Must Be Love (24 page)

Chapter Thirteen

The Duck Race

As soon as Alex’s four by four pulls upon the pavement outside Otter House, I grab my bag, run outside and jump in beside him.

‘Have I kept you waiting?’ he asks.

‘I’ve only just finished. My last one wouldn’t stop talking.’ Normally I don’t mind, but it’s Saturday and I wanted to get away. ‘Where were you last night?’ I lean towards Alex and press my lips against his.

‘Sleeping.’ He slips his hand under my jacket and strokes my belly. ‘Like a baby.’

‘You could have rung me. I called you.’

‘I didn’t get round to it. I’m sorry, Maz. You know what it’s like.’

I’m beginning to fear that I don’t. All he had to do was pick up the phone.

‘Are you going off me?’ I glance towards his check shirt and bottle-green cords, and back to my canary-yellow jacket and navy crops, wondering if he thinks my outfit’s a bit over the top for a trip to one of Talyton’s bizarre annual gatherings. I don’t dig deep and ask the difficult questions. Is it down to how I behaved over the funeral, because he didn’t approve of the way I chickened out of it and let Emma down? Is it because I’m not as excited and happy about our baby as he is? ‘Is it because I’m getting fat?’ I go on, instead. ‘Is it because I’m not wearing wellingtons and tweed?’

‘Maz, I like you just as you are.’ Smiling, Alex touches my nose, a gesture that reassures me that he doesn’t think that badly of me after all. ‘Which poor animal’s been under your knife this time? You’ve got blood on your face.’

‘It was a Dobermann that had cut its pad on some glass. I thought it was never going to stop bleeding.’ I grab a tissue and rub it off. ‘Where are the children?’ I say, noticing they aren’t in the back.

‘Mother’s bringing them with her. Seb was having a snack and Lucie wanted a few minutes with her pony. I’m sure she misses him more than she misses me.’ Alex looks at his watch. ‘We’d better hurry. They need a vet down there to check on the welfare of the ducks before they can run the race.’

‘Really? I hadn’t thought of that.’ It occurs to me that I’ve never been presented with a duck before. ‘How do you tell if a duck is unhappy, or if it doesn’t want to race?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Alex says. ‘They’re my department, not yours.’

I might not know much about duck welfare, but Alex and I stop on the way to check on the welfare of a hedgehog that is lying in the middle of the road. It’s dead and so badly squashed I don’t think it suffered. At least it isn’t Spike – Frances is feeding him up in a run in her garden.

‘My grandmother used to take the dead ones home,’ Alex says, driving on. ‘She was very much of the waste-not, want-not generation.’

‘What did she do with them?’ A vision of vol-au-vents stuffed with roadkill enters my head. ‘No, don’t tell me. I don’t think I want to know.’

‘She tied them to poles and used them to rap the horses’ legs when they were jumping to make them jump higher – they never dropped a foot out hunting, never dared.’

Not for the first time, I find myself worrying about the baby’s gene pool.

I gaze out of the window at the changing scenery: the hawthorn blossom emerging from the hedges, bright yellow celandines and pale primroses scattered about at the feet of the twisted oaks, which are coming into leaf.

‘I love this time of year,’ Alex says, as if reading my mind.

He pulls in and parks on the verge outside the Talymill Inn – the car park is overflowing with cars, camper vans, Land Rovers, a tractor and a fire engine.

‘Won’t all these people frighten the ducks?’ Grabbing my bag from the footwell, which is positively rustling with old syringes and sweet wrappers, I slide out of the passenger seat.

‘They’re well trained.’ Alex turns his attention to finding a sweater in the boot. It might be sunny, but a cold breeze raises goose pimples on my exposed skin.

‘I can’t imagine why they don’t fly away,’ I say, recalling the moment when the Captain stretched his wings as if he was about to take off from the roof of Otter House. ‘Where do we go now?’

‘Let’s go and grab some lunch,’ Alex says.

‘But I thought you said you were in a hurry?’

‘There’s time for something to eat.’

I follow Alex inside, to order.

Clive and his wife have thrown their life savings into restoring the pub – every brick, every tile – and the grounds too. Out in the beer garden behind the mill, I sit down with Alex at one of the picnic benches on the lawn, which slopes down to the river, admiring their work. The food’s pretty good too. Alex has a ploughman’s and I have chips with mustard to satisfy my sudden craving.

Although he’s on call for the weekend, Drew is here, surrounded by a crowd of teenage girls: Shannon and her friends. Izzy’s here too. She gives me a wave from where she’s sitting on a blanket under the branches of a weeping willow closer to the water. As I wave back, a man in his forties with blond curls and a compact muscular body, dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt, joins her. It’s Chris, her sheep-farmer fiancé.

He kneels down beside Izzy, handing over a glass of wine before blowing kisses up her neck. She casts him an adoring glance, then he whispers into her ear, making her laugh, and I envy them, being a couple so obviously in love and – I stare, somewhat resentfully, at my stomach – free of the responsibility of bringing a child into the world.

I can understand why Emma decided not to join us. I did ask her, but she said she’d prefer a long walk with Ben and Miff down at the coast. There are babies in prams and backpacks, and older children everywhere, clambering on the rustic frames in the small play area well away from the water.

A fire crew – the same one as hoisted me into the air to catch the Captain – is setting up a table with a banner above.

Annual Duck Race. Sponsor your duck here. All money goes to this year’s charities: Jacky’s Days Out and SANDS
.

(Jacky’s Days Out is a charity devoted to providing fun days out for sick children. I know about SANDS, the Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Society – I sent them a small donation in memory of Emma’s baby.)

Other members of the crew are paddling across the river in wetsuits and waders to suspend a net from one bank to the other, along with a sign reading,
Finish
. Then Clive turns up, dragging a net filled with yellow plastic ducks with metal rings sticking out of their heads.

‘I thought you said they were real ducks,’ I say, disappointed.

‘April Fool!’ Alex chuckles. ‘You didn’t really believe we’d use real ones? I’m sorry, Maz, I can’t resist winding you up sometimes. You can be so gullible. And,’ he adds, leaning across and brushing my cheek with his lips, ‘I mean that in the nicest possible way.’

‘Hi there, Alex. And Maz.’ It’s Stewart with Lynsey behind him, baby in one arm and a kicking toddler in the other. ‘When are you going to make an honest woman of her, then?’ His eyes twinkle as he looks at me. He’s a charismatic character, I suppose, but with his balding scalp and beginnings of a beer belly I can’t really understand why he’s apparently so desirable to women. Today he’s wearing one of his trademark vests with ‘British Beef’ on the front, Bermuda shorts, along with black socks and steel-capped work boots.

‘Stewart, you didn’t get Frances a duck,’ Lynsey cuts in before Alex can respond. Frances is their youngest, the baby, named after our Frances, who practically delivered her when Lynsey went into labour at Otter House last summer. She drops the toddler onto the grass and lets him scream there. ‘He’ll get over it in a while,’ she says. ‘He’s always having paddies, just like his dad.’

‘Well, the baby doesn’t need a duck,’ Stewart says. ‘She doesn’t know any different.’

‘Tightwad,’ Lynsey says, her face turning beetroot under a battered hat.

‘I can’t afford all this, Lyns. I’ve just had last month’s vet’s bill for the cattle.’

‘Actually, it was the month before the month before last’s,’ Alex says with a grin. ‘Never mind, though, I know where you live.’

I’m aware that Lynsey is throwing black looks at her husband, who tells us he’ll see us later to talk about finding photos of some bed race he and Alex took part in with Chris, to use when he does the best man’s speech for Izzy’s wedding; then he and Lynsey continue their argument over ducks and money further down the lawn.

‘He loves her really,’ Alex says. ‘Lynsey knew what she was taking on and she can be pretty fierce. They’re always having domestics. One time I was on the farm when a bag of Stewart’s belongings appeared on the step outside the dairy.’

‘I’d hate to be rowing all the time,’ I say.

‘I think they thrive on making up.’ Alex looks past me towards the back door to the pub. ‘Ah, there they are. Lucie! Seb! Over here!’ Alex pops a pickled onion in his mouth and waves them over.

It isn’t the mustard that sends a sharp pain searing through my chest, but the sight of Alex’s parents with them.

‘Daddy!’ Lucie breaks away from where she’s holding Sophia’s hand and comes cantering over in a flowery sundress, cardigan and jodhpur boots. ‘Can I have a duck?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Alex says slowly.

Lucie gathers up her dress and tips her head to one side. ‘Please, Daddy, I really need a duck.’

‘I wanna duck.’ Seb joins us, scrambling up onto Alex’s lap. He’s wearing jeans and a Bob the Builder sweatshirt. Alex wipes his nose with a paper napkin.

‘Grandpa will buy you one each,’ Sophia cuts in. She wears the collar of her coat turned up and her hat pulled down over her head as if she’s embarrassed to be seen among the common people of Talyton St George. ‘Won’t you, Fox-Gifford?’ she adds severely, turning to her husband.

‘I don’t know about that.’ He hooks his stick over his arm and pats the pockets of a threadbare blazer. ‘I didn’t bring any cash.’

‘Yes, you did,’ Lucie interrupts. ‘I saw you take some money out of Humpy’s purse.’

‘So that’s where it went,’ Sophia says darkly.

‘Let’s forget about the bloody ducks, shall we?’ Old Fox-Gifford thunders, aiming this towards Alex. ‘Son, we’ve been hearing rumours, vicious ones at that, and we need to know they aren’t true.’

‘I’ll get the ducks,’ Alex says, hurriedly. He takes out his wallet and hands it to Lucie.

‘Run along, Lucie darling,’ Sophia says, ‘and take your brother with you. We need to have a word with your father. He’s been very evasive recently.’

‘Yes, you can count yourself out of the inheritance if this goes on,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, doffing his deerstalker and revealing the veins standing proud of his temple.

‘You know how important it is to your father that we uphold the family’s good name at all times,’ Sophia says, looking anywhere but in my direction, and I feel really upset that she’s so off with me in front of the children. It’s hard enough to gain their respect without their grandmother undermining me. I glance towards Lucie, Alex’s wallet in one hand and Seb’s hand in the other, finding listening in to grown-up conversation far more intriguing than buying ducks.

‘Frances says Madge is pregnant,’ Sophia goes on bluntly.

‘Frances?’ Alex looks at me.

‘She guessed,’ I say. ‘She must have let it slip.’ I can’t believe she would have done it deliberately, but even so, I’m not pleased.

‘Suffice to say, we’re completely set against it,’ Sophia continues.

I try not to care. I knew how Alex’s parents would react, didn’t I? I wonder how he puts up with them. If I had been him I’d have disowned them at birth.

‘Well, there’s nothing you can do or say to change things, Mother.’ Alex calmly shifts his legs away as his father whacks at the bench with his stick.

‘That’s it, then,’ he growls. ‘Everything I have goes straight to the grandchildren.’

‘All your debts, you mean,’ Alex says, a small smile on his lips. ‘Father, stop making yourself look ridiculous, will you?’ he goes on wearily. ‘My lovely girlfriend’ – he reaches out for my hand and gives it a squeeze – ‘is pregnant and we’re both very much looking forward to the birth of our baby.’

‘You aren’t going to marry her, then?’ Sophia clutches her husband’s arm and raises her eyes skywards as if she’s offering a private prayer.

‘We have no plans to marry,’ Alex says.

‘Well, that’s a mercy at least –’

‘As yet,’ Alex cuts in.

‘Don’t think you have to do the honourable thing by that one,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, leaning on his stick and looking me up and down as if assessing a heifer.

‘What do you mean by that?’ I say, appalled.

‘She isn’t good enough for you, Alexander. There’s bad blood there. Look at her – how is she going to carry a Fox-Gifford baby? She isn’t exactly built for childbirth with hips like that – they’re like a boy’s.’

‘It’s none of your business,’ I say heatedly as Alex gets up and stands between me and his parents.

‘You bigoted old fool!’ he says, his voice taut with anger. ‘Apologise to Maz this minute, or I’ll … I’ll …’ He clenches his fists. ‘If you weren’t such a sick man, Father, I’d give you a good hiding.’

Old Fox-Gifford raises his stick above his head and I’m afraid he’s going to hit Alex with it, but Sophia steps in.

‘Put it down, Fox-Gifford,’ she says. ‘You’re making a scene.’

It’s true. I’m vaguely aware of an audience forming, a half-circle of people from Talyton St George watching and listening.

Sophia puts her arm through her husband’s and goes on quietly, ‘Another baby … I hope you’re not expecting me to have anything to do with it. I’ve done my bit with Lucie and Seb.’

‘That’s reassuring,’ I observe. ‘The last thing I want is someone like you stuffing my child with meat, purging it with castor oil and sticking it on a horse before it can walk.’

‘We’ll have a nanny anyway, so Maz can continue to work,’ Alex says, in my support.

A nanny? What did I expect? That Alex would offer to become a full-time house husband?

‘When I said everything I have goes to the grandchildren, I’m not including that one.’ Old Fox-Gifford jabs his finger towards my belly. ‘Sebastian will inherit the practice as the firstborn boy.’

‘Has it never occurred to you that he might not want it?’ Alex says. ‘At the moment, all he wants to do is work in the construction industry like Bob.’