‘Come on, girl. Me belly thinks me throat’s bin cut,’ Terry grumbled.
‘It’s coming.’
She fussed around straightening the knives and forks on the table. Steak knives, they must have steak knives. She knew that much from eating out. She found some and put them on the table, then went back to the cooker. At last the chips were done. She lifted them out of the seething fat two or three at a time with the fish slice and piled them upon the two plates with the mushrooms and tomatoes. The T-bones looked all right now, thank God, really nice and brown on both sides. They had shrunk quite a bit but, even so, they still filled up the plates. Proudly, she carried them to the table.
‘Ready!’
‘’Bout bleeding time too,’ Terry said, and sat down.
Wendy watched him anxiously as he tried a couple of chips.
He nodded. ‘Not bad,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘Yeah, all right, doll.’
Wendy felt pleased, but the big test was still to come. Her own meal untasted, she watched as Terry cut into his T-bone.
‘Bit tough,’ he commented as he sawed at it. ‘Blimey, girl, what’ve you done to it? It’s ruined. It’s like leather. I like my steak rare. You know that, you heard me order it enough times for Chrissakes. This is bleeding cremated. I can’t eat this.’
He flung down his knife and fork and sat back in his chair, glaring at the meat as if it were poison.
Wendy was mortified. ‘I’m sorry, Tel. I tried, only I didn’t know how long to cook it for—’
‘For Chrissakes—’ Terry got up and strode over to the phone. ‘Chuck that lot in the bin,’ he ordered as he dialled.
A defensive anger kindled in Wendy. ‘It’s not that bad,’ she protested. She stuck her fork into the meat on her plate and began cutting at a corner. There was no doubt about it, it was tough. Doggedly, she put the piece into her mouth and chewed. ‘It tastes all right.’
Terry stared at her. His face, his body were still as he held the phone, but the very stillness exuded threat. Wendy felt a clench of fear. She couldn’t swallow the meat.
‘You contradicting me?’ Terry asked. Into the phone, he said, ‘Send us up some cod and chips and some mushy peas. And a coupla pickled eggs. Yeah, of course it’s Mr Dempsey; who else do you think it is, you stupid cow? Yeah, I do want it straight away. Like now.’
He slammed the receiver down, his cold eyes still fixed on Wendy. ‘You hear me?’ he said. ‘It’s muck. Chuck it away.’
Wendy could defy him no longer. Miserably, she scraped the two platefuls of food into the bin, along with the half chewed mouthful she had attempted to eat. Terry switched on the TV and dropped on the sofa, ignoring her. Fighting back tears of humiliation, Wendy stayed in the kitchen area scrubbing at the dishes until a ring at the door heralded the arrival of the fish and chips.
The rest of the evening was a chilly stand-off, until they went to bed. Then Terry slid his hand under her sheer nylon nightie and fondled her magnificent breasts, even fuller now with her pregnancy. Wendy gave a moan of pleasure. She wasn’t sure whether she most hated or loved him at that moment, but whatever it was, she still wanted him. She turned towards him, reaching for him. Terry gave her a hard slap on the buttocks that both stung and roused her.
‘You ain’t much use in the kitchen, but you’re still a hot little handful in bed,’ he said.
Everything was all right again.
The biggest problem Wendy faced was boredom. She was unused to doing nothing. It was fine at first. No more rushing off to work, no more being on her feet all day, no more trying to avoid the Sunny View chores. She leafed through magazines, did her nails, went to the hairdresser, strolled round the shops. But shopping wasn’t much fun on her own, and all her friends were at work during the day. She ambled up and down the High Street, fingering garments and occasionally trying them on until she fancied that the shop assistants were getting to know her and the fact that she never bought anything. The trouble was that now she was no longer working, she had very little money. Terry gave her a bit of housekeeping, enough for her to buy breakfast ingredients and get her hair done, but not enough to run to dresses and shoes.
At last, fed up with forever window shopping, she dipped into her meagre savings. There was a blouse she particularly fancied, tight and low-cut and bright red. She wanted it now, before she had to start wearing shapeless maternity smocks. She bought it and put it on ready for when Terry came in that evening. He took one look at it and exploded.
‘What the hell is that you’re wearing?’
Wendy could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked.
‘Like it? Like it?’ Terry repeated. ‘It’s disgusting. You’re my wife, the mother of my kid. You gotta look good when we go out. You gotta look like you’re quality. You know what you look like in that? You look like a whore.’
Wendy gasped. It was not just the word, it was the venom with which he had said it.
‘That’s horrible!’ she wailed. ‘How can you say that?’
Terry grabbed a handful of the red satin blouse and pulled her close with such a jerk that she felt a seam rip at the back. Wendy gasped. Now they were eye to eye.
‘You’re my wife. I can say what I like to you,’ he stated.
Wendy froze. Her mouth gaped open, but nothing came out. Her throat contracted with fear.
‘You hear me?’ Terry asked.
Wendy nodded.
Terry released her with such force that she staggered.
‘Go and put on something decent,’ he ordered.
Wendy went into the bedroom and started pulling things out of the wardrobe. Her head was in such a mess now that she couldn’t make a decision. Terry came and stood in the doorway watching her with his arms folded and his shoulder propped against the frame.
‘That one,’ he said, as she looked at a pale blue and white Chanel-style suit.
‘—get into it,’ Wendy mumbled.
‘What?’
‘I…I can’t get into it any more. B-because of the baby.’
She hadn’t put on much of a stomach yet, but she had lost the lovely twenty-four-inch waist that she had been so proud of.
Terry’s filthy mood evaporated as quickly as it had started. ‘Why didn’t you say so, doll?’
The next day he took her to the maternity department of the best store in town and bought her a whole new wardrobe.
Wendy kept telling herself that it would all be different once they moved into their new house. It was the fact that they were still in his bachelor flat that made her feel so awkward. Once they were in their proper married home she would feel she belonged. She would no longer be a glorified visitor. Terry was already negotiating with a business acquaintance who was selling a place in Thorpe Bay, but the legal process was going to take a few weeks. He had taken her to see it, and it was lovely, a huge solid detached property with a semicircular driveway. She could hardly believe she was going to be living in such a posh place. It was a hundred times better than the cramped little semi in Southchurch that Bob and Susan were buying. She was a very lucky woman.
One day when Mrs Riley made her feel particularly superfluous, Wendy went for her usual stroll up the High Street. She looked good, she knew that. She was wearing a loose checked dress with a tie at the back that still gave her a bit of a figure despite her pregnancy. She was wearing high heeled shoes that emphasized her shapely legs, her face was carefully made-up and she had had her hair set the day before. Glancing at her reflection in the shop windows, she felt pleased. Looking down at the wedding and engagement rings on her left hand, she felt proud. She had got what she’d set out to achieve, a rich husband. She endeavoured to ignore the emptiness inside.
She spent half an hour choosing a new lipstick, then she went into her favourite coffee bar and ordered a hot chocolate. This place had an amazing continental jukebox that showed films of the singers as well as playing their songs. They weren’t the songs she knew—no Elvis Presley o
r Cliff Richards—but she like Johnny Halliday and watched him as he sang to her in French. She hadn’t a clue what he was singing about, but it made her feel very sophisticated to listen. After that she went into a newsagent’s and leafed through all the magazines, finally choosing the one with the most stories in it so that she had plenty to keep her occupied later in the day. She looked at her watch. It was only half past eleven. Terry had said that he might be back about one, but there was an awful lot of time to fill until then and Mrs Riley would still be at the flat. She considered going to visit her mother, but she had seen her only a couple of days ago and anyway she didn’t particularly want to have to speak to Gran. She paused at a side road and something about it tugged at a memory. Wasn’t James Kershaw’s garage off here somewhere? She set off in search of it.
It was further than she thought, quite a way along the road and down a further side turning. It was a warm day. Her feet began to ache in her elegant stilettos and she was thirsty. She wished she had had a Coke instead of a chocolate at the coffee bar. But she was set on her course now and determined to find this garage. By the time she got there, she was ready for a sit-down.
A middle-aged man in greasy overalls was leaning over the engine of a car with a spanner in his hand. He looked up as she entered.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Is James around?’ Wendy asked.
‘Gov!’ the man shouted. ‘Lady to see you.’
Wendy hadn’t realised that James now employed someone. She remembered Lillian boasting that one day he was going to be rich.
James appeared from the back of the workshop, wiping his hands on a piece of rag. His face broke into a wary smile when he saw her.
‘Hello, Wendy. This is a surprise.’
Wendy just couldn’t help it. She had to flirt with a good-looking young man. She gave him an arch look. ‘A nice surprise, I hope.’
‘But of course,’ he responded. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Oh, I was just passing, so I thought I’d call in and see you.’
‘I’m honoured. I can’t offer you much, I’m afraid, but how about a cup of tea and a biscuit?’
That was just what she needed.
‘That’ll have to do, I suppose,’ she said, ‘seeing as you haven’t got any champagne.’
‘Next time,’ James promised.
He produced a clean towel from a drawer in his desk and spread it over one of the wooden chairs.
‘Madam,’ he said with a bow.
‘Thank you kindly, good sir.’
They laughed and joked together while James boiled the kettle and made tea. Wendy was enjoying herself no end. It seemed such a long time since she had had an exchange like this with a man. She could see from his expression that James still found her attractive.
The other man closed the bonnet of the car he was working on and looked at his watch. ‘That’s that finished. Oughta be fine for another five thousand. It’s quarter to one, Gov. All right if I go on my lunch break now?’
‘Ok, Tony. We’ll start on the MG when you get back.’
‘Quarter to one?’ Wendy squealed. How could it have got that late? It would take her a lot more than fifteen minutes to get back to the flat.
‘James, sweetie—’ She laid a hand on his arm and gave him her best smile, all glistening lips and big blue eyes. She saw the instant response in his face and thrilled inwardly. She still had it. She could still make a man do what she wanted, even though she was married and pregnant. ‘You couldn’t possibly run me home, could you?’
‘It’d be a pleasure,’ James said, as she knew he would.
When they arrived in the service road at the back of the Golden Mile, she was relieved to see that Terry’s Jaguar was not there. It was all right. She had made it back in time, James stopped the car and came round to open the door for her. She got out, thanked him and hurried inside. She had hardly got to the top of the stairs when she heard the street door open behind her.
‘Wendy!’
She turned round. Terry’s bulk was silhouetted against the daylight.
‘Oh—!’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘Tel—there you are—’
‘Who was that?’ Terry demanded.
He was thundering up the stairs two at a time. Wendy fumbled with the inner door. She stepped inside the flat just as Terry got to the top. He grabbed her arm and spun her round to face him.
‘Who was that?’ he repeated.
‘Terry—stop it—you’re hurting me—’ Wendy begged.
The look in his eyes terrified her. He was blazingly angry. Angry and jealous. He shook her. ‘Who?’
‘J-just my b-brother-in-law—’
‘What brother-in-law? You ain’t got no brother-in-law.’
‘I will—I mean—when Bob gets married—’ Wendy gabbled.
‘Kershaw? What’s he doing giving you rides in his car?’
‘I—I—’ Wendy’s head was swimming. She couldn’t think.
Her head snapped sideways as Terry’s hand slammed into it just above the ear.
‘You never take rides with other men, you hear me?’ he demanded. ‘Never. Never. Never.’
With each ‘never’ he hit her again. Her brain felt loose inside her skull. His face blurred in front of her.
‘You hear me?’
‘Yes,’ she squeaked.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, Terry.’
He held her upper arms and thrust his face into hers.
‘Just remember that, right? No woman makes a fool of me.’
He flung her away from him. Wendy staggered to the nearest sofa and collapsed in tears, her world shattered around her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘TEA for the bridegroom! How are you feeling, Bob? Nervous?’ Lillian asked as she plonked the teapot on the kitchen table.
Her big brother was pacing around the room looking pale and drawn.
‘I am, actually. Terribly nervous. I don’t think I can face breakfast,’ he admitted.
‘I feel like that every time I go on stage,’ Lillian told him. ‘I feel sick and wobbly and sometimes I even get stomach cramps. But it passes the moment I start performing. And you’ll be all right too. Once you see Susan coming up the aisle towards you, everything will be fine.’
‘Do you think so?’ Bob asked doubtfully.
‘I know so. Now, you sit down here and pour yourself some tea and have some of this toast I’m just making. You’ve got to eat something to keep your strength up. And I’ll tell you something else, if any couple are destined to be happy, it’s you and Susan. Anyone can see that you’re made for each other.’
Bob managed to crack a smile. ‘Thanks, Lillian. And you’re right, of course. Susan’s absolutely the girl for me. She always has been, right from the start.’
Lillian smiled back as she put toast fresh from the grill in front of him. ‘I know. And she feels just the same way about you too.’
Bob reached out and caught her wrist, giving it a quick squeeze then releasing it. ‘Thanks, Lillian. It’s nice to have you back. The place isn’t the same without you.’
Lillian flushed with pleasure. It was the first time Bob had ever said anything so nice to her. It brought tears to her eyes. ‘Thanks, Bruv. It’s nice to be back.’
Up till that moment, this hadn’t been strictly true. She had got home in good time for this wedding. The summer season was over and the dancers were on a month’s unpaid break. Lillian was glad of the rest, for the long weeks of touring followed by the twice-daily performances all through the summer months had sapped even her energy, and after Brenda’s death nothing had seemed quite the same any more. She had looked forward to seeing her family again, only to find that nothing had changed at Sunny View. Her dad was gloomier and more cynical than ever, Frank was acting Jack the Lad and Gran still ruled with a rod of iron. Her mother looked washed out and weary.
‘Thank goodness you’re back. I don’t know how I’m going to manage this wedding,’ wer
e her first words to her daughter.
Lillian found herself back in her old position at the bottom of the heap again. Within half an hour of arriving the doorbell had rung and the cry went up of ‘Lillian! Door!’ and she knew her so-called break was going to be one long round of chores. But Bob’s declaration softened her. Perhaps her big brother did have a heart.
The last couple of days had been busy with last-minute dress fittings with Susan and the buying of food for the wedding breakfast. In complete contrast to Wendy’s extravaganza, Bob and Susan were having a buffet reception at Sunny View for a limited number of guests. Lillian had spent the Friday making dozens of sausage rolls and getting the PGs’ breakfast room ready, helped by Susan, Bob and James.
Now, on the morning of the wedding, she had got up early and was busy making plates of sandwiches. James came round at midday with trays of cocktail sausages on sticks and savoury bridge rolls which his mother and sister had been preparing in their kitchen and, of course, the wedding cake, which Susan had baked and iced herself. Together with Bob, they laid the food out on the tables, watched by Gran, who wanted it all done differently.
‘We’ve got to do it how my sister says, Mrs Parker. She’s given me a plan,’ James told her, and refused to listen to anything she had to say.
‘Susan’s in a right old state,’ he confided to Lillian. ‘I’ve never seen her so nervous before. Are you going to be able to get to ours by two? She’s got everything planned like a military operation, and if you’re not there by then, the whole thing will fall apart.’
‘Don’t worry; it’s all under control,’ Lillian assured him.
True to her word, she arrived at the Kershaws’ flat on time with her hair all pinned up and her make-up perfect. Just as James had said, Susan was crippled with nerves, which took the form of her being very pale and very quiet. Mrs Kershaw and the other bridesmaid, a cousin of Susan’s called Pam, made up for this by fluttering and fussing non-stop like a pair of starlings. James and Lillian looked at each other. It was clear that as the cool-headed people, they had to take charge.
Follow Your Dream Page 23
