Catherine Alliott - A Rural Affair

‘Um, yes.’ I bit my thumbnail.

‘Enjoy his company? Enjoy spending time with him?’

I thought back to the pub lunch we’d shared: how he’d flipped beer mats to amuse Clemmie. Made me burst out laughing at the King’s Head.

‘Yes, I enjoy his company.’

‘Enjoyed kissing him outside your house the other day?’

I stared. ‘Bog off, Jennie,’ I muttered, blushing.

‘Do you love him?’

‘No. I mean … I don’t know.’

‘Exactly, of course you don’t! And why should you? You’ve only known him a few weeks. But give it a chance, Poppy,’ she urged. ‘You don’t have to decide tomorrow, or next week, or even next year, but how will you know if you don’t at least give it a chance? And if you’re worried about the money thing, just ask him.’

‘Oh, right, like – Luke, are you after my dosh?’

‘No, but you could happen to mention how Angie exaggerates like crazy – which she does – and has told half the village you’re rich as Croesus. Laugh it off.’

Half the village. I thought of Odd Bob propositioning me. Stalking me, even. Saintly Sue telling me she couldn’t compete with me in That Department.

‘Oh, Christ. Thanks, Angie,’ I muttered.

‘He’ll know that’s true, about Angie exaggerating, and you can even say she got it wrong and it couldn’t be further from the truth – he’ll be so confused he won’t know what to believe. Then see if he sticks around. Personally, I bet he will. I’ll bet the money’s got nothing to do with it. He’s a nice guy, Poppy. Don’t write him off entirely.’

‘Really?’ I asked anxiously. ‘You really like him, Jennie?’

‘Yes, I do, but it’s what you think that matters.’

‘But that’s just it, I don’t know!’ I yelped. ‘Don’t know my own mind any more. Not sure I have one as a matter of fact.’

‘Course you do.’ But it wasn’t said with much conviction and I slumped miserably at the table, holding my head theatrically in my hands. I knew she was being extra punchy because she’d made a fool of herself last night and was roaring back from the dog house, but still.

‘When’s Leila due?’ I asked, jerking upright, keen to plunge her back into her own domestic crisis.

‘Leila,’ she spat. ‘Who knows. Dogs are supposed to have a fourteen-week gestation period, but since she’s half devil it could be any time. She’s not fit to be a mother, Poppy. Quite aside from her mental-health issues she’s a serial shagger and that’s not nice, is it? I’d ask the vet to terminate her but the children would never forgive me. And anyway, how d’you stop a She-Devil whelping? She’d find a way to squeeze them out, just to spite me.’

I grinned. Jennie huffed and puffed a lot of hot air, but I knew very well that cometh the hour, cometh the midwife. She’d be up all night, installed in Leila’s whelping box, coaxing her along, holding her paw during contractions, and then be besotted by the litter; never leaving the house, so busy would she be mashing Weetabix and scrambling eggs. In fact there was every possibility she’d keep the lot. A rather satisfactory vision of eight, fully grown Leilas on the end of eight leads, propelling Jennie at speed through the village, sprang to mind.

‘You know, it might be the making of her,’ I mused.

‘Leila? I doubt it. She’ll probably give birth in a nasty wet bush and be off in moments, sniffing for trouser again. Looking for another Peddler to do some brisk fornicating with. Wasn’t that the name of the dog?’

‘Peddler? Oh God, of course. Mark said she’d been seen with him. They might be Peddler’s puppies! Oh, Jennie, I’d really like one if they are.’

‘Would you?’ She looked surprised. Then she brightened. ‘Okeydoke. But there might be some demand, you know.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Despite my own misgivings, Leila is well liked around here. Might be expensive too. But I’ll put you on my list.’

Typical. Really typical. She was back in control again. Imagining herself saying, ‘No, Mrs Fish, I’m not convinced your garden is big enough.’

‘She’s definitely pregnant, is she?’ I warned. ‘That test might not be accurate on a dog.’

‘My thoughts entirely so I rang the vet. He said it’ll be pretty conclusive, the hormones are much the same. And as Dan tastefully pointed out, she’s dugging up a treat.’

‘Right. Bugger. Why isn’t it starting?’ I gazed at my unlit washing machine.

‘Because you’ve put too much in.’

Annoyingly I knew she was right and I stalked to open it and pull out a sheet. It had got caught somehow and I tugged at the clod of linen but it was stuck fast, so that when I pulled really hard, the whole contents of the drum came out in rush, which had me falling on my bottom. At which point the doorbell went.

‘D’you want me to get that?’

‘Please.’

‘And then I’m going to have her spayed,’ Jennie told me decisively as she marched to the front door. ‘That’ll take the wind out of her sails.’

‘They get fat and bad-tempered,’ I warned.

‘Who doesn’t?’ she snorted. ‘Spayed or not.’

I separated a double duvet cover from the herd and stuffed the rest back in, resetting the dial. Away it went.

‘Thank you,’ I heard Jennie say to someone at the door. She came back down the hall. ‘Hey, look at this.’

I turned to see her bearing a bunch of white roses with pretty blue cornflowers tucked in between. She handed them to me. ‘For you, apparently.’

Astonished, I took the paper-wrapped bouquet. Then sat down and opened the note. It was a long time since anyone had sent me flowers. In fact … no. No one at all.

‘They’re from Luke,’ I said slowly, reading. ‘Hope you’re feeling better, lots of love.’

Jennie peered over my shoulder. ‘Oh, what a shitty thing to do,’ she said vehemently. ‘Gets stood up at a moment’s notice and then sends flowers. I ask you.’ She folded her arms.

After a moment I glanced up guiltily. ‘I’ve misjudged him, haven’t I?’

She shrugged. ‘I dunno. It depends on who you last spoke to.’

It was supposed to be a joke but it was a bit sharp and she knew it.

‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘Didn’t mean that. Tell me to mind my own business, Poppy. It’s just … I really want some happiness for you.’ She swooped to give me a quick hug. ‘And thanks for everything yesterday,’ she said gruffly in my ear. ‘I couldn’t do without you, you know.’

I nodded dumbly; touched. But no wiser. As she went to the back door she turned.

‘Oh, you’ll never guess what Angie told me.’

‘What?’

‘About your solicitor chappie, Sam Hetherington. The one in the splendid red hunting coat.’

I felt my heart thump. I already knew.

‘He was once married to Hope Armitage. Years ago, apparently, but still.’

‘Really?’

‘I know, can you believe it? Why on earth did they come here in the first place, one wonders. If he was living here?’

‘Sam wasn’t here when they came,’ I said mechanically. ‘He was still in London. The Hall was rented then. Had tenants.’

‘Yes, but you don’t relocate with your new husband to your ex’s patch unless there’s some pull in that direction, surely? Why are you looking so stricken, Poppy? And when are you ever going to oil this door?’ She was struggling with my back-door latch, as everyone did.

‘Hang on,’ I said suddenly. I got up quickly and went to the dresser. Plucking the invitation, I put it in her hand. All at once everything was as clear as day. I definitely wasn’t going now. ‘Mark at the kennels sent me this. Why don’t you and Dan go? Half the county’s going, you’ll have fun.’