A Rural Affair (17 page)

‘I like smooth,’ Jennie said with feeling. ‘Haven’t had smooth for years. Decades. Ever. Could very easily get used to smooth.’

I tried not to notice her hands were clenched; just as, last night, as I’d wandered back through the village at midnight,
I’d tried not to notice that Simon, as I reached my gate, had just left Jennie’s. I’d been in time to see Jennie disappear
inside as Simon turned to walk the two miles up the hill to his parents’ home in Wessington, presumably leaving his car at
Peggy’s. A moonlit walk. A contemplative walk, perhaps. Whilst Jennie had gone inside and up the stairs in her dark, sleep-filled
house, feeling just a little bit warmer, a little bit happier. And what was wrong with that?

‘You won’t be getting used to anything,’ Angie reminded her brutally. ‘You’re married.’

‘Yes, I know. To Toad.’ Jennie threw back her head and scratched it energetically with both hands. ‘Oh, I’m not about to leap
into bed with the man, Angie, but surely this old heart of mine is allowed to quicken occasionally? Even skip a beat? Allow
me a little extra-marital flirting, please. It’s surely not a crime to have a tiny light shining in some dark corner of my
life?’

There didn’t seem to be much to say to that. Jennie got up to refill the kettle noisily and banged it down with a clatter
on her hob. She turned and leaned on the Aga, folding her arms and staring determinedly out of the window, gimlet-eyed. Angie
sat up. Cleared her throat.

‘Well, if you’re not going to – you know – take it any further,’ she said, ‘do you mind if I do?’

Jennie and I turned slowly to stare at her. ‘What, with Simon!’ spluttered Jennie.

‘Well, as you say, he is rather nice. Much nicer than I thought, and not at all slimy when he loosens up; and I am single,
Jennie. And since Peggy’s so set on Pete, who, frankly, was only a joke, some twenty-something farrier –’

‘You just said he was smooth!’

‘And as you so rightly say, nothing wrong with that.’

‘I think that’s a bit rich, Angie!’ Jennie snorted. ‘You can’t just cruise in and nick my – my, you know –’

‘What?’ demanded Angie.

‘My book-club partner,’ she said primly. ‘Just because Peggy’s nicked yours!’

‘Book-club
partner
?’ scoffed Angie.

‘We agreed to swap notes,’ said Jennie stiffly. ‘When we’d finished the book.’

‘I bet you did.’

‘Now look,’ I said nervously, as my two friends glared at
one another across the room, ‘this is all getting a bit out of hand, isn’t it? We’ve only had one meeting and we are supposed
to be discussing literature here, not matchmaking. Shall we all calm down?’

Angie and Jennie looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ they both muttered sheepishly.

‘Totally pathetic,’ added Angie. ‘Talk about frustrated housewives. And anyway, the whole point was to get
you
back on track again.’ She looked at me. ‘Give you a bit of fun. What did you think of Luke?’

‘Nice,’ I said evenly. Patiently. ‘Easy to talk to.’

‘When she could get him away from Saintly Sue,’ remarked Jennie. ‘I noticed she was
very
quick to play hide the fifty p with him.’

I sighed. ‘I’m in no rush,’ I said, meaning it. ‘I’ve got the rest of my life, haven’t I?’

As I said it, the enormity of that simple statement, the freedom it conveyed and the joy, threatened to explode within me.
I got to my feet as Archie wailed. The feverish rage of the last few days had left me as abruptly as it had arrived. That
white-hot outrage at Phil’s betrayal had gone, and in its place a kind of calm acceptance together with an astonishing clarity
prevailed. After a few minutes I said goodbye to my friends. Archie was getting cranky and needed his sleep, but, also, I
wanted to savour that feeling on my own. Wanted to cradle my new-found freedom to myself as I cradled my son while he nodded
off in my arms. How wonderful it was: I had the whole of my life to choose better, if at all. I shut Jennie’s front door softly
behind me and walked down the path. It hadn’t escaped my notice that Sue had made a major play for Luke last night, but as
the coin appeared from his trouser leg and as Sue, like a crouching tiger on the floor,
had grabbed it with a shriek, I’d been happy to slip away. Been happy to go quietly. I certainly wasn’t going to fight for
a man I hardly knew. And anyway, aside from our earlier conversation, he hadn’t exactly sought me out.

As I turned into my garden I wondered if it was true that everybody had a soulmate out there somewhere, or if most people
just patched and made do? Met someone appropriate and in a fit of youthful enthusiasm turned a blind eye to any imperfections,
thinking: perfect, you’ll do. Just after Phil and I got engaged I found a list in the breast pocket of his jacket which he’d
left behind at my flat: pros and cons, with my name at the top. That should have been my moment. To call the whole thing off.
Instead, I ran a fevered eye down and realized, with relief, that there were more pros than cons. One more. ‘Quite tidy’ had
been the deal-clincher for Phil. Shaming. But don’t forget I’d been feeling very desperate at the time. Very much like a stale
bun on a shelf.

Well, I wouldn’t be feeling that again, I determined as I went up my path and delved in my bag for my key, flushing with anger
as I remembered. Wouldn’t be Making Do. I’d be very happy with Clemmie and Archie; yes, thank God I had children. That, of
course, was pivotal in the desperation game: wanting – needing those. That biological urge. But now that I had them, we could
be on our own for ever. I’d never have to panic-buy again.

‘I say, Poppy!’ As I turned to shut my front door, I saw Angus hurrying towards me,
Spectator
under his arm, fresh from the village shop. I went down the path to meet him, the autumn sun warm on my face, late hollyhocks
brushing my arm. Angus raised his hat as he approached.

‘Hello, old girl, wasn’t that fun last night? And I gather I missed the best bit. Gather the party really got going!’

I smiled, shifting Archie in my arms so his head lay on my shoulder. ‘Well, it was eased along by almost the entire contents
of Peggy’s drinks cupboard so it’s hardly surprising.’

I had a vague memory of her bringing out something green and vile, peering myopically at the label and saying, ‘I think I
brought this back from Paxos in 1997.’ That had been my exit moment.

‘Yes, well, I was just going to say that next week Sylvia is visiting her sister in Cirencester, so happily I can join in
the – you know,’ he winked broadly and rubbed his hands together, ‘fun and games!’

‘Oh, I’m not sure every book-club meeting will be like that, Angus. I mean, we didn’t have a book to discuss, did we? Next
week, when we’ve all done our homework, I’m sure it’ll be much more cerebral.’

‘Euh.’ His rheumy old eyes looked downcast. Then brightened. ‘Oh yes, once we’ve done all that malarkey, but there’ll still
be lots of time for fun too.’ He lowered his voice. ‘When I was in the army we played this terrific game at an all-ranks dance
where you had to guess the bare backside. Blindfold, you know? Really broke the ice.’

‘I’m not convinced much ice needs breaking,’ I said uneasily, remembering Simon and Jennie chatting very quietly in a corner,
heads bent so close together they almost touched.

‘Nevertheless I think I’ll bring one along.’

‘What?’

‘A blindfold. Scarf, or something. Got some marvellous Glenmorangie too that my brother-in-law gave me last Christmas; pretty
sure Simon will like that. I’ll bring that too. Toodle-pip!’ And off he scurried, thrilled to bits, an entire screenplay playing
out in his head, his Border terrier on a tartan lead trotting along beside him.

Later that morning, as I left the house to collect Clemmie from school, old Frank Warner, who’d been sitting outside the Rose
and Crown across the road having a pint with Odd Bob, put his glass down on the bench and shuffled towards me.

‘Hello, Poppy.’

‘Hello, Frank.’

‘Um, Poppy, I gather there’s a bit of a book-club thingy occurring at Peggy’s place these days. Wondered if I could join?’
Frank was late sixties, an ex-squadron leader, widowed, vast moustache, excessive dandruff. He spent a lot of time outside
the Rose and Crown sinking pint after pint with Odd Bob, who never said much but nodded sagely as Frank held forth about Harrier
Jets. Bob, slower in every respect, had now joined us, it having taken him that much longer to circumnavigate the pond.

‘Bob would like to join too,’ Frank assured me firmly, as Bob nodded mutely. Bob was the closest thing we had to a village
idiot. He was a tenant farmer who lived in the filthiest farmhouse imaginable on the road out of the village. If, perchance,
as a favour to Angie, one ever popped the parish magazine through his door, such a cacophony of dog barking and howling would
start you’d hear it all the way home, and then the geese would start honking and the whole village would turn and look accusingly
at you when you returned.

‘Um, right. Well, I’m not quite sure, to be honest.’ I scratched my leg nervously. ‘Can I get back to you? Only – I’m not
really organizing it. I’ll have to ask the others.’

Frank smoothed his luxuriant moustache in an alarmingly Terry Thomas manner. ‘If you would, my dear. And put in a good word
for us, hm?’

‘Of course.’

He gave me a huge wink. ‘Ding dong,’ he murmured.

I hastened off up the hill with my buggy.

I told Jennie about it when I got back. She was weeding her front garden and leaned on her fork to listen.

‘Oh God, that’s nothing,’ she told me. ‘When I was in the shop just now, Dickie Frowbisher sidled up to me and said he’d read
a lot of John Grisham and did that count?’

‘Oh dear God. What have we started?’

‘A book club,’ she said firmly. ‘With an exclusive, restricted membership. No new members unless they’ve been thoroughly vetted
and agreed on by all existing members; and, as of next week, we get down to the serious business of talking books. Angus should
drop them off today and then we can get reading.’

‘Exactly.’ I agreed. My eyes roved down. ‘What’s wrong with Leila?’ The usually irrepressible Irish terrier was lying at Jennie’s
feet looking morose, a huge plastic collar, about a foot wide, like a halo around her neck. ‘Why has she got that on?’

Jennie regarded her hound speciously. ‘She self-harms,’ she told me gloomily.

‘No!’

‘Well, no, OK, she scratches herself. So she has to wear that stupid collar. D’you think I should blame myself? For her mental-health
issues?’

‘Oh, shut up, Jennie. How long has she got to wear it for?’

‘Till she stops scratching, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, she’s in therapy now.’

‘Leila?’

‘Well, not me – yet. There’s a girl in the next village offering free dog-therapy sessions because she’s just starting.’ She
made a face. ‘After Leila, she might be just stopping.’

I giggled.

‘Anyway,’ she grinned, ‘on, on.’ She stuck her fork in the ground and started digging. Humming too, quite merrily for her.
And she hated gardening. As I went up my path, the window above her porch flew open. Dan appeared half dressed, hair askew.

‘Can’t find any ruddy socks!’ he roared.

Jennie put down her fork. ‘Coming, darling,’ she said, in an unusually mild voice. I watched her walk inside, in astonishment.
Such a statement would normally be met with a sharp rebuke to bloody well find them himself and even Dan blinked down at me
in surprise, ocean wave flopping. He grinned.

‘Hi, Poppy. Enjoy your evening last night?’

‘Yes, thanks, Dan, it was fun.’

‘Good. Well, I must say I’m all for it. It’s done wonders for Jennie’s humour; can’t think what’s come over her. She really
ought to get out more. Well done you for organizing it.’

‘Oh, er, it wasn’t really me. It was Peggy,’ I said uneasily, shifting the blame.

‘Well, good for Peggy. You girls need some stimulation in your lives. Can’t be running round after your bloody husbands and
children all the time, can you? And think of all the books you’ll read. Great stuff!’

And with that he popped his head back in to greet his brand-new wife, who, perhaps not enjoying entirely the stimulation Dan
had in mind, and with a different sort of fantasy fiction evolving in her head, was at least less susceptible to the irritations
he provided.

Was that such a bad thing, I wondered as I went inside, lifting Archie from his buggy and refusing Clemmie’s demand for a
biscuit before lunch. I took their cottage pie from the
oven and let it cool a moment on the side. If living in one’s own head made one more amenable to others, more accepting of
the real world and the people one lived with, so what? Surely that was OK? Up to a point, I decided, as I scooped out a bit
of pie for Archie and broke it up with a fork to let the steam pour out. The problem came when one lived more in one’s head
than in the real world. It had always been a safe place for me to go, both as a child when Mum had died and later on as my
marriage failed. But if we all moved around in our private worlds, we ended up living with strangers.

I sat a moment, gazing out of the window, remembering Dad and me in the early days after Mum’s death; being so careful, so
polite to each other.

‘I thought we’d give her clothes away to one of those charity shops,’ he’d said one day, coming in from the fields. ‘You know,
Save the Children or something. Too many memories.’

‘Sure. Whatever you think, Daddy.’ And he’d gone off back to the yard. Meanwhile my head had screamed: ‘You mean, someone
else gets to smell my mother on the collar of her suede jacket? The one I sneak out of her wardrobe and inhale daily?’

And then later with Phil:

‘Cycling in Majorca in August,’ he’d say, closing the guide book decisively. ‘We’ll leave the children with your father.’

‘No.
No.
Cornwall. Rock pools,
with
the children,’ my head had raged, too tired to fight. All fought out. I’d heard Phil’s arguments before, every year.

‘When they’re older, Poppy, of course we will,’ he’d say patiently. ‘But sand and nappies don’t really mix, do they? Be reasonable.’