Walking along Sophie Street, she remembered the sweetshop, Temptations, on the corner and stopped to buy some sweets to take to the cinema. The little shop was full. She knew the young woman serving was Rhiannon, Viv Lewis’s sister, and stepped back to allow the other customers to be served, and looked at her. Pretty in a shy way, she had long brown hair pinned up high on her head and hanging down her shoulders. Her brown eyes were gentle and friendly, and she chatted to the people she served, obviously knowing them all. When the shop had emptied, Rhiannon turned to her.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely, then she smiled and said, “Oh, you’re Miss Francis from the paint shop, aren’t you?”
“Mrs Francis, yes. And you’re Viv Lewis’s sister, I believe.”
“That’s right.” As Rhiannon served Jennie with her selection she wondered whether she had come to ask questions about Viv and Joan. They were sort of rivals, although she had heard that the small shop owned by Jennie was not doing very well. “Shop keeping you busy, is it?” she asked politely.
“Your brother has bought my remaining stock, I no longer have a business.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Starting something new, are you?”
Jennie smiled sadly. “I haven’t decided yet.” As she turned to leave with her purchases in her hand the door opened and Carl came in closely followed by a plump, dark-haired, rosy-faced girl who said ‘whoops’ as they all met in the doorway.
“Carl!” Jennie said. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you I expect, buying sweets.”
“I’m sneaking off for five minutes while I’m out buying envelopes for Edward,” Mair Gregory explained and it seemed a natural thing to her to introduce herself… “I work in the sports shop on High Street. Carl and I know each other,” she said. “We met in the shop while he came to buy fishing tackle.”
Carl looked very uncomfortable. “Hardly know each other,” he said, stepping back as though embarrassed.
Mair’s normally rosy face became even redder and she laughed and said, “Know each other from the shop, we do. That’s all.”
Rhiannon was puzzled, both remarks seemed odd. She wondered whether there was more than a brief acquaintance there and, if so, why there was something secretive about it.
When Carl left, Mair hastily followed him. Unable to hide her curiosity, Rhiannon stretched up and watched as they met on the corner and stood for a time apparently arguing, before Mair ran up the street towards the main road. Carl turned in the same direction but made no effort to catch her up.
“I don’t think she’ll have much luck if she thinks he’ll show an interest,” Jennie confided. “A loner is Carl Rees and I don’t know why.”
“Married, I bet,” Rhiannon said confidently.
Jennie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. He lives in one mean little room in Bella Vista Road and his mother lives near. And that’s all I know about the man. Odd, isn’t it?”
* * *
When she came out of the cinema, Jennie wasn’t in a hurry to get home. Why should she rush to cook a meal for a husband who wouldn’t eat it? Then she thought that this might be the night when he had calmed down from whatever had caused his anger and would be waiting for her, so she increased her pace as she passed the sweetshop which was now closed, and hurried home. She was breathless when she opened the front door and called, “Peter? Are you there? Dinner won’t be long.” There was no reply and her shoulders drooped and she wondered how long he was going to sulk this time. It had happened before, this non-communication, but it usually ended after a few days with the explanation that he had been worried about events at work, although she suspected that the discontent, regret, or whatever it was, emanated from his mother, who had protested about her marrying Peter, right up to the day of the wedding.
Slowly she took off her coat and threw it carelessly across the newel post – something Peter hated – and went upstairs to change into slippers. There was a note on the bed.
“I have decided to leave you,” it read. No “Dear Jennie”, just the bald statement. It went on:
Neither of us is happy and there seems no point in living together when we are so clearly unsuited.
You will be hearing from my solicitor, but in the mean time you can stay in the house and I have returned to live temporarily with my parents.
Peter
She stared at the page for a long time, as though wanting it to be untrue would make it so. What had she done? Why had everything fallen apart? What would she do now?
Chapter Two
Jennie had never been in a house alone at night before. Although her parents had died when she was a child, there had always been someone with her. First an aunt, then a series of friends with whom she had shared a flat. Although she was without a family, she had never had to face the ultimate loneliness of sleeping in completely empty house. When she married Peter she had never imagined being alone, and the prospect of sleeping in the house they had shared was frightening. How could he do this to her? Why hadn’t he at least discussed it, waited until she could make arrangements, find someone to live in while they sorted out their situation?
She didn’t undress, and that made her feel cowardly. The darkness was more than she could bear, so she sat on the bed wrapped in extra blankets with the lights on both in the bedroom and on the landing. She smiled wryly at the thought of Peter’s reaction if he found out. Peter hated waste. Remembering this, she went and put on the downstairs lights too.
Sounds alarmed her and brought her out of her light dozing: a cat calling with a pathetic wail, followed by the screeching of a fight when another approached; a creaking floorboard had her sitting up, all her senses alert for danger before she remembered that the old lady next door often got up at night, the footsteps sounding as close as if they were in the next room. She waited, unable to convince herself there was no one in the house, until she heard the flush of a toilet followed by returning footsteps.
It was early morning before she slept and even then she was awake again before seven, fumbling her way out of the excess bedding to go and make a cup of tea. She was thankful the lights were still on. It was bitterly cold and the darkness framed in the windows emphasised the silent emptiness. The place had an alien feel, and the small sounds were somehow distorted by her solitary state. She went down the stairs feeling she were trespassing, that she no longer belonged. As she waited for the kettle to boil she mused sadly over the mystery of how the absence of one person could change the atmosphere of a house so much, so that it felt hollow, unlived-in, lacking in friendliness. She looked at the clock, ticking with exaggerated loudness. Eight fifteen. If this had been a weekday, Peter would be cleaning his shoes as part of his morning ritual. His clothes would be brushed, his tie fixed in an orderly position. He used a napkin while he ate his breakfast to make sure his appearance was immaculate. It was something she had admired: his precise attention to detail. Now she hoped he would drop coffee on his white shirt.
Eight thirty and his mother would be calling, “Peter, will two slices of toast be enough? One egg or two?” Why hadn’t he been prepared to leave his parents behind and live his life with her? She had remained an outsider from the first moment she had been introduced to Mr and Mrs Francis. It had been made clear to her even then that Peter was strongly attached to his mother and, as his wife, she would be a poor second. Why had she accepted it? Why had she imagined she would ever be anything else?
When she went to the shop, a little later than usual, both Carl and Viv Lewis were waiting. She had forgotten that Viv had arranged to be there early to collect the goods he had bought. She made half-hearted apologies and opened up. Carl began taking down the shelves and display units he had made such a short time before, while Viv, assisted by two brothers whom he introduced as Frank and Ernie Griffiths, loaded up a rather dilapidated van to take the carpets and tins of paint and the rest of the contents to Westons at the end of High Street. She didn’t watch as the van took its final load
, busying herself making tea for herself and Carl, pretending she didn’t care.
For a while they worked in silence, Carl piling up the shelves and filling in the damage to the walls, and Jennie sweeping and putting the last of the rubbish into sacks. Then she couldn’t keep her misery to herself any longer.
“Peter left me yesterday,” she said quietly.
“Left you?” Carl asked, spinning round to stare at her. “As in ‘gone for good’?”
“It seems that way. He’s – he’s gone back to mother.” She unaccountably saw the funny side of this and began to smile. A bubble of laughter that was based not on humour, but on misery, took her over and she began to laugh. Carl laughed too and the sound increased as the absurdity of the remark caught him afresh. “She never wanted me to marry her precious son.” That too sounded funny. Giggles distorted her voice as she added, “She tried everything to stop him leaving and now – now, she’s got him back.”
“Serves her right an’ all!” Carl said, still unable to stop laughing.
“The worst part is,” Jennie sighed, her laughter ceasing as suddenly as it began, “that I don’t really know why.”
“Why she didn’t want you for a daughter-in-law or why he upped and left?” Carl tried to revive the laughter, but failed.
“She didn’t want him to marry anyone, and I suppose she eventually convinced him he had made a terrible mistake.”
“Mother-in-law jokes are sometimes too close to the truth. Specially the lonely ones who are greedy for a second chance, who try to live again vicariously through their children.”
“Personal experience, Carl?” she asked quizzically.
Carl shook his dark head, and smiled. “I’m not cut out for marriage. Too selfish.”
“That didn’t stop Peter,” she said, and this time her laugh was harsh.
* * *
The sale at Westons attracted a lot of interest. Joan and Viv Lewis worked all through a weekend, placing posters in the windows as well as displaying some of their best items with prices marked and crossed out and marked again to show the value of the reductions. When the store opened at nine o’clock on Monday morning there was a crowd of hopeful customers waiting.
Dressed against the chill they had formed a ragged queue and were chatting as though they had been waiting for a long time and had become friends.
Surprised, and far from displeased, Joan decided to let them in six at a time. She sent one of the store assistants round to ask Arfon to come and help, although, with so many of the bargains shown in the window, many knew what they wanted before they came in.
Arfon came bustling in, pleased to be asked to help the business that had once been his to manage. His loud, authoritative voice boomed across the showroom as he reminded each customer he served, and others waiting their turn, of the excellent value they were getting for their money.
Victoria and her husband, Jack Weston, Joan’s cousin, came and went off well pleased with new carpeting for two bedrooms, placing an order for curtains as well.
“Not buying for a nursery yet then?” Viv teased his friend, and Jack hurriedly changed the subject.
“We going fishing at the weekend?” Jack asked, glancing at his wife and frowning at Viv to warn him not to say any more. Viv guessed from the sad expression on Victoria’s face that the lack of children might not be from choice. The exchange hadn’t been missed and Victoria said, “My mother had seven and here I am, unable to have one. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Plenty of time,” Viv said. “Damn me, you need a couple of years to get Jack trained first, mind!”
Janet Griffiths came to stand in the doorway waiting her turn to enter. Behind her stood a very self-conscious Hywel. She looked excitedly around her at the displays that were gradually falling into disarray as item after item found a buyer. Hywel shuffled his feet and wished he was somewhere else, anywhere but in a shop full of chattering women. Viv saw them and whispered to Joan that he would never have imagined the Griffithses needing carpets.
The Griffithses lived in a shabby cottage on the edge of town with their son Frank and their daughter Caroline and her son. The cottage was also home to an assortment of animals including goats, chickens, ducks and, on occasions, a pig or two.
Janet was small and neat, with wiry, untidy hair which started each day in a tight bun which soon defied all efforts at control and flared about her head like seaweed on a subterranean rock. Hywel was not much taller than his wife but he was burly, with a beard almost as unmanageable as Janet’s hair. He wore a workman-like, badly stained donkey jacket and a check shirt. His denims were supported by a thick leather belt that was slung under his belly so he looked like a bit-player in a western film. As soon as he entered, trying to hide behind his diminutive wife, Viv, forgetting the other customers, called out, “Bloody ’ell! Hywel Griffiths shopping? Never thought I’d see the day.” He pushed aside the assistant who had approached them. “I’ll see to Mr and Mrs Griffiths.”
“We want something to cover the bedroom floor. Nothing fancy, mind.”
“He means a carpet.” Janet chuckled. “The first ever, mind.”
“What’s wrong with them rag rugs you made when we got married?” Hywel grumbled.
“Worn out like you! And that linoleum is bitter cold under my poor feet.”
“Good idea, Janet,” Viv said, with an unsympathetic face for Hywel. “Time you were spoiling yourself a bit. I’ll show you our best bargains.”
Dora and Lewis Lewis, Viv’s newly reunited parents, bought carpet for a bedroom too, and it seemed to Viv and Joan that half of Pendragon Island had been through the doors of Westons, before they closed at six o’clock on the first day of the sale.
They were leaving the shop at about seven thirty, having stayed to rearrange the diminished stock and tidy the showroom ready for the following day, when Jennie Francis knocked on the window. Joan opened the door and in her forthright manner explained they were just leaving.
“I just wanted to see how it went. Did you have a successful day?”
Relenting, Joan opened the door and invited her in.
“Marvellous,” Viv said, then added, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so pleased. It’s your loss, isn’t it?”
“You gave me a good price, I’m not complaining. I didn’t come for that. I should be able to start again within the year, if I can get a job to pay for my keep, meanwhile.”
“Your keep?” Joan asked curiously. “Doesn’t your husband do that?”
“Not any more.”
“Don’t be in too much hurry to start,” Viv warned. “I don’t worry about competition, mind. But you must see that you wouldn’t have much chance trying to compete with us.”
“I won’t try paint and wallpaper again, and I won’t try carpets.” She moved towards the door, adding, “Paint and wallpaper weren’t my original idea, I was persuaded into that by Peter and his parents. They thought the town wasn’t ready for anything as frivolous as a gift shop.”
“If we can help—” Viv said, spreading his hands in a vague gesture of offering.
“Come and talk to us when you’re thinking of starting again and we’ll help if we can,” Joan agreed.
Neither of them said ‘I’, each said ‘we’ and each knew the other was in agreement, Jennie thought, as she hurried away, preparing herself for entering the empty house.
When she opened the door she knew at once that someone was there. “Peter?” she called and he came out of the living room to stand in the doorway staring at her. “You’re back.” She tried to hide her relief and pleasure at his return.
Then he muttered, “Only briefly,” and her heart fell like a broken lift, plummeting to the bottom of her hopes.
“Briefly?”
“There are things we must discuss. Finances for one thing. I’ll pay the bills until you get a job then I’ll pay half.”
“What? You expect me to pay half the expenses of the house? Well, all right, but I’ll get a couple of lod
gers to help with my half.”
“Definitely not!”
They bickered like children for a few moments, each insisting on having their say only for the other to listen without taking anything in, just waiting for their turn to get in a word.
“I’ve sold the contents of the shop,” Jennie said, and that stopped him.
“Good,” he said, after a pause, “then you can begin paying your half straight away, can’t you?”
“Certainly, as long as your parents don’t mind waiting for their money!” she snapped, and they were off again, shouting, arguing, each blaming the other, until Jennie threw down the shopping she carried and pushed him towards the front door. A twist of the latch and she thrust him through. “Speak to me through solicitors in future. Right? Tell your mother that! And,” she shouted through the slit of the door, “as of tomorrow, the house is for sale. Right?”
“No! You can’t do that! Mam says—”
Jennie slammed the door, then as an idea hit her with sudden and painful shock, she opened it, and said slowly, “There’s another woman! You plan to bring her here after you’ve got rid of me!”
“There’s no one else,” he replied. They stared at each other for a moment then he asked, “Can I come back in?”
She walked into the kitchen and began preparing her meal, pointedly setting out one plate, one cup and saucer.
Peter shuffled his feet a bit, touching a chair as though about to sit, then changing his mind, and shuffling some more. He was obviously finding it difficult to say what he wanted her to hear. She remained silent.
“You’re too independent for me,” he said at last. “When we married, I wanted to look after you, I wanted to feel important, needed, in charge of our lives. And there you were, running a business, not being a wife at all. Not needing me for anything, except to keep you while you waited for the shop to provide for you.”
Sophie Street Page 3
