A Rural Affair Read Online Free PDF Page B

little by little, drip by drip, as the months, then the years ticked by, I was coming
     to the mind-numbing conclusion that I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.
    My epiphany came as I was standing at the kitchen window one Thursday morning, on one of my precious days off from work, looking
     at the list of ‘Things to Do’ he’d left me, the last of which read: Have your hair cut.
    I reached for the phone to tell Jennie I needed a coffee, pronto, and also to tell her I was leaving him. Her answering machine
     was on. I knew she was in, though, because I’d seen her in the garden a few moments earlier. I was about to go round and tell
     her, when I stopped off in the downstairs loo, and saw the pregnancy test he’d left me. It was open, with a note propped on
     one of the sticks.
    Poppy – pee on this today. You’re day 14.
    I sighed but peed on it nevertheless, thinking it was the last thing I would ever do for him. Then I watched the blue line
     darken, and realized I was pregnant.
    As I slowly went back into the kitchen, the telephone rang.
    ‘Poppy? Did you ring?’
    ‘Hm? Oh. Yes, hi, Jennie.’
    ‘You OK? You sound a bit down.’
    ‘No, no, I’m fine.’
    ‘D’you want to come round for a quick coffee? I’ve got literally twenty minutes before I pick Jamie up from school.’
    ‘Er, no. Better not. I’ve got the ironing to finish.’
    ‘This afternoon? Cup of tea?’
    ‘Actually, Jennie, I think I’m going to have my hair cut.’

3
    The funeral took place a week later and was indeed dreadful. Much worse than I’d imagined or even Jennie had prophesied, but
     perhaps for different reasons. The brightness of the day and the pure blue sky didn’t help, adding poignancy somehow, throwing
     the occasion into relief. Ancient yews cast long dramatic shadows across the churchyard and villagers were silhouetted starkly
     as they left their cottages, one by one or in hushed groups, following the haunting relentless toll of the bell, wreaths in
     hand ready to lay at the church door. Inside a sorrowful aroma of dank stone, polish and candle wax prevailed. Our tiny church
     was full, as Jennie had also grimly predicted, the respectful silence broken only by the odd hushed whisper or rustle of skirts
     as people took their seats, casting me sympathetic glances the while as I swallowed hard in the front pew, biting my lip.
     One week on and I felt utterly drained and exhausted. A small part of me was relieved at that. How awful would it have been
     to stand here at my husband’s funeral singing ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ and not to have a lump in my throat? Not to have to
     count to ten and dig my nails hard in my hand as the organ struck a mournful chord, everyone got to their feet, and the coffin
     processed up the aisle?
    Three of Phil’s cycling cronies were pall-bearers: tall, skinny and anaemic-looking to a man. Each what my dad would call
     a long streak of piss. The fourth was my father
himself, who’s tiny, so that the coffin, I realized in horror, leaned precariously his way. And his shoulders sloped at the
     best of times. The congregation collectively held its breath as the coffin made its way, at quite an alarming angle, to the
     front, Dad’s knees seeming to buckle under the strain with every step. The cyclists had to stop more than once to let him
     get more of a grip, but finally the altar was achieved. I shut my eyes as the coffin was lowered. There was, admittedly, a
     bit of a clatter and a muffled ‘Fuck’ from Dad, but I think only I heard. My father glanced round as he straightened up, unable
     to resist making eye contact, to suggest he’d done really rather well, under the circumstances.
    I gave a small smile back as he puffed out his chest and stood respectfully a moment, head bowed over the coffin. The other
     pall-bearers had dispersed. That’ll do, Dad, I thought nervously, as the seconds ticked by. My father may be small, five foot
     seven in his socks, but he’s