A Rural Affair (28 page)

Heroically, Jennie sat on her hands at the
moment critique
as the vicar asked the audience. I watched as Simon slipped a ring on her finger and gazed tenderly into her eyes. She could
have had that look, that ring, four years ago if it hadn’t been for Phil. Unbelievable. The mind didn’t so much boggle as
bulge pneumatically. I cast around desperately for clues.

They’d worked together, of course, which traditionally makes for a heady environment, sexual tension and all that – although
Lord knows why, with bright lights, first-thing-in-the-morning faces and unattractive gobbling of sandwiches at desks. I can’t
imagine it did much for Phil. But then he was her boss, which was well documented. Yes, that must have been it: the masterful
way he called her into his office to discuss new business, poking his nasal hair back with his little finger; that would have
got the juices flowing. Or the attractive way he cleared his throat at least twice before he spoke, and then the slow, soft,
ultra-patronizing tones he employed, implying he had to go at this speed and volume because the person on the receiving end
was not only a moron, but capable of reacting violently if he used anything like a normal tone. It all came back in a horrific
rush. The way he’d patiently take a pan off the hob and throw the water away, quietly explaining that potatoes went into cold
water, not hot. How many times did he have to tell me? The way he showed me how to clean the work surfaces in the kitchen,
calling it Surface Training. The way, when he came home from work, he surreptitiously ran his finger along the windowsill,
still in his overcoat, checking for dust. The way, in the early days, I’d bellowed and roared, fists tight with rage, and
yes, even thrown a plate. And then later, when the children were around, just buttoned it. Kept the house impeccable and got
on with it. Lived life in my head; a whole different scenario, where I was married to someone else, someone lovely. Knowing,
in a tiny place in my heart, as Jennie had so succinctly pointed out when he’d died, that one day I’d leave him.

Why hadn’t I lived with him before I got married? OK, I had for a few months but it should have been a few years! No child
of mine, I decided vehemently, eyes blazing, would ever go up that aisle, stand at that altar, under the eyes of God, without
having lived in sin first.

Emma was slipping her own ring on Simon’s finger now. I looked at her in disbelief. I’d been tied to Phil. Had children by
him. Without a great deal of unpleasantness to extract myself, I was lumbered with him. But this girl – I watched as she and
Simon knelt together, bowing their heads to be blessed by the vicar – this girl had chosen to delay her life by four years
on account of him.
What had I missed?

The Gloria was next, whilst the bride and groom disappeared to the vestry to sign the register. Jennie and I belted it out
furiously, one or two heads turning to marvel at our volume. Then the happy couple returned and there was another hymn: ‘ransomed,
healed, restored, for … ’ No. I couldn’t
sing the last bit. Then a word from our vicar, Mike: his address.

I can only assume Mike had been at the sherry again, or had had a row with his wife, Veronica, seated in her usual pew, because
even by his standards it was inappropriate. Mike, bearded, Welsh and thoroughly right-on, thought he’d been put on this earth
to deliver challenging sermons. He felt it his duty. We, on the other hand, felt it his duty to give comforting soporific
ones that we could doze off to, mentally ticking our lists of Things to Do. But Mike believed he was edgy. His theme today
was love and the different forms it took. Reasonably innocuous, one might think. And so indeed it started: platonic love,
then brotherly love, then paternal, and then erotic – ‘about which I know
absolutely nothing
!’ he spat venomously, glaring at his wife. Naturally the entire congregation tried not to look at Veronica, who, if she had
a spasm at being outmanoeuvred, mastered it admirably, sitting calmly, impassive, while ‘No, Mike, for the last time, I am
not
doing that!’ rang clearly in her neighbours’ heads.

Another hymn, then Luke got very busy with a Mozart canon, and then, finally, the service was over. As the bride and groom
swept back down the aisle to triumphant chords, Jennie and I, pausing only to throw our cassocks over our heads and leave
them in a heap in the vestry, marched straight out of the back door. We paused neither to congratulate nor to throw confetti,
but most certainly to give vent to our feelings.

‘Bitch!’

‘Slut!’

‘I
cannot
believe it,’ I seethed as we hustled down the little side path together, avoiding the main entrance. Handbags were clutched
fiercely to chests.

‘And how could she get married here!’ squealed Jennie. ‘In your church, where you got married, and where you’ve just buried
your husband – her lover!’

‘Quite!’ I agreed, stopping still a moment as the impact of this hit me. I swung around. ‘She’s going to have to walk straight
past him,’ I breathed. ‘He’s right next to the path.’

We watched as the bridal procession did indeed make its way out of the main door and past Phil’s very prominent, very fresh
mound of earth. Emma didn’t give it a second look.

‘That is one very shrewd operator,’ observed Jennie, narrowing her eyes.

‘Cool as a cucumber,’ I agreed, marvelling at the magnitude of her gall.

‘And poor Simon has no idea what he’s taking on. What a piece of work he’s just married.’

‘Will you tell him?’ I asked, as we turned and hurried away. ‘I mean, that it was my husband whose death he was effectively
waiting for?’

Jennie gave it some thought. ‘No.’ she said finally. ‘I won’t be speaking to Simon again. Not now, not after who he’s married.
I had hoped we might stay friends but I doubt our paths will ever cross. I’m sure he won’t come to the book club now. Odd,
though, isn’t it?’ She wrinkled her brow as she looked into the distance. ‘He clearly thinks he knows her inside out. She
lived next door, you know; they grew up together. Her father was their gardener. They lived in the grounds, in the cottage.’

‘Oh … right.’ I remembered sitting in my car outside Meadow Bank Cottage, in the grounds of Meadow Bank House. ‘So presumably
they’ll live in the big house soon, when Simon inherits it. Didn’t you say his father had died?’

‘Yes, and the mother wants to move out because she thinks it’s too big for her.’

‘Perfect timing, then, once again, from Miss Harding,’ I said grimly in disbelief.

‘Exactly,’ said Jennie as we reached the gate. ‘Well, good luck to them,’ she went on acidly. ‘You know what they say: if
you marry money you pay for it. And she clearly
has
married him for that. If she loved him she’d have married him years ago.’ She shuddered. ‘Poor Simon. It’s making my own
marriage look increasingly less flawed, I must say. Comparatively speaking, of course. Dear old Dan,’ she said almost fondly.
‘At least I didn’t marry him for his money. I’d have been sorely disappointed if I had. Oh, hello. Talk of the devil.’

We were in the lane now, which led in one direction to the gallops where the race horses trained, and in the other, up the
hill to Wessington, where no doubt the reception was being held – presumably not at the bride’s house but in the zonking great
grounds of the groom’s, next door. Dan was standing in the middle of the road beside an old Morgan, one of his many disastrous
cars. The bonnet was up, steam was billowing, and Dan was scratching his head.

‘Oh, what a surprise. He’s broken down,’ observed Jennie, but she didn’t say it with quite the vehemence she was capable of.
‘And there I was, thinking he’d come to whisk me away. My knight in shining armour.’

‘Bit of a problem with the radiator valve!’ Dan called to us cheerily over the raised bonnet, as clouds of steam threatened
to envelop him. One or two cars had already stopped behind him in the lane.

‘Is there, darling? Never mind,’ Jennie cooed back. ‘I’m sure you’ll fix it.’ She gave me a grin. ‘It’s my new approach.
It’s called Not My Problem. Can’t think why I hadn’t thought of it before.’ And off she swept, tossing her husband a dazzling
smile, in the manner of a woman who was off to open a bottle of rosé.

It was, however, a problem for the wedding party. Church Lane was narrow, and with Dan blocking it there was no way the bottle-green
vintage car, wide and Chitty-chitty-bang-bang in style, could get past. The happy couple had already climbed into the back,
behind the elderly chauffeur, ready for the off. They looked increasingly unhappy as Dan failed to budge.

‘Can’t you move that thing?’ Simon stood up commandingly in the back. He and his bride were being showered by just a little
too much confetti. One or two of the village boys were picking it up off the road, thinking it a huge lark.

‘Stop that!’ Emma snapped at them as a fair amount of gravel came with it.

‘Sorry, old boy. Seems to be caput.’ Dan grinned back pleasantly.

‘Well, push it, can’t you?’

Dan shrugged and looked away up the hill to Wessington. Very much uphill, so no, he couldn’t, not on his own.

With a sigh, Simon vaulted smartly out of the back of the car. Following suit, one or two of the male wedding guests surged
to help: young men in morning coats, testosterone-fuelled, keen to show off to their girlfriends, then get to the champagne.
Together they made a big show of taking off their jackets and handing them to the girls, rolling up their sleeves while Dan
got in the driving seat of the Morgan amid much laughter. I, however, found my legs taking me, not across the road to my own
house and my own bottle of rosé, but towards the lychgate at the bottom of the church path, where the vintage car was parked.

Emma’s eyes on the debacle ahead were full of irritation. She sat on the red-leather seat gripping her bouquet, tight-lipped.
This was a girl who got what she wanted all right, I thought as I approached. A girl with a huge sense of entitlement. She
wouldn’t see the funny side of this, her wedding car held up by a clapped-out old banger. Wouldn’t throw her head back and
roar with laughter at her new husband pushing it up the road, saying it would be one to tell the children. And neither would
Phil, it occurred to me abruptly. He’d have been very cross. As she was. How alike they were, I realized; how similar. They’d
have got on like a house on fire. My heart suddenly lurched for Simon, laughing with his mates as he pushed Dan up the road
in his Morgan. Love surely was blind, and particularly when it became fuelled by the lack of it. Became infatuation. Which
wasn’t the same thing at all. I was beside the vintage car now, where Emma sat alone, glaring.

‘Congratulations,’ I said quietly.

Her head turned and her eyes came to rest on me. They took a moment. Then her face blanched. She looked stunned.

I smiled. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Not the one back there in the churchyard, is it?’ I jerked my head.

She inhaled, sharply, between barely parted lips.

‘I’ve just been at your wedding,’ I said. ‘Singing for you, in the choir. I live here, remember? It’s my church. My village.
Lovely service. Wonder if Phil enjoyed it?’

She glanced around quickly, looking for her groom, for moral support. Her eyes were panicky. And Simon was coming back, but
slowly, brushing his hands on his trousers, stopping to share a joke with his ushers. She was on her own.

‘And don’t think you’ll get a penny out of me,’ I said carefully. ‘Because you won’t. Not one penny. You’ve got a flaming
nerve, Miss Harding. Or should I say, Mrs Devereux.’

I turned and walked away, towards home, towards my well-earned drink. I felt just a little taller and a little light-headed
too. It isn’t often you hope to spoil a bride’s day, I thought as I crossed the road to my cottage, but I sincerely hoped
I’d wrecked that one.

As I opened my front gate it occurred to me that I could have spoiled it further for her. I could have had a coughing fit
in the choir, made myself known, so that those sharp little eyes would have sought me out, irritated, wondering who was making
such a racket. I could have done it during her vows. Looked her coldly in the eye, had the satisfaction of seeing her blanch
at the altar, rock back beside her new husband. Yes, that would have been sweet. But would it? Might it not have left a nasty
taste in my mouth? I gave a wry smile. It seemed I could spoil her day but not entirely ruin it, even though she’d had no
qualms about ruining my life.

Had she, though? Ruined my life? Apart from the claim she was making now, which was decidedly unwelcome, surely I’d have welcomed
her, had I known of her existence. Surely, if I’d caught them in flagrante in their love nest, or at the office, say, when
on a hunch I’d stormed to London, found them locked in a passionate embrace in a stationery cupboard, surely, after the initial
shock, I’d have stood back, waved a genial hand and said, ‘How marvellous! Do carry on. Don’t mind me. Have him!’ Slammed
the stationery-cupboard door shut.

I went up the cobbled path, absently deadheading a faded old rose on the way. It dawned on me that my life could have been
very different if only I’d discovered them earlier, when it first started, when I was pregnant with Clemmie. I’d have been
frightened, sure, to be betrayed and pregnant, but calm
and still within a twinkling. So. A single mother. Just me and my baby. Yes, I could have done that. I would have gone to
Dad’s for a bit, been quite happy. But then I wouldn’t have had Archie. I sighed. If if, maybe maybe, perhaps perhaps. So
many imponderables. Maybe I just shouldn’t have married the wretched man in the first place?

Archie and Clemmie were clamouring for my attention when I got inside, and Peggy, who’d held the fort, was full of praise
for their achievements.

‘Archie called me Piggy and then Clemmie drew me with a snout – do look.’ She flourished a wax-crayon picture. ‘Quite adorable.
Don’t you love the pixie boots she’s put on my trotters? And the beads around my fat neck?’