A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “OK,” I nodded quickly. “Not to worry, Piers. I’ll find him.”

  Piers was still calling his apologies after me, but I waved them aside as I ran off to the car. Cycling into town alone! At nine! Rufus didn’t know the first thing about roads and traffic, particularly windy country lanes with thundering great hay lorries and tractors. He’d enjoyed a degree of independence since we’d been here, but not to that extent.

  I sped to the vet’s surgery, but not too fast, I thought suddenly, slowing down dramatically. I didn’t want to be the one to knock him off his bike, I thought in panic as I glanced left and right—he could easily be on the wrong side of the road—but there was no sign of him. At the vet’s I parked creatively outside, front wheels on the pavement, and ran up the steps and through the open door. Pink Jeans was sitting behind her desk in reception, looking poised, blonde and bored. Her face darkened when she saw me.

  “Where’s Pat?” I gasped, clutching her desk, no pride now.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Panting for him now, are we, dear?”

  “Just tell me where he is, dear.”

  “He’s out on a call,” she said shortly. “Someone’s bitch was in trouble. Wasn’t you, was it?”

  “No,” I ground my teeth, “it was the Latimers’, but he’s not there now. I assumed he was here. My son’s following him.”

  Her pale blue eyes widened. “Oh, so the entire family’s chasing round the countryside after him now, are they? You’ll be laying traps for him next.”

  I wanted to slap her. “Do you or do you not know where he is?”

  “No idea,” she said crisply. “If he’s got any sense he’s barricaded himself into his home. Away from desperate women like you.”

  “But he’s got a sick dog with him—wouldn’t he bring her here?”

  She looked under a pile of papers. Then under her desk.

  “Can’t see him, can you?”

  “Can’t you ring him on his mobile?”

  “He’s turned it off. Don’t blame him either, do you?”

  I glared at her and made for the door.

  “My pleasure,” she murmured.

  As the door swung shut behind me, I pushed it open again and poked my head around.

  “Oh, by the way, d’you ever change those jeans?” I flashed her a sweet smile and left.

  So where the hell was he, I thought as I ran down the steps and back to the car. He’d picked Biscuit up from the Latimers’, Piers had thought he was bringing her here for a Caesarean—was there another surgery? Somewhere closer? I should have asked, but then again, I was hardly likely to get a civil answer from the She Devil, was I?

  I roared back down the lanes, wondering, if, in fact, Rufus had simply cycled home and I’d missed him. So off the lane I turned and down the bouncy zigzag track—to an empty cottage. I swung around helplessly in the yard, narrowing my eyes into the distance. Right. Don’t panic. Just…don’t panic. I jumped back in the car and slammed the door—one way and another my door-slamming arm was getting a lot of exercise today—because there was now only one obvious place they could be and that was Pat’s house. Perhaps he’d decided a home birth would be best. In a paddling pool, complete with womb music. Christ alive. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and headed off towards the lodge.

  I realised, as I roared down the narrow lane banked either side with cow parsley, that mentally I’d been rather hoping I wouldn’t have to do this, to go there, but now, here I was, turning into the main gates to Stockley and approaching Crumpet Cottage, and there, sure enough, in the front garden, casually discarded on its side, was a bright red Raleigh bike. I heaved a monumental sigh of relief. Thank God. And by the look of it—it wasn’t tangled and twisted, or even mud-spattered—he was in one piece.

  I hesitated on the doorstep. Maybe I should get back in the car and just beep the horn? Keep the engine running and shout, “Come on, Rufus!” through the open window. Maybe I didn’t have to go in? Too late. The door swung back, and Pat stood framed in the doorway.

  “Oh. Hi.” He looked surprised.

  “Hi!” I gulped, and rocked back slightly in my trainers.

  He looked gorgeous. Tall and bronzed from the sun, wearing an old checked shirt over a white T-shirt and jeans, sleeves rolled up to reveal broad, tanned forearms. Suddenly I was aware of the attractive apparition I must present: hot and sweaty with my fringe plastered to my forehead, the rest of my hair frizzing nicely, no doubt, no make-up, grubby old jeans.

  A quizzical look came into his eye and he stretched a lazy hand up the door frame, leaning casually on it, a slightly droll smile playing on his lips.

  “Looking for your son?”

  “I was, actually.”

  “Come right in. He’s in the sitting room, along with Biscuit, and, apparently, HobNob, KitKat and Jammy Dodger.”

  “Or Garibaldi,” warned Rufus as I went in. He was sitting cross-legged on the rug by the fireplace, a tiny puppy cradled in his arms. “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Oh!” I crossed the room and sank to my knees beside him. “She’s had them!”

  “About twenty minutes ago.” Pat came across and stood over us. “I picked her up from Piers’s, thinking she might need a Caesarean she was in such a bad way, but she went into labour in the back of the car. I quickly pulled in here thinking, shit, I’ve got no apparatus, but before I knew it, she’d popped out four pups on the rug in front of the fire.”

  “Four?”

  “One died.”

  “Of natural causes,” put in Rufus pointedly. “It was stillborn.”

  “Rufus, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think. When Piers said he was going to put them down I just assumed that was what country people did. I thought objecting was a bit like squealing when you saw a pheasant shot, then tucking into it for Sunday lunch.”

  “Some country people do behave like that,” agreed Pat, “and Piers is one of them. A lot of farmers drown litters of kittens rather than have the place overrun with unneutered cats, but I wouldn’t have done it. We can usually find homes for puppies, especially if we put cute photos on the notice board in the surgery.”

  “And anyway, these have all got homes,” said Rufus. “Theo’s having one, Pat’s having another, and I’m having this one, Jammy Dodger. Dodger for short.” He eyed me defiantly.

  I swallowed. “Right.”

  There didn’t seem to be any answer to that. Under the circumstances I didn’t appear to have a leg to stand on, and I certainly didn’t want to make a scene in front of Pat. I glanced up at him.

  “You’re having one too?”

  He crouched down beside us, a hand resting on the floor between his knees to steady himself. “Your son has some very persuasive arguments. Apparently I need a dog. Apparently I’m not a proper vet if I don’t have one. I can’t imagine what I’ve been thinking of all these years. Can’t imagine why I’ve even got a practising certificate.”

  I laughed. “Yes, he’s good at getting his own way.”

  “I might draw the line at KitKat, though. People might think I’ve got a screw loose if I call that in the park, think I can’t distinguish between a kitty-cat and a dog. Might get struck off.”

  I giggled. He was very close to me now. His knee, as he crouched, was brushing my arm. It felt as if it was on fire. I was jolly glad to see Rufus safe and sound, but right now, I wished him a million miles away. Couldn’t he run into the garden and play with the tiny scraps? Throw them a ball? No, clearly not. One of them hadn’t even opened her eyes yet. Couldn’t walk, let alone chase a ball. Biscuit nuzzled them proudly as they suckled.

  “She’d done jolly well for an old girl of seven,” Pat observed. “That’s about forty-nine in human terms.”

  “Good for you, Biscuit.” I stroked her silky ear. She looked knackered.

  “And I’m pretty sure they’re half Coll
ie. Old Geoff Harper has got a very randy sheepdog that’s always sniffing around. That’s a good cross. They look nice, and they’re intelligent too.”

  I wished I looked nice and felt even remotely intelligent. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I was conscious of him being very close and that my breathing was getting a bit heavy. I could hear it whistling in my ears, billowing and blowing around the room. Anyone would think I was the one in labour.

  “And of course, there are some Labrador crosses you really wouldn’t want. A poodle, for example, or a dachshund.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a bit difficult anyway?”

  “What, you mean the copulation?”

  I blushed. Oh, splendid, Imogen. You’ve brought up doggy sex and the problems associated with canine penetration at this very spine-tingling moment. Well done.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.” He laughed. “Where there’s a will—or a libido—there’s generally a way.”

  He looked at me, quite…you know…smoulderingly. Intently. His eyes were like two dark, glittering chips of coal. I knew I was pink already, and I felt myself going even pinker. Would I combust soon, under his gaze? Go up in flames? I didn’t know where to look, so I glanced at the walls.

  “Oh!” My mouth fell open. “My pictures!”

  I stood up, astonished, almost tripping over KitKat, who happily, Rufus shielded from my foot. I stared in amazement. Over the fireplace was the billowing hayfield I’d painted a couple of weeks ago, and opposite, above the sofa, was the same field but earlier on in the year when it was still pasture, with the cows in the foreground. They were big pictures. Expensive pictures.

  He stood up too and looked embarrassed. “Er, yes. I bought them at Molly’s. Had to buy both of them because I felt they kind of went together.”

  “W-well they do,” I stuttered. “They’re two studies of the same view, but…”

  “There’s another one in the bedroom,” piped up Rufus. “I saw it when I went to the loo. In here.”

  He grabbed my hand. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, I let myself be dragged back through the hall, through another door, and into the bedroom, where I found myself looking at the very first landscape I’d ever done here, that first day I’d painted, of the weeping willows dripping in the stream. That day…well, that day, actually, when he’d come to see the chickens that I was starving to death. He’d have driven past my easel, seen the painting from the track. And here it was, bold as brass, above an equally bold brass bed.

  “You bought three!” I said astonished.

  He ran his hand over the hair on the back of his head awkwardly. “Four, actually. There’s one I bought earlier in another room. But yes, I bought three in one go. Obviously had a drink too many at Molly’s party.”

  I dragged my eyes away from the picture to stare at him. Tiny fragments of sense were flying round my head like so many particles of dust in space, trying to cohere, to adhere, to find a home. Three pictures. Molly’s party.

  “You’re Molly’s brother,” I breathed.

  He looked surprised. “Yes, of course I’m Molly’s brother. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Well…no, I…” I licked my lips. Swallowed. “I knew she was living here.”

  “Because she’s decorating her flat above the bar. And I must say it’s been great having her. We’ve had a blast, but she’s bloody messy. About time she moved on,” he grumbled. Then he grinned. “And she will, next week.”

  “But I…I never knew…” I was still staring at him, gaping openly. “I mean—she’s not even Irish!”

  He threw back his head and hooted at the ceiling. “She bloody is! But she did come to boarding school in England when she was twelve,” he admitted. “Ironed out the accent a bit. My brothers did too. I, on the other hand, was expelled from Ampleforth for driving the headmaster’s car on to the cricket pitch.”

  “Oh!”

  “Went to All Saints in Dublin instead, and got the brogue. We were laughing about it just the other night in fact, with Mum and Dad, at Molly’s bar—they all came over from Cork for the party. About how Molly sounds like the Duchess of Devonshire, and Tom and Michael like Prince Phillip, and I still sound like Paddy O’Reilly.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m rather proud of it.”

  “Yes. I like it. The lilt.”

  “Thank you.” He gave a mock bow. Then looked at me with those dark, sparkling eyes. “And I like you too.”

  I held his gaze for a moment, then cracked. I moved away, twisting my hands about.

  “You…bought all my latest pictures, I notice,” I said, for something to say. “Not any of my London ones. That’s interesting.”

  “Well, they’re not as good.”

  I blinked. Swung round. “I’m sorry?”

  “They’re not. They look as if they’ve been painted from photographs.”

  “They were,” I spluttered.

  “And there’s no passion in them. These look like you’ve really been swept away by something. Or someone.”

  I was silenced. He seemed to know more about me than I did.

  “This one in particular,” he opened a door into an en suite bathroom and there, hanging on the wall facing the end of the bath, was the very first one I’d sold in the bar, the cornfield flecked with poppies.

  “Oh! That’s the first one I sold! Molly said she didn’t know who bought it, said Pierre sold it on a Sunday, but—he’d have known you, surely?”

  “Ah, yes, but I bribed him with a bottle of Merlot. Bought his silence,” he grinned.

  “Why?” I asked. Couldn’t help it.

  “Didn’t want you to think I was too keen, I suppose.”

  A silence hung between us. The room seemed very still. Very quiet. Poised on a knife edge.

  “All…those girlfriends,” I stuttered.

  He frowned. “Which girlfriends?”

  “Well, Piers said,” I mumbled, feeling stupid, because of course one of them had obviously been his sister, “well—you know, Pink Jeans.”

  “Who?”

  “The receptionist at the surgery.”

  “Oh, Samantha.” He nodded. “Yes, you’re quite right, I did have a quick ding-dong with her when I first came here. She flung herself at me and I was feeling raw and angry so I flung back. Why, should I be celibate? Were you expecting a virgin?”

  “N-no! Of course not.” And I felt nosy and intrusive asking about his girlfriends, but what I really wanted to get back to was the raw and angry bit.

  “Was it…were you feeling that way, because—because you’d left your wife?” I ploughed on clumsily.

  His face changed. A shadow crossed it and the light went from his eyes. He turned, went back into the bedroom, crossed to the book shelves, and picked up a china ornament from a shelf.

  “I left my wife? Is that what people say?”

  “Well, I think Eleanor, or maybe Piers said it.” I’d followed him through. He didn’t speak for a moment, his back still to me.

  “Yes, I suppose I did leave her. I could have stayed.” He looked down at the china object in his hand. It was a small pink rabbit, incongruous in this no-nonsense masculine bedroom.

  “You…have a child, too? A little girl?”

  He turned and smiled. But it was an odd sort of smile.

  “She’s not mine.”

  “Not yours? But I thought—”

  “Yes, I did too. Well, who wouldn’t?” He laughed quietly. “You marry the girl you love, have a child, assume it’s yours. But it wasn’t.”

  “Oh!” I sat down hard on the bed. My legs seemed to insist upon it.

  “She—Marina, had been having an affair. With our best man.”

  “Your best man. Your best friend!”

  “It’s not unheard of.”

  “No. I
…know.”

  He sat down beside me. “It started after the wedding, apparently. She hadn’t met him before. He’s an Aussie. I met him when I was out in Melbourne, just after university for my year off, ranching cattle. We ended up touring New Zealand together. He was a laugh. A good mate. He was also tall, blond and very attractive. Anyway, when I got married, he came across to be my best man. He liked England, found a job in a bar, and found my wife.”

  “Crikey.” That sounded rather inadequate. “How did you find out about the child?”

  “Isobel? Marina told me. When the baby was three months old. Couldn’t keep it in any more, I guess. And she wanted to be with him, Pete, the father. So she told me one dark November night, just as she was coming downstairs after putting Isobel to bed, washing the empty bottle at the sink, sterilising it with shaking hands.”

  I gulped. “Did you believe her?”

  “I did, actually. I think…you can pretend you don’t know your other half is having an affair, but in your heart you know.”

  I nodded. Lowered my eyes to the carpet. “Yes. You do.”

  “I did insist on DNA, though. I wanted to be sure. But she was his all right. Pete’s.”

  “So…you left?”

  “Yes. I left.” He turned his face to mine. His eyes were raw with pain. “I just couldn’t do it, Imo. Bring up another man’s child. A better man might have done, but I couldn’t. But it was hard, because I loved Isobel. Loved her very much.” He gave a cracked laugh. “As if she was mine.” He sighed. “But I couldn’t even look at Marina. So I left Ireland. Came over here.”

  “And they’re still together?”

  “No, they split up. Marina chucked him out. I don’t know why, but I know Pete’s always had a wandering eye. Perhaps that was the trouble. Anyway, he’s gone back to Melbourne.”

  “Right.”

  I considered this tall, wise-cracking man who’d been through so much pain. So much anguish. To lose a child like that.

  “That’s why I couldn’t face the maternity ward when Hannah had her baby. The last time I’d been in one of those it was under very different circumstances. My darling wife had just given birth to my darling daughter. It was the happiest day of my life. Or so I thought.”