My Husband Next Door

by Catherine Alliott

  I got out of the car exhausted. Exhausted because the old Volvo I drove overheated if it had to loiter in traffic and I’d have to sit for ages by the side of the road until it cooled down. This wasn’t normally a problem in the Cotswolds, but today I’d come up behind a farmer driving his sheep down the middle of the lane and, if I didn’t want to overheat, this involved a detour, and then road works, which had caused me to dive down a tiny track and out of my way again. On the point of swinging into the yard I’d spotted a creditor standing by his van staring speculatively up at the house, hands in pockets. Horrified I’d driven round the village until I was sure he’d gone. Wishing I had some money, in which case of course I’d give it to the Electricity Board, although I might buy a new car first, I’d finally made it home.

  By now it was past one o’clock and the upstairs curtains were still drawn, although that didn’t necessarily mean the inmates were asleep. If my children couldn’t see, they simply turned on lights. Sure enough, as I shoulder-barged through the front door, a blaring television down the hall suggested a few vital signs. Stooping to collect the post from the mat which they’d have seen as they came down but, on the grounds that it wouldn’t be for them, not collected, I simultaneously answered the telephone, which was being ignored on the same basis. Just an annoying noise. Rather different to the days of racing to beat the parents before they barked at one’s friends, I thought, as I clocked an automated message telling me what to do if I was in debt, before slamming the receiver down.

  As usual, the sitting room resembled an old people’s home at Eastbourne. The residents were slumped at either end of a sofa, feet up on low stools, tartan rugs tucked over their knees. One poor soul had her rug right up to her chin, her pale face peeking out just enough to view the flickering screen. The curtains were shut; the air was fetid, stale and institutional. Plates and mugs from the night before, which the staff hadn’t had a chance to get to this morning, festered happily, although the dogs had made a pretty thorough job of licking them clean. The dogs, in fact, were the only hint that this wasn’t a geriatric establishment: both were on the sofa with the residents.

  They leaped to greet me – the dogs, that is – jumping up my legs in delight, howling a welcome as I marched across the room, drawing the curtains ruthlessly. The children blinked in horror at this rude and unwelcome intrusion. Josh’s hand went up to cover his eyes.

  ‘Shit, Ella.’

  ‘It’s ten past one, for heaven’s sake!’ I swung round, hands on hips. ‘Are you going to stay here all day?’

  They regarded me with disgust, as one would a jailer.

  ‘God. Why so stressy?’ Josh shot me an incredulous look as he pulled his father’s old felt hat right down over his eyes and sank deeper under his rug.

  ‘Move, can’t you?’ asked my daughter, craning her head round my legs as I stood in front of the television.

  ‘No, because it’s coming off!’ I said, rather boldly for me. I might usually have negotiated for the end of the programme. I lunged to press the button and plunged us into silence. The residents, too weak to get to their feet and protest, simply sank back in silence.

  ‘She’s been to see Ginnie,’ Josh observed bitterly.

  ‘Picking up tips,’ said Tabitha, shutting her eyes. ‘Getting a crash course in helicopter mothering.’

  ‘She doesn’t need tips; she’s there already.’

  By now I was getting very busy opening windows, wrestling with a rusty catch as I threw it wide, spotting a pile of bantam poo behind the sofa which I’d have to deal with later. ‘I’ll have you know, Araminta sets her alarm for eight o’clock in the school holidays,’ I stormed, roving around the room picking up empty mugs, a lemonade can, a winding and still-damp towel employed to dry my daughter’s hair, putting tops on an array of evil-smelling, putrid-coloured nail varnishes. ‘She’s been picked for the Areas and she gets up early to learn her dressage tests!’ I swooped on a soggy, well-licked Smoothie carton under a chair.

  ‘Don’t say Areas like you know what you’re talking about,’ Tabitha said coldly. ‘Like you’re a horsy mother.’ She was on her BlackBerry now, texting expertly. If only that lightning thumb action could spread to all her digits, be translated to the piano, the viola or something, I thought, watching it fly across the keys.

  ‘No, but we don’t need horses to have a hobby, do we?’ I said in a chummy voice. ‘Why don’t you go for a bike ride or something?’ Then, quickly: ‘Or walk the dogs?’

  ‘Dog-walking isn’t a hobby,’ said Tabitha. ‘Unless you’re a depressed, middle-aged housewife.’

  But my son wasn’t so easily deflected. ‘A bike ride?’ Josh had staggered to his feet on the sofa, felt hat on his head, rug wrapped round him like a Shakespearean cloak, and was regarding me with delight. ‘A bike ride, Ella? This sister of yours in her ivory tower is not just misguided she’s downright dangerous! Is that what cousin Hugo does? Goes for a bike ride? Dear God, where will it all end? Does he rub brass, perchance? Collect stamps?’ He got down from the sofa and circled me in disbelief. ‘And is that what you’d like me to do? Swap my Abyssinia for his Czech Republic, enquire eagerly after his German First Editions before getting on my bike and popping round to compare? That way weirdness lies, Ella, you suggestible old bag, you.’

  ‘That will do, thank you, Joshua,’ I snapped. ‘Lift. LIFT!’ This to Tabitha, who had her legs on my best and only cashmere jumper. I jerked it out.

  ‘Give it a few more years and it’ll be a hollow chest and a bedsit for me if I go down that path. No friends, of course, because no one else will share my interests, so dinner for one in the microwave, and then, before you know it, it’ll be the long mac and the dirty magazines.’ He was still circling me but I ignored him, swooping on another lemonade can. ‘No girlfriends to speak of, just the almighty crush on the woman at the library where I work, The One Who Wheels The Book Trolley, with the moustache and the thighs that rub together in a nylon whisper …’ He shut his eyes and swooned. ‘And who I lust for at night, under the sheets, magazine at the ready –’

  ‘Josh …’ I warned

  ‘But who sadly turns out to be shagging the chief librarian, um … Derek! Derek, my only friend – or so I thought!’ His voice lowered to a sepulchral whisper and he clutched his rug tragically at the neck. ‘Plunging me into even deeper despair, and through the basic desire for human touch, homosexuality –’

  ‘Josh, I mean it, stop now!’

  He stopped still and blinked. ‘Well, golly, Ella, I’m just trying to point out to you where all this prolonging of childhood innocence gets you. Where all Ginnie’s pony rides and cycling will lead. Although I think you’re misinformed. Rumour has it the bike Hugo’s riding has neither wheels nor peddles.’

  His sister sniggered, never for one moment abandoning her texting.

  ‘All right, that will do!’ I said sharply, turning my attention to the sofa cushion where Josh had been sitting, plumping it viciously, removing crisps from down the side. ‘Ginnie says she’s a lovely girl, actually.’

  ‘Ginnie hasn’t met her,’ Josh told me. ‘So she’s talking out of her arse, as usual.’ He dripped out of the room still draped in his rug.

  ‘Have you?’ I asked, regretting it instantly.

  He stopped abruptly. Hunched his shoulders in mock dismay and turned back. ‘Oh, the inquisition,’ he groaned. ‘Always the prurient interest in the teenage sex life. Go on Facebook, Ella, if you must. Uncover our passwords, like Ginnie does, if you must live vicariously through your children. If you have no life of your own.’ He shuddered in horror, ever the actor, and shuffled on.

  I watched him go, a slight gleam to my eye. Had he turned, it might have betrayed the perverse pleasure I took in my son’s bullying, which undoubtedly kept me on my toes. Happily it went unnoticed. Instead he stopped in the middle of the kitchen and spread his arms wide, the rug forming a perfect square from behind.

  ‘Why is there never any food in this house? Why? No
cereal? No peanut butter? No staples?’

  ‘Peanut butter is not a staple and there’s plenty of food,’ I told him.

  He opened the fridge door and drank apple juice straight from the carton, his head tipped back. Then he belched loudly, shook the carton, which was clearly empty, and replaced it. ‘You’re poisoning us with all this concentrate – you know that, don’t you? It’s full of sugar.’

  ‘Sophie’s mum won’t have anything other than Tropicana in the house,’ Tabitha informed us, her eyes still on her BlackBerry. ‘She says it’s pure. Not like ours.’

  ‘Well, eat a sodding apple!’ I stormed. ‘From the frigging tree outside!’

  ‘Ooooh …’ Josh staggered backwards. ‘Temper.’

  ‘And there’s plenty of cereal in the cupboard,’ I seethed. ‘If you just look!’

  I’d followed him in and started setting about the chaotic kitchen, throwing plates in the sink, feeding the dogs, answering the phone to yet another automated voice who wanted to know exactly how deeply in debt I was, trying in vain to shoo the cockerel out.

  ‘Now, Ella, you know that’s not true,’ Josh said sternly. ‘It’s all stale.’ He was riffling in the larder, ignoring packets he knew to be soft and inedible.

  ‘Because you two don’t shut the packets properly.’

  ‘So … hang on.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘In some warped war of attrition, you’re not buying more? Is that it? Is this the Rich Tea Biscuit Crisis all over again? Bought in the knowledge that they were loathed and wouldn’t be eaten, but gave the impression of a burgeoning larder? Of being a good mother?’ His eyes widened.

  I pushed past him, reached behind the flour tin and thrust a hidden packet of brand-new Coco Pops into his hands. ‘There. But if you don’t screw the packet down properly and close the flap –’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said amiably, giving my shoulders a quick squeeze as he passed.

  At the tinkle of fresh cereal in a bowl, Tabitha was sparked into some sort of Pavlovian response. She came slowly in her dressing gown, still texting. Together they perched at the tiny island, and for a while, aside from the bantam cockerel crowing from the top of the dresser, all that could be heard was contented slurping as the sugar hit some spots. Tabitha, who got up relatively early – ten-ish as opposed to Josh’s twelve-ish – had already had a good few hours of solid cathode-ray treatment before Josh came down, judging by her gormless expression, but if I tried to shoo her from the room at midday she’d say it wasn’t fair, Josh was still watching, and if I tried to switch it off Josh would say that wasn’t fair, he’d only just got up. They knew their rights and their quotas, my children, and argued them vociferously from positions of strength, like trades union officials. Tabitha stopped abruptly, mid-slurp.

  ‘How old is this milk?’

  ‘Today’s, why?’

  ‘It’s not very cold.’

  ‘That’s because someone didn’t get it off the step and put it in the fridge. I’ve only just picked it up,’ I said pointedly, but they ignored me. They wouldn’t want to eat anything out of date, even though they were quite happy to poison their systems with copious amounts of vodka and nicotine. Josh was gazing blankly down the garden.

  ‘You want to plant some stuff out there,’ he said suddenly, waving a laconic arm to where my depleted flower beds lay. ‘Bulbs, or something.’

  ‘Daffodils,’ agreed Tabitha, following his gaze.

  On perkier days I might have told them what I thought of them finding me jobs and how about them doing some digging – not to mention the seasonal difficulties of achieving daffodils in August – but I had other things on my mind.

  ‘Listen, darlings –’

  ‘Or those white things,’ Josh offered.

  ‘What white things?’

  ‘I dunno. Snowdrops.’

  I licked my lips, wondering where on earth I’d gone wrong, and ploughed on regardless. ‘Um, listen, darlings, Granny’s coming to stay.’

  ‘Is she?’ said Tabitha. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because she wants to. Just for a bit.’

  ‘What, on her own?’

  ‘Yes, just for a while. Needs a break, I think.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘You mean, without Grandpa?’

  ‘Yes. For a bit,’ I said, wishing I’d thought this through before I’d embarked on it. They ate on, digesting this news in silence. I busied myself at the sink, my back to them.

  ‘Where’s she going to sleep?’ my daughter enquired. The fourth bedroom in our house was used as my studio.

  ‘In the Stables, I thought. Number One.’

  ‘I thought you had a family going in there?’ I could feel Josh’s eyes on my back.

  ‘Yes – I did, but that’s OK. I’ll cancel them. It’ll be all right. Millie Saunders has got room. They’ll be fine.’

  ‘You mean, you won’t get the rent?’

  ‘Well, no, I will, because …’

  ‘What, Granny will pay?’ This did shock them. I turned. Spoons were lowered.

  ‘Has she left Grandpa?’ asked Tabitha, in a smaller voice.

  ‘No. Well, at least …’

  ‘Come on, Ella,’ Josh said. ‘What’s going on?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Well, the thing is … Well, I suppose, yes, in a way. You see, the thing is, Grandpa – well, Grandpa has met someone.’

  They blinked. Stared at me.

  ‘Who?’ asked Josh.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. At least, I only know that she’s a dog therapist, or something. But it’s just a flirtation, you know. He hasn’t left Granny, or anything. They’ve just had lunch together. That’s all. Dinner. But Granny feels – well, a bit left out.’

  ‘I’m not surprised!’ Tabitha’s eyes widened.

  ‘And wants to come here for a bit.’

  They regarded me in silence. Then ate on.

  At length, Josh spoke. ‘Fuck me. The old dog.’

  ‘No – no, he’s not an old dog,’ I said quickly. ‘Because I told you, it’s not like that. Just – you know, the odd drink at the pub. Friends, that’s all.’ I felt a bit breathless suddenly.

  Tabitha got up and took her empty bowl to the side. She remembered something else too, something fuzzy and indistinct, so she picked it up and moved it to the dishwasher. I watched her open the dishwasher, which was full of clean, not-yet-emptied china. This perplexed her. The thought processes which had instructed her to do something must surely be wrong, because she couldn’t do that. Not all that china: mugs, plates, knives and forks. She put the bowl in the sink as a perfect compromise.

  ‘When’s she coming?’ Josh asked.

  ‘Tomorrow, I think.’ Bending down I pulled a stack of clean sheets from the tumble dryer, noticing Ottoline had kindly done a load of ironing and left it on the side. I straightened up and handed the top section of pressed linen to Josh as he made to go out of the back door and across the yard. I wasn’t keen on him smoking in the house.

  ‘Take those to Dad, would you?’ I handed him the pile.

  ‘He won’t be up yet.’

  ‘I know, just leave them inside the door.’

  ‘He won’t change them.’

  ‘I know, just leave them, Josh, OK?’

  Leave me with the pretence that I might wash my husband’s sheets, but I don’t actually change them for him, even if that’s not the reality, hm? A moment of silent communion took place between mother and son, before Josh accepted the sheets and traipsed out, leaving the door wide open.

  The dogs and the cockerel accompanied him. I watched his tall, bony figure, feet bare, hat perched on his head, tartan draped, like some modern-day Hamlet. Tabitha went back to the sitting room to her laptop, snuggling down under her rug. As I went to put more sheets in the washing machine, I noticed the answering machine was flashing. I played the message. Ginnie’s voice filled the airways, loud and breathless.

  ‘Hi, Ella! Just to say, you are such a star to have Mummy,
and also to say that I obviously haven’t told the children. All I’ve said is that Granny’s been feeling a bit down in the dumps and we thought we’d treat her to a few days away. A few stately homes and a spot of theatre, which isn’t Daddy’s cup of tea. Presumably you’ve done the same with yours? See you soon – toodle-oo!’

  I sighed as I pressed the erase button. When I looked up, Sebastian was coming down the steps of the Granary, scratching his head like a bear emerging from its lair. Tall, thin – too thin, old jeans frayed at the bottom, a crumpled checked shirt, feet bare, blinking in the daylight. Craggy and unshaven, his eyes hooded, his face lined. He was no longer handsome, although perhaps just a hint in the right light. Where once he would have held a paintbrush, now he held a wine glass, brimming with something red and strong, the first, and by no means last, of the day. Josh picked his way gingerly across the cobbles towards him with the sheets and they exchanged a few gnomic words. I saw Sebastian grunt. If he saw me at the window he didn’t acknowledge me, but turned and followed Josh back inside. They’d smoke for a bit, the two of them, at either end of the sofa, before beginning the business of the day: my son finding another screen – probably in the empty holiday let where no one would bother him – and my husband, an easel with a blank canvas. Around this he’d circle and prowl all day, cursing it with furious, flashing eyes, eyes that had once been so gentle. He’d taunt it, too, with his glass, which emptied and filled continuously, ever in a state of flux, whilst the whiteness of the canvas remained the same.