The Seduction of Mrs Pendlebury

by Margaret Forster

  ‘It was a proper party. We had good food, good entertainment and good – well – good company.’ He felt guilty about that last bit. What a way to start off such a promising day. ‘I’m looking forward to this do,’ he said quickly. ‘I can tell I’m going to enjoy myself.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Rose, a little grimly. ‘Just don’t overdo it that’s all. You may be seeing yourself home. I don’t know that I shall be staying that long.’

  Stanley didn’t take her up on that because he knew perfectly well it was more likely to be the other way round. There was all this agonizing over going and then once there she was the life and soul. Rose was transformed in company. Thinking about it he realized what a very long time it was since he’d seen that happy transformation, and he looked forward to it all the more. She was looking nicer than she’d done for ages, but at the same time as he saw that he also saw how much nicer she could have looked if she hadn’t put all that stuff on her face. Her hair didn’t matter – it was hidden by her hat – but her face was unfortunate. It looked as though she’d dipped it in a flour bin. He had a feeling that the box of face-powder she kept in a drawer for special occasions had gone mouldy through lack of use – either that or the powderpuff had gone matted. There was no question of putting her straight, it would upset her dreadfully, nor could he mention the brilliant red of the lipstick she had seen fit to use for the first time. Veronica had sent it. At the time, Rose had exclaimed at the silliness of such a present, but he had noticed how carefully she put it away, and had known really she was flattered.

  The mini-cab didn’t come at eleven-thirty. At eleven-thirty-two precisely Stanley was made to ring them. They said the cab was on its way. When it still hadn’t come at eleven-forty and Rose was threatening to take her finery off and go to bed, Stanley rang them again of his own accord. They couldn’t understand what had happened, presented their apologies and said they would send another. Not knowing the ways of mini-cab firms Stanley was reassured, but Rose not at all so. She staggered him by snatching the telephone directory and hurling it at him with instructions to find a taxi-rank number and she’d ring them herself. They were still arguing over this when the cab arrived and the commotion began. Things they’d been sitting ready with had now disappeared – gloves, umbrella, bag – and had to be gathered up again. Rose shrieked at Stanley and Stanley went into long explanations to the driver about the mix-up. They departed in the worst possible style.

  The church soothed Rose’s nerves in spite of the fact that she had never liked churches. She never felt comfortable in them. They seemed full of snooty people looking down at you with posh accents and smart clothes and, if they weren’t, then they didn’t seem churches. The singing had always appealed to her but that was about all. The rest was mumbo-jumbo, either stories or lectures or endless prayers that bored and irritated her. Religion itself had by-passed her, though she was a baptized and confirmed Christian. She supposed she believed in God but to ask herself whether she did was too embarrassing. If anyone else asked her she was furious at their impertinence.

  She and Stanley were seated four rows from the front which Rose found satisfactory. Elsie turned and nodded and smiled at them as the usher showed them to their place, which was thoughtful of her, Rose thought, considering how much she must have on her mind. She didn’t recognize the couple on either side of them but that didn’t matter. It was a wedding. Everyone was very friendly. Rose sat and admired the flowers and the way the little light there was outside managed to come through the stained glass as though it were sunshine. Only the noise of the rain on the roof told a different tale. Here, inside, it was sheltered and calm and everywhere you looked you saw something pretty. Rose looked cautiously, without craning her neck. She didn’t want to make an exhibition of herself.

  Dolores was fifteen minutes late, which Rose thought overdoing it. Five minutes, perhaps, though two was enough, but fifteen was showing off. Her poor mother was wringing her hands in anguish and the bridegroom looked about to faint with standing so stiff and still for so long. It made the opening chord of the Wedding March all the more thrilling of course – it caused a positive sensation. Rose had been determined not to turn round but such was the drama of the moment she found herself automatically wheeling round. The first thing she noticed was how flushed the girl was, as though she’d run all the way. Not the manner in which to arrive at the altar Rose thought and pursed her lips. She wouldn’t look round again, nor did she, but the white, airy presence of her niece made her tremble as she wafted past. She felt intoxicated with her lightness and sweetness and the tears that gathered in her eyes were for the beauty of it, a beauty she herself had always found unobtainable. She had never, she was sure, and sad to be sure, gathered to herself such a beauty. She had never been blessed. She half turned to Stanley to beseech him to tell her if she had but, before she could even try to communicate what she felt, which she knew an instant later was impossible anyway, she saw that he was totally absorbed in unwrapping a barley sugar and putting it in his mouth.

  The rest of the service and all the business afterwards of signing registers and what-have-you passed Rose by. She felt about to burst with suppressed feeling. There were things she wanted to say and do that crammed her senses with aches. All her features hurt – her lips were painful, her head throbbed, her eyes burned. She looked about her wildly and they were all so placid and relaxed and unmoved. Some cried – Elsie cried – but what were tears compared to how she felt? The pressure inside her made her feel quite faint and she was glad of the long sit. It gave her time to compose herself and behave as she knew she ought.

  Elsie, Stanley’s sister, had her under close scrutiny. That was the point of weddings for Elsie. It gave her a chance to gather together all the far-flung members of the family and put them under observation in a confined space – not that Stanley and Rose were exactly far-flung but they might as well have been for all they saw of them. Once upon a time, they used to have supper at Stanley’s every Friday night and then Stanley and Rose would come for tea every Sunday, but the arrangement had fallen by the wayside. Perhaps that wasn’t quite what had happened; perhaps they had cancelled a couple of Fridays and a Sunday or two and Rose had taken umbrage. Elsie couldn’t remember, but it seemed more than likely. Rose was forever taking umbrage. Ever since Stanley had brought her home – a half-starved waif of a thing – she’d been taking umbrage and he’d been defending her. Elsie, though she was only ten at the time, could well remember how he had told them all before he brought her that she was very sensitive and they’d soon see why. Well, she had certainly proved sensitive but none of them had ever been able to fathom why. As another sister of Stanley’s said, she had two eyes, a nose, was sound in wind and limb, if a bit on the frail side, and had a tongue in her head, so why should she be so touchy? Stanley had replied they’d understand in time – but they never came any nearer to doing so.

  Watching Rose at the reception, as she did in between watching everyone else, Elsie thought how tragedy was stamped on Rose’s face. It annoyed her. What had she to be so tragic about? Stanley had worked hard to give her a good home and an easy life. She’d never wanted for anything even when times were tough. There was the business of Ellen but that was so long ago, and then Frank leaving them on their own was bad luck, but a regular enough occurrence in lots of families. Of course, Rose took everything to heart. It was wrong to offend her when she brooded on slights the way she did. Elsie had tried to jolly her out of taking offence many a time but it was never any good. She shut up like a clam. Only Stanley knew her mind. They were a devoted couple, you had to admit that, but Elsie had a hunch that if that was devotion she didn’t want it. Togetherness, in her opinion, could be carried too far, especially among married couples.

  At least today the pair weren’t together for long. Elsie saw one of her brothers go up and ask Rose to dance after the meal and to her surprise Rose agreed, and then as they waltzed round Elsie remembered what a good dancer Rose used to be.
She groped in her memory but the details of a picture she was looking for had gone. All she could recall was Rose in red chiffon dancing with someone she’d forgotten, in a dim sort of place, and everyone stopping to watch and clapping – yes, she was sure, standing round and applauding. Elsie blinked at her sudden vision. Rose’s legs were the only things that hadn’t changed. Instinctively Elsie drew her own fat calves under the tablecloth as she concentrated on Rose’s neat ankles and slender legs. Lovely legs, covered now in support stockings, but doing the Charleston how they’d flashed and twirled.

  Stanley didn’t dance. He’d met Rose at a dance but he never danced. Couldn’t get the beat in his head and he was so slow partnering him was agony. Elsie could well remember the hours and hours she’d spent going round the living-room with him, turning him round forcibly when they reached the end. He was hopeless. It was hard, she thought, for any young man today to realize how important dancing had been in his position in the twenties and thirties. If you couldn’t dance, you were a social outcast. Perhaps that was a bit strong. Stanley certainly hadn’t been cast out of anywhere, but then he made up for his clumsiness with his nice manners. Girls liked him because he was reliable and nice and didn’t take advantage. They made the mistake of thinking he was shy and he encouraged them, enjoying the sensation of being put at his ease. But had Rose done that? Elsie couldn’t imagine it, Rose was a bundle of nerves, brittle as thin toffee, she couldn’t put anyone at their ease.

  When Rose was sitting down after three dances on the trot, quite red in the face, gasping and laughing and fanning herself, Elsie took her over a drink and sat beside her.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘you need a drink after that.’

  ‘Ooh, I should think I do,’ Rose said. ‘Thank you, Elsie, what is it?’

  ‘It’s a wedding,’ Elsie said smartly, ‘so never you mind – just drink it.’

  Rose drank the gin and tonic and smacked her lips. ‘Very nice,’ she said, ‘very refreshing.’

  ‘You haven’t lost the old skill,’ Elsie said.

  ‘Oh I don’t know about that,’ Rose said, ‘I’m out of practice.’

  ‘You should take it up again.’

  ‘What, at my age?’

  ‘Why not? You enjoy it, you know you do.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t have the energy.’

  ‘Course you would. If I can start something new, you can pick up something old.’

  ‘What have you started?’

  ‘Cookery classes, and pottery.’

  ‘What kind of classes?’ Rose asked, astounded. Elsie could not be imagined going to school.

  ‘At the Institute, in the evenings.’

  ‘But you can cook anyway, you’ve always been a good cook, and whatever do you want with making pottery?’

  ‘I know I can cook but I’m sick to death of all the things I can make. I want to learn new things and I haven’t the patience to learn it from books. And I’ve always fancied doing pottery – you know, with a proper wheel and clay and all that. You should see me having a go – scream, you’d die!’

  Rose was silent. She simply couldn’t see how Elsie had brought herself to do such an enterprising thing. Elsie was stupid, always had been, and she’d no initiative at all. But out she’d gone –

  ‘. . . sick and tired of sticking in every evening with George messing about tinkering with his car or Alan’s car or somebody’s car and that telly driving me mad, and I thought, how can I get out, what can I do? And thinking about Dolores going and not even having her coming in and out – actually it was Dolores put me on to it. She was going to cookery herself, though I could have taught her the things she needed to know at her stage but she said she couldn’t so much as learn how to tie a knot from me, so anyway I went and I liked it and there you are. There’s a lovely crowd goes, young and old, and we have a grand time . . .’

  They always, Rose reflected, went on about these grand times. Stanley was the same about his wretched club. They were like children with their gangs, trying to make you feel out of it if you didn’t belong then, when you did, you had to get in on the act and conceal the emptiness there. But still, Elsie was learning something whereas Stanley was just playing. She would like to learn something, but what? Art, she’d always liked art, but she couldn’t draw – though that was the point, you went to learn what you didn’t know – but her fingers were too stiff, surely? Rose flexed them and looked at them critically. A foreign language – French – she’d always longed to understand French: not speak it, just understand it.

  All afternoon and evening while the reception went on Rose’s glance kept straying to Elsie, disbelieving. As she danced and sang and had several gins and tonic it seemed to her that her life was going to be full of conversations in French and pretty pictures on the wall. When they went back to Elsie’s house later on, the first thing she saw among the litter of wedding presents was a small blue jug with a card propped up against it saying ‘For Dolores and Alan my first pot from your potty mum.’ Rose stood and looked at it for ages. She asked Elsie if she could pick it up if she was very careful, and Elsie giggled and said it was only a joke, and her real present was a dinner service. Rose picked it up. It was heavy and a little squat. The handle had a bump in it and the lip would never pour milk smoothly. The glaze was too thin and had cracked in several places, but it was a real jug, not just an ornament. Rose forgot her lifelong antipathy to her sister-in-law. She made a point of congratulating her very loudly and dragged a befuddled Stanley over to look. When he made jokes about it she became quite upset and insisted that his admiration should be unstinting. It was fortunate that it was impossible to embarrass Stanley.

  Somebody they didn’t know took them home at midnight. They were profuse in their thanks. Rose stood quite calmly and happily while Stanley went through the normally maddening routine of fiddling for his key. She didn’t care how long they took to get in. There was nothing, for a change, that she wanted to be inside for. The world at large was not such an unfriendly jungle. It might contain things worth discovering. She didn’t feel the urge to bury herself in her home and never go outside again. Once inside, she was in no hurry to go to bed either, though Stanley said he was dropping. Instead, she put the kettle on and the little lamp above the fireplace that gave such a nice glow. Stanley put the centre light on too, but she told him to put it off at once. He was an expert at destroying atmosphere. She made some tea and took it through to him. ‘There now,’ she said, ‘a nice cup of tea to round things off.’

  ‘Could have done with some of this hours ago,’ Stanley said, rather gloomily. ‘One thing they were short of, spoiling the ship for a halfpennyworth of tar in my opinion.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Rose said, briskly, ‘it didn’t spoil nothing. A very nice wedding, very nice. I shall write and tell your Elsie so.’

  ‘Why?’ said Stanley.

  ‘Because it shows appreciation and that’s what this world is short of these days. Thanks where thanks are due – you should try it some time.’

  ‘I thanked her already,’ Stanley said. ‘No call to overdo it.’

  ‘It’s tomorrow when it’s all over that the thanks will be appreciated – and the effort. It takes effort to write and thank somebody, easy enough to say thank you but writing is effort.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Stanley said crossly. ‘You’ve made your point. Well, I’m off.’

  ‘Good night,’ Rose said, settling back into her chair.

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Stanley said, sighing, and sitting down again himself. ‘I’m dropping.’

  ‘Go to bed then – I’m not stopping you.’

  ‘You’ll just wake me up when you come.’

  ‘What wicked lies, Stanley Pendlebury – I’ve never in my life woken you up and you know it.’

  ‘I can’t understand why you want to stay up anyway – it’s nearly one in the morning. What’s up?’

  ‘N
othing’s up.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d be exhausted the way you were carrying on.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’

  ‘All that cavorting around at your age, it wasn’t decent.’

  Rose turned towards him, her brow creasing into frightening furrows of such depth and strength that her skin might have been corrugated iron.

  ‘I shall treat that spiteful remark with the contempt it deserves,’ she said, very grandly, and then added, triumphantly, ‘thank goodness I can still recognize jealousy when I see it.’

  ‘Don’t talk ridiculous,’ Stanley said, but feebly. He was already stricken with remorse and only glad that Rose had taken it the way she had.

  ‘You never could dance, or even cavort,’ Rose said.

  ‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ Stanley said. ‘Try not to wake me up.’

  Rose sat and listened to him shuffling off. Such an age he seemed to take with all his pottering about – so many doors to bang, so many boards creaking under his weight, though that was little enough. She wanted the house to herself. At last, all the noises stopped. Stanley coughed a couple of times, and then all was still. The electric fire made a strange noise, it needed seeing to, but she wasn’t going to spoil things by that train of thought. Tomorrow was going to bring a new era. She was going to be determined, take life by the scruff of the neck and shake it, instead of sitting in terror. She felt quite relaxed, but resolute.

  But next morning Rose could not even get out of bed. The minute she woke, she knew something was the matter. Even lying quite still, the room swam before her eyes. When she tried to lift her head from the pillow, a pain shot up her neck and she had to let it fall back again. She pressed her lips together with anger and tried to lift her legs, but they were dead weights. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on getting control of herself. Still with them closed, she sat up and swung her legs round till her feet were on the floor. The pains everywhere were dreadful, and as she levered herself onto her feet nausea overwhelmed her. Desperate, she clung to the back of the chair at the bedside and heaved herself up. Groaning she staggered across the floor and made her way all the way down the stairs to the toilet. There, she was sick. Being sick jarred her everywhere but she felt a little better, well enough to make some tea, and sit beside the fire. She sat crouched over it, miserable but scolding herself into holding on, and the thin red bar gave her some comfort – for a few minutes. Then it faded to gritty grey. Rose closed her eyes in despair. The damn fire now – everything was going wrong. Even as she thought that she remembered about the last scare, and switched the radio on. The eight o’clock news summary was just beginning. Strikes. The power workers were on strike in earnest. There would be cuts everywhere of up to six hours. Electricity would be rationed, domestic – she switched off.