”

“Yes. Yes, he is. Very soon.”

Rufus nodded and crept back upstairs.

I rubbed my forehead again, ferociously, with my fingertips. This was not good. Not good for Rufus. Not good at all. I got up and walked to the window, arms wrapped tightly around me.

And anyway, I thought staring out, aware that I was trembling slightly, what if I did ask him if there was anything going on and he said—yes? Yes, there is. I am. What then? Would I leave him? Would I walk out? My breathing became shallower. In my darkest moments I'd asked myself that question before, and the awful truth was, I knew I wouldn't. Knew that deep in the craven depths of my soul, the answer was no. I loved him too much. I'd never leave him. I stared into the empty fire grate.

Ten minutes later the front door slammed. Alex strode in, his face suffused with barely controlled rage. A muscle was going in his cheek.

“This is how you repay them.” He swept his hand around the room, his voice trembling. “For all this. This cottage, this hospitality, this—this
kind
ness, which they don't have to do, but have done, out of the goodness of their hearts—this, this rudeness! This jealousy!
This
is how you thank them!”

I hung my head. “I'm sorry,” I whispered.

“I had to make something up. Tell them you were ill, that the move had been too traumatic for you, that you missed your friends—anything. They both heard you screaming on the other end of the phone—thought you were barking!”

“Piers was there too?”

“Yes, of course he was, jointing the bloody pheasants!”

Right. So he hadn't been exchanging secret smiles with Eleanor and gathering her into his arms when he'd put the phone down.

“I'll apologise,” I promised. “Tomorrow. I'll go and see them, tell them I was overtired.”

“Yes, well, don't make a meal of it,” he snapped, raking his hands through his hair as he went to the window. “Forget it now. But just…get a grip, Imo, OK?” He swung round, looked at me pleadingly. Desperately, almost.

“OK.” I nodded, knowing I was about to cry.

I gazed dumbly at him, not trusting myself to speak, and after a moment, his face changed. His anger seemed to dissipate and he just looked tired. Defeated. His shoulders sagged. I took a step, uncertainly. He opened his arms and I walked into them. Clung on.

“I love you, Imo, you know that, don't you?” he whispered.

I nodded, tears streaming down my face as I gazed into his blue jumper. “I love you too.”

***

The following morning, when Alex had gone to work, I rang Kate.

“Oh, hello, stranger!” I laughed. “Don't be ridiculous, I've only been gone a day. Anyway, I rang you yesterday and you weren't there.”

“Out at a rehearsal, probably. Busying myself, you see, trying not to notice my mate across the road has gone and that some strange people are moving into her house.”

“Already? Golly, how weird.”

I didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to imagine them in my house, moving round my blue and white kitchen, touching the slate work surfaces, admiring the pretty, Provençal tiles, realising the cutlery drawer stuck and the blind over the sink didn't work. But actually, how much worse for Kate, who was watching it all. At least I couldn't see them and had other distractions.