Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “Is that where I’ll get my humbugs?” asked Rufus, pointing.

  “Er, possibly.” I looked doubtfully at the Spar.

  “Can we go in?”

  “Yes, why not? I’ll get the newspaper.”

  We parked on the forecourt and went inside. “I thought you said there’d be a bell,” remarked Rufus.

  “What?”

  “Above the door. A tinkly one.”

  “Oh. Sorry, darling.”

  “You’ll ’ave to move that,” a voice came from behind a copy of the Daily Mirror. “I don’t allow vehicles up against the window like that.” A woman behind the counter, with a tight perm and steel-rimmed glasses, lowered her newspaper. I glanced back at the car. It wasn’t particularly close, but…

  “OK, I’ll move it. Choose some sweets, Rufus, and I’ll be back.”

  “And I don’t allow unaccompanied children, neither. Not under the age of ten. There’s a notice to that effect, just there.” She jabbed at a piece of paper above her head. “Cause no end of trouble, they do.”

  I regarded this charmless individual in her pink jogging suit.

  “He’s not unaccompanied. I’ll be back just as soon as I’ve moved the car.”

  “Even so, you can take ’im with you.” She rustled her paper again and I found myself looking at David Beckham on the back page.

  “Right,” I muttered. “Come on, Rufus.”

  Silently we withdrew, reparked, then came back. Rufus chose some Polos—humbugs not appearing to be an option—and I picked up my Daily Mail. We approached the counter again. I flashed a wide smile as she took our things.

  “I’m Imogen Cameron, by the way. We’ve just moved into the village. We’re in one of the cottages on the Latimers’ estate.”

  A couple of old ladies by the freezer turned and stared. Pink Jogging Suit looked at us as if we’d just tucked some wine gums up our sleeves. She carried on ringing up her till.

  “I expect you know them,” I said pleasantly. “The Latimers.”

  “Oh, yeah, we know the Latimers.” She caught the eye of one of the old biddies and they exchanged looks. “Yes, well. I expect we’ll be seeing more of each other. Rufus is going to the village school, so I’ll probably pop in for my paper when I drop him off. And you are…?”

  She regarded me a long moment. “I am what?”

  “I mean, your name is…?” There was a weighty silence. I could feel myself going red. Rufus looked up at me anxiously.

  “Mrs. Mitchell,” she said eventually.

  “Right,” I said faintly. “Mrs. Mitchell.”

  As we left the shop I heard one of the old ladies say, “…and a packet of Rennies, please, Linda luv.”

  “Linda. Her name’s Linda,” Rufus said as we got back in the car.

  “Evidently.”

  We drove off in silence.

  “Not particularly friendly,” he observed at length.

  “No,” I agreed, thinking longingly of the lovely wise-cracking Khan brothers, Shied and Tac, who ran the 7-Eleven at the end of our road in Putney. “But then, they do say you have to live in a village for about three generations before you’re accepted.”

  “How long is three generations?”

  “About a hundred and fifty years.”

  He looked at me in horror.

  “No, Rufus,” I assured him, “we are not staying here for a hundred and fifty years.”

  ***

  Having located Tesco and filled the boot of the car with groceries, we set off for Hannah’s.

  “Is Daddy meeting us there?” asked Rufus as we cruised into their village, or more accurately, their strip of ribbon development along a fast country road.

  “No, Daddy’s going into work today. Don’t eat those sweets all at once, Rufus.”

  “Is he?” He turned to me in surprise, his tongue poking through a Polo. “I thought he went out walking with Piers.”

  “Yes, but he’s going in after that,” I said shortly. I too had assumed that he’d taken the day off and would be joining us for a jolly family day out, but apparently an urgent piece of work on his desk required his attention.

  “But, Alex, you won’t get there till mid-morning,” I’d said as he’d rung me at the cheese counter in Tesco. “Is it worth it? You know, if you’re going to do this commute properly, you need to get a really early start.”

  “You’re quite right, and in future I’ll be on the seven fifteen, but I just thought, since it’s our first morning, I’d have a leisurely start and pootle round the farm with Piers. Find out what I’ve let myself in for!”

  What I’d let myself in for, you mean, I thought as I snapped my mobile shut and snatched up my piece of Dolcelatte. How was he going to feed a herd of cows from the city? And I couldn’t help thinking this Urgent Piece of Work had only materialised when I’d told him where we were going today. My sister was not high on his list of priorities, and actually, he wasn’t high on hers either. Hannah had never really got over her initial disapproval of Alex, and he in turn found her bossy and domineering. My husband liked his women pretty and compliant, and Hannah, these days, was neither.

  We drew into the tarmac drive of their small, red-brick semi and I glanced up at the hermetically sealed double-glazed windows. It wasn’t exactly the pretty thatched cottage with roses round the door they’d envisaged when they’d first moved out of London, but then rose-decked cottages came at a premium they hadn’t envisaged either. A couple of teachers’ salaries didn’t go very far, and I knew they struggled to make ends meet. At least they looked out on to fields at the back, I thought, as I got out and gazed at the sheep-flecked meadow beyond, even if the traffic did zip past their noses at the front.

  “Hi-ya!” I called through the letter box, knowing the bell had long since given up the ghost.

  No response and the radio was blaring, so I pushed the door, which was on the latch, and went through to the narrow hallway. It was as cluttered as ever, and I tried to ignore the piles of books and files and newspapers as I brushed past them, tried not to think of it all as evidence of Hannah being consciously scatty. Hannah wasn’t scatty, she was supremely organised, and used to run a very tight ship, but these days it suited her to bustle around a chaotic house complaining she was far too busy to tidy up. I think a tidy house with nothing for her to do would have left her profoundly depressed. I did wonder Eddie didn’t complain about the dust, though. A pile of what I sincerely hoped was jumble—old clothes, a bird cage, a wet suit, a couple of lamps and some more books—blocked my way to the sitting room, but I skirted round them to the kitchen, where Hannah was making fairy cakes in her Sea Scouts uniform, complete with scarf and toggle. The bright blue skirt and shirt were stretched tightly over her ample bosom and bottom, and it occurred to me she’d put on even more weight. She must be nudging fifteen stone, I thought, quietly shocked.

  “Ah,” I smiled. “Scouts today?”

  “No, Eddie likes it,” she replied drily.

  I giggled and gave her a kiss. She was still quick on the draw, even if she’d let herself go in other respects.

  “Yes, quite right, Scouts today. We had a meeting this morning about the jumble sale, and Akela, can you believe it, likes everyone in uniform, even though the boys aren’t there. How weird is that?”

  “Very, but then again, give a man a whistle and a pair of shorts and he turns into a raving fascist. It’s probably the only authority he commands in his sad little life.”

  “Doesn’t say much for my little life then, does it?” she replied tartly.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean…” But she’d already bent down to embrace Rufus enthusiastically.

  “Hello, angel,” she beamed. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. Where’s Eddie?” My son, not one for small talk, cut ruthlessly to the chase.

  She laughed. “Out in the garden with Granny. Your uncle has decided to dig a pond, and your grandmother is advising him, horticulturally speaking.”

  “Cool
. Can I go and see?”

  But he’d already gone; out of the back door leaving it swinging on its hinges, and running down the lawn to the bottom of the garden, the soles of his trainers leaving dark imprints in the wet grass.

  “A pond?” I moved closer to the window. “I didn’t think Eddie was interested in gardening.”

  “He’s not, usually, but he’s got a thing about fish at the moment. Don’t ask. Where’s Alex, incidentally? I assumed you’d all be coming today?”

  I watched as Rufus flew into Eddie’s arms. Eddie swung him up and round in the air, laughing.

  “Oh, he’s gone into work. Giving the commute a trial run, but he was a bit late this morning because he went for a wander with Piers first.”

  “Strolling round his new estate, eh?” she said with a wry smile. “How’s it going?”

  I stuck my finger in the cake mixture and licked it. “Well, stupidly we got here a day early. I got the dates muddled up, so we saw the cottage at its very worst, before it had been cleaned, and then had to go to a rather stuffy dinner party last night.”

  “Oh Lord. Nightmare. What’s it like?”

  “The cottage? It’s OK. I’ll be fine for a bit.”

  “A bit?” She turned, wooden spoon raised. “I thought this was on a permanent basis?”

  I stuck my finger in the mixture again, avoiding her eye. “We’ll see.”

  She eyed me knowingly. “I see. Cold feet already. How is Lady Muck?”

  Hannah wanted no part of Eleanor’s smart county set, who organised charity balls and played tennis and hunted, and referred to it snidely as “filling in time between haircuts,” but I think it rankled that she couldn’t even turn the invitations down. After all, she was Alex’s sister-in-law; an invitation to kitchen supper at the very least might have been forthcoming.

  “She’s fine,” I said lightly. “She’s been very sweet, actually.”

  “Sweet,” she snorted. “I’ve heard that before, and then I’ve heard that she turns very sour.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Sue Fountain told me. Eleanor was all over her when she wanted Theo to be in some gymkhana team that Sue organises, and then when she saw her at a party, she cut her dead.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t recognise her.”

  “Nonsense, she’d been lobbying her morning, noon and night, banging on her door in the village, she knew exactly who she was. Val Harper said the same. Said she couldn’t have been nicer when she wanted her to make some curtains for her right before Christmas, but then once she’d done them, she completely ignored her at the Carol Concert. She’s not to be trusted.”

  “That’s a bit harsh. Just because someone’s a bit fickle, doesn’t mean they’re not to be trusted.”

  “Does in my book.”

  “Trusted with what, anyway? What have you heard?” I said lightly.

  Hannah turned. “Well, nothing scandalous, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, I didn’t, I just meant—”

  “No, Imo, I haven’t got a clue about her private life. I’m sure she’s got a blissfully happy marriage, and I’m equally sure,” she said flashing me a look, “that you wouldn’t be stupid enough to come down here with Alex if she hadn’t. I do credit you with some intelligence, you know.”

  I breathed in sharply. “Yes, well, absolutely. I agree. And I think she and Piers are very happy. He’s been terribly kind, actually.”

  She gave me an arch look as she took her tray of buns to the oven. “I think we both know the man’s a complete prat,” she remarked, shutting the door with a bang. “Come on,” straightening up, “let’s go and find the others.”

  I followed her slowly down the garden path, biting my thumbnail. If Hannah was deliberately trying to feed my neurosis she was doing a very good job of it. She’d always known which buttons to press, but then I did tend to leave my buttons lying about a bit. I watched as she marched on thick calves down her lawn, huge hips swinging from side to side, every inch the formidable Scout mistress.

  Mum and Eddie had their backs to me. They were standing by a rather muddy crater, showing Rufus the fish as he crouched down at the water’s edge.

  “Look, Mum.” He turned as I approached. “They’re enormous!”

  I bent to look. “Oh, yes, huge. And what fantastic water lilies!”

  “Plastic,” beamed Mum proudly, puffing away like mad on a cigarette. “All the greenery, the watercress—everything.”

  “Yes, and the thing is,” Eddie was hopping uncomfortably from foot to foot in the mud, “the fact that they’re not real means the fish aren’t getting the oxygen they need from them, and if they’re not getting the oxygen, we aren’t reaping the benefits of the photosynthesis which is so good for one. The whole thing’s hopeless!” he wailed.

  “Nonsense,” said Mum sharply. “It just means it’s much more attractive and you don’t get all the nasty slimy green stuff you usually do with ponds.”

  I made a sympathetic face as I greeted my brother-in-law. “She’ll be gone soon, Eddie, and then you can ship in as much oxygen-giving greenery as you like.”

  “I’m sure he won’t,” retorted Mum.

  “Perhaps I’ll have a mixture,” said Eddie diplomatically. “How are you, Imogen?” He regarded me anxiously.

  Knowing this wasn’t just a social enquiry I gave a wan smile back. “I’ve got a bit of a twinge, actually, Eddie. Right in the small of my back.” I gave it a rub.

  Hypochondriacs, in my experience, fell into two camps. There were those who hated other people to be ill because it stole their thunder, and those who liked it on the grounds that if someone else had got something, statistically it reduced the chances of them getting it. Eddie fell into the latter category, and his day was made if you admitted to an ailment, so long as it wasn’t catching.

  “I find a little rubbing oil helps enormously,” he advised eagerly. “And you’re probably lying on much too soft a mattress. My mother suffered terribly from back pain, but a hard mattress really sorted her out.”

  “It would take more than a hard mattress to sort your mother out,” remarked Hannah drily.

  “How is your mother?” I asked, ignoring my sister. Eddie’s brow wrinkled. “She’s been falling over a lot lately. I’m rather worried about her. I’m thinking of getting her one of those bleeper things, you know, an alarm.”

  “Oh, yes, I know. To put round your neck.”

  “Like a noose?” murmured Hannah wistfully.

  Eddie didn’t rise. “Come on, let’s go to the pub. That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

  “Ooh, yes.” Mum quickly stubbed her cigarette out and went hastily down the slippery mud bank.

  “Why so keen?” I asked, eyeing her suspiciously. Mum liked a drink or six but much preferred a smart wine bar to a country pub.

  “Your father’s going to be there,” she confided, “and he’s bringing Dawn. You haven’t met Dawn, have you?”

  “Er, no.”

  “Oh, she’s marvellous, Imogen,” she breathed, taking my arm as I fell in step beside her. “Your father met her in Curry’s—she was senior sales assistant on washing machines and tumble dryers—but he’s taken her away from all that, and now she wants to be a doctor.”

  “Oh, right. Is she bright?”

  “Breathtakingly stupid,” she chortled. “Isn’t it priceless? She’s going to specialise in neurology, apparently, and her mother—ooh, you must meet the mother.” She lit another cigarette, eyes sparkling.

  “Must I?” I said nervously.

  “Yes, they come as a package. Dawn never goes anywhere without her mother, a huge woman in a purple coat, who just sits, solidly, for hours on end without saying a word. She looks like Stephen Fry in drag. No one can remember her name, not even your father, and he’s known her for three months so now it’s too late to ask. Oh, they’re terrific, darling.”

  “Great,” I said uncomfortably as Hannah caught my eye.

  It was marvellous that
Mum could be so relaxed about Dad’s girlfriends, and lovely that we could all still get together as a family, but the delight Mum took in her ex-husband making a fool of himself was sometimes discomforting. She hadn’t always been so phlegmatic about his love life. When Dad had first gone off with Marjorie Ryan, a great family friend who used to share a house with us in France, and whom Mum had modelled Dior gowns with in the sixties, she was devastated. “Heartbroken?” Kate had asked me once when I was telling her all about it. I’d hesitated. No, but then that wasn’t Mum’s style. She didn’t shatter easily. Didn’t crumble. I think she’d been relieved when he’d moved on to Audrey, a rather dumpy marketing executive with dozens of cats and none of Marjorie’s style, had perked up tremendously when Audrey had been traded in for Michelle, a peroxide-blonde hygienist, and was positively enchanted by Dawn, the shelf-stacking embryonic neurosurgeon.

  “She’s obviously quite tough,” Kate had commented, and I suppose she was. I’d certainly never seen her cry. Her parents, my grandparents, had been killed in a car crash when she was four, and she’d been brought up by her godmother, a rather remote figure who bred Border Terriers in Northumberland. I think Mum—when she was allowed home from boarding school—was treated like one of the puppies; fed and watered, but otherwise expected to get on with it. As a result, she’d grown an extra layer of skin that was quite hard to penetrate. Conversely, though, she was very loving, and Hannah and I had enjoyed an idyllic childhood with plenty of nurturing and cuddles, a far cry from her own upbringing, and, one suspects, deliberately so.

  As we all trooped off to the pub at the end of the road I watched her leading the way, supremely elegant in her floaty linen coat and long, aquamarine silk scarf, genuinely thrilled to be getting another peek at Dawn. I wished I’d inherited a few more of her genes; wished I wasn’t so easily upset. I straightened my back as I held Rufus’s hand along the busy road and resolved to be more like her.