A Rural Affair

Luke and I – a paint brush apiece, me in dungarees and two plaits – pausing to kiss occasionally, or playfully blob paint on each other’s noses. The children running barefoot around an olive grove. Goats. Baby ones. And let’s face it, being an enigma was all very well, but it might get pretty lonely. I wouldn’t have much idea how to run a chocolate shop, either. I peeled off my filthy clothes and put a weary toe in the bath.

Later that evening, when I was putting the children to bed, the telephone rang. The answering machine was on so I carried on with their story even though my heart was beating fast. I’d rather unwisely chosen an Aesop fable about a boy who kills a calf, doesn’t own up, and gets chased out of town; so when I came downstairs I didn’t just have a racing heart, but was manically humming a well-known tune from a popular Julie Andrews musical, one that was getting a lot of airing. As I passed the machine on the dresser, with the red light flashing, I pressed play.

‘Oh, Poppy, it’s Sam here.’

The empty bottle of SMA milk slipped clean out of my hand and bounced on the terracotta tiles. My hand froze, still in claw-like attitude.

‘Um, the thing is, something’s come to light that I’d like to talk to you about. In private, if you don’t mind.’ He sounded uncomfortable. ‘In fact it might even be an idea if you came into my office. Say first thing tomorrow? At nine o’clock?’ There was a pause. ‘If I don’t hear, I’ll assume that’s fine.’ He finished more grimly.

I tottered into the sitting room holding on to the furniture. Made for the sofa and flopped, prone and face down. Then I covered my head with a cushion and moaned low.

23

The following morning, after a terrible dream in which I was chased down the street in my bra and pants by Mary Granger shouting: ‘You beastly, beastly woman!’ I dressed appropriately and headed into town. Black shirt, black jacket, black suede boots. Not exactly in mourning – although the last time I’d worn this ensemble, I realized, glancing down in the car, had indeed been to my husband’s funeral – but sombre, subfusc: serious. I’d started the day in a more defiant I’m-off-to-Tuscany-with-my-lover kit – pink trousers, boho shirt, high wedges – but lost my nerve halfway down the path and hurried back to change.

Archie was with me too. I could have left him with Jennie – should have done really, he was grotty if he didn’t have his morning sleep – but somehow I wanted the protection he afforded, I realized rather guiltily. You couldn’t hit a woman with a baby, surely? Not that Sam would hit, but verbally abuse? I recalled his grim face, the one beneath the riding hat, mobile clamped to ear, high up on his horse, not the smiley crinkly one of the solicitor’s office, and trembled. Archie, behind me in his car seat, blinked sleepily in the rear-view mirror. I wondered if I should carry him in, wrapped in a shawl? Really go for the sympathy vote? The one he was sucking now, his comfort blanket, would do. I could swaddle him in it and clutch him to my breast like a foundling, take his shoes and socks off too, so bare toes peeked out. He was quite big for that, though; might wake up and wriggle violently, exposing jeans and a hoody. Not quite the look I was going for.

Parking in Waitrose, I lifted my by-now-sleeping son into his pushchair and hurtled down the high street. Three minutes to nine. But … why was I hurtling? In such a rush? Maybe I hadn’t been able to get a parking space? Maybe Waitrose had been full? Unlikely, so early in the morning, but – OK, maybe – maybe I hadn’t got his message? Hadn’t actually played back the tape? Or hadn’t put a new tape in, had been meaning to, for weeks? These, and other shallow yet plausible excuses spooled around in my head as I neared Sam’s building. Then more punchy ones. Why on earth should I just pitch up because I’d been summoned? And why at his convenience, why not mine? Friday week would suit me much better. Next month, even. Because I was the accused, that’s why, I thought, swallowing. Because this was the way the justice system worked: one attended court. The judge didn’t come to yours, settle down in your front room with a cup of tea, did he?

I was climbing the stairs now, Archie asleep in my arms, the pushchair collapsed and hanging from my wrist. I reassembled it at the top and put Archie back in, but not as carefully as I might. With a fair amount of jostling so that … he might wake up? Have a tantrum and go shouty-crackers, as he often did when roused from a deep sleep, so that we could surely go home? I nudged him again. No of course I didn’t pinch him, but oh, wake up, Archie. Scream.

‘What a sweet baby,’ someone murmured over my left shoulder.

I jumped. It was the receptionist, Janice, who’d appeared out of the Ladies at the top of the stairs, pink lipstick reapplied.

‘Oh. Thank you.’

‘It’s Mrs Shilling, isn’t it?’

‘Er, well …’ I eyed the stairs longingly.

‘Nine o’clock with Sam? He’s in there, waiting for you.’ She beamed at Archie. ‘Would you like to leave him with