Catherine Alliott - A Rural Affair

One thing they were all agreed on, though, was that I was in shock.

They agreed again an hour later, when I was still sitting composed and silent and I don’t think particularly white-faced, whilst they’d been bustling around boiling kettles and checking children and going into huddles and sitting and stroking my back muttering, ‘Poor poor Poppy’.

A bit later on, they wondered, tentatively, if I’d like to be alone? Jennie’s children had been heard making merry hell through the wall, which she’d banged on a few times, and now there was an ominous silence. She’d texted frantically, but no response. Angie started muttering in her cut-glass accent about a parish council meeting which, as chairman, she was supposed to be addressing, but of course she didn’t have to, and Peggy had been seen glancing at her watch on account of Corrie . ‘Although Sylvia might have recorded it,’ she murmured into space when no one had moved.

‘Do go,’ I said, suddenly realizing; coming to. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’

Angie and Peggy were already on their feet.

‘Sure?’ said Jennie anxiously, still stroking my back on the sofa.

‘Positive.’

‘You’ll ring if you need me? I’ll come straight round. You can call me at three in the morning if you like.’

‘Thank you.’ I turned to my best friend, her hazel eyes worried in her pretty heart-shaped face. If my eyes were going to fill, it would have been then. I knew she meant it.

She gave my shoulders another squeeze and then they trooped silently out, shutting the door softly behind them. The cheese sandwich Angie had made me curled in front of me on the coffee table, the dusk gathered coldly outside the windows, the fire Peggy had put a match to smouldered in the grate.

I gazed above it to Phil’s cycling medals and trophies on the mantle. Got stiffly to my feet. My legs had gone to sleep beneath me. It was still early, but I wanted it to be the next day. Not the day my husband died. So I went upstairs, checked on the children, who were sleeping soundly, and went to bed.

At precisely three in the morning, having stared, dry-eyed, into the darkness for six hours, I sat bolt upright and seized the phone. Jennie answered immediately. Drowsily, but immediately.

‘The children!’ I wailed. ‘My children won’t have a father!’ Tears fled down my cheeks. ‘They’ll be fatherless – orphans, practically!’

She was there in the time it took to throw a coat over her nightie, fish in her fruit bowl for my spare key, run down her path, up mine, and leg it upstairs. She hugged and rocked me as I sobbed and grieved for my children, gasping and spluttering into her shoulder, choking out incoherent snatches about how their lives would be wrecked, asking her to imagine distorted futures, scarred psychological profiles, looming criminal tendencies, broken homes of their own and dysfunctional children. Eventually, when my body had stopped its painful wracking and my hyperbolic ranting had subsided, Jennie sat back and held me at arm’s length.

‘Except he wasn’t exactly a huge presence in their lives, was he?’ she said quietly. ‘Wasn’t around a lot.’

‘No,’ I admitted with a shaky sob, a corner of my mind rather shocked. ‘But he did love them, Jennie. There’ll still be a vacuum.’

‘Oh, sure, he loved them. He loved Leila too.’

Leila was Jennie’s dog. A crazy Irish terrier who liked nothing more than to accompany Phil on his bike rides, lolloping along for miles beside him.

‘Yes, he loved Leila,’ I conceded, wiping my eyes on the duvet.

‘Spent a lot of time with her.’

I knew where this was going. ‘More than he did with the children?’

She made a non-committal not-for-me-to-say face: cheeks sucked, eyebrows raised.

‘Not everyone embraces fatherhood,’ I reminded her. ‘Particularly when the children are little.’

She looked me in the eye. ‘No, but he almost resented it. Remember when you used to bundle Clemmie in the back of the car in the middle of the night and head for the M25 to stop her crying? So Phil could get some sleep?’

‘He worked so hard. Needed his sleep.’

‘True. But at the weekends, did he ever change a nappy? Push a pram?’

‘Once or twice,’ I said, wishing I could remember him doing any of those things. But Phil was dedicated to his work, his bike and his body in three equal parts; he didn’t like other distractions. We didn’t really see him. It was just me and the children. Which was how it was going to be now. No change. I shut my eyes. Prayed for courage. Wondered if I could tell her. Eventually I opened them and took a deep breath.

‘The thing is, Jennie,’ I said in a low voice, ‘I’d fantasized about it.’

‘About what?’

‘About Phil dying.’

‘Yes.’

‘What d’you mean, yes?’

‘Quite normal.’

‘Is it?’ I was shocked.

‘Oh, yes. How did you do it?’

‘I didn’t!’ I gasped.

‘No, but in your dreams.’

‘Oh. Well. I – I had him being hit by falling masonry, at building sites.’

‘Ah, the old scaffolding ruse. A rogue hammer?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘And I had him bitten by a mosquito in Spain.’

‘Nice,’ she said admiringly. ‘I’ve only ever got to dodgy prawns on holiday.’

‘And then I had him poisoned by bleach when I was getting stains off teacups.’

‘I’ve left the bleach in the teacups. Poured it out later, naturally.’

‘Really?’ I peered anxiously at her in the gloom. ‘You’ve thought about it too?’

‘Of course! Life would be so much simpler without Toad.’ This, her husband of many years, whom I adored and thought the funniest man alive – fall-off-your-bar-stool funny – but of whom she despaired.

‘But, Jennie, I’m lying here thinking: perhaps I thought it so much, I made it happen. You know? Maybe … maybe whatever it is that causes bad luck – a glitch in the solar system, tectonic plates shifting, an elephant stepping on an ant in the Delta – everything that makes stuff happen, did so because I willed it to. Maybe I actually killed him? I mean, how bizarre was his death? It was like one of my very own fantasies – could have been my next one!’

‘Don’t be silly, you haven’t got the imagination. Of course it wasn’t you. Did you beetle off to the airport and strap a lump of piss to a 747?’

‘No, but –’

‘Well, then.’ She paused. ‘Did you pray?’

‘Pray?’

‘Yes, did you get down on your knees and pray to God? Plead for his demise?’

‘Of course not.’ I was startled. I felt my eyes widen in the darkness. ‘Why, have you?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Jennie sniffed. She sat up straight and shook back her dark curls defiantly. ‘At the foot of the bed like Christopher Robin. Eyes tightly shut. Doesn’t mean I’d do it, Poppy. But that time he wrote off two cars in one week, let the bath overflow through the ceiling into the new kitchen, came back pissed from the office party and told Brian Cunningham on the train that his wife was having it off with our builder, then used Jamie’s tracing paper from his geography project, on which he’d laboriously traced the Great Lakes, to wipe his bum, that night I got down on my knees and asked God for deliverance. I did have a nervous moment when he crashed the quad bike a few weeks later, remembering my crash-and-burn plea, but we’re only human, Poppy. We can’t make these things happen. Did you imagine the funeral?’

I stared at her, horrified. ‘Yes,’ I whispered finally.

‘I do that too.’ She drew her knees up chummily. Hugged them to her chest. ‘What did you think you’d wear?’