A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  As we stopped, the cows, placid, inquisitive creatures by nature, stopped too and turned to look at us, sides heaving. Then they promptly put their heads down and grazed, greedy for the uncharacteristically lush pasture. We crept up on them, Rufus and I, like Red Indians, and there then ensued much scampering about in the fields, much waving of our arms and cajoling, but we were outnumbered.

  “It’s no good, Mummy, we need someone else! Every time I get Consuela, Bart goes running off again!”

  In the moonlight Rufus was scarlet behind his freckles, and I could tell from his voice he was close to tears.

  “Pat’s house is just there.” He pointed to the brick and flint lodge, the proximity of which hadn’t escaped me. “Why don’t I go and get him?”

  Holding my sides and panting hard, I hesitated. The last, the very last person I wanted to involve, aside from Piers, of course, was that man. But actually, things were getting out of control here, and if I wasn’t careful I’d have an accident on my hands. I swallowed my pride, which was about the size of a baked potato, and nodded.

  “Wait here,” I muttered. “I’ll go.”

  I ran across the fields and down the lane beside the little stone wall, clutching my dressing gown to me as I threw open his front gate. We’d move, obviously, after this. Yes, move house. Somewhere far flung, somewhere remote, where no one knew us. Yorkshire perhaps. Yorkshire had farms. No, no farms. No cows. Liverpool, then. No cows in Liverpool. I rang the bell. He didn’t answer. Well, of course he didn’t; it was nearly three in the morning. Shutting my eyes for courage, I rang again, leaning on it this time. Scotland, I decided. Right up in the Highlands. Back to the salmon farming.

  Eventually there was a shuffling sound down the passage: a light went on in the decorative fanlight above the door, and then it opened. Molly peered at me, clutching her own dressing gown and looking dazed.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I breathed, taken aback. “It’s me, Imogen.”

  “Imogen,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

  “Um, Molly, our cows have escaped and I just wondered—is Pat in? Only I’m rather hopeless and I’ve only got Rufus.” It all came babbling out in a rush. “You see the thing is, they’re almost on the road now and I’m so worried there’ll be an accident!”

  My voice sounded as small and cracked as Rufus’s.

  “Oh Lord,” she said sleepily. She turned. “Pat…oh.”

  A pair of tanned legs in boxer shorts and a bare bronzed torso emerged down the hallway behind her. Instinctively, I glanced away.

  “I’m so sorry,” I gasped, keeping my eyes firmly on the architrave around the door, “but our cows have escaped, and I just wondered…only there’s only me and Rufus—”

  “Hang on.”

  As I glanced back, he’d turned and legged it back down the hallway. He reappeared seconds later, thrusting his legs into jeans as he hopped along, a fishing jumper over his head.

  “I’d offer to help,” mumbled Molly sleepily, “but I’m afraid I’m terrified of cows.”

  “Such a townie,” said Pat affectionately, ruffling her hair. “How many are there?” This to me, not so affectionately.

  “Oh. Three.”

  “Fine. With Rufus we can handle that. Go back to bed, Moll.”

  Needing no further prompting she turned, gave us a weary backward wave, and floated back inside.

  Pat grabbed a handful of walking sticks from the umbrella stand in the hall and a torch from the table and we hurried off down the path. I couldn’t resist turning at the gate and looking back at the house. I saw her, by the light of the bedroom window, shrug the dressing gown off and slip naked back into bed, before turning the bedside light out. I gulped and snuck a glance at him. Blimey. Quite a coolie, wasn’t he? Bedding one beautiful woman after another like that? And here I was dragging him away from it all.

  “I’m really sorry,” I mumbled, flaming face trained to the ground as we hurried along in the darkness. Thank God for the darkness. “I didn’t know what else to do, and Piers will freak.”

  “He will,” he agreed grimly. “Where are they?”

  “Just down the track, over by the water meadow. Luckily the river runs between them and the road and they were grazing quite happily beside it. I told Rufus to stay with them, not to try and move them but—oh!”

  As we rounded the bend, I swung about in horror. The track was empty; no Rufus, no cows, just black fields laced with dry-stone walls.

  “RUFUS!” I screamed, terrified now. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

  “I’m here!” an equally terrified voice screamed back out of the night. “I couldn’t stop them, Mum!”

  I swung round the other way, and as Pat shone his torch, we saw Rufus, in his red checked pyjamas, pointing desperately as the three shaggy Longhorns ambled into the distance. They’d crossed the stream and were heading for the road, for the ribbon of halogen glowing in the night, for the action of the A41.

  “Oh Christ, that’s exactly what we don’t want!” said Pat, already running in the general direction. “Come on, we’ll have to cross the stream and head them back.”

  He was fast and sure-footed, much, much more sure-footed than I, and it was dark, damn it, and the terrain was rough, and he had the torch. As he leaped the stream at its narrowest point, Rufus following, I tried nimbly to follow suit—and slipped and fell.

  “All right?” he called back over his shoulder, still running, I noticed.

  I wasn’t at all—my ankle was killing me—but I struggled, soaked to my knees, and scrambled up the bank on all fours. As I got to my feet I was almost annoyed to find my leg was not broken.

  “Yes!” I bleated, completely sodden, both boots full of water, plastered with mud and pond weed.

  “Right.” He paused a moment, swinging round to give us orders. “Now we need to take a cow each and get behind it, got it?” His dark eyes flashed in the moonlight as Rufus and I stood panting before him like the poor bloody infantry. “And then, with outstretched arms, like this—” he demonstrated a crucifix position—“and with a stick in each hand, like so—” he showed us, then handed us some sticks—“we drive them forwards. Calmly, OK? But if they cut up rough, don’t be afraid to whack them on the backside. Rufus, you take the brown and white one, and, Imogen, that one’s yours. I’ll take this stroppy little madam.”

  For a moment I thought he was looking at me, then realised he meant Consuela. Expertly wielding two sticks, like a Kung Fu fighter, he began to turn her around, and head her back across the stream, towards home. Rufus got the idea and Bart followed suit, but Marge, clearly a good-time girl, was still intent on partying, and shot off in the opposite direction. Multiple pile-ups swam before my eyes.

  “Run around her!” yelled Pat, still shepherding his cow, “and spread your arms out like this!” I knew exactly what he was demonstrating, but pretended I hadn’t heard because obviously I couldn’t do that. I had to clutch my dressing gown because it had no cord and I was completely naked underneath. I waved a stick feebly with one hand and ran after Marge, but every time I got behind her and tried to drive her forward, she dodged and doubled back on herself.

  “STICK IN EACH HAND!” Pat hollered. “ARMS OUT!”

  “Yes I KNOW!” I screamed back, still clutching my Chinese silk to me. Marge ducked round me again, grinning almost, it seemed, tongue hanging out, and galloped joyously towards the road. Headlights came towards us.

  “IMOGEN!” roared Pat, furious.

  Fuck. Oh fuckity-fuck!

  Sticks held aloft, I charged after her, zoomed around her rear end, turned her expertly, and with my dressing gown streaming out behind me, came running back towards Pat and Rufus, arms high. A good look, I felt; naked but for sticks and Wellingtons.

  “Happy?” I screeched, as the cow obediently trundled towards them.

  Pat’s eyes were on stalks. �
�Very,” I think I heard him say, but I expect I was mistaken.

  As Marge fell into line with the others, the cows crossed the stream in unison and we followed. They were going at a fair old lick, though, and we struggled to keep up, but at least they were going the right way. I’d managed to clutch my dignity back again too, much to my son’s relief.

  “Mummy! You’re naked!” he hissed as he came up beside me.

  “Well spotted, darling,” I panted, gasping for breath.

  To my relief, I saw that the cows were stampeding up the track to our cottage now, and if Pat sprinted ahead…I struggled up the hill, almost on my knees now, exhausted beyond belief, holding my side, watching as Pat put on a spurt to overtake them—and to swing open the gate. Rufus ran on gamely in his red pyjamas, but he was going to struggle to get all three in on his own so…I gritted my teeth, and with one last superhuman effort and a mighty roar, “GOO ON!” I urged, running up beside him and whacking Marge’s backside.

  She shot in, followed by the others, and the gate swung shut, with a decisive click, on Bart’s bottom. The three of us clung to the top bar, panting hard. I thought I was going to pass out, actually. Either that or vomit.

  “All right?” gasped Pat at length, quite breathless himself, I was pleased to see.

  “Yes!” I wheezed. “Rufus?”

  Rufus had collapsed, spread-eagled on his back on the grass. “Bloody knackered!”

  “Rufus!”

  We gave ourselves a moment, there in the moonlight, panting, wheezing, and coughing, to recover.

  Then, “Come on.” Pat reached down and pulled Rufus to his feet with both hands. “Let’s get you to bed, cowboy.”

  “Yes, bed, Rufus,” I agreed, putting a hand on each of his shoulders and propelling him weakly towards the cottage. We staggered up the path, the two of us, and through the front door; Rufus, completely spent, and on automatic now, heading up the stairs. As I followed him, it occurred to me to wonder if I should make him wash his hands, which were black, before he got into bed, or just wash the sheets in the morning. Just wash the sheets, I thought as he crawled in under the covers, exhausted.

  “Sorry, Mum,” I heard him mutter as I went to shut his door. “I mean, for letting them out.”

  I turned and gave a weak smile in the doorway. “These things happen, darling. All part of country life.”

  When I got back downstairs, Pat was in the sitting room, slumped in an armchair, legs splayed out in front of him.

  “Oh—sorry,” he muttered, hauling himself wearily to his feet. “Collapsed for a moment, there. I’ll be on my way.”

  “No, no, don’t. It’s my fault for getting you up in the middle of the night. D’you want a cup of tea or something? Or even something stronger?”

  “Now you’re talking,” he grinned, flopping back again. “Mind if I help myself to a brandy?” He nodded to the sideboard where the bottles were arrayed.

  “Do, I’m just going to take off my—well, to change.”

  I flushed and disappeared again, flying up to my room. God, I must look a complete fright, and if we were having a drink, I must change. A glance in the mirror confirmed my fears. Mud and slime covered my face, my dressing gown was ripped at the shoulder, and my legs were filthy and grazed. I tore the wretched garment off with a shudder and dropped it in the waste-paper bin—never liked it—then quickly washed my face and pulled on jeans and a jumper. I’d got as far as the landing before I ran back to rake a comb through my hair. Well, I looked such a mess, I reasoned. As I went past Rufus’s door, I peeked in. Fast asleep again, good.

  Pat was crouched down by the hearth when I got downstairs and I realised he’d lit the fire.

  “Oh!”

  “Well, it’s so bloody cold I felt I had to,” he said, straightening up and handing me a brandy. “And I thought you could do with some warmth after that dip in the river.”

  “Thanks.”

  I realised I was shivering, despite having changed. I kneeled down by the fire, which hadn’t really got going yet, trying to absorb its heat.

  “I don’t usually drink this,” I said, wrinkling my nose into the glass. I sipped it cautiously. “But actually, it’s quite nice.”

  He crouched beside me. “Ah, well, brandy tastes different under different circumstances. It’s mercurial stuff. I can’t be doing with it after dinner, but after a shock, it’s always very welcome.”

  I heard the lilt in his voice as he said this. His face flickered in the firelight.

  “It was a bit of a shock,” I admitted. “I don’t often wake up with a jolt and run a steeplechase at three in the morning. Not sure I’m fit enough.”

  He grinned into the flames. “You looked pretty fit to me.”

  I blushed, aware he was referring to my streak through the water meadow and was grateful he wasn’t looking me in the eye. “Yes, well. Thanks to you, it didn’t end in disaster.” I took another sip of my drink. “I don’t know how I can begin to thank you.”

  “Then don’t. Anyway, I’m used to getting up at all hours. It’s an occupational hazard. In fact I thought it was Jack Hawkins, about his bull again.” He eased down on his haunches to sit on the rug.

  “Yes, I suppose broken nights are nothing new to you. Not so funny for Molly, though,” I said, deliberately mentioning her to see what he said.

  He grinned. “She’ll live.”

  Right. Not much.

  “Still,” I went on, “you could have told me to sod off and gone back to bed.”

  “I could,” he agreed.

  “I mean,” I went on doggedly, surprised I was pursuing this, “I haven’t exactly been a model client, have I, dragging you out to look at dead chicks and not even being able to feed my own cows?”

  He smiled. “I’m not sure I’ve ever thought of you as a client, Imogen.” There was a silence as we both digested this.

  “And anyway,” he went on, “we all have to start somewhere. You’re new to the country. I dare say I’d be crap at commuting to the city, probably end up in Croydon or somewhere.”

  I smiled. Somehow I couldn’t see him in a pinstripe suit behind a Telegraph, trundling off on the misery line to Liverpool Street. I looked at him, leaning back on his elbows by the fire, legs stretched out in front of him now, crossed at the ankle, his tall, broad frame encased in jeans and an old navy fishing jumper; at ease, happy in his own skin in that relaxed Irish way.

  “Have you always lived in the country?”

  “No, I lived in Dublin when I was at university, and then for a couple of years in Belfast when I was at veterinary college. I’m not entirely a country bumpkin. My family are from West Cork though, and that’s where my heart is.”

  My own heart, inexplicably, stalled at this.

  “Is that where you’ll go back to, then? Eventually?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? When is ‘eventually’?”

  He stared into the flames. I wanted to say, is that where your wife and child are? But didn’t dare.

  “At the moment, I’m happy being elsewhere,” he said quietly.

  Elsewhere. It sounded as if he was running from something. Ties, perhaps. Responsibilities.

  I licked my lips. “My mother always says you can change your skies but you can’t change your soul.” I looked at him defiantly.

  He smiled. “Sounds like a very wise woman, your mother.”

  “She is,” I agreed.

  A silence fell between us.

  “And anyway, it’s people that make a place,” I went on boldly.

  “You’re so right. And I think…because of that, this place is becoming more than just Elsewhere.”

  Ah, I thought. Molly.

  “Anyway,” he shifted round on to one elbow, putting his back to the fire to face me, “enough of me. What about you? What brings you down here to the sticks
away from the glamour of London?”

  I smiled wryly. “We couldn’t afford to live there any more. Couldn’t afford the glamour. Had to downsize, change our lifestyle. So money, I suppose. The root of all evil.”

  “Not always. The human condition accounts for quite a bit too.”

  I wondered what he meant by that, but something about the set of his jaw and a flinty look in his eye dissuaded me from asking. He sipped his drink then glanced up at me.

  “And is that where your heart is, then? London?”

  “Well, up to now, I suppose. I’m a born-and-bred townie, and I never thought I’d take to country life, but actually, I’ll be sad to leave this place.”

  As I said it, I realised it was true. What, go back to London? To Hastoe Avenue? Back to the house I loved, opposite Kate? Surely that would be bliss? But…we weren’t going to London, were we. We were going to Scotland, salmon farming, or—or Yorkshire. Liverpool, even. Yes, that was it. Anyway, we were definitely on the move. I swallowed. So, I wouldn’t be setting up my easel in the buttercup meadow any more, or walking with Rufus to the stream to watch the ducks after school…but presumably there were ducks everywhere…

  “What are you thinking?” He was watching me.

  I smiled ruefully. “That I’ve let this place get to me. And I said I never would.”

  “Ah, well, places have a habit of doing that. They creep up on you. Steal into your heart when you’re not looking. People too. Just when you don’t want them to.”

  He looked into the fire as he said this, leaning back on his elbows, but it seemed to me he looked straight into my soul. I hardly dared breathe. I watched the flames lick around the logs, knowing it was imperative not to take my eyes away from them. From those embers. And suddenly, I knew too I wanted to bottle this moment for ever. Wanted to freeze-frame this snapshot of the two of us: Pat, stretched out with fluid grace on the rug, me beside him on the hearth, my legs tucked under me, brandy glasses by our sides, the firelight flickering on our faces. As the implications of this thought trickled through to my consciousness, it simultaneously horrified me. I began to scramble to my feet, but as I did, he laid a hand on my arm.