Fire

by Deborah Challinor

  It drove her to distraction sometimes, the way they argued. Not so much the quarrel itself, because she quite enjoyed a good barney, but it was the way Martin invariably conducted his side of it. Whereas she always got worked up and angry, he never seemed to lose his temper and he never, ever raised his voice. He simply sat there, in his comfortable chair by the fireplace, reading his paper and smoking his pipe in his woollen vest and grey flannel work trousers and his slippers, and reasoned it calmly out with her, pointing out that he would buy her all the fine things she wanted when they had the money but not before.

  It wasn’t as if they didn’t have any. But Martin had earmarked the money in the bank for the house he insisted they should buy as soon as they’d finished paying off their flat. His flat, actually. He’d already bought it well before Irene met him, when he was only twenty-two and hadn’t long been working for Hart, Bullock & Associates. That had been ten years ago and, Martin being Martin, he’d already paid most of it off. But until it was freehold, he said, and he’d secured a partnership in the firm so that there was enough money for a hefty deposit on something bigger that would suit them better when children came along, there was little money for anything but essentials.

  Irene didn’t agree with this. For a start, so far as she was concerned there weren’t going to be any children. She genuinely liked them, and adored cuddling little babies, but she didn’t like what giving birth seemed to do to many women’s bodies. One minute they were trim and shapely, then they were pregnant, and nine and a bit months later they had flabby stomachs, pendulous breasts and enormous backsides. Her figure was spectacular and she knew it, and had no intention of spoiling it by producing offspring. And she was sure there would be plenty of nieces and nephews around for her to enjoy and spoil: she had four younger brothers and sisters who would probably breed like rabbits, and Martin had a sister who had recently married and talked about nothing but having babies. No, she wouldn’t need any of her own.

  She actually could see the point of buying a better house, and knew that what Martin had in mind wasn’t too far from her own vision of something at least modestly affluent—it was just that it was all taking so frustratingly long! He had promised her all sorts of things when they’d been courting, and it was true he’d spent quite a lot of money buying her pretty gifts and taking her out to dinner, and her engagement ring had cost rather a lot. He’d paid for most of the wedding, too, because her family didn’t have two bob to rub together, and he’d let her have everything she’d wanted for her big day. If she were honest, she did vaguely recall him saying things like ‘a penny saved is a penny earned’ and ‘good things come to those who wait’, but she’d dismissed all that as just part of his staid and careful character, which, back then anyway, she’d thought she could live with.

  The tram stopped: several people got off and some more got on. A girl inched her way past the men strap-hanging in the aisle and Irene put up her hand to indicate that there was a spare seat.

  The girl sat down beside her. ‘Thanks. Whew, crowded today, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ Irene replied, shifting over to give her more room.

  ‘Must be everyone coming into town to do their Christmas shopping.’

  ‘Probably. Though I’m off to work.’

  ‘So am I,’ the girl said glumly.

  ‘Where do you work?’ Irene asked, though she knew, from the girl’s uniform.

  ‘Smith & Caughey’s. What about you?’

  ‘Dunbar & Jones.’

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘Flat out,’ Irene said.

  ‘Us too,’ the girl said. ‘My feet are still aching from yesterday.’

  Irene smiled, then turned back to the window and her thoughts.

  She’d discovered quite quickly, actually, that she couldn’t live with Martin’s cautious and measured attitude towards life, and it was driving her around the bend. And it wasn’t just the money, it was everything. They hardly ever went out, and when they did it was usually only to family gatherings or dinners with Martin’s work colleagues, all of whom Irene found deeply uninteresting, particularly the wives, who all seemed to look down their noses at her. And they never went dancing, which Irene loved, so lately she’d started going out to the Peter Pan with some of the girls from work, which often ended up irking her, because she had to go without Martin. He could be quite a lot of fun on the rare occasions he let his hair down—witty, affectionate and very entertaining—and she loved being with him when he was like that. And it was embarrassing, having to tell people that your husband didn’t want to take you out. It made her feel as though he didn’t care enough about her. But when she told him she was going out with the girls, in the hope that he’d feel jealous enough to accompany her, all he’d ever say was have a lovely time!

  And the most annoying thing of all was that most of Martin’s flaws were products of his good intentions. He wouldn’t spend money because he wanted them to have a nicer house, he worked very hard to earn what was actually a good salary, and because he worked so hard he was always tired. She was a night owl, but he went to bed at nine o’clock most nights to read. If she wanted to have sex, she would have to go to bed at the same time, or she’d miss her chance. If she left it much later than that she would invariably find him asleep with his book on his face. And she did quite often feel like having sex, partly because that was just the way she was, and partly because, in spite of all the frustrations, she loved him. He wasn’t unattractive, he was kind and clever, he was good to her—even if his budget decreed that he could only occasionally buy her flowers or the odd box of Queen Anne chocolates—and she was in no doubt that he loved her. He said so often enough, and he frequently told her how beautiful she was and how lucky he was to have such a lovely wife, and on the rare nights that he did manage to stay awake their lovemaking was quite passionate and fulfilling. It’s just that he was so…boring. It was all boring.

  And the one thing she couldn’t stand was being bored. It ate away at her, nibbling at the edges of her consciousness until finally there was a yawning great hole, which she would feel compelled to rush off and fill with anything that might blot out the vast, fierce emptiness. It made her lose her patience, it made her say quite inappropriate things at times, it made her spend money she didn’t have on things she didn’t need, and it led her into ‘intrigues’ with people—men, to be specific—that she knew were wrong. But, God, they made her feel alive! So far she hadn’t had an actual affair with anyone, but she knew it was very likely to happen. She certainly hadn’t been a virgin when she’d married Martin, though poor old Martin hadn’t known that, and probably still didn’t.

  The tram turned off Customs Street and into Queen Street, stopping and starting to let people off until it drew level with Dunbar & Jones. The wide front doors of the store were closed but not locked. Irene pushed on one of the heavy brass handles and went inside.

  ‘Morning, Ted,’ she said to the little man standing just inside.

  Ted Horrocks had been Dunbar & Jones’s commissionaire since 1927. He was short, straight-backed and red-faced, and had a handle-bar moustache admired by many. He was also sixty-four, but Mr Max hadn’t the heart to tell him he was too old for the job. And he wasn’t; every morning he arrived at exactly eight o’clock, dressed in his beautifully pressed charcoal grey uniform, complete with braided cap, gold buttons and the various medals he’d been awarded during the Great War. He would stand at the door and greet each staff member as they arrived for work, give the brass handles a quick polish, then open them to the public at nine o’clock on the dot. He knew every regular customer’s name, could be relied upon to carry even heavy parcels to vehicles outside when required, and could also manage boisterous children as the need arose, though he was sometimes a bit beleaguered regarding this last duty during the school holidays.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Lamarr,’ Ted replied, tipping his cap and winking.

  Irene laughed: he reckoned she looked just like the film star
Hedy Lamarr and had been calling her that ever since she’d started work at Dunbar & Jones.

  The store was waking up, getting ready for another hectic day. Irene waved as she passed the girls at the cosmetics counter, busy setting up their displays and dusting yesterday’s powder off the glass surfaces, and headed toward the escalator in the centre of the shop floor. Keeping the heels of her suede shoes well clear of the gap between the steps, she stepped on and gripped the handrail, watching as the ground floor receded beneath her.

  On the first floor she saw that Allie was already there, and made a quick detour across the ladies’ dress department.

  ‘Hi, Allie.’

  ‘Hi, Irene. Busy day ahead?’

  Irene nodded. ‘Huge pile of typing waiting for me, as usual.’

  ‘At least you can sit down all day.’

  ‘Yes, but in ten years’ time my backside will be twice the size of yours,’ Irene said, sounding as though she really didn’t find the notion amusing at all. ‘See you at morning tea, then, eh?’

  She was walking away when Allie blurted, ‘I’m going out with someone tomorrow night. What do you think I should I wear?’

  Irene stopped in her tracks and turned back, her eyebrows raised in delight. ‘Well, that’s interesting news, isn’t it?’ she said, knowing that Allie hadn’t been out on a date for ages. ‘Who’s the lucky bloke?’

  ‘It’s that Sonny Manaia. You know, the one—’

  ‘—who’s been ogling you for the past fortnight in the caf? Really? When did he ask?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. In front of Miss Willow and everything. I nearly died.’

  ‘I told you he was a smooth one!’ Irene said gleefully, pleased that her assessment of Sonny Manaia had been accurate. ‘Where’s he taking you?’

  ‘To the pictures.’

  Irene crossed her arms and frowned in mock concentration. ‘Well, let’s see. How far are you planning to let him go?’

  Embarrassed, Allie exclaimed, ‘I’m not planning to let him go anywhere! It’s only the flicks, and it’s a cowboy film. High Noon, apparently.’

  ‘Gary Cooper, though,’ Irene said appreciatively. ‘That’ll get you hot under the collar.’

  Allie laughed. ‘I doubt it. Gary Cooper’s not my type.’

  ‘Ah, but Sonny Manaia is?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ Allie admitted, feeling herself reddening.

  ‘In that case, wear something a bit special. What have you got?’

  ‘Well,’ Allie said, ‘there’s my good dress, the claret nylon, and a satin skirt, but they’d be too flash just for the pictures. I’ve got a few other skirts, though, and I’ve just finished paying off my new pale pink crêpe de chine blouse. I could wear it with my cream skirt. What about that?’

  ‘Pencil or full?’

  ‘The skirt? Full.’

  ‘No, you’ll look like Doris Day.’

  Allie frowned. ‘My navy cotton shirtwaister?’

  Irene looked as though Allie had just suggested wearing her father’s winter pyjamas. ‘You’ve got a pencil skirt, haven’t you, a dark one?’

  ‘A grey one. It’s a bit tight, though.’

  ‘Sounds just the thing. You can borrow my kingfisher blue sweater to go with it, if you like. It’s snug on me so it should fit you perfectly.’

  Allie glanced at Irene’s generous breasts, then down at her own rather more modest ones, and they both laughed.

  ‘And my black heels?’ Allie added.

  Irene nodded enthusiastically. ‘To put just enough wiggle in your walk. I’ll bring the sweater in tomorrow.’ Then, sounding thoughtful, she asked, ‘Are you going out at lunchtime today? No? Good, we’ll grab something to eat, then have a bit of a practice with your make-up. How does that sound?’

  It sounded like an excellent idea to Allie, who seldom wore much more than lipstick and a quick dusting of face powder.

  Irene felt very pleased with herself. If she couldn’t get dressed up and go out with someone exciting, then at least she could help Allie do it. And Allie really was rather pretty, with her gold-blonde hair, big cornflower eyes and turned-up nose, though in Irene’s opinion she never did much to enhance her looks. Not that she could at work, because Dunbar & Jones salesgirls weren’t allowed to wear much make-up, not even on the cosmetics counter. Still, Allie could at least get rid of that awful tangerine lipstick that made her skin look so sallow and try something a little more…sophisticated.

  Irene waved out to Louise as she dashed past lingerie then skipped onto the escalator, resisting the temptation to take the moving stairs two at a time in case she scuffed her shoes. She stepped off at the second floor, which was as far up as the escalator went, and headed for the rugs and rolls of carpet and linoleum in the floorings department, behind which was the staff door to the stairs leading to the top-floor administration offices and workrooms. Unfortunately, halfway there, she spotted the most divine little Indian rug—just the thing for a wedding present for Daisy and Terry. She bent down and turned the ticket over. Christ, seven pounds and thirteen shillings, just for the smallest size! Oh, well, Martin wouldn’t find out if she put it on her staff credit account, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’ a voice asked, except that ‘madam’ was pronounced ‘modom’.

  ‘Vince! You gave me a fright!’ Irene exclaimed, straightening up.

  ‘Sorry,’ Vincent Reynolds said insincerely. He lowered his voice. ‘My God, Irene, you’re looking ravishing.’

  Irene felt a surge of the brittle excitement she craved and her heart soared with elation. Her Spanish red skirt was tight enough to mould her full buttocks, but not so tight that the typing pool supervisor would give her dirty looks all day, and the matching jacket sat nicely over her bust and hugged her small waist, giving her the sort of hourglass figure most women would die for. She also knew that the colour contrasted fabulously with her shining black hair, and she’d worn the suit deliberately today with the specific aim of tantalizing Vince. Obviously she was succeeding.

  He reached out to touch her, but stopped himself just in time and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. He glanced quickly around then whispered hoarsely, ‘Meet me in the basement at lunchtime.’

  Irene didn’t think so. She’d made other plans, but she wouldn’t have gone down to one of the warren-like basement storerooms with him today anyway because the longer she made him wait, the better it would be. So far they had only kissed—a snatched but rather exciting clinch in one of the small rooms to the rear of the second-floor lifts—but she was prepared to be as patient as necessary to get him exactly where she wanted him.

  ‘Oh, Vince, I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve arranged something with the girls today.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’ he suggested, aiming for a nonchalant tone but not quite achieving it. His eyes kept darting down to the twin cones of her bosom and a thin sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

  Irene pretended to think, though she knew she had nothing planned. ‘Tomorrow? I’m not sure. Shall we see at morning tea?’ She didn’t need to tell him what time that would be: he seemed to know exactly when she took her breaks.

  Vince nodded.

  She felt his eyes on her as she walked away and, letting her hips sway just a little more than usual, she couldn’t help smiling.

  Chapter Three

  Do you think I’ll find it in a pattern book? Or something like it?’

  Daisy had a picture of a wedding dress she had cut out of a magazine and was studying it intently as she picked at her sandwich.

  Louise looked at the illustration. ‘I expect so. It’s quite classic, isn’t it, but still modern with the rolled neckline and the cap sleeves.’

  ‘I was going to have long sleeves, but Mum said not to because they’d be too hot for January,’ Daisy said, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

  ‘Then get married in the winter, if you want long sleeves,’ Irene suggested. She eyed Daisy speculative
ly for a moment. ‘Or can’t you wait that long?’

  Daisy looked down at the table top. ‘No, I can’t,’ she replied, her face flaming.

  There was a long silence.

  Then Louise said, ‘Oh, Daisy. Why didn’t you tell us?’

  But Daisy didn’t say anything. Irene reached across the table and patted her hand, then surprised everyone by offering some very sensible advice.

  ‘Look, it happens to the best of people, and we all know you think the sun shines out of Terry’s backside and the pair of you would have got married anyway. So make yourself the wedding dress you want to wear, hold your head up when you walk down the aisle, and to hell with everyone else. What difference does it make, really, eh?’

  ‘You should tell that to my mother,’ Daisy said. She was smiling again, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears. ‘She won’t come out and say it, but she thinks I’m a trollop. And an idiot.’

  Louise ferreted in her handbag for a handkerchief and passed it to Daisy. ‘I’m sure she doesn’t. I expect she’s just disappointed. Most mothers would rather everything happened in the right order, but like Irene said, it doesn’t always work out like that, does it?’

  Daisy shook her head and honked into the handkerchief.

  Louise put on her talking-to-a-three-year-old voice. ‘So come on then, finish your sandwich and cup of tea and we’ll go and look at patterns with long sleeves, shall we? It’s your day and you should wear what you like.’ She turned to Irene and gave her a small, grateful smile. ‘Do you want to come?’

  Irene shook her head. ‘I would, but Allie’s got a date tomorrow night and we’re going to work on her make-up.’

  ‘Have you?’ Louise said to Allie excitedly. ‘Who’s the lucky man?’

  ‘Everyone’s asked that!’ Allie tried to sound annoyed but failed.