University had taught Geoffrey to be wary of clever women. Engineers were practical rather than intellectual – doers rather than thinkers.
In his first year he had had a brief relationship with a dusky-skinned English literature student called Anna. To say she was well read was an understatement. The occasional reference to Oscar Wilde aside, never had Geoffrey’s ignorance of great literary works been more obvious. She talked about Chaucer, Shakespeare, Austen and Dickens as if they were personal friends of hers. It was Geoffrey’s first taste of regular sex so he was willing to put up with a lot. He feigned interest in her mind to gain access to her body. After they’d had sex, all he wanted was to drift into blissful oblivion, but Anna would pull a book from one of the many piles that littered her room, and read to him. He could have coped with that – memories of being lulled off to sleep with a bedtime story – but she expected him to contribute, to comment, even analyse, for Christ’s sake. It was beyond him. He thought Chaucer and Shakespeare impenetrable, Austen irrelevant and Dickens a purveyor of human misery. When he and Anna parted company after two months together, she detailed his shortcomings in a handwritten ten-page letter. He stopped reading after four and tossed it in the bin.
A mathematician named Lucy took Anna’s place in his bed. Born of an English mother and Japanese father, she had been schooled in the Kumon method from the age of three. Geoffrey regretted admitting he had never heard of the Kumon method because it prompted a long and comprehensive explanation. He made a mental note of key phrases to give the impression he had listened: self-learning programme, independent study skills, resolve complex problems. It sounded dire but she was pretty in an elfin sort of way, with straight black hair and a china-doll face. When they had sex she made a bewildering array of noises – squeals, yelps, moans, cries. At first he found them distracting but if he stopped doing what he was doing, she urged him to carry on. The soundtrack to her orgasm was a long, high-pitched whine. Geoffrey suspected that everyone in the halls of residence knew when Lucy was coming. On one occasion he thought he heard a distant round of applause. That wasn’t why he finished with her, though – it was her complete lack of humour. Geoffrey liked few things more than a bloody good laugh and he didn’t know if it was a by-product of her ethnic heritage, her extreme braininess, or some irreversible developmental damage inflicted by the mysterious Kumon method, but outside of the bedroom, the girl just didn’t know how to have fun.
These first-year relationships set a precedent for the rest of Geoffrey’s time at Reading. He spent three months being analysed by a psychology student – everything he did or didn’t say, everything he did or didn’t do. If she hadn’t been so adventurous in bed he would have finished with her sooner, but in the end even the inventiveness of their sex life wasn’t enough to endure endless probing about his dreams, his motivations, his early masturbatory experiences.
An economist named Janey pursued him during his second year – had a thing about rugby players, apparently. She was earnest, intense and ambitious; the exact opposite of Geoffrey. Yet again, it was sex that kept him interested. Janey liked to be picked up and thrown around a bit, carried to bed over his shoulder, put across his knee and spanked. That didn’t stop him dumping her after a long and tedious polemic about inherited wealth. All the ills and excesses of capitalism could be laid at the door of people like him. News to Geoffrey. Turned out she was a communist with Maoist leanings, but Geoffrey chose to remember her simply as a good lay.
By his final year he had learned his lesson. He substituted one-night stands for relationships until a dose of chlamydia made him stop and think. It was during this period of enforced celibacy that he spotted Olivia putting mail into the student pigeonholes and struggling to reach the top two rows. She was on tiptoes, calf muscles taut, bottom clenched with the effort of stretching her arm as far as it would go. He walked up behind her and plucked the mail from her hand. ‘Let me,’ he said. For a second she just stared at him, surprised, and he wondered if she was like those strident feminists on campus, mortally offended by the assumption she needed the help of a man. Not Olivia. She smiled coyly. ‘Thank you.’ He hadn’t expected this petite, ponytailed girl with the tiny waist and angelic face to have the huskiest, most seductive voice he had ever heard. It delivered a shot of excitement straight to his groin. Turned out it was the tail end of laryngitis but dear God, it was sexy. He watched her walk towards the admin office, bottom like a ripe peach, ponytail swishing from side to side.
It wasn’t just about Olivia’s physical appeal. After three years dating clever undergraduates, he was ready for someone easy-going, uncomplicated, less likely to make demands. OK, that hadn’t worked out quite as he had imagined, but he’d had his fill of academic women – of that, he was sure. Until Ruth Rutherford. She mentioned in passing she had read history at Cambridge, but was more interested in hearing tales from the village, the rugby club, his annual skiing trips. ‘Go on,’ she teased, nudging him with her elbow, ‘tell me what you boys get up to.’ Her interest appeared risqué and genuine, and he was ridiculously flattered. It had been a while since a woman had shown any real interest in him. Not even his own wife.
*
The next morning he slept in, his thick head the after-effect of too much red wine. Perhaps he shouldn’t have driven after all. Still, he got back in one piece and it wasn’t as though he made a habit of it.
By the time he padded down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, his mother had already walked the dogs. They lay curled in their beds, quiet and obedient, not bothering to get up and greet him.
‘Late night?’ she asked, vigorously kneading a lump of dough.
Geoffrey filled the kettle. ‘I’m out of practice,’ he said.
Radio Four was on, a sombre, slightly nasal woman droning on about the enduring nature of misogyny.
‘Cup of tea?’ he asked, reaching for a mug.
‘Please,’ said his mother.
She slapped the dough into a bowl to prove and covered it with a damp cloth. Geoffrey heaped a couple of spoons of English Breakfast into the teapot and poured the boiling water. It seemed as good a time as any to broach the subject he had been dreading.
‘Manor Farm has been sold,’ he said. ‘Got a call from the agent last week.’
His mother sat down and gave the tea a quick stir. That she didn’t say anything suggested this wasn’t news to her.
‘It got me thinking,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ she said, pouring the tea.
Geoffrey fetched some milk from the fridge, turned down the radio and took a seat opposite her. ‘It got me thinking about this house,’ he said, casting his gaze around: bottle-green paint peeling from the walls, brown Bakelite switches, marked and chipped quarry tiles.
‘What about it?’ she said, following his gaze.
‘I wondered if maybe it was time to think about getting somewhere a bit more manageable?’
There – he’d said it. His mother pulled her chin into her neck.
‘Why would I do that?’
It was important that he cut through the fogginess in his head and dealt with this sensitively. He put a splash more milk in his tea to cool it down, then took a few gulps.
‘It’s such a large house – a complete money pit.’
‘What do you mean, a money pit?’
‘So much needs doing. The wiring is a liability – you remember the power cut a few weeks ago? – and the windows need replacing. Not to mention the kitchen.’
‘It’s a perfectly good kitchen.’ Her tone was defensive, warning Geoffrey to proceed with caution.
‘It’s so expensive to heat too. Oil costs a fortune, Mum. And you don’t even use half the rooms.’
She pursed her lips. ‘What about the school holidays when Edward and Olivia are here?’
Geoffrey put the milk back in the fridge. Maybe he needed to come at it from a different angle.
‘Mum, you’ve been wonderful, offering us a home in our hour of need.’ He
reached over and patted her hand. ‘And you know how much I, we, appreciate it, but it won’t be forever. I just wonder if this might be a good time to think about downsizing?’
She turned her face towards the window, milky with condensation. ‘Downsizing? How can you even suggest something like that when you know how much I’m missing your father?’
So was Geoffrey. A heart attack in someone with no history of heart disease, a healthy non-smoker, meant that the most likely cause, surely the only cause, was stress. And what did his father have to be stressed about? Very little, until Geoffrey’s showy avarice and poor business judgement robbed many of his parishioners of their livelihoods. When the press named and shamed Geoffrey, they made much of the fact he was a vicar’s son, insinuating he should have known better, thereby dragging his kind, fair-minded father into it. Death by disappointment.
His mother emptied her tea into the Butler sink, scrubbed the mug with a shrivelled Brillo pad, grabbed a tea towel and applied so much elbow grease you would have thought she was trying to erase the pattern. It was like watching a malevolent mime. When she had finished she remained facing the window, her back to him.
‘It’s been a comfort having you here, Geoffrey, but I’m shocked that you would ask me to sell my home. Your home too. You grew up here. All my memories of your father are here.’ Her voice trembled with recrimination. She turned towards him, eyes wet and rheumy.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Forget I said anything.’
She nodded and dabbed away a few tears. Geoffrey wondered if making his mother cry – a widow in mourning – was a new low for him?
He had planned to make a bacon sandwich – grease to soak up what remained of last night’s alcohol – but couldn’t stomach it now.
*
The one good thing on the horizon, the only thing he had to look forward to, was coaching rugby. Edward said he wouldn’t believe it until he turned up on the pitch. Well, here he was.
His first session was with the top-formers: Edward and his friends. Geoffrey introduced himself even though most of them knew him anyway, and told them a bit about when he had played rugby at St Bede’s. He was quite enjoying the indulgence of a trip down memory lane, but wrapped it up when he saw Edward roll his eyes. Geoffrey began to put the boys through their paces: tackling, passing, kicking, rucking. Despite some individual talent – most notably, Edward and Freddie Burton – as a team they were shambolic. Geoffrey wasn’t sure they were playing in the correct positions so set about reassigning them. Freddie Burton wasn’t happy to be moved from fly half to the wing and wasn’t shy in saying so. Geoffrey got Edward to take his place and moved short, thickset Finn Harding from the wing to front row. He took the taller, faster Ben Scott-Lessing from the scrum and put him on the wing, where speed was of the essence.
Their biggest problem was a lack of tactical skills, but those could be taught. What impressed Geoffrey was their commitment, how hard they tried. Edward was fearless, charging into every situation even if he ended up in a heap on the ground. In the scrum, Finn Harding used his bull-like strength to steamroller his opponents. And once Freddie Burton had sulked a bit about his move to the wing, he showed off his speed and agility. Geoffrey didn’t like it when he heard the other boys call Edward ‘Goldilocks’, although Edward himself didn’t seem too bothered. As a nickname it seemed a bit effeminate. Geoffrey had tried to persuade Edward to have a haircut during half-term but he always found some excuse or other. None of the other boys had a mop of blonde curls. Over the Christmas holiday, Geoffrey would insist on a visit to the barber.
The steel-hued sky had dumped a week’s worth of rain and waterlogged the pitch, but the boys were undeterred. If anything, they revelled in the chance to roll around in the mud. When their ninety minutes was over, Geoffrey was all fired up to deliver a rousing pep talk before sending them off for their showers, but they were soaked and filthy and he didn’t want them to catch cold.
He had half an hour before his next session with the under nines, enough time for a coffee in the staffroom. Olivia had warned him about the staffroom coffee but as long as it was hot and strong, he didn’t care. He was slightly embarrassed about having tried to persuade her to have sex in the car, but then why should he be? They were man and wife, and it wouldn’t have been the first time they had done it in a car.
They bumped into each other outside the main hall. It was odd seeing her at school but not at home. She did a double-take, like it was odd for her too. Neither of them mentioned the previous night.
‘You’re soaked,’ she said. ‘How did it go?’
‘Good. Very good actually.’
He instinctively leaned in to kiss her but she pulled away and looked around.
‘You can’t do that here,’ she said in one of her loud whispers.
‘Sorry,’ he said, mimicking her.
‘Where are you heading?’
‘Boys’ changing room, then staffroom.’
‘I’ll see you in there,’ she said with a flirty little wave.
He knew it was a cliché, but everything about the changing room actually did seem smaller. Geoffrey remembered having to stand on the slatted wooden bench to hang his games bag on his hook – he couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. The familiar fug of wet clothes, socks and stale sweat brought it back with a rush. His nostalgia was interrupted by raised voices, one of them Edward’s.
Geoffrey followed the commotion to the shower area where Edward and Freddie Burton, towels around their waists, were squaring up to each other. Before they saw him there, Edward lunged forward, pushed Freddie hard and shouted at him to shut the fuck up. Geoffrey had never heard his son use that word. In the split second before he reacted to whatever the hell was happening, he registered a pang of loss. His kind, sweet boy was growing up: less kind, less sweet. Inevitable though that was, Geoffrey wished he hadn’t witnessed such irrefutable evidence.
Freddie reached a hand to the wall and steadied himself.
‘What’s going on?’ said Geoffrey.
He was here to congratulate them on their hard work, not break up a fight. Edward’s face was tight with rage, his fists clenched, chest heaving. Freddie goaded him with a sneer.
‘Will someone please tell me—’
Before Geoffrey could finish, Edward threw a punch. As Freddie staggered back, his towel came undone and dropped on the wet floor.
‘Stupid fag,’ he yelled, scooping up the towel and quickly covering himself.
He wiped his bloodied nose and took a counter-swipe at Edward. Geoffrey grabbed his arm before he made contact.
‘Get off me,’ said Freddie.
‘What on earth—?’
Geoffrey let go of Freddie’s arm and turned to see a shocked Leo Sheridan. Before Geoffrey could attempt an explanation, Leo took control of the situation.
‘Freddie, get dressed and ask Matron to look at your face. Edward, sort yourself out and wait for me at the headmaster’s office. The rest of you have classes to get to.’
He looked at Geoffrey. ‘If I could see you outside, Mr Parry.’
Geoffrey felt like a naughty schoolboy again. He wanted to go to Edward; chastise him, comfort him, be his dad, not his rugby coach. Instead he followed Leo.
They stayed in the corridor just outside the changing room so they could hear if anything started up again.
‘What the hell was that about?’ asked Leo.
‘I’ve no idea. It started before I got there.’
‘And what happened to Freddie’s face?’
It went against every paternal instinct, but what choice did he have? ‘Edward hit him.’
The first of the boys traipsed out, animated with the excitement of having witnessed a fight. They shut up when they saw Geoffrey and Leo, only to carry on when they thought they were out of earshot.
‘I didn’t realise it had escalated,’ said Leo.
‘What had escalated?’
‘Didn’t Olivia tell you?’
/>
‘Tell me what?’
‘Edward and Freddie had a bit of a set-to.’
‘When? What about?’
‘It’s been brewing for a week or so. Freddie implied something inappropriate between Olivia and Hugo Dubois. Edward jumped in to defend her.’
Olivia hadn’t mentioned it, but then apart from dinner at the Rutherfords’, they had hardly spoken. So, Edward had gone into battle for her, certainly not something he’d learned from him. When had he ever defended Olivia against his mother’s subtle attempts to undermine her? Yet without a moment’s hesitation, his twelve-year-old son had stood up for her. Geoffrey felt proud and ashamed at the same time.
‘There was a bit of friction between them during training,’ he said. ‘Nothing really.’
Leo sighed, exasperated. ‘Well, whatever it was, it’s gone too far.’
Edward came out of the changing room, his expression sullen but defiant. They walked in silence to Martin’s office, where Geoffrey was momentarily taken aback to see Arthur Heather’s wife; his widow. He had forgotten she worked as school secretary.
‘Mr Parry,’ she said. ‘This is a surprise.’
He was in no mood for social pleasantries. ‘Mrs Heather,’ was all he said, no ‘how are you’, or ‘nice to see you’.
‘Is the headmaster free?’ asked Leo.
‘One moment,’ she said, picking up the phone.
Ten seconds later they were in Martin’s office, Leo recounting what he witnessed in the changing room, Geoffrey doing the same. Edward said nothing until asked a direct question.
‘Why did you hit Freddie Burton?’ said Martin.
Edward’s shoulders rose and dropped. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Martin, ‘but that doesn’t answer my question.’
Geoffrey wanted to encourage him to own up to whatever it was, but before he could, Edward spoke.
‘We had an argument, sir.’
An Unsuitable Marriage Page 13
