by Jane Tulloch
The dinner parties continued. By now I just prepared and served the food. I didn’t have to act as hostess at all. Yvonne, Charles’s secretary, often came to these dinners. I did resent the way she ordered me about and her overfamiliarity with my husband. I spoke to him about it once but he ‘put me in my place’ as he called it. I left it at that. Anything for a quiet life.
We did have a ‘nice’ life. We went on holidays to expensive resorts, the children went to the right schools (according to Charles) and I was always nicely turned out. I tried to be polite to anyone I met, but tended to discourage any friendly overtures, pleasantly turning down any invitations to coffee mornings or ladies’ afternoon teas. I sometimes overheard people talking about me and commenting on how stand-offish I was. If only they knew. I longed for a friendly group to confide in but had to confine myself to Charles, the children and people he thought were suitable company: not that I was allowed to talk much.
My only other social outlet was shopping. I loved shopping. Not only for the undeniable joy of acquiring new things, but for the brief chats with helpful shop assistants. Snippets of meaningless but pleasant conversation. The nicest of these were in Murrays of course. What a pleasure it was to wander from department to department. I often thought they must have a policy of only employing nice people. I did have some especial favourites though, which led me to make some unwise purchases. Unwise only in the price I had to pay back home when Charles saw the bills. It was almost worth it though for the little flash of interest I saw in the face of one assistant as she listened to me tell her about my holiday, or another telling me about her mother’s latest illness. A little laugh in recognition of a small shared joke began to mean such a lot to me. I’d love to have been allowed to work in Murrays myself then.
I sometimes wondered what my parents would have said about my life and how it turned out. I was still doing everything right and correctly though. I hoped they would still be proud of me.
Of course this was before the time of ‘the great shame’ as I call it. Charles was disbarred from the law. Struck off. Not allowed to practise law ever again. Not that what he’d been practising was, strictly speaking, legal anyway. He’d been defrauding clients, including my parents’ trust, and was left owing hundreds of thousands of pounds. It was all gone. High stakes gambling apparently. It’s an illness. Apparently. I was left with a husband in prison, two out of control children and absolutely no money. I’m ashamed to say that my first thought was thank goodness my parents aren’t alive to see this. My second thought was, hooray, Charles will be away for years. It was only then that I thought, oh my God, what will I do now?
Unbelievably, and luckily as it turned out, Daddy had registered the bungalow in my name only, so it couldn’t be seized as an asset. Charles had slipped up there. At least we had a roof over our heads. The children had to leave their private schools of course. If they had been less troublesome or even slightly nicer children it’s possible the schools might have helped out with bursaries, but there was no chance of that in their cases. In fact, there was a definite air of ‘good riddance’ at the end of my painful interview with Peter’s headmaster. I didn’t blame them. Both the children, by now awkward teenagers, would have been too embarrassed to face their schoolmates anyway after the extensive newspaper coverage of their father’s exploits.
Charles’s secretary, Yvonne, had attended court each day looking very glamorous and was much photographed as his ‘wife.’ She came to the house one evening to collect some jewellery (my wedding pearls) that she’d allegedly been promised by Charles. She got short shrift I can tell you. I quite enjoyed it. It was the first time I’ve ever really given vent to my feelings. As I shouted, “Get lost you money-grubbing slag,” to her rapidly retreating figure, I felt something give inside me. Something changed. God, it felt great. Better than that, it felt right. I was doing absolutely the right thing. I nodded briefly to the neighbours that I glimpsed peeping out from behind their curtains to see what the disturbance was and I turned and closed the front door.
With my newfound resolution, I summoned the children to the dining room and told them to sit down. Blinking in surprise at being ordered to do something by their doormat mother, they opened their mouths to protest, but I silenced them with my first few words.
“Right you two, things have to change around here. Your precious father is no better than a criminal and his gambling has left us destitute.” I eyed them beadily. “Absolutely destitute. There. Is. No. Money!”
They demurred, but I continued. “Here is the plan: I sell this house, invest the capital raised for income and with that income we rent a small cheap flat nearer town. Nearer town because you two are not going back to school.”
Their faces brightened, but only momentarily. “You’re both going to have to get jobs. You’ll have to work for a living.”
Quelling their protests, I set them to tidying the house before the estate agent came to value the property. I think they were so shell shocked by everything that they went along with my orders. This had never happened before and I revelled in the feeling of control I had never had in the past.
Things moved fast after that. It was a lovely house in a pleasant location. In a way I was sad to lose it. It was my last link with Mummy and Daddy, but I thanked Daddy’s foresight in leaving me something of my own. It was only a pity that Charles had fraudulently broken the trust fund they left me by forging my signature.
We moved onwards and downwards. The affordable flat I found was tiny. Linda and I shared a bedroom and Peter slept on the couch in the sitting room. Most of our good furniture and possessions had been sold to add to the capital sum which kept us more or less.
The obvious place for Peter and Linda to find work was Murrays. Neither of them had achieved any qualifications and their expensive education seemed to have passed them by completely, but they looked and sounded presentable. They completed application forms and were duly interviewed and offered employment. The rates of pay and conditions of employment seemed to come as a nasty surprise, but it was time my children learned the value of work.
Linda was a very pretty girl and was immediately placed in Cosmetics and Perfumery. To my surprise, she seemed to like it there. She enjoyed being made up to give the other girls practice and often came home looking quite ridiculous: plastered in improbable make-up and with unfeasibly long false eyelashes weighing her eyelids down. She developed a good sales manner and gradually built up a reputation as a make-up artist herself. The long hours standing behind the counter in the stuffy atmosphere was tiring for her and she was glad to slump down on the sofa at the end of her working day. She even seemed to appreciate the meals I produced for us in the little kitchenette.
Things were harder for Peter, but ultimately much better. He was placed with the porters unloading deliveries and transporting goods around the store. It was hard physical work, something he had no experience of. The other porters made a fool of his accent and his attempts at laziness. When he was caught bullying and intimidating a man with mild learning disabilities in the packing department, he was beaten black and blue by his colleagues and, to his outrage, absolutely no witnesses came forward. Mrs Pegram in Personnel explained this to me over an apologetic telephone call. I don’t suppose she realised I was more accustomed to being informed of Peter having hurt others than being the victim himself. I graciously accepted her apologies and assurance that this was an extremely rare occurrence in Murrays.
The chastened Peter resumed his duties with a newfound diligence. He was aware of the awkwardness of course and tried to avoid the others at breaks. However, they were a good-natured bunch and gradually their banter broke through his cautious reserve. Before long he was playing football with them in the delivery yard during breaks. He was asked to join the store five-a-side football team and began to travel with them for matches on their days off.
Such changes. Such a new life. I never visited Charles or informed him of our new address. I expect he’ll b
e out soon and I really don’t want to see him. I suppose he’ll eventually track us down. We’ve discussed what we might do in that event. It’s nice being able to discuss things with Linda and Peter. Nice being treated as an equal, or even someone worthy of respect. They don’t want anything to do with him either.
Nowadays I work at Murrays too. It’s not exactly a paid job, well not paid by Murrays anyway, or only indirectly. I’ve always liked shopping. I love the beautiful things they sell in Murrays. I can’t afford their prices of course, but I still acquire them. No one suspects that such a respectable lady could possibly be stealing. I have a list of my own ‘customers’ now and fulfil their requirements to order efficiently and economically. It’s amazing how much I can make from a Hermes scarf or a Ciro pearl necklace for example. Murrays must be making a large profit. Of course, unlike them, my overheads are, well, zero (unless you count my bus fares). My friends throughout the various departments would be amazed at what I seem able to whisk away. I’m very good at it. You could almost say it’s a talent of mine. It’s nice to have my own business and to be in charge of my own destiny at last.
I do feel guilty of course, but needs must when the devil drives, or Charles as I call him.
Chapter 7
Speculators
The Tea Room on the third floor was as popular as ever with a certain group of Edinburgh ladies. These ladies eschewed the chrome and bright colours of the first floor ‘Caffe Fino’ in favour of their somewhat shabby favourite meeting place. They had been meeting every Friday for coffee and scones for longer than they could remember. As staff came and went, the Friday ladies seemed a permanent fixture. Their numbers were sadly depleted now due to the unfortunate demise of Noreen. This had been followed by a brief but successful career attending strangers’ funerals, which the ladies had all enjoyed – particularly the post-funeral refreshments. However, this activity was curtailed by the discovery that they were not the only group of ladies involved in that somewhat disreputable activity.
One particular spring Friday, Helen, the most forceful of them, sat back in her chair and sighed. “What is it dear?” asked Sandra, a very smart-looking person.
“I’m just sick of it all.” Helen sighed again. Sandra and Irene exchanged worried glances. This wasn’t like Helen at all. They regarded her as their leader.
Irene solicitously enquired, “Sick of what exactly? Your scone?” Irene cared a great deal about the quality of scones and, indeed, all types of food.
“No. No, it’s not,” Helen responded impatiently, leaning forward. “I’m just fed up of being hard up. Of all this penny pinching. And I fancy a change of scene. I’m sick of this place. Sick of the town. Of just everything,” she said defiantly before subsiding back in her chair again.
Sandra and Irene had never heard her talk like this. They were worried. “What’s happened?” asked Sandra kindly.
Helen sighed again.
“I think it’s just all this royal wedding stuff.”
“But we love hearing about the royal wedding. We’ve been looking forward to it for months.” Irene struggled to understand her friend’s problem.
“I know. I know. It’s just…” Helen glared at them fiercely, “it’s just that I’d really, really like to go and see it but I can’t. I can’t at all.”
“I know,” agreed Irene miserably. “We can all watch it together at my place if you like?” she said, brightening visibly. “We could have champagne and strawberries and smoked salmon sandwiches and…” Her happy list of delicious treats was interrupted by Helen glumly saying, “As if we could afford champagne worth drinking.”
“Maybe if we saved up?” said Sandra, ever the peacemaker.
“Well, we’ll just have to, won’t we?” replied Helen resignedly. She continued. “All the fuss about the royal wedding has got me thinking. It’s years and years since I was in London. I’d love to see it again, particularly en fête, all decorated and everyone happy for a change.” She looked at them all. “I want to see Charles and Diana in their carriage driving down the Mall. I want to be part of it all somehow.”
“My sister-in-law in Barnes has said I can stay any time. She’s got a huge house. My brother did very well,” Sandra added smugly. Irene gave her a look.
“Don’t suppose she’d want three of us though…?” Helen sensed an opportunity.
“I could ask. I’m sure it would be OK with her. She’s on her own now the children are married. Actually, I don’t know why she doesn’t move somewhere more convenient…” Sandra started off on a topic the others had heard many times before.
Helen interrupted. “But that doesn’t help with the rail fares and day to day expenses. I bet the prices will rocket around that time.” They all agreed. Caution was thrown to the wind and another pot of tea was ordered. The ladies had a thorny problem to work on.
Irene, thinking mainly of meals, wondered how long would they be there for? “Three days? That’s three dinners and lunches. Could be pricy. I expect we would be given breakfasts at your sister-in-law’s?” she added hopefully.
“I’m sure Thelma would provide breakfast. We’d need to give her a nice present or take her out for a meal of course.”
“Of course,” they all nodded. Irene wondered if they went in for street parties in Thelma’s area of London.
“It’s the rail fares that could snooker us.” Helen brought them back down to earth. “There’s no doubt that we’d need fairly serious money to get us to London for the royal wedding.”
“Well we could each put up a bit I expect. I know I’d be willing to dip into my savings for a one-off like this,” said Sandra optimistically.
“Me too,” added Irene, and Helen said she could do about £50. If they all put up £50 then they would have about half of what they needed for the trip to London. Gloomily, they considered their options.
“Where can we beg borrow or steal another £100?” Helen wondered. “I can’t ask the family. They’re hard put getting the children everything they need for school and paying their own bills.” The others’ families were in a similar position.
“Where do people get money?” the question was posed. “Working? But we’re all retired and even if we did work it would take ages at our hourly rates even if anyone would take us on.” said Irene, answering her own question.
“What we need is some sort of windfall. Does anyone have any Premium Bonds?” asked Sandra. “Or do the pools?”
“We can’t count on winning on those though.” Helen put paid to that suggestion. “It’s like gambling. My Jimmy always said that only the bookies win on that.”
They all agreed. With sighs all round they gathered up their belongings and, with a wave to the counter staff, left the tea room, each pondering the knotty financial problem.
The next week Helen arrived early and waved the others over to their table impatiently. Once they were settled, teas poured and scones at the ready, she leaned forward confidentially.
“I have it,” she said in triumph.
“Have what?” Irene asked, looking doubtfully at her scone. Surely they had shrunk recently?
“I have worked out how we can raise the rest of the money for our trip to London,” Helen answered.
“Oooh, do tell,” urged Sandra.
“Well,” started Helen, looking cautiously around her for fear of listeners. The ladies themselves were keen eavesdroppers. “It was the mention of bookies that got me thinking.”
“We can’t be bookies; you surely don’t mean that!” said Irene.
“Well, no, not exactly,” Helen explained, “I just wondered if we couldn’t run a book on the Grand National.”
“What!” Sandra squeaked.
Others turned their heads at the sound of her raised voice. “Sorry,” she whispered. “But you’d better explain.”
“It’s like this, we ‘sell’ tickets for the horses and the one who holds the ticket for the winning horse gets the prize money.”
“How do we mak
e money out of that unless one of us buys the winning ticket?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Helen continued, “If we sell each ticket for say £5 and there’s forty runners in the race,” she said, proudly displaying her very recently acquired knowledge of horse racing terminology, “That’s £200. The prize could be £100 so we’d make £100 ourselves. There would be work to do and some expenses so it’s quite a reasonable percentage to keep back.”
“One of us might even hold the winning ticket,” Irene was excited at the prospect.
“There’s a chance, like any other. Each of us can buy as many tickets as we like of course. Our main problem might be selling the tickets in the first place. I don’t know about you ladies but my circle of contacts has reduced a lot since I retired.”
“Good point. But I’d buy two so that’s a start.” said Irene, throwing caution to the wind.
“Me too,” chipped in Sandra.
“There’s a bit of work to do. The race is in April so we’ve got six weeks. I’ll find out the horses’ names and type out tickets.”
Helen was as good as her word and the next week she turned up with a neatly typed list of horses entered for the race. The ladies scanned the list doubtfully.
“This is hard. I just don’t know which one I’d go for,” said Sandra.
“They all sound nice,” Irene offered.
“Well I’ve been studying the ‘form’ and as far as I can see you might as well just have a lucky dip,” Helen put in. The ladies stared at the list uncertainly.
