A Rural Affair

‘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?’

‘That Whistles skirt with the kick pleat and my good wool jacket from Hobbs.’

‘Over your grey silk shirt?’

‘I thought a cami.’

She made a face. ‘Bit louche.’

‘With the jacket done up?’

‘Oh, OK.’ She nodded; looked thoughtful. ‘I’m going to wear my Country Casuals dog-tooth number to Toad’s. Elegant, yet restrained. Did you flirt?’

‘What, at Phil’s fantasy funeral? No! Did you?’

‘A bit. Only on the way out. Just a few vulnerable glances through tear-stained lashes, and only with Passion- fuelled Pete.’ This, the local farrier, who shod Angie’s horses and was tall, blond and gorgeous. He caused quite a stir