Have you lost your marbles? Where on earth do you think youre off to? Arent you scared of anything? Not even the devil or the vicar? Well have to get divorced, simple as that!
With these charming words, my husband burst into the room, his eyes as red as a beetroot. I simply couldnt fathom what on earth had gotten into him. Hes normally as unflappable as a cup of tea. So why this sudden melodrama? What on earth had exploded in his head?
Everyone present sat perfectly still, fluttering their eyelashes like startled owls. So what was I supposed to do, leg it? The only spots nearby were the cricket pitch, the pond, and a gaggle of kids from the summer camp. The nearest village is a good four miles away, and public transport here is more myth than reality.
Dont even think about it! Right, well have a proper chat about this when were on our own! hubby declared fiercely, slamming the door behind him before stomping off like a grumpy John Cleese.
Five minutes later, the penny dropped. Allow me to explain what actually happened…
My son, Harry, is seven and was out and about with his mates near the pond. It was still far too nippy to swim, mind you. The bigger kids braved the water, while the little ones lounged by the campfire, roasting marshmallows. One chilly evening, as the fire cast its glow, one of the local anglers showed up. He moored his boat at the edge, sidled over to warm up, and soon enough the children swarmed him with questionshow many fish did he catch, could they have a ride in his boat, and so on.
The angler, as it happens, was a right friendly sort and started pulling out a few perch from his bag, promising hed take the lot of them on his boat, but only if their grown-ups gave the nod.
He didnt know anyones names, couldnt put a face to half the kids there, and vice versa. A few days passed and, by sheer coincidence, he was moored up again, this time fishless. He recognised my Harry.
Oi, youngun, nip off and ask your mum if she fancies a row on my boatanyones welcome, the angler said to him.
Instead of coming to me, my dear boy rushed straight to his dad and poured out the whole tale.
Dad! Theres some odd bloke waiting in the bushes for Mum, wants to take her out on his boat!
Can you just imagine the wild ideas that mustve marched through my husbands mind? Of course, Harry hadnt meant any harmhe just didnt want anything dodgy happening. But the way he told the story, I was suddenly the main suspect in a plot for scandal. Cue outrage from my husband, who was halfway to ringing the solicitor. We were nearly divorced over a rowing boat! It took several days, plenty of tea, and numerous denials to clear my nameLater that evening, while Harry snuggled under the covers clutching his marshmallow-sticky teddy, I found my husband outside, brooding next to the empty birdbath with two mugs of cocoaone for me, one for his pride. We shared a silence spiced by crickets and faraway laughter. Finally, I nudged him and asked, So do I send you my lawyers number in case any other mysterious boats come calling?
He winced, letting out a hopeless sort of chuckle, and then drew me into a one-armed hug, warm and awkward. Promise me youll only ever elope with someone who at least owns an outboard motor.
Deal, I replied, planting a marshmallow on his nose.
By bedtime, the strange magic of misunderstanding had faded into something sweeter than chocolatepure, absurd relief. And all I could think, as I drifted off to sleep listening to the sleepy hush of water against the reeds, was this: next time the devil or the vicar comes calling, Id better mind what Harry overhears. Otherwise, it might be me lugging a suitcase past the frog pond, rethinking my plansone wild tale at a time.
