Me Before You
Page 41
All these thoughts tumbled around my head as I got off the bus and walked down the hill. And then I got to the corner of our road and heard the shouting, felt the slight vibration in the air, and it was all briefly forgotten.
A small crowd had gathered around our house. I picked up my pace, afraid that something had happened, but then I saw my parents on the porch, peering up, and realized it wasn’t our house at all. It was just the latest in a long series of small wars that characterized our neighbours’ marriage.
That Richard Grisham was not the most faithful of husbands was hardly news in our street. But judging by the scene in his front garden, it might have been to his wife.
‘You must have thought I was bloody stupid. She was wearing your T-shirt! The one I had made for you for your birthday!’
‘Baby … Dympna … it’s not what you think.’
‘I went in for your bloody Scotch eggs! And there she was, wearing it! Bold as brass! And I don’t even like Scotch eggs!’
I slowed my pace, pushing my way through the small crowd until I was able to get to our gate, watching as Richard ducked to avoid a DVD player. Next came a pair of shoes.
‘How long have they been at it?’
My mother, her apron tucked neatly around her waist, unfolded her arms and glanced down at her watch. ‘It’s a good three-quarters of an hour. Bernard, would you say it’s a good three-quarters of an hour?’
‘Depends if you time it from when she threw the clothes out or when he came back and found them.’
‘I’d say when he came home.’
Dad considered this. ‘Then it’s really closer to half an hour. She got a good lot out of the window in the first fifteen minutes, though.’
‘Your dad says if she really does kick him out this time he’s going to put in a bid for Richard’s Black and Decker.’
The crowd had grown, and Dympna Grisham showed no sign of letting up. If anything, she seemed encouraged by the increasing size of her audience.
‘You can take her your filthy books,’ she yelled, hurling a shower of magazines out of the window.
These prompted a small cheer among the crowd.
‘See if she likes you sitting in the loo with those for half of Sunday afternoon, eh?’ She disappeared inside, and then reappeared at the window, hauling the contents of a laundry basket down on to what remained of the lawn. ‘And your filthy undercrackers. See if she thinks you’re such a – what was it? – hot stud when she’s washing those for you every day!’
Richard was vainly scooping up armfuls of his stuff as it landed on the grass. He was yelling something up at the window, but against the general noise and catcalls it was hard to make it out. As if briefly admitting defeat, he pushed his way through the crowd, unlocked his car, hauled an armful of his belongings on to the rear seat, and shoved the car door shut. Oddly, whereas his CD collection and video games had been quite popular, no one made a move on his dirty laundry.
Crash. There was a brief hush as his stereo met the path.
He looked up in disbelief. ‘You crazy bitch!’
‘You’re shagging that disease-ridden cross-eyed troll from the garage, and I’m the crazy bitch?’
My mother turned to my father. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Bernard? I think it’s turning a little chilly.’
My dad didn’t take his eyes off next door. ‘That would be great, love. Thank you.’
It was as my mother went indoors that I noticed the car. It was so unexpected that at first I didn’t recognize it – Mrs Traynor’s Mercedes, navy blue, low-slung and discreet. She pulled up, peering out at the scene on the pavement, and hesitated a moment before she climbed out. She stood, staring at the various houses, perhaps checking the numbers. And then she saw me.
I slid out from the porch and was down the path before Dad could ask where I was going. Mrs Traynor stood to the side of the crowd, gazing at the chaos like Marie Antoinette viewing a load of rioting peasants.
‘Domestic dispute,’ I said.
She looked away, as if almost embarrassed to have been caught looking. ‘I see.’
‘It’s a fairly constructive one by their standards. They’ve been going to marriage guidance.’
Her elegant wool suit, pearls and expensive hair were enough to mark her out in our street, among the sweatpants and cheap fabrics in bright, chain-store colours. She appeared rigid, worse than the morning she had come home to find me sleeping in Will’s room. I registered in some distant part of my mind that I was not going to miss Camilla Traynor.
‘I was wondering if you and I could have a little talk.’ She had to lift her voice to be heard over the cheering.
Mrs Grisham was now throwing out Richard’s fine wines. Every exploding bottle was greeted with squeals of delight and another heartfelt outburst of pleading from Mr Grisham. A river of red wine ran through the feet of the crowd and into the gutter.
I glanced over at the crowd and then behind me at the house. I could not imagine bringing Mrs Traynor into our front room, with its litter of toy trains, Granddad snoring mutely in front of the television, Mum spraying air-freshener around to hide the smell of Dad’s socks, and Thomas popping by to murmur bugger at the new guest.
‘Um … it’s not a great time.’
‘Perhaps we could talk in my car? Look, just five minutes, Louisa. Surely you owe us that.’
A couple of my neighbours glanced in my direction as I climbed into the car. I was lucky that the Grishams were the hot news of the evening, or I might have been the topic of conversation. In our street, if you climbed into an expensive car it meant you had either pulled a footballer or were being arrested by plain-clothes police.
A small crowd had gathered around our house. I picked up my pace, afraid that something had happened, but then I saw my parents on the porch, peering up, and realized it wasn’t our house at all. It was just the latest in a long series of small wars that characterized our neighbours’ marriage.
That Richard Grisham was not the most faithful of husbands was hardly news in our street. But judging by the scene in his front garden, it might have been to his wife.
‘You must have thought I was bloody stupid. She was wearing your T-shirt! The one I had made for you for your birthday!’
‘Baby … Dympna … it’s not what you think.’
‘I went in for your bloody Scotch eggs! And there she was, wearing it! Bold as brass! And I don’t even like Scotch eggs!’
I slowed my pace, pushing my way through the small crowd until I was able to get to our gate, watching as Richard ducked to avoid a DVD player. Next came a pair of shoes.
‘How long have they been at it?’
My mother, her apron tucked neatly around her waist, unfolded her arms and glanced down at her watch. ‘It’s a good three-quarters of an hour. Bernard, would you say it’s a good three-quarters of an hour?’
‘Depends if you time it from when she threw the clothes out or when he came back and found them.’
‘I’d say when he came home.’
Dad considered this. ‘Then it’s really closer to half an hour. She got a good lot out of the window in the first fifteen minutes, though.’
‘Your dad says if she really does kick him out this time he’s going to put in a bid for Richard’s Black and Decker.’
The crowd had grown, and Dympna Grisham showed no sign of letting up. If anything, she seemed encouraged by the increasing size of her audience.
‘You can take her your filthy books,’ she yelled, hurling a shower of magazines out of the window.
These prompted a small cheer among the crowd.
‘See if she likes you sitting in the loo with those for half of Sunday afternoon, eh?’ She disappeared inside, and then reappeared at the window, hauling the contents of a laundry basket down on to what remained of the lawn. ‘And your filthy undercrackers. See if she thinks you’re such a – what was it? – hot stud when she’s washing those for you every day!’
Richard was vainly scooping up armfuls of his stuff as it landed on the grass. He was yelling something up at the window, but against the general noise and catcalls it was hard to make it out. As if briefly admitting defeat, he pushed his way through the crowd, unlocked his car, hauled an armful of his belongings on to the rear seat, and shoved the car door shut. Oddly, whereas his CD collection and video games had been quite popular, no one made a move on his dirty laundry.
Crash. There was a brief hush as his stereo met the path.
He looked up in disbelief. ‘You crazy bitch!’
‘You’re shagging that disease-ridden cross-eyed troll from the garage, and I’m the crazy bitch?’
My mother turned to my father. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Bernard? I think it’s turning a little chilly.’
My dad didn’t take his eyes off next door. ‘That would be great, love. Thank you.’
It was as my mother went indoors that I noticed the car. It was so unexpected that at first I didn’t recognize it – Mrs Traynor’s Mercedes, navy blue, low-slung and discreet. She pulled up, peering out at the scene on the pavement, and hesitated a moment before she climbed out. She stood, staring at the various houses, perhaps checking the numbers. And then she saw me.
I slid out from the porch and was down the path before Dad could ask where I was going. Mrs Traynor stood to the side of the crowd, gazing at the chaos like Marie Antoinette viewing a load of rioting peasants.
‘Domestic dispute,’ I said.
She looked away, as if almost embarrassed to have been caught looking. ‘I see.’
‘It’s a fairly constructive one by their standards. They’ve been going to marriage guidance.’
Her elegant wool suit, pearls and expensive hair were enough to mark her out in our street, among the sweatpants and cheap fabrics in bright, chain-store colours. She appeared rigid, worse than the morning she had come home to find me sleeping in Will’s room. I registered in some distant part of my mind that I was not going to miss Camilla Traynor.
‘I was wondering if you and I could have a little talk.’ She had to lift her voice to be heard over the cheering.
Mrs Grisham was now throwing out Richard’s fine wines. Every exploding bottle was greeted with squeals of delight and another heartfelt outburst of pleading from Mr Grisham. A river of red wine ran through the feet of the crowd and into the gutter.
I glanced over at the crowd and then behind me at the house. I could not imagine bringing Mrs Traynor into our front room, with its litter of toy trains, Granddad snoring mutely in front of the television, Mum spraying air-freshener around to hide the smell of Dad’s socks, and Thomas popping by to murmur bugger at the new guest.
‘Um … it’s not a great time.’
‘Perhaps we could talk in my car? Look, just five minutes, Louisa. Surely you owe us that.’
A couple of my neighbours glanced in my direction as I climbed into the car. I was lucky that the Grishams were the hot news of the evening, or I might have been the topic of conversation. In our street, if you climbed into an expensive car it meant you had either pulled a footballer or were being arrested by plain-clothes police.
