Authors: Julie Cohen
‘I wondered what that noise was,’ said Quinn. He didn’t take Patrick’s complaints seriously; the man had three photos of his two daughters on his desk, and more in his wallet. Quinn was a great believer in the power of words – he used them for his living, after all – but
sometimes, actions spoke more loudly.
‘It’ll be your turn next,’ said Patrick. He drank his fizz with great satisfaction. ‘Where is your missus, anyway?’
‘She’s underneath the apple tree.’ Quinn gazed across the garden to where Felicity was chatting with Emma and Gurinder, all of them with glasses in hand. It was a sixth sense, almost, this awareness of Felicity, something he’d never experienced
with any other woman or girl he’d known. Though it could also be because she looked different from anyone else in the garden. All of the other women were wearing pastel dresses, flowers and pashminas and pale shoes, with their hair carefully curled, straightened or combed. Felicity wore a bright green dress covered with a concentric-circle pattern, a lace underskirt, bare legs and red ballerina
flats. Her hair was shoved up into a messy bun, tendrils escaping. Her eyes were lined with kohl, her lipstick the same colour as her shoes.
Before he met Felicity, Quinn had never known a woman who could make untidiness seem deliberate.
Before he met Felicity, Quinn had never known a lot of things. For example, how you could feel as if you understood your wife better when you were watching
her across the garden, than when you were talking with her in the home you shared.
‘She’s got a style, hasn’t she?’ said Patrick.
‘She’s an artist. She has an artistic background.’ Quinn finished his drink. ‘She’s wonderful.’
He had plenty of friends who were married; plenty of friends who claimed they loved each other. Yet they complained about each other when they were apart. They seemed
to have petty difficulties rubbing like grit between them. He’d sworn he’d never do that, never let that happen.
‘Newlyweds,’ said Patrick. ‘Do you want another drink?’
‘Yes, please.’
Patrick went off and Quinn put his hands in his pockets and allowed himself to watch his wife. Even after being married for nearly a year, it was the purest pleasure he knew. The two other girls were still talking,
but Felicity’s attention had wandered. She stood with them, but her eyes gazed into the distance at nothing, and the smile had melted from her face, replaced with a more intent expression, as if she were listening hard to something just out of hearing range.
What did she think when she looked like that? What was she hearing and feeling?
At first, before they’d been married, he’d asked her. He’d
wanted to know everything about her. But she’d been so startled, her answers so vague, that he had stopped asking. Even in a marriage, it seemed, even when everything else was shared, his wife needed privacy. If only within the space of her mind, during the short blank spaces where her body was with him but her attention was not.
Quinn, himself, would open his whole mind to Felicity. He couldn’t
imagine a single thought, a single feeling, that he would not be willing to share with her, if she cared to hear it. His past was an open book; they lived in the village where he’d grown up, among people whom he’d known all his life, so even if he’d had any dark secrets to hide, there wouldn’t be much of a chance of it.
He thought of last weekend, in the empty field with the full moon overhead,
holding her hand and reciting the names of the seas. All those hours as a teenager with the telescope his father had bought him for Christmas: unknowing, he had learned about the moon for the sole purpose of holding Felicity’s hand and saying those names to her in the silver-lit darkness.
Quinn began to walk across the crowded garden towards his wife, intending to take her hand again under the
apple tree, to call her back to the reality of the two of them.
‘Here, now, Quinn Wickham. I’m glad I caught you.’ Irene Miller stepped into Quinn’s path.
Mrs Miller was the town gossip, and fancied herself as a sort of investigative journalist, using mostly tea and eavesdropping as tools. He resigned himself to several minutes of being told third-hand information he had no intention of printing.
Lately, Mrs Miller had been angling to be given her own column, a gossip column or possibly an agony aunt feature. Patrick thought this was a hilarious idea and that it would increase their circulation considerably. Quinn was more of the opinion that it would cause all-out warfare on the common.
‘Hello, Mrs Miller,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re well.’
‘I’ve got a word to the wise for you.’ She sidled
closer. ‘I think you should go and have a word with that Bel Andrews.’
‘Is that so?’
‘She’s over there near the cucumber sandwiches. You can catch her if you hurry. Word at the Tillingford Tea Pot is that there have been some unofficial council meetings lately.’ Mrs Miller tapped her nose. ‘Secret dealings. About the budget.’
Councillor Bel Andrews was, indeed, by the sandwich table, looking
as stolid and unconspiratorial as ever. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw Felicity turn and slip through a nearby hedge.
‘Thanks for the tip, Mrs Miller. I will certainly talk to Bel as soon as I can. If you’ll excuse me …’ He began to edge away.
Mrs Miller followed Quinn’s gaze. Felicity’s glass and her handbag sat on the grass, abandoned. ‘Why are you and your wife so mad keen to get
into that hedge?’
‘Damsons,’ he said quickly. ‘We’re looking for a cutting for our garden. Thanks again, Mrs Miller.’
‘Your father never crept through hedges!’ she called after him. He waved acknowledgement, and felt her watching him.
Emma and Gurinder were chatting to each other when he approached. ‘Hi, Quinn,’ Gurinder greeted him. ‘We were just talking to—oh, she was here a minute ago. She’s
really interesting, your wife. Different.’
‘What were you talking about?’ he asked, unable to resist the temptation.
‘How Emma had a crush on you in primary school,’ said Gurinder.
Emma blushed. ‘I had a crush on
everyone
in primary school. Anyway, you fancied David Enright, and look what happened to him.’
‘
I
didn’t steal David Enright’s pencil and keep it under my pillow, like you stole Quinn’s.’
‘Gosh,’ said Quinn. ‘I hope I didn’t chew on the end. Listen, did Felicity say where she was going?’
Emma looked around. ‘For another drink maybe?’
‘It was all just a laugh,’ said Gurinder. ‘Ancient history. Felicity didn’t seem to mind.’
Quinn didn’t think that Felicity would mind about a primary-school crush. But why had she disappeared through a bush? He thanked Gurinder and Emma and went
to examine the hedge. There was a small gap in it and he pushed himself through. A twig caught his jacket and he had to detach it, hearing the women laughing behind him.
The hedge separated the Harringtons’ garden from the Thompsons’ next door. The Thompsons were at the christening; the climbing frame and swing stood abandoned on the grass. Felicity was kneeling on the lawn by the patio, cradling
something in her hands.
‘Felicity?’ he said, going to her. ‘What’s happening?’
He ignored the relief that washed over him. If he felt relieved, it would mean that he’d been worried that his wife actually would slip away. That in one of her blank, private moments, in one of those moments where he couldn’t reach her or know her, she’d forget about him.
It was a side effect of loving her so much.
Of not quite believing he was lucky enough to have her.
Some more of her hair had come loose from her bun and there was a long red scrape at the top of one of her bare arms. ‘It’s a bird,’ she told him.
He knelt beside her. Moisture from the ground soaked into his trousers. The bird was a house sparrow, dun and black. It lay in the hollow of her hands, wings folded, eyes closed into near-invisible
slits. Its feet were tiny commas.
‘I heard a thump,’ Felicity said. ‘I think it flew into the glass doors. At first I thought its neck was broken, but I can feel it breathing.’
‘Should you have picked it up?’
‘Well, I thought that if its neck were broken it could hardly make things worse. What should we do if it’s hurt its wings?’
‘Anil’s at the christening,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if he treats
wild animals, but we can ask him to have a quick look.’
‘I can feel its heartbeat,’ she whispered. She touched the dun feathers on its breast with the tip of her thumb. ‘It’s like a vibration. The pauses are too small. Do they live faster than we do, do you think? Not just shorter, but faster? More intensely?’
He opened his mouth to answer, he didn’t know what – possibly something about hummingbirds
and how fast they lived – when the sparrow opened its eyes. It looked at him and Quinn just had time to wonder how it saw him, a monster or a giant, before the bird hopped to its feet and with a papery flutter, launched itself from Felicity’s hands into the air. She laughed, surprised, holding her hands open and empty.
A sudden urge gripped him to fling his arms around her. To hold her tight,
to lie down with her on the grass with the chatter of the party next door muted. To feel her heartbeat and compare it to his. But it was the Thompsons’ garden; they couldn’t roll around on the lawn next to the Thompsons’ swing set.
‘Well,’ said Felicity, standing up, ‘that was lucky.’ She brushed twigs and grass from her dress. ‘I suppose we should go back to the party.’
Quinn stood. ‘Is your
arm okay? You’ve scraped it.’
‘Have I?’ Felicity peered at it. ‘Oh, I have. I’m fine.’
‘Maybe we should walk round to the front rather than going through the hole again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Felicity, as they skirted bicycles on their way to the front garden. ‘I know you were enjoying the party.’
‘You saved me from Mrs Miller’s conspiracy theories.’
‘Did you know that one of the women in there
stole your pencil when you were a child?’
‘It’ll be all over the Tillingford Tea Pot tomorrow, how Quinn and Felicity Wickham disappeared through a hedge.’
‘Oh dear.’ She frowned, and he put his arm around her waist. ‘I don’t think I’d have stolen your pencil,’ she said.
‘I’d have given it to you.’ They reached the gate, and he opened it. ‘I’d have given you anything,’ he said.
I KEEP ON
thinking about how it felt to have that sparrow fly away from my hands. One moment it was there, light as fluff. And then the next moment I felt its claws on my palms, a flicker of air on my face. Flit. Gone.
Quinn changes out of his suit but I stay in my dress. I slip off my shoes and lie back on the sofa, propping my bare feet on the arm. The prosecco has made me drowsy
and relaxed. When Quinn comes back he lifts my legs, sits on the sofa, and rests my feet on his lap.
‘Did you enjoy that?’ he asks me.
‘I thought it was dead. It was as if it came back to life, right in my hands.’
He smiles. ‘Yes, but the christening?’
‘Oh. It was all right. I still don’t know the hymns.’
‘Ed and Alice seem very happy. Apparently they’ve been trying for a while.’
‘Yes, very
happy,’ I say. ‘And taking full advantage of a new reason to go shopping. Did you see their new pram in the hallway? It looks like something off a spaceship.’
He murmurs assent, and begins to rub my foot. Quinn gives lovely foot massages. Apparently one of his ex-girlfriends, Maya, taught him because she always had sore feet. She never knew that I’d be the one benefiting from her penchant for
ill-fitting shoes. It’s odd that every relationship we have, aside from the first one, is patched together from things we’ve learned already, habits we’ve formed with other people. I close my eyes and wonder what I’ve brought to my relationship with Quinn. The thing is, he’s quite different from anyone else I’ve ever been involved with.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Quinn.
‘Oh dear.’
‘Always dangerous,
I know.’ He runs his thumb up the arch of my foot, something that should tickle, but feels good. Sexy. ‘And Patrick said something today, which made me think about … and how lovely the christening was, and how happy Ed and Alice are, and their parents. I mean, I was wondering, do you think …’ He takes a breath. ‘Don’t you think it’s time we started trying for a baby?’
‘A baby?’ I sit up, pulling
my feet under me so I’m cross-legged, facing Quinn. He’s looking at me.
‘You know, little creatures,’ he says. ‘Drink milk. You’ve heard of them.’
‘I’ve heard of them, yes. I didn’t know you wanted one.’
‘You don’t think it’s a good idea to have a family?’
‘I … haven’t thought about it, to be honest. I mean, we’ve only just got married.’
‘A year next month.’
‘Really?’ A year, a whole year,
stretches behind me. Behind us. ‘That happened quickly.’
‘I thought that was one of the reasons we bought this house,’ he says. ‘Three bedrooms: one for us, one for your studio, one for a nursery. With room in the garden for an extension if we have more children.’
I thought we bought the cottage because we liked it. Because of the roses over the door and the cracks in the plaster and the golden
colour the thatch turns at sunset. I thought the third bedroom was a spare one.
‘I mentioned it at the time,’ Quinn says.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes.’ His voice is patient. ‘I told you how Mr and Mrs Ogden lived here all their lives and brought up three children here and then they grew old together here. I told you how their son Michael was my maths teacher at school. I said it was the right sort of place
for us to do the same thing.’
‘I must have forgotten.’
He lets out a short sigh of exasperation or disappointment.
‘I just haven’t thought about it,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know you had.’
‘I thought it was the normal next step.’
‘I don’t know. Is it? Are we a normal couple?’
‘Of course we are.’
But are we? I felt quite different from the other couples at the christening today, with their four-wheel-drive
cars, the couples with babies in carrycots or toddlers in clothes that require ironing. The couples who refer to ‘their other half’ and who talk about the desirability of local schools.