A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  Her outrage would be short-lived, though, because I could also hear her joy at having them together again, as loving grandparents for little Tobias, and for Rufus too, I thought as my heart gave a leap. Oh, this would go a long way to healing his hurt. A long, long way. I turned at the door in realisation.

  “Rufus will be thrilled.”

  They both beamed until I thought their faces would crack.

  “That’s what we thought,” purred Mum.

  “And we also thought,” went on Dad excitedly, “that we’d keep your Mum’s place in the South of France, use it as a holiday home. Have you all down in the summer—Hannah, Eddie, Rufus and Tobias—put a pool in.”

  “Lovely,” I agreed faintly. And it would be. I wasn’t uttering faintly for any other reason than I wondered…well, I suppose I wondered who I’d be with. By the pool, in the sun, the cicadas croaking in the grasses, Eddie mixing a tray of cocktails under an umbrella…I straightened up. Well, I’d be with my son. And my sister and brother-in-law, and my nephew, and both my parents. I looked at them, standing together in the doorway: Mum, looking younger and softer, her hair mussed, cheeks glowing; Dad, well, Dad perhaps a little older, a little wiser. But then, he’d needed to grow up, hadn’t he?

  I embraced them both again.

  “I’m so pleased,” I whispered in their ears. “So, so pleased.”

  And then I turned and went down the path, leaving them alone.

  ***

  When I picked Rufus up, I had difficulty keeping a foolish grin at bay. Rufus spotted it immediately.

  “Why are you smiling so much?” he demanded as I put his cricket bat in the boot.

  “I’ve just had some rather good news.” I shut the boot with a satisfying click.

  “Oh?” Rufus looked up at me, hopeful, and for a moment, for all his bravado about us being better off on our own, I wondered if he thought his father was coming back.

  “It’s about Granny and Grandpa,” I said quickly as we got in the car. I wondered if it would be an anti-climax now. “They’re going to get back together again.”

  Rufus stared at me, astonished. Then his face lit up. “Wow!”

  “I know,” I said, relieved. “Wow. After all these years, they’ve suddenly remembered why they loved each other in the first place, and why they got married.”

  “Are they going to get married again?”

  “Oh,” I laughed as I let out the handbrake, “I don’t know about that. They might, I suppose.” God, Dad would love that. I could just see him in a frilly shirt and tuxedo in Las Vegas, retaking his vows, although Mum might prefer to be barefoot on a beach, flowers in her hair.

  “Grandpa must be so pleased,” Rufus mused as we drove off. “He was a bit lonely, wasn’t he?”

  “Was he?” I shot him a look, surprised. “But Grandpa was the one with all the girlfriends. Granny was the one on her own.”

  “Yes, but Granny’s good at being on her own. Grandpa didn’t have a soul mate.”

  I smiled. “What do you know about soul mates?”

  “What he told me, when I told him about Dad and Kate. He said, ‘Silly arse. I’d give anything not to have made that mistake. Not to have alienated my soul mate.’ I looked up ‘alienated,’ but I couldn’t find ‘soul mate.’ What is it, Mum?”

  “It’s…someone you feel very deeply about. Someone you feel instinctively is right for you, for ever. Part of you, almost. Like the missing piece in a jigsaw.”

  “Did you feel that about Dad?”

  I considered this. “I thought I did, but looking back, I wonder if it wasn’t a bit one-sided. If I wasn’t a bit…well, obsessed with him, when I met him, to see clearly.”

  “What’s obsessed?”

  I paused. “Keen.”

  “Oh. And have you ever met anyone else who you thought could be a soul mate?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Rufus, there’s an ice-cream shop over there, would you like one?”

  “Oh, cool. Yes, please, Mum.”

  We pulled up on the edge of the village. This conversation was getting just a little too adult for my liking.

  “That’s where your pictures are, isn’t it?” Rufus pointed to Molly’s bar, a few hundred yards down the road.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  I realised I’d been avoiding it for the last few days, for reasons best known to myself. Avoiding her. But that was silly, I decided. I couldn’t do that for ever. She was selling my paintings, for heaven’s sake.

  “Rufus, you go and choose your lolly, and I’ll pop in and see if anything’s been sold.”

  “OK. I’ll come and find you.”

  I gave him some money and he was off at the double, loving that little bit of independence that made him feel so grown up, to be buying his sweets, at nine, on his own.

  The bar was closed and in darkness, but I could see movement in the shadows. When I rang the bell, Molly wove her way briskly through the tables and came to swing back the door.

  “Hello stranger! We haven’t seen you round these parts for a while.”

  “I know. I’ve…been busy.”

  I’d forgotten how beautiful she was. Her heart-shaped face was wreathed in smiles and her green eyes danced. Her sheet of silky dark hair shone like a mahogany halo in the bright sunlight. No wonder he loved her.

  “Come in, come in. You’ll have a quick coffee?”

  “I won’t, thanks,” I said stepping inside. “Rufus will be back in a mo. He’s just gone to get an ice cream. I just wondered how the pictures were doing?”

  “Well, look!” She reached for the light switch and illuminated the dark cavern. Flung her arms around the bare red walls. “I was going to ring and tell you—I need more!”

  I gasped. “You’ve sold them all?”

  “Well, not all of them—there’s still a couple down there.” She pointed to the room through the archway. “But I’ve sold eight out of eleven. Not bad, eh?”

  “Not bad? My God—it’s brilliant!” All sorts of dizzy emotions jostled within me—excitement, pride—but mostly, an entirely practical one: paying my rent, properly, without going cap in hand to Piers; paying my bills, being independent, perhaps entirely independent of Alex, which, I suddenly realised, was what I craved.

  “How much?” I couldn’t help it.

  “Well, I haven’t completely totted it up yet, but I’ve got it written down somewhere…” She made towards her pad of paper behind the bar. “Just got to take off my commission and—”

  “No, no, it’s OK, Molly.” I blushed and stayed her arm. “I can work it out at home. It’s just…well, I’m not used to having money. Of my own.”

  She grinned. “And there was I thinking you were a bored housewife doing it to Find Yourself. Hadn’t realised you were a proper struggling artist needing the dosh.”

  “Well, I am now.” I saw her curious look but didn’t want to elaborate.

  “But who bought them all?” I went on quickly. “D’you have a list?”

  “I do, and they’re mostly locals. Even Piers Latimer bought one!”

  “Piers!”

  “Yes. We had a kind of official opening party for the bar. It was last week, very impromptu, and I tried to get hold of you, but someone said you were in London. Anyway, he came and bought one, and my parents came and absolutely loved them and they bought one, and all three of my brothers came, and one of my brothers even bought three!”

  “Good heavens.” I was stupefied. That people would actually want to part with hard cash for my paintings…hang them on their walls, above their fireplaces, show their friends—“Yes, a local artist. Rather talented, we think.” I gulped, overcome. And it was mostly the large canvases that had gone, the recent, sweeping landscapes, not tiny loo pictures. Only three, the ones I’d painted in London, remained.


  “Well, I don’t know what to say. I’m staggered. Thank you so much, Molly.”

  “Don’t thank me. You painted them,” she grinned, as Rufus came running back in with his lolly. “I just provided the wall space. Hello, you.”

  “Hi.” Rufus smiled politely, then, not so politely: “Mummy, can we go now? I want to see if Biscuit’s had her puppies.”

  “The Latimers’ dog?” asked Molly.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s just about to. Pat was here a minute ago, having a cup of tea, and he got a call from Piers. She’s having a few complications, I gather.”

  “Oh! Mum, can we go?” Rufus looked up at me, anxious.

  “We can, my darling, but I’m not sure Piers will want you up there.” We made for the door. “Thanks, Molly, we’ll speak soon.”

  “Oh, he will,” urged my son, “he said I could. And he said I could have a puppy too. Theo’s having one. Can I, Mum?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve already said no, Rufus. We’ve got too many animals.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” he grumbled as he hurried to the car. “Anyway, quick, I want to see her have them. And if we don’t hurry, Pat will have delivered them.”

  “I’ll drop you off,” I told him firmly.

  ***

  We drove up to the Latimers’ and I deposited Rufus round at the back door. I half expected to see Pat’s beaten up Land Rover already in situ, but the back yard was empty. Nevertheless, in case he’d parked around the front, I kept the engine running as Rufus got out, only lingering long enough to see him run through the back door and into the depths of the house, a regular who knew the way, knew the ropes. I sighed and drove home, knowing Rufus would ring when he wanted to be collected.

  Back at the cottage, I went straight up to the bedroom where I was forced to keep my paintings in the wardrobe. Maybe I’d earn enough to build a studio, I thought wildly, dragging them all out of the cupboard, just a little wooden one, like a summerhouse. And maybe I’d paint on real canvas now, and maybe…maybe I could approach the chap who ran the gallery in town. Have a proper exhibition. If the locals liked them, he might have heard about my success at Molly’s. I crouched down and sifted eagerly through them, wondering which ones I should pick to fill the gaps at the bar. I wouldn’t desert Molly. Oh, no, as long as she was selling them, I’d keep putting them on her walls. Gosh, I had plenty, so—what about this seascape above the bar? I propped it up on the bed, standing back to view it critically with narrowed eyes. Or—this Parisian street scene that I’d done in London? It had a certain café society feel to it—perfect for the ambience. But they weren’t framed. None of them. And framing was so expensive. About sixty pounds a throw. But I had money now, I determined, and I must plough it back in. If I was going to be a success, I had to reinvest.

  Fizzing with excitement, I carried the seascape and the street scene downstairs. I’d take them into the framer’s tomorrow, I decided. The one in town. I’d heard he was good—in fact, I’d take six or seven. My heart pounded. I’d never had so many pictures framed in one go; usually did them one at a time, never had the confidence. But I’d worked the money out in my head in the car, and I realised I had over two thousand pounds. Two thousand pounds! My heart flipped with excitement.

  As I propped up the paintings by the front door ready to put in the car—carefully, always back to back so as not to scrape the paint—and made to dash upstairs for more, I realised there was post on the doormat. I picked it up and instantly felt sick. Two envelopes, one cream, one blue, both written in hands I recognised. One from Alex, and one from Kate. I dropped them; had to sit down on the stairs I felt so wobbly. I stared at them on the mat for a long while. Couldn’t touch them, just sat there, staring at them. I could feel my fizzy excitement dripping off me, soaking into the carpet, like so many raindrops.

  After a while, I stood up. I collected the letters, and also a pen from the hall table. Then I sat down on the stairs again. I narrowed my eyes and gazed out of the tiny hall window to my cows, all lying on their sides, slumbering peacefully in the sunshine. Dad had once told me it was the ultimate insult, but also the ultimate in personal dignity. I carefully crossed out my address on each envelope, and then readdressed them, back from whence they came. No. No thank you, Alex and Kate. I don’t want your fawning apologies; don’t want to think about either of you right now, don’t want my bubble burst. Oh, I knew I’d be speaking to Alex about Rufus soon enough, organising access, but I’d contact him. I’d write to him, in my own time, on my own terms, when I was good and ready. And when Rufus was good and ready too. But Kate? I gazed out of the window. No. Never.

  I thought of the hours of agonising, the hours of writing and rewriting that had gone into those letters, the collaboration, perhaps. Kate’s full of, “You don’t know how many times I tried to stop myself, don’t know how I’ve hated myself, how dreadful I feel”—trying, as if she hadn’t taken everything else from me, to steal feeling dreadful as well. And Alex’s, full of much the same, but with possibly some “Can you ever forgive me?” thrown in, or possibly not, but either way, it didn’t matter, because I’d made up my mind. No, I couldn’t. And wouldn’t forgive him.

  As I put the letters on the hall table to send in the morning, I thought of the expressions on their faces as they received them. I went back upstairs for my next two paintings, feeling slightly less sick, feeling my spirits returning, my equilibrium making a heroic comeback. Good, I thought as I managed to spring up the top two stairs. As my dad would say, nil desperandum—or, don’t let the bastards grind you down. Well, I wouldn’t.

  I made two more trips up and down the stairs until I had seven boards in all stacked in the hall, and was just chewing my thumbnail and dithering over whether or not to make it eight—that still life, perhaps, of the fruit and flowers, but then at sixty pounds a frame that would swallow up nearly a quarter of my earnings—when the phone rang.

  I leaped in alarm, for some obscure reason thinking it might be Alex, having miraculously received his redirected mail, ringing up in high dudgeon, but of course it couldn’t be. I picked it up. Was about to say hello, when Rufus’s voice, without waiting for mine, came down the line. It was shaking with emotion.

  “I can’t believe you knew they’d be killed! I can’t believe it! You knew Pat was going to put them down. I’m never speaking to you again. Never!”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Rufus. Rufus!”

  But he’d gone. The phone had been slammed down. I hastily dialled Piers’s number but the line was engaged. I tried again. Still engaged, presumably Rufus had slammed it down, missed and run off. Damn! I thought for a moment, then grabbed my car keys and ran outside. Rufus didn’t get like that, didn’t sound like that. He was such a calm, controlled little boy. I hadn’t heard him so upset for ages.

  I dived into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, crunching the gears. And how come it was all my fault, I thought as I lurched out of the yard, pushing hair out of my eyes. How come I was the villain? I mean, of course the puppies shouldn’t be killed, but what was I supposed to do about it? Give seven or eight mongrels a home, a start in life, like something out of One Hundred and One Dalmatians? And if I didn’t, well, then I was Cruella de flaming Vil, all swirling fur coats and cruel red lips—Jesus!

  I roared up the hill, bouncing along the chalky zigzag track and then along the lane and down the back drive to Stockley. I went round to the back yard again, knowing that the dogs all slept in the boot room, and hastened in through the back door, half expecting to interrupt the murder scene: half expecting to find Piers and Pat, plucking puppies from a basket by the scruff of their necks, Pat poised with a bucket of water for drowning purposes, two small boys hanging on to his arm pleading piteously whilst Biscuit barked and circled frantically, but—the boot room was empty. Just the usual serried ranks of Wellingtons, Barbours, fishing rods and shooting sticks
prevailed.

  I ran down the corridor and pushed open the kitchen door. Piers’s lurchers, lying under the table, raised their heads and bayed a welcome, thumping the floor with their tails, but no Biscuit. And no Piers either, sitting at the table picking his teeth, or Vera washing up, and certainly no Rufus.

  I ran on—“Rufus. Rufus!”—throwing open the laundry door, the playroom door, but there was no sign of anyone. Perhaps they were all upstairs? Feeling a little uneasy about charging around someone’s house—but not that uneasy, I decided, recalling Rufus’s hysterical tones—I flew up the back stairs, taking them two at a time, ran across the landing, and down the passageway to Theo’s room. The door was wide open and piles of Lego and Playmobil castles littered the floor, but no little boys. As I was about to leave, I spun about, spotting Piers out of the window on the terrace below, admiring his roses. I flew to the window and flung it open.

  “Stay there!” I ordered, as Piers glanced up, astonished, before dashing back downstairs, out of the French windows, and tracking him down in his flowerbeds, secateurs poised.

  “Piers!” I gasped.

  “Oh, hello, Imogen. I’ve been trying to get hold of you but your phone just rang and rang.”

  “I’m looking for Rufus,” I panted, clutching my knees, trying to catch my breath.

  “Yes, that’s why I was ringing. I’m afraid I’ve rather upset him. One forgets how sensitive these small boys are, and I told him—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but where is he?”

  “Well, I told him Pat had taken Biscuit away because she might need a Caesarean section, and then I, you know, told him what might happen to the puppies—and he shot off on Theo’s bike after him.”

  “On a bike!”

  “Yes, I know. I’m terribly sorry, Imogen.” He looked distressed. “I tried to stop him, didn’t think you’d want him cycling into town, but my office line went and it was my stock man with a problem about some gypsies in the lower meadow, so I was distracted, and when I turned round—he’d gone.”