My Husband Next Door

by Catherine Alliott

  He took my arm and made to move me through the open doorway into the bar. It occurred to me that through sheer force and my innate inability to make a scene, I was being outmanoeuvred. It also occurred to me that, with a couple of Cointreaus inside me, a warm fire, some loving words, perhaps even a few tears … well, who knows what might happen? But even as I was being propelled into the room, happily, God was on my side. My trump card, the one Ludo really didn’t want to turn up, was on his own at the bar. Dad. He was waving a tenner at the barman to get his attention, his back to us. Suddenly the prospect of being Lottie’s husband and getting his kit off for the Sunday Express on a regular basis loosened Ludo’s grip on my arm. It was all I needed. I shook him off in a twinkling – and sailed away to join my father.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Dad glanced across as I approached and his face suffused with delight as he saw me. He waved the tenner even harder.

  ‘Darling!’ he boomed. ‘How marvellous! Come and have a drink.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I’ll have a Cointreau.’

  ‘Lottie’s husband not joining us?’ he asked, as Ludo turned hastily and headed towards the stairs.

  ‘No,’ I said shortly.

  My father was by now giving his order to the barman, instructing him that the whisky should on no account be mixed with anything other than tepid water and that the Cointreau should be on ice. Crushed ice, that is.

  ‘And, actually, Dad,’ I said, as we waited for our drinks, ‘he’s not Lottie’s husband. He’s someone called Eliza’s. And he doesn’t model underwear, or make baby bonnets. Although he is a landscape gardener. We’ve been having an affair.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Ah.’ That was all he said. Another long pause ensued as we both gazed fixedly at the row of optics behind the bar. The barman was busy at the far end, crushing the ice. At length Dad spoke. ‘I did wonder.’

  ‘Did you?’ I was surprised. Managed to look at him.

  ‘Not at the time, but when you’d gone. Couldn’t see Sebastian in a place like this. Bit bijou for him, somehow. And I thought a threesome a bit odd.’

  ‘Right.’ I swallowed.

  The barman came back with our order and when Dad had paid – which took a while because the chap had run out of change and had to go and get some more, which gave me a moment to collect myself – but when it was all sorted out, we took our drinks and sat by the fire. We were the only ones in the bar now. I was glad I’d got that little revelation over with.

  ‘Where are the others?’ I asked lightly.

  ‘Early night. They take this car-rally business rather seriously. I fancied a nightcap.’

  My father sipped his whisky thoughtfully.

  ‘Over now, is it?’ he asked. ‘The two of you?’ I was surprised. On two counts. I didn’t know it had been that obvious, or that he could be so matter-of-fact about it.

  ‘Yes, I think it is,’ I said sadly. ‘Although, to be honest, it never really got going. I mean, we certainly had a love affair. But we never actually … you know.’

  He nodded. Put down his whisky. ‘Rather like me and Maureen.’

  ‘Oh?’ It had occurred to me earlier that she wasn’t with him.

  ‘Yes, awfully fond of her and all that, great fun, but it never really got off the ground. All got a bit much, if I’m honest. I had to escape to the pub a lot. And I’m running away this weekend. Dan and Jennie suggested I get away. Sweet of them.’

  ‘You mean … Maureen is at the Old Rectory?’

  ‘Yes. Can’t seem to – you know …’ He hesitated.

  ‘Get rid of her?’

  ‘Well, it’s so tricky, Ella.’ He looked upset. ‘I mean, I was all for her coming, and having the lodgers and everything –’

  ‘That was her idea?’

  ‘Yes, and, as I say, I was all for it. The house was so empty without your mother and it seemed sort of charitable. And I thought we would give the money to charity or something – Lord knows, it’s not as if we need it. But Maureen saw it more as a business, and before I knew it, was charging commercial rates to all those people. And we’re not even a registered B&B or anything –’

  ‘Good grief, Dad. Get out now!’

  ‘Well, I can’t – it’s my house!’ he yelped, his rheumy grey eyes popping.

  ‘No, I mean, get out of the situation!’

  ‘Yes, well, quite,’ he said emphatically. ‘Quite. But you know I can’t exactly shop her, Ella. I’m fond of her. And it’s not all bad. We’ve had heaps of fun.’

  ‘Yes.’ I could see that. Ludo and I had, too, I thought sadly.

  ‘And she’s opened my eyes to all sorts of things.’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. ‘Cycling, hill-walking and whatnot.’

  ‘Ah. Right.’ God, this Cointreau was good. I took a great gulp.

  ‘But there are still going to be irritants, aren’t there? Things that get on your nerves.’

  ‘You mean, whoever you’re with? Yes, I suppose.’ I was still thinking of Ludo. His pale face. White with … was it anger? ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. She licks her teeth an awful lot – well, she plasters on the lipstick so it gets stuck there, has to get cracking with her tongue. And she uses a great deal of cheap bath essence so the bathroom pongs for hours afterwards, smells like a tart’s boudoir. And she puts all these teddies on the bed – pink ones. Expects me to buy the wretched things, too. Ghastly things with “I Love You” on their T-shirts, and they’re made with so much nylon I’m completely static by the time I’ve delved through them and got into bed. You could plug me in and I’d light up the entire house.’

  I chuckled in spite of myself.

  ‘And then there are the air fresheners in the lavatories. More than two to a bog, sometimes!’ He leaned forward earnestly. ‘Quite frankly, Ella, I prefer the smell of shit.’

  I grinned. The party was over, clearly.

  ‘And I do not want a cockapoo,’ he said petulantly, sitting back and folding his arms.

  I damn nearly spilled my drink. ‘A cocka what?’

  ‘Poo. Cross between a cocker spaniel and a poodle, apparently. She’s mad for them. But, to be honest, I just miss Buster. Would like him back.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ I said with feeling. ‘I’ve got him, surprise surprise. Does Mum know about all this?’

  He sighed, his shoulders sagging forward dramatically. ‘Ah. Your mother.’ He adopted a dark, sepulchral tone; rubbed his brow with his fingertips. ‘That’s another story.’

  ‘Is it? I’m all ears.’ I was, surprisingly. And, surprisingly, not too distressed about Ludo. Thoughtful, but not distressed. I mean, it would have been heaven had it been right, complete heaven, but I realized – and I knew I didn’t have time to analyse it now but would later – that for some reason it wasn’t. And at my age, and at my stage in life, it had to be absolutely perfect. I wasn’t eighteen any more: couldn’t afford to kiss a few frogs. If I was going to kiss again – if, indeed, I was – it had to be the prince. I hadn’t got time to get it half right. Or even three-quarters. Would rather be alone. And yet … I’d loved Ludo. Genuinely. I felt a lump come to my throat. Did love, even. I shook my head. No. If I was honest, that wasn’t entirely what was in my heart right now. I was being disingenuous. I was sad, but for other reasons. For nostalgic, sentimental reasons that had more to do with the lack of love than the lack of his presence. And, anyway, my father was talking.

  ‘Yes, I saw her yesterday.’

  I swam to the surface. Came to. ‘Really? You saw Mum?’

  ‘Yes, we went to Daylesford together for the day. You know, that chichi, upmarket Chelsea-in-the-country farm shop. In the Cotswolds.’

  ‘Yes, I know. And?’

  ‘Well, we sat there for hours, having lunch. Hours and hours. Talking talking talking. It got dark, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Oh! How lovely.’

  ‘Well, it would have been lovely except …’ He swallowed. ‘Well, I went there, you k
now, to say I’d made a complete mistake with Maureen. Couldn’t cope with her pink fluffy slippers and loo-seat covers and all that, and that I missed your mum.’

  ‘Excellent, Dad!’

  ‘Wanted her back.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But, of course, I did have with me a list of things that had annoyed me about your mother.’

  I eyed him warily. ‘Ri-ight,’ I said nervously.

  ‘Which, naturally, I gave to her.’

  Christ. Men. ‘You handed it to her? When, at the end of lunch?’

  ‘No, just after I told her I’d be happy to have her back, but on certain conditions. She read it at the table, and then immediately fished in her bag for a pen and paper and, totally off the top of her head – and I’d spent ages writing mine – wrote down her own points about me! She also said that she’d Found Herself – whatever that means – and was perfectly happy where she was. Said she wouldn’t be coming back to the Old Rectory in a hurry, thank you very much.’

  ‘Oh!’ Suddenly snapshots of Mum feeding chickens in her dungarees, posing for Sebastian, helping at Ottoline’s pottery group sprang to mind. ‘Yes, she has a bit,’ I agreed. ‘Found herself, I mean. She’s done a lot. And she’s made great friends with Ottoline.’

  ‘And someone called Charles, evidently,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Charles?’ I blinked. ‘Not blind Charles?’

  ‘Is he?’ My father boggled.

  ‘Well, no, not exactly. He sort of pretends. But … Golly.’ I was stunned. Then thoughtful. Mum and Charles. At the Hall. Not so inconceivable, actually. My mother was a very good-looking woman. I’d wondered where she’d been recently, when Ottoline had been buzzing around on her own, saying Mum was busy. I stared at Dad.

  ‘But … she said she would be coming back, surely? At some stage? Surely she was thrilled?’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t, Ella.’ He looked shifty. ‘Her list was longer than mine.’ He said in a small voice.

  I frowned. I’d always sided with my dad. Had felt his life was tough. And yet Ginnie had often sided with Mum, who I found indefensible.

  ‘OK, what was on hers?’

  ‘Oh, ridiculous things,’ he snorted. ‘Not clipping my nasal hair any more, which she found disrespectful. Said she didn’t like the way it grew out in clumps, from my ears too. Oh, and giving a little fart just before I get into bed. Picking my feet in the bath and lining up the bits of toenail on the side. Always buying her lavender water at Christmas because it reminds me of my dear mama, when I know she doesn’t like it and my mother’s been dead twenty years. She said she doesn’t want to smell like a corpse, thank you. I mean, I ask you!’

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. ‘Right. What else?’

  ‘Oh, the usual tommyrot about slurping my tea – behavioural issues, she calls them, which, according to her, mount up. Apparently I always call her old girl in public and slap her bottom when I make a joke. She said she didn’t want her bottom slapped. And she didn’t want to sit behind me freezing to death on a shooting stick every Saturday, either. It seems no other wives are forced to these days. But your granny always sat behind my father. And she said she didn’t want to cook or eat any more game, because she hates the smell, especially jugged hare, my favourite, which, as you know, is made with the blood of the hare, just like Aunt Hilda made it, slitting the throat first. But, more than anything, she said didn’t want any more fucking lavender water. She actually said “fucking”, Ella!’

  He looked shocked. I was too.

  ‘And your list?’

  ‘Well, obviously I hate being bossed around all day and I hate bridge. Hate hate hate. And I don’t want to go to choir on a rainy Monday when I could be watching Last of the Summer Wine, which she loathes, apparently. How can anyone loathe Compo and Foggy? And – oh, I don’t know. I just want to be treated like an individual, I suppose,’ he finished miserably.

  ‘Yes,’ I said sadly.

  I thought back to Mum, rather happily – and usefully – showing Sam how to make a tiny mug for her baby son. Feeding the sheep. Releasing Curly, the goat, who always got his head stuck in the wire. Putting a bell on him so that when he was frantic and struggling, we’d all know. How, the other day, I’d found her helping Tabitha with some dress she was trying to shorten for a party. But really showing her: not just snatching it and doing it quickly, as I would have done. Getting Tabs to neatly hem it on the machine as she stood over her. How she wanted to be an individual too. Very many years ago she’d been a nursery-school teacher. Obviously she’d given up when she married my father. Women did then.

  ‘Anyway.’ Dad heaved up another great sigh. ‘We’re meeting again soon.’

  ‘Oh, are you?’ I was encouraged. ‘Not all doom and gloom, then?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t get excited. As I say, I don’t think she’s coming back. And of course I haven’t told her about the lodgers. Although she knows about Maureen. She was jolly scathing.’

  ‘I bet she was.’

  ‘Despite the fact that there’s this Charles fellow,’ he spat.

  ‘It won’t be like that, Dad.’ It wouldn’t. And Dad knew that too. Whatever Charles might hope, he would be very much A Walker.

  ‘She’s talking about going to Tuscany, with Ottoline. Painting, for God’s sake. Because she knows some chap who runs courses out there, an ex-solicitor married to Peter Mortimer’s daughter, Poppy, who she’s kept in touch with. And I would have loved that,’ he said petulantly. ‘You know how I love dabbling with watercolours. But oh, no, I’m the one left behind with Maureen and the lodgers to deal with.’

  I looked at him squarely. ‘Maureen is your problem, Dad,’ I told him firmly. ‘You got yourself into this pickle. You started that relationship and you jolly well have to finish it.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Although …’ He hesitated. ‘I suppose if your mother’s not coming back …’

  ‘No, you can’t go hedging your bets!’ I said, cross, for once, on Mum’s behalf. ‘If you want her back you’ve got to get rid of the sodding girlfriend first. You must see that. And not just run away on a vintage-car jaunt. Tell Maureen properly.’ Men. Again.

  ‘Right.’ He gulped. ‘And the lodgers?’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ I said grimly. ‘I know just the man – or girl – for the job.’

  His old grey eyes cleared as they communed silently with mine. We could already see her rolling up her sleeves, brandishing her rolling pin, flashing her signet ring as she cleared Forest Glade and Essence of Pine in one clean sweep of her arm.

  ‘Ginnie.’

  ‘Exactly. I’ll ring her tomorrow.’

  He breathed out happily. ‘Oh, good plan. Thanks, darling.’

  Our eyes spoke again, but more guiltily this time, knowing what was left unsaid. That neither of us liked confrontation. Both ran away. Left it to the Sylvias and Ginnies of this world. Well, they were so good at it, weren’t they? Never shrank from it. We were alike, Dad and I. Shirkers. It did occur to me to wonder if Ginnie would want to do this with so much on her plate. So much sadness with Hugo. No. She’d love it. It would take her mind off things. She’d be livid not to be asked.

  We left it there, sipping our drinks in silence. But I realized that, actually, there was something else I really couldn’t shirk. Something else more pressing. Like, where on earth I was going to sleep tonight? I voiced it to my father in nervous tones.

  ‘Oh, that’s not a problem, love,’ he said airily. ‘My room’s got twin beds. Take the other one.’

  ‘Oh!’ I could have hugged him. Instead I fell on the offer. ‘Has it really? Thanks, Dad, I will. How marvellous.’

  He shrugged modestly. ‘Oh, you know me. Anything to oblige the womenfolk in my family.’

  In the event, however, it wasn’t quite so marvellous. When I crept upstairs to the salle d’amour I was to have shared with Ludo, to collect my things – I’d decided, after a certain amount of dithering, that I really did
have to collect them, that it would be awfully cowardly not to – I was naturally hoping against hope to find Ludo diplomatically asleep. Or at least pretending. Disappointingly he wasn’t. Instead, as I softly softly put my key in the lock, quietly quietly opened it … there he was: propped up in the huge four-poster, bedside light on, John le Carré in hand. He was bare-chested too, which gave me a bit of a jolt. He gazed at me wordlessly over reading glasses. Reading glasses. I didn’t need those yet. They didn’t quite go with the surprisingly hirsute chest. Really hirsute. After all, he was blond.

  ‘Um, Ludo,’ I faltered, as I tottered in, cravenly leaving the door ajar behind me to facilitate running. ‘I’ve um … found a bed.’

  ‘Excellent news.’

  Was it my imagination or was there a touch of sarcasm there? I ploughed on. ‘Yes, you see, my father’s got a spare one in his room.’

  ‘How very cosy.’

  ‘Well, no, not really. But, it would be so difficult, to – you know …’ I gulped. Gestured to the bed but didn’t look at him. ‘Anyway,’ I rushed on after a pause. ‘I – I thought it would be for the best.’ I was already tiptoeing around the room now, seizing my overnight bag, my hairbrush, nipping into the bathroom for my sponge bag, snatching up my jeans from a chair, like a professional cat burglar. ‘So I’ll be over there, in the, um, annex. Should you – you know – need me. Not that you will!’ This was beyond awkward and I couldn’t find my shoes. Under the bed, maybe? I didn’t want to get that close to the bed, though. Let alone rummage beneath it. His eyes, behind those strange, gold-rimmed specs, followed me round the room. So much hair. Did he shave his neck, I wondered? I’d never noticed it before. Was it on his back? I felt damp. Clammy. Ah – there were my shoes. I snatched them up.

  ‘Ella.’ It was said softly. Beseechingly. I glanced up. The glasses were off now. I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t feel the pain. Catch the blue rays. Feel the sadness. Remember the stolen moments in the vegetable garden, or the rose garden, holding hands. Our feet touching under café tables. Pressed close. Hearts beating.