Turn Us Again (21 page)

SEVENTEEN

M
adelyn departed for Newcastle the next day, while Sam stayed behind to arrange the details of the move to his new forestry job in Evercreech. At first she was relieved to be going alone, but her image of ‘home as the comfortable haven' where her marriage would be feted and celebrated in the rightful manner faded as soon as she walked in the door. Mary and Eddie smiled but showed considerable less warmth than Pippa at the arrival of their newly wed daughter.

Over an ordinary dinner of over-boiled fish and potatoes, Madelyn asked if she might expect to see any of her friends or relatives during her stay. “If you'd like to, certainly. Nana is always happy to see you.”

She wanted to scream at their expressionless faces — I mean, is there going to be a party? Presents? She controlled herself with amusement, how could she rant at Sam's verbal intensity one day and complain of her parents' verbal moderation the next?

“I did get married, you know,” she said mildly enough. “I thought perhaps I'd receive more visits than in the ordinary course of events.”

Her parents continued to maneuver their forks delicately between mouths and plates for several minutes. “Well it's all a bit sudden, dear. It's hard for us to grasp that you are married.”

“Nevertheless, I am.”

Silence descended once more, and Madelyn felt both depressed and irritated. She retired early to bed on the pretext of a headache, and cried herself to sleep with tears of utter self-pity. She did not stifle her sobs as well as she might have done, in the hopes that her parents would hear and feel awful.

With this state of affairs, the pounding on the door early the next morning, accompanied by Sam's familiar voice ringing through the house, was an undiluted pleasure.

“My job insisted that I take some time off for my wedding!” he bellowed, enveloping Madelyn in a bear hug as though he hadn't seen her for a week.

“What did I tell you? Salt of the earth,” he whispered into her hair.

Eddie and Mary rallied around, and an array of visits and celebrations was soon arranged. Madelyn's twinge of anxiety about the modesty of her surroundings abated somewhat when she noticed that the ‘richer' side of the family was included in the round of planned visits. She could not imagine the style of house to which Sam was accustomed, but her parent's terraced house was simple enough, despite its fine Victorian furniture. Grandpa Smith, however, owned a jewellery store and possessed a beautiful house.

That night they played bridge, as usual. Madelyn worried that Sam would find it a dreary way to spend the evening and assume her parents had nothing to say to one another. Certainly her family never indulged in lively discussions the way Sam did most evenings. Madelyn saw them as he might see them — boring, simple, unintellectual. ‘We never talk at all,' she reflected, ‘we never discuss anything in an interesting way.'

In the end there was nothing to worry about. Sam thought bridge was an excellent game and joined in after watching a few rounds. His loud lamentations when he lost betrayed a competitiveness equal to Madelyn's, banging his hand against his head in the most alarming manner when a trump he had forgotten about made its appearance (as if anybody could be expected to count trumps expertly the first time they played).

After the others had played themselves out, Sam set the table up for four and ran around the table playing all the hands himself.

“Are you winning or losing?” Eddie asked in passing, plying his large son-in-law with drinks without taking so much as a nip himself.

“Bit of both,” Sam answered, brow furrowed as he concentrated on the cards.

At the end of their fortnight's stay Sam played brilliantly, and they spent most of the evenings at home around the card table, an undiluted joy to everybody except Mary. Eddie did not touch any drink during the whole visit, and Sam behaved impeccably, exerting his not inconsiderable charm on both the parents and the numerous relatives and friends they visited. Only once did he stage-whisper in Madelyn's ear at the dinner table:

“Mary is the best example of English cooking at its worst.” Luckily, nobody overheard.

Madelyn relaxed and by the end was enjoying herself. Everyone made a fuss of the newlyweds, and she understood that their visit put a seal on the union, while the resulting festivities did much to dissipate her parents' disappointment at missing the wedding itself.

There were presents, and Cathie threw a surprise party with some of Madelyn's old friends. She was sufficiently awed by Sam's imposing presence to repress her frivolity, though she did pretend surprise when Sam called Madelyn by her new name.

“Anne seemed a good enough name for us,” she simpered up at him.

“No doubt, but it is not good enough for her,” he replied.

“Poor Cathie's mother is sick,” Madelyn interjected hastily. “How is she doing?”

“Mother?” Cathie said, puzzled by the abrupt change of subject. “She's fine.”

And she gave her a beautiful hand-woven tablecloth for a present.

It was hard to leave, despite promises of lovely country cottages. They had not had a single fight, nor any unpleasantness, since Sam's arrival over two weeks ago.

“What do you think of him?” Madelyn asked her parents the night before they were due to leave.

“He's a funny bugger,” Eddie replied.

The country cottage wasn't ready. Farmer Brown, profuse with apologies, offered to let them stay in his own house for a week or two. Since the London apartment had already been rented out to somebody else, there wasn't much choice. Sam and Madelyn were shown to a small bedroom, complete with an ancient brass bed, a cupboard, and two hot plates in the corner. The bathroom across the hall was to be shared with the rest of the family.

“What do you think?” Sam asked, plonking the luggage down in the narrow space between the bed and the cupboard.

“What do you mean, what do I think? It's awful. Even if the room were attractive, which it's not, it's always hard to share a house with other people. When will the cottage be ready?”

“He said soon.”

“Ask him when. And am I supposed to cook on those two little plates, or do we have to undergo the ordeal of making conversation with strangers for three meals a day? I don't know which is worse.”

“Oh shut up! You're always so bloody negative!”

But Madelyn did not shut up. She was pregnant, these conditions were outrageous, and she was protected from Sam's fury by the close presence of other people.

The long days when Sam was out cutting down trees were the worst. The family assumed that she would partake in their meals, but after the first exhausting breakfast she had intimated to Farmer Brown's wife, Hilda, that she would prefer to eat breakfast in her room.

“Now why'd you want to do that? You can't make a decent breakfast on those two little plates.”

Hilda had such a thick accent that it was difficult to understand her. She wasn't unpleasant, just insensitive. Her four children, ranging from about one to twelve, engaged the limited capacities of her mind, and she bored Madelyn to tears.

“I only want toast and tea in the morning. Pressing the bread against the hot plate makes very tasty toast.”

“I put the hot plates there for you to make tea. I don't think I want little bits of butter and crumbs all about. There are mice, my dear. Best you eat with us, we like your company.”

‘But I don't like yours, Mrs. Dreary,' Madelyn thought, but smiled and said, “I will clean up very carefully, but I'm afraid I don't feel very well in the mornings and I must insist that I eat in my room.”

“Ah yes, nausea. I can tell you a bit about nausea,” and Hilda launched into a long description of the symptoms experienced during each of her four pregnancies. Madelyn was terrible at getting away. She did not know how to do it without interrupting the constant flow, and she hesitated to give offence. She kept a sympathetic expression on her face while dancing excuses through her mind. After all, she could not plead exhaustion at 10 o'clock in the morning. Nor had she any place to go: no work, no shopping, nothing to fill up her days. After thirty minutes of endless rambling she said in desperation, “I'm so sorry, but I must go to the loo.”

“Ah, yes, peeing, I can tell you a bit about the need to pee,” Hilda called after her retreating back.

The next day Madelyn had determinedly stayed in her room, propped up in bed with a book against her knees and the toast and tea balanced on her growing stomach. She felt content to be alone and wondered if it was a sign of her deteriorating expectations, to feel thankful in such a dismal little room.

She had barely finished when there was a knock on the door. Hilda came in without waiting, and inspected the floor around the hot plates.

“Ah, there's crumbs all over. I can't allow it, you know, there are mice. You'll have to come down the next time.” She peered into Madelyn's plate, still on her knees, “Just toast? We had eggs and bacon downstairs. You must eat right in your state.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ah, I could tell you a bit about what I ate, I was that picky.”

Madelyn, trapped on her bed in her nightgown, was enraged by such impertinence. Fury clogged her throat and she tried to inhale past the blockage. ‘This is not like me,' she thought, ‘this must be the hormones. But this dreadful invasion of my sanctuary, my horrible little hole.'

“Excuse me Hilda. I'm very sorry, but I don't feel very well and I must ask you to leave me alone for a bit. I'll come downstairs when I feel better.”

Hilda looked offended at the interruption. “You must come down to eat from now on, I'm afraid. We can't have the place overrun with mice.”

“I'm so sorry, but you inspected the area before I had a chance to clean it up. As you see I haven't even finished my tea yet. I do not feel up to eating with a large family early in the morning, in my state.” What a tough little thing I'm becoming!

“Now, now my dear, we're just sitting and eating, not bothering anybody. You aren't so sick that you can't make it down the stairs. Besides, I know you young women, and by the looks of this room, cleanliness isn't high up on your list of priorities.”

The outrageousness of it! Who could maintain order in this miserable little room crammed with all their possessions? Madelyn fled the house to expend her anger in long walks along the lovely country lanes. She walked and walked until she was exhausted. ‘I will do this every day,' she thought. ‘I will spend as much time as I can outside, rain or shine. Mostly bloody rain, but at least it's preferable to that awful woman.'

She stayed out all day, nibbling on some toast that she had stuffed into her pocket as she left, spending long hours on public benches huddled beneath her umbrella and wishing the hours were gone.

When the light began to fail she returned, pale and exhausted from lack of food, and stumbled up to her room to make some tea, praying that she wouldn't meet Hilda.

Sam was lying flat on the bed in his dirty work clothes, smelling of pine trees and wood. She stretched out beside him, and he took her hand.

“Where have you been?”

“I was walking. I am going to stay out all day every day, to get away from that dreadful woman. She won't even let me eat breakfast alone in our room, she says the crumbs will encourage mice.”

“Ignore her. Do exactly what you want. What are they going to do about it?”

“I wish there was a lock on our door.”

“Push the suitcases against it after I leave.”

Madelyn giggled and snuggled closer to him.

“I'm so tired. It takes a lot of energy to make a baby.”

Sam gave a little movement of irritation, “I'm bloody exhausted. Chopping down trees all day. I feel like my back is going to break.”

Madelyn felt irritated in her turn. Little tussles involving who was more exhausted, and therefore deserving of more pity and care, were a daily occurrence. Next he would ask her for a massage, when every muscle in her body ached.

“I shouldn't be walking around all day when I'm pregnant. This is a ridiculous situation. Did Farmer Brown say when the cottage would be ready?”

“Oh God, don't start that again. I've just told you I'm utterly exhausted. Can't you give a working man a break?”

For a minute Madelyn wavered between the certainty that she was justified and wariness at her husband's capacity for abrupt mood changes. ‘I'm not frightened of him,' she thought, ‘I will not let him crush my spirit!'

“I've had a rotten day, I'm suffering in this horrible house and I can't answer for how depression affects the unborn. Just bloody ask him, nag him, do whatever you have to do!”

“Is this going to be typical of the way you think our marriage is going to be? You take little fits and I kowtow to your unreasonableness?”

“Keep your voice down! Unreasonableness? You have a duty to your wife, and it's not shoving her in a nasty pig sty with halfwits for company!”