The child was different. She was nosy and determined. Rose could hear her all day long asking endless hardly formed questions that only her mother could understand. ‘What dis? What dis?’ floated over the wall and if she failed to hear the answer Rose would become quite distracted trying to decide what ‘dis’ had been. It was a lovely age. You could keep your newborn babies. She was moved to getting out old snapshots of Frank at that age and given to staring at them trying to bring back out of the muddle of shadows and lines the times she had had with him. All useless. There was no going back, not that way. She didn’t know what people were talking about when they said they could bring it all back. Perhaps with that child in her arms something would come back, but not otherwise.
There seemed little chance of that. For weeks she had waved from the window and been waved back at, but where did that get her? Not far. Oh, the child knew her face well enough, but not who she was. That was up to the mother and the mother wasn’t budging. Rose felt aggrieved by this state of affairs but as usual she sat on the source of her discontent and refused to examine it. There was no doubt at all that, her creed being what it was, this state of affairs would have gone on for ever if Amy had not broken out of her own accord.
It was a little enough thing. One day, about two months after the Orams’ arrival, when Rose was settled at the card table polishing her brass bits and pieces, she heard the child’s voice shouting, ‘Amy’s here, Amy’s here,’ right next to her wall Putting the rag and candlestick down, Rose kept very quiet, hardly breathing. ‘Amy’s here,’ the shrill voice repeated, followed by a scrabble and scratch at the wall. No other sound, no restraining adult. She could, of course, get up and look over the wall. Could, but wouldn’t, but could and would do something or be damned for a fool. Throwing her head back, but not moving otherwise, Rose sang, ‘Yes I know, yes I know, Amy’s there, Amy’s there,’ There was a pause and then a shriek and a giggle and a rush. Away from the wall, to the house.
It was little enough, but a start. The game never palled, not for Rose Pendlebury or Amy Oram. They played it every day thereafter until one or other had to go. There were variations on the same theme, different parts of the wall to call out from, different words to call out with, within Amy’s limited range. Always the concealment of both parties and the excitement of running away, Rose fearful of discovery and Amy of disillusionment without knowing it. The temptation to look over the wall was naturally strong. Rose saw it as a test. Should she give in to the desire, she might lose the child for ever.
Amy solved the problem herself. Bored with the game, she began to ask, ‘Up? Up?’ Rose did not know what to do. She could not lift her up, only look over, and would the mother, who had done nothing at all, approve? Anxiously, she tried to sing to the child but Amy began to cry and shout, ‘Up! Up!’ and Rose was afraid the mother would come and take her away. So she looked over the wall.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Me Amy.’
‘Hello Amy.’
‘Hello Amy.’
They beamed at each other. The little face was funny, so inquisitive and twitchy, ready for a hundred different expressions. Rose talked to it a while and then said goodbye. Every day after that they had a chat over the wall, a time of suspense and anticipation. She had ready little gifts of flowers and apples which were eagerly taken and hugged.
The mother must know, with the child not yet two, if so advanced. She must be letting it go on. Rose was troubled by the etiquette of the situation, with which she was unfamiliar. All that was clear to her was that it was up to the mother, knowing what was going on. She would have to lay down the law, but no law appeared. Their delightful interludes went on and on with never a break. They grew longer and longer, more daringly jolly, with balls thrown backwards and forwards and peek-a-boo until both participants were exhausted. Rose went on worrying but playing, and then a sign came, as she had known it must. Amy gave her a rose, a wrapped rose, wrapped by an adult in silver paper with a white ribbon tied to it.
‘What you got there then?’ Stanley, smiling condescendingly. ‘Been picking yourself a nice rose, have you? A rose for a rose, eh.’ He chuckled.
‘No I have not, and you crack that one every year. I’d be pleased if you’d desist.’
‘No offence,’ Stanley said, still smiling. ‘Aren’t you going to put it in water? Must look after it – roses don’t just drop from heaven every day of the week.’ He laughed at his own wit. ‘Want a jam-jar or isn’t that good enough for our heavenly Rose?’
‘When have I ever used jam-jars for flowers I’d like to know?’ Rose snapped. ‘Never, so there’s no need to think you’re funny.’
‘What are you going to put it in then? Your best Dresden vase?’
‘Oh shut up about it. What are you so interested in it for I’d like to know? Mind your own business and if you’ve finished your breakfast I’d thank you to carry your dishes into the kitchen.’
Humming, Stanley did as he was told. He put the dishes in a pile on the draining board the way she liked them. It never entered his head to go further and wash them. If there was one thing Rose could be relied upon to do it was her work. He earned the money, she looked after the house. It had always been seen by both of them as a fair division of labour, mutually congenial. Rose was perfectly content with her lot, always had been. The fact that he now no longer worked did not seem to him sufficient reason to alter their routine. He was, therefore, thunderstruck when, as he came back into the living-room, glowing, Rose said, ‘Didn’t take you long to wash them pots I must say.’
‘I haven’t washed them. I’ve piled them up nice and tidy like you like them.’
‘That explains it then.’
‘If you want me to wash them I will. I thought you liked them piled tidy that’s all.’
‘I like them clean too.’
‘You want me to wash them, then?’
‘No I do not. You take an age and you break half the things. Keep out of my kitchen.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Stanley said, relieved.
Rose had always been contrary. It was part of her way. Just when you thought you’d misunderstood her it all came right in the end. She wasn’t one of your straightforward types. Her mind was like the inside of a car engine, all little nuts and bolts and wires that looked a terrifying tangle until you knew how it worked and which bit operated what. Thinking about the car made him want to look at it. Without telling Rose, he went down to the garage and opened the door, with difficulty. The hinges had rusted. He was afraid he would pull the whole door off if he opened it too wide. Luckily, he was thin and could squeeze in through the slim gap. There was a tar-like smell inside, a combination of the sun on the creosoted roof and decaying rubber. Anxiously, he bent to look at the tyres and his worst fears were confirmed – they were beginning to perish. Shaking his head, he reassured himself by feeling the body. She had a lovely body. The shine on her bonnet had hardly dimmed, the chrome was rust-free. Saving the tyres, she was as good as new, better than half the rubbish you saw on the roads these days. Such was her magnificent condition he told himself he wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she started at the first touch. The temptation to try was too great to resist. The door squeaked as he prised it open. Anxiously he looked at the frame but it seemed sound enough. The leather gave squeakily to his body as he sat on the seat and a small cloud of dust rose. He coughed a little, pleasurably. Out of his inside jacket pocket he took his car keys. He was never without them, though he had not driven a car for nine years. Strangely, Rose had never sneered at his clinging on to them, changing them from one jacket pocket to another. She often said ‘Got your car keys safe?’ and grunted with satisfaction when he jangled them in front of her.
The Riley didn’t start at the first touch, nor at the second or third. It was to be expected. The petrol gauge registered a half-full tank but the leads were probably seized up and the battery flat. He sat for a while longer with his hands on the wheel, an
d then slid out of the seat into the lighter gloom of the garage. It was no good being sentimental about a machine, no good remembering all the good times they’d had in it. One day, he’d get it out again and take Rose for a spin. He should never have allowed her to make him stop driving but then he was never aware that she had stopped him or that he had stopped. There was no one day when he had put the car in the garage knowing that was that. There had been no conscious decision, which was the trouble as you got older – you drifted into habits without realizing it. He wondered if Rose had been quite so haphazard. Perhaps she had known what she was doing. Certainly, she had gone on for years and years about the traffic and how she was sure he couldn’t cope – which was ridiculous. She had started getting the tube out to Barnet or Edgware or the Oval or the last station in the direction they were going and meeting him there because she couldn’t endure the drive through London. It made him laugh just to remember it. But then there had come a time – he didn’t recall when – that she discovered the traffic in suburbia was just as bad and then there was no persuading her.
The last time they had gone anywhere in the car was very early one Sunday morning, in late summer. She had him up at five in the morning and they were on the road before six, heading for Cambridge. He had thought an early start meant about eight and had at first been cross at her interpretation of the phrase, but as they sped along totally empty roads he was pleased. Rose was more than pleased. She sat at his side quite relaxed, looking out of the window, her hands folded quietly in her lap. Every now and again – she believed talking distracted the driver – she whispered, ‘This is the way to do it,’ and he nodded his agreement. Of course, the roads hadn’t stayed empty and she began to tense up long before they got there, but she had still been fairly happy when they reached their destination. It was on the way back the trouble began. He took some care to stick to B roads though it made their journey much longer, but even so, since it had been a sunny day, there was a good deal of traffic and a lot of congestion at crossings. Rose said nothing until they were half-way home and then, on a completely empty stretch of road, she had suddenly said, ‘I want to get out. Let me out.’ To his horror, she had begun opening the door and it had been all he could do to restrain her. ‘What’s up?’ he had said. ‘There’s not another car for miles. What’s the matter?’
‘I want to get out. I want to walk.’
‘But we’re miles from anywhere.’
‘There’s a big hill coming up. I remember it. We came down it, now we’re going to go up. I want to get out. You can wait for me at the top.’
Once he’d known that was the trouble and that it was nothing to do with the traffic, he had been so relieved he’d let her out. This had proved a mistake. Every hill after that was a signal for Rose to jump out. Soon, she was walking more than driving. The humour of the situation sustained him for a while but then he found himself losing his temper which he had only done about twice in his equable life before. ‘You’ll sit there and keep still,’ he had shouted, and reaching across had wrenched the door handle to the locked position. It was a stiff handle that they had a lot of trouble with and he doubted if he would ever be able to unlock it again, but at that moment he didn’t care. Funnily enough, it had calmed her down. She sat as good as gold all the way home even though the road was practically solid with cars for the last few miles, all of them hooting and blaring in a way that would normally have had her in hysterics. But after that she never went with him again. He’d gone on his own several times, on short trips, but when they had stopped, or how many he’d made, he couldn’t recall. They’d simply started taking trains and tubes and buses, and that had been that.
Closing the garage door, Stanley reflected something ought to be done about the car. He would have to have it out with Rose. If he wasn’t going to use it again they should sell it. He believed he had said something to her to that effect before and she had come out with some ridiculous idea about having to ask Frank’s permission – as if Frank would be interested in what happened to an old car! He had pointed out to her that Franknow had two cars and a truck – what did he want with half a 1949 Riley? But out had come all the stuff he’d heard so often about honesty and fair shares and the principle of the thing, and their discussion, the discussion he had intended, had floundered in his exasperation. Easy enough to write to ask Frank’s permission had been her last remark. He would do nothing of the kind. He couldn’t remember the exact details of the transaction between Frank and himself but he was sure he had put down by far the larger amount. It was only on the licence and tax and so forth that they had gone strictly halves, and since Frank left he had paid all that himself, including all the years it had been in the garage.
With thoughts of advertisements in the Exchange & Mart buzzing in his head, Stanley ambled back down the garden, pulling here and there at a more obvious weed just to show willing. She would have him out again that afternoon working away in the garden, he had no doubt. She was a terror for hard work, especially in the garden. He had only to stand and admire how lovely it was for her to point out that there was this to do and that to do and it was all a mess. But he had no real objections to her insisting he served his time. On went his hat and his old trousers and he took up his trowel or fork or whatever she wanted and said, ‘Right boss, what now,’ and did what she said. Lawn mowing was his speciality, and rolling afterwards. They tussled briefly over minor points like should the grass box be on or off, but, on the whole, harmony prevailed. After two hours, on the dot, out would come the card table and they would have tea under the laburnum, a salad usually, home-made veal and ham pie and tart of some sort to follow.
Rose was standing at the back door with white gloves on and a white handbag dangling from the crook of her arm. An alarm signal was triggered off in Stanley’s head just at the sight of all the white. ‘Won’t be a sec,’ he said as he drew nearer. ‘Just got my trousers to change.’ She glared at him. As fast as he could, he went upstairs wondering what the hell they were supposed to be doing. A wedding? No, that was so rare he would have remembered. But the word wedding kept coming into his head with irritating persistence. On his bed, however, lay his second-best suit and a clean striped shirt, which set his mind at rest. Weddings meant best suit and white shirt. Still, it was pretty serious, whatever it was, to call for such smartness. He dressed with what speed he could muster, not forgetting a clean handkerchief, and then hurried downstairs. There was no sign of Rose. The back door was closed and locked, the curtains slightly pulled. He knew what she’d done and it annoyed him – she’d set off on her own just to show him.
He pulled the front door hard behind him. Her white hat was clearly visible, on the other side of the street. There was little traffic at any time in Rawlinson Road, and rarely any mid-morning, but she’d taken a big risk by her own standards crossing on her own. Her eyes weren’t up to it, he knew. He felt immediately sorry that he’d pushed her so far and instead of keeping on his own side of the street as he’d intended he crossed to join her. Neither of them said a word, but he took her arm and she let him. Handicapped by not knowing where they were going or why, he could not make conversation. All would be revealed, presently. Whatever their mission, she was nervous yet not unpleasantly so. Her step was firm, her brows not too furrowed. Looking at her face, he was saddened to see the hard lines between her eyes that never lifted. She wasn’t frowning or scowling, it just looked as if she was. Once, when you pointed it out, she had been able to arrange her brow, but now she couldn’t. The last time she had stopped to speak to a child, which she often did if they were far enough from home, the child had cried and run off and Stanley had known it was Rose’s frown that had done it. However much she smiled and smiled, the frown was frightening.
It had the same effect on salesgirls, as Stanley had plenty of time to observe during that day. They started at Selfridges and finished at D. H. Evans and worked their way through some two million salesgirls, it seemed to him. What they were after was an o
utfit for Elsie’s daughter’s wedding – ah, he’d known wedding came into it somewhere – which was next month. Other seventy-year-old husbands might have quailed at the prospect of such a shopping expedition, but not Stanley. He was never embarrassed nor saw any reason why he should be. He was perfectly happy to look through rack after rack of women’s clothes and stand outside changing-rooms while Rose tried them on. It was Rose who was embarrassed, yet she always took him, always had done. She used to take Frank, too – all three of them on a Saturday morning – until he had found ways of getting out of it. Stanley had never tried to get out of it. He knew what Rose wanted was a display of solidarity at what was for her an important and nerve-racking occasion. It wasn’t that she wanted him to tell her what to buy, but just to be there, as a support, so that she didn’t feel totally intimidated. All he had to do was keep saying, ‘Very nice,’ each time she appeared and keep in reserve a decisive, ‘Now that’s very nice,’ if she appeared in the same thing twice.
He was aware quite soon that all was not going well. Rose grumbled that October was the most difficult month in the year to dress for, especially late October. It could be still summer, or, without warning, autumn. If it had been August a nice frock would have been sufficient, if November a costume. But October meant if she bought a frock she’d have to buy a coat and if she bought a coat she’d be positively obliged to buy a frock. But Stanley wasn’t fooled. The trouble was also that Rose had lost her shape. When? He didn’t know, hadn’t a clue. She’d been so neat at the waist when they were married, like a bird. Now the only bird she resembled was a penguin. Her behind was huge and so was her bosom and her waist was just something that joined the two. It had been getting more of a problem every year to find something to fit her – not that she regularly bought new clothes: in fact, the dazzling white of hat, gloves and bag apart, he saw for the first time how shabby his wife was. A new outfit was essential, wedding or not. Concerned, he tried to be a positive help, which was more than the salesgirls were. They had always made Rose cross, but he had told her she took offence where none was intended, that she looked for slights. Now he wanted to help Rose, he found she had been right. They were insulting in their directions. – ‘5 ft 2 and under over there, outsize over there,’ with an offhand nod in both directions. An occasional one would make an effort and inquire what exactly they were looking for, but since they did not know, beyond something for a wedding, that did not get them very far. Stanley thanked God for his own four suits, that were never going to wear out, and his shape, which never changed.
The Seduction of Mrs Pendlebury Page 5
