by Rebecca Shaw
‘Well, they are his brother’s boys so they have the same genes.’
‘Yes, Graham told me what happened when I called round with the flowers when you were in hospital. It’s not easy bringing up children. But it makes life worthwhile, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s early days yet, I’m still getting used to it all.’
Betty stood up to go. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you. The train set is complete and I hope they have as much pleasure in it as our Col had when he was a boy.’
‘Will he mind? You giving it to the boys?’
‘I don’t expect he thinks we’ve still got it.’
‘It’s very kind of you to give it to us, thank you very much.’
‘It’s a pleasure. And do come round any time, Roland usually has his head in a book, he’ll never notice you’re there, but I’d be glad to see you.’
Myra stood in the sitting-room window watching her trotting back home. Poor old stick. Afraid of her own shadow. If she wanted to see her son why didn’t she just go? She would. She’d been so used to laying down the law at home, and until his recent attempts at defiance, Graham had always bowed to her wishes. But she thought of how Betty had spoken about her husband, assuming his word was law, and how miserable it made her. Was that what she did to Graham? It made her seem like some kind of monster. Surely he’d always been happy to go along with her choices until now, hadn’t he? And anyway, maybe Roland wasn’t as bad as Betty made out. She’d only seen him when he worked in his garden or occasionally out at the local shops, but always without Betty. Perhaps if Betty saw him as others saw him, chatting with ladies in the precinct, sometimes surrounded by four or even five all laughing at his jokes, she might see a different aspect of her husband. He appeared a very sociable chap from what she saw. But perhaps he displayed a whole different side of his character at home. Just as she’d seen a different side to Graham the day of Piers’ party. She thought about all those times since John had died when Graham had exerted his authority and gone completely against what she had planned. Which then was the real Graham? Did she want to know? Had she dominated him to the point of him having no personality beyond what she allowed him to have, no decison-making capacity, no independence of mind? Deep down somewhere buried very deep she acknowledged it wasn’t right to stifle someone like she had done. It was only his kindness of heart that had stopped a rift developing that would have ended in divorce. Was that what she wanted?
Determined not to let her mind wander any farther down that dangerous path, Myra turned away from the window, straightened her shoulders and dragged the ironing board out from the cupboard in the kitchen. How many shirts was it nowadays? Seven a week had suddenly turned into seventeen plus the boys weekend t-shirts. She couldn’t face it right now so instead she went to investigate the box Betty had brought.
The set was complete right down to little figures of men and women and children to stand on the platform as though waiting for a train. A signal box carefully wrapped in tissue, signals, lines, a bridge, trees and bushes, a waiting room and ticket office, even a man with a trolley loaded with suitcases. And beautifully detailed engines and little carriages. Everything was absolutely pristine as though it had never been out of the box, except for one man whose right leg had been snapped off. The money this must have cost when it was new, surely Betty and Roland should have some recompense for all this. As Myra began stowing it away again so the boys could open it for themselves and have all the pleasure of discovery she thought about the memories there must be within it and how sad Betty was about never seeing her son. With the lid safely replaced Myra stood up and went to begin the ironing.
This state-of-the-art iron Graham had bought for her glided its way through the piles of ironing so quickly and so easily she felt really grateful to him for choosing it. Her old one he had consigned to the bin saying it came from the dark ages, and when she protested he jammed the lid on tightly so she couldn’t rescue it. He was right, but she hated losing an old friend. She didn’t like trying new things and it had taken some persuasion for her to try the new iron and admit Graham was right – it made things much easier. She recalled Graham remembering the nightie she wore the night Piers came home from hospital. He was right about that nightie too, she’d worn it those early stolen nights together when they’d anticipated their marriage and she’d felt guilty about it all and yet exultant.
Exultant? Myra thought about that word and decided it was the right one for that particular feeling. Then the new shop in the High Street sprang to mind – the one that specialised in womens’ underwear and nightwear. When it first opened, she’d taken one look at the window display and decided it wasn’t for her, it was for women in their teens and twenties. But she thought of that nightie again and realised even when she was young she’d never have dared wear something like those little wisps of silk and satin she’d seen in the window.
Then completely without warning she switched off the iron, stood it up on the kitchen worktop, dug her coat out from the hall cupboard, checked in her bag for her purse, picked up her keys and left.
Viv happened to see her leaving and noticed the determination in her stride. No stoop, no plodding feet, she didn’t even have her old shopping bag with her. She obviously had an unusual mission in mind and Viv longed to know what it was.
Secrets was the name of the shop and it was written in fancy handwriting above the window in shining chrome. The window was filled with daring underwear and nightwear; after one brief moment of hesitation she opened the door and marched in. The inside was even glossier than the outside and she was dazzled by the choice. A man emerged from the back. ‘Good morning, madam, how may I help?’
‘Do you have a lady assistant?’
‘I do but she’s just gone to the bank. Can I be of any assistance?’
‘I see. Right. I want some pyjamas.’
‘For yourself madam?’
No doubt he’d taken one look at her, thought Myra, and clocked her dowdy coat and practical clothes and decided she was not his normal kind of customer.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Very well, madam. We have these satin ones here in some gorgeous jewel colours.’
As he reached up to bring her some to examine she said to her great surprise, ‘No, I’ve changed my mind.’
The manager assumed she’d decided to leave so he was shocked by the unexpectedness of her reply.
‘A nightgown, actually, with lace if you have it.’
‘Do you have a particular colour in mind, madam?’
‘Black.’
His smooth face almost broke into a grin but he kept it contained. He loved those moments when he helped people find their inner vixen. That was the joy of lingerie – you never knew what secrets people were hiding under their sensible clothes. So she wanted a black nightie. What was she up to? An unexpected lover? Or more likely a husband who needed sparking up a bit? Well, he’d the very thing.
‘I have two or three for you to choose from.’
The first was very plain – more of a nightshirt in fact, with long sleeves and buttons right up to the neck. Gaining confidence, Myra rejected it and chose instead a comparatively flimsy one with black lace at the v-neck and at the hem, and low at the back and clinging.
When he told her the price she almost died from shock and it showed in her face. ‘You see, madam, it’s designer lingerie, so you pay for the exclusivity. Would madam care to try it on?’
Myra wished the floor would open up and she could disappear. Certainly not, especially with only a man in the shop. She held it up against herself and decided this was definitely the one. ‘No, thank you, I’ll take it. I shall be paying by card.’ After all, in the last ten years she’d hadn’t bought one new nightie so she wasn’t going to feel guilty about the price.
The carrier he put it in shouted extravagance and it unnerved Myra. She’d be sure to meet someone she knew, you could guarantee it. If they commented on it she’d say it was a present for someone, she de
cided. But she didn’t meet anyone she knew, and she sighed with relief as she pushed open their garden gate. Safely home and no one the wiser.
But she hadn’t seen Viv shielded by her cherry tree picking up rubbish the bin men had spilt on her front path. She spotted the unmistakable magenta pink of Myra’s carrier and hiding behind the tree she raised her clenched fists in the air and shouted ‘Hallelujah!’ to herself.
In the house Myra raced upstairs and put the nightgown right at the back of the drawer where she kept her miserly collection of pyjamas. Back downstairs she went, opened the back door, finding to her horror she’d never locked it before leaving the house, and went out to bring Little Pete in. He wasn’t nearly so little as when she’d first brought him in to the kitchen but he was still as charming and cuddly as always. She cut half a carrot into little squares and gave him it in a little dish by the boiler where he loved to sit.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the nightie stashed upstairs. She was being silly. No one knew, least of all Graham, whom she intended to surprise with it. But when? A nightie like that was an open invitation to . . . sex. She said the word out loud hoping Little Pete wouldn’t know what she meant. She laughed out loud at herself. The older she got the dafter she became. Honestly! She turned back to the ironing. Three shirts later she decided her new purchase would come out on display when she was good and ready and not before. Heaven alone knew when that would be. The question was, having rejected not just sex but any kind of intimacy so emphatically for so long, would she ever be ready? Did she want it? And for that matter, did Graham?
The doorbell rang. Standing there was Roland Bannister looking furious, his face dark red, his breath coming in great forceful gasps. ‘Betty had no business to bring our Col’s train set round for your boys. I’m sorry, very sorry, but I’ve come to take it back.’
‘That’s your perogative. I had thought we should pay something for it, it must have cost a lot when it was new.’
Roland shook his head. ‘It’s not that, not the money. It’s more that Col might very well need it sometime, when he has children of his own. He just needs to find the right girl.’
‘Oh! I see.’ Myra opened the door wider. ‘Well, here it is just as Betty brought it. Do come in.’
Roland did and bent to pick it up from the floor. His temper and and his big fat stomach almost did for him; he simply couldn’t pick it up.
‘Here let me pick it up for you.’ Myra handed it to him saying, ‘If any time you decide to pass it on, Graham and I would be glad to pay you something for it. Mind how you go.’ He trundled awkwardly down the front path in imminent danger of dropping the whole lot, but managed to get back home without Myra hearing an almighty crash. The poor man deluding himself about Col being in need of a wife.
‘Well, really,’ she said to Little Pete, ‘did you ever?’
The day wore on with Myra having to find things to keep her occupied; she was delighted to be setting off to collect Piers from school and find out how he’d managed and even more delighted when Oliver got home. Then there was supper to supervise followed by the welcome sound of Graham letting himself in.
Oliver gasped, ‘Uncle Graham!’
Piers said, ‘Oh! I say!’
Myra said, ‘Sit down, Graham, I’m just serving. Boys go wash your hands, please.’
She heard their laughter but took no notice because she’d just remembered the nightgown she’d bought and was blushing at the thought, never mind the deed.
As she was putting Graham’s plate on the table she glanced up at him and almost dropped it.
Chapter 13
Sitting there in a sharp new suit – most definitely not the one he had left the house in that morning – and a crisp new open-necked shirt, Graham looked ten years younger. Or maybe it was his hair – or what was left of it. Where was the lock of hair that always fell across his forehead? His hair was short and spikey all over and looked shiny. The flecks of grey coming through at the temples looked distinguished, rather than ageing, as they had done as part of his old, shaggy hairdo. There was also something different about his face, it was brighter and younger-looking.
Oliver broke the silence. ‘Uncle Graham, you’ve been in for a refit! Now you don’t even look forty-three. He looks great, doesn’t he, Myra?’
‘He’s like a new man,’ said Piers. ‘A new uncle. I can’t believe it.’
It was the first time in years that Graham had been out and bought clothes that she hadn’t first approved or insisted he needed. Had he taken leave of his senses?
‘Well, what do you think, Myra?’ Graham asked.
Myra dropped to her chair unable to comment. Oliver was right, he had been in for a refit. She swallowed hard and said in a soft voice, ‘I’m amazed. Now Piers, will you put our plates on the table for me?’
Graham, secretly amused by Myra’s reaction said, ‘Seeing as it’s casserole let’s have wine with it. That favourite red you like, Myra. You boys can have a drop too, watered down like they do for children in France.’
The wine went straight to Myra’s head so she had to concentrate on her food otherwise she would miss her mouth and make a good stab at her cheek. He’d been out and modernised himself! What did it mean? In particular what did it mean for her? What made him do it? It wasn’t because of her daring purchase, he didn’t know about that. She determined to ask him tonight when the boys were in bed. Then a thought struck her – what if all this effort wasn’t for her and the boys? What if her own secret attempt at a change of image had come too late. She shook her head – Graham would never dream of looking at another woman. Would he?
‘Where did you go for your refit?’ said Oliver.
‘Not telling, Oliver.’ Graham tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger.
‘It wasn’t that new place that’s opened in Trinity Street was it?’
Graham kind of half acknowledged it was.
Oliver pretended to wipe the sweat from his forehead. ‘Whew! That place is the place to go. All the kids in school are talking about it. But it’s seventy-five pounds for a haircut!’
Piers whistled loudly.
‘All the girls at the office will be after you. Watch out, Myra!’ Oliver said, not realising he was tapping into Myra’s fears.
Myra gave Graham a speculative look from under her eyelashes and decided that perhaps the boys had a point. This was a new Graham, a Graham she hadn’t seen in years, if ever. It looked like he’d even had a manicure too at this fancy barbers. She’d never had one in her life. Divorcees from all over town would be finding him attractive. It wouldn’t do. Good old reliable Graham had taken a step out of his comfort zone and it was hard for her to stomach. The new nightie was a step in the right direction but nowhere near far enough. She had some catching up to do.
She ate the casserole which she’d been so looking forward to without even tasting it, her mind was in such a whirl. The same with the fruits-of-the-forest sponge she’d made, even smothered in cream she couldn’t take pleasure in it. Finally she asked Graham for more wine and he filled her glass nearly to the top. Her biggest mistake was drinking the whole lot inside five minutes. Accustomed as she was to being virtually teetotal the wine hit her square between the eyes.
Piers began to giggle when she tried to stand up and didn’t.
Graham winked at Piers and went to put a firm grip on Myra’s elbow and hoisted her to her feet. ‘I’ll be back to clear the kitchen, could the two of you make a start?’
Oliver sensed there was something going on he and Piers knew nothing about but he really rather approved of whatever it was. The two of them were becoming almost human.
Graham laid Myra on the sofa, with two cushions under her head, facing the TV despite the fact that she dozing. She wouldn’t be for long, she’d soon wake up. He looked down at her and considered the situation she’d found herself in. Her fuddy-duddy husband of fifteen years coming home transformed must have been quite a shock. He thought about the old pyjam
as he’d dragged out from under the pillow the last time she drank too much and wondered if he should go out and buy something glamorous to set the ball rolling for her. For now, when the boys were safely in bed he’d give her the perfume he’d bought that afternoon, the one she used to wear that he knew and loved. That might well be the start of something bigger.
Oliver had just disappeared upstairs when Myra awoke. She’d a bad head but decided not to say a word about it. She swung her legs off the sofa, sat up, straightened her skirt, ran her fingers through her hair as if nothing had happened, and said, ‘Tell me then.’
‘Tell you? What?’
‘The reason for the new clothes and the new hairstyle and the manicure and so on. All of a sudden, not a word to me about it.’
‘If I’d told you, it wouldn’t have been a surprise would it?’
‘But why?’
‘If you really want to know, it was because Oliver was amazed when I told him how old I was, he thought I was at least in my fifties. When I took a proper look at myself in the mirror that night I knew I looked a lot older than I needed to and so I did something about it.’
Myra didn’t answer him for a few minutes. ‘I know I’m old-fashioned, too. I’ve known for a while.’
‘There’s plenty of money in the bank, like I’ve always said. If you want to treat yourself, you know it’s our money, not my money,’ Graham said. ‘Not that you have to change anything for my sake, I just think you might find you like it. And if you’re anything like me, once you get started, you might do more than you planned. After all, what’s the use in me working hard if we never spend anything. The latest bank statement came today, this is the balance in our savings account.’
He unfolded a sheet of paper and gave it to her. She almost trembled with shock.
‘That much? I’d no idea. £167,500.’
‘That doesn’t include shares and bonds that we have. You can go mad if you like. It’s not just because of my work that we’ve got that saved up – it’s just as much down to you working so hard to look after our home all these years without ever spending a penny more than needed. You’ve always said no to holidays, moving house, new cars. You’ve been scrupulously careful with money so if you want to let loose occasionally, you should. You’ve earned it.’
