by Mary Nichols
‘Always secret?’
He smiled and bent to kiss the tip of her nose. ‘No, always my love.’
‘Don’t patronise me, George. I am not Barbara, I won’t be put off by lies and excuses.’
‘What’s brought this on?’ he asked, stroking her arm with the back of his hand. ‘End-of-holiday blues?’
‘It’s not a holiday, we’re supposed to be working.’
‘I know and we have done very well too. And a lot of that is down to your charm and efficiency. It has been noted in high places.’
‘Funnily enough, I enjoy it.’
‘Then let’s enjoy this, shall we?’ He bent and kissed her mouth, opening it with his tongue, exploring, while his hands began caressing her body, still damp and sticky from the last time. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. ‘You do enjoy it, don’t you?’
‘Oh, George, you know I do.’ She put her arms round his back and pulled him down on top of her. ‘You are so…so…’
He grinned. ‘Sexy?’
‘Yes, but lovely with it.’
‘That’s because I love you and I love doing this to you. I think about it all the time, even when we’re apart.’
She had to be content with that. It was all she was going to get. The alternative was to give him up and that was too much to ask.
Barbara sat in a deckchair in the garden, watching Nick splashing in an old tin bath she had brought out and filled with water. Completely naked except for a white cotton sun hat, he was slapping the water and laughing. The drops of water glistened on his chubby body and brought a lump to her throat. ‘We’ll have to go and fetch Alison soon,’ she said and laughed as he scooped water in a seaside bucket and threw it over her. ‘You little terror!’
It was the first time she and George had been apart since their marriage and it had turned out to be a tranquil time. George was such a busy person, rushing here and there, talking to people, arranging things, bolting meals, that life with him was a desperate attempt to keep pace. He was as liable to dash in and demand a quick meal or a clean shirt as he was to telephone to say he wouldn’t be home until late. She hadn’t realised how on edge she had been until he went. Knowing he was miles away on the other side of the channel had given her a breathing space, a period of calm. She had enjoyed being lazy, lying in the garden, playing with her children. She hauled Nick out of the water and carried him indoors where she patted him dry, dressed him in a pair of shorts, a little shirt and sandals, then fetched his pushchair.
Alison loved school and was always one of the last to emerge, but she didn’t like Barbara going in to find her. She appeared ten minutes after everyone else, dragging her satchel along the ground. Barbara could never afterwards explain why she suddenly decided to make the small detour which would take her past their old house, except that Virginia was always saying she did not see enough of the children and, with George away, there was no great hurry to go home.
There was no one there and every window was tightly closed. She went round the back and then returned to the front gate, looking up at the house, with a puzzled expression.
‘You looking for Mrs Bosgrove?’ The voice came from the other side of the dividing hedge. It was followed by the head of a young woman appearing above the foliage.
‘Yes.’
‘She’s out of the country on business. Paris, I think she said.’
Standing there on a pavement which was hot enough to fry an egg, Barbara suddenly felt icy cold, frozen to the spot.
‘It’s Mrs Kennett, isn’t it?’
The voice, coming from behind her, startled Barbara out of her immobility and she turned to stare at frizzy red hair, bright lipstick and a freckled face. Her gaze travelled down to a pink blouse and a skimpy brown skirt. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Are you all right?’ the new arrival asked. ‘You look as though you’ve had a shock.’
Barbara pulled herself together. ‘I expect it’s the heat. You’re Mrs Younger, aren’t you?’
‘That’s me. Look, I only live round the corner. Why not come home with me and have a cuppa? You look as though you could do with a sit-down.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m all right, honestly.’
‘Oh, come on, tea’d go down a treat, wouldn’t it? And I bet the kids would like a glass of lemonade.’
Barbara, who didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to confront her fear, to acknowledge that there really had been someone in the room with George when he telephoned, allowed herself to be led away. Virginia’s neighbour, who had listened to the exchange with her mouth open, watched them go with a look of disbelief. George Kennett’s hoity-toity wife and Rita Younger, what a combination!
Rita lived in one of the early council houses George had built and already they were looking neglected. Some of the tenants, who took a pride in their home, had taken the trouble to paint them themselves, but many had not, arguing that it was the council’s duty. Barbara noted that Rita had done nothing to hers and inside the furniture was decidedly shabby and there was dust everywhere.
‘Did you find your husband?’ she asked. Any subject of conversation was better than being quizzed on why she had been standing outside Virginia’s gate looking as if someone had dealt her a blow to the body and winded her.
Rita pushed a steaming mug of tea across the kitchen table towards her and turned to mix the children’s lemonade with crystals from a packet. Alison, slightly bemused by this strange departure from their normal routine, took hers and politely said, ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Rita told her, handing the other to Nick, who grabbed it quickly and put it to his mouth. Barbara made him say thank you and turned to sip her tea.
‘No, you couldn’t say I found him, exactly,’ Rita said, when Barbara began to think she had forgotten the question. ‘He did a bunk.’ She had become adept at lying about what had happened to Colin, pretending she didn’t care that her husband had deserted her yet again. It was better than telling everyone he was in prison. ‘As soon as anything happens he doesn’t like, he just clears off.’
‘Had something happened he didn’t like?’
Rita looked at her over the rim of her cup. She didn’t think Mrs Kennett knew the truth; she was simply making small talk to get over the fact that she’d had an almighty shock. Rita didn’t expect to be told what it was, though she could guess. She didn’t live far from Mrs Bosgrove and she had seen Kennett’s new Humber outside the gate on more than one occasion. ‘Don’t know. Not at ’ome, it didn’t. At work, p’rhaps.’
‘Oh.’ Barbara remembered the conversation she had overheard between George and Mr Younger and wished she hadn’t asked the question. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Younger.’
‘Don’t often get called Mrs Younger. I’m Rita to everyone.’ She chuckled suddenly and her eyes lit with defiant humour. ‘That’s when I’m not being called something worse. But you don’t need to be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Do you know where your husband is now?’
‘Oh, the bugger came back two days ago. Right at this minute, I reckon he’s in the betting shop.’ Time off for good behaviour he had told her when she said he was out sooner than she expected.
‘Oh dear, I’m truly sorry. He’s not working?’
‘He says he’s going back to Kennett’s, said he went round the yard yesterday but Mr Kennett was away and he had to speak to him in person.’
‘My husband is abroad, but he’s coming back tonight; I expect he’ll be in the office tomorrow.’
‘I’ll tell Colin, though whether the lazy sod will do anything about it, I don’t know.’
Barbara looked swiftly at Alison. Language like that was not something the child had ever heard, but she was looking out of the window at a cat stalking something in the long grass and appeared oblivious.
‘Do you have a job, Mrs…Rita?’ Barbara asked.
‘I’m a barmaid at The Crown in the evenings and I’m an office cleaner in the mornings.’
She grinned. ‘Greedy of me, I suppose, when there’s so much unemployment, but I need both jobs. I enjoy them, specially the bar work. Lots of people to talk to, a free drink now and then and meals on duty. It don’t leave me too much time to meself, but what good would that do me? I’d only sit at ’ome and feel sorry for meself. Feeling sorry for yerself is just about the worst thing you can do. Another cuppa?’
‘No, thank you, I really must be going. It was very kind of you to ask me.’
Alison had managed to finish her drink without getting it down her front but Nick had not only smeared it round his face and into his hair, he had let it drip down his shirt which had a large ochre stain. Barbara picked him up and put him in the pushchair.
Rita looked up as a girl came into the kitchen. ‘Here’s my Zita,’ she said.
The girl was about thirteen, dressed in a grubby gymslip. She had dark glossy hair braided into a pigtail. She bore no resemblance to Colin Younger and very little to Rita. But she reminded Barbara of someone, though she could not place whoever it was.
Rita laughed, sensing Barbara’s puzzlement but not the reason for it. ‘Good-looking gel, i’n’t she?’
‘Mum, for goodness’ sake,’ Zita protested.
‘Ma says she’s the spittin’ image of my dad.’
‘Your father?’
Rita laughed. ‘Yes, I promise you I had one, even if Ma never let on who he was.’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘No. Are you all right now? Not still feeling faint?’
‘No, I’m fine. It was silly of me. Too long in the sun. Thank you for the tea.’
‘You’re welcome. Come again. Any time you’re passing.’
In the early hours of the morning George crept up the stairs, undressed in the dark and got into bed beside Barbara. Laying tense and still, pretending to be asleep, she could smell Virginia’s perfume clinging to his skin. Now she knew who her rival was, the scent was easy to identify. She wanted to turn on him, to scream and batter him with her fists, to kick him out of bed, anything to release the burning torment inside her, the bitterness of being betrayed, the humiliation of being cast aside, the sheer unadulterated jealousy.
Lying with her back to him, she felt him fidgeting carefully so as not to wake her and a few moments later he was gently snoring. How could he sleep? How could he do this to her? Why, if he had to have an affair, did it have to be with Virginia? The memory of her first meeting with her stepmother came back, sharp as if it had happened the day before, Virginia in a bath robe, sleek and beautiful, totally at home in her father’s house. The hurt then had been so bad she couldn’t bear to live in the same house. She remembered her mother-in-law’s caustic comment: It was enough to make you fling yourself at the first man who’d have you. That wasn’t true, was it? She loved her husband or she wouldn’t now be in such torment.
She watched the dawn come up, the gradual lightening of the room until she could pick out the shape of each piece of furniture, then George’s case, standing by the wardrobe, and his clothes flung on a chair. The light became pink and golden and then she could see the top of one of the chestnut trees which gave the house its name. She rose and went to stand by the window, looking out. The sun was coming over the trees which separated The Chestnuts from Melsham Manor, huge and orange, suffusing the sky in vermilion and pink. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Behind her George still snored. She wanted to get dressed and run down the drive, along the lane by the common, across the fields, back to her childhood home, back to the nest. Only Colonel Macready would wonder what on earth had got into her. Perhaps she should pack her things and take the children away, somewhere where George would never find them. Poor kids!
She turned as George stirred and, unable to face any sort of conversation with him, grabbed her clothes and ran for the bathroom.
She was cooking breakfast when he came down to the kitchen. He smiled and bent over to kiss her cheek. ‘You were up early,’ he said, in a perfectly normal voice.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘No? You were dead to the world when I came in.’
‘And when was that?’ She hadn’t meant to sound so sharp; it just came out that way.
‘Oh, around midnight. The boat train was late getting into London and we stopped off for a bite before catching the last train to Melsham. Is there something wrong? You’re looking pale.’
What to do? What to say? How did one go about surviving when your whole world was falling to pieces? ‘I’m perfectly well.’
‘Well, you don’t look it. What have you been up to while I’ve been away?’
‘What have I been up to? You have the gall to ask me what I’ve been up to?’ Her voice was rising and she quickly moderated it. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?’
He took a deep breath to steady himself. She couldn’t have found out. ‘You know perfectly well what I’ve been doing. It was a highly successful visit. We managed to tie up a deal with a French engineering company. It means new jobs in Melsham. Everyone is pleased as punch.’
‘Congratulations.’ She was about to ask him if Virginia had been pleased too, when Alison wandered into the kitchen in her nightdress, her dark hair about her shoulders and her eyes still heavy from sleep.
‘Daddy!’ She flung herself into her father’s arms to be hugged and kissed.
‘Have you been a good girl while I’ve been away?’
‘Yes. Did you bring me something? You promised you would.’
‘Of course. You don’t think I’d break a promise to you, do you?’ He looked up at Barbara, standing in the middle of the room, and smiled. She turned away to get Alison’s breakfast and when she turned back, father and daughter were leaving the room hand in hand. ‘I made you a drawing at school,’ Alison was saying. ‘It’s the seaside.’
Barbara found her eyes filling with tears. How could she shatter that trust? There was nothing she could do but soldier on and hope he would come to his senses without her having to say anything.
George was still musing on the altercation he had had with Barbara when he arrived at the yard and was in no mood to be civil to Colin Younger when he found him waiting on the stairs to the office. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Time served, Mr Kennett,’ Colin grinned easily and followed George into the room. ‘I’ve come home and you can’t blame a man for that, can you?’
‘We made a deal…’
‘That was years ago and I honoured it, but a man can’t be expected to stay away from his wife and family and all the comforts of home for ever, can he? And you’ve done pretty well for yourself, I hear. Councillor Kennett, no less, a bigwig with a big house and a smart car and no competition to speak of. And who have you got to thank for that? I was the one that kept his mouth shut and did his time.’
George sighed. He’d got enough problems with Barbara and Virginia without blackmail added to them. ‘I didn’t ask you to start a fire, that was your idea, so don’t try blackmailing me.’
‘Go to the cops and complain then. I dare you to.’
‘I have nothing to tell them.’
‘Too right, you haven’t.’ Colin grinned and, without waiting for an invitation, sat in the chair opposite the desk behind which George had taken refuge. ‘If I were to mention five hundred pounds, they’d be more interested in that, wouldn’t they? It had to come from somewhere and there’d be an investigation, bank accounts, things like that. I’ve got nothing to lose, I’ve served my time, you haven’t.’
‘You could have told the police about it when you were arrested,’ George said, sitting back in his chair and making a steeple of his fingers, just to prove how relaxed he was. ‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I’m no grass.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, there are other ways of skinning a cat. Rumour, hints, gossip, you really can’t afford that, can you, Councillor Kennett? And suppose the Melsham Gazette got hold of the story?’
George picked up a pen and fumbled in a drawer for his chequeb
ook. ‘How much?’
‘I’m not asking for money, Mr Kennett, you can put that away.’
George looked up in surprise. ‘What do you want, then?’
‘A job. A good job, mind – foreman, that’s what you promised me, wasn’t it? Something well paid, with some status to it, so I can go home with my head up. All legit and above board.’
George stared at him for a full minute, wondering what the man would do if he sent him off with a flea in his ear, and decided not to risk it. He scribbled a note to Donald. ‘Take this to Mr Browning, he’s in the yard somewhere. But any hint of trouble and you’re out, do you understand?’
Colin took the note and left. George heard him clatter down the stairs, making the iron ring, then turned back to the paperwork on his desk. At noon he was interrupted by the arrival of his mother.
It was so unlike her to visit him at work, he looked up in alarm. ‘Mum, is something wrong?’
‘Yes, there is. I want a word with you.’
‘Can’t it wait? I’m very busy, as you can see.’ He indicated the papers strewn on his desk. ‘You’d think they’d manage to carry on for five days without getting in a mess, wouldn’t you?’
‘Shut up, George, and listen for once in your life, will you?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I’m telling you this because no one else will and because I don’t want to see everything you’ve worked for – your business, your position in the town, your marriage, your reputation, everything – go down the pan for a few moments of dubious pleasure.’
Somewhere in the pit of his stomach he felt a frisson of apprehension. ‘For God’s sake, Mum, what are you talking about?’
‘Don’t blaspheme. I mean you and Virginia Bosgrove.’
The fear grew and resolved itself into a tight knot, thick and dark and menacing, making him feel physically sick. If his mother knew, who else? He stared at her, wondering whether he could get away with denying it, which was what he would have done had Barbara accused him, but seeing the steely determination in her eye, he knew he could not.
He forced himself to sound reasonable. ‘Virginia is Barbara’s stepmother, and since her husband died, I have been looking after her affairs, you know that.’
