A Rural Affair (7 page)

‘Poppy, has all this completely knocked the stuffing out of you?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, even the most grief-stricken widow might, in an anxious moment, have wondered whether her chickens were going to be
provided for. Are you going to get dressed today, incidentally?’

I glanced down at my towelling robe. ‘D’you think I should?’

‘I do, as a matter of fact; you didn’t yesterday. Who took Clemmie to school this morning?’

‘Alice’s mum picked her up for me. Has done for a bit.’

‘Right. Good. But … well, brush your teeth at least, won’t you?’ she said awkwardly.

I shrugged. So demanding. And so many questions.

She swallowed. Licked her lips for patience. ‘OK, Pops, back to basics. Money. Where did Phil keep his papers?’

‘In there.’ I pointed vaguely behind me, through the open kitchen door to the sitting room, where a walnut bureau sat under
the bay window.

‘Would you mind if I …?’

‘Be my guest.’

She was in like a rat up a drainpipe. Shimmying out of her coat and tossing it en route on the sofa, she hurried across the
sitting room and spent the next half-hour getting very busy. I watched her flicking through his files, which, typical of Phil,
were organized and methodical, but which
somehow, even though I’d walked across to the desk a few times and stared at it, I hadn’t been able to face opening. I turned
and resumed my contemplation of the tiny back garden, the sheep in the field beyond. All ewes now, grazing peacefully. Were
they happy to see the back of Shameful, I wondered? Or was any man, demanding or otherwise, better than nothing? They looked
pretty content to me, munching away out there.

Behind me I could hear the rustle of papers as Jennie burrowed deeper. I sat on. On the one occasion I did glance around,
it was to see Angie peering through the sitting-room window from the road, perfectly plucked eyebrows raised enquiringly under
her fur hat. Jennie gave her a quick thumbs up. Angie nodded and swept by. Apart from the kitchen clock ticking and the occasional
snuffle of my darling Archie through the baby alarm, the house was silent.

At length she came bustling back, brandishing bits of paper.

‘Right. Well, the good news is, he did appear to have a life insurance policy, but I have no idea what’s in it. He also appears
to have had a solicitor, who I’m sure can tell you more.’

‘Oh, good.’ I tried to raise some enthusiasm.

I looked beyond her. Funny. I’d never noticed that damp patch on the kitchen wall. I might have to put a picture on that.

‘No will – at least, not that I can find – but that’s quite normal. It’s probably lodged with the solicitor.’

‘Ah.’

‘Shall I make you an appointment?’ she said impatiently.

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Yes, I think it is. You’ll have a lot to talk about. Sometime this week?’

‘Couldn’t it wait?’

‘No it couldn’t. I’ll have the kids for you.’

She’d already whipped out her mobile. Punched out a number which she’d gleaned from the letterhead in her hand. Why couldn’t
I make the appointment, I wondered. Because she thought I wouldn’t do it, perhaps. Would I? Hard to say. The feverish adrenalin
which had rendered me almost manic a few weeks ago, arranging the funeral like a whirling dervish, putting a notice welcoming
all comers in the village shop, rushing from one thing to the next – beetling away from my husband’s grave – had left me now.
Something else had moved in. I felt very cold. Very numb. Had done for over a week now. Ten days, to be precise. Ever since
that knock upon the door. It was as if I needed to sit here forever, all day, just to conserve energy. I managed quite well
when the children were around, forced myself to be chirpy, but most evenings, and in the mornings when Archie was asleep,
I sat here, in this chair.

‘Right, well, that’s all organized. Tomorrow at four. OK?’ Jennie went to pocket her mobile, but it rang. ‘Hello …’ She swung
away to hide her face. ‘Yes … yes, I’ve done it,’ she said quietly as if the eagle had landed. ‘Pretty low still, I’m afraid.’

‘Who was that?’ I asked absently.

‘Um, Peggy. Wanted to know if I was, er … going to the shops. Now, shall I put it in your calendar?’

‘If you must.’

Clearly. Within a twinkling she’d flicked over a page muttering something about me being a week behind, and was pencilling
it in, then underlining it for good measure.

‘
OK?’

‘Couldn’t be better.’

‘And I’ve put a shepherd’s pie in the fridge for you. That’s if you’re absolutely sure you won’t come over.’

‘Absolutely sure.’

Jennie asked me over pretty much every night, as did Angie and Peggy. I’d been to Jennie’s a lot in the first few weeks, taken
the baby alarm with me, but recently I was happy with my chair.

‘Although I couldn’t help noticing there was one in there already.’

‘One what?’

‘Shepherd’s pie.’

Ah. She’d put it there at the weekend. And I’d forgotten to give it to the children.

I sighed. ‘I like crackers, Jennie. So does Clemmie. But thanks. I appreciate it, really I do.’

She gave me that hassled, worried look I’d seen a lot lately. I pulled my dressing gown around me and tucked a lank piece
of hair behind my ear. I did hope she was all right. Had Dan been stopped for speeding again? He’d only just got his licence
back. I must remember to ask her. To enquire. But somehow, dredging up words about anything these days was hard. Where did
they come from, all those words? I’d see women gossiping in the street – what about? Such an effort. Like washing my hair.
Or going to the village shop. God, it was miles, wasn’t it? I’d forgotten we lived so far away. Lucky Jennie, who was just
that bit closer. Five yards at least.

‘And I thought I’d walk up to the nursery with you later.’

‘You don’t have any children at the nursery.’

Jennie’s children were older: Jamie, twelve, and Hannah,
seven, were both at the local school, which didn’t chuck out until three-thirty.

‘I know, but Leila could do with the exercise. And I daren’t go back into the forest with her.’

Leila had been known to chase the deer up there, an offence which carried a fifty-pound penalty from the deer warden, who
had threatened to shoot to kill next time. ‘Can I watch?’ had been Jennie’s riposte. I’d been with Jennie on this last occasion,
when, as usual, she’d foolishly let the dog off the lead, then, as usual, spent the next half-hour crashing through undergrowth
hissing, ‘Leila! Leila, you bitch, come here!’ Not too loud, you understand, so as not to alert the warden. We’d crashed about
some more, when suddenly, in the distance, there’d been an ominous rumble of thundering hooves. To get the full Serengeti
effect you have to imagine the stampeding does, the whites of their eyes, the clouds of dust as we flattened ourselves against
a tree, pulling Archie’s pushchair in sharpish, and then, in their wake, an Irish terrier, shooting us a delighted look, tongue
lolling, galloping joyously. Obviously the warden was crashing through the bracken moments later in his Land Rover, puce in
the face with rage, and obviously Jennie was given a fine on the spot and sensibly hadn’t been back. But still, a walk to
the nursery, two minutes up the hill, hardly constituted exercise for our Leila. And don’t be deceived by the terrier word,
incidentally. With Irish before it, it’s more like a small horse.

I sighed. ‘OK,’ I said obediently, as I tended to these days.

‘And then, later on, I thought you might like to come to choir practice with me.’

‘Really? Why?’ I felt alarmed.

‘Because we’re singing the Gloria tonight, and you’ll enjoy that.’

‘But I don’t sing.’

‘Anyone can sing. And anyway, I’ve stood next to you in church and you’ve got perfect pitch. Frankie’s going to babysit for
you.’

‘Right,’ I said flatly. Sing. I couldn’t remember how to talk.

Sure enough, as I set off with Archie an hour or so later, Jennie appeared miraculously from her front door with a straining
Leila – I’d swear Peggy’s curtain twitched opposite – and we set off up the hill. We collected Clemmie, and walked back down
the hill, all of which took about fifteen minutes, a little longer than usual as Jennie had a furtive word with Miss Hawkins,
but still not enough for Leila, who needed a good hour.

As Jennie said goodbye, she bent down to talk to Clemmie.

‘That’s a pretty dress, Clem.’

‘I know. It’s got a rabbit on the front.’

‘It has. And a bit of gravy. You were wearing it yesterday, weren’t you, darling?’

‘Yes, and every day. Six. I’ve counted. Mummy said I could.’

‘Good, good.’ She straightened up. Looked anxious again. I must remember to ask about Dan.

‘Seven o’clock, then?’

‘Hm?’

‘Choir practice. I’ll send Frankie round, but I’ll have to meet you there because I need to take Jamie to scouts.’

‘Righto.’

Submissive. Punch bag. Best way.

The children and I had just about finished our tea when Frankie appeared sometime later. She was a sulky, skinny girl with
a washed-out face, not helped by heavy, dark eye make-up,
and over-long, bleached blonde hair. She was at the local comp where everyone tended to look like that, but where had that
sensitive, rather pretty eight-year-old gone, I wondered, as she sat in a heap at the kitchen table, picking gloomily at her
black nail varnish. Archie grinned and banged the table enthusiastically. He responded well to her sulky charms.

‘Hi, Arch.’ She took his soggy offering of a masticated biscuit and his eyes widened delightedly. ‘Crackers and lemonade,
yum. We’re never allowed that for tea.’

The children beamed proudly.

‘Yesterday we had a Hula Hoop sandwich,’ Clemmie informed her grandly.

‘Good for you, Clem. Why bother with the old five a day, eh?’ She turned to me. ‘Jennie says you’re going to choir practice
with her. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? You’ll be doing the church flowers with her next.’

‘Your mum’s very busy, Frankie,’ I told her. ‘And someone’s got to do it.’

‘Why?’ she said belligerently. ‘No one would notice if there weren’t any flowers in church, would they?’

‘Some people would.’

‘People like Jennie. So she does it for herself, in fact.’

I could see she was pleased with that. Was probably storing it away to deploy on her stepmum later, when Jennie came home,
tired. Normally I’d defend her, tell Frankie if everyone thought like that there wouldn’t be any community in the village,
but somehow I couldn’t be bothered. Couldn’t raise the energy.

‘It’s like dusting,’ she was saying. ‘She’s got this thing, right, that you don’t do it any more, don’t hoover either, but
what does it matter? So what if the dust builds up? Who was it said it gets to a certain level and doesn’t get any thicker?’

‘Quentin Crisp,’ I said distantly. Dust? Why were we talking about dust? Oh, as in ashes to ashes.

‘You see?’ she said admiringly. ‘You know things like that. Cos you read, which is more than Jennie does. Who was he, anyway?’

‘The last of the stately homos. At least that’s what he called himself. D’you want a cracker, Frankie?’

‘No, you’re all right. You’d better go, though. She’ll get stressy if you don’t turn up. D’you want to brush your hair?’

‘No, thanks. Do you?’

‘Not really. Shall I do Clemmie’s?’

‘Sure.’

My daughter slipped down shyly from the table and ran off to get her Barbie hairbrush. Such was her admiration of Frankie,
she could hardly speak for the first five minutes of her visit. I got heavily to my feet and went to pluck my coat from the
back of the door.

‘School breaks up soon,’ Frankie said abruptly, apropos of nothing. ‘Half-term. Can’t wait.’

‘So it does,’ I agreed. Ages away, actually; but for a sixteen-year-old it was like a drink in the desert. A reprieve from
the daily grind winking away in the distance: lie-ins in the mornings, night life in the evenings. Never quite the reality,
obviously: lashings of rain and endless boredom with the odd gnomic exchange with an equally bored mate in McDonald’s, but
the idea was good. Like most ideas. Marriage. Children. In fact wasn’t most of the joy in life derived from the planning,
the theory? I must remember that. Plan more, do less.

‘So what are you going to do with yourself this holiday?’ I forced myself to say conversationally. Never let it be said I
couldn’t string two words together, something I’m sure
I heard Yvonne in the shop say about me to Mrs Pritchard, as I left her premises earlier today with my pint of milk.

‘I thought I might get pregnant.’

I was shrugging my coat on at the door, facing away from her. I turned.

‘Why not? Mum did it.’

‘Jennie didn’t –’

‘No, my mum. She was sixteen.’

‘Oh.’

We stared at one another. She gave a hint of a smile. ‘You’re not that far gone, are you? Not completely mental.’

Ah. Shock tactics. ‘Nice one, Frankie.’

‘Still, I might, though,’ she said defensively.

‘Got anyone in mind?’

‘No,’ she said sulkily, deflated in an instant, alive to the poverty of her plan. I wished I hadn’t asked. ‘There’s Jason
Crowley at school, but he’d never shack up with me. Just want a quick shag. That’s the whole point,’ she said, dark eyes flashing.

‘What, a quick shag?’

‘No, to shack up, get out of there.’ She jerked her head next door. ‘Or there’s Mr Hennessy, my biology teacher; he’s really
fit, but he’s got a wife and kids which isn’t ideal, is it?’

‘Not … ideal.’ Where was I going? I stared at the door. Oh, yes, church.

‘Single mothers get priority with council flats, though,’ she told me. ‘You jump the queue.’

I sighed. ‘Frankie …’

‘Anyway, he doesn’t fancy me. Mr Denis does – physics – but he’s properly weird; he fancies everyone. Or I suppose I could
nick your new intended? Come along to choir practice.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

She got to her feet as Clemmie came back with her brush and a mirror from my dressing table, struggling under the weight.