The Friends We Keep(68)
Unfortunately, the wild hedgerow didn’t match the neatly trimmed privet flanking the new houses on the other side, nor, in one case, the rather complicated topiary yew that filled the front garden.
The new houses might have been pretty if they didn’t look quite so new. Everything about them was perfect, and the neighbors were not happy with the wild hedgerow they had to face when they pulled out of their driveways or looked out their windows. They had all gathered together, it seemed, shortly after they moved in. Of course they were friends, the yummy mummies, their children attending the same nursery schools, the women getting together for a glass of wine in the afternoon while their children were fed and bathed by nannies.
Maggie would hear them on occasion if she went out on walks. Shrieks of female laughter, the clinking of glasses. Before the others moved in, she and Ben were invited to Emily and James’s, but because they were older, and because they never had children, once the younger families moved in, they were forgotten about. Now, even if she received an invitation, she wouldn’t go. It wasn’t that she wanted to be un-neighborly, but she had no interest whatsoever in these young mothers who seemed to her as if they thought they owned the world. Perhaps they did. God knows, Maggie had no idea what it was like to have the sort of money that afforded full-time nannies, fabulous cars, and what looked to her like designer clothes. What did Maggie care; she hadn’t been shopping for years, until she lost so much weight after Ben died, she had to eventually buy some trousers that didn’t threaten to fall to her knees as she walked. Even before that, fashion had never been her thing. Evvie used to attempt to style her at university, because Maggie was always most comfortable in long skirts and ballet flats.
She had clearly never been a yummy mummy herself. If she passed them, they would exchange friendly-enough smiles, a brief wave, but invariably sometime after that a husband would be dispatched to inquire politely about the hedgerow. Or the gravel on the road. Would they mind regraveling it so it didn’t have bare patches all over it? Would she please do something about the terrible mess that was the road, and which they just didn’t understand wasn’t terrible at all, but was, in fact, what living in the country was all about.
Maggie did mind. It was the country, she tried to explain, and the road had been like this for decades, probably longer. In fact, they were lucky that anyone at all had ever thought to put gravel down, as it was really supposed to be a dirt road.
They understood, they lied, but the new houses were so pristine, it just seemed so out of place. They would pay for it themselves, they offered, all the new neighbors, and she wouldn’t have to worry about it.
“But I would have to look at it,” Maggie had said. “I don’t want the hedgerow clipped into tight submission. This is the country and it is supposed to grow wild. I love that it’s wild. I cannot give anyone permission to touch it.”
On principle, Maggie now refused to touch the hedgerow, even though it was looking wilder than it ever had before. She got a slightly twisted sort of pleasure knowing that its present state would so annoy the neighbors. She thought she probably ought to feel bad about that, but she couldn’t. There was something about the smugness of these new people that was irritating, and if this was the only victory she could have, it was better than nothing. At least it gave her something to care about.
Opening the door, Maggie stood impassive in the doorway, nodding a hello at the neighbor. He was handsome, she thought. She would give him that, although they were all handsome, these young husbands. They had the confidence you had when you were in your thirties, before life became a grind, throwing obstacle after obstacle in your path, taking away the things you loved and making you realize that the only way to ease the hardship was to move through it.
“Yes?” She arched an eyebrow, preparing for the onslaught.
“Hello!” He gave her his most charming smile and moved in to kiss her on each cheek as she tried to place him. Oh God, she thought, it was James. How long had it been since she last saw him?
“I haven’t seen you in ages. We’ve been worried about you. Emily keeps saying she wants to have you over. Also, you ought to meet the new people in Wisteria Hall. We’re thinking about doing drinks.”
Maggie nodded, registering that it was nice of them to make this overture, even if they were still refusing to cut down the bloody cypress. As to new neighbors, she’d been in such a haze, she didn’t even know new people had moved into the latest house to be built.
Wisteria Hall, she thought, wondering which one of the houses it was, realizing it must be the one—of course, for the developers had little imagination—with the wisteria growing over the pergola that was attached to the barn. The developers gave each of the houses grand-sounding, if somewhat ridiculously cliché names, all the better to attract the wealthy buyers. It worked, clearly. Wisteria Hall, Willow Farm (this one had a small man-made pond and a couple of hastily planted willow trees), Chestnut Hill Manor (the hill was particularly clever, she thought, given that the land was almost entirely flat, and fill had to be brought in to create the hill), Acorn Hall, and Meadowview Farm (which, true to its name, did actually have a view of the meadows, no cypress trees in its way).
“I’ll get Emily to text you. I’m so sorry to bother you like this,” said James. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” Maggie shrugged, realizing she looked as if she had just rolled out of bed. Unsurprisingly. “Some of the neighbors have been complaining about noises early in the morning. We have all been woken up the last couple of weeks at around five in the morning by what sounds like a rooster crowing. We’ve all got together to discuss it”—of course you have! she thought—“and we think it might be coming from here.” He waited for Maggie to acknowledge his words, but she merely looked at him.