‘Well, I think that’s a good idea, actually,’ I said at length. ‘Dad does love it, though. The whole village bit. The social life. You both loved that.’
‘Oh, it was his idea. We think we’d like art galleries, theatre, the ability to walk into town and have lunch. A smaller house and a smaller garden, where he’s not constantly chopping logs and bringing them in. One where we can throw a match at a gas log fire.
I nodded. ‘Oxford.’
‘No, we thought London.’
‘London!’
‘Well, why not? We’ve always loved it. Lived there when we were young, when we were first married, and we’ve always hankered for Chelsea. We’d like a small place there, rather like the one you had once, Ella, remember?’
Of course I did: the pretty, pink, Georgian doll’s house in Flood Street. The one I’d so adored, had been so happy in initially, but where everything had turned horribly sour. I was pretty sure I’d find it hard not to be envious if she bought one of those.
‘But, actually, we thought modern,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘At any rate, your father does. Or maybe a modern conversion. Somewhere, at least, where the windows don’t rattle and everything opens and shuts. Something we can turn the key on. And we’ve never lived in that part of London.’ Mum and Dad started life in Finchley. ‘We’d like to explore the parks, join clubs, go to museums – start again.’
There was a light in her eyes I hadn’t seen for so long. Not for years. And it wasn’t an ambitious glint, either, one that said, ‘Dress this way’, or ‘Marry that way’, or ‘Take this career path’ – to her husband, her children. It was more a light for herself. I realized Mum had subjected herself to an extent. She was so ambitious, but she’d forgotten to be ambitious for her own happiness. She might be going to live in Chelsea – no flies on her – but she’d consider a small, modern house. She didn’t need to be in the smartest, prettiest street; she’d done that. Had been the lady of the manor in the biggest house in the village. Dad, I suspected, would have gladly given up the struggle long ago; when he retired, probably. I wondered if he’d ever suggested it? No. He would have been too scared. And it would have been rejected out of hand. Any suggestions, particularly life-changing ones, had to come from my mother.
‘So – what, you’ll join the V & A appreciation society? Go to arty lectures, that type of thing?’
‘Perhaps, but your father wants to do it himself.’
‘Do what?’
She swept on, ignoring the question. ‘And he wants us to go away a lot more, learn new skills. Not just appreciate other people’s, as he puts it. Although I dare say we’ll do a bit of that, too, go down the culture-vulture route.’
I frowned, confused. ‘Right, so … what are we talking here – cruises? Pyramids and things?’ And of course Mum loved bridge. Lots of that on board ships. With kindred spirits.
‘No, we thought more courses in Tuscany. You won’t remember, but a lovely girl in the village, a young widow, went to Tuscany with her new husband, a solicitor. Anyway, he’s a painter now and they run watercolour courses from their farmhouse in Umbria. They last about six weeks. We thought we’d start there.’
‘Oh, yes. Dad mentioned it, actually. Lovely!’ I got up from the table, jealous suddenly. Turned to straighten a tea towel on the Aga.
It was lovely, of course it was. And I’d always known where my own talent had come from. From the pair of them. Knew, as a child, that if I sat down at the kitchen table and asked them to draw me a horse, a dog, they both could. But my mother hadn’t looked at me when she’d said it. I turned back to her slowly.
‘It’s OK, Mum. Painting’s not a dirty word. We’re allowed to say it.’ I gave a tremulous smile. ‘Do it, even.’
She nodded. Knew better than to pursue the conversation, though. Ask about mine.
We were silent for a moment as she gathered our cups and took them to the sink to rinse. I bent to stroke Diblet, who’d got up briefly from his basket and stood swaying beside me on shaky legs, tail wagging slowly. I hid my face in his rough old coat and inhaled his comforting smell. Sometimes I wondered if I’d be able to go on when he died. When I raised my head, Mum was at the sink, her eyes narrowed out of the window to the yard and the Granary opposite.
‘He’s gone, then, I see?’
I straightened up. ‘Yes. He’s gone.’
She put the cups away without looking at me. Then turned. Her eyes were kind. ‘D’you want to talk about it, Ella?’
Blimey. What next? Holding hands across the table, like me and Ginnie? I quickly went to the Aga to rearrange the tea towel yet again. Felt the familiar lump in my throat.
‘No. If you don’t mind, I don’t.’
I abandoned the towel and grabbed a dishcloth; wiped down my tiled surfaces with rare efficiency. Mum didn’t reply. But she didn’t leave, either.
‘And the Charming Charles?’ I said eventually, when I trusted my voice. Quite cheerfully, actually. And quite neatly turning the tables. ‘What about him, Mum? On the slag heap?’
She laughed. Sat back down at the kitchen table. ‘Charles has been a brick. We’ve had some very nice times together, he and I, and I’ve been thoroughly spoiled. But he’s not your father, Ella. He’s a bit … Well. You know.’
I did. Everyone around here did. Arrogant. Full of himself. Which Dad never was. For all his faults – which I now knew to be multitudinous – hubris was not amongst them.
‘And he does so love the sound of his own voice,’ Mum said, warming to her theme. ‘Honestly, darling, I found myself surreptitiously looking at my watch at lunch the other day. It made me miss your father. He’s certainly never been a bore.’
I smiled, delighted. ‘Better the devil you know, eh?’
‘Most definitely,’ she said with feeling.
‘Good. Oh, Mum, I’m so glad.’
I swooped, on an impulse, to hug her: to have the moment she’d looked for a second ago, perhaps. But she was sitting and I was standing and this was something we didn’t do, so it was awkward. She briefly squeezed my arm round her neck, but we broke away quickly. I think it had been enough, though. Better than nothing. Briskly, she got up to go, brushing her grey trousers down.
‘I won’t clear out immediately, though, I mean from the cottage, if you don’t mind. But it won’t be long. The plan is to rent somewhere in London until we find somewhere to buy, but that won’t take long. I mean, finding somewhere to rent. The estate agent’s already rung me about somewhere furnished in Limerston Street, which we can move into the week after next if we like it.’
‘Oh! That soon?’
‘I don’t want to go back to the Old Rectory, Ella. Not at all. I feel a bit … bruised. I want to go straight from here to London.’
‘Yes, but …’ So many friends in that village. Lifelong friends. Not to say goodbye?
‘I’ll say goodbye when we have a proper base in London. Our own house. When I’m feeling a bit stronger. Have them all up for lunch. A buffet party, perhaps – Angie, Peggy – you know, the girls.’
I did. Vaguely. Not well. They’d been shadowy figures in my young life, but they’d been the bedrock of hers. But it was time to leave them. I saw her bustling around a smart modern Chelsea kitchen brimming with flowers and shiny crystal, showing off to her friends as she opened the front door to them – that wouldn’t change. But life went in cycles, didn’t it? And if my parents weren’t to get sucked into the vortex, it was time to invite them all to lunch, but then say goodbye. I realized Dad had always known this, in his quiet way, but if anyone had ever asked Mum if she’d leave the Old Rectory she’d put her chin up and say shrilly: ‘Only feet first!’
And now she was leading the way. Or – no. He was beside her, I hoped. Naturally there’d be no minor miracles, I was aware of that – they’d been married for over forty years, for crying out loud – but there would be a subtle shift in balance. She’d still tell him what to wear and he’d still embarrass her at parties, but, hopef
ully, they’d catch each other’s eye across the room with real meaning when it happened and regroup. Think: ‘Right, rein in, Sylvia.’ Or ‘Don’t be a prat, Angus.’
‘Well done, Mum.’ I walked her to the door and we went out into the weak sunshine together. The sun was quite low in the sky now, just skimming the tops of the beech trees. ‘I’m really proud of you.’ I stared into the distance as I said it, but I said it.
‘Thanks, darling.’ She didn’t look at me, either. As I said, no minor miracles. We couldn’t possibly look at each other and say things like that: things we’d never said before.
‘And good luck to you,’ she told me, turning briefly. ‘Do what you know you have to do.’
I’d swivelled my eyes from the distance to meet hers and opened my mouth to speak, to enquire what the devil she meant, but she was already on her way: a wispier, less brittle silhouette, skirting her way expertly round the puddles, the craters even, in her new suede ballet pumps, en route to her cottage. I stared as she shut her front door firmly behind her, without looking back at me.
Do what you have to do. What on earth could she mean?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
By the time I left Oxford the following day and turned for home, the city was heaving. Chock-a-block with tourists and traffic and I was frantic. Frantic to get away. Desperate to escape. For some obscure reason – if pressed I’d say it had something to do with Ottoline’s fury, her eyes blazing into mine, together with that strange, oblique instruction of my mother’s, which I’d stupidly interpreted as some kind of divine sign, as if she were a legitimate oracle instead of an unsound know-it-all – I’d driven into town as if drawn by a star dangling over a stable, or, more pertinently, over a Georgian house in Christchurch.
In keeping with the biblical analogy I’d had to tend the sheep and donkeys first, it being my day for chores – no sign of Ottoline – and, irritatingly, Curly had escaped, so I’d spent a good hour chasing and untangling him from the bushes before I set off. Heart hammering with nerves and hardly pausing to shed my wellies – just – or pick the bits of straw from my dress – I did that as I drove along – I’d sped into Oxford. Despite, or perhaps because of a sleepless, floor-pacing night, I was at fever pitch. Fizzing with excitement. A fuse had been lit. Embers had been prodded. Something I hadn’t entertained for years, had pushed underground, as Mum had perspicaciously observed I was wont to do, had surfaced like a sea creature emerging from the depths. Ottoline had said it clearly – it rang in my head right now, even though at the time it had just sounded dully somewhere distant and remote – then she’d underlined it by her silence. My mother had reiterated it, albeit in a more obscure way, but, somehow, that obscurity had been the final, thought-provoking push. Ottoline had done the spade work, digging around the wreck of my marriage, worrying it, hassling it, but it hadn’t budged. Then along had strolled my mother and given it a sharp little nudge with her shiny red fingernail and up it had rocketed like a submarine, scattering me and everything else, in its wake.
Could it be true? Could it really be true? That Sebastian had chosen to teach instead of paint, out of some strange, warped love for me? He couldn’t paint and be with me, that much we knew. He’d tried it for the last ten years but I’d been a constant reminder of his failure. It hadn’t worked. I’d been the chain round his ankle. His impediment. His shackle. At one time he’d talked of going to Newlyn, alone – just for six months – a place he and Ottoline adored for the light, but that had never come to fruition. Why? Because he couldn’t bear to leave me? Well, he’s left you now, another, slightly more rational, voice had said, but I’d ignored it. Had driven doggedly on, over Magdalen Bridge, its imposing tower looming above me, my mind racing. And I’d ignored one or two other tiny details, too: like the fact that he could barely speak to me these days, or how happy he’d looked when I’d taken the children to him, having left me for good: having set up home elsewhere. Instead I dwelled on how nice he’d been to me that day. I wondered, perhaps, if he’d been hoping I’d stay and have lunch with them all? Rather than dashing off like that? If he’d been about to suggest it – since I’d had quite a morning of it, packing them up and driving in – about to suggest we all went to the Quad together? Yes, quite possibly.
Parking in a little-known spot behind a restaurant where, as long as you popped in and had a coffee and collected a token, you could get a space, I walked quickly and determinedly, head down and on a mission, towards Christchurch. There was no mobile I could reach Sebastian on and I didn’t want to leave a message on his answering machine in case the children picked it up, so, instead, I’d decided to pop a letter through his door. Yes, I could have sent it, but, on the other hand, the chance of bumping into him was too good to pass up. As if I were just shopping in town. Which I rarely did, but still. I’d made an effort too, despite Curly’s attempts to sabotage it. Had on a dress I knew he liked. He’d said so once, about two years ago, when it was new and I’d come running out in it to feed the sheep, plus wellies, of course: he’d said: ‘That suits you.’ At that time in our marriage it was high praise from Sebastian and I’d nearly fallen over. He’d coloured up slightly as he’d seen my reaction and we’d both gone awkwardly on our ways, me putting it down to an aberration on his part. But … why hadn’t I considered it more at the time? He was still noticing you, Ella, I told myself now, hurrying on and feeling the letter in my coat pocket. Still very much aware of you and, no, not immune.
The letter was simple and short. It just said that now that he’d moved out, I thought it might be easier for us to be better friends. That perhaps we could meet for lunch occasionally, with the children. Or even without! I’d thought long and hard about that exclamation mark. If he hated me, it showed it was only a joke. If not – well, then the sentiment was there, and I’d made the first move. Towards some sort of date. With my husband. Bizarre.
Hastening on and feeling about nineteen, licking lipstick off my teeth – I rarely wore it; never wore much make-up at all, in fact, because Sebastian didn’t like it … oh, you idiot, Ella – I stopped abruptly. On the brink of the huge, walled college, just before the gates, I ducked behind a postbox. Pulled a mirror from my bag and a tissue. Not that he’d be about, I thought, rubbing away at my lips. Probably in some studio, or taking a class in a lofty lecture theatre. I paused, lowering the mirror a second, to imagine that. I bet the pretty girls at the back – or even the front – were impressed by him. Sebastian was impressive; it was one of the words you could use about him. You couldn’t say warm, or cosy, or comforting, or any of the words I associated with Ludo, but you could say towering, glittering and, oh, a whole host of other things, which, once you’d got through, made the essence of the man more desirable, being so hard won. I licked my lips and put the hanky in my pocket.
Ludo. I’d been left surprisingly still and calm after talking to Eliza. I didn’t hate him for once having had an affair and being economical with the truth; he wasn’t a serial adulterer or anything horrible, but Eliza was right: he was a romantic, and Sebastian wasn’t. Romance sustained Ludo. It kept him going. The thought of a woman brightened his day. People like Sebastian were different. They rarely fell in love – couldn’t be bothered – but when they did, they fell headlong, for ever. But they could live without it. Would much prefer to live without it, rather than cast around for another romantic chapter, as I knew Ludo would. Oh, not now; he’d be genuinely sad at my text. Would miss me terribly, as I had him initially, although not as much as I’d imagined. But in a year or so, he’d move on. Find some other, pretty, vulnerable girl to wholeheartedly transfer his affections to – yes, wholeheartedly; there was nothing fake about Ludo. And poor Eliza, I thought, sadly, would become even more desperate and wretched. I hurried on, slipping through a conveniently unmanned side door by the porters’ lodge. Whereas Sebastian, who undoubtedly needed the comfort that couching up to a fellow human being provided – he was no monk – would not look for love, but be content with a girl like
Isobel, who catered to all his needs except his heart, which was not something he gave lightly or easily.
Once inside the imposing walls I tiptoed through a formidable arched colonnade. Centuries of clever, quick feet, gowns flying, had no doubt trodden up and down it; famous ones, too. My famous husband amongst them now. Feeling like a spy, out of the shelter of the arched walkway I slipped and into the sunlight, stealing round the gravel path that skirted the vast grassy quad and led, ultimately, to his front door. But then I thought: No, why steal? If he’s at home, so much the better. Maybe here, in these courtly surroundings, I glanced about at the looming, treacle-coloured architecture, we could have a civilized chat, as we had the other day; only, this time, minus the children. I raised my chin and marched up the path to the black front door with the shiny brass knocker and, when I put the letter through, let the letter box clatter noisily back into place. I waited on the step a moment then thought: What are you doing, Ella, knocking? Hastily I turned and scurried away, wondering why I was always in such a state of flux and full of contradictions? Do this – no, do that. Think this – no, think that. Confusing. For everyone. Most of all, for me. As I reached the arched colonnade again, I heard a sound behind me. I turned. Sebastian’s front door was opening and a woman was appearing from within. With a gasp, I hid behind an enormous pillar. Then peered back in horror. Isobel?
It was a blonde, for sure. Tall, beautiful and reed thin, with nothing like Isobel’s comforting curves. She glanced about, clearly wondering who’d made the letter box clatter. She was wearing skinny black jeans and a grey jumper, which, even at this distance, I could tell was cashmere. Could almost smell the Jo Malone. As she bent to pick up the letter from the mat, she had one last glance around before she shut the door. Silky, blonde hair swinging, she pulled a strand away from her prettily painted lips to stop it sticking. I saw her face clearly. Caught her limpid blue eyes. The years rolled back. By now I knew for certain it wasn’t Isobel, but what I hadn’t been expecting, by any stretch of the imagination, was Celeste.
My Husband Next Door Page 39
