A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “She ain’t used to chickens,” she panted, her face pink, “not free range like that, at any rate.”

  “Don’t worry,” I soothed, “he’ll live. So, um, Eleanor. I mean, Mrs. Latimer. She can’t be blamed for—”

  “She’s more than likely never seen ’em runnin’ wild before. Specially not a great big cock like that.”

  “No. No, it is a big one. But, um, the Latimers—”

  “An’ she’s used to chasing birds, see. Never catches ’em, like, not quick enough, like the cat, but these great big chickens, well, that’s different. It’s like pheasants, innit? Bad girl, Cindy!” She admonished her, tugging hard on the string.

  “Honestly, it couldn’t matter less,” I assured her.

  “Yeah, but it’s best we go,” she said nervously, draining her tea and getting to her feet. “Before we do any more damage. Don’t want Mr. Latimer counting his chickens. I’ll be shot. I’ll get the kids rounded up.”

  “Honestly, there’s no need—”

  But she was already marching around the garden, yelling like a sergeant major, calling the children to heel, and I realised it was going to be neither decently nor indecently possible to steer the conversation back to Eleanor again. I got to my feet with a resigned sigh and followed her. Most of the children were in the orchard with the lambs, where Rufus was proudly showing Tanya how to pick one up, explaining how a little orphaned one would drink from a bottle with a bit of persuasion. I had to admit, it was a something of a sylvan scene and I leaned on the fence, looking on proudly.

  “Me granddad had all this,” said Sheila, joining me at the fence and nodding around as we watched. Ryan was getting involved too now, taking the lamb from Rufus’s arms. “Tenant farmer, like. Up Pasterton way. Never ’ad ’is own land, but we grew up there. An’ it’s good for them, isn’t it? The kiddies?”

  “It certainly is,” I agreed as we watched one of the toddlers stagger across the orchard, an enormous nappy between his knees, and squat down to turn his face up inquisitively to a tiny lamb.

  “You’ve got yer ’ands full,” she observed, glancing round at all the animals.

  “Not as full as yours,” I jerked my head at her brood. She laughed. “Yeah, but only five are mine. We foster the rest.”

  “Foster? Really?”

  “Yeah, an’ we don’t do it for the money, neiver.” She looked at me sharply. “We get sweet FA from Social.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting you did.”

  “Well, there’s some round here would, and they want to try cutting a hundred fingernails at bath time an’ getting all them teeth brushed. They’d soon realise a few measly quid ain’t worth it.”

  “I quite agree,” I said with feeling. “I find it hard enough coping with just one.”

  “And they’re good kids, anyhow,” she reflected. “Just ’aven ’t much of a chance, you know? Up to now.”

  I nodded. Yes, I did know. And she was giving them one. Twelve children in all, and all in a tiny house, no doubt full to the brim with baskets of washing and ironing and pants and socks drying on every radiator, Sheila working her butt off. I felt humbled as she gathered them all together now with what I realised was a lot of good-natured shouting, which the children took in their stride. And God, I’d yell if I had all those, I thought. Shriek, more like. I watched her herd them together, getting as many as possible to come up and say good-bye and thank you. Sheila declined a lift back to the village, saying she only lived across the valley and hadn’t realised where we were otherwise they’d have walked. Then, with two in the double buggy, another two riding pillion on the back and Ryan pushing all four, she scooped two little ones up in her arms and herded the rest across the meadow, down into the valley, and up the other side. The two boys on the back of the buggy jumped off and helped Ryan push it uphill, and Rufus and I shaded our eyes into the setting sun and watched them go. When they got to the top of the hill, Sheila got them all to turn round and wave. We waved back frantically.

  After a moment, I lowered my hand and folded my arms. “Sorry, darling,” I murmured, as we watched them disappear over the horizon.

  “For what?”

  “For being such an embarrassing mother. For asking half the school over and getting it wrong as usual.”

  “You didn’t, actually,” he said slowly. “I like Tanya.”

  And flashing me a quick grin, he ran off to see the chickens. I watched him go, his shoes kicking up the dust in the yard. Then I went back through the buttercups to retrieve the tray of cups and saucers in the garden. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. Well, that was something, I thought, picking up the tray and heading back to the kitchen with a spring in my step. For once, then, I hadn’t got it entirely wrong.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The following day Rufus came running out of school beaming from ear to ear.

  “How was it?” I hazarded nervously.

  “Cool. Tanya and I played on the apparatus both breaks and I sat next to her at lunch. She showed me her goodie spot.”

  “Her what?”

  “Her goodie spot. It’s a camp in the bushes where she and her gang hang out.”

  “Oh! Well, that’s a relief. And Carl?”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t see him. He doesn’t hang out with us. He’s with the losers, mostly.”

  “Oh! Right!”

  “He tried to join in, but Damien told him to piss off. Damien’s ten.”

  I blessed Damien from the bottom of my heart and wished all power to his bad language. But could it go on, I wondered. I slightly held my breath, but all the following week it was a similar story.

  “I’ve cracked it,” I told Hannah proudly when she popped round for a sandwich one day a few weeks later in her lunch hour. “It’s quite extraordinary. Rufus has got more friends than he ever had in London and he’s in with the real dudes. Not comparing stamp collections or practising the oboe with the geeks, but really in the thick of it with the footballers and the conker boys.”

  “The drug dealers of tomorrow, you mean,” she said, helping herself to salad at my little kitchen table. “So how did you manage that?”

  I told her about Sheila.

  Hannah put the salad tongs down, astounded. “Sheila Banks? Wife of Frankie ‘Fingers’ Banks? Blimey, Imogen, you’ve tapped right into the local mafia. She and her old man rule the roost round here. No one farts without consulting Sheila and Frankie first. No wonder Rufus has found his feet. He’ll be laundering money in the spare room next, and when he grows up to be the next godfather, you, as his mother, will live a life of sybaritic luxury in Capri.”

  “Bring it on,” I purred. “They’re not too dodgy, though, are they, Hannah? I rather liked her.”

  “Not too dodgy, but they do sail fairly close to the wind. They run the local pawnbrokers in Rushbrough, and rule it with a rod of iron. Put it this way: in ten years’ time you wouldn’t want Rufus getting Tanya up the spout and leaving her in the lurch. You might wake up to find a horse’s head in your bed.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind,” I said nervously, thinking that actually, I was rather hoping he might be at university by then, mixing with a slightly different crowd to Little Harrington’s answer to the Corleone brothers.

  Hannah eyed me over the coronation chicken. “What? Had him more in black tie at Cambridge, taking Lucinda Many-Acres to the May Ball?”

  “Certainly not,” I bristled. “I’d be very happy whoever Rufus chooses to—you know—consort with.”

  She grinned. “Well, I’m sure the Bankses would see him all right. Probably give him a nice little caravan for Tanya’s dowry. This is delicious, by the way. Any more?”

  “There is,” I said doubtfully, getting up to reach for the bowl of coronation chicken on the side but privately thinking my sister had had enough. She’d eaten most of it already. And ha
lf a loaf of bread, and a bowl of salad. Where did she put it all? Under that vast blue dress, presumably, I thought looking at the latest Monsoon number. How did she find clothes to fit? Would this be a good moment to mention it? I hesitated. It was never a good moment with Hannah.

  “Speaking of Lady Many-Acres,” she said, through a mouthful of chicken and mayonnaise, “What’s occurring up there? D’you see much of her?”

  “Surprisingly little. Not since dinner that first night, which pleases me, actually. I wasn’t sure whether we’d be living in each other’s pockets, but in fact this cottage is a good half a mile away. I had a horrid feeling I’d be drawing my curtains every evening and catching her eye as she closed hers. Having to give a cheery little wave and an embarrassed smile.”

  “I’m pretty sure Eleanor Latimer doesn’t draw her own curtains,” Hannah said sourly.

  I giggled. “Well, she certainly doesn’t feel compelled to ‘pop in,’ either, which is a blessing. Although she did come past with her dogs the other day and admired the painting I was doing in the orchard. She didn’t stop, though.”

  “Yes, I saw your easel out there as I came in. Rather idyllic, isn’t it? Sitting out there amongst the buttercups? Must be more inspiring than an attic in Putney?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to be disloyal to my lovely London studio, but I was loath to admit, these last few days, I’d felt something profoundly moving as I’d painted out there in the long grass; the ox-eye daisies brushing my knees, the sun warming my back, a soft light on the hills. A heady rush, an inner glow, and also a deep concentration that surprised me, and that I hadn’t felt in London.

  “Yeah, it’s OK. I mean, obviously, it’s not ideal not having a studio, but—oh, Hannah, you can’t want more, surely!”

  She glanced up at me, spoon frozen above the bowl of coronation chicken as she went to help herself.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, no, quite. Why not?” I said flustered. I got up to get a bottle of Evian from the fridge and to hide my flushed face in its cool depths. Jesus, she’d need two kaftans soon. Two seats on the bus. Be like one of those women you read about in the Daily Mail—“Why I can’t fly on an aeroplane any more.” What the hell was wrong with her?

  “Imogen, is there something you want to say?” she said icily.

  I quaked as I put the water bottle on the table. This was serious Siberia from my sister. I dug deep and found some steel.

  “No, absolutely nothing, Hannah. If you want to eat for England and end up with heart disease and respiratory problems and possibly diabetes, who am I to stop you? You go right ahead.” I sat down again, whipping my napkin out over my lap with a flourish. “It’s your body.”

  She regarded me stonily but I held her eye, and my nerve. She reached defiantly for the spoon again and was about to dig in, when she put the spoon back in the dish. Her face crumpled, and for an awful moment, I thought she was going to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean that.”

  She struggled for composure. Took a deep, shaky breath and swallowed hard. “No, you’re right. And it’s about time someone had the guts to tell me. Eddie certainly hasn’t.”

  “Because he’s too scared to,” I said, hastening round and pulling my chair up beside hers. “Hannah, what’s wrong, for heaven’s sake? You’re so strict about everything else in you life, so disciplined—why not this?”

  She sighed. “You wouldn’t understand, Imo. You’re thin. How would you know?”

  “I’m not thin,” I retorted. “I’ve got a big backside and my tummy’s like jelly—I’m like most women of our age. But I’m not…well, I don’t…”

  “Stuff yourself with food at every opportunity, sneak down for bowls of cereal in the night, keep biscuits in your car. Your life doesn’t revolve around it. I know.”

  “So why?”

  She shrugged miserably. “I can’t help myself. It feels nice, and so much of my life doesn’t feel nice. It’s sort of, the only bit I look forward to. And I feel hungry too, I really do. I really feel I need it, although obviously I can’t need it, because look at me. I’ll be a fairground attraction soon, next to the woman with the beard. But I just can’t stop putting stuff in my mouth, and I hate myself afterwards.”

  “Do you?” I pounced. This was a start. I thought perhaps she didn’t care, had just let herself go and was sticking up two fingers to the world.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, surprised. “Loathe myself. So much so that the other day I thought I’d make myself sick, to get rid of it.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “No, I didn’t. But it made me realise I had to do something about it. I’ve joined Weight Watchers, for a start. I’m going tomorrow.”

  “Are you?” I clasped my hands delightedly.

  “Anyone would think I’ve just told you I’ve won the lottery. Yes, and I’m going to see a counsellor. Correction, have been to see a counsellor.”

  “Oh!” I was stunned into silence. This was ground-breaking, for Hannah to admit she needed help.

  “Who rather predictably told me I’m eating for comfort, to feel better about myself, and that it’s all borne of insecurity, yawn yawn, but she also said comfort eating is very common in women of my age. Apparently a lot of peri-menopausal women—”

  “Peri-menopausal? Don’t be ridiculous, you’re only thirty-eight, Hannah!”

  “And Mum got hers at forty.”

  “Did she?” I was staggered.

  “She did. And it’s hereditary, you know. Oh, I’m definitely going through the change.”

  “Blimey. I had no idea. I thought fifty, fifty-one…”

  She shrugged. “Is the average, but you’re always going to get variants on either side.”

  Golly. Alex and I had better get a wiggle on, I thought. If we wanted to…you know. And I certainly did. Although it seemed indelicate to mention it right now. Hannah sensed as much and smoothly changed the subject.

  “So. Tomorrow I stand up in front of a roomful of lardy women and say, “Hi, I’m Hannah, and I weigh fourteen stone,” before some stick insect hands me a diet sheet that wouldn’t satisfy a rabbit. But right now…” She slumped back in her seat and rolled her eyes lasciviously, “what’s for pudding?”

  I laughed. “Seeing as it’s your last day of freedom, a cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate cake. Good for you, Hannah. I’m proud of you.” I put an arm round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze before I got to my feet. I could see she was moved by this; did a fair amount of blinking and swallowing as I moved tactfully around the kitchen with my back to her. We weren’t demonstrative as sisters, never had been, mostly because she’d always shied away from it, but I wanted her to know I was on her side.

  “How’s Alex?” she asked brightly, changing the subject as I came back with the coffee, and only just giving herself away by the little tremor in her voice.

  “Fine,” I said, putting a mug down in front of her. “Although…”

  “What?” Hannah pounced, sensing my hesitation and also keen to get off the back foot and into her more usual, dominant role.

  “Well, he loathes the commute. It’s much worse than he was led to believe. He has to get up at six and doesn’t get back till gone nine.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be an hour and a bit door to door?”

  “That’s the fiction, and if you work in the West End it’s probably true, but it’s another half-hour to the city. He’s thinking of getting a flat or something, actually.”

  “What?” Hannah’s jaw dropped theatrically.

  “Well, not a flat, exactly,” I said quickly, although my reaction had been much the same as hers last night, when he’d told me. “Not on his own. Maybe share a place with a friend. There’s a mate of his who’s got a two-bedroom flat in Chiswick he says he can share with. Terribly cheaply, actua
lly.”

  “Who?”

  I bit my thumbnail miserably. “Charlie Cotterall.”

  “Charlie Cotterall! That old dog, the one who left his wife because he was having an affair with his secretary whilst still maintaining his mistress and finding three women just a little too much to handle?”

  “He’s a reformed character now,” I said staunchly. “Alex said. He’s broken up with the secretary—that was just a fling—and he’s mad about Trisha. That’s his, um, long-standing girlfriend. They’re going to get married as soon as his divorce comes through.”

  She snorted. “And then he’ll cheat on her again, no doubt. A leopard doesn’t change his spots just like that, you know, Imo.”

  I ignored her. Stirred my coffee.

  “And you’re happy about Alex spending the week with him?” she persisted.

  “Of course I am,” I snapped, although I hadn’t been quite so happy last night. No, last night, after Alex had come home at nine thirty yet again, slumped down on the sofa and declared himself too tired to sit at the table and eat and could he just have it here, in front of the telly with a bottle of wine, I’d been horrified when he’d suggested it. In fact the chilli con carne had almost slipped off the plate on to the Conran rug as I’d put the tray in front of him.

  “What—spend the whole week in London?”

  “Only four nights, Imo. Only half the week, really. It’s just that, to be honest, by the time I get to work I’m so knackered I can hardly think straight some days. It took me two hours to get in this morning because of points failure or something inept, and I didn’t even have time for a cup of coffee before I was plunged into a presentation, having to think on my feet, juggle figures—it’s too much.”

  I perched on the arm of a chair opposite beside the telly, watching as he scooped up the chilli hungrily with his fork. I licked my lips.