An Unsuitable Marriage

by Colette Dartford

  She hated feeling like this and yet Geoffrey stoked and stirred that feeling. Her chest heaved with the poison he had put there. She wanted rid of it – rid of him. She was about to storm out, leaving him with his meaningless trinket and appalling judgement, when the front door slammed hard. Geoffrey moved his hands away from his face, his eyes wide with fear. They didn’t move or speak. They barely dared to breathe. It was as if all the air had been sucked from the room.

  Eighteen

  They separated and ran along the lane, Geoffrey towards the pub and Olivia towards the shop, but there was no sign of Edward. Olivia phoned Lorna who said she hadn’t seen him but would call if he turned up. Geoffrey heard no reference to their terrible argument, which he assumed had been buried beneath this latest crisis. Lorna must have asked what was going on, why Edward had run off, because Geoffrey heard Olivia say that she couldn’t talk about it now, she would explain later.

  Geoffrey suggested he get the car and drive around looking for him. They went back to the Rectory and while Geoffrey fetched his keys, Olivia searched outside again and said Edward’s bike was missing. She had planned to stay there in case he came back, but changed her mind and insisted she go with Geoffrey in the car.

  ‘We should take the Land Rover,’ she said. ‘So we can throw the bike in the back when we find him.’ The anger had vanished from her voice. She was shaking, her arms wrapped around her chest as though bound by a straitjacket.

  Geoffrey had been so pleased with himself when he gave her the locket. He wanted to show how much thought he had put into it, getting little bits of their hair and fitting them all together underneath the glass. He hadn’t expected her to forgive him there and then but he certainly hadn’t expected the reaction he got.

  Olivia scribbled a note telling Edward to call her mobile, just in case he came home. In big capitals she wrote ‘SORRY’.

  It was Olivia’s car but Geoffrey drove. He started to apologise, explain that he hadn’t meant to upset her, but she shook her head and he stopped talking. It could wait. They didn’t know how much Edward had heard. Maybe he had heard Olivia shouting and left just because he hated it when they argued. It didn’t mean he’d heard what she was shouting about, necessarily.

  They drove all over the village, past Lorna and Johnny’s and back towards the Rectory, but there was no sign of him. Geoffrey wondered how Edward was managing to cycle through the slushy snow and hoped he was wearing a helmet. A vision of him lying in the road made Geoffrey flinch, as if from a sudden shooting pain.

  ‘Where is he?’ said Olivia, more to herself than to Geoffrey.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ he said.

  As they drove past the path that led up to Crooke Peak, Geoffrey remembered that was the place he used to run off to when he was a boy. He pulled over on to the verge so as not to block the lane, and switched off the engine.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Olivia.

  ‘He could have gone up here,’ said Geoffrey, pointing to the path. ‘I’ll go and look.’

  Olivia undid her seat belt. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Fresh snow was falling: big dry flakes that quickly settled. An arctic wind had whipped up from nowhere, stinging Geoffrey’s eyes, numbing his exposed skin. Never mind the helmet – was Edward even wearing a jacket?

  They picked their way along the steep path in silence. Once or twice when Olivia slipped, Geoffrey grabbed her arm to steady her, but as soon as she regained her balance she pulled it away again. In a moment of unwelcome clarity, he realised there was nothing he could do or say that would make her forgive him. The locket, defending her against his mother, apologising a thousand times – none of it could undo what he had done. A deep ache in his chest meant all he could manage were short, staccato breaths. He thought heartache was an expression, not a real thing, but his heart really did ache.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ said Olivia, coming to an abrupt stop. Her hair was damp with melted snowflakes, her lips tinged blue with the cold.

  ‘Hear what?’

  She shushed him and he listened hard, hearing only the whoosh and whine of the wind.

  ‘That,’ she said, suddenly sprinting up ahead.

  He followed, not sure what she heard that he didn’t, until the track flattened out and there, smashing his bike with a fallen branch, was Edward. The relief Geoffrey felt at finding him was quickly swallowed up. Edward saw them and stopped, but only for a moment before he raised the branch above his head and brought it down with enough force to buckle the front wheel.

  Olivia ran over and tried to wrestle the branch from him, but he shook her off and headed for Geoffrey, taut with rage and purpose. ‘Is it true what Mum said about you and Mrs Rutherford?’

  So he had heard. Geoffrey stood still, sick with shame. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Edward hauled the branch over his shoulder and swung, catching Geoffrey’s cheek with a glancing blow. He recoiled backwards, his hand instinctively going to the point of contact.

  ‘Why didn’t you move?’ screamed Edward, dropping the branch on the ground. ‘Why did you let me hit you?’

  Tears scalded Geoffrey’s eyes. ‘Because I deserved it.’

  ‘Did you rape Mrs Rutherford? Did you kill her?’

  ‘No. God, no. How could you think—?’

  ‘Mum said—’

  ‘She died in a car accident, Edward,’ cried Olivia. ‘An accident. I never said he killed her. And the other thing—’ She couldn’t bear to say the word any more than Geoffrey could bear to hear it. ‘The police made a mistake. That’s all it was – a mistake.’

  Edward was shaking. No jacket, just a thin T-shirt and jeans. His hair was wet, the scar shockingly vivid. Geoffrey took off his own jacket and tried to put it around Edward’s shoulders.

  ‘Get away from me!’

  He lashed out with his fists and took a couple of steps back, tripping on a small rock that poked sharply through the snow. Geoffrey tried to catch him but they both fell on to the hard ground, sobbing. Edward’s trainers were soaked through, his T-shirt stuck to his skin. This time Geoffrey insisted on the jacket and Edward didn’t refuse. Geoffrey crouched next to him and gave Edward his gloves too. Thick candles of clear snot hung from his nostrils. Olivia fished a tissue from her sleeve and wiped them away with maternal efficiency. The fight had gone out of him. He sat in the snow, spent and defeated.

  No one spoke on the short ride home. The air was laced with a terrible truth and there was nothing Geoffrey could say to change that. Edward sat shivering: short, involuntary spasms like an electric current shooting through his body. When Geoffrey pulled into the Rectory, Edward ran inside and took the stairs three at a time. He couldn’t get away fast enough. Olivia followed him upstairs, leaving Geoffrey alone. A new low in months of new lows. What would Edward think of him now?

  Geoffrey went inside, relieved that his mother was still out on parish business. He poured two large glasses of wine and got a carton of apple juice from the pantry. It took a few minutes before he mustered the courage to face his wife and son.

  The bathroom door was ajar, Olivia running a bath.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘In his room,’ answered Olivia, her jacket and scarf still on.

  She swirled the water with her hand, mixing hot with cold. In the steamed-up mirror Geoffrey could make out the cut on his cheek, an inch or so long, jagged at one end and scabby with dried blood. He scooped a few handfuls of water from the bath and splashed it on his face. Olivia handed him a clean flannel, stiff from having been pegged out to dry in the winter wind.

  ‘I didn’t mean for him to hear,’ she said.

  Geoffrey lobbed the flannel in the laundry bin. ‘I know.’

  ‘Edward worships you. Whatever has happened between us, I would never spoil that for him.’

  ‘I think I’m the one who’s spoiled it.’

  A fine frizz of damp blonde hair around her crown and temples gave the impression of a ha
lo. She turned off the water and draped a couple of towels over the radiator. ‘I’d better get him,’ she said.

  ‘Should we talk to him?’

  ‘In a while. Give him time to calm down.’

  She was right, of course. And beautiful. What the hell had he been thinking? Ruth Rutherford. Jesus.

  ‘Is that for me?’

  He had forgotten about the wine and handed a glass to Olivia. She drank as though she needed it. Geoffrey watched and waited, reluctant for the most civilised conversation they had had in ages to end. Edward came out of his bedroom, his wet clothes discarded in favour of the fleecy dressing gown they’d bought him last Christmas. He stopped when he saw them, his eyes red-raw.

  ‘Let me look at you,’ said Olivia. Her voice was gentle and cajoling as if she expected him to object, but he didn’t. She inspected the scar and said it looked OK – did it hurt? Edward shook his head. He still hadn’t looked Geoffrey in the eye.

  How to begin? ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  Edward took the apple juice and drank from the carton: long, noisy gulps – juice dribbling down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand. A deliberate show of bad manners to express his disgust, no doubt. ‘Were you going to leave us?’ he asked, his voice cracking, already beginning to break.

  Geoffrey wanted to tell him that of course he wasn’t going to leave, that it was crazy talk, but how could he? The pleading look he shot Olivia, desperate for help to make the truth sound less callous, prompted no response. Down to Geoffrey then. ‘I couldn’t do it, son. I couldn’t leave you.’

  ‘Are you getting a divorce like Freddie Burton’s parents?’

  Again Geoffrey looked at Olivia and again she looked away. ‘We haven’t talked about it but—’

  Wrong answer. She cut him off. ‘Whatever happens, we will both be in your life, just like we are now. We love you very much. You’re the most important person in all of this.’

  Edward seemed to think about that for a moment before asking, ‘Does Mr Rutherford know?’

  Geoffrey lowered his eyes at the memory: Olivia on her knees, crying and picking up bits of broken china. He nodded.

  ‘Does he hate me?’

  ‘No.’ Geoffrey and Olivia answered emphatically and in unison.

  ‘No, darling, of course he doesn’t,’ said Olivia. ‘This is nothing to do with you. None of it is your fault.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ said Geoffrey. ‘No one else’s. All mine.’

  *

  Being with Johnny and Lorna again was a sweet kind of torture. Rather than having a few drinks and a laugh, they were moving Olivia and Edward into Gardner Cottage. Olivia broke the news on Boxing Day: Martin had offered her somewhere to live and she had accepted. Geoffrey couldn’t help but wonder if this was Martin’s way of getting his own back. Touché.

  The cottage was unfurnished so she needed to collect some things from the storage unit. Johnny was helping with the lifting and shifting. Lorna was there for moral support.

  She had turned up at the Rectory on Christmas Eve, not long after all the drama with Edward. The initial awkwardness between her and Olivia quickly fizzled out, resolved in hugs and tears and heartfelt apologies. Geoffrey excused himself, aware that Olivia would want to speak to Lorna alone. Part of him dared to hope Lorna would talk Olivia into giving him another chance. Maybe she had tried and failed or maybe she hadn’t tried at all. Either way, Olivia was leaving.

  She’d told him as they headed up Crook Peak to fetch Edward’s bike. It was Olivia’s idea to go together – give them a chance to talk. Stupidly, Geoffrey had taken it as a good sign. Not only could she tolerate his company, but she was ready to talk. His optimism had been wildly misplaced. What Olivia wanted to talk about was separating – how it would work, what they would tell Edward. Apparently they had moved past the hate phase of their relationship and were now in the practical phase. Geoffrey was too gutted to respond. He’d thought Edward’s meltdown had brought them closer, that they were a team again, their common goal to make him feel safe and secure. What it had actually done was make Olivia see that they needed to formalise their estrangement so everyone knew exactly where they stood.

  Edward’s bike had been at the top of the hill in the spot where they had left it. Both wheels were buckled, paintwork chipped and scratched, the leather on one of the handlebars ripped. It lay there, destroyed, just like their marriage.

  *

  Johnny borrowed a friend’s van and met them at the storage unit. Geoffrey saw him looking over at the factory, with its broken windows and graffiti, but neither of them said anything. Theirs had been a more subdued reunion – no embrace, certainly no tears – just a manly handshake and an unspoken acknowledgement to never mention the Boys’ Brigade. Neither of them mentioned the affair either, although Geoffrey imagined that they soon would, maybe over a boozy session in the Lamb and Lion. Maybe Johnny would even understand.

  They loaded furniture on to the van while Olivia and Lorna sorted out boxes of bedding and kitchen equipment and things to make the cottage look homely: rugs, cushions, books, photographs.

  It was a strange morning. A few times Geoffrey and Johnny found themselves joking about how to fit everything in the van, then remembered why they were doing it and stopped talking for a while. Olivia and Lorna were more businesslike, ticking things off a list and stacking them neatly next to the van to be loaded around the furniture. They were done in a couple of hours and set off in convoy to St Bede’s.

  *

  The cottage was round the back of the cricket pitch with a view across the manicured lawns. It was out of bounds when Geoffrey had been at school there but that hadn’t stopped him sneaking up to peek in the windows as a dare.

  All four of them were quieter now, putting things where Olivia told them but otherwise not saying much at all. Lorna unpacked the kettle and four mugs and made instant coffee to go with the Christmas cake she had brought from home.

  The kitchen was clean and compact with fitted wooden units and a stainless-steel sink. Olivia said to leave the box with china and stuff on the work surface and she would unpack it later. The three-seater sofa dwarfed the sitting room, leaving just enough space for a coffee table and the flat-screen TV that had been in Edward’s room at Manor Farm. None of it looked right here. It didn’t belong.

  Olivia began to arrange photographs on the coffee table but changed her mind and prioritised getting the bedrooms straight instead. There were two, both doubles, with a bathroom in between. At least it had a bath. Olivia’s bed was from the guest room her parents used when they came to visit. Geoffrey and Olivia’s grand four-poster would never have got through the door, let alone up the narrow staircase. Olivia probably wouldn’t have wanted it anyway.

  When the van was empty they all stood around, no one knowing quite what to say. Seeing Johnny put his arm round Lorna heightened Geoffrey’s sense of loss and loneliness. They would go home together, share intimacies, hold each other in bed. He knew it wasn’t the same – there had been no affair, no terrible accident – but Johnny had tried to run away from his problems and had withdrawn from Lorna rather than confiding in her, just like Geoffrey had done with Olivia. However glad he was that Johnny and Lorna had found a way back to each other, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy because he and Olivia hadn’t.

  ‘Don’t worry about Edward,’ said Lorna, addressing herself to Olivia. ‘He’ll be fine with us until you get settled.’

  Geoffrey had bought him a new bike in the Boxing Day sales. He wasn’t sure Edward would take it from him but he did. He even mumbled a ‘thank you’.

  ‘Well, I’d better get this van back to its rightful owner,’ said Johnny, producing a big bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. After an awkward pause, he and Geoffrey shook hands and Lorna hugged Olivia, whispering something in her ear. Olivia smiled the way she did when she was putting on a brave face.

  Geoffrey and Olivia stood there in the watery sunshine and watched their best friends d
rive away. So much had been damaged and lost, but only now did it seem irrevocable.

  ‘Can we talk?’ he said.

  Olivia looked wary.

  ‘Please. I won’t stay long.’

  Reluctantly, she led the way into the cottage. It was hard to believe this would be her home, his family’s home, but with no place for him. He followed her into the kitchen and remembered seeing Lorna put a bottle of wine in the fridge.

  ‘Do you mind if I open this,’ he said, getting the wine.

  It had a screw cap so they didn’t have to search around for a corkscrew. Olivia produced a couple of glasses and Geoffrey filled them almost to the brim.

  The kitchen was a commotion of unpacked boxes so they took their wine into the sitting room and sat at opposite ends of the sofa. Geoffrey remembered christening it the afternoon it had been delivered. Olivia had insisted on putting a towel underneath them so as not to risk staining the fabric.

  ‘I need to ask you a question,’ he said.

  Olivia inhaled sharply, clearly uncomfortable with the notion, but he asked anyway. ‘If it had just been an affair, could you have forgiven me?’

  She looked at him, aghast. ‘Just an affair?’

  ‘Sorry. I meant—’

  She shook her head. ‘I know what you meant.’ She took a long drink of wine and closed her eyes. ‘Maybe,’ she said, opening them. ‘I don’t know.’ After another glug of wine she said, ‘Now I have a question for you.’

  Geoffrey braced himself. ‘Fire away.’

  She stared at him, perhaps preparing herself for an answer she didn’t want to hear. ‘Why did you do it?’

  He drank deeply from his glass. ‘I have no fucking idea.’

  She stopped herself from smiling but he could tell she wanted to. ‘No, really – why did you do it?’

  How best to put this? ‘She caught me at a low point and I was too weak to say no. And I realise it’s no excuse, but she did all the chasing.’