13

As Sally woke up slowly she could tell it was far too early for Monks Bottom to be awake. It was a myth that village life was quiet. The tranquillity of the sleepy hamlet seemed to act as an echo chamber, and even the most mundane sounds of the day coming to life broke the silence. Engines revved, doors slammed and dogs barked. Children chattered, mothers scolded and the early morning deliveries of post and papers resounded with banging gates and merry whistles. This morning Sally only heard the cacophony of garden birds. She lay cozily but sad and confused, smelling the smoky waft of the marriage bonfire.

She rose, drew back the curtains, and stared out of the window, knowing it was her duty now to tell Louise that Roger had finally gone. To her relief her daughter was on a student trip to France and the agony could be delayed. But Louise knew the call was coming. She knew Marina was dying, and her daddy was leaving them to live with Timothy, but even as a fully paid-up member of the modern, unshockable generation, she’d been unable to accept her father’s sexuality.

Sally and Roger had told her the truth of their situation together; a brave and selfless act, stage-managed and planned by them both, last Christmas. In front of a blazing fire in the inglenook, with the opiate of a traditional turkey roast pressing on their ribs, they’d linked fingers. A bottle of red had breathed and the glasses filled, but a toast wasn’t raised. ‘Lulu,’ said Roger. ‘I…That is Mummy and me. We’ve got something to tell you. Marina Proudfoot’s dying. She’s got terminal cancer…’

‘Oh, no,’ said Louise, with a genuine look of sorrow. ‘That’s so tragic. She’s really lovely. Far too young to die.’

Roger had then stumbled an explanation of his future plans to conclude, ‘So it’s going to mean really big changes for all of us…’

Louise had lifted her head, stupefied, but then she slowly began to smile widely and laughed out loud. ‘This is a joke, a wind-up, it’s got to be,’ but her happy face was only met with the kind, blank faces of both her parents. She ran from the room and hysterically attempted to phone for a taxi, but with none to be had on Christmas day, Sally had been obliged to drive her back to Cambridge. As Louise walked stiffly out of the house, Roger held out his arms. ‘Lulu, don’t do this. I’m still your daddy. We can talk about this,’ but she ignored him.

The journey was suffered in an atmosphere of frost and silence, but after travelling for thirty miles, Louise eventually spoke. ‘How long have you known, Mum?’

‘Three, maybe four years,’ Sally admitted.

‘Must be pretty kinky sharing your husband with a faggot.’

‘We haven’t made love since I found out, but I still love him.’

‘You might be HIV positive.’

‘I’m not. I’ve been tested twice. Daddy swears that neither of them have ever had anyone else, anyway.’ Since then Louise had refused to come home, and all Sally’s attempts at reconciliation had been stonewalled.

She pressed her head against a small Tudor windowpane, welcoming the coldness on her forehead. It had rained again in the night, and the charred mess on the lawn lay black and sodden. Momentarily, she felt guilt; the stern hangover from a life being led by a nose-ring down the straight road of order and convention. But hadn’t the same life dealt her a cruel loser’s hand? Surely she had the right to a backlash?

Abruptly, she walked to the bathroom, trying to summon the mental strength to muster her withdrawal. On the wall hung an old art deco mirror – the same mirror she’d first looked into as a brand new wife. On that day she’d been a classic pre-Raphaelite sylph, with a profusion of fiery-red ringlets she could sit on, freckled alabaster skin and shining green eyes. Now, everything had changed. The slim, girlish body was unflatteringly thin and her face was stripped of its bloom. Her eyes were edged with grids of finely maturing crow’s feet, and her hair, now shoulder-length, was faded and coarsened. The changes had crept up so quietly they’d never troubled her, but she now stared back at herself. ‘Remember Marina Proudfoot’s saying,’ she instructed. ‘Standing behind the old woman in the mirror is the real you. Make sure she always has pride of place, at the front.’

Sally straightened her shoulders and held her head regally. From her wardrobe, she selected an expensive grey trouser suit and low heeled Chelsea boots. She fastidiously applied a rare full face of makeup and applied electric straighteners to the desiccated corkscrews. With a proud toss of her head, she admired her enhanced face and swung her unaccustomed silky hair. Perhaps it was possible to arouse the girl she used to be from her sleeping corner.

With a lightly packed bag she walked down to the kitchen to write a good bye note to Roger. Hers would be an official, refined declaration. She selected a sheet of their bespoke headed notepaper and unscrewed her fountain pen.

Dear Roger

  1) I’m going away, and won’t return for some time.

  2) You’ll be hearing from my solicitor with divorce papers soon.

  3) I’ll be instructing an estate agent immediately, so please arrange to transfer the deeds to my sole ownership (don’t mess me about on this).

  4) I’ll contact Louise and inform her of current events, though I feel sure a letter from you would be more appropriate.

  5) Turn off the electricity and make sure you defrost the fridge and freezer. Don’t forget to clean them both thoroughly, and dispose of the contents.

  6) Double lock the front door and put the keys through the letterbox.

  7) I’ll make arrangements to redirect all mail to The Manor House, so keep anything for me until I give you a PO Box number.

  8) Cancel the papers.

  9) Finnegan’s inoculation record book is on the dresser behind the cow creamer. He’s due for worming. Remember he’s allergic to potatoes.

10) Don’t bother to look for me, because you won’t find me.

I hope you and Timothy will be very happy.

With fond memories of our long marriage,

Sally

It was 7.00 a.m. She climbed into her silver Mini and headed for the Suffolk coast, to disappear, like another type of Alice, into another type of looking glass.