have to think it through, Jims,” said Zillah.
“Okey-dokey, only don’t take too long over it. I’ll give you a bell tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow, Jims. Thursday. I’ll have decided by Thursday.”
“You’ll decide in my favor, won’t you, sweet? I’ll say I love you if you like, it’s almost true. Oh, and about the open marriage aspect, you’d understand, wouldn’t you, if I draw the line at that ex-husband of yours? I’m sure you know what I mean.”
After he’d gone, in the Range Rover, not the Ferrari, Zillah put on her duffel coat, a scarf that had been her mother’s, and a pair of over-large wellies some man had left behind after a one-night stand. She walked down the village street, thinking about herself and her situation, about Jerry and the future, about Jims and her relations with her parents, but mostly about herself. She had been christened Sarah, as had six other girls in her class at primary school, but discovering by means of a blood test in her teens that her group was B, a fairly rare blood group in all but Gypsies, and that Zillah was a favored Romany name, she rechristened herself. Now she tested it out with a new double-barreled surname. Zillah Melcombe-Smith sounded a lot better than Zillah Leach. But then almost anything would.
Fancy Jims knowing about Jerry. That is, knowing about the sort of unwritten arrangement she had with Jerry. Or
had.
Of course, she didn’t believe the letter she’d had, that was an insult to anyone’s intelligence. He didn’t own a computer. Some new woman must have written it. “Ex-husband” was the term Jims had used. Naturally he would, everyone did, though she and Jerry weren’t actually divorced; they’d never got round to it. And now if Jerry wasn’t dead, he wanted her to think he was, which amounted to the same thing. It meant he wouldn’t come back; the “arrangement” was over and the kids had lost their dad. Not that he’d ever been much of a father to them, more of a here-today-gone-tomorrow dropper-in. If she accepted Jims—how romantic and old-fashioned that sounded—would she be able to describe herself as a widow, or would it be safer to call herself single? If she accepted him it would be one in the eye for her mother and might stop her being so insufferably patronizing.
The village of Long Fredington was so called for the length of its main street, a full half-mile from Burton’s Farm in the cast to Thomas Hardy Close in the west. It was the largest of the Fredingtons, the others being Fredington St. Michael, Fredington Episcopi, Fredington Crucis, and Little Fredington. All were picturesque, the stuff of postcards, every house, even the newest, every barn, the church, the mill, the pub (now a private house), the school, and the shop (also now private houses) built of the same golden gray stone. If you were well-off, especially if you were well-off and retired, it was a charming place to live. If you had a car or two and a job in Casterbridge or Markton, a husband, and a nanny, it wasn’t so bad. For someone in Zillah’s position it was hell. Eugenie went to school on the bus, that was all right, but there was no nursery or preschool for Jordan and he was at home with her all day. She had no car, she hadn’t even got a bike. Once a week, if they hadn’t anything better to do, Annie at the Old Mill House or Lynn at La Vieille Ecole drove her ten miles to the Tesco to pick up supplies. Much less often, someone asked her round for a meal, but these were rare outings. They had husbands and she was a very good-looking unattached female. Anyway, she couldn’t get a babysitter.
At All Saints’ Church, a handsome fourteenth-century building from whose interior all the priceless brass had been stolen and melted down and the unique medieval wall paintings defaced with graffiti, she turned left down Mill Lane. After two smartly refurbished cottages were passed, all occupied dwellings ceased. But for birdsong, it was silent. The
“Okey-dokey, only don’t take too long over it. I’ll give you a bell tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow, Jims. Thursday. I’ll have decided by Thursday.”
“You’ll decide in my favor, won’t you, sweet? I’ll say I love you if you like, it’s almost true. Oh, and about the open marriage aspect, you’d understand, wouldn’t you, if I draw the line at that ex-husband of yours? I’m sure you know what I mean.”
After he’d gone, in the Range Rover, not the Ferrari, Zillah put on her duffel coat, a scarf that had been her mother’s, and a pair of over-large wellies some man had left behind after a one-night stand. She walked down the village street, thinking about herself and her situation, about Jerry and the future, about Jims and her relations with her parents, but mostly about herself. She had been christened Sarah, as had six other girls in her class at primary school, but discovering by means of a blood test in her teens that her group was B, a fairly rare blood group in all but Gypsies, and that Zillah was a favored Romany name, she rechristened herself. Now she tested it out with a new double-barreled surname. Zillah Melcombe-Smith sounded a lot better than Zillah Leach. But then almost anything would.
Fancy Jims knowing about Jerry. That is, knowing about the sort of unwritten arrangement she had with Jerry. Or
had.
Of course, she didn’t believe the letter she’d had, that was an insult to anyone’s intelligence. He didn’t own a computer. Some new woman must have written it. “Ex-husband” was the term Jims had used. Naturally he would, everyone did, though she and Jerry weren’t actually divorced; they’d never got round to it. And now if Jerry wasn’t dead, he wanted her to think he was, which amounted to the same thing. It meant he wouldn’t come back; the “arrangement” was over and the kids had lost their dad. Not that he’d ever been much of a father to them, more of a here-today-gone-tomorrow dropper-in. If she accepted Jims—how romantic and old-fashioned that sounded—would she be able to describe herself as a widow, or would it be safer to call herself single? If she accepted him it would be one in the eye for her mother and might stop her being so insufferably patronizing.
The village of Long Fredington was so called for the length of its main street, a full half-mile from Burton’s Farm in the cast to Thomas Hardy Close in the west. It was the largest of the Fredingtons, the others being Fredington St. Michael, Fredington Episcopi, Fredington Crucis, and Little Fredington. All were picturesque, the stuff of postcards, every house, even the newest, every barn, the church, the mill, the pub (now a private house), the school, and the shop (also now private houses) built of the same golden gray stone. If you were well-off, especially if you were well-off and retired, it was a charming place to live. If you had a car or two and a job in Casterbridge or Markton, a husband, and a nanny, it wasn’t so bad. For someone in Zillah’s position it was hell. Eugenie went to school on the bus, that was all right, but there was no nursery or preschool for Jordan and he was at home with her all day. She had no car, she hadn’t even got a bike. Once a week, if they hadn’t anything better to do, Annie at the Old Mill House or Lynn at La Vieille Ecole drove her ten miles to the Tesco to pick up supplies. Much less often, someone asked her round for a meal, but these were rare outings. They had husbands and she was a very good-looking unattached female. Anyway, she couldn’t get a babysitter.
At All Saints’ Church, a handsome fourteenth-century building from whose interior all the priceless brass had been stolen and melted down and the unique medieval wall paintings defaced with graffiti, she turned left down Mill Lane. After two smartly refurbished cottages were passed, all occupied dwellings ceased. But for birdsong, it was silent. The
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