by Jodi Taylor
With true heroism, Bill turns up every Thursday and Sunday, collects Mrs Crisp, and off they go. No one knows where they go or what they do when they get there. Russell is terrified he’s going to have to do the ‘What are your intentions?’ speech.
‘Hello Bill,’ said Andrew, politely.
‘Where did you come from?’ demanded Russell. He turned to Mrs Crisp in sudden suspicion. ‘Have you been chaining him to your headboard again? I thought I had instructed you to release all your lovers back into the wild. Must I remind you – all of you – of the presence of an innocent young child in our midst and the need to behave with decency and decorum?’
Andrew made a rude noise. ‘There’s only one person around here not behaving with decency and decorum.’
Russell ignored him.
Mrs Crisp disappeared to her own room to get ready. Bill seated himself in her chair and, apparently oblivious to Russell glaring at him over the blue and white striped milk jug, placidly said good afternoon.
‘Nice to see you,’ said Andrew.
‘Again,’ muttered Russell.
I asked Bill if he’d like a coffee.
He looked at his watch. ‘I don’t think we’ll have time, Mrs Checkland, but thank you.’
Russell shifted in his seat. ‘Busy afternoon planned?’
‘Extremely.’
Silence fell.
I saw Russell take a deep breath to enquire what exactly, in relation to Mrs Crisp, a busy afternoon entailed, and said quickly, ‘How ... are you?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
We sat in silence. Bill did silence very well.
‘So,’ said Russell, approaching from another direction. ‘Where are you off to this afternoon?’ and at that moment, Mrs Crisp came back into the kitchen, looking very smart and wearing lipstick.
Bill at once got to his feet. ‘Ready?’
She nodded, snapped her handbag shut, said, ‘See you all later,’ and the two of them disappeared out of the door leaving a very dissatisfied silence behind them.
‘White slaver,’ said Kevin solemnly, and Sharon nodded agreement.
‘I have to say, Russ,’ said Andrew, severely, ‘I’m really not at all sure you should let Mrs Crisp waltz off with the first insurance assessor who crosses her path. They’re a feckless bunch, you know.’
‘Why are you still here? You’ve eaten. Now go.’
Andrew poured himself another coffee.
Russell pushed his chair back. ‘Ready, Jenny?’
‘Yes,’ I said, excited, because Sunday afternoon is Driving Lesson Afternoon.
‘Where are you going?’ said Andrew. ‘It’s hardly polite to abandon your guest.’
‘You’re not a guest, you’re only a cousin, and it’s time for Jenny’s driving lesson.’
‘Oh, well done, Jenny. Who are you going with?’
‘Me,’ said Russell with dignity. ‘I’m teaching her to drive.’
‘Are you insane?’
‘Which one of us are you talking to?’
‘Well, both of you, actually. Isn’t it well known that spouses should never teach each other to drive?’
‘He’s very ... good,’ I said, with more loyalty than accuracy. ‘And he says I’m doing really well.’
Russell had never actually said anything of the sort and we all knew it, but there is a time and a place for veracity and this wasn’t it.
‘This I must see,’ said Andrew, getting to his feet.
‘I’ll go and get Joy,’ said Russell.
‘You’re not teaching her to drive as well, are you?’
‘Don’t be an ass, Andrew. She can’t reach the pedals yet. You can keep an eye on her while Jenny burns up the big field.’
We left Kevin and Sharon loading the dishwasher. Russell appeared with Joy who gurgled happily at the sight of her Uncle Andrew.
Yet another example of my good fortune. Some babies can be fractious, I know. Ours was an angel. Yes, she cried a little occasionally, but not with any great enthusiasm. She did tend to wake in the night, laughing and cooing to herself. Lying on her back holding her feet seemed to be her favourite pastime. She spent hours talking to her feet. According to Andrew, who was two years older, Russell himself had done something similar as a baby, and this did not augur well for Joy’s future.
I picked up the keys and we all trooped out into the yard, currently occupied by a small donkey, loitering with intent to discover something she could eat.
We have a donkey. I don’t know why I’ve taken so long to get around to talking about her. As anyone who has a donkey knows, they tend to be the primary topic of any conversation. And not always for the right reasons.
Our donkey is tiny. Her name is Marilyn. I chose her name because she looks like Marilyn Monroe. She’s a lovely soft dun colour and peers beguilingly out from underneath her bushy forelock, batting huge eyelashes. People instantly fall in love with her friendly nature, not having the slightest idea she’s only checking them over for something edible. She had a tough start – Russell discovered her, neglected and starving in a field, and stole her. Her deeply unpleasant owner turned up shortly afterwards and was seen off by Sharon wielding a Le Creuset frying pan. Just another day at Frogmorton Farm.
Seeing us crossing the yard, Marilyn came skittering over, confident that someone, somewhere would have something for her to eat.
Andrew shunted Joy to one hip and rummaged through his pockets. He’s a vet. He always has something edible in his pockets. He claims his life was once saved by scattering Mars Bars in the path of a charging bull.
‘A bit like Medea, scattering pieces of her brother in front of the pursuing ships,’ said Russell.
‘Exactly,’ said Andrew. ‘I was only sorry I didn’t have a convenient cousin to hand.’
Most of our land is let to our neighbour, Martin Braithwaite, who uses it for his sheep. It’s about the only regular money we have, supplemented occasionally by the sale of one of Russell’s paintings and the income from what Tanya managed to salvage from the remains of my own money, but we’ve kept the two fields next to Frogmorton for our own use. The smaller was usually occupied by Russell’s horse, the perpetually challenged Boxer, currently gazing in alarm at a butterfly; the other had a number of oil drums scattered around at strategic points. They’re painted with letters of the alphabet. Currently, I could see a, b, c, f and then another f, because Russell hadn’t been concentrating. Or had been drunk. Then there had obviously been some sort of oil drum-related catastrophe because from f we jumped straight to p.
The oil drums were laid out just as they were when I learned to ride, although I have to say I found driving slightly trickier. Russell’s Land Rover was in no way as good-natured as a horse.
Russell flourished his clipboard.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Checkland. Please drive to b and then turn left.’
I ignored him, taking the time to adjust the seat and the driving mirror and fasten my seat belt. He twitched impatiently. ‘In your own time, Mrs Checkland.’
I made him wait, making sure I was comfortable before starting the engine, and off we went. Conscious of the audience at the gate, I cut the turn a little close and we shaved an oil drum
‘Sorry,’ I said, flustered.
He leaned back and stretched his long legs. ‘Not a problem – we have another five.’
I clipped another one. It went boing and fell over.
‘Four.’
‘Sorry. Sorry,’ I said, crashing the gears.
‘Stop panicking. Just relax and you’ll find it all comes quite naturally.’
‘All right.’
We bumped around the field while I took another few breaths, sorted myself out, and sought for relaxing conversation. ‘When are ... the chickens turning up?’
‘Tomorrow.’
Boing.
‘Three.’
‘But what about the hen house? Where will we put them?’
This is typical of Russell. He’d agreed t
o the chickens – probably about three months ago, forgotten all about them, and then suddenly realised they were coming tomorrow and he hadn’t told me.
‘We’ll stick them in the stable for the time being. They can roost in the rafters.’
‘You’re locking ... them in with an omnivorous donkey and a ... paranoid horse?’
‘They’ll be fine, Jenny. Stop worrying. Chickens are very robust.’
‘What happens if they ... drop an egg on Boxer.’
‘They’re too young to lay. He’ll be perfectly safe.’
Boxer had been a racehorse in his youth and Russell had lost a great deal of money on him, which, he said, had created a bond. Sadly, although he runs like the wind, he’s neurotic even by racehorse standards and is terrified of almost everything. Wind, rain, hostile telegraph poles, cats, threatening trees and, as I’d recently noticed, butterflies. His previous owners gave up on him and Russell, aware of the fate of some ex-racehorses, took him in. Having Marilyn has calmed him a little and the two of them are devoted to each other. I couldn’t help but feel he wouldn’t react well to having potentially life-threatening chickens living over his head and said so.
‘He’ll be fine. He’s watching you now over the hedge. Look how calm he is these days.’
I craned my neck.
Boing.
‘Jenny, you have to look where you’re going.’
‘You told me to look at ... Boxer.’
‘It was a figure of speech. Third! Third! Change down. You’re going too fast. Brake for God’s sake!’
We skidded to a halt.
‘Well, will you look at that,’ said the world’s worst driving instructor, getting out to inspect the damage to his beloved Land Rover.
‘What?’
‘There. That dent. Look at it.’
I was spoiled for choice. ‘Which dent?’
‘The latest dent.’
‘Told you,’ said Andrew from where he was sitting on the gate. Kevin and Sharon sat alongside. They were passing Joy back and forth between them like an old parcel. She thought it was a wonderful game. Marilyn was peering critically through the bars. An astonished Boxer craned his neck over the hedge. I sighed. No one should have to learn to drive under these conditions.
‘That’s enough for today I think,’ said Russell. ‘A world-class instructor always ensures his students end on a high.’
‘That ... was a high?’
‘Minor bumps happen, Jenny. You have to get used to them.’
We both looked at the Land Rover – living proof that to Russell at least, minor bumps happened all the time.
‘Can you ... teach me to parallel park?’ I asked Russell as Andrew pushed the gate open for us.
‘Parking is dull,’ he said, ushering me through the gate. ‘I could teach you to do handbrake turns instead. Much more fun.’
‘He can’t park,’ said Andrew, latching the gate. ‘That’s why he never bothers. He just stops and gets out. He doesn’t pull over. Sometimes he doesn’t even switch off the engine.’
‘What about reversing? Can you ... teach me to reverse?’
‘I can try, of course,’ said Russell, ‘we world-class driving instructors never baulk at a challenge, but it’s only fair to tell you that, as a female, you will have to prepare yourself for continual disappointment in that area.’
‘Why?’
He remained silent. Baffled, I looked at Andrew, who said, ‘He doesn’t think women can reverse.’
‘Indeed,’ I said icily, and Sharon went to DEFCON 3. Fortunately, there were no frying pans to hand.
‘No, no,’ Russell said hastily. ‘It’s a proven scientific fact. Isn’t it Andrew?’
‘On your own, mate,’ said Andrew.
We folded our arms and waited for him to dig himself deeper.
‘Explain,’ I said.
‘Well, it’s your ovaries, isn’t it?’
I’ve been married to him for three years now and I thought I’d learned to follow his thought processes, but just occasionally...
We stared at him.
‘Look,’ he said patiently. ‘Scientists have proved that when women turn backwards to look over their shoulder to reverse, it twists their ovaries and they lose their sense of direction. It’s not their fault, but that’s why they can’t reverse.’
At this point even Marilyn was glaring at him.
Sharon punched one arm and I punched the other.
‘Ow,’ he said, hurt. ‘I was just trying to lighten the mood. As a good instructor, I didn’t want you brooding on your latest failure to master the art of driving.’
‘By making ... derogatory comments about ovaries?’
He grinned, his stupid fringe flopping down over his forehead. ‘Should have seen your faces. Don’t know about you lot but I could really do with a cup of tea.’
Chapter Two
The next day, we – Russell and I – set off for Rushford.
‘A bit of shopping,’ said Russell, handing me the keys, ‘and then off to Sharon’s new shop for artistic advice and guidance from me, and brute labour from you. Come on – you know how you dawdle.’
He disappeared at his usual speed. I kissed Joy goodbye and told her I’d see her soon. She seemed completely unconcerned at the disappearance of both parents, sitting eggily in her high chair and watching her toast ooze through her fingers.
‘Very like her father,’ said Mrs Crisp, handing me the shopping list which Russell had, in his haste, left on the kitchen table.
I drove very slowly and carefully down the lane, mirrored, signalled and manoeuvred to an empty landscape, much to Russell’s amusement, clattered through the village, and along the Rushford road. There wasn’t a lot of traffic about as we drove down the high street and I made a cautious turn into the car park.
‘Excellent work,’ said Russell. ‘You hardly hit anything.’
‘I didn’t hit anything,’ I said, pulling the ticket from the machine and watching the barrier go up.
‘A bit slow though.’
‘Speed limit,’ I said, pulling slowly forwards.
His lips moved as he strove to accommodate this unfamiliar concept. ‘There. There’s a space. Pull in there.’
I indicated.
‘No, no. Pull past it and reverse back in.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s easier.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Yes, it is. Because all you have to do then is pull out. Forwards.’
‘Always assuming I was able to reverse into such a ... narrow spot in the first place.’
‘Try it – it’s much easier and quicker I promise you. Off you go.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No.’
‘I can scarcely believe this defiance. I’m almost certain you promised to love, honour and obey me at all times. What happened to wifely obedience?’
‘No ... idea, but I can tell you what happened to our ... parking space while you were wasting time ... telling me to reverse.’
We both stared at the car now smugly nosing into our space. Forwards.
‘Hmmm,’ said Russell, reaching for the door handle.
‘There’s another one,’ I said, pulling forwards quickly before I was instructed to ram the intruder.
I did try. Changing gear in Russell’s Land Rover is a bit like stirring porridge in a pot, but I found reverse eventually. I see-sawed backwards and forwards, in and out, confused, lost, and unsure which way the wheels were going. Eventually, sprawled diagonally across the space, I gave up.
Russell leaned out of the window. ‘A couple more goes, Jenny, you’re not quite straight.’
‘I don’t ... care,’ I said, switching off the engine and resolving never to reverse again. I would just keep turning left until I arrived at my destination. However long that took.
He grinned at me. ‘Sorry – it’s a man thing. We just have this compulsion to reverse unnecessarily – like salmon returning to their sp
awning grounds – we just can’t help it.’
He forced his way out of the Land Rover with some difficulty – ‘Good job I’m skinny!’ – squeezing himself between us and the correctly parked car alongside. Together, we surveyed the results of my labours. I drooped despondently.
Russell patted my shoulder in what he thought was consolation. ‘Ovaries like Hampton Court maze. Never mind. Come on, a quick bit of shopping first – then Sharon.’
Sharon’s new shop was at the bottom end of the High Street, near the medieval bridge. There’s a little pedestrian lane off to the right with the car park at the end, so it’s a good location. Sooner or later, everyone has to walk past.
The sign over the door read Half Baked, which according to her business advisor was just asking for trouble, but I thought it was just right. Russell had painted the name in flowing letters – purple on green.
Inside, the colour scheme was still purple and green, except for the far wall where Russell had gone mad one rainy afternoon, and painted the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. We’d all had to pose. Sharon was Alice in her pretty blue dress. A muttering Andrew was the Mad Hatter, complete with the price tag on his purple hat. The March Hare looked just like Kevin, if Kevin had enormous ears and teeth and a green checked coat. The sneezing baby, muffled in a lilac blanket was Joy, and the sleeping dormouse had more than a hint of Bill the Insurance Man about him, but that was probably just a coincidence. A scruffy, one-eyed, one-eared Cheshire Cat lay under the table, belly up and grinning mischievously. The tablecloth was painted in the same green and purple stripes that Sharon had selected for the cafe and, in the centre of the picture, the Mad Hatter and the March Hare were exclaiming in delight over a plate piled high with Sharon’s sumptuous wares. As a piece of art it was wonderful – as an advertisement it was superb.
We paused to look at it.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, as I always did.
He grinned. ‘It’s not bad, is it? I enjoyed doing that.’ He stood for a moment, his head on one side. ‘I miss doing portraits,’ and then disappeared into the back area, where Sharon and Kevin were arguing over the placement of mixers, ovens, working areas and the like. There was a great deal of banging and, because Russell was there, some shouting, too.
