A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “It’s too rich, got too much clover, and clover’s got a hollow stem, full of air. If they eat too much they blow up like barrage balloons.” He looked at me. “Cows can’t burp. Didn’t you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Why would I? “So…what happens?”

  “They explode.”

  I stared. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He shrugged and made off towards his car. “OK, give it a whirl. Put them in the clover field. I’d stand well back though, if I were you.”

  I gazed after him. I wasn’t at all sure I liked this man’s attitude: half hectoring and half, I felt, poking fun at me. All the same, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to return from the school run and find bits of exploding cow all over the place.

  “No—no, I’ll give them hay,” I said decisively, scuttling after him again. God, this man could shift. “And I’ll take the straw out of the roundels.”

  “You’ll have a job. Most of it’s been trampled into the mud. Piers won’t be too thrilled at having his fields wrecked like that.”

  I turned back to see that the cows had indeed pulled it out and flattened it comprehensively into the mud. One of them was even lying on it.

  “Don’t tell him!” I breathed cravenly.

  “What, that his cows were on death row, or that you’ve been feeding them bedding?”

  “Either,” I trembled. “I’ve only been here a few days. He’ll think I’m incompetent, probably kick us out. And Alex will kill me,” I added in a low voice.

  He gave the first hint of a smile I’d seen since he’d arrived. “Your secret’s safe with me. Luckily for you, we weren’t able to contact Piers this afternoon. And anyway, the straw will rot in time.” He sat in the open boot of his Land Rover and took his boots off. He shot me a quizzical look. “Alex is your husband, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one sitting next to Eleanor at the far end of the table the other night?”

  “That’s it.”

  He gave me an odd look.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “No, what?”

  He shrugged. “I thought I’d seen him here before, that’s all.”

  “Yes, you probably have. He often pops down here. Piers and Eleanor are very old friends of his.”

  “Ah,” he said shortly.

  He stashed his Wellingtons away, and changed into deck shoes.

  “And why isn’t he feeding the cows for you?” His dark eyes flashed up to meet mine. “That’s hard work, heaving those bales into roundels.”

  “Oh, because he’s not here during the day. He works in London. And actually,” I lied, “he gets terrible hay fever.”

  “Does he now.” It was said in a slightly mocking way that made me bristle. And all in that lilting Irish accent. Why hadn’t I recognised it in the first place? But his mask had muffled it. I felt stupid. He’d made a fool of me.

  “Right. Well, if that’ll be all…” I said crisply, drawing myself up to my full five foot three.

  He stood up slowly and regarded me a moment. “Yes. That’ll be all. Although I saw from my records on the way over here that these cows are due a booster soon. They’ll need it if you want to take them anywhere.”

  “Oh, they’re not going anywhere,” I said impatiently. What—off on their holidays? With their suitcases and sunglasses? “They don’t need that.”

  “This isn’t an optional flu jab,” he snapped, “it’s mandatory. If you’re moving them to different pastures, which, I happen to know Piers does in the winter, they’ll need it.” He slammed the boot shut. “I’ll be up in due course to administer it. Good day, Mrs. Cameron.”

  “Good day,” I snapped back as he got in the car and shut the door. He started the engine with a flourish and roared off in zigzags up the track, the dust hovering in his wake.

  Rude man, I thought as I watched him go. Thoroughly, rude man. There was no call to speak to people like that. Particularly to clients. I squared my shoulders. I mean, OK, I’d rattled his cage with the foot-and-mouth scare and I could see how that might be annoying, but actually, what he’d really been worried about was an outbreak occurring on his patch; in his own back yard, so to speak. I stalked into the house and shut the door. Yes, he’d been more concerned about saving his own professional skin than about saving the cows.

  At three o’clock, I went to get Rufus. I’d dressed down a bit this time: I couldn’t quite bring myself to do the whole bare legs and trainers bit, but I looked suitably casual, I thought, in old jeans, a white T-shirt and sunglasses. Perfect. I got there deliberately early, hoping for a bit of car park chat, but in the first place there wasn’t a car park, and in the second place, the only mothers that were there collecting their offspring—most children appeared to walk or cycle home—steadfastly refused to look at me. I flashed encouraging little smiles hither and thither, but to no avail. They stood in impenetrable circles, their backs to me, buggies in the middle like wagons at Custer’s last stand, armed with toddlers and Tesco carrier bags.

  “Hello!” I said brightly to one young mum, standing on her own having a solitary fag. Her mouth fell open and she dropped her cigarette in her pram.

  At last the bell rang, the doors opened and the children spilled out. Not in an organised crocodile as they had from Carrington House, but at the double, spewing from all orifices like a bean bag that’s burst its seams, with an awful lot of noise and dragging of coats and bags. I glanced around anxiously, trying to spot Rufus in the scrum. Finally I saw him, right at the back on his own, socks around his ankles, head down, dragging his blazer, looking pale and tired. My heart lurched.

  “Hello, darling!” I couldn’t help it. My hand shot up in the air too. Quite a lot of incredulous heads swivelled. I later learned that a grunted “Orright?” was the more familiar, maternal greeting.

  “Hi,” he muttered as I took his bags.

  “Oh, Rufus, your face! What happened?” He had a nasty cut above his right eye.

  “I fell over.” He walked past me towards the car.

  “Did you? Oh, darling, poor you. What, playing footy or something?” I hastened after him.

  “It’s not footy, it’s football. And no.”

  As we reached the car, a group of children, obviously intent on raising Linda’s stress levels and muscling into the Spar en masse, turned and nudged one another.

  “Woof!” one of them said to Rufus.

  “Woof woof!” another agreed, and giggled.

  I smiled, thinking perhaps they were new chums, but they guffawed and turned away.

  “They looked nice,” I said brightly as we drove off.

  “They’re not,” he said bitterly. “No one is.”

  I swallowed. Felt my throat tighten. “Did you have a good day?”

  “No.” He stared out of the window.

  I licked my lips. “Oh, well. First day is always tricky. Takes time to settle in.”

  He didn’t reply and stayed with his head resolutely turned away from me. When we got home he went straight up to his bedroom and shut the door. I made to follow, then thought—no, food, that’s what he needs. And anyway, he wouldn’t talk to me yet. I knew Rufus. He’d want to be alone. With trembling hands I peeled potatoes and made sausage and mash, then called from the bottom of the stairs. For a moment I didn’t think he was coming, but finally, the door opened and he came down slowly. I could tell he’d been crying. I wanted to fly to him, wrap him in my arms, but Rufus wasn’t always amenable to that sort of behaviour and might well just stand there like a statue. He ate his tea slowly and I washed up the pans behind him, prattling away about the cows, about my stupidity, hoping to make him laugh. He didn’t. As I put the milk back in the fridge I snuck a look at him, watching anxiously for signs of blood sugar levels returning, trying not to wonder at the
cut over his eye.

  “Why did you give me a dog’s name, Mummy?” he asked eventually.

  I turned. “I…didn’t, darling. I gave you a lovely name.”

  “Everyone says it’s a dog’s name. And, by the way, I can’t have violin lessons—they don’t do them. And no one wears garters in their socks.”

  “Right,” I said faintly.

  “I’m going to see the lambs.” He slid off his chair and out the back door before I could suggest accompanying him.

  It was quite obvious, though, I thought as I moved to the open back doorway, clutching my tea towel to my breast, that he didn’t want company. The tilt of his head said it all: leave me alone, you’re the cause of my unhappiness, you’re why I’m here, I hate you. I gripped the door frame. My heart burned for him.

  It was always tough, though, a new school, I reasoned. Some were tougher than others, admittedly, but he’d get there. He’d settle in. And lovely to have all this to come back to, I thought as I watched him sitting cross-legged in the orchard, pulling at the grass, surrounded by lambs, who, naturally inquisitive, came to sniff him and take grass from his hand. Thank God he didn’t have a dead cow to come back to, too.

  That night, as I put him to bed, though, he broke down.

  “It’s too different,” he sobbed into my neck, clinging to me as he sat up in his Harry Potter pyjamas. “It’s all too different, and I don’t feel right. I’m not right!”

  “Nonsense,” I said, my heart pounding as I held him tight. “Of course you’re right. Who says you’re not?”

  “There’s this boy,” he hiccuped, drawing back from me, face drenched in tears, “called Carl. He started the woofing and everything, and then everyone joined in and started saying ‘walkies,’ and then I got pushed over by him on the way out of lunch. Accidentally, I think,” he said, seeing my horrified face.

  “Right.”

  “Mum, you won’t say anything, will you?” he pleaded. “Of course not, darling. Of course not.” I swallowed. “Shall we read a bit more of The Hobbit?”

  He nodded mutely and lay down, his face pale, turned away from me to the wall. I read to the end of the chapter, my voice faltering in places, but it seemed to soothe him as he listened to the rhythm of the words. I kissed him when I’d finished, and turned out the bedside light.

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Mum, promise you won’t say anything?” He turned his face back to me.

  “I promise.”

  When I got downstairs, Alex was at the kitchen table eating a pork pie, which I’d earmarked for his supper with some salad, straight from the wrapper. He’d clearly just walked through the door.

  “He’s being bullied,” I said, my voice catching as I said it.

  Alex swallowed the last mouthful and looked up. “Is he?”

  “Yes, by a boy called Carl in the year below.” I pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. “He pushed him over on his way out from lunch.”

  “Well, tell him to push him back if he’s in the year below. He needs to stand up for himself a bit more. You wrap him up in cotton wool.”

  “He doesn’t want me to say anything,” I said abstractedly, scrunching the pork pie wrapper fiercely in my hand, my nails digging into my palm. I gazed bleakly over his shoulder.

  “Good. Well, don’t.” Alex picked his teeth with his finger. “What’s for supper?”

  “And they’re making fun of his name.”

  “Kids will, Imo. They’ll get bored, though. Don’t fret.”

  “I know, but I do.”

  He sighed. “Good day at the office, darling? No, lousy, thank you. And good journey home? Well, if you can call two hours in a steel box full of human lasagne good, then yes, it was delightful.”

  I got up from the table and put the wrapper in the bin. Turned and noticed him properly for the first time.

  “How was your day?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!”

  And then, for the second time that evening, another member of my family mysteriously flounced from my presence and stomped upstairs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day, when I’d dropped Rufus off at the school gates, I went back to the car. I got in, but didn’t drive away; instead, I shrank down behind the wheel outside the Spar. Linda peered at me suspiciously through the window as she stacked her Andrex, but I pretended I was on my mobile. Five minutes later, when the playground had cleared and I reckoned they’d all be safely in registration putting their spring flowers on the nature table, I nipped back across the road, through the school gates and, eschewing the main entrance, quietly entered the building via a side door. Keeping my head low and wishing I had a headscarf on, I hurried furtively down the corridor to Daniel Hunter’s office. I knocked and got no answer, so knocked again, more urgently this time, then stuck my head round.

  He was on the telephone and looked momentarily annoyed, then he recognised me and smiled. He waved me in while he was still talking and I tiptoed in theatrically, sitting across the desk from him, trying to look as if I wasn’t listening to his conversation and was more interested in the décor. There was nothing really to look at, though: shelves of books and files lined two walls and there were a couple of Monet prints on the others, but no photographs on the desk, I noticed. No wife and kids. But no, that’s right. Hannah had said he wasn’t married.

  “…all right, Mrs. Carter…Yes, I understand if Craig is still ill, but these headaches are getting rather recurrent…Well, if you could just make sure he gets here tomorrow…Thank you so much. Good-bye.”

  He put the phone down. “Truancy,” he informed me, snapping a register shut. “Aided and abetted by the parent.”

  “Really? Good heavens. I thought most mothers were keen to get the little darlings out of the house.”

  “Not if the little darling gets breakfast while Mum sleeps off a hangover and then does the shopping and takes Dad’s betting slip to the bookies and changes the baby’s nappy and generally becomes indispensable.”

  “Oh.” I was shocked. “Poor little scrap.”

  “Exactly,” he sighed. Scratched his head. “We do our best to give the blighters an education but sometimes it’s an uphill struggle. The parents are often harder work than the pupils. Now, what can I do for you?”

  It was said pleasantly enough, but I could tell this was a man who had a school to run and needed to get on.

  I straightened up. “I’m afraid Rufus is being bullied.”

  He frowned. Pushed the register aside. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Anyone in particular?”

  “Yes, he’s called Carl, he’s in the year below him. He got everyone to bark at him yesterday, and then he pushed him over in the lunch queue. Rufus has got a cut over his eye.”

  “Right.” He looked thoughtful. Picked up a pen and doodled, lips pursed. Then put the pen down, laced his fingers together and leaned towards me on his elbows. “Mrs. Cameron, it is only day one, and you know, after a bit, things do have a habit of shaking down. I could wade in now and have a word with Carl but sometimes that exacerbates the problem. Since he’s not in his class and Rufus won’t come across him that much, my advice would be to let things be. Carl Greenway has a short attention span and he’ll probably get bored with baiting Rufus—who, I suspect, he gets zilch reaction from—and go back to sniping with Mark Overton, who gives as good as he gets.”

  I stared, horrified. “You mean…you’re not going to get him in here? Suspend him?”

  He suppressed a smile. “Not immediately. I’ll certainly have a quiet word with Mrs. Harding and ask her to keep an eye on the situation, but I don’t recommend hauling Carl over the coals just yet. If, in a couple of days, things haven’t improved, I certainly will, but I think you’ll find this is best. These things generally have a way of sorting themselves out.”

  “Well, I hope y
ou’re right, because obviously if things don’t sort themselves out, I’ll have to make other arrangements.” My voice was a bit shrill.

  He frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, obviously if this school isn’t right for Rufus, I’ll have to take him elsewhere. Back to London, if needs be. I’d live in a bedsit if it meant Rufus could go to the right school and be happy.”

  I wasn’t sure he’d got the picture. See how things shake out? Keep an eye? This was my baby. My precious Rufus.

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” he soothed.

  “And what if he comes home tonight with another cut? Over the other eye? Or even in his eye? Or—or worse still, a deep psychological scar? One that stays with him for ever, one that will never heal!”

  At this point, to my horror, my voice cracked. My eyes filled up and I raised them to the ceiling, but to no avail, it was all too close to the surface and—oh God. The next thing I knew, Mr. Hunter was pushing a box of tissues across his desk towards me, and in another minute, he’d left his seat and pulled up a chair beside me.

  “Blow,” he ordered, handing me a fistful of tissues, as if I was one of his pupils. I obeyed, forcibly, and actually, felt a lot better.

  “I’m so sorry,” I muttered, appalled as I blew again and wiped my nose. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  He grinned. “Fierce maternal protection, I’d hazard. Crying mothers are not unusual in this office, Mrs. Cameron, I assure you.”

  “I thought you were pretty quick on the draw with the tissue box,” I gulped, dabbing my eyes.

  “Years of practice. And I don’t blame you for being upset. It’s very hard to see your child unhappy, but nine-year-olds do scrap a bit, and being a new boy is always difficult. Children of that age are intrinsically kind, though, which is why I like teaching them so much, before they’ve hardened off a bit at secondary school.”

  “Isn’t that what the Jesuits say?” I sniffed, scrunching the tissue into a soggy ball and blinking hard. “Give me a boy until he’s seven and I’ll show you the man?”