Robbie's Wife

by Russell Hill

  She took her hand away. “Enough of this. You wanted a walk,” and she turned, striding off along the top of the field. I watched for a moment, and even in the bulky jacket and boots and trousers she had a grace that quickened me. If it were in my power I would take such a woman away from the village, find her a sun-streaked place where she could be what she wanted to be. Which was, I quickly thought, the kind of foolish fantasy that old men have when they watch a graceful younger woman walk along the top of a field in the gathering rain. I hurried to catch up with her.

  She didn’t talk about herself again. She questioned me about my life in Los Angeles, why I had come to Dorset to write, what it was like to make up stories. She seemed genuinely interested in me and I found it easy to talk with her. We came down out of the field at a weir in a small stream and stood for a while listening to the water rush over the lip, brown and foaming.

  “I come here often,” Maggie said. “I like that sound. It quiets the demons.”

  “It’s hard to imagine demons in a place like this.”

  “They’re all around us.” She hugged her arms to her chest and spoke to the foaming weir.

  We crossed a narrow iron footbridge with a rusted gate, and came out onto a road that eventually led us back through the village. At the post office store there were three women who stood, watching us approach. “The witches of Endor, Robbie calls them,” Maggie said. “I could fit right in.”

  “I doubt it,” I said.

  “You’re a kind man, Jack Stone. It’s an endearing quality. Here,” she said, and took my hand. “Give them something to talk about. Give them half an hour and the whole village will think you’ve got a leg over me.”

  That afternoon I wrote out my walk with Maggie, made it a scene in which the two characters, Jack and Maggie, stood looking down at the farmhouse, and I gave her Maggie’s words exactly as she had given them to me and then I added the scene where the three women stood on the edge of the road in front of the store:

  THE WOMEN’S POV:

  Jack and Maggie walk toward them down the road and Maggie reaches out and takes Jack’s hand.

  JACK AND MAGGIE’S POV:

  Three women stand, heads together, apparently gossiping. The pavement is wet and they wear dresses with bulky jackets over them. One has a baby in her arms.

  CUT TO: MAGGIE AND JACK’S CLASPED HANDS

  MAGGIE:

  This will give them something to talk about. Give them a half hour and the whole village will think you’ve got a leg over me.

  JACK:

  And Robbie?

  MAGGIE:

  He’ll think it’s a lark. He calls them the witches of Endor.

  But I didn’t stop there. I went on to the farm, saw Maggie go up the stairs, followed her and she undressed and I wrote it out, each detail of her body as I imagined it, and then I stopped, thought, Jesus, Jack, You’re sixty fucking years old and she’s young enough to be your daughter and it’s time you packed up and moved on.

  11.

  When I came into the kitchen with my duffel bag, Maggie was at the table, writing. She looked up and said, “I was leaving you a note. I’m off to do some shopping in Gillingham. You’re off?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Where’s your next stop?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You’re welcome to stay on. We enjoy your company.”

  “Thanks. I feel comfortable here. What do I owe you?”

  “Sixty pounds will do.”

  “No,” I said, “I had supper with you three nights. It’s more like seventy-five.”

  “Suppers weren’t much, Jack Stone. I’d feel badly charging you for Shepherd’s Pie.”

  I laid the money on the kitchen table. “I feel as if I’m taking advantage of you,” I said.

  She smiled. “It would cost you more than sixty quid to take advantage of me.”

  Then she did something that surprised me. She rose and came to me, putting her arms around me, holding me tightly for a moment before drawing back and saying, for the third time, “I like you Jack Stone.”

  “And I like you, Maggie.”

  “Come back and take another walk with me,” she said.

  There was an awkward moment and I said, “Tell Robbie thanks for me,” and I went out into the farmyard. There was no sign of Robbie or Jack the dog, or the Land Rover. I drove through the empty village and turned toward Sturminster Newton, where I bought a sausage roll at a bakery and a bottle of beer in a little grocery store and I had lunch beside an old mill pond and as I listened to the rush of water over the stone lip I was reminded of Maggie and what she had said at the weir the day before. And I tried to remember if I had put my arms around Maggie when she had held me. I could still feel her body pressed against mine.

  I drove north to Glastonbury, a two hour drive, and found the High Tor, a stone tower on a hill outside of town. I parked along the edge of the road and crossed the field, climbing the rutted slope, slipping in the muddy earth until I was at the top, sweating, my trousers wet to the knees, and I waited in the lee of the tower until my chest stopped heaving. There was no magic in this place, only a cutting wind and a few sheep far below. It was growing dark and what I wanted was to be warm and I stumbled back to the car, changed into dry socks and trousers and at the first pub I saw, I parked and went in. It was hot inside, noisy, and I ordered Shepherd’s Pie but it wasn’t like Maggie’s. This one was a thick crust covering a shallow bowl of gravy with bits of gristly meat and chunks of soft potato. But it was hot and I washed it down with a pint and had another and then nursed a third one while I watched noisy darts players in the smoke-filled room, half-dozing until finally I went to the toilet and found myself leaning against the wall above a stone trough, trying not to piss on my shoes. When I asked the bartender, he told me they had no rooms, wasn’t sure at this hour who would, and I realized it was past eleven.

  It was raining again when I went outside but the cold air felt good and I sat in my car, knowing that I was in no condition to drive. I would nap for a bit, and was almost immediately asleep.

  12.

  At first I thought it was a nightmare. I was rocking back and forth violently and there were dimly shouted words but I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Then I realized that I was still in my car and it was rocking from side to side and there were figures outside, men who were heaving the car back and forth and one of them hit the window on the passenger’s side with his fist and the glass turned to spidery cracks. I was awake now, and frightened, and the car seemed as if it would turn on its side when there was another voice and a whistle and shouts.

  “Off! All you lot! Piss off!” And someone shouted “Coppers!” and the car settled and the figures were gone.

  The windows were fogged, apparently from my breathing inside the car while I had slept and the flashlight beam that came to the driver’s side made the glass a brilliant opaque white.

  “You in there,” the voice called out. “You all right?”

  “Yes,” I managed to reply.

  “Roll down your window.”

  I fumbled with the key, putting it in the ignition, felt for the window button and finally the window slid down. I still couldn’t see a face, but the flashlight was full on me, then roamed inside the car.

  “Would you mind stepping outside, sir? Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I opened the door and stepped out, stumbling as I did. Unseen hands caught and steadied me.

  I was aware that there was a second man on the far side of the car, examining the shattered window. The man in front of me lowered the flashlight and in the dim light of the pub car park I could see that they were two policemen. A police car with a blue pulsing light was only a few feet from my car.

  “Would you mind telling us what you were doing here at this hour?”

  “Apparently I fell asleep. I had supper in the pub and a few beers and when I came out I didn’t think I should drive. I thought I’d take a
short nap.”

  “Not a particularly good idea to be here at this hour,” he said.

  “What time is it?”

  “After two. Just your bad luck to have that lot find you.”

  “What were they trying to do?”

  “A bit of fun. Turn your car on its side. Turn you turtle is what they call it. You’re lucky we spotted them.”

  “Thank God you did.”

  “Would you mind showing us a bit of identification, sir?”

  I got out my wallet, found my passport and he examined it carefully.

  “Well, Mr. Stone, you think you’re all right to drive now?” He shone the flashlight on my face. “Here,” he said, holding out his index finger. “Follow me if you will, please.” The finger moved from side to side, up and down. Then the light dropped.

  “You have a place to stay, Mr. Stone?”

  No, I thought, and then, because I didn’t want to explain my aimlessness, I said, “Yes, a place called Sheepheaven Farm in Mappowder in Dorset.”

  “You’re a long way from there, sir.”

  “I came up to see the Tor. It was only going to be a day trip.”

  “And you have people there waiting for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like us to contact them, let them know that you’re all right?”

  “No, not at this hour.”

  “Would you like us to file a report on your window?”

  “No. It’s a rental car and it’s insured.”

  “Well, in any case, there will be a report on file, Mr. Stone. We’ll take your license number and if you could show us the rental receipt and the registration we’ll let you get on your way.” He spent a few minutes writing down the information, gave me back my passport and my California driver’s license. “You’re a long way from California, Mr. Stone. I hope this doesn’t spoil your stay here in the UK.”

  “No,” I said. “I suppose there are people like that everywhere these days.”

  “You’re all right, then?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And thank you.” He stood, watching me get into the car. I started the engine and he did not move, waiting for me to drive out of the car park.

  Once on the road I wondered where I would go. I had no place to sleep and I was in no condition to drive all night. It would be another four hours before it was light and I thought of going back to London, finding my cheap hotel, turning the car in, but I was exhausted and the road was wet and bleary. The only place I could think of was to go back to Sheepheaven Farm. I could park in the farmyard and when daylight came I could explain things to Maggie and Robbie and they would let me sleep and tomorrow I would get a fresh start, go back to London, end my odyssey, run back to Los Angeles with my tail between my legs. I drove the two hours south, came into the farmyard with the headlights off, turned off the ignition and fell asleep again. I awoke to the barking of Jack the dog, and Robbie’s face peering through the window at me.

  13.

  “Fucking cretins,” Robbie said. “They’re everywhere. There’s no longer any shame to being an arsehole. I used to go see Bournemouth play football but they were everywhere, picking fights, shouting obscenities, getting pissed and vomiting all over the place. Fucking pigsty it was, so I stopped going. You got away with a smashed window, Jack. Better that than a smashed head.”

  “Can I get the room back for tonight? Clean up a bit? Maybe have a cup of tea?”

  “Good Christ, Jack, you sound like a proper Englishman. Get your car nearly turned over, drive half the night, and what is it you want? A cuppa tea.” He laughed and said, “Of course you can have the room. And Maggie will fix you a cup of tea and you can take a bath and later we’ll go have a pint and you can tell your war stories to the Strykers. And they’ll be wanting to go up to Glastonbury and find those yabboes and do a bit of bashing themselves. Only for a good cause, mind you.”

  I went into the kitchen with Robbie where Maggie, turning, said, “Jack Stone! What a surprise!”

  “Jack here needs a cup of tea and a bit of care, Mags. He’s had a touch of bad luck. I’m off to Stur, Jack. Market day. I’m still looking for a calf. You’re in good hands with Maggie.”

  I sat at the now familiar table and had a cup of hot tea and Maggie sat across from me and listened to my adventure and shook her head and said, “What you need is more than a cup of tea, Jack Stone.”

  She went to the cupboard, brought down a bottle of scotch and took two glasses off the drain board. She poured a finger of scotch in each one, set them on the table and said, “I don’t do this often. I’m glad you’re back. And I’m glad you’re safe.”

  “I don’t think I was in that much danger, Maggie. The policeman said they were doing it for the fun of it.”

  “Not my idea of fun,” she said. “Still, I’m glad you’re all right.”

  She sipped at the scotch, then reached out to touch my hand and said, “I watched you drive out of the farmyard and I thought how brilliant it would be to be able to drive off, make the first turn and go on without ever turning back.”

  “It didn’t work out so well for me.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. Just the idea that I could go off on my own, no compromise, nobody to ask or say, I’ll be back at five or I’m going shopping. Just to be able to go.”

  “What about Terry? And Robbie?”

  “I couldn’t leave Terry behind. I’d take him with me.”

  “Terry’s your only child.”

  “Yes,” she said. She looked toward the kitchen door, as if she expected him to suddenly appear.

  “He would have had a brother.”

  “You wanted another child?”

  “No. I got pregnant. Terry was six. But I didn’t want another child. I love Terry, but somehow another child seemed more than I could bear.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had an abortion. I had it killed, Jack Stone. Sucked out of me and flushed away.” There was a stillness in the room so heavy that I could feel it pressing on us.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything.”

  “Did Robbie want the child?”

  “I never told him. No one else knows. I don’t know why I’ve told you. Now you know a terrible secret about me. Are you good at keeping secrets, Jack Stone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. And you? Will you tell me a terrible secret?”

  “I’m not sure I have any.”

  “Rubbish. We’ve all got them. I could probably fill a dustbin with yours.” She touched my hand again, smiling. “I’m filled with them. I’m a cesspit of dark secrets.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  She sipped at the glass, made a grimace as she swallowed. “Of course it is. It’s the scotch talking.” She poured another finger of scotch into her glass.

  “You should slow down. I don’t want to be blamed for getting you soused before noon.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll be the proper farm wife, have the supper on, do the washing up, trot off to bed like a good girl.”

  “Somehow this doesn’t sound like you.”

  “You don’t know what I sound like, Jack Stone.” Her voice had a hard edge to it, as if she were about to accuse me of something.

  “No, I suppose I don’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice softening. “That was uncalled for. It’s just that when you drove off, I suddenly wanted to be driving off with you.”

  “You would have had an ugly experience.”

  “Maybe we wouldn’t have gone to Glastonbury. If I had gone off with you, Jack Stone, where would you have taken me?”

  “Majorca. Spain. Morocco. Some place where there’s lots of sun.”

  “I’d like that,” she said. She sipped again at the scotch, set the glass on the table and rose. “Time for me to become the farm wife, Jack Stone. There’s things to be done. If you’re up to it, we’ll take a walk later. Go listen to the river. Go on up to
the room, draw yourself a bath, take a nap. Come down when you feel like it.” She drank the rest of the scotch, squeezed my hand before releasing it. “I’m glad you came back,” she said.

  14.

  I went upstairs and drew a bath and then fell asleep and woke in the failing light of late afternoon and came down to the kitchen to find Terry sitting at the table.

  “Hello, Terry.”

  “You’re back, sir.”

  “Yes. Looks like you can’t get rid of me.”

  “Mum says you nearly got turned over in your car by some bad men.”

  “Let’s say I had a bit of an adventure, but nothing terrible happened to me.”

  “Are you going to turn it into a movie?”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “If you had your computer we could write it out,” he said.

  “Should I go up and get it? You won’t get in trouble for neglecting your schoolwork, will you?”

  “I’m almost done.”

  So Terry and I sat at the table, writing dialog for a movie in which an American tourist gets attacked by English thugs and, according to Terry’s version, leaps out of the car and thrashes them thoroughly.

  “You make me out to be a hero,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m a rather ordinary man who wouldn’t stand a chance in real life.”

  “Mum said to Dad that you were a tough nut to crack.”

  I wondered what the conversation had been about. How had I come up between Maggie and Robbie? I thought of asking Terry to tell me more about what he had heard but then thought no, not a good idea, Jack. Leave it alone.

  “So, Terry, what do you think of our movie?” I asked. “Should we read it out at supper for your mum and dad, just like they do in Hollywood?”

  “You mean make a real movie?”

  “No, they get a couple of actors to read the script out loud, see how it sounds, pretend that it’s the movie before they decide to make it. What do you say? We’ll practice it, and surprise them?”