The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [36]
Of course he didn't say ‘yes, dear’, but if we'd been a couple in the fifties, or in an Andy Capp cartoon, or Thelma and George, he would have done. No, he said words to that effect. Whatever you want, Evie. Wearily. Like a punch-bag. And then later that evening, when we were back at his rooms in Balliol where I was pretty much living, he'd gone out. For quite a long while. And I'd been a bit scared. Knew I'd been out of order. Pissed, too. And later in bed, I'd apologized.
‘I'm sorry, darling, I'm going too fast. Forget it. I won't come off the pill.’
He hadn't answered. He'd turned over and we'd gone to sleep. Eventually.
‘So you went out and shagged a barmaid!’ I shrieked last night, like another cartoon character, perhaps the one whose ankles you see in Tom and Jerry, with the crinkled stockings and the rolling pin. ‘Christ, Ant, how many times? Once? Twice? Or perhaps you went on a weekly basis?’
‘Once!’ he roared, fists clenched. ‘I told you – just once!’
Ant never raised his voice. Never ever shouted at me, or at Anna, but instead of being shocked, I seized on it. I shouted back, wondered how many other bastard children he had littered about the country. Finally, Anna had burst into the kitchen in her nightie, wide-eyed and scared.
‘What? What's going on?’
Ashamed, we'd simmered right down, and gone quickly to bed, assuring her nothing; scared ourselves now, in case she'd heard anything. And now, here she was again, bursting into my bedroom, her eyes like dinner plates.
‘Mum! Come on. I said we'd be twenty minutes!’
‘Right,’ I agreed shortly, getting up.
I hurriedly found some shoes and brushed my teeth, then I followed her downstairs and out to the car, shutting the door on Brenda, who wanted to come with us. Anna was in her jodhpurs and boots, her hat swinging impatiently in her hand as she stood by the car, waiting for me to unlock it. My head was swimming and I felt nauseous.
‘D'you know where we're going?’ she asked accusingly as I got in.
‘Um. No. Hang on.’ I got out and tottered back inside for the directions.
When I got back, she was sitting in the front seat looking straight ahead, stony-faced. I fumbled with the ignition and off we went.
‘What were you and Daddy rowing about last night?’ she said, before we'd even got ten yards down the road.
‘Hm? Oh, nothing really, darling.’
‘Nothing!’ She swivelled to face me in her seat. ‘You were screaming and calling him a bastard and Daddy was shouting. I hardly call that nothing.’
‘Oh, it was just… a silly thing. About holidays. You know I always want to go abroad and your father likes Scotland. That was all.’
‘Oh.’ She looked slightly mollified, but not entirely convinced. ‘Bit strong for a holiday argument, wasn't it?’ she said at length. ‘You were crying too.’
‘Yes, well, you know, wrong time of the month. Makes monsters of us. Where is Daddy, by the way? Have you seen him this morning?’
‘He's in the garden. Reading.’
‘Ah.’ Reading. Always his refuge. His escape. From me? I took a deep breath. Let it out shakily. Come on, Evie, get a grip. ‘Now, anyway,’ I turned a bright smile on her, ‘this pony. How exciting! I wonder what colour it is.’
‘It's a skewbald, he said on the phone.’
‘What's that, then?’
‘Brown and white.’
‘Oh.’ I blinked. ‘I could have sworn the advert said it was grey.’
‘So you do know what colour it is.’ Still belligerent, accusing. Not letting me off lightly. I knew I had to raise my game.
‘Oh, well, maybe it's grey, or maybe it's brown and white,’ I said lightly. ‘Or maybe it's grey and brown and white?’
She shot me a withering look. ‘It's down here on the left, according to your bit of paper.’
‘Here?