“No!”
“They’re not pets, Imogen. You can’t get too attached to farm animals. Where d’you think your M&S Chicken Kiev comes from?”
“I suppose,” I agreed humbly.
I couldn’t help thinking she sounded a bit sharp today. It occurred to me that I’d forgotten to return a call she’d left on my answer machine last week and I wondered, guiltily, if she was feeling peeved. “When you’ve got a moment,” the message had said mournfully, and the awful thing was, I hadn’t. Recently, I’d either been painting furiously or running round after the animals. I just hadn’t had time.
“Rufus must have been upset, though,” she went on in a gentler tone, perhaps regretting her no-nonsense approach.
“Yes, he was, but actually he was more furious than anything else. He spent the whole of last night setting traps for the fox.”
Nevertheless, when he’d come home from school, his face had gone white.
“What, all of them? He killed them all, and Cynthia too?”
“I’m afraid so, darling,” I’d said anxiously, twisting my hands. “But the vet says it was all terribly quick, they wouldn’t have known anything about it.”
I didn’t go into the last, dying moments of one particular chick, whose life had been needlessly protracted by a crazy woman shoving it in hot ovens and suffocating it with halitosis.
“Bastard,” he’d said, changing colour again.
“Rufus!”
“Well, he is. I want to kill him.” And taking his frog in a jam jar, he’d stormed out of the kitchen, tears stinging his eyes, to see the rest of the hens.
Luckily I’d had the presence of mind—and the courage, I felt—to dispose of Cynthia’s headless body. With the protection of a pair of Marigold gloves I’d put her first in a dustbin, then, panicking that she’d honk and the fox would come back, had plucked her from the potato peelings and taken her, arms outstretched, appalled face screwed up and averted, to the cow’s field, where, much to the interest of the cows who clustered round, I’d dug a hole, panting and sweating and wielding a pickaxe, the ground was so hard (and this a woman who was more used to wielding a handbag as she sauntered down Putney High Street), thereby disposing of the evidence. Thus it was that now, when Rufus went out to the yard, he found the remaining chickens pecking away quite happily, callously unconcerned that their numbers were reduced.
He was gone for about half an hour, I think for a cry, and then ran back inside to use the phone. Ten minutes later, I looked out of the kitchen window to see Tanya, in a yellow T-shirt and blue leggings, running down the hill and leaping across the stream in the pit of the valley, with what looked like a length of rope in her hands. When I popped out a bit later, I found the pair of them in the barn, right on top of the huge haystack: Tanya was on Rufus’s shoulders, swaying precariously as she slung one end of the rope over a rafter, the other end tied in a noose, which draped on the floor. Through this, apparently, the fox would put his head in order to get to one very dead, maggoty magpie that one of Tanya’s brothers had caught and which was lying in state in a shoe box, whereupon the noose would tighten, and the fox strangle. I had my doubts and wondered nervously what Health and Safety would have to say about it all, but Tanya claimed huge success with the contraption, as I now told Kate.
“Sounds like Rufus has really landed on his feet,” she observed. “Found a new best friend already.”
“Oh, no, he really misses Orlando,” I said quickly. “He said so the other day. It’s just that, well, you know, a new boy on the block is always a novelty. Tanya will probably go back to her old friends next week.”
“And he’s in all the teams?” Kate probed. “At school?”
“They don’t exactly have teams, Kate. Dan—Mr. Hunter thinks nine is terribly young to have organised cricket and football. He thinks ten is a much better age, and favours balls skills at this stage, which Rufus loves because he’s not always last, or left out, and actually he’s getting much better. He plays football all the time now, whereas before he didn’t because he thought he was hopeless at it. Mr. Hunter thinks there’s plenty of time for competitive sport.”
“Mr. Hunter will be sprouting wings and a halo soon. You haven’t got a thing about him, have you?”
“Certainly not!” I blushed furiously, fervently wishing I hadn’t rung Kate at what was clearly a prickly moment. “He’s Rufus’s headmaster, for heaven’s sake.”
“Didn’t stop Ursula Moncrief, did it?” she retorted. “Remember poor Mr. Pritchard at the school ball?”
I giggled, recalling Ursula Moncrief at the Carrington House school ball, pissed as a fart in an off-the-shoulder dress that was more like off-the-elbow, nuzzling into Mr. Pritchard’s neck and taking little nips at it as he manoeuvred her nervously round the floor to “Lady in Red,” his eyes huge with fear.
“Yes, well, there’s no danger of that. A ball is the last thing this little backwater of a school is likely to hold.”
“Damn. That’s the doorbell. Can you hang on?”
“’Course,” I agreed, relieved she’d been deflected, particularly since she had, rather annoyingly, scored a bit of a bull’s-eye. I was aware that I did have a very tiny crush on Mr. Hunter, and that in my duller moments, while I was cleaning my brushes, or rubbing down my palette, had found my mind turning to him. Not in any nasty lustful way, of course, more—well, more in a maternal way, if anything. I was pretty sure he was younger than me and he had such gentle eyes and soft springy hair, and that tatty old corduroy jacket that even I, who didn’t have a domestic bone in my body, was itching to patch at the elbows. A couple of those leather ones would suit him, I thought; give him an academic air. They sold them in the local department store in town, and the other day, I’d found myself lingering in haberdashery, fondling them. It was only because he’d been so kind to Rufus I’d reasoned as I’d left the shop—happily minus the elbow patches—given us such marvellous advice about the bullying, for which I was so grateful. So grateful that I did, actually, make what I regarded to be an entirely legitimate gesture—albeit an impulsive one—and gathered a huge bunch of bluebells from the woods behind the cottage, dropping them off at school one morning when I knew everyone was in assembly, on his desk, with a note of thanks. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten his assembly notes and popped back in the room just as I was going.
“Oh!” I coloured up. “I was—just leaving these. To say thank you.”
His eyes widened as he looked beyond me and saw the flowers. “For what?”
“Well, you know, for your advice. About not tackling the bullying head on. It worked a treat. Rufus is really happy now.”
“Oh, well, good. I’m delighted. But you really shouldn’t…” he gestured, embarrassed, at the flowers.
“It’s nothing, only a few bits from the garden,” I said quickly, making an even more embarrassed gesture as I flicked back my hair. We were surely too old to be going quite so pink? The two of us? “Have you got a vase?” I ventured.
“A…vase? Er, no,” he stuttered, “I—”
“Never mind, I brought one,” I said, shamelessly whipping an old jug from a Tesco bag, horribly aware that through the glass partition, Mrs. Harris, the school secretary, had eyes like saucers as she tapped away at her computer.
“Well, I must be getting on,” he’d said, coming to and reaching past me for the sheaf of papers on his desk. “Er, thank you, Mrs. Cameron.”
“Imogen,” I reminded him.
“Imogen,” he’d agreed, and for a moment there, our eyes did meet, briefly. Then we’d both made a convulsive movement to the door, and there’d been a nasty after-you moment as we’d exchanged overbright smiles on the threshold.
Yes, a school ball would be lovely, I mused, cradling the receiver under my chin as I waited for Kate, gazing out of the window at the cows chewing rhythmically in the meadow. Give me a chance to�
��you know—dress up. Look my best, in a pretty floral number, something a bit Sarah Jessica Parker—I was fairly sure this didn’t call for anything Londony and vampy—with Alex beside me, of course, elegant in black tie. Or perhaps it would be lounge suits, round here? I couldn’t quite see Sheila Banks’s husband in a dinner jacket.
I’d met him at the school gates the other day, Frankie Banks. Frightened the life out of me as he’d come up behind me, put a large paw on my shoulder and growled, “You Rufus’s mum?” “Y-yes,” I’d stuttered, swinging round to boggle at his shaven head, bulging muscles and tattooed arms. “Nice lad,” he’d said gruffly, and I’d gulped my thanks. Yes, it would be good to see him in a more social setting. Daniel Hunter, not Frankie Banks. Maybe he’d like to come to supper one night? Meet Alex properly? Very relaxed, just a lasagne or something. Although, of course, as from Monday, Alex was away all week. My heart lurched at the thought. Away at that flat in town.
“Imo? Are you still there?”
“What? Oh, yes, still here. Who was at the door?”
“Caroline Harvey, popping round with a leaflet about some ghastly chamber concert she’s in. God, I can just see Sebastian’s face; he’d pay not to go to that. Anyway, happily we’re in Venice that weekend. Listen, I’d better go, I’ve slightly lost track of time and I’ve got to get to the shops. I’ll ring you later.”
“Um, Kate, before you go, I’ve got a bit of a favour to ask. Quite a big one, actually.”
“Fire away,” she said cautiously.
“Well, you’ve got to promise that if it’s really cheeky of me, you’ll say no immediately, OK?”
“What is it?”
“It’s quite an imposition, so—so think about it and—”
“Imo, what?”
I licked my lips. “It’s just…well, you know Alex is going to stay in town during the week now?”
“Is he?” she said, surprised. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Oh God, didn’t I tell you? I must have told Hannah. Yes, he is, because the travelling’s getting him down, so he’s going to spend a few nights a week in London.”
“Oh, right. Where?”
“Well, that’s the thing, Kate. He’s been offered a room by this friend of his, Charlie Cotterall, but Charlie’s left his wife and he’s a real rogue. You know, always out on the piss, chatting up girls, and the thing is, I was just wondering—well, it’s a huge imposition—but now that Sandra’s gone and you’ve got the nanny flat downstairs, I was thinking—well, if you haven’t already rented it out—if you’d think about renting it to Alex for the time being?”
I shut my eyes. Held my breath. There. I’d said it. Ever since Kate had let slip that she was sick of having a nanny about the place now that most of her children were at boarding school and had been dithering over whether to keep the flat for guests or rent it out, I’d wondered if I’d dare suggest it. There was a pause on the other end as she digested this. Suddenly I went hot. How stupid. I shouldn’t have asked; it was rude and crass of me to put her in such an invidious position.
“Kate, I’m sorry, I—”
“You mean, for a few days, or to actually move in?”
I flushed. “Well, I suppose I meant to move in, but, Kate, forget it. I—I should never have asked,” I stammered. “It’s just, I’ve been so worried recently, and I don’t know why because I’m quite sure he wouldn’t be led astray by Charlie—I mean, apart from anything else Charlie’s got a steady girlfriend—but you know what these boys are like together, egging each other on, and I just thought—well, I don’t know what I thought,” I finished lamely. “Pathetic. I shouldn’t even be worried. And I’m not, in all honestly, I’m really not, but…forget it, Kate.”
“I won’t forget it,” she said slowly. “I’ll think about it.”
I held my breath. “Will you?”
“I’ll have to ask Sebastian, of course.”
“Of course, of course you’ll have to ask him,” I said, clutching this straw. Golly, if she was at least going to ask…
“And naturally we’d pay the going rate,” I rushed on.
“Imo, I wasn’t going to rent it out, so there won’t be a going rate.”
I bowed my head, feeling hot. Yes, that was my shame. That I’d known Kate had more or less decided to keep it for guests; had decided against renting, so that although I’d offered to pay, I was pretty secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t take anything from us. My face burned. Suddenly I wished I didn’t have a husband who required me to manipulate my friends.
“We’ll see,” she said briskly, “OK? I’ll talk to Sebastian and let you know.”
“Yes, and thank you, Kate, for even considering it. I feel awful asking…”
But would feel even more awful, I thought, putting the phone down, if I hadn’t asked. Would have worried myself senseless, for weeks. Particularly now I knew Eleanor was going to be up there. I licked my lips, which were very dry. Narrowed my eyes out of the window. In my next life, I decided, straightening up in my chair, as well as being supremely confident, I was also going to be extremely rich. It might not buy happiness, but it sure as hell eased the way.
I sat there a moment, a mixture of guilt and relief making me feel a bit heady, and watched as a red van filled the window. Paul, the postman, drove through the gate and parked in my yard. I waved and went out to meet him, wrapping my cardigan around me against the chill wind, pleased to have a distraction. In London I hadn’t even known what my postman looked like, let alone his name, but here, things were different. Much more friendly. When I’d mentioned this to Mum, she’d looked at me in surprise.
“But of course, darling. Rural life is much more civilised. In France, the postman even stops for a tincture. When I first moved to Provence I went out and greeted him with, “Bonjour, monsieur. Un petit calvados?” To which he’d replied, “Oui, mais pourquoi petit?”
I’d laughed, but had drawn the line at offering Paul whisky at ten o’clock. Tongues might wag if I was known, not only to be saying it with flowers to the headmaster, but getting the postman pissed too.
“Morning, Paul, what have you got for me?” I said cheerily, buoyant now that I’d done the deed with Kate: ready to face the day.
“Just a brown one and some junk mail, I’m afraid.”
“Shame. Nothing exciting?”
“Not unless you count a garden hose catalogue.”
“I might,” I grinned. “Got to take your thrills where you can these days!”
As soon as I’d said it, I wished I hadn’t. Paul looked startled, then reddened and hopped back smartly in his van. As he roared off up the chalky track, I scurried inside, smarting.
There’s cheerful banter and there’s idiotic rambling, Imogen, I said to myself as I shut the door. Try not to come across as too much of a frustrated housewife, hmm?
As I went to the kitchen to chuck the junk mail in the bin, simultaneously opening the brown envelope, I frowned. Sat down. A hundred and fifty pounds? For what? My eyes shot to the headed paper, Marshbank Veterinary Practice, and then, itemised:
April 5…Home visit and consultancy £75
May 18…Home visit and consultancy £75
My eyes bulged in disbelief. A hundred and fifty pounds? For a couple of visits? Oh, for heaven’s sake. I reached for the phone and punched out a number.
“Marshbank Veterinary Practice?” purred my friend on the other end.
“Can I speak to Pat Flaherty, please?”
“Mr. Flaherty is on a call at the moment,” she said icily, perhaps recognising my demanding tones.
“Is he. Well it’s Imogen Cameron here. Perhaps you can ask him from me why I’ve been charged a hundred and fifty pounds for absolutely nothing! All he did was prod a cow with his foot and show me where my chicken house is. Is that what he went to veterinary college for?”
&nb
sp; “We have a basic call-out charge, Mrs. Cameron. A home visit is more expensive.”
“Well, I could hardly bring the cow into the surgery, could I! Although I might just, next time.”
“You do that, Mrs. Cameron. It might be worth watching.”
And with that, she put the phone down. I stared into the buzzing receiver, outraged. Ooh…I seethed. Bloody woman. Well, it would be the last time I’d be calling on Marshbank’s services. There must be other vets in the neighbourhood; I’d patronise them next time. Take my animals elsewhere. Meanwhile, though, there was the vexing little problem of this bill to pay. I got up from the table, biting my thumbnail savagely. Alex had gone ballistic the other day because he’d seen a new carrier bag—what was he going to say about this?
“New shoes, Imogen!” he’d yelped, taking them out of the bag where I’d hidden them at the bottom of the wardrobe. “What the hell are you up to? You know we’re on a shoestring at the moment.”
“They’re flip-flops, for God’s sake,” I’d said, snatching them from him. “Hardly handmade Italian mules, and I can’t live in sweaty trainers all summer!”
I couldn’t, but a totally unnecessary vet’s bill would justifiably send him into orbit. No, I had to sort this one out myself.
Money again, I thought, sitting down and raking despairing hands through my hair, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. If only I could make some of the filthy stuff. If only I wasn’t so hopeless. If only I could do something…
Half an hour later saw me driving very fast down the country lanes into town. Fast, because if I slowed down and thought about what I was doing, I might stop, turn round and go home. My hands felt sweaty on the wheel and my heart was full of fluttering and trepidation, and not only that, I had a very full car too. Packed to the gunwales. And no doubt I’d come straight back with my full car, with my tail firmly between my legs, but as Dad said, if you didn’t stick your head above the parapet, how the hell did you know if it was going to be knocked off? Although as a caveat, he’d always add, “But never agree to play Macbeth in drag,” something he’d done to his cost. Well, I wasn’t about to do that. No, no, something much more terrifying.
A Crowded Marriage Page 24
