An Unsuitable Marriage

by Colette Dartford

  After serving as his diligent deputy, everyone expected Sheila Fitzwilliam to step up as head, but the governors wanted a man. They still thought of St Bede’s as a boys’ school, even though girls had been admitted several years before. True, boys were still in the majority but did that mean there couldn’t be a female head? Unofficially, yes, it did. Sheila was spirited away into early retirement and then Martin Rutherford appeared. Much younger than Teddy – mid-forties perhaps – the general consensus was that he lacked his predecessor’s charm and charisma. Olivia felt sorry for anyone who had to step into Teddy Clarke-Bowen’s shoes.

  Olivia and Geoffrey’s first encounter with Martin had been at the end of school year celebrations: Sports Day, Speech Day, Leavers’ Tea. He smiled patiently as he shook hands with the throng of curious parents, introduced himself to each set individually, enquired after their child’s name and year. She overheard someone asking about his wife, and his reply that she and his daughters were looking forward to joining him in September. Olivia certainly hadn’t imagined she would be living at St Bede’s by then and on her way to have supper with them.

  Alice and Maisie must have been keeping watch because the front door swung open just as Olivia arrived.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Parry,’ they chimed in unison.

  Their first few weeks in Olivia’s dorm, she struggled to tell them apart. Both were long-limbed and fair-skinned, their eyes an extraordinary limpid blue. But as she got to know them better she realised that though Maisie was a year younger than her sister, she was more confident, more inclined to push her chin up when she spoke, tilt her head to one side when she listened. Alice lowered her eyes when asked a question and answered in a whispery voice that you had to strain to hear.

  ‘Can I take your coat?’ asked Maisie with a toothy grin. Her new front teeth seemed too big for her mouth.

  Olivia slipped off her full-length shearling and handed it to her. ‘Thank you, Maisie,’ she said in her jolly, St Bede’s voice, and to Alice, ‘Are you looking forward to going back to school tomorrow?’

  Alice stared at her shoes and nodded.

  Ruth trundled down the stairs, damp hair loose around her shoulders, not a trace of make-up. The tracksuit and bare feet were rather more casual than Olivia had expected. When their paths crossed at school, Ruth looked considerably more polished.

  ‘Olivia,’ she said, air-kissing her on each cheek, ‘so nice to see you not up to your elbows in boarders. Martin’s in the kitchen.’ She led the way. ‘I left him in charge of proceedings while I took a quick shower.’

  Martin was stooped over the sink, draining spaghetti into a colander. Olivia had never seen him in casual clothes: beige cords, checked shirt, navy jumper. On his feet he wore brown moccasins that could have been either shoes or slippers. As always, his trousers were an inch or so too short and, as always, he sported a pair of brightly coloured socks – on this occasion, red with yellow spots. A constant source of speculation in the staffroom, the consensus was that his quirky socks represented eccentricity, rebellion, an unlikely hint of zaniness lurking beneath the staid suits and conservative ties.

  Ruth poured a glass of red wine and handed it to Olivia. There was another one on the table, almost empty.

  ‘We started without you,’ said Ruth, picking up the glass. She drained it in one gulp and pulled out a chair for Olivia.

  ‘Top me up, would you?’ she said to Martin.

  The bottle was right in front of her. Heat tinged Martin’s sallow complexion. He seemed to be weighing up his options before he responded. ‘I’ll leave it here, shall I?’ he said, moving the bottle an inch closer to Ruth.

  Their eyes met for a moment before she refilled her glass and sat down, gesturing to Olivia to do the same. She looked in Martin’s direction, her offer of help batted away by Ruth.

  ‘Sit, sit.’ She sounded like Rowena commanding Rollo and Dice.

  ‘Have the girls washed their hands?’ Martin asked Ruth.

  ‘Have you washed your hands, girls?’ Ruth asked Alice and Maisie.

  A quick glance at each other and they ran off to the bathroom.

  ‘Thank you so much for inviting me,’ said Olivia.

  Ruth shot Martin a censorious look that Olivia pretended not to see, and she thought of lunch at the Rectory, the first day of half-term. She sipped her wine in silence as Martin seasoned the bolognese sauce. Ruth rummaged noisily in the cutlery draw and dropped a scatter of knives, forks and spoons on the table. The tension only dissipated when the girls reappeared, Maisie chatting excitedly about a trip they had taken to Weston-super-Mare and how Alice had cried when a dog barked at her.

  ‘Now, now,’ said Martin gently. ‘Don’t be unkind to your sister, Maisie.’

  ‘It’s not unkind if it’s true, is it, Mummy?’

  Ruth was too preoccupied spooning out spaghetti bolognese to bother with a reply. She spilled a splodge of sauce on the tablecloth and rubbed it aggressively with a napkin.

  ‘Darling, I think you might be making it worse,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’

  ‘It was a big dog, wasn’t it, Mummy?’ said Alice shyly.

  Ruth didn’t seem to register any of this.

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Parry doesn’t want to hear about the dog,’ said Martin, dabbing ineffectually at the spreading stain. ‘Now, who would like to say grace? Olivia?’

  Even at the Rectory they didn’t say grace, but Olivia put her hands together and closed her eyes. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

  On opening her eyes, Olivia caught Ruth refilling her glass, clearly thankful for the wine, at least.

  It was a very British evening. Olivia and Martin chatted politely, skilfully avoiding any acknowledgement that Ruth was drunk. They regarded her as one might a difficult relative – talked about nothing more controversial than the weather, school news, parish business. Ruth sat heavy-lidded with boredom, her meal hardly touched, the wine bottle now conspicuously empty. Olivia wondered how much Ruth had had to drink before she arrived. Maybe Martin had suggested a shower in the hope she might sober up.

  The girls seemed oblivious, happily twirling spaghetti round their forks, implying that this somewhat disturbing family scene was not at all unfamiliar to them. Olivia recalled one of her first nights as a houseparent, going from bed to bed saying goodnight and God bless. When she had reached Alice’s bed, she found her curled up, crying softly into her teddy. Olivia hesitated. Matron had warned her about homesickness, especially among the younger girls. Olivia remembered how homesick she herself had been when she first moved from her parents’ house in Reading to live in Compton Cross with Geoffrey. How much worse must it be for such a young child? After a moment Olivia had asked Alice why she was sad. At first she said nothing, just sniffed and sucked her thumb. Olivia had been about to walk away when Alice rolled on to her back and looked straight up at her. I don’t like it when Mummy shouts.

  Ice cream followed the pasta, with a cheese option for the adults. Olivia declined both, explaining she wasn’t quite ready for tomorrow’s influx of boarders and still had a bit to do. She offered to help clear up but Martin wouldn’t hear of it. Ruth’s ambivalence suggested no strong feelings either way. Martin rummaged around under the sink for a torch and insisted he walk Olivia back to school.

  The fog had become dense and eerie, giving Martin and Olivia further scope on the safe topic of weather. It wasn’t until they reached the quad, and Olivia thanked him one last time for supper, that he dropped the pretence. The way he looked down as he spoke reminded Olivia of Alice.

  ‘I’m sorry about Ruth.’

  ‘Please, you don’t need to—’

  ‘It’s been difficult.’ His long, laden sigh hinted at troubles too private to share. ‘Ruth’s finding it difficult.’

  Olivia didn’t know what to say. They weren’t equals, strictly speaking. Martin was her boss. Anything she said, however well intentioned, could be held against her. Never get invol
ved in other people’s marriages – her mother’s advice, religiously adhered to.

  ‘Don’t give it a second thought,’ was the best she could come up with, but hated to end the evening on the subject of marital discord. ‘The girls are delightful – a credit to you both.’

  Martin looked relieved at the implied promise of her discretion. ‘You’re very kind,’ he said, nodding to underscore the point, and despite her own marital discord, Olivia couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity.

  She made her way into the main building and up the stairs to her quarters, weary but grateful for a bit of time to herself. After a quick wash she got into bed wearing her fleecy winter dressing gown and a thick pair of socks. She tried to read but found herself drifting off and without Geoffrey’s lugubrious presence, Olivia managed a surprisingly good night’s sleep.

  She rose early and went for a brisk run round the grounds. What a contrast to the Reading comprehensive she had attended: grey concrete playground, intersecting white lines for netball, football and hockey; all very confusing. Shared playing fields were over a mile away and littered with dog mess. She still recalled the misery of those long, rain-soaked trudges and then, when she was older, the usual excuses to avoid games altogether. Shame really. Olivia had been good at games.

  A circuit of the cricket pitch and rugby field, twice along the driveway, then she was done. She stretched out before a quick shower – hot as she could stand – and felt ready for the day ahead.

  *

  The dorm hummed with returning boarders and their families. Parents greeted Olivia warmly, their daughters polite but apprehensive until they spotted their friends and then skipped off, chatting excitedly, the way children do.

  Ruth Rutherford arrived late with Alice and Maisie, hair tied back in a neat ponytail, make-up discreet but effective, casually smart in a crisp white shirt and black jeans. If she had a hangover, it didn’t show. She greeted Olivia with a peck on both cheeks and set about making up the girls’ beds. Olivia felt she should thank her for supper but wasn’t sure she would want to be reminded of it. She was mulling it over when Ruth jumped in.

  ‘Sorry about last night.’

  OK, they were going to talk about it; clear the air. Having endured years of Rowena’s carefully camouflaged put-downs, Olivia welcomed the candour.

  ‘Martin can be such a bore,’ said Ruth, rolling her eyes. ‘Going on and on like that.’ She grabbed Alice’s duvet and gave it a good shake. ‘He means well,’ Ruth concluded, now making hospital corners with Alice’s pink and yellow striped sheet. For a second Olivia was stumped.

  ‘I had a lovely evening,’ she said pleasantly, once she had regrouped. ‘It was kind of you to invite me.’

  Ruth waved a dismissive hand. ‘Come on, girls,’ she said, tossing their bags on their beds. ‘Let’s get you unpacked.’

  Maisie and Alice meekly complied, Ruth assuming a supervisory capacity rather than actually helping them. One by one the other mothers approached her, eager to befriend the headmaster’s wife. Before long Ruth was completely surrounded, the main topic of conversation the Alpha meetings she was supposed to host but which were yet to materialise. Next week, she promised. I’ll get the school secretary to email the details. Her foot tapped impatiently as she fielded the host of questions being thrown at her, but her smile never faltered. Olivia was helping one of the older girls with her trunk when some latecomers arrived with animated accounts of roadworks and endless motorway tailbacks.

  ‘Are you lost?’ said Ruth, and Olivia turned to see Geoffrey loitering by the door wearing his charm-offensive smile.

  ‘Geoffrey Parry – Olivia’s husband.’ He toned down the smile when he looked at Olivia. ‘Just dropped Edward off. Thought I’d come and say hello.’

  ‘Come in,’ said Ruth, excusing herself from the gaggle of mothers.

  She introduced herself and offered Geoffrey her hand. Olivia was surprised to see him in a suit and wondered if he had a meeting; something about the factory or another telling off at the bank. He took a long look around.

  ‘This was a boys’ dorm in my day,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, were you a pupil here?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘For my sins,’ he replied. ‘Although I never rose to Edward’s stellar heights. The most I could manage was milk monitor.’

  Ruth’s giggle was both girlish and flirtatious.

  ‘Any chance you could spare Olivia for five minutes?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Just to walk me to the car.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ruth, clearly won over. ‘I’ll hold the fort here.’

  The car park was full: lots of Range Rovers and hybrids and the odd Volvo estate. Geoffrey’s Mercedes looked pristine, as though just driven from the showroom. Olivia knew how much that car meant to him; how much it would mean to lose it. He opened the passenger door for her and then walked round to the driver’s side.

  ‘Are you going to kidnap me?’ she said lightly.

  ‘Wish I could,’ said Geoffrey.

  He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry about everything. I know I haven’t been much of a husband lately.’

  Olivia had neither the time nor the appetite for a heart-to-heart about their marriage. ‘I had dinner at the Rutherfords’ last night,’ she said sunnily. ‘Ruth was actually quite drunk.’

  ‘Really? That must have been a fun evening.’

  ‘Hardly. I felt sorry for Martin.’

  ‘How much did she have?’

  ‘I think she was drunk when I got there. She polished off the best part of a bottle over dinner.’

  ‘Is she a happy drunk?’

  ‘She seemed more bored than anything.’ Olivia thought for a moment before adding, ‘Marriage is hard sometimes.’

  They left it at that. After the briefest of kisses, she got out of the car and hurried back to the dorm. It was the closest she had felt to Geoffrey in a while.

  *

  Olivia was still learning the protocols. Teaching staff should be addressed by their surnames when pupils were present, Christian names when they were not, but Martin was always ‘Headmaster’. Ancillary staff formed something of a grey area. Dinner ladies seemed to like being called Mrs, the caretaker was Mr Hill and the groundsmen were young Tom and old Tom. Old Tom wasn’t old at all, just older than young Tom, who was barely out of his teens. He caused quite a stir at the beginning of term when he took off his T-shirt to mow the cricket pitch.

  Early September had been searingly hot and the sight of his lean, muscled torso didn’t go unnoticed by a group of top-form girls, en route to play tennis. They quickly forgot all about tennis and formed an excited huddle in the pavilion where they could spy on him as he worked. It was like that Diet Coke ad on the telly, Lisa Pearce had said in the staffroom later. Olivia was sorry she’d missed it, although she did hear about it in great detail in the dorm: the eagle tattoo across his back, the fashionable absence of chest hair. Olivia wondered about young Tom’s motives. Was it really so hot he had to discard a flimsy bit of cotton, or was he showing off, preening and posturing for girls too young to understand the power of their allure? Either way, she felt for the Tom fan club. How could anyone forget the intensity of those first crushes, the agony of unrequited love, the heartbreak when the object of your desire was oblivious to your existence. Who would want to be a teenager?

  Soon it would be Edward’s turn, his thirteenth birthday just a few months away. Olivia was sad to think of her sweet boy succumbing to the unruly surge of hormones. Lorna said it had already happened with Lily: periods, a proper bra, mood swings, the lot. Olivia’s reply probably hadn’t helped. It’ll be boys next.

  They had gone window-shopping in Bath, its cobbled streets teeming with tourists, performance artists, homeless people with dogs. There was no money for actual shopping as Rowena had so considerately pointed out. When they stopped for coffee Lorna paid for the cappuccinos, Olivia for the carrot cake. She wanted to dissect the disturbing phenomena of Geoffrey’s impotence, compare notes, ask if it had ever
happened to Johnny, but couldn’t risk going where that might lead.

  They had headed towards the new Southgate development, an area they used to avoid because it was rough and ugly; a blight on an otherwise glorious Georgian city. Olivia loved coming to Bath. Lorna said she could take it or leave it. The city’s obsession with Jane Austen was something that particularly irritated Lorna. If anyone in the book club chose a Jane Austen novel, Lorna would groan and put her head in her hands. They stopped to watch a clown on a unicycle fire-juggling outside the Pump Rooms and threw a pound coin into his upturned top hat on the pavement.

  Nearer the abbey, an old man singing ‘What a Wonderful World’ had sounded just like Louis Armstrong. Olivia gave him a pound coin too because the song reminded her of her grandparents dancing together, her grandmother’s head resting on her grandfather’s shoulder.

  Even though it was October, some of the shops already had Christmas trees. God knows where they would find the money for presents this year. Edward wouldn’t go without; that was the most important thing. Olivia and Lorna headed back to the car empty-handed as the afternoon sky had begun to darken. At the entrance to the multi-storey a young woman sang opera. Lorna gave Olivia her ‘what did I tell you?’ look. Even the buskers are posh.

  When Olivia dropped her off, Lorna had invited her in for a glass of wine. The battered Land Rover she and Johnny shared was parked outside. ‘Best not go back smelling of booze’, was the excuse Olivia had offered.

  *

  Life can turn on a sixpence; that’s what Olivia’s grandmother used to say. She had a saying for most occasions; pithy aphorisms that warned what might happen if you dared to get too comfortable, like ‘when money flies out the window, love goes out the door’. Was that what was happening with Geoffrey? Olivia had been too busy to dwell on it but now the boarders were asleep and she was alone in her flat, it preyed on her mind. Clips of the last months kept flashing into her head. A montage of difficult times in a healthy marriage, or the final gasps of a dying marriage?