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Catherine Alliott: A Rural Affair

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Catherine Alliott A Rural Affair

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It was a shock, therefore, to open the door to the policeman.

‘Mrs Shilling? May I have a word?’

Whilst he’d been cycling along the Dunstable Downs, the ridge of hills above our house, an easyJet plane returning from Lanzarote had simultaneously prepared for its descent at Luton. Dropping from freezing high altitude into warmer air, it had relieved itself: had fall-out. A chunk of ice, eighteen inches in diameter, had broken off from the fuselage and, five thousand feet below, found Phil, pedalling furiously. As my husband strove to render his body a temple, God, it seemed, had had other ideas.

I remember struggling to comprehend this; remember gaping at the policeman as he perched opposite me on my sofa, twisting his hat in his hands.

‘A piece of ice? From where exactly?’

‘From the undercarriage.’ He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘From the toilet, as a matter of fact.’

‘The toilet?’

‘Yes. Blue Ice is how it’s known. Being as how it’s mixed with detergent.’

‘What is?’

‘The urine.’

I stared. Not in a million years could I have dreamed this up. Fantasized about this in Sainsbury’s. Phil had been killed by a piece of piss. A hefty, frozen block of pee, travelling at spectacular speed and velocity – and which, it later transpired, hadn’t actually claimed him as he’d been cycling but, as bad luck would have it, when he’d stopped at a stile, taken his helmet off to scratch his head and wonder how to get the bike over. A freak accident, but not the first of its kind, the coroner would later inform me sympathetically over his bifocals as I sat at the back of his court in a navy-blue suit, hands clenched. ‘Thirty-five similar instances in the last year alone.’

‘Although in the last forty years, only five fatalities,’ the man from the Civil Aviation Authority had added stiffly. Six, then, with Phil.

‘Right. Thank you so much. I mean – for telling me.’ This, to the policeman in the here and now, in my sitting room. I stood up shakily.

The officer got to his feet, uncertain. He spread his hands helplessly.

‘Do you … want to see him?’

My mind reeled. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the hospital morgue.’

I caught my breath. Oh, God. On a trolley. In a bag. ‘No,’ I gasped instinctively.

‘No, not everyone does.’ He hesitated, unwilling to leave so soon. ‘Well, is there … anyone you’d like to contact? Have with you?’

‘No, no one. I mean, there is. Are. Plenty. But – not now. I’ll be fine, really.’

‘Your mother, perhaps?’

‘No, she’s dead.’

He looked shocked. So many dead.

‘Really, I’ll be fine.’ I was helping him, now. But he was only young.

‘And the children?’

‘Yes, I’ll pick them up from school.’

And pick them up I had. Well, only Clemmie. Archie was asleep in his cot upstairs, and I’d taken him with me and driven very slowly, because I was pretty sure I was in shock. I was a quiet mother at the gates, but not a distraught one, so Clemmie didn’t notice anything, and then I’d driven back and given them tea. Chicken nuggets, I remember, which I only serve in extremis. At the table Clemmie had told me about Miss Perkins, Mummy, who’s an assassin. ‘Assistant?’ Yes, and got a moustache. And later I’d bathed them and put them to bed.

And then I’d walked around the house on that chilly, blustery evening, clutching the tops of my arms, gazing out of the window at the shivering late roses, the clouds rushing through the dark blue sky, flashes of sunshine casting long shadows on the lawn, waiting, waiting for something to happen. For the sluice gate to open. For my hand to clap my mouth as I gasped, ‘Oh, God!’ and fell, like Phil must have fallen, I told myself looking for a trigger, in a terrible heap to the ground. I tried to imagine him lying in the bracken, his bike a tangled mess, his face broken, shattered. Nothing. So I walked round the house some more, the house we’d lived in together for several years – happy years, I told myself sternly. This lovely cottage, in this beautiful village, which we’d stretched ourselves to afford, had done up meticulously, sourcing terracotta tiles from Italy, Victorian light switches from Somerset, cast-iron door handles from Wales, and from whence Phil had commuted into London every day, toiling in on a packed train, to bring back the wherewithal to raise our children. A selfless, dedicated man. I waited. Nothing.

Shock. Definitely shock. I’d read about it.

On an impulse, I hastened to our wedding album; found it tucked away amongst the books by the CD player. My eyes flickered guiltily over Phil’s Neil Diamond CDs, his Glen Campbell collection, which I’d never have to listen to again. I pulled the leather tome onto my lap. Tissue paper fluttered and a bit of confetti fell out. There I was on Dad’s arm, coming up the church path in a mistake of a dress: leg-of-mutton sleeves, the real things happily hidden away under shot silk. Dad looked a bit worse for wear already, perhaps under the influence of a pre-match tincture. Then me and Phil coming out of church, but Phil had his eyes shut, so that didn’t help, and neither did the grey morning coat he’d hired from Moss Bros, a totally different colour to the rest of the male congregation’s, much paler, and which he’d accessorized with a red carnation, whilst his ushers, in black, had favoured discreet white rosebuds. I flipped the page quickly. Me and Phil cutting the cake – shame about the pink icing, but then his mother had made it. And next – oh, no. I shut the book hurriedly, aware that the following shot might be of me and Phil going away. Not in a glamorous vintage car, or even a pony and trap, but, as a surprise from Phil, a tandem: a bicycle made for two. So that accompanied by shouts of ‘Go on, Poppy, get your leg over!’ and other hilarious quips, I had. And split the pink pencil skirt I’d bought for the occasion from top to bottom, and then had to cycle behind my new husband the half mile from the country club to here, white pants flashing, rictus grin on my face, waved off uproariously by our closest friends, and most of the village.

It was getting chilly, but I didn’t seem able to put a match to the fire, the one Phil, who got up at six, laid punctiliously every morning with firelighter, kindling, logs and a drop of coal, for the evening. I stared at the log on top. For me, I told myself. All for me. And my children. A caring man.

Perhaps I should tell someone? The moment you vocalized these things they became much more real. Tears would flow, it was well documented. The moment I picked up the phone and said, ‘Hi, Dad, look, Phil’s dead,’ that would be it. Phil wasn’t my father’s dream son-in-law but he’d nevertheless be shocked and horrified. Drop everything – probably a horse’s reins – and beetle down from Flampton in his ropy old pick-up to be at my side, still in his breeches and flat cap. But he wouldn’t cry. He’d sit beside me on the goose-poo sofa and take my hand and not know what to say. And together, dry-eyed, we’d stare glumly at the carpet. I picked up the phone. Punched out a number.

‘Jennie?’

‘Oh, hi, Poppy. Hang on, I’ll just take the sausages off. Jamie, stop it. No, you cannot have it in front of the telly, come and sit down – now!’ Then back to me. ‘Sorry. Nightmare day. Frankie had a party here last night and naturally one or two teenagers were sick. I cleared up most of the puke but at two a.m. I found another on the landing and just bloody hoovered it. Error. Mrs B beat me to the hoover this morning and now the entire house is giving off the most spectacular pong. Can’t think why Glade haven’t used it as an air freshener.’

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