An Unsuitable Marriage

by Colette Dartford

  Without any expectation of sleep, Geoffrey shifted this way and that in the chair, and closed his eyes. Exhaustion must have got the better of him because he woke with a start at six thirty, aching and disorientated. As he squinted against the light, it crashed over him all at once: hospital, Olivia, Ruth, the police.

  Edward was already awake, the nurse who had brought the fold-up bed taking his pulse and temperature and asking what he wanted for breakfast. The fold-up bed was empty, the blanket neatly folded.

  ‘Sleep all right, son?’

  Edward scratched his head and said the bandage was itchy. When he asked if he could watch television the nurse said that was a sure sign he was getting better.

  Olivia came in, a plastic carrier bag in her hand and wearing a T-shirt that she hadn’t been wearing yesterday. She must have bought it in the hospital shop. Her hair was tied back and a faint smell of toothpaste and talc wafted into the room with her. She walked past Geoffrey as though he were invisible. When she cupped Edward’s face in her hands, her eyes shone with love.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

  Edward fiddled with the remote and said he was OK – did this TV have Nickelodeon?

  Geoffrey picked up his Barbour. He had clean clothes and toiletries in the car and as Olivia had dictated they would see Martin Rutherford this morning, it seemed important to smarten up a bit. Not that Martin would give a fuck what Geoffrey looked like once he heard what he had to say. As he walked across the car park, sky still dark, air cold and damp, Geoffrey felt like a condemned man.

  His second day of reckoning.

  *

  The traffic crawled, stopped altogether, crawled some more. Olivia had told Martin they would be there by nine but it was nearly that already. She called him from the car, said they might be a bit late, and then stared resolutely out of the window. Her silence, her determination not to look at him, were reminiscent of Geoffrey’s mother. But if Rowena had noticed an atmosphere between him and Olivia, she was being uncharacteristically tactful and pretending that she hadn’t. She was at the hospital now, reading Moby Dick to Edward. Geoffrey had concocted some unlikely story about him and Olivia having an appointment at the solicitor’s to sign important papers – he had forgotten all about it and it was too late to rearrange. His mother had seemed unconvinced but didn’t question him, which was just as well because despite all his recent practice, Geoffrey wasn’t a very competent liar.

  His whole sense of purpose had been focused on facing Martin. That’s what he had mentally prepared for, braced himself for, so when the girls ran out to greet them, it threw him completely. How could he not have factored them in? The younger one had Ruth’s defiant eyes, her strong jaw. The older one didn’t so much look like Martin as have his diffident air. They were tactile with Olivia but called her Mrs Parry. She didn’t introduce him.

  Martin had lost weight he could ill afford to lose. His shirt and trousers hung off his tall, bony frame, but it was his face that shocked Geoffrey. His eyes had sunk into dark craters, his cheekbones sharp above two hollows. He shook Geoffrey’s hand, thanked him for coming. Thanked him. Jesus, Martin thought this was a social call, two friends supporting him in his darkest hour. The girls produced a pair of kittens and said they were called Tiger and Miss Kitty. Mrs Parry got them for us so we wouldn’t miss Mummy so much. It sliced right through Geoffrey’s breastbone and pierced his treacherous heart.

  Olivia had her back to him, which was fortunate because he might not be able to do what he had to do if he looked into her eyes and saw stone-cold loathing reflected back.

  Martin made up a tray of tea and mince pies. He enquired after Edward and thanked Olivia for keeping him informed. ‘Everyone was so relieved at school,’ he said. ‘We prayed for him.’

  Geoffrey felt a whoosh of blood surge to his head and wondered if he might have a stroke. He rubbed his temple at the point where pain pressed against it. Martin asked if he was all right, was there anything he could get him? His kind concern was too much for Olivia, who sent the girls to play upstairs. The three of them went to the sitting room and Olivia closed the door. When Martin handed him a cup and saucer, Geoffrey disguised the tremor in his hand by drawing attention to the Christmas tree. Martin said he kept it there for the girls, to make everything as normal as possible under the circumstances.

  Geoffrey’s cue to confess. He could smell his own sweat, feel the dampness down his back, in his armpits. When he opened with an apology, Martin thought he was offering his condolences and thanked him again. Olivia shot him a look. Just get on with it.

  Right.

  He said he and Ruth had had a brief relationship and that they had been together the night of the accident. He was profoundly sorry both for the affair and for Martin’s loss. He had never intended to cause hurt, but understood that was no excuse. He didn’t expect and so wouldn’t ask for forgiveness.

  Martin listened in what appeared to be a state of catatonic shock. His face became more sallow, his jaw more slack. His eyes darkened, as if they had sunk even further into their sockets. Upstairs the girls sang Christmas carols. The lights on the tree twinkled on and off, on and off.

  Martin’s wide-eyed horror shifted from Geoffrey to Olivia.

  ‘I found out yesterday,’ she said. ‘I thought Geoffrey should tell you himself, before you hear it from the police.’

  Martin covered his mouth with his hand the way people do when they’ve been told something truly awful. The girls skipped in, took a mince pie each from the tray and announced it was snowing and they were going to play in the garden. Olivia reminded them to put on their coats and boots.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Parry,’ said the younger one cheekily.

  They listened to them in the hallway, chatting as they dressed in their outdoor clothes, then the sound of the back door opening and closing with a slam.

  Martin sat forward, his gaze fixed on Geoffrey. ‘You were having an affair with Ruth?’

  Geoffrey nodded. A mercy lie seemed in order. ‘Briefly. She ended it that night. The night of the accident.’

  Martin’s shoulders rose and fell. ‘But the police – they suspected rape.’

  Geoffrey lowered his eyes in contrition. ‘They made a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake?’ Martin’s eyebrows knitted together as he tried to understand what exactly Geoffrey was telling him. An audible gasp punctuated the moment of realisation. ‘The bruises, the semen. That was you?’

  Martin lunged at him, knocking the tray to the floor. Tea, milk, sugar spilled over the beige carpet. Geoffrey jumped to his feet, fists raised, ready to defend himself. He didn’t mean to; it was instinctive. Truthfully, a punch from Martin might have made him feel better – proof he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t control himself – but then Olivia was on her feet too, prising them apart.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Martin, please.’

  It seemed to bring him to his senses. His breathing was heavy and loud: big gulps in and short gasps out. He stepped on and crushed a teacup before collapsing back into his chair. The three of them sat in dumb horror, no words adequate enough to express what they were feeling. Olivia got down on her knees, collected up the china and put it back on the tray. She was crying quietly and trying to hide it. How ironic that this was exactly what Ruth had wanted all along – Martin jealous and enraged: a red-blooded man prepared to fight for her. She would have been so proud of him.

  That the truth was neither black nor white was a cliché too banal to quote, so Geoffrey didn’t. His confession deliberately omitted the mitigation that Ruth had led and he had followed. It was Ruth who seduced him, Ruth who pursued him, Ruth who liked to be fucked so hard it hurt, and Ruth who cared nothing for the consequences. Geoffrey had been a willing participant, undeniably so, but without her there to own her share of the blame, it was all heaped on his shoulders. Ruth was dead, the ultimate victim; Geoffrey alive, the callous aggressor. What he said next was solely for Martin’s benefit, a shred of comfort plucked
from the dirty grey chasm between truth and lies.

  ‘She loved you and regretted what we did. I regret it too and would give anything to undo it, to make different choices. Please believe me when I say how truly sorry I am.’

  Geoffrey stood up to leave. There was nothing more he could add, no way to ameliorate Martin’s pain.

  As a pupil at St Bede’s, Geoffrey had often been called in front of the headmaster to explain himself and his bad behaviour. Punishment would be handed down, apologies made, case closed. If only.

  He let himself out and smoked three cigarettes while he waited in the snow for Olivia.

  *

  The doctor had said Edward was well enough to go home. He was already dressed in his school uniform, his head still heavily bandaged. Geoffrey’s mother sat watching television with him – Top Gear, Edward’s favourite. ‘He has to take it easy,’ she said. ‘And come back in a few days to have those stiches looked at.’

  Olivia hugged him for longer than he wanted. ‘Mum,’ he whined. ‘Get off me.’

  They hadn’t talked about it, and Olivia certainly wouldn’t be happy about it, but the only place they could take him was the Rectory. Geoffrey, Olivia and Edward went in the Mercedes, Geoffrey’s mother following behind in her Mini. He had locked the rucksack in the boot but Olivia still had his passport. Maybe she didn’t trust him not to abscond. It was perfectly possible she would never trust him again.

  Olivia didn’t look at Geoffrey as he held the front door open for her. She guided Edward inside and shooed the dogs away in case they jumped up at him. The heating was cranked up high, Edward’s room aired and ready for him. Geoffrey’s mother had made sandwiches and soup and there was a chicken slow-roasting in the Aga. Edward tucked into lunch but neither Geoffrey nor Olivia did any more than pick politely. When Olivia sent Edward upstairs to rest, he complied without objection. Olivia said she needed to get some rest too, and Geoffrey waited twenty minutes or so before taking her a cup of tea.

  First he checked on Edward, sleeping soundly, the covers tucked under his chin. Geoffrey closed the door with barely a sound and tapped on his own bedroom door before opening it. The room was empty. He checked the bathroom but that was empty too. The bedroom across the landing hadn’t been used for as long as he could remember, but that was where he found Olivia, curled on her side facing the wall, a sickly pink eiderdown draped over her legs and hips. The curtains were closed, the air thick and musty. He put the cup on the bedside table and hovered uncertainly. She didn’t move or speak.

  ‘Tea’s there,’ he said.

  When she turned towards him, he saw that she had been crying. He perched on the end of the bed, encouraged that she let him.

  ‘So she ended it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ruth. You told Martin she ended it.’

  Geoffrey clasped his hands together and pressed them against his mouth. ‘I said that for Martin’s benefit, but it wasn’t true. I was the one who ended it that night – the night she was killed.’

  Olivia wiped her face with her sleeve. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  What could he say to convince her – to make that singular truth stand out from the sewer of lies? ‘I don’t blame you. I made a terrible mistake and panicked, but you have to understand – Ruth meant nothing to me.’

  Olivia punched him hard on the thigh – an expression of her own hurt rather than a serious attempt to hurt him. ‘Well, she meant something to me. A bitch, a whore, a rubbish wife, a rubbish mother. That’s what you destroyed our family for.’

  She was inconsolable now, her hands over her face as she sobbed, and it brought it home to him afresh. This was what he had done.

  *

  Geoffrey took the dogs for a long walk, unable to be around Olivia. Snow had settled underfoot and hardened in the plummeting cold. Rollo and Dice loped and chased, ate the snow and then shook it from their muzzles in a comedy of quick, erratic moves. Geoffrey kept seeing Martin lunge at him, the girls holding their kittens, the ruined carpet, his ruined marriage.

  Not even four o’clock, but an insipid sun had already begun to dip low on the horizon. In the fading light he could make out Manor Farm, the village, the industrial estate with the derelict factory and the storage unit that held all their worldly goods. He knew every building, every field and contour – his entire world mapped out in front of him. Everything he had lost.

  When he returned home Olivia and Edward were under a blanket in the snug, the television on quietly in the corner. His mother stood tight-lipped at the Aga, vigorously stirring gravy in a roasting tin. It was obvious something was wrong and out of duty and politeness, Geoffrey asked what it was. After the slew of inevitable denials – nothing at all, I’m perfectly fine – she got to the point. Why go to all the effort of a roast when Olivia had already announced – Olivia never said anything, only announced – she didn’t have much of an appetite and wasn’t sure Edward was very hungry either.

  Geoffrey gave the dogs a biscuit each and told them to go to their beds. How little had changed since he had first brought Olivia home. Pregnancy and apprehension meant she hadn’t eaten much then either. She was small, yet his mother continued to judge her for the small amount she ate. Food became the unlikely catalyst for so many of their proxy battles and, as always, he was caught in the crossfire.

  Seventy-two hours ago he had walked away from this life, and yet here he was. It was like Groundhog Day, but without the laughs.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked his mother, testy that he hadn’t sworn immediate allegiance to her camp.

  He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  *

  Geoffrey had a quick bath before supper, and a sneaky cigarette. Olivia and his mother were already round the table when he joined them. Olivia still wouldn’t look at him but Edward launched into an account of the Star Wars film they’d just watched.

  ‘I hope it wasn’t violent,’ said Geoffrey’s mother. ‘All these fights you’ve been getting into at school – I wonder if it’s too much violence on the television.’

  ‘It wasn’t violent,’ said Olivia.

  ‘It has “wars” in the title,’ said Geoffrey’s mother.

  Edward looked down at his plate, reluctant to be in the middle of it, but his grandmother pressed on regardless.

  ‘What were you fighting about at school, Edward? It must have been quite serious.’

  Geoffrey wouldn’t mind hearing the answer to that question either. With so much else going on they hadn’t talked about why Edward and Freddie Burton were scrapping again.

  ‘Edward?’ he said gently.

  His eyes still on his plate, Edward mumbled that Freddie had said Mum was Mr Rutherford’s girlfriend, that was why she was living with him. Olivia’s cheeks flushed crimson. Irony heaped upon irony. She put her arm round Edward’s shoulder. ‘I know you mean well, darling, and I appreciate you standing up for me, but promise that in future you’ll walk away. Freddie Burton is a silly boy who says silly things.’

  Edward nodded and Geoffrey swiftly changed the subject before his mother interjected her opinion. The atmosphere was morose until she tried to lighten it with talk of Christmas, enlisting Geoffrey to help choose a tree. They could all decorate it together, wouldn’t that be fun? A vision of the Rutherfords’ tree with its twinkly lights and angel on top brought an icy shiver of remorse.

  ‘Well, Geoffrey?’ said his mother, clearly taken with the idea. ‘Shall we get one tomorrow?’

  The thought of a beautifully decorated Christmas tree seemed to parody the happy family they were before he tore it all to shreds. He went to the fridge and got a beer, wishing he could drink enough to make the pain go away.

  After Edward declined apple crumble and custard, Rowena offered to get him settled for the night, as if he were an infant and not about to turn thirteen. He didn’t complain, though; far too well-mannered for that. When he asked to borrow the laptop, Geoffrey panicked for a second. All those porn site
s: girls with spread legs and naked breasts. ‘I’ll bring it up,’ he said, slipping into the study to clear his history and any evidence of his sleazy pastime.

  The sight of Edward tucked up in Geoffrey’s own narrow childhood bed brought back memories of the teddy bear he’d loved, his father reading to him, a sense of being cocooned and safe. The bandage lent Edward an air of vulnerability – a stark reminder of how even the most precious things can be snatched away without warning. Geoffrey handed Edward the laptop and kissed the top of his head.

  Geoffrey longed for his own bed after two nights sleeping (not sleeping) in a hospital chair, but went to the kitchen first to make some tea. When he saw Olivia washing dishes at the sink, he was about to retreat but then reasoned that as they were living in the same house, they were bound to end up in the same room occasionally. This was one of those occasions. He picked up the kettle and took it over to the sink to fill. Olivia moved aside without a word and when Geoffrey asked her if she wanted a cup, she offered a terse shake of her head in reply. He put the kettle on the Aga and stood waiting for it to boil, while she carried on with the dishes.

  Despite the silence, Geoffrey decided to chalk this up as a minor victory. She didn’t tell him to get out, or storm out herself. He was about to attempt conversation when his mother blustered in and made a fuss of tidying away the place mats and coasters. This turned out to be a prelude to her raising the thorny subject of sleeping arrangements. She had noticed Olivia’s things in the spare room opposite Geoffrey’s and wanted to know what was going on.

  ‘Is there any truth in what this Freddie chap said to Edward?’ The question – the accusation – was levelled at Olivia, whose vivid blush his mother appeared to interpret as guilt. ‘Claire Heather mentioned that your name had been linked to a young French student who left rather abruptly.’

  Olivia opened her mouth to say something but merely spluttered in disbelief. Her eyes blazed, first at his mother, then at Geoffrey. Time to man up.