‘You’re quite right,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before. Three floor-length winceyette nightdresses it is, and perhaps I should buy a bedjacket to go with them. Perhaps you’d like me to wear a nightcap in bed, too? Ooh, and socks of course. We wouldn’t want total strangers to see our feet, would we?’
‘You’d be wearing slippers,’ he muttered crossly, then his eyes widened. ‘Oh! You wouldn’t be! Not if you were in bed. Perhaps bed socksarethe best idea now I come to think about it. Yes, we’ll add a couple of pairs each to the basket.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘I don’t even want any pyjamas. What’s all this about, really?’
I couldn’t help wondering if he’d had some terrible dream about a fire or something. Maybe it was how his anxieties over our marriage were manifesting themselves.
When he didn’t reply I decided to humour him. ‘Okay. How about these?’ I suggested, picking up a pair of perfectly decent, if a little dull, blue pyjamas, with a plain top and checked trousers. ‘And these?’ A similar pair with plain pink top and spotted trousers.
Rory seemed to calm down a bit. ‘They’ll do perfectly well,’ he said. ‘And I think these would be appropriate for me.’
He’d found some men’s pyjamas with a long-sleeved grey top and grey and black tartan bottoms.
‘Three pairs I think,’ he said, checking the sizes and adding them to the basket. ‘Now we’ll just get the bed socks and we’re done here.’
I decided to humour him, even though hell would freeze over before I’d wear socks in bed. It was all right for him, but thehot flashespyjamas weren’t really a joke. I was nearly forty-five and the menopause could be upon me at any moment. When that happened, the last thing I’d need would be to be bundled up in pyjamas and thick socks. He’d be lucky if I even kept the duvet on the bed.
And if he thought I was going to let him come to bed in socks he could think again.
When we’d finally paid for our pointless goods and left the shop, we headed to a cafe where we had a quick lunch of sandwiches and cake, before making our way back to the station to catch the train to Harling’s Halt.
‘Have you had a nice time?’ Rory enquired politely.
‘Lovely,’ I replied, equally politely. It hadn’t been a total waste of time. I’d managed to buy a special edition of a book I’d wanted for ages, with sprayed edges and a shiny jacket complete with gold foil lettering, so that was an unexpected treat. And the sandwiches and cake had been tasty enough. And I couldn’t deny that it had been fun to travel on a steam train. I was quite looking forward to repeating that.
Even so, everything felt off somehow. Rory was behaving very strangely, and as the bus arrived back in the village and we neared the church, he glanced at his watch and said worriedly, ‘It’s twenty past two! Can you take these back to our room and I’ll see you later.’
‘You’re not getting off?’ I asked, as he thrust the bags into my lap.
‘Going straight on to Chipping Royston,’ he reminded me. ‘Tickets. Car museum. Remember?’
‘Does this busgoto Chipping Royston?’ I asked doubtfully, getting to my feet and juggling the bags.
‘Yep. Already checked. So I’ll see you later back at the inn, yeah?’
‘Okay.’
He didn’t make any attempt to stand up to kiss me, or even say goodbye, so I headed down to the front of the bus where the conductor – not the conductress this time, thank goodness – bid me a cheery farewell as I stepped down onto the pavement.
I watched the bus drive away, but Rory didn’t even look in my direction, so I scowled and set off for The Quicken Tree Inn, carrying bags of pyjamas and bed socks and wondering what the hell was going on.
And to think, I’d thoughtI’dbe the one to snap and lose the plot!
Back at the inn I dumped the shopping bags in our room, took off my coat and shoes and sat down, wondering what to do with myself for the rest of the afternoon. There was that new book I’d just bought. I supposed I could read that.
I thought about Rory, off looking at old motor cars and vans and probably having a whale of a time without me, and I felt a flicker of annoyance.He’dbeen the one to bring me here.He’dbeen the one who’d insisted we needed to work on our marriage.He’dbeen the one to inflict that awful nightwear on me.
I gave the pyjamas and bed socks a look of disgust, which quickly gave way to despair. That Rory, of all people, would happily see me wearing that sort of get-up for bed! And was he really going to wear those grey pyjamas and socks every night? It didn’t bear thinking about. If he wanted our marriage to survive, he was going the wrong way about it.
I picked up the book and flicked through the first few pages but couldn’t get into it. I read the blurb. I gazed at the quotes and praise from other authors on the outside of the back cover and the author bio on the inside. I skimmed the first few pages.
I put the book down.
It was hopeless. My mind was racing and I couldn’t settle. I just didn’t understand what was going on. I’d have thought Rory would have jumped at the chance to visit the spot where Danny died so we could both pay our respects and find some sort of closure.
Not that I really believed it would work for me. I knew that I’d just be going through the motions really, because laying flowers and saying goodbye wasn’t going to solve the problem of my guilty conscience. Even so, I’d been willing to try because I loved Rory, and I wanted – and really hoped – it would work. That it would be enough.
Maybe Rory doubted that it would work, too, deep down. Maybe that was why he’d seemed so reluctant to carry out the little ritual.
