The Something Girl

by Jodi Taylor

  Finally, having disarranged everything to his satisfaction, he plumped himself down beside me. ‘Go on then.’

  Start with the bad news. With luck, he’d be so furious I wouldn’t get the chance to say anything else. I turned to face him.

  ‘I left the ... gate open.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  Oh for God’s sake! Not again!

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You didn’t. You can’t have.’

  ‘Russell, I’m ... telling you that I did. I know you always ... try to shield me, but...’

  ‘You didn’t leave the gate open. No one ever leaves the gate open.’

  ‘Well, I ... managed it,’ I said angrily, because I was confessing here and he just wasn’t taking me seriously.

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  I refused to be dragged into pantomime mode again. ‘Why can’t I have?’

  ‘Seriously? How long have you lived here?’

  I stared at him. ‘What has that ... to do with anything?’

  ‘Come with me.’

  He grabbed my wrist again and the next moment I was being towed from the room. We both of us nearly fell down the three little steps outside the bedroom. He did slow down for the stairs, but only marginally, because this was Russell, and he doesn’t do slow. We raced through the darkened sitting room, through the kitchen and out into the mudroom, where he grabbed two wellingtons, apparently at random, stuffed me into them, and draped a smelly old coat around my shoulders. Seizing a torch, he whirled us out into the rain.

  There was a hiss and a curse as Russell and the cat encountered each other in the dark, and then all the outdoor lights clicked on as we hurtled across the yard. I could see the rain sleeting down. I pulled the coat around me and shivered.

  We halted at the gate to Boxer’s field.

  ‘Right,’ he said, switching on the torch. ‘Open the gate.’

  ‘Russell...’

  ‘Quickly, Jenny, before Mrs Crisp comes out to find out what’s going on and accuses me of trying to give you pneumonia.’

  Too cold, wet and crushed to argue, I unlatched the gate and pushed it open.

  ‘Right open.’

  Sighing, I pushed hard and it swung fully open.

  He shone the torch and we both stared at the gate and the rain. For two or three seconds, nothing happened. I could hear the rain pattering into the hedgerow and then, slowly, the gate began to swing back again. I watched in amazement because, not only did it swing closed, but the weight caused the latch to engage as well.

  ‘Do it again.’

  The rain forgotten, I did it again, my head spinning with relief as, once again, the heavy gate thunked into place and the latch caught.

  ‘Don’t you see, Jenny, you couldn’t have left the gate open. It’s not possible. It shuts itself. It has those special hinges that do it automatically. Andrew and I fixed them years ago. When I first got Boxer. Andrew said if he ever got out we’d have a catastrophe on our hands. And given how dim he is – Boxer, I mean, not Andrew – it made sense to have a gate that’s smarter than he is. And so I have.’

  I still couldn’t believe it. I think I must have been light-headed or something because I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t help it. I unlatched the gate, pushed it open, and watched in delighted disbelief as it swung shut. I did it again. And again, laughing my silly head off. Russell laughed and applauded as well, and then we spent a few minutes jumping up and down in the puddles until the back door opened and Mrs Crisp, brandishing a sweeping brush in one hand and a torch in the other shouted, ‘Who’s there? Be off with you. I’ve called the police.’

  ‘It’s me,’ shouted Russell, as if that was any sort of reassurance. ‘Don’t panic.’

  ‘Russell? What are you doing?’

  ‘Teaching Jenny how to close a gate.’

  ‘It’s midnight.’

  ‘I don’t think that matters very much, Mrs Crisp. It’s the same technique no matter what time of day or night.’

  ‘It’s pouring with rain.’

  ‘Still doesn’t matter.’

  Further up the lane, one of Martin Braithwaite’s dogs began to bark.

  ‘We’d better go inside,’ he said, ‘or Mrs Balaclava will be complaining about us again, although frankly, as a respectable householder, I see no reason why I shouldn’t open and close my own gates whenever I please. Come along, Jenny. Don’t stand around or you’ll get soaked.’

  I was too delighted to care.

  Back in our bedroom, I towelled my hair dry and tried to get into bed. Russell wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘Three years you’ve lived here, Jenny. How could you not have noticed how the gate works?’

  I looked up in surprise. ‘Are you ... saying I’m stupid?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  I stood, stricken. Yes, I know Thomas had warned me, but it’s another matter to hear the words actually spoken.

  He carried on. ‘And before you get all bent out of shape, there’s a big difference in accepting that you’ve never noticed how the gate works – which given that you’re in and out every day is almost beyond belief – and automatically assuming everything is your fault because you’re too stupid to do anything properly. Surely you can see that?’ He picked up speed. ‘Three years we’ve been together, Jenny, and you couldn’t talk to me about it? We said – we agreed – that if something was wrong then you’d tell me. You wouldn’t make me guess. And all this time I’ve been thinking all sorts of dreadful things. I half expected to find you were considering running off with Andrew.’

  I couldn’t help a choke of laughter.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Jenny, you really are a nit-wit sometimes, and I’m saying that to your face so that once again, you can distinguish between me telling you when you’ve done something a bit daft and you going back to thinking you have no worth. Please tell me you can see the difference.’

  I nodded. ‘I...’ and couldn’t go on.

  He grinned. ‘It’s always the same with you, isn’t it? Always the promising start and then a complete failure to follow through. You ... what?’

  Oddly enough, while kindness might have undone me completely, Russell’s in your face technique of direct honesty, abuse, and humour was making me feel better with every passing second. Yes, he was calling me dumb – and I could see now that I had been – but being Russell, he would say it to my face. Dragging everything out of the self-esteem curdling dark in which I’d been living, and pitching it into the bright light of day. Well, the bright light of midnight actually, but I knew what I meant.

  ‘It was ... guilt, Russell. You married ... me – yes, I know, for my money,’ I added hastily before he thought I was becoming maudlin and sentimental, something he hated, ‘but you ... kept me on after you discovered I didn’t have any and you ... gave me a home and everything and ... look how I repaid you and...’

  I never got any further. He started across the room towards me, stumbled over one of his stupid shoes, cursed, and kicked it under the wardrobe. I sighed, knowing who would have to fish it out with a coat hanger tomorrow morning.

  ‘I thought we were over all this, Jenny. You must understand that you bring me more – much more – than just money. Why can’t you see that?’

  ‘But...’

  ‘No. Be quiet,’ he said, drawing himself up and pushing his hair out of his eyes. ‘Listen to me. I am your husband and the head of this household. My word is law – or it certainly should be – and I’m telling you now: no more of this nonsense, or you’ll find yourself incurring my extreme displeasure. As my wife, it is your duty to carry out my every command. I specifically remember you promising to do so on our wedding day.’

  I opened my mouth to tell him he was too drunk to remember anything of our wedding day, and then thought better of it.

  Not that I would have had the chance anyway. He was rushing on. ‘I thought I had made it quite clear at the time, Jenny – your main duty as my wife is to smile, nod, an
d agree with everything I say. Oh, and attend to my every need of course. Not to race around beating yourself up over something that didn’t happen, and even if it had, which it didn’t, then I wouldn’t have blamed you for the consequences, because there weren’t any for me to blame you for. Which I wouldn’t have.’

  He paused to run through his last paragraph and presumably found it wanting because he said softly, ‘Jenny, you’re an idiot.’

  I nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you should be.’ He regarded me with extreme severity. ‘Whatever are you wearing?’

  ‘They’re pyjamas. I was just going to ... bed when you dragged me out into the rain.’

  ‘They’re hideous. Take them off.’

  ‘But...’

  He sighed. ‘Do I really have to go through the whole wifely obedience thing again? At this time of night?’

  He undid the top two buttons and slid his hand inside. ‘What did I say about arguing with me?’ His hand was very warm and very gentle.

  I shivered. ‘I’m striking a ... blow for wifely independence.’

  He eased down my top, exposing my shoulder. He bent and kissed it. I shivered again.

  ‘How’s that working out for you?’

  ‘I’m reasonably ... optimistic,’ I said, trying to ignore what his other hand was doing.

  ‘Are you? Even when I do this?’

  ‘Yes. Still hanging in ... there.’

  ‘Or this?’

  ‘Meh.’

  ‘All right. How about this?’

  My knees sagged.

  He laughed and after a moment, so did I.

  ‘God, I’m good,’ he said complacently.

  I snorted. ‘You are as soft as putty in ... my hands.’

  ‘Good grief, I hope not. Well, not for the next thirty minutes anyway. Turn out the light, will you.’

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning was lovely. And, in my case, guilt free. Everything was fresh and clean after the overnight rain. Little fluffy clouds bounced around a blue, rain-washed sky. Brilliant sunlight reflected off the droplets lying on the grass and caught in the hedges. The effect was dazzling. I felt my heart lift. The world was wonderful again. And Thomas was back.

  Things were good downstairs as well. Russell had taken Boxer out for an early morning ride, so we had a peaceful, although still egg-free, breakfast. Joy’s snuffles had disappeared. Well, to be honest, they hadn’t been that serious in the first place.

  When she’d finished eating, I stuffed Joy into her stroller and took her out into the walled garden. The air was warm and damp and still. We walked slowly along the paths, looking at the flowers lifting their heads after the rain. Everything was quiet and peaceful. Thomas was waiting for me by the fountain, staring down into the water. About a year ago, Russell had plonked in half a dozen tiny goldfish, warned them sternly of the consequences of misbehaviour, and left them to get on with it. They were repaying him by doubling in size every month or so and now swam slowly to and fro, fat and lazy. They were the quietest things at Frogmorton and I was grateful.

  I parked Joy where she could see what was going on and opened my mouth to tell Thomas he had been right about everything, but he spoke first.

  ‘Do you remember the day we discovered this?’

  I did. The garden had been a wilderness and Kevin and I, both seeking a purpose in life and without the slightest idea of what we were doing, had armed ourselves with vicious gardening implements and the boundless enthusiasm of ignorance, and waded in. We’d pruned the climbing roses according to instructions downloaded from the internet and, miraculously, they’d thrived. Which was more than we had done on that first day, returning to the house dirty, scratched and bleeding. There had been a bit of a row about that. But, inch by inch, with frequent references to gardening books, we’d cleared the garden and, right in the centre, we’d discovered this old stone pool with a statue of one of those hussies whose clothes are always falling off. She stood on a mossy plinth in the centre of the basin, pouring a trickle of water into the pool. According to Russell, her bosom had formed an important part of his education, at least until he’d discovered real girls, after which, again according to Russell, he’d never looked back.

  There were two hens scrabbling away under the ceanothus. They shouldn’t be there, but I really couldn’t be bothered to do anything about them. The morning was too lovely for the squawking complaints that would ensue should I try to remove them.

  ‘Everything all right,’ asked Thomas. ‘Not that I don’t know the answer to that one.’

  ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being right?’

  He considered that, head on one side, looking at his reflection in the water. ‘No.’

  I laughed and so did Joy, waving her arms in excitement.

  ‘Thomas, can she see you?’

  ‘She’s her mother’s daughter. Of course she can see me. For a little while, anyway. Until the day her rational mind tells her that giant invisible golden horses are impossible, and then I’ll fade away to just a memory.’

  ‘That’s very ... sad.’

  ‘But also very inevitable.’ He shook himself. ‘Now then, Jenny, how are you this morning?’

  I nodded. ‘Relieved.’

  ‘But still an idiot.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Now what am I missing?’

  ‘Don’t start getting agitated again – it’s understandable that you’re too relieved to have taken it all in yet, but you need to ask yourself some questions. If you didn’t leave the gate open, then how did they get out?’

  I hadn’t given that a moment’s thought. ‘You mean someone deliberately ... but who would do that?’

  ‘The same person who let them in, of course.’

  ‘What? In where?’

  ‘Into Mrs Balasana’s, Jenny. You said yourself, you struggled with the latch. It was stiff. You had to work at it to open the gate. And while I strongly suspect that Marilyn is very bright, even for a donkey, she didn’t lead Boxer up the lane to Mrs Balasana’s, open the gate, usher him inside, close it and latch it behind them, now, did she?’

  ‘You’re saying that someone let them out, took them up the lane and shoved them into Pear Tree Cottage? Why? For a joke?’

  ‘More than a joke, I think.’

  He was watching me carefully, but I already knew the answer. I couldn’t believe I’d been so dense.

  ‘Christopher?’

  ‘Of course it was, Jenny. He took them from their field. Well, he took Marilyn. Probably all he had to do was brandish something edible. She followed him, and Boxer followed her. You told me you’d seen him outside Sharon’s shop.’

  ‘Yes, but I’d convinced myself I’d imagined it. And I might have. I only saw him for a second. And surely they’d never go off with Christopher? Of all people?’

  ‘This is Marilyn. She’d go anywhere for food. Even with Christopher.’

  I nodded. Sad but true. Contrary to popular belief, animals have no discrimination. It’s a myth that they instinctively know who’s good and who’s bad. Look at Bill Sikes and Bull’s Eye. Anyone approaching Marilyn with a packet of Jammy Dodgers would find themselves wearing an affectionate donkey who would consider them best friends for life. Christopher had sussed out Mrs Balasana when he’d called on her, pretending to be looking for me. And then having lured them up the lane, he’d simply shunted them into her front garden, shut the gate and strolled away.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I suspect nothing more than a desire to make trouble for you. And it worked, Jenny. Look at the state you got yourself into.’

  ‘And to let me know he’s here.’

  ‘And that. You should talk to Russell.’

  ‘Perhaps I should, but he has enough on at the moment. Especially with this exhibition. I will tell him, but I’ll wait until I have something definite to tell him. Besides,’ I said, with the memory of my unfounded panic over leaving the gate open still fresh in my mind – something
I could surely have sorted out myself if I’d only taken a moment to stop beating myself up and think properly – ‘I can’t keep running to Russell with every little thing.’

  Thomas looked at me through his forelock. I knew that look.

  ‘I will talk to him, Thomas, I promise, but you yourself once told me that I was all grown up now. And I am. We don’t have anything concrete. We have no proof. Let’s wait and see what happens next.’

  ‘Jenny, I don’t know...’

  ‘Well that’s just it, isn’t it? We don’t actually know anything. A few days ago, I saw someone whom I thought might be Christopher. Someone put Boxer and Marilyn into Mrs Balasana’s garden, presumably in the hope of making trouble, and that someone might be Christopher, but that’s all we do know.’

  He might have said more, but at that moment I heard the clip-clop of Boxer’s hooves in the yard and Marilyn trumpeting a welcome to the lost travellers in her usual enthusiastic manner. Boxer neighed a response. The ladies squawked in outrage and alarm. Joy squealed and clapped her hands.

  ‘Russell’s back,’ said Thomas, unnecessarily.

  *

  Russell was turning Boxer out into his field. Marilyn bustled forwards, half of her attention on scolding Boxer for something or other, and the other half on Russell – the man who could always produce a carrot.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, fending her off. ‘Will you pack it in? No, not you, Jenny. You’ve had one, now push off. No, not you, Jenny, I’ve got something to tell you. Give over, will you?’

  Eventually tiring of a small donkey trying to shove her nose into his pockets – she’s not fussy where she nibbles and it makes him nervous – he picked her up off the ground and carried her into the field. I closed the gate as he came out, giving it a little shake, just to check the latch had caught.

  We leaned on the gate and watched Marilyn fussing around Boxer. Rather like a small tug trying to get an ocean-going liner into a small parking space.

  ‘Another one,’ said Russell, gloomily, turning away towards the house. ‘My heart goes out to him.’

  I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Another ... one what?’