The Seduction of Mrs Pendlebury

by Margaret Forster

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Never mind, just get a pencil and follow me.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ Stanley objected.

  ‘I can’t think why. You’ve been sitting on your backside as far as I can see all afternoon. Nothing tiring about that so stop moaning and get that pencil.’

  ‘What’s it for? Pencil’s no good for most things, ballpoint’s better.’

  ‘Oh, anything, just come on.’

  He got his ballpoint, the one he kept for going to the Club, where you needed it for bingo sessions, and grudgingly followed her. His neck, still encased in the stiff white starched collar she’d insisted on, hurt him. He wished she’d give him time to change back into his own clothes but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘Let me look at you decent for another hour or so, for goodness sake,’ she said as he suggested it on the way up the stairs. ‘I get sick and tired of you in that baggy cardigan and no collar on. You just stay as you are and mind you don’t dirty yourself.’

  ‘What we trailing up here for? I’m out of breath.’

  ‘Out of breath going up your own stairs, that’s a fine kettle of fish that is, it’s pathetic that’s what. When did you last climb your own stairs? When did you last look at your own rooms? It’s a disgrace, I’m ashamed.’

  ‘There’s no call for me to go up there,’ Stanley said, defiantly resting on the second landing.

  ‘Is this your house or is it not?’ she shouted at him. ‘Well then that’s call enough. Anything could be happening in those rooms and you’d never know about it. I know about it because I’m the muggins who cleans them but not you, oh no. Well, there’s going to be a few changes. I’m going to be able to hold my head up in this road or know the reason why. Now, have you got that blessed ballpoint? Come on, you’d think it was Everest the carry-on you’re making.’

  But she was panting too. There were forty-one stairs to the top of the house and they were steep. They both stood on the top landing gasping, and then Rose led the way into Frank’s room.

  ‘We’ll start here,’ she said, her voice losing some of its sternness through lack of air. ‘A clean sweep, that’s what’s wanted here. He doesn’t want any of these things so out, the lot.’

  ‘Some of those things are quite valuable,’ Stanley objected.

  ‘Then you sell them. Now, write that down.’

  ‘What shall I write?’

  ‘Dispose of contents of Frank’s room, that’s what.’

  ‘Not the bed or the chair.’

  ‘No, we’ll keep those.’

  ‘I should think so.’

  ‘Clean walls thoroughly and distemper.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Are we decorating then?’

  ‘Yes we are. We’re doing this place from top to bottom then I can hold my head up.’

  ‘But nobody sees it.’

  ‘I see it, don’t I? And I’m pig-sick of looking at it. When I go next door it’s like a tonic, that’s what – like a breath of fresh air, all those colours and that white paint – and then I come in here and it’s all dark and dingy and they’re the same house, just the same, but I couldn’t have anybody in, could I, not with the place like this. I’d be embarrassed to let them farther than the front door let alone up here.’

  ‘Who were you planning to let in?’ Stanley insisted, latching on to that as the weak point.

  ‘Alice for one,’ she said. ‘How many cups of tea have I had in her house? Scores. She’s never so much as been invited here and it’s not right.’

  ‘I invited her,’ Stanley said, ‘when you were ill, but she wouldn’t come.’

  ‘Of course she wouldn’t, who would?’

  ‘That had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘How do you know? Who would want to come into this hole? They all throw open their doors, wide open they do, and I’m ashamed to open mine more than a crack.’

  ‘All right,’ Stanley said, ‘but she won’t be coming up here will she?’

  ‘She might. You have to be prepared with guests. Amy might trot up and she’d follow. You can’t be too sure.’

  He was silent. Laboriously, he wrote on the paper, then waited.

  ‘What you writing?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Just what you said dear.’

  ‘Take that silly smile off your face. There’s nothing to laugh about. I’m trying to be orderly and you smirking and sniggering doesn’t help.’

  ‘Especially if I’m doing it,’ Stanley said quietly.

  ‘What? What you muttering about now? Come on, out with it, say your piece.’

  ‘I said there’s nothing for me to laugh about if I’m going to do all this decorating.’

  ‘You? Who said anything about you? You couldn’t do it, it would take till doomsday. No, it’ll be done properly. We’ll get estimates.’

  ‘Who’s been putting ideas into your head?’ Stanley asked. ‘Estimates, it’d cost a fortune.’

  ‘Estimates don’t cost nothing.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘Somebody I was talking to. You can ask anyone for an estimate and it doesn’t cost a thing, then you look at them and pick the cheapest.’

  ‘That’s a laugh,’ Stanley said, ‘now that is a laugh. I’m entitled to laugh there. Do you think we’ve come into a fortune?’

  ‘We can afford it.’

  ‘Who says?’

  They both stood in the middle of the room, Stanley stabbing at the air with his ballpoint, Rose with her arms akimbo. Their finances were rarely discussed. Together with the subject of Ellen, there was a tacit agreement that they would not be delved into. Stanley had control of them – he had the bank account – but Rose had a quicker head for figures than he had. He was the writer, she was the arithmetician, doing it all in her head, of course. A mind like a computer, that was what she had, all dating from the days when they made you stand up on wooden forms in the classroom and if you couldn’t answer the rapid tables that swept from row to row like machinegun-fire then you had to keep standing until you towered over everyone in your ignorance and your legs trembled with the desire to sit. Rose had always been first on her bottom, no bother at all. Stanley couldn’t compete and he didn’t try. Once he discovered Rose’s bent he made shameless use of it, reciting out all the figures for her to do his income tax returns.

  He knew, therefore, that she was aware down to the last pence how much they had in the bank, whereas he couldn’t have said without taking a squint at the book. Somewhere about sixteen hundred pounds he reckoned, somewhere in that region. He knew it was under two thousand because once Rose had worked out what their income from interest would be if they had two thousand, and it had seemed the right sum to aim for. Two thousand would yield them a nice little addition to their pension, but they had never managed to make it, and of course now there was no more saving. Their money could only shrink unless they had another windfall. The thought caused Stanley the mildest tremors of anxiety about once every five years but otherwise he was resolved to take things as they came. The house, after all, was theirs, and how many people could say that? Mortgages had not been the Pendlebury style. They could have had their house ten years before they did if Rose hadn’t been firm about not borrowing. In vain Stanley had tried to explain a few economic facts to her about the nature of money but it had been no good. Rose’s house had to be hers, owned lock, stock and barrel. It meant now, of course, that their outgoings were quite small and almost met out of their pension. They paid electricity bills out of the interest on their sixteen hundred but otherwise managed on what they had, except for rates. Rates depleted their capital each year, even with the pensioners’ rebate they were entitled to – and what a battle he’d had to get Rose to agree to that with her no-charity ideas. It was still supposed to be a dreadful secret that they applied for and got that, but without it they really would have been making inroads.

  He didn’t dare mention windfalls. Rose was still sore on that p
oint, still not reconciled to the manner in which they had gained one thousand of those sixteen hundred pounds. She did not approve of gambling, that was the trouble, not in any shape or form. Only mugs gambled. When he’d realized he had eight draws he’d been more terrified of what Rose would do and say than thrilled at the prospect of a fortune. It was in a way merciful that it had turned out not to be a fortune but a modest enough sum that could be kept quiet – from everyone, that is, except Rose. What a how-do-you-do that had been. He’d waited days and days for the right moment to tell her, but it never came, and then, with him being so careless, she found the cheque and the whole thing blew up. It was the deceit, she said, which hurt her most, to think he’d been doing those disgusting pools half his life and concealing it from her – that was what rankled. Snaffling the coupons from under her gaze every week, filling them in secretly, creeping off to post them – oh, he was one for MI5 he was. No, he couldn’t mention the windfall, couldn’t claim the money as his when any discussion came up about what they were to do with their savings. Suddenly, he had an inspiration. Putting his ballpoint away he said, ‘What about Australia, then? That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘What about it?

  ‘Well, it’ll cost a pretty penny as I see it.’

  ‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds,’ Rose snapped.

  ‘There’s spending money –’

  ‘Included.’

  ‘Well then, that’s not much change out of sixteen hundred pounds is it?’

  ‘Sixteen hundred and sixty-seven pounds. Take away seven hundred and fifty leaves nine hundred and seventeen, approximate cost of decoration as compared to others two hundred and thirty pounds leaves six hundred and eighty-seven.’

  Stanley stared open-mouthed.

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ he said.

  ‘No. I’ve waited too damn long as it is. These other two rooms up here, they don’t need stripped, it’s only plaster, they just need washed and a coat of emulsion and the woodwork done. They should come up very nice. I think I’ll have white.’

  ‘Shows the dirt,’ Stanley said.

  ‘There isn’t any dirt to speak of, not up here. I’ll have white. The staircase is a problem. I’ll have to think about that. Something nice and warm is what’s wanted, a nice warm paper. I’ll have myself a trip down to Sanderson’s and look through a few books. Put “paper, question mark” next to “staircase”. Down we go, look lively. I’ve changes to make here. We’re moving up for one thing.’

  ‘Up?’

  ‘Yes, up. I’ve always fancied a first-floor sitting-room like they all have. This room is wasted. Look at those lovely windows – let’s have that stuff off for a start, silly idea, don’t know why I put it up, just habit.’ With one quick movement Rose ripped the net curtains down from both windows, standing between them and tugging with all her might. ‘Let the sunshine in,’ she said.

  ‘It’s night time,’ Stanley said, ‘and this room doesn’t get any sun, not that I know of.’

  ‘Don’t carp,’ Rose said. ‘I’m having this all white, walls, ceiling, everything. And a new fitted carpet, a nice plain red.’

  Stanley had had enough. He threw down his precious ballpoint, which he had taken out again at her insistence, and followed it with the pad of paper. He left her ranting on and went downstairs, switching off lights as he did so, leaving her stranded in one pool of lamplight. She could stay up there till she came to her senses – he was going to make himself some tea. Sipping it, he felt better, was even able to see the funny side. He’d been wanting Rose to socialize for years but if half an hour’s party talk produced this kind of thing, then he’d be better off keeping her under lock and key. On his second cup, he regretted not keeping his temper and going along with her because he now saw it was all part and parcel of that daft evening-class idea: given time it would come to nothing. He should just have let her run on and written whatever she wanted. Thinking there was still time to do that, he left the teapot on the hot-plate and went to climb the stairs again.

  Rose was standing where he had left her, still under the gold standard lamp that his mother had given them as a wedding present, her arms full of white net. Clearing his throat, Stanley bent down and picked up the pad of paper and his ballpoint, examining it anxiously to see that it hadn’t been damaged. The little point flicked in and out quite satisfactorily.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘everything white and fitted red carpet. Right?’

  She didn’t reply, just stood there. It made his flesh creep. He cleared his throat again.

  ‘Sorry about that incident,’ he said, ‘I was a bit parched to tell you the truth, that was all. Shall we get on?’

  Still she didn’t reply.

  ‘No hard feelings,’ he said, hopefully. He went slowly over to her and peered at her to see if she was crying but her cheeks were quite dry.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ll take those.’

  He thought she might hang on to them, but she let him take the curtains and he tried to fold them tidily to please her, but knew he’d made a mess. Her arms remained cradled as though she was still holding them.

  ‘Come on, Rose,’ he said, his anxiety beginning to give way to exasperation, ‘get a move on, it’s cold up here, there’s a nice fug up downstairs, let’s go and have some tea. You’re like ice.’ And she was. He touched her hands and they were icy. He was dreadfully afraid there was something the matter with her but at last she closed her eyes and dropped her hands and said, ‘I’m tired, I feel very tired, I’m going straight to bed. You can do what you like.’

  She trailed across the floor wearily and he walked beside her with his arm about her saying, ‘There now, old girl, take it easy.’ He went with her to the bedroom to help her get into bed until a flash of her old petulance reassured him and he went back to his tea and the telly. There’d been enough excitement to last him along time. He wondered only vaguely what had come over Rose up there. Whatever it was she would snap out of it better on her own.

  The events of New Year’s Day were not referred to again in the Pendlebury household. Stanley woke the next day with slight twinges of foreboding but a glance across the room showed him Rose was up and when he came to listen he could hear all the normal household noises, so all was well. He said nothing and she said nothing. They had their meals and watched telly and did all the usual things and the even tenor of their day was restored. Everything was perfectly all right until they got to the next Wednesday, and even then he suspected nothing until it got to eleven o’clock and Rose was still in the kitchen. For some reason this worried him. He thought hard about it until he realized the significance of it being both Wednesday and eleven o’clock and then he hurried to find her.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘do you know what day it is?’

  ‘Wednesday, unless I’m very much mistaken,’ she said quite calmly, continuing to clean the cooker.

  ‘And do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock by my clock and it won’t be far wrong. I set it by the news each morning.’

  ‘Well then – what about your date?’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  He thought about that. Her jaw moved as she shifted her teeth about inside. What should he say? After due consideration he came up with, ‘Well, be like that if you want but it seems a pity. First time I’ve ever known you let anyone down, that’s all.’ He had the wit to turn his back as he said it.

  ‘I beg your pardon – who have I let down I should like to know? Don’t come in my kitchen saying things like that and then turn your back.’

  ‘You know very well,’ he said, knowing that would madden her.

  ‘I’m not letting anyone down, it isn’t a definite arrangement and never was. I shan’t be missed, you needn’t worry yourself.’

  At that minute the telephone rang.

  ‘There you are,’ Stanley said, ‘that’ll be her.’

  ‘She hasn�
��t our number,’ Rose said, above the noise. ‘I’ve never given it to her, unless you’ve given it to her.’

  ‘There are directories,’ Stanley said, scathing. ‘I shall leave you to answer, any road. I’ve a call of nature to answer.’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar,’ Rose snapped.

  ‘Vulgar or not, I have.’

  The phone rang and rang. She was determined to ignore it but it brought her out in one of those sweats she couldn’t stand. There would be no rest from the dizziness until she answered. Half sobbing, she went into the hall and sat down before she lifted the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Pendlebury?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, it’s me, Alice, next door. I just wondered if you were going to pop in or not, or are you too busy?’

  ‘Yes, I am rather busy,’ Rose said, vague as vague. ‘Yes, I’m very busy this morning.’

  ‘I thought you might be,’ Alice said, cheerful, hearty, her voice uncommonly loud. ‘I thought things had probably piled up after the holiday. Never mind – just thought I’d check. How about tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rose said, her voice wandering all over the place.

  ‘Oh, well, some other time, when you’re not so busy – just when you feel like it. Amy’s dying to show you all her new toys properly.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose said, flatly, ‘right then. I must get on.’

  ‘Sorry to have kept you back. See you soon.’

  After all the buzzing and booming of the telephone the house was deathly quiet. The chair creaked as she stood up. She passed a duster over it, then tucked the duster back into the pocket of her apron. She sniffed and looked at herself in the hallstand mirror. It was hard to make anything out. The mirror was a small dark patch between shrouds of raincoats. She couldn’t see herself properly but then why bother.

  ‘I heard that,’ Stanley said. He was sitting in the lavatory with the door open, a habit she hated. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to but I think it’s a disgrace, that’s all.’