Good Husband Material

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘I dare say you think so. But my writing is my profession, James – not a hobby! Why should I be your housekeeper while you continue to do nothing around the house? You used to help me before I left the library.’

  ‘Let’s not argue, Tish. After all, I bought you your country cottage, didn’t I?’

  ‘We bought a country cottage with our money. You wanted it as much as I did.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter much to me where we live, except that you seem to have been ratty ever since we moved here. You never used to be like this. I can’t think what’s got into you!’

  My lips ached to say, ‘Well, it certainly hasn’t been you for the last couple of months, James!’ but I just managed to prevent them from uttering such a vulgarity.

  ‘You never used to be like this either,’ I said instead, my newly opened eyes seeing a selfish, complacent stranger.

  ‘Hell, I’m going to be late – for God’s sake have some aspirin and lie down. You’re overwrought.’

  The door slammed and he was off.

  He obviously thinks it’s that time of the month and all this is a little emotional outpouring resulting therefrom. (A Womb with a View?) I blame the Sunday Supplements.

  And it isn’t that time of the month, because now I’m off the pill there doesn’t seem to be any particular time; my periods have reverted to being totally erratic.

  Why do matrimonial arguments always vanish down the same holes, like the rabbit in Alice? It’s hardly worth starting one when you know where it’s going.

  I made a pot of coffee and was just eating my muesli when Bess greeted the arrival of the postman with hyena-like rapture.

  Ten minutes later I was toasting myself in cooking sherry. I’m going to be sold in America! Lovecall Hot Editions want everything of mine they can get. It looks like my earnings may be overtaking James’s at any second and he can’t call it pin money then, can he?

  Flown with this excitement I put in a good morning’s work on the novel, then started on the bathroom. I’m going to enclose the bath in tongue-and-groove pine, which looks quite easy in the book.

  When I prised the plastic side off the bath, woodlice like tiny armadillos scattered in all directions, and it took me ages to scoop them up in the dustpan, because they kept curling into tiny balls and rolling away.

  James arrived back very late and very drunk, so he wasn’t working all day. Goodness knows where he’d been, but I wish he wouldn’t drink and drive.

  So I never did get round to telling him about the letter from the agent. Or about Vivyan’s other suggestion that, since the editor of Lovecall was going to be the speaker at the SFWWR dinner and would like to meet me for a working breakfast next morning (apparently an American concept), before flying back, he thought I might as well book a room overnight at the hotel.

  This is all very exciting – and scary. But Vivyan will be at the dinner and the breakfast too to support me.

  James is bound to disapprove, but I don’t care – I’m going!

  What do you wear to a working breakfast? Pinstriped pyjamas?

  Tongue-and-groove pining is more difficult than I thought, and James is very critical; but what does it matter if the framework is nailed together? No one is going to see it, it’ll be covered in pine.

  There’s only one pattern of shower curtain material with toning roller blind and wallpaper that I really like, and it’s very expensive. But at least it’s a small bathroom. I’ve hung the shower curtains already, having had more than enough of the bulgy-eyed fish.

  James found the brochure and moaned about the price, but I pointed out to him that it actually costs much the same as he spends on alcohol in a month, and would give me infinitely more pleasure.

  Then I suggested that he cut out the middle man and pour the wine straight down the toilet; or better still, just flush the money he’d have spent on it down the toilet. He said he was profoundly disgusted at my crudity and sarcasm.

  He was very disappointed when the museum said his mammoth tooth was only a horse tooth, too, and of no interest. It interested me, though. Just imagine, a horse can carry a full set of those and still hold its head up! But why did it die in my garden? I hope we don’t find the rest.

  One morning I arrived home from a shopping expedition via the chancy and erratic local bus service, to find the front garden looking as if several cement mixers had rolled all over it, and there was no sign of the workmen who were supposed to be laying the garage foundations.

  The garage base itself seemed to be nearly finished but the cement mixer was still in business, so I followed the sound of voices out to the back garden and found them laying a second garage base near the shed.

  They were deeply aggrieved when I demanded to know what on earth they were doing and showed me their instructions, which allowed for a second, smaller foundation to be laid.

  A sudden, horrible suspicion entered my head as I recalled how carefully James had measured this area, and I left the workmen standing defensively round the wet concrete while I went to phone him.

  My suspicions were justified – he’d ordered another building without telling me! He knows how I hate hire-purchase, and paying for the garage will be bad enough.

  ‘What on earth do you want another shed for?’ I demanded angrily. ‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing before you signed for it?’

  ‘It was when I was filling in the form for the garage – the catalogue had just what I needed, so I added it. The payments aren’t increased by much and anyway, I’m the one who goes out to work, so I’m entitled to spend a bit of money how I like!’

  ‘I earn money too, James, but I would never have spent so much without consulting you first! What do you want it for, anyway? There’s nothing wrong with the shed.’

  ‘It’s a Hobby Home – like a detached room. I’m going to run electricity across to it.’

  ‘What for? Your only hobby lately seems to be drinking too much and staying out late. Unless you’ve decided to do it in solitary confinement?’

  ‘I can’t discuss it now, I’ve got a client coming in,’ he said stiffly, and rang off.

  Twelve thirty. Some client!

  Later, when I looked out of the kitchen window, there was only a new stretch of whitish concrete, some bits of wood and the sound of the cement mixer being driven away.

  James arrived home early, ready for battle. Before he came in he went and looked at his expensive foundations – the hut will cost nearly as much as the garage!

  During the ensuing argument I had the deadly feeling that we’d said the same things before: James insisting he earned his money and was entitled to spend some of it on himself, and me pointing out that I earned money too, and I didn’t go and spend large sums without consulting him, etc.

  ‘What about clothes?’ he demanded. ‘You’re always buying clothes! And it’s not as if they were really nice ones – always jeans. You’ve never worn that suit I bought you for your birthday.’

  ‘I dress to be comfortable, not to please you.’

  ‘Obviously!’

  ‘I’d look ridiculous wearing smart clothes in the country, and all I’ve bought since we came here is one pair of jeans, which I needed.’ (And a new outfit for the SFWWR dinner, but he doesn’t know about that yet.) ‘What about your new suit?’

  ‘Necessary for work.’

  ‘And your silk ties?’

  ‘I have to look smart, you know.’

  ‘Your clients wouldn’t turn away in disgust if you weren’t wearing a silk tie. Anyway, all this is beside the point: what do you want a Hobby Home for?’

  ‘To set up my amateur radio equipment in,’ he said sulkily.

  ‘What!’ I screamed. ‘You mean you’re going to be a ham? But, James, we can’t really afford a Hobby Home, and we certainly can’t afford all that expensive equipment.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. Anybody would think we were on the breadline, the way you talk about money. We’ll hardly notice the monthly payments for
the garage and workshop, and I’ve arranged a bank loan for the radio gear – the order’s already been sent off.’

  I sat down feeling limp: this was going to set us back a small fortune. And a bank loan – without telling me!

  ‘But why?’ I asked miserably. ‘Why didn’t you talk it over with me first?’

  ‘I knew you’d make a fuss, and it has nothing to do with you really.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me? So if I’d gone out one day and bought a computer, that would be none of your business?’

  ‘You don’t need one – it’s time you were giving up all this scribbling and having a baby. Derek Wyman’s wife is pregnant.’

  I might have pointed out that unless I became pregnant by Spontaneous Combustion there wasn’t much hope of that these days anyway, but decided it was too low a blow.

  ‘James, how often do I have to tell you before it gets through your thick skull? My “scribbling” is earning a lot of money, and this new contract my agent has got for me means I’ll end up earning more than you do!’

  That did it. I don’t know where he gets such old-fashioned ideas from, but the thought was like a red rag to a bull. Most men would be overjoyed if their wives earned lots of money, but not James.

  In the end I said I was going to keep all my money in a separate bank account, except for a proportion which I would pay into our joint account, and he slammed out of the house saying I could do what the hell I liked.

  Oh dear! We used to be happy before we moved here … and I don’t think I have changed all that much – or have I? I’m not sure James has, either. I’m beginning to think he always had these ideas entrenched somewhere, but he’s only revealing them now.

  I couldn’t help crying, I felt so unhappy.

  Fergal: May 1999

  ‘Fergal Rocco pictured with his constant companion, Miss Nerissa Bright, daughter of American Computer Tycoon, Curtis Bright …’

  Exposé magazine

  It made Nerissa sound like a guide dog, but she seemed quite pleased with it, as she seems pleased with any article that couples our names together, as if they could help to build a relationship like so many bricks.

  My little limpet.

  She has amazing sticking power. Thought she’d have moved on to pastures new by now, especially since I’ve refused to be flaunted round the ‘In’ circle, like some captured tiger.

  And how do you define companion? Hanger-on?

  I’m sort of used to having her around, and she has done one useful thing. When she knew I was looking for a house she got details of everything within easy distance of her father’s place at Lavenham, and among them was a real gem … the house I’ve always dreamed of.

  As to Nerissa, I don’t want to be unkind. I think she’ll find someone else while we are away on tour. I really hope so. It’s not fair to her either – what she can give me I can find anywhere.

  (And often do.)

  Chapter 13: And the Beet Goes on

  For three days we exchanged the minimum of communications, and I opened a separate bank account. Actually, I’d always left the paperwork and finances to James, so it took a bit of working out, but it was quite interesting seeing where the money had been going, and I concluded that James was an expensive luxury.

  Then, with the hurt and puzzled air of one who is wrongly accused but willing to be friends, he started making overtures of reconciliation, though chocolates and flowers don’t go a long way to healing that sort of breach of trust. Like putting a Disney sticking plaster over a broken leg.

  It’s odd – I don’t think James is changing, just showing his true colours, and they’re colours I don’t like (and I’m not talking magnolia here).

  We keep off tricky subjects, and I’m not closing my separate account if he is going to do sneaky things. It’s probably a good idea anyway, now I’m hoping to earn so much more. I’ll just go on paying my half of everything (except the Hobby Home and the bank loan payments for the ham equipment) out of it.

  In some small retaliation (petty but satisfying) I finally informed him that I would be staying the night at the hotel after the Awards dinner, which nearly scuttled the reconciliation, but I don’t care.

  Mother has been snivelly on the subject of ‘when will I ever be a grandmother?’. She says all her friends have grandchildren, but I didn’t think she had any friends outside Transylvania. James must have put her up to it, as he tends to phone her from the office when displeased with me (another sneaky habit).

  Since I’m now convinced that the baby would be left entirely to me to look after, as well as everything else, and provide another excuse for James to leave me behind when he goes out, it doesn’t inspire me to reproduce.

  Mother also revealed her hopes of having Granny declared senile or something, so that she can get at her cash and jewellery, using some of it to incarcerate her in an old people’s home … Power of attorney, that’s it.

  Of the two, Granny is definitely the saner and more competent, so Mother’s scheme is clearly doomed to fail. Even Granny’s diabetes doesn’t noticeably impede her, and there’s really nothing wrong with her mind – it was always like that.

  Her only mistake was moving in to look after Mother after Grandpa died, out of some grim Northern sense of duty.

  I wonder if I could get power of attorney over James.

  The Hobby Home and garage were erected in a day, and he’s already run electricity across to his palatial shed, bought curtains and even ordered carpet. I’m saying nothing any more about the expense; if he gets into difficulties, it’s not my affair any longer.

  He then graciously informed me that he’s going to have an enormous aerial fixed to the house, which will look dreadful, and surely they won’t allow such an eyesore in a nice village like this? But he still has to pass some sort of exam or test before they let him loose on the airwaves, so I can only hope he fails dismally and takes up something more reasonable, like stamp collecting.

  On my next duty visit to Deepest Suburbia I entertained Granny with an account of the May Day revels, which sent her off into a spate of reminiscence, her accent even more infused with Yorkshire.

  ‘May Day? I were Keighley Queen of the May. My Bernard were passing through and he said to me: “What’s a pretty lass like you doing in a daft hat like that?” Only he put it a bit different, being posh and from down South.’

  Mother rolled her eyes up and went out to put the kettle on.

  ‘Was it love at first sight, Granny?’

  ‘Aye, but I made him wait!’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Well, we had a good life even if we did just have the one child, and that without the backbone of a gnat!’

  ‘Dad wasn’t—’

  ‘Your father was a soft, easy-going fool – took after Bernard’s side more than mine. Not that he wasn’t a loving, good-hearted soul, mind, and a good son, though Bernard was disappointed that he didn’t want to go into the business. But there – he was happy enough in his bank.’

  ‘Who do I take after?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘Lord knows! And your father had the mumps bad right after he got married, so we didn’t think …’

  She tailed off into silence and I thought that was it until she suddenly added, ‘I said to Valerie when I saw you: “If that’s yours it’s a changeling – there’s no red hair in my family!”’

  ‘I haven’t got red hair! It’s deep gold.’

  ‘Then that Vanessa Redgrave was blonde, too. Valerie was light-haired, mind – real pale blonde.’

  ‘She still is,’ I said, as Mother reappeared with a tray.

  ‘Comes out of a bottle.’

  ‘What does?’ enquired Mother brightly.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said quickly. ‘Did you make these lovely scones?’

  Easily distracted, she preened. ‘Yes, I made lots because Dr Reevey came to call earlier.’

  ‘You aren’t ill, are you?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ She smiled smugly. ‘He’s not my doctor. That would be quite unsuitabl
e! It was Granny who used to be his patient. This was just a little social visit. We were arranging to go out line dancing.’

  ‘Line dancing?’

  I looked at her with more attention than usual. She’s a little fluffy blonde with big blue eyes and is pretty well preserved for forty-nine. But her rather fairy-off-the-tree appearance hides a will of iron and a rigid adherence to respectability (whatever that is). She’s always had one or two devoted admirers, usually elderly. Dr Reevey isn’t much older than she is. I noticed she was looking a bit different – heavier on the eye make-up, for one thing.

  ‘I went out!’ Granny declared rather thickly through a mouthful of scone. ‘Didn’t want to play gooseberry, so I called a taxi and went to visit that old rogue Herries. Calls himself a solicitor!’

  ‘But didn’t Mr Herries retire ages ago?’

  ‘Climbs out of his crypt especially for me!’

  ‘So that’s where you went!’ Mother exclaimed, and added more casually as she poured tea into delicate, fluted cups, ‘What did you need to see him about?’

  I took the cup of horridly pallid coffee she’d made me.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know!’ rejoined Granny crudely.

  ‘Not really; I’m sure I’ve no interest in your affairs.’ Mother tossed her head. ‘I only thought that I could have taken a message for you if I’d known you wanted to tell him something, and saved you a journey.’

  ‘Enjoyed the visit, it did me good. I’m in better shape than he is, diabetes or no!’

  I drank the coffee quickly, to get it over with, then ate the last bit of my scone, which was excellent.

  If there’s one thing Mother is good at, other than interfering, it’s baking.

  ‘I’d better be off, or I’ll miss the train. I really must find a driving instructor. I keep saying I will, and then not getting round to it.’

  ‘Can’t dear James come and collect you? It’s ages since I saw him.’

  ‘No, he’s gone to see a client in Bradford.’

  ‘Ah, the Jewel of the North!’ said Granny cheerily, and Mother gave her a dirty look. She’s never been further north than Luton.