My Husband Next Door

by Catherine Alliott

  Lottie popped round a couple of days later, in a break between clients. The children were back at school, all my holiday lets had gone apart from the Braithwaites, and I was alone in the kitchen. She bustled through my back door on a blast of cold air, bursting with barely suppressed excitement.

  ‘I’ve had a bit of a breakthrough, Ella,’ she said, as she shut the door behind her, turning to glow.

  I was sitting at my kitchen table nursing a monumental hangover, head in hands. Harriet, my one remaining bantam hen, the layer, the only one the fox hadn’t got this year, sat companionably with me. The dogs lay on my feet.

  ‘Oh, really?’ I raised my head. Such was her condition she didn’t really register mine. She hastened across.

  ‘Ottoline, OK, came in first thing this morning, for her session. And before I could get going, before I could even get the requisite needles out of their boxes, she sat bolt upright on the bed like Frankenstein’s monster and said: “Lottie, would you do something for me?” “What?” I said, turning to stare. “Take off your shoes.” “My shoes?” I said. “Yes, take them off.” Well, obviously we all do as Ottoline says so I took them off, which was a bit of a relief, actually, because they were those new Topshop jobbies with the ankle straps which I can hardly walk in, and she said: “Now take off your jewellery.” Mesmerized I removed my chains and bangles. “There,” she said. “Now have a go.”

  ‘Well, Ella, I can hardly tell you the difference. I was skipping around that bed, firing in needles like Deadeye Dick, there was no stopping me. It’s all to do with balance, Ottoline explained, which is pretty elementary when you come to think about it. How on earth could I pinpoint exactly where I was going, while subconsciously trying to balance in heels? Imagine Two Bellies Bill, or whatever that darts player’s called, trying to score a bullseye in platforms? And obviously I explained about Sulrika – you know, my teacher – about how glamorous she was, with the nails and the heels and the gold chains and everything – totally unlike any other acupuncturist I’ve ever met, incidentally, literally no one does it glammed up – and Ottoline said: “So why do you?” I could only eventually stammer – “Because I wanted to be like her.” And of course that sounded so lame and stupid I saw the light immediately. She didn’t have to say any more. Look.’

  She drew up a chair opposite, plonked herself down and put her hands on the table in front of me, palms down. Her short, scrubbed nails were a surprise even in my state. I stared. ‘Golly. Will you miss them?’

  ‘Not really. They were jolly time-consuming, if I’m honest. And I was so close to chucking it all in, the acupuncture, I mean. So nearly at the end of my rope. Something had to give. Last week that nice man from Park Cottages came in, although obviously I can’t tell you his –’

  ‘Mr Atkinson?’

  ‘Yes, but for confidential reasons I can’t tell you about his –’

  ‘Impotence?’

  ‘Exactly. So I had to put them in his –’ She made a face.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, no, not there,’ she said hastily. ‘In his perineum. But the needle sort of … skidded, and although he was terribly nice about it, it’s not ideal, is it?’

  ‘Not … ideal.’ I winced.

  ‘But, now? Now I’ve got such renewed confidence as I shimmy around on the balls of my feet. That’s where most of our balance comes from, incidentally. The big toe. And the ears – so I’ve got rid of all my heavy earrings. And he’s coming in again next week. I can’t wait to have a go!’

  ‘Good. Good, Lottie. I’m really pleased.’

  It didn’t sound like it, though, and she finally caught my tone. Leaned forward on the table, frowning. She cocked her head round and up to meet my eyes, which were gazing at the stripped pine. ‘Ella? What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, ignore me. I’m fine. I did a bit of solitary drinking last night, that’s all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh … you know.’

  ‘Sebastian?’

  ‘Yes.’ I struggled for composure. Found some. ‘The children are fine about it all, you see, about him going. And that’s rather … thrown me. I thought it was ideal for them, as it was. You know, the status quo. Apparently it wasn’t.’

  She nodded. ‘Well, I imagine they see this as being more normal, if he goes. Children like that.’

  She couldn’t have echoed Tabitha more succinctly if she’d tried. I tried to speak. Couldn’t. Did eventually. ‘Did everyone think it so peculiar, then?’ I whispered.

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘You know. Round here. Local gossip.’

  ‘Well, a bit,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘You must admit, it is a bit. This will be a much cleaner break for all of you.’

  A clean break. Who said anything about a break?

  ‘Is she still laying?’ Lottie asked, nodding at Harriet on the table, current subject dealt with. I tried to concentrate.

  ‘Um, a bit. The odd egg. Sometimes. She’s a bit stressed, though, I think. All those cockerels. She escapes in here with Ladyboy because she gets pestered by them all the time. I’ve got too many at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, we know. Half the village can hear them.’ She laughed, but darkly.

  I thought about this.

  ‘Lottie, what else?’ I asked, looking at her. ‘Most people think my domestic set-up is peculiar and I’m waking all my neighbours with my cockerels crowing. What else haven’t you told me? You’re supposed to be my friend.’

  I hadn’t meant it to come out quite like that.

  ‘Of course I’m your friend.’ She looked surprised. ‘And nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘Nothing else. It’s just you’re quite …’

  ‘What?’

  She hesitated. ‘Well –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sensitive. So maybe I avoid saying things, occasionally. Sometimes. Don’t want to upset you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a silence. I was deeply upset. On the point of tears. Annoying.

  ‘Lottie, telling me I’ve got too many cockerels is not going to reduce me to tears.’ My voice wobbled dramatically.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And, anyway, I’ve had a For Sale notice up in the farm shop for weeks,’ I told her, blinking rapidly. ‘With a photo of them and everything.’

  ‘I know, I know!’

  ‘I’ve told anyone who might be interested. I’d bloody give them away. I have tried, you know!’

  ‘Yes, I know, Ella. Please don’t get –’

  ‘What? I am not upset! Why must everyone think I’m upset all the time! I’m just saying I know about the fucking cockerels!’

  ‘OK, OK.’ She got hastily to her feet. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘For what!’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve, um. Got to run. Got my lovely menopausal lady coming in at two, and I’ve got to get Hamish some lunch.’

  ‘See you later, maybe?’ I said desperately, aware she was running away.

  ‘Yes, definitely.’ She turned before she got to the door. Smiled at me gently. ‘See you later.’ I knew she meant it.

  ‘Sorry, Lotts,’ I gulped.

  ‘Don’t say sorry. It’s fine. You’ll be fine.’ She knew better than to give me a hug, though. Knew that was guaranteed to start the waterworks. ‘Have you got your seeds in?’

  ‘Seeds?’ My mind flew to the garden. A little insensitive, surely? At a time like this? Quizzing me on my horticultural standards?

  ‘You know. The ones I gave you. For your ears.’

  ‘Oh. No, I haven’t. I’ll do that.’

  ‘I would,’ she said kindly. Then she was gone.

  After a bit, I got slowly to my feet. I was cold. It wasn’t the nicest of days. Autumn was in the air. The swallows were disappearing. Summer was over. Everything was over, I thought sadly and a touch melodramatically, perhaps. Acknowledging that, and determined not to wallow, I made myself go to the sink and wash up the pile of dirty saucepans from last night’s supper. My hands were a bit trembly. I clenched them
in the water. Sensitive. Was I sensitive? Perhaps. Did people tiptoe around me? It didn’t feel like it. Felt like they trampled mercilessly, but perhaps they did. I recalled my children exchanging a glance as they stirred their beans the other night – don’t upset her. And Sebastian wasn’t like that. Oh, he had his moods, his rages, even, but it was all over quite quickly. There was no bite; he was all bark. It was nothing personal. Just the loosening of a valve, which had to be done occasionally, before he tightened it again. Like bleeding a radiator, perhaps. Unless he’d been drinking, which I’d noticed he wasn’t doing so much recently. Although he hadn’t given it up, that was for sure. How would he manage that, at Oxford, I wondered? The booze. Arrive to take a class stinking of wine, reeling everywhere? Would he even take classes? What was an artist in residence?

  I went to the computer in the playroom and Googled it. It wasn’t terribly informative. Just told me about past alumni, other famous artists who’d held the post. Rather impressive, actually. Well, bully for him. I got up and shook my head, trying to align my thoughts. Knew I was feeling pretty low. I went upstairs, opened my bedside drawer and found the seeds Lottie had been talking about. They were an acupuncture aid she’d given me some time ago, to combat stress. Goma seeds, from some tropical plant, on tiny bits of sticky tape which you peeled off plastic, then stuck in the tops of your ears. Apparently they gave off calming vibes. When you were feeling particularly anxious, you were supposed to press them, for an extra boost. I couldn’t get the little bastards off the plastic for ages, which didn’t improve my anxiety. Eventually I did, stuck them in – they looked like giant blackheads – and gave them an almighty squeeze. Ow. Then I went downstairs.

  The house was very quiet after the long summer holiday. Ottoline was busy with her pots. Sebastian was painting. And I had my work too, of course, but – I hated it. I realized that was the truth. It came to me in a juddering jolt, like a lorry forced to stop abruptly at lights. Hated drawing things I didn’t like. Ottoline was making things she loved. Even Sebastian was trying to do that, albeit failing. Lottie, too, now. I stared out of the window. Why did that make me feel panicky? I must stop relying so much on other people. For emotional security. Mustn’t live through them. I needed to get a grip on my life, not just professionally – at least I had a job, even if I wasn’t crazy about it – but emotionally. Must take the lead, before someone else did and bounced me into a position. Before I found myself somewhere I didn’t want to be. I must go first.

  With that resolve in mind, I turned. Stared at Harriet on a pile of old newspapers on the table. Suddenly I scooped her up. She was a sweet, obliging hen. That won’t get you anywhere, Harriet, I thought. I took her back outside to the yard. She glanced up at me, beady black eyes alarmed. Surely we were happy where we were? Hiding away inside together? I took her to an empty stable, popped her in a nesting box with some food and water and shut the door. Then I went out to where her tormentors were strutting around in the flower beds, as usual, deflowering my dahlias, preening themselves, crowing, picking fights with each other and wondering where the little bantam woman was. With the help of some grain I herded them into a loose box and stood looking at them, hands on hips. They cocked their arrogant little heads and stared back at me, eyes like dots of coal, red combs tossing.

  Slowly I advanced on the one I knew to be the most tame. I knew exactly what I needed to do. For Harriet. Ladyboy, too, who was so desperate about the situation, she was trying to become a man. To fit in. How had I let their lives become this living hell? As I cornered Horace, the one I’d earmarked for selection, at the back of the stable, it felt as if I were doing this for the whole of womankind. Ottoline could do it, for heaven’s sake, I thought, as I crept closer, so if I was to pass myself off as a countrywoman, chatelaine of this farmhouse, poultry farmer, even, I must too. Horace was taken by surprise as I scooped him deftly into my arms. Usually this woman was more fluttery, more hopeless. I put my fingers round his neck. I’d held him thus before, so he gave a bit of a squawk, struggled briefly, but then submitted, his beady eyes saying: OK, what is it? Wing-clipping? Toenails? Scaly leg? We eyeballed one another. For ages. At length I put him down. Couldn’t even begin to tighten my grip on his throat. Couldn’t begin to wring his neck, particularly not Horace, who, frankly, was a bit of a wimp. The most picked on and abused. The fall guy. Monsieur Blanc, perhaps, I thought, eyeing the pure-white cockerel, so-called because of his insouciant, Gallic shrug. I’d never liked Monsieur Blanc. He was incredibly fond of himself – spiteful, too. He pecked my ankles even when I’d just fed him, chased all my visiting children, shat over all the windowsills and was very much the leader of the gang-rape gang. Him I could easily do without.

  The dogs had pushed open the stable door with their noses and stood watching intently, tails wagging slowly. Go on, then, Ella. Kill a couple. Call yourself a poultry farmer? We’ll watch. Help, even. The air seemed heavy with portent. Even the wood pigeons on the rafters appeared to pause in their cooing and wooing. Go on, Ella. It’s about time. We all hate him. He’s a bully. I seized Monsieur Blanc, knowing surprise was my only weapon, and, in a flurry of feathers and spurs, found his neck quickly. Speed was of the essence. I shut my eyes tightly and squeezed.

  ‘Oooh, ’es lovely, isn’t he?’

  I swung about, eyes wide. Behind the dogs, Mrs Braithwaite, my one remaining holiday tenant, with her obese child, Jason, was watching.

  ‘Was you giving ’im a cuddle?’

  I stared. ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’

  ‘I was just sayin’ to Jison, we must go and see the lovely chickadees today. Only we didn’t get to see them yesterday and we like to visit them every day, don’t we, Jison? Did you want to hold him, Jise?’

  ‘Oh, er, well, I wouldn’t, only –’

  But Jason had already lumbered into the stable, a great child mountain of ten, who had a nasty cold according to Mrs Braithwaite, which accounted for his continued presence on my farm rather than at school. Within a twinkling he’d silently but forcefully wrestled the lovely tame chickadee from my arms, whereupon Monsieur Blanc, already thoroughly pissed off, pecked his nose sharply and drew blood.

  ‘Arrghgh!’

  Jason squawked and clutched his nose. The cockerel squawked as he was dropped. Mrs Braithwaite squawked and all was pandemonium as the dogs, seizing their moment, chased the bantams around the stable and out, scattering them to all corners of the yard. At which point I squawked.

  ‘Buster – Doug – Maud – come back right now!’ Even as I was chasing and roaring, though, I knew my outrage was slightly disingenuous. This was what I wanted, surely? Savaged cockerels? But perhaps not in front of the holiday lets.

  Eventually, order was restored and I shepherded the dogs one way and the bleeding Jason and his mother the other, apologizing profusely for Monsieur Blanc, who was having an off day, and explaining to an incredulous Mrs Braithwaite that I didn’t actually possess a first-aid kit, just a messy basket on the kitchen windowsill with empty Lemsip packets and Nurofen the dogs chewed, but that under the sink in her kitchen she’d find a pristine kit, with a red cross on the front. She scurried away, terrified for the life of her child, still shrieking about infection and tetanus injections and all manner of alarmist nonsense. Still apologizing – bowing, practically – I headed back to the house holding the dogs by their necks – no collars, naturally – scolding them roundly. Doug still had a few feathers in his mouth and looked very pleased with himself.

  ‘But you couldn’t actually do the deed, could you?’ I reminded him softly as I shut them away with a sleeping Diblet. ‘Couldn’t finish them off, could you?’

  It occurred to me that, under cover of darkness, I could just shut the dogs in a loose box with the cockerels for half an hour and they would indeed do the deed, even though I’d spent years telling them not to. Revert to type in moments. Be licking their chops in seconds. But then I’d have three bloodthirsty dogs on my hands and where might they look to sate their thirst next
? The ducks? The sheep, even?

  No. There had to be another way.

  There was. Ten minutes later I was in my battered old Volvo, racing off in the direction of town, but actually bound for a smaller market town beyond, via the bypass. What a complete and utter blessing – what a coup, in fact – that it was today. I’d been pretty sure the market was weekly, but to pinpoint the very Monday was fortuitous, to say the least. This was surely meant to be. This was surely the hand of God, beckoning me on down the dual carriageway, saying: This is the way forward, Ella. The humane way. The Godly way. The righteous way. Find the boys some wives. Procure a little action for them, with some virile young birds who are up for it. Birds who are raring to go. Hot stuff. And let Harriet and Ladyboy retire in peace. I might even give them to Lottie, I thought, as I left the bypass at speed. She was always saying she’d love some chickens but didn’t know where to start. Well, she could start with my old girls. They’d have a lovely, gentle time of it in a dear little coop on her back lawn, spoiled rotten by Matthew and Lil. Harriet might start laying properly. Ladyboy might even recover her feminine wiles and squeeze a couple out, whilst down on the farm, all sorts of gaudy action could be kicking off. I might even get the boys two girls apiece. See how the cocky white Frenchman dealt with that. Not to mention little Sarkozy, his poisonous sidekick. That should wipe the smirk off his face.

  Historically the livestock market had taken place in the Cornmarket in the centre of town, but that was some years back. Now, due to popular demand, it had moved to the outskirts, where there was more space for the pens and enclosures and where the farm vehicles didn’t impede the traffic so much. A large, flat field, prone to occasional flooding, with a central, breezy Dutch barn, was now the venue, and could easily accommodate any number of farmers who gathered, and less aggrieve shoppers and townspeople who’d complained of congestion. It occurred to me, though, as I got out of my car into a soggy meadow in the rain, that I hadn’t really thought this through. I was wearing espadrille wedges and a rather tight denim skirt. Not my usual Monday garb, but an attempt, as I’d dragged myself out of bed this morning and recognized my mood, to look not like the downtrodden housewife I felt, but like the rather snappy yummy mummy I fully intended to be. Designed to psychologically give an edge to my day, my outfit, however, was drawing stares from my fellow farmers, who were, almost to a man – and indeed they were all men – uniformly in sludge green, with an occasional flash of tweed. I was certainly the only one clutching a Mulberry handbag with sunglasses on my head.