by Rachel Hore
‘I came tonight, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, and you enjoyed it, didn’t you?’
‘It was OK, yes. I wouldn’t say I had much in common with the Beatons, though. There’s a limit to what I have to say about sugarbeet subsidies.’
Kate couldn’t understand why Simon was being grumpy. He had been like this for the last couple of months and she had put it down to exhaustion. But now she thought there was something else. Simon obviously felt on the fringes of her life here. Debbie and Jonny and the Beatons were her friends and he did not share their world whereas she was beginning to do so. He just hadn’t settled down here yet – hardly surprising as he was so rarely around. He was always very good with the children at weekends. He would take them out to the beach in all weathers, to the little cinema in Southwold, was even happy to take a turn with the bedtime regime. But it was rare for him to meet the people she saw every day, and he’d had no time or energy to become involved in anything locally. It wasn’t exactly his fault, it was just a fact of life. She remembered with a shock what Claire had clumsily warned her about all those months ago. It was coming true. She and Simon were starting to inhabit different worlds.
Now, as Kate watched Debbie cuddling James, who had fallen and hurt his hand, she turned her situation over in her mind. It was partly the fact that one of them was working and one of them wasn’t. In London, both of them were contributing to the pot; now, she was Simon’s dependent. She had to ask him for housekeeping money and, although he never asked her to account for what she spent, from time to time he would frown when she asked for some extra and, she hated this most when the extra was for something for herself – shoes or a new coat, for instance. It made her feel she had to justify her existence, her right to have nice things, although at the same time, Simon seemed very keen that she wore stylish clothes, especially on the rare occasion when she was invited to something that involved his colleagues. Not only was she dependent on his money, she was living in her mother-in-law’s house, relying on her kindness. Not that Joyce would ever see it that way, she hastily told herself.
Her world and Simon’s were different geographically and culturally, too, with Simon in the City and herself in the country, and this meant that, daily, they were having completely different experiences. Of course, large numbers of couples lived like this and thought it normal, coped with the stresses. But it didn’t feel normal to Kate; it felt as though everything had changed, was falling apart. Suddenly, their marriage, previously a relationship of equals, was becoming a partnership between strangers. Simon was just never there, and when he was, they couldn’t seem to pick up with each other where they’d left off.
Suddenly, Kate felt quite panicky. Perhaps they had done the wrong thing in moving; perhaps they should go back to London before it was too late. Was the fact that they hadn’t found a house they liked a sign that, deep down inside, they both knew this move wasn’t to be permanent?
But I don’t want to go back, a part of her said with great clarity. I like it here. She loved seeing so much of the children. She loved living in the country, watching the changing seasons, even if, as she joked to Liz on the phone, one of the things she missed most was having a lamp-post outside the front door plus the air smelled of pig manure and the nearest cappuccino was five miles away. She was starting to bed down here, to make friends locally. But she really must sort out something else to do, workwise. One of the mums ran a mail-order business for children’s clothing, another was making her own soap and selling it through local giftshops and craft fairs. Although neither of these things appealed to Kate, there must be something out there for her, if she thought about it for long enough.
‘Do you feel at home here yet?’ Debbie was asking her now, James having run back to play, his injury forgotten. ‘It took me a couple of years, you know.’
Kate felt a rush of warmth at Debbie’s tactful understanding.
‘I do miss my friends in London, I can’t deny it. We all lead such busy lives, it’s not as easy to see them as I thought it would be. I can’t always be hopping on the train up to Town – it gets a bit much for Joyce, looking after both the kids for long. Oh, it’s not as though people aren’t friendly here. They are – and you’ve been so lovely, Debbie.’ She squeezed the other woman’s shoulder affectionately. ‘But there’s nothing like people who know you deep down, is there? You don’t have to pretend with them, they know where you’re coming from, what’s giving you an off day, what makes you laugh. I worry about saying the wrong thing here sometimes.’
Debbie nodded. ‘Oh, I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘It still happens to me. Actually, the worst time was when I said to Laura Simpson – you know, Frankie’s mum? – didn’t she think Jenny, the receptionist at the surgery, could be such a pain? And it turned out she was Jenny’s sister. I’ve spent the last four years telling Laura every time I see her how nice and efficient the wretched woman is, even though she’s sour enough to turn the milk.’
Kate laughed. ‘Good thing my friend Liz doesn’t live round here. There’d be civil war in no time!’
‘Have you been up to see any of your old friends recently?’
‘No, but we’ve spoken on the phone and Liz and Laurence are bringing the family up for a weekend in the summer.’ Kate had taken Sam and Daisy up to stay with the Longmans during the February break. From there they’d gone down to spend a night with Kate’s parents, an occasion fraught with anxiety, as the Carters weren’t used to overnight guests. And she’d paid a visit to her old office. ‘I felt I didn’t belong there any more,’ she told Debbie now. It had been so alienating, seeing someone else sitting at her desk with her authors’ books on the shelves. And they’d changed the furniture round. Worst of all, it looked better this way. ‘I do miss work,’ she murmured, almost to herself. ‘God, what I wouldn’t give even to go to a meeting and negotiate with adults for a change!’
‘Me too,’ Debbie said. ‘Even a budget meeting with the managing director droning on about targets I couldn’t care less about.’ Debbie had worked in market research, which she’d given up without much regret when they moved. Her real interest lay in gardening, she had told Kate. Maybe she’d take a landscape gardening course once the children were a bit older.
‘At least there are more women who stay at home round here,’ Debbie went on. ‘When I go up to Jonny’s London parties sometimes, I feel so left out. All these smartly dressed confident women ask me what I “do”. How can I really get across to them what life is like here? So I just say, “I spend Jonny’s money”, and they laugh, but at least then I’ve got over the embarrassment.’
Kate admired Debbie’s air of confidence. Of course, she was lucky that Jonny worked at home and she saw so much of him, but Debbie didn’t seem to care what other people thought of her, or to worry about whether she was doing the ‘right thing’. It was a real gift to be at home in your own life, Kate thought. Hers felt like an ill-fitting suit at the moment.
The last eight months had been very strange. For a start, she hadn’t really known how to organize all these acres of time with which she’d found herself once the children had started school. At the office, she had been used to a list of tasks that had to be achieved, that could be ticked off one by one, even if more kept popping up to take their place. Being at home with two young children seemed an alarmingly unstructured affair. She was lucky that she had lots of help from Joyce, although after eight months of living with her mother-in-law, the strain was starting to show. Joyce was as chatty as ever, but not as relentlessly cheerful. Indeed, sometimes she seemed to Kate quite grim, especially as she surveyed the mess the children created or whenever she had to separate them when they were fighting. Last week she had even lost her temper with Sam.
‘You are an extremely disobedient little boy,’ Joyce had hissed at him after he had knocked a china goat off a shelf, chipping a horn. ‘I told you to put that sword down. If your daddy had done that when he was a little boy, he would have gone straight to
bed without his supper.’
Sam had looked so shocked at his grandmother’s angry tone that Kate’s heart went out to him. Yet Sam had been naughty and she felt she had to back up her mother-in-law when Joyce said, ‘You’re not having any chocolate pudding for tea now,’ and turned her back on Sam.
While Joyce wasn’t looking, Kate gave Sam a quick hug, but felt powerless to undo the punishment of missing his very favourite dish, though her son’s shoulders shook in silent misery. If only she were in her own home and could discipline her children in her own way.
She also felt powerless when it came to Joyce’s relationship with Simon. All right, so the woman could be annoying, but Kate felt embarrassed whenever Simon was rude to Joyce, or fell into one of his sullen silences and offered his mother only monosyllables when she asked after his day. After all, they were relying on Joyce’s hospitality.
Kate knew that Joyce was very worried about Simon’s absence and, if she stopped to look at it squarely, which she didn’t want to do, Kate would agree.
She badly missed her husband’s company. She missed the way they had been a team. Now she felt she had been exiled from his life – locked in a tower, stationed in a distant outpost, whichever way you liked to look at it. Perhaps he felt the same way about her? And although she was making friends, putting down roots, it was often hard to concentrate on being in Suffolk. Her mind drifted all the time to London, wondering what her old colleagues were doing, how her friends were. She felt she was making a lot of the running in keeping up some of her friendships. Worse, she knew she was right – her old colleagues had moved on, they were forgetting about her. She could be doing more about getting freelance publicity work, but she hadn’t in all honesty enjoyed the bits and pieces she’d been doing, such as publicizing the uninspiring novel by a local TV interior-design-show presenter who had proved ungrateful for all her efforts, and a series of travel guides, which had bogged her down in endless administration. And, as predicted, she had to avoid any work that meant travelling to attend publication events – which meant most of the more interesting projects. No, she’d be better off turning her attention to something different.
‘Would you like to stay in Fernley, though?’ Debbie was asking.
‘Oh yes, it’s so friendly, it would be great to get a house there,’ Kate replied. She loved the little school, especially since Sam and Daisy were so obviously happy there. There was a surprising range to the curriculum, with parents often invited in to share their skills with the children. Mrs Smithson, the headmistress, was a calm and experienced teacher and manager, and knew instinctively how to treat each individual child. Sam had shown some early signs of dyslexia and she had immediately arranged some special exercises for him, which had made a great difference to his progress.
The only problem was to do with the facilities. The school buildings were originally Victorian and had reached the stage where some major repair work was required. Mrs Smithson had been chasing the local authority about the matter for some time now.
‘We must introduce you to some more of our friends locally,’ said Debbie. ‘And you and Simon should come along to the belly-dancing,’ she added, a twinkle in her eye.
‘Belly-dancing? Are you joking?’ said Kate. ‘Is this some local coven?’
Debbie laughed. ‘Hardly. The vicar’s wife runs it – she’s a dance teacher. It’s at the church hall in Seddington on Friday nights. It’s really funny who comes along. All ages, all sorts, all sizes!’
Seddington was a couple of miles away towards Halesworth. Fernley’s vicar was also vicar there. Although Kate sometimes took the children to St Felix’s Sunday School at Fernley, when there were services – Simon had refused point blank to go – she’d never been to Seddington church and had had no idea about all this other life that clearly went on there.
‘I’ll let you know, Debbie,’ was all she said now. Belly-dancing, indeed!
Kate, Sam and Daisy returned to Paradise Cottage at four o’clock. The children were tired, and they showed it in the usual unhelpful way of misbehaving. Daisy kept calling Sam a ‘weedy baby’. Sam kept hitting her with his toy sword until Kate took it away from him, then, at tea, he stood on a chair and threw his drink across the table at his sister. It missed and milkshake splashed all over the curtains. Kate bundled him up to his room. Then she went down to apologize to a tight-lipped Joyce.
‘Don’t worry, dear,’ the older woman said. ‘It’s just I don’t remember Simon ever doing anything like that when he was a child.’ Kate thought Joyce had a rather rose-tinted view of the infant Simon – she knew more than enough about his stubborn streak if he didn’t get his own way – but she didn’t like to say anything. She brought Sam down to say sorry, then they settled the children in front of a video cartoon while Joyce made her a cup of tea.
‘You look done in, dear.’ She patted Kate’s hand. ‘Why don’t you let me put them to bed tonight?’
‘Joyce, I couldn’t. You’ve had more than enough of the children this afternoon.’ Was that the light of martyrdom in her mother-in-law’s eyes, or a genuine desire to help? It wasn’t easy to tell.
‘They’re quieter now,’ Joyce said, almost pleading, ‘and I could make my peace with Sam. Why don’t you have a break – take Bobby out for a walk?’
Kate looked out of the window at the gorgeous golden evening. It would be wonderful to be out in the fields by herself. The temptation to skip the strung-out chores of children’s bedtime was too much to resist.
‘Thank you,’ she told Joyce. ‘And I’ll ring Dad and Claire later. I need to escape.’
‘A change of air will do you good,’ said Joyce, and little did she know how true this would prove.
Chapter 9
Kate hauled back Bobby, who was straining, rasping, on his leash, and swung the gate shut behind her. She looked up at the children’s bedroom window. A small face was squashed against the glass in a halo of steam, the soft mouth spread, limpet-like in a parody of a kiss. Sam. Kate raised her hand and wiggled anemone fingers in an answering wave.
‘Bobby, come here. Don’t pull, you wretch,’ she hissed. Taking the three-year-old spaniel out was not exactly a break, she thought crossly, then felt chastened. It was certainly a change from getting Daisy and Sam in and out of the bath. Real-life bedtime was never like the ads. Poor Joyce . . .
Ouch! Kate, preoccupied, had hardly noticed where she was walking and now it was through a patch of stinging nettles. Bobby had led her the 200 yards down to Fernley Lane and left along the rough verge towards his favourite rabbit-chasing place, the cornfields. She felt another flash of irritation. The farmer had just ploughed and after yesterday’s rain the fields would be a quagmire. She should have worn her wellies. Hard luck, dog. ‘It’ll be through the village to the woods for us today, matey,’ she said sternly and dragged him round. Bobby sat down in the road and looked at her, resentment in his eyes. She frowned at him and pulled. Badly trained animal. Over-indulged surrogate child. All this was true, unfortunately, but his soulful eyes could still melt the hardest heart. She wouldn’t drag him all the way to Ketley Woods – that would be no pleasure for either of them. What should she do? She looked about for inspiration.
After a moment, a half-hidden notice across the road caught her eye. There, almost eclipsed by a huge holly bush, was a little opening between two hedgerows. Was it another way down to the woods?
‘C’mon, Bobby!’ Kate tugged. ‘Rabbits!’ she breathed in mock excitement. And this time when she pulled he came, sniffing the air joyfully. That was it with men, she thought, as she unclipped his lead. Mention food and off they go.
She grinned, the warm golden evening beginning to work its magic. The dry earth lane twisted and turned its way between the high hedges. It was like a maze, Kate realized with a growing feeling of excitement. She was being drawn on an adventure to she knew not where. The glowing disc of the dying sun poured liquid light on the chestnut earth, the knobbly roots of the hedge and the foliage shiny
from the recent shower, and the air was filled with a heavy woody fragrance with high notes of spring flowers. There was Bobby, darting to and fro ahead, snorting and snuffling, occasionally raising his head to look at her with a look of doggy ecstasy. If only life here could always be like this.
She strode on, listening to the birdsong, feeling the tension gradually leave her shoulders. The path seemed to be curving away from the direction of Ketley Woods, uphill. Where was it taking her? It was widening now, and then suddenly, on the left, a high wall reared up. It was crumbly in places, the patterning in the bricks recognizably Victorian. The tops of trees loomed above. Occasionally the wall bulged or was breached where roots or branches tried to reclaim the space.
On she walked as if in a dream, the sun losing all its heat now, the light flickering from gold to silver to the colour of running water in the shadows of the great trees. A slight breeze picked up, lifting her fine hair. What might be over the wall? Kate wondered. There was something familiar about it.
Where was Bobby? It was a while since she had seen his feathery flag of a tail. She called. Silence, then Kate heard a single bark. She quickened her pace around the next bend in the path. No Bobby. Then something caught her eye. She stopped and looked.
A little door in the wall. A wooden door rounded at the top and with Gothic wrought-iron bars and a little slip latch. It was open slightly, shivering on its hinges in a sudden breath of wind. Could he have gone inside? ‘Bobby?’ she called. She made out another, more distant bark, this time definitely from the other side of the door. What should she do? She reached out her hand and pushed the door gently. It swung open and Kate stepped into the wild and beautiful garden of her dream.
Transfixed, she stood looking around, the door swinging to behind her. This was the same garden, the same house. No, the trees were taller, the walls more crumbly, the flowerbeds were overgrown, the greenhouse practically a ruin. It was the same garden, but many years on. There was evidence that the lawns were mown and the shrubs pruned, and of course the lovely Italianate features were still there, but the fountain wept no more, the gravel was scanty and the statues were half-covered in yellow lichen.
