She arrived at Scott’s house to find chaos. It was just gone six in the evening, and she wished she’d got there sooner. Washing spread from utility to kitchen, the sink was piled with crockery, cutlery slid from the draining board and last night’s supper was encrusted on pans on the stove. In amongst it all was Freddy, doing his homework.
“Where’s your dad?” Ros had let herself in the back door. No one seemed to lock their houses round there.
Freddy shrugged. Ros put the shopping down and took off her coat. She hung it on the coat stand in the hall.
“I’m here.” A hammering of feet, Scott’s voice, and then Scott. “Sorry, Ros. A bit behind. Barbara was supposed to come this afternoon.” He looked hopelessly at the mess.
“Not a problem, Scott. You go and have a nice time. Fred and I will manage.”
“I’ll clean up later.”
“Don’t you worry about it,” said Ros.
“Freddy,” said Freddy.
Scott kissed his son’s head. “He doesn’t like anyone calling him Fred except me and his mam.”
“Freddy it is.” She smiled at the blond boy at the table, green eyes like his dad.
“You know where everything is? Fred. Be good. He has to finish his homework before Nintendo.” Scott searched for his jacket and found it beneath her coat. “I’ll be back by nine? That okay? Thanks so much. You’re an angel.”
“My pleasure.” She leant against the sink. When she heard his car driving away, she started on the washing-up.
It was true, that in the early days of being a wife she’d had this feeling, and that within less than a year that feeling had turned to hate. It was true that she’d loved being a wife once or had felt the accoutrements to love that had made, in the opening gambit of marriage, housekeeping a pleasure not a chore. There was something satisfying about it, she thought now, moving about Scott’s kitchen, the trails of him everywhere.
She put Freddy’s supper in the oven and started on the laundry.
“Can I go on Nintendo?”
“Have you finished?” She switched on a whitewash and ran a cloth over the counter above the machine, knocking grains of Surf onto the linoleum floor.
Freddy nodded.
“Off you go, then. Dinner in half an hour.”
She smoked a cigarette, leaning in the open doorway to the garden, her coat over her shoulders. So this was Tessa’s life. It didn’t seem so bad.
*
Scott was only half an hour later than he’d said he’d be. It had given her the chance to light the fire and put on another wash.
He came clattering in with a blast of night air, smelling of the pub. “Sorry. Got waylaid.”
Ros had a dishcloth over her shoulder. She dried her hands on it and hung it on the Aga. The kitchen sparkled; the draining board shone, the sink was empty, the surfaces wiped, the floor swept clean while from the utility room came the soothing rumble of the washing machine. Ros checked the oven, shook the carrots, and got butter out of the fridge. “I thought you might be hungry.” She put his supper down in front of him. “Will you have a glass of wine?” She sounded like him, that Irish arrangement of sentences that made everything soft. At LAMDA they’d called her the lyrebird.
“What about you?”
“I ate earlier.” She’d eaten Freddy’s leftovers. She put on her coat.
“Where are you going?” He dug into his chicken. Garlic butter burst onto the plate.
“I thought I’d leave you in peace.”
“Don’t be stupid, Ros.” He pushed the corkscrew toward her that she’d left on the table. She put down her bag. She’d bought the bottle at Waitrose; she’d guessed South African red.
“Did Barbara turn up?”
“She rang. I hope you don’t mind, I answered it. She said something about her veins.”
“You didn’t do all this yourself now did you, Ros?”
“No, the fairies did it. Of course I did. It was no bother. We don’t want our Mrs. Bradman collapsing on us.” She was going to say as well but stopped herself.
“I’m not sure we’d have been any worse. Brian said he’d half a mind to put her in a barrow and wheel her about the stage. Might get her moving.” He’d demolished his chicken and chips in the time it had taken Ros to take off her coat, open the bottle and pour two glasses; only a few carrots remained on his plate. He wiped them through the last of the garlic butter. “Fuck me, that was good. Didn’t know I was so hungry. You can come round and cook anytime.” He turned his chair out from the table and crossed his legs. He still had his work boots on.
“You know, I’m really happy to, Scott. I mean it. The girls don’t need me. They can always go round to Peter’s. It’s nice to have company.”
“I don’t mind the quiet.”
She’d meant for her.
“Did Fred eat up? Was he no trouble?”
“No trouble. Is he doing okay?” Even pointing at Tessa felt delicate. “Does he ask about what happened?” She wanted to say her.
“He’s a resilient lad. And it’s not like it came out of the blue.”
“I thought Clare said he was only little before.”
“She’s hardly super normal the rest of the time. How the kitchen was when you turned up is not a million miles away from how it normally is.”
“Oh.”
“She’s not big on housekeeping.”
“But she’s very loving.”
“She is that.”
“And she is his mum. He must be missing her.”
“It’s a lot easier without her here.” Scott refilled his glass. “Sorry.” He looked at her across the silence. “You must think I’m a right cunt. She loves her son, but love doesn’t do the washing up, you know? Love doesn’t make her a good mother. It’s weird because when she’s in hospital she’s like the most nuts but also the most honest. She gives in to it. She stops trying.”
“Do you take him to visit her?”
“I’d have to be fucking mad to.” Scott rubbed his face. “It would traumatise the lad. No one needs to see that. I only go because I have to. Only a masochist would want to visit. Or a fantasist.”
“I’m thinking of having a dinner party.” She hadn’t been.
“Are you now?”
“For my birthday.” She’d been planning on a spa at Lythe Hill.
“Twenty-one again, is it?”
“Just casual.”
“I won’t get my dinner suit out then, will I.” He leaned back, his hands clasped over his belly. There was nothing ugly and protruding about that stomach, it didn’t spill out from his shirt and assault her eyes. It was flat, muscular. She assumed it was muscular. She finished her glass and pushed it away. It wouldn’t do to stay too long.
“Don’t get up.” It didn’t look like he was going to, but she said it anyway. She wasn’t sure if he replied, maybe he mumbled something. He’d closed his eyes, and she was too busy closing the door.
*
The next day, she met Clare for a walk. Wrapped in coats and scarves, the two women, one tall, the other short set off through the park with Clare’s terrier yapping at the legs of Crosby and Nash. Ros’ Barbour was only a year old, but Clare’s was torn at the hem and elbow, creased from being flung on, ridden in, and used as a dog bed when she hadn’t anything else to hand. Bailing twine and straw escaped the pockets, Ros knew there was a knife in there too, she’d seen Clare whip it out when she’d got her jeans caught on barbed wire the time she’d tried to vault over a fence. Today, a nose band was half-falling out, dropped in beside Clare’s phone as if she didn’t care, or didn’t remember it would be forever getting stuck with grit. For Clare’s birthday last spring she’d given her a swanky new pig skin phone case, but Clare didn’t use it. She’d said she’d only ruin it and Ros had been embarrassed that she hadn’t understood the rules, that no one gave presents like that round there. Clare had invited her to drinks at a wine bar in Midhurst, Ros had turned up with the present wrapped and bowed, Clare had looked surprised, and Ros had said, oh it’s nothing really and had so many vodkas she’d danced on the table.
“Ben-Ben.” Clare’s terrier was heading for the rabbit holes. The first time Ros had heard Clare call her dog’s name she’d lost track of what she was saying. Then she’d gone home and put on a song she hadn’t listened to in years. Then she’d got drunk.
She whistled for Crosby and Nash, who were fast disappearing over the next rise. She’d been planning on Stills and Young, too, until Peter had said have you lost your mind. They were so sweet as puppies. Now enormous and out of control, they ignored her. “I was thinking of having a few people over tomorrow, for my birthday, if you’re not doing anything.”
“Your birthday? Oh Ros, you should have said.”
“I am saying.”
“No, but I mean - I’d love to come.”
“Bring Nancy if you like. Molly’ll be sulking anyway. They may as well get the hump together.”
“I thought you were getting on fine.”
“We are. Just normal teenage stuff. If you could bring a whip, or whatever you use on a bloody difficult pony who won’t shut up about how I’m ruining her life, then you could sort Issy out too.”
“A choke chain,” Clare laughed. “Or maybe I could put her in a martingale and gag.”
The reference was lost on Ros. She’d never had much interest in anything that involved opening her legs for no reason.
“She’s doing great in the play,” said Clare.
“That’s how I’m ruining her life, apparently.”
The dogs reappeared, hurtling towards them. Nash had a pheasant in his mouth. “Shit,” said Ros. “Nashy, Nash-nash, come here. Come here.” The dog bounded past, followed by Crosby and Ben. “That’s the third one he’s caught this week.”
“You might want to think about gun-dog training,” said Clare, walking quickly.
Up ahead, the dogs gathered by the wall. Ros chucked the dead pheasant into the bushes and snapped a lead on Crosby. “Don’t tell Brian about dinner, will you?”
Clare took Ben’s lead from around her neck. “Why would I tell Brian? I never see him outside of rehearsals, anyway.”
“I thought he was always hanging around the stables.”
“He delivers bedding, but he did that last week, and they’re not shooting till next week.”
They reached the gate and Clare opened it, Ben on his lead. Ros made a grab at Nash’s collar, but he slipped through her legs and ran for the house.
“Just casual?” said Clare.
“Totally casual. About eight, that okay?”
“Sure,” Clare opened the boot of her Subaru.
But nothing was casual for Ros.
As soon as Clare was out of sight, she shut the dogs in the utility room and set off for Waitrose, changed her mind and headed for the Cowdray Farm Shop. Boeuf Wellington. Too fussy. Sausages and mash. Too lowkey. A whole salmon. But it was late autumn. Maybe smoked salmon to start, followed by fish pie. Too fishy. Vol au vent nibbles, she could go full Abigail’s Party. Vol au vent with cocktails, smoked salmon on rye followed by Boeuf Wellington ready-made from the butcher at Cowdrey. Irony, followed by simplicity followed by show-off; perfect.
At the counter, she bumped into Brian.
“Elvira!” Ever since the start of rehearsals, he insisted on calling her that.
“Hello, Dr Bradman.” She played along. It was easier.
“I see you’re buying my beef.”
“Is it yours? How lovely.”
The butcher waited for her to choose which size she wanted; large or very large.
“Having a party?” said Brian.
“How many are you feeding, ma’am?” said the butcher.
“Oh, I’m not sure.” She smiled across the counter. “Let me count.”
“What’s the occasion?” said Brian.
“I was thinking of the Wellington.” She glanced at the two Boeuf Wellingtons sat snug in a forest of fake greenery.
“Not sure who does those. Who does those, Simon?” Brian asked the butcher. “No,” he held up his hand, “don’t tell me.” He leaned toward Ros. “Better to do it yourself.”
“Oh God, far too complicated,” laughed Ros.
“Special occasion, is it? Want to get it right?”
“My birthday, actually.”
“Your birthday! Well now, how lovely. Either of those will be good. I can tell you their names if you like. That was Reg,” he pointed, “and the other was Frank.”
“No don’t!” She pushed him, playfully. The butcher waited.
“On hot for half an hour and then turn it down to 120,” said Brian. “Gang going to be there?”
“How many will that one feed?” She pointed at the smaller of the two.
“Seven,” said the butcher. “Six, if they’re hungry.”
“You’ll want the bigger one,” said Brian.
“Do you think?”
“Hungry lot.”
“You must join us,” said Ros.
“I’d be delighted.” Brian stuck his hands in his pockets.
“The other one,” she said to the butcher.
Great line: " Irony, followed by simplicity followed by show-off; perfect. " The slow unfolding of disaster is delicious, Eleanor.
Wonderful!