Read Online A Rural Affair by Catherine Alliott - Free Book Online Page B

sandwich,’ Clemmie informed her grandly.
    ‘Good for you, Clem. Why bother with the old five a day, eh?’ She turned to me. ‘Jennie says you’re going to choir practice
     with her. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? You’ll be doing the church flowers with her next.’
    ‘Your mum’s very busy, Frankie,’ I told her. ‘And someone’s got to do it.’
    ‘Why?’ she said belligerently. ‘No one would notice if there weren’t any flowers in church, would they?’
    ‘Some people would.’
    ‘People like Jennie. So she does it for herself, in fact.’
    I could see she was pleased with that. Was probably storing it away to deploy on her stepmum later, when Jennie came home,
     tired. Normally I’d defend her, tell Frankie if everyone thought like that there wouldn’t be any community in the village,
     but somehow I couldn’t be bothered. Couldn’t raise the energy.
    ‘It’s like dusting,’ she was saying. ‘She’s got this thing, right, that you don’t do it any more, don’t hoover either, but
     what does it matter? So what if the dust builds up? Who was it said it gets to a certain level and doesn’t get any thicker?’
    ‘Quentin Crisp,’ I said distantly. Dust? Why were we talking about dust? Oh, as in ashes to ashes.
    ‘You see?’ she said admiringly. ‘You know things like that. Cos you read, which is more than Jennie does. Who was he, anyway?’
    ‘The last of the stately homos. At least that’s what he called himself. D’you want a cracker, Frankie?’
    ‘No, you’re all right. You’d better go, though. She’ll get stressy if you don’t turn up. D’you want to brush your hair?’
    ‘No, thanks. Do you?’
    ‘Not really. Shall I do Clemmie’s?’
    ‘Sure.’
    My daughter slipped down shyly from the table and ran off to get her Barbie hairbrush. Such was her admiration of Frankie,
     she could hardly speak for the first five minutes of her visit. I got heavily to my feet and went to pluck my coat from the
     back of the door.
    ‘School breaks up soon,’ Frankie said abruptly, apropos of nothing. ‘Half-term. Can’t wait.’
    ‘So it does,’ I agreed. Ages away, actually; but for a sixteen-year-old it was like a drink in the desert. A reprieve from
     the daily grind winking away in the distance: lie-ins in the mornings, night life in the evenings. Never quite the reality,
     obviously: lashings of rain and endless boredom with the odd gnomic exchange with an equally bored mate in McDonald’s, but
     the idea was good. Like most ideas. Marriage. Children. In fact wasn’t most of the joy in life derived from the planning,
     the theory? I must remember that. Plan more, do less.
    ‘So what are you going to do with yourself this holiday?’ I forced myself to say conversationally. Never let it be said I
     couldn’t string two words together, something I’m sure
I heard Yvonne in the shop say about me to Mrs Pritchard, as I left her premises earlier today with my pint of milk.
    ‘I thought I might get pregnant.’
    I was shrugging my coat on at the door, facing away from her. I turned.
    ‘Why not? Mum did it.’
    ‘Jennie didn’t –’
    ‘No, my mum. She was sixteen.’
    ‘Oh.’
    We stared at one another. She gave a hint of a smile. ‘You’re not that far gone, are you? Not completely mental.’
    Ah. Shock tactics. ‘Nice one, Frankie.’
    ‘Still, I might, though,’ she said defensively.
    ‘Got anyone in mind?’
    ‘No,’ she said sulkily, deflated in an instant, alive to the poverty of her plan. I wished I hadn’t asked. ‘There’s Jason
     Crowley at school, but he’d never shack up with me. Just want a quick shag. That’s the whole point,’ she said, dark eyes flashing.
    ‘What, a quick shag?’
    ‘No, to shack up, get out of there.’ She jerked her head next door. ‘Or there’s Mr Hennessy, my biology teacher; he’s really
     fit, but he’s got a wife and kids which isn’t ideal, is it?’
    ‘Not … ideal.’ Where was I going? I stared at the door.