REGISTRY OF THE FAMILY DIVISION.’
She reverted to a lower tone for the next part, as it was in the same point size as the first.
‘Matrimonial cause proceeding in Principal Registry treated by virtue of section 42 of the Matrimonial and Family Proceedings Act 1984 as pending in a divorce county court.’
She looked at the next part quietly before clearing her voice.
‘Between Stella Ruth Hutton Petitioner
and Charles John Taylor Respondent
She read to herself again, before repeating it out loud.
Whereby it was decreed that the marriage solemnized …
At St Peter’s Church, St Albans
Between the petitioner and the respondent be dissolved
‘Dissolved,’ said Stella. Thinking of soluble aspirin. Of tears. Wondering if destroyed or deconstructed or even dismembered were better words.
Out into the night she continued to read aloud. ‘… final and absolute … said marriage was thereby dissolved. Dated this 13th day of April.’
There were notes but Stella just skimmed these again. The type was small, the language dense and the content non-personal. The information she’d needed to see in black and white, that she needed to hear herself say, that she’d applied for all that time ago because it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, had sunk in. It coursed through her blood like anaesthetic. She was surprised to simply feel numbness, not pain. She felt flat and it was bizarre. She’d assumed that in spite of it all she’d be upset, yet the tears she’d anticipated didn’t come. Instead, her eyes were kept busy by the majestic, circular red crest of the court’s stamp, with its emblem of lion and unicorn, just overlapping the words ‘absolute’ and ‘dissolved’.
Divorced.
It is done. It is gone. I am a divorcee.
It was final, confirmed, official, legally binding. It was what she wanted but still, it was so blunt. Yet it didn’t hurt her – there wasn’t pain the way there’d been pain when she’d left Charlie. She just felt tired. Very very tired. As exhausted as if she’d scaled a mountain she’d spent so long in training for. She could sleep now. And when she woke, she’d take in the view that daylight would bring, of all that stretched ahead.
Chapter Seven
With a dog under one arm and three-year-old Sonny wriggling under the other, Caroline Rowland manoeuvred the buggy with her foot so it didn’t block the entrance to the Spar. She then plonked the dog beside it with a look that said Stay – Or Else, and into the shop she went, managing to buy only what she’d come in for and cajole Sonny into thinking the dried apricots were his idea of a snack.
Caroline made multitasking appear effortless and her willowy beauty was unruffled by the daily challenges of two very young children, a dog and a husband who commuted to London. Her self-deprecating sense of humour, delivered in her upbeat Geordie accent, helped – as did a copious supply of Nicorette gum. She was one of Xander’s closest friends and that they should live in the same village, having met nearly two decades ago at Nottingham University, was no coincidence. They’d dated, briefly, or rather they fell into a bit of late-night snogging at the Students’ Union disco in Freshers’ Week, but neither of them could remember much about that. It wasn’t long after that that Caroline met Andrew and adopted the role of older sister to Xander (though she was in fact younger by two years) and Xander, an only child, couldn’t believe his luck, or what he’d been missing all those years. After university, they’d all shared a house in Highbury and then, when they finally decided that they’d be grown-ups – and Caroline married Andrew and Xander set up his own company – they all ended up in Long Dansbury.
The village’s links by road and rail to London meant that Andrew had the best of both worlds – miles of track to run with Xander, as well as a tolerable commute into work. For the children, having Xander close by was brilliant because he loved watching SpongeBob, he was always up for kicking a ball even with a three-year-old, or rough-and-tumbling over their mum’s furniture, and best of all she told him off far more than she scolded them. The Rowlands had lived in the village for six years, the children had been born there and Caroline loved the way that, despite this and despite all the activities she joined in or indeed organized, she was still frequently referred to as ‘Caroline – the Northern Lass’ as if Newcastle was somewhere very foreign and rather exotic.
‘Hullo Caroline, dear,’ Mrs Patek, shop owner, greeted her. Deftly, Caroline chatted back whilst shaking her head before Mrs Patek could say, sweetie for Sonny? and the little boy remained none the wiser. ‘It’ll shake the village, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What – Mother Refuses Son E-Numbers and Sugar?’
Mrs Patek laughed. She was proficient at holding down umpteen conversations at once whilst packing the shopping, doing mental maths before the till came up with the total and managing to remain resolutely jolly all the while. ‘I was just saying, dear, to Nora here, that it’ll shake the village.’
‘What’ll shake the village, pet?’ Caroline asked.
‘She hasn’t heard yet,’ said Nora who needed drama daily and added it to most topics of conversation. She sucked her teeth thoughtfully. ‘Longbridge Hall – it’s for sale.’
‘Never!’ Caroline was surprised. Xander had said nothing about it when he’d popped over to watch the football with Andrew last night – and if anyone was to know, it would be Xander.
‘Nora, dear, we really must say “apparently” until the sign goes up,’ said Mrs Patek.
‘Apparently,’ Nora conceded, touching her blue-rinsed perm as if to check it was still there.
‘How do you know?’ asked Caroline.
‘Her Ladyship was in here the other day, when Mercy was in here, and I overheard her saying “Denby’s?” but Mercy said, “No, Elmfield’s.” And then Her Ladyship asks Mrs Patek here for a piece of paper and wrote down something about someone at Elmfield’s.’
Caroline put her change in her purse, hitched Sonny on her hip because he’d decided he couldn’t possibly stand, let alone walk, and took her shopping from the counter. ‘Perhaps Longbridge isn’t for sale – perhaps Lady Lydia fancies a spot of gazumping.’ It all sounded so far-fetched.
‘Gazumping!’ Nora was thrilled. ‘What’s that?’
‘Perhaps she fancies Mercy’s cottage – and is going to make a higher offer.’ Caroline was jesting but Mrs Patek and Nora considered this gravely.
‘The Fortescues have always thought they own the village,’ said Nora.
‘They mostly do,’ said Mrs Patek.
‘Maybe Her Ladyship is making sure of it,’ said Nora. But she, too, couldn’t really imagine Lady Lydia selling – she must be buying.
‘She’ll never sell me that plot
