For the last ten years, my husband has dutifully gone to his mothers cottage to dig up potatoes. When I finally decided to tag alongshock horrorhis mum had been gone for five years already, and the house was inhabited by a young woman with triplets
Saturday mornings always started with the same sacred ritual, honed to perfection over a decade.
Andrew stood by the open boot of his sensible SUV, methodically stacking empty canvas bags on top of his toolbox. The slump of his back in that ancient windcheater expressed a Shakespearean depth of sorrow and a readiness to sacrifice himself on the altar of Mother England.
Elena, Im off then, dont miss me too much, he called out, not bothering to look up as he fiddled with the locks on his bag. Mums fence has all but collapsed, and I need to change the posts. And its the perfect time to earth up the spuds before the autumn rains start.
I watched from the kitchen window, clutching my tea so tightly the heat was borderline third-degree burns.
Of course, go and perform your filial duty, I replied evenly, my voice blending with the hum of the fridge. Send my love to your mum. Tell her to take care.
He gave a distracted nod, slammed the boot shut, and within a minute his car was off, disappearing round the bend of the estate. For the past five years, rain or shine, Andrew had turbocharged himself off every weekend to work the land at his mothers old place in Saxonby.
A model British son and an agricultural hero all in one.
Id only just set my mug on the table when my mobile trilled in the hall with the urgency of a fire alarm. Caller ID: my old school friend Natalie, who now worked in the councils registry.
Ellie, you wanted me to check up on your mother-in-laws records for that benefit application, yeah? Natalie sounded a bit winded, as if shed legged it up four flights of stairs. I triple-checked the system and, trust me, the council database doesnt lie.
What is itoutstanding council tax? I said, boredly leafing through the mountain of bills, not expecting revelations.
Ellie Your mother-in-law, Zina Douglas, died five years ago. Death certificate, issued May, 2019.
My legs wobbled as if Id just dodged a black cab hurtling through Oxford Street. I gripped the chair for support.
She died? How can that be? Andrews just driving there now, laden with vitamins and groceries.
I dont know what or who hes grocery shopping for, love, Natalie replied bluntly, cutting off my delusions as cleanly as only a civil servant can. The registered resident now is some Polly Graham, twenty-five, and shes got three kids under five.
A ringing started in my ears, my cheeks flushed, but I forced myself to breathe steadily. A young woman, twenty-five, with triplets?
Hed been using his late mother as a pretext for five years, supporting a secret second family in the sticks?
I eyed my car keys on the hall table. No rage, just the hollow cold shock of someone dropped, fully clothed, into a frozen pond.
The drive to Saxonby took just over two hours, all of which I spent in a thoughtless vacuum, even refusing the comfort of BBC Radio 2. All I could imagine was a picture of a quaint cottage, a hammock in the apple trees, and some leggy woman handing my husband a cold pint.
I expected to find a love nest funded by my nerves and our current account.
But reality socked my eardrums as soon as I killed the engine outside those familiar green gates. It wasnt a country idyllit was the fourth circle of chaos.
The newly erected fence was posh, tall, the only evidence of improvement, but there was none of the typical English garden birdsongjust a chorus of unrelenting, vibrato screeching that could deafen a dog and shred ones very molars.
I tried the gate; locked from the inside.
I squelched through the back field past waist-high nettles and burdock. No potatoes, no veg plot, not even a tired old greenhouse. Just trampled turf and Everest-sized piles of broken plasticknackered toys, bits of LEGO, plastic bathtubs.
Approaching the conservatory window, I could see the glass vibrate with the noise.
Inside, harsh lights blazed over a wreck of a room. Front and centre: a young woman who looked less like a homewrecker, more like the living dead. Hair a birds nest, grey shadows under her eyes, and the air of someone held together with little more than caffeine and misplaced hope.
At her feetthree absolutely identical, wailing babies, crawling about like a pack of teething piranhas.
She was yelling into her phone, barely audible over the banshee chorus:
Dad! Where are you? You promised youd be here an hour ago! All three need changing againI cant do this! Bring formula! And wipes! Dad! Seriously!
Dad?
My mental puzzle pieces clunked into place. This wasnt about secret lovers. This was a full-on familial cover-up.
Just then, Andrews car complained its way up the drive. I melted behind a jasmine bush, handy shovel handle within reachjust in case.
Andrew emerged bent in half, each hand clutching industrial-sized bags of Pampers, a gym bag bulging with baby food dangling off one shoulder. He looked less romantic lead, more beast of burden in a domestic epic.
The gate rattled. He stumbled onto the path, narrowly missing a mangled tricycle.
Polly! Im here! he called with the resignation of a convict sent to the gallows.
I stepped out, swinging the shovel like a cricket bat.
Evening, Farmer Giles.
Andrew recoiled as if tasered, dropping the nappies into the autumn mud with a cartoonish squelch.
Elena?!
Thats right. Ive come to help with the heavy harvest. I see the crops doing well this yeartriple yield? I nodded toward the window, just as another wail made my fillings rattle. Oh, and your mums looking suspiciously more sprightly and well, considerably younger.
Elena, its not what you think. Please, just let me explain! Andrew backed up, hands raised.
Five years, Andrew. You lied straight to my face. Five years, sneaking off under the guise of gardening at your mothers, while all the time
Polly appeared, a baby in one arm and a filthy nappy in the other.
Dad! Whos she?! Is this the wicked step-mum you warned me aboutthe battle-axe who doesnt let you breathe?!
Battle-axe, am I?
I advanced, relishing the moment. Andrew flattened himself against the new steel fence, aware there was no escape.
Well then, my darlings. Time for a bit of weedingI fancy uprooting a few home truths.
Elena, dont! Dont hurt her! Andrew threw himself in front of Polly. Shes my daughter!
I stopped dead. The shovel grew heavy in my hand.
Daughter? Your daughter? Andrew, we only have one childDenis. Hes twenty and off at uni.
Its from before you and I met. A mistake of youth. Andrews words tumbled in a panic as sweat rolled down his forehead. I didnt know about her, I swear. My mum told me on her deathbed, gave me this address.
He paused, gasping, wiping his face with his sleeve.
I turned up here five years agoafter Mum died. Found Polly by herself, her mother had died as well. She was living in a dump. I felt sorry for her, started helping, built the fence, did up the house while she finished her studies.
Pollys anger collapsed and she started sobbing, mascara streaking down her face.
And a year ago well, her boyfriend bolted as soon as he heard about the triplets. Andrew waved vaguely at the chaos of the house. Elena, I couldnt just abandon themtheyd have starved! Triplets are sheer hell. I come up so Polly can napjust a few hours, thats all.
Id be dead without him! Polly wailed, clutching the nearest baby. He doesnt loaf about! He scrubs floors, changes nappies, rocks them half the night!
I looked at Andrewashen-faced, bags under his eyes, hands shaking.
So you werent up here lounging with a mistress, then. Youve been changing triple sets of nappies every weekend?
Absolutely! His voice cracked to an embarrassing high note. Elena, this is purgatory. Come Monday, I cant wait to sit at my desk in peace! But this is my family; theyre my grandchildren.
He stopped, head bowed, awaiting my verdict.
I looked from the squalling infants to Polly, worn so thin she might snap. My suspicions of infidelity vanished, replaced by a chilly sort of understanding.
He wasnt a cad or a cheat; just a coward, heroically putting himself through domestic torture in secret.
So, Im a monster nowa battle-axe you couldnt tell the truth to? I asked, voice all ice.
I strode up to Polly, who wilted against the wall. I scooped the nearest, loudest babya heavy, hot little boyfrom her arms.
I bounced him on my hip, patted his back like an old pro. Stunned by new hands, he quietened.
Well, Grandpa Andrew. Youve really put your foot in it now.
In what way? Andrew asked nervously, fiddling with a nappy packet.
You expecting me to divorce you? Not a chance. I snorted, adjusting the babys onesie. Divorce is the easy way out for you, and entirely too inconvenient for me.
Turning to Polly, I fixed her with a frank stare.
Rightyou. Baby in playpen, you straight in the shower then bed. Ill keep cannons quiet for four hours, minimum.
She blinked, almost not believing her sudden luck.
And you?
Im assuming the role of granny, temporary and unpaid. Andrewkitchen. Heat the formula. Water to precisely thirty-seven degrees. Chop chop.
And you? he tried quietly.
Im ringing Denis. Needs cash for a new gaming computerhe can come and dig potatoes with you. Good for his coordination.
Andrew turned chalky, picturing his sons reaction.
Ellie, maybe not drag Denis into
He needs to learn, Andrew. Oh, and by the way I cut in. Youre a card-carrying granddad now; Ill need your salary account for safe-keeping.
What for? he squeaked.
The triplets need real cots, a proper triple buggynot whatever that Skip-fare tat is out there. And me? I need a compensation package. Been craving a mink coat and a weeks spa breaktotal silence, total solitude.
I bounced a now-dozy baby while I spoke.
As for you lotcrack on. I expect that garden properly dug by the time I get back from my treatment. Otherwise, Ill reveal your secret to the lads at the pub, tell everyone youre not a wheeler-dealer, but the districts top wet nurse.
Andrew hoisted his bags and shuffled inside, looking every inch the man broken by the weight of his double life.
I inhaled the autumn air. Not the scent of bonfires and crisp leaves, but baby powder and sour milk. At last, this chaos was manageable, with the remote control all mine.
A month later, I sat on my veranda, wrapped in my brand-new mink (because, why not, its Englandmild autumn, zero reason not to), when my phone pinged. Message from the bankfresh wages into my control.
Then a photo: Andrew and Denis, filthy but oddly cheerful, pushing an enormous triple pushchair with the force and terror of a small army.
I smiled and sipped my hot coffee. Everyone in life has their particular cross to bear. Andrew, I suspect, has finally found his.
Let me know what you think about this little sagaId love to hear it!
