I wandered around in the garden picking up plums from under the tree, putting the good ones in a bucket and throwing the others across the lawn onto the compost pile. Some of them were covered with a shiny film which looked glamorous until you realised it was slug track. It was a clear still day. None of the neighbours were in their gardens and I was singing loudly to myself “I am Woman, hear me roar…” and reflecting that I still had a decent voice. I paused, imagining a head appearing out of a neighbouring window.
“Hey, you over there! What’s that you’re singing?”
“Who? Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Oh, it’s Helen Reddy’s ‘Woman’. Great song, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and you have a fantastic voice! Look, I’m a record producer and we’re looking for new talent to appeal to the more mature market. Why don’t you come over to my studio and we’ll talk about doing a demo?”
I was embarrassed to realise that I’d actually stopped singing in order to devote myself to my fantasy. I looked around. No sounds apart from a police siren and children somewhere in the next street. At thirty-six I was too old for such thoughts. One’s dreams of being discovered ought to die a graceful death somewhere in the mid-twenties. As I started singing again, I reflected that if a head appeared at a window, I shouldn’t get too excited – its owner would probably be telling me to keep the noise down.
When my bucket was overflowing I took it into the house. I ate seven of the softest plums in quick succession, letting the sticky sweet juice run down my chin and onto my T shirt. I savoured the taste and then splashed cold water onto my face to wash away the evidence. From the sitting room I could hear the strident sound of sports commentary. Simon was sitting in front of the television. The rugby was on and he was asleep. I have never met anyone who sleeps as much as Simon. It is the most irritating thing about him. When I see him sleeping I don’t want to stroke his cheek or tiptoe around him. I want to bring down a heavy object on his head and scream “Wake up!” into his ear. I don’t, of course, because I know that that would be a step too far. And deep down I know that my annoyance has nothing to do with him.
“What’s the score?” I said loudly, slamming the door behind me.
“Uuuh. Don’t know.”
He peered obviously at the tiny score line in the corner of the screen.
“England are winning.”
He straightened himself casually, trying to look as if he had been absolutely engrossed. As if I hadn’t noticed.
“I’ve got the plums in.”
“Oh, good.”
The rugby was the most important thing in his life.
“Do you want some tea?”
“Mmm. That’d be nice.”
The match was too gripping to allow him to glance away for a moment.
“Well, why don’t you go and get some then?” I said ungraciously, and picked up my book.
“Oh, Toni, for God’s sake! Can’t you se I’m watching the rugby?”
“Yes, I noticed. I noticed while I was mowing the lawn, weeding and picking up the plums. I could hear it blaring out of the bloody window. I think you were also watching the rugby while I was making lunch. Oh, no. Silly me. That was the golf.”
No reaction. I hated myself.
When I feel like this about him it’s hard to look at him and believe that sometimes I find him irresistible. It seems unlikely that I should ever slide my hand between his legs as we sit on the sofa and nip with my teeth at his earlobe until he turns to kiss me. I find it unpleasant to think that sometimes we make love there and then because we don’t want to delay for the time it takes to go upstairs. I don’t remember all the times when I look at him while he’s reading and interrupt him to tell him that I love him, or when I find messages on the answer phone telling me he’s going to be late and he misses me. I forget all those companionable, compatible times of our lives and I just see him as something totally foreign to me. It’s at times like this that I make bookings for travel on my own.
Just then, all I could think was that he was utterly, utterly boring, and my marriage was a tragic sham.
“Do you know, I congratulate myself on this relationship. I’m so pleased we decided to make it permanent. It’s so rewarding being with you.”
I was muttering in an ostentatious fashion. He tried stoically to ignore me but it was becoming too difficult even for him.
“What?” he asked patiently.
I looked at him coldly. He is what my mother calls ‘handsome-and-knows-it’. He likes corduroy and brogues. He is gentle and stable and good. He wears a kilt to weddings. He is the kind of person I always imagined I’d marry, totally different to all my other boyfriends. I knew that he’d be a good father when and if the time came.
“I’m bored with this relationship,” I said, and was slightly surprised to hear the words.
He sighed. He does that. His sighs are eloquent. This one was tired and irritated at the perceived needling into a fight and expressed the belief that it must be that time of the month again.
“Why’s that then, sweetie?”
With a monumental effort he angled his body away from the television to face me square on. He put his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands. He looked like a TV psychiatrist. I couldn’t be bothered to have the conversation; I didn’t even feel up to having a proper fight.
“Oh, never mind.” I said, getting up and leaving the room. As I closed the door behind me I heard the TV volume increase.
I didn’t mind. Some days I minded desperately when we argued. I would stage elaborate exits to make a point. The idea was that he should chase after me, should be all solicitude, asking for forgiveness for his perceived misdemeanours, begging me to come back to bed or wherever the row had taken place. If he didn’t I would be all knotted up and would end up going back to hug his sleeping body if it was night or apologise profusely if it was day. Now, though, I genuinely didn’t mind.
I made jam. I never, ever make jam. It’s too homely an activity – doesn’t strike the right note for the image of myself which I wish to cultivate. But I had to be away from him. I couldn’t get my book, because it was in there with him. I know myself – I would have been forced to launch another barb in his direction and then I’d just get even more irritated. I could have gone out but I had no money because my bag was in there too. And there was the basket of plums on the kitchen table. It held more than I could use for stewing, pies or crumble. So I made plum jam. Rather horrifyingly, I enjoyed it. The hot, syrupy smell of the bubbling fruit tasted better than the jam ever would. As I put my face over the pan and closed my eyes to sniff at my creation, the steam condensed on my face.
I went into the garden and lay on the grass. The wood pigeon in the top of the oak tree next door bridled and cooed and the leaves shuddered as he launched himself into the air. The ice-cream van’s jaunty tune came closer and then faded away. I concentrated on all the other sounds but I could still hear Grandstand.
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