by Rosie Harris
For the rest of the month he’d abstained from cooking, letting her take the blame when meal after meal failed to reach the usual high standard because the ingredients were second rate.
‘You push the trolley and I’ll find the things we need,’ she’d suggested on their next supermarket trip.
That hadn’t worked. He’d grown impatient and irritable. He’d left her to stack from the trolley on to the counter, wandering off as though he was no longer with her. She’d breathed a sigh of relief. At least it would mean that she would be able to make sure that the onions weren’t packed next to the butter.
He’d reappeared, however, by the time it was her turn to pass through the checkout. He’d insisted on doing the packing, squashing bread and cream cakes beneath cans of beans, and putting soap powder into the same carrier bag as the fish.
‘Stop fussing! It all tastes the same, anyway,’ he’d snapped when he’d caught her trying to redress some of the damage by surreptitiously moving the carton of potpourri away from the cheese.
‘I shouldn’t bring him along next time,’ advised the middle-aged woman on the checkout, sympathetically. ‘Mine’s the same. Brought up in the days when you wrote out a list and handed it to your grocer in the morning and you collected it later in the day, or else it was delivered to your door. He’s too old to train, that’s the trouble.’
Margaret had to admit that the woman was right, even though it made Reginald sound like a wayward dog.
After that, the shopping had become a chore rather than an enjoyable pursuit to be looked forward to. She’d gone to the supermarket less and less. Instead she had picked up items like bread, butter, bacon and eggs from a small local shop when they had to walk down to the village each morning for the milk and daily paper after Reginald had sacked both the milkman and the newspaper boy as one of his many economy measures.
‘No point in paying to have them delivered when I can collect them each morning,’ he stated.
‘But you hate going into the local shop since you had that argument with the manager about the way he stacked his shelves.’
‘You can walk down with me and I’ll wait outside for you. Do you good to get out each day. You don’t take nearly enough exercise.’
‘I used to go swimming and play bowls …’
‘Swimming. At your age! Have you thought what you look like in a swimming costume? Parading sagging flesh in front of the rest of the world is obscene. No woman over thirty should be allowed anywhere near a swimming pool. Walking is a far better exercise … and one we can do together. I intend for us both to enjoy my retirement.’
Thelma, Brenda and Jan had been furious when she’d told them she was giving up swimming, especially when she told them the reason.
‘Your figure is as trim as it was when you were thirty. And I wouldn’t mind betting you are exactly the same weight as you were then,’ argued Thelma.
‘What else is Reginald going to stop you doing?’ Brenda asked heatedly.
‘You can’t let him disrupt your life like this. It isn’t good for either of you,’ protested Jan.
‘That’s right. You need to get away from each other sometimes, if only to recharge your batteries and to have something fresh to talk about.’
Margaret knew they were right, but she also knew she was powerless when it came to explaining or reasoning such matters with Reginald. He hadn’t been a managing director for the past thirty years without learning how to win an argument. He might have retired but his brain hadn’t … nor his tongue.
The change of lifestyle, though, had quickly taken its toll on Reginald. Frustration made him bitter and moody; boredom made him disgruntled. Having once had his finger on the pulse of business affairs he resented hearing things second-hand and began to avoid ex-colleagues and even old friends.
The change had wrought havoc with her lifestyle, too. Unable to handle the situation, Margaret had simply withdrawn into her shell, letting the many changes flow over her head, whereas Reginald had fought them savagely. He resented not being able to play golf, it irked him that he had to watch his diet, cut out cigars and cigarettes and ration his intake of wines and whisky.
In the past he had been indifferent about the garden. Margaret had always tended the flower beds herself and a man had come in one day a week to cut the grass, trim the hedges and help with any heavy work. It had been a very amicable arrangement. Bert had always been willing to help, not only with any digging that she wanted done, but also with any other jobs she couldn’t do herself.
With Reginald at home, all this changed. He became super-critical, constantly making derogatory remarks about the appearance of the garden whenever Bert was within earshot. Bert tolerated the situation for a few months, then announced he wouldn’t be coming again.
After three different odd-job men had flatly refused to put up with Reginald’s interference, Margaret had found a female gardener. Young, sturdy and a chain-smoker, she worked at top speed. She not only made a neat job of mowing the lawns and trimming the hedges, but she was quite happy to help out generally.
Reginald found her infuriating and followed her round, alternatively offering advice and criticizing what she was doing and the way she was doing it. She simply shrugged off his disparaging remarks.
‘I do it for the money not for praise,’ she said with a laugh when Margaret tried to apologize. ‘As long as you are satisfied then that is all that matters. See you next week.’
Margaret envied her insouciance. Perhaps if I had reacted in the same way I mightn’t have lost contact with so many of my friends, she reflected.
Three
Margaret Wright tried to keep her attention focused on what was happening as she stood alongside her daughter and her two sons in the hallway of Willow House saying goodbye to people as they left.
‘Who says you can’t turn the clock back?’ murmured Jan, as she kissed Margaret goodbye. ‘You will be joining us for coffee next week?’
‘Well …’ Out of habit, Margaret was about to demur then remembered there was no longer any need for her to do so. ‘I’ll phone you,’ she promised. The possibility haunted her after Jan, looking regal in black, her blonde hair sleeked back into a French pleat, had left the gathering.
Why not? Why shrink from doing something she had always enjoyed and had missed so much? It would help to get her back into the mainstream of life once again, she told herself. And if she could quell the feeling of guilt that waved like a banner every time she thought about it, then it could be fun.
Brenda also expressed the hope that they would all be able to meet up for coffee just like they’d done in the old days. And so, too, did Thelma.
Margaret felt a warm glow at the show of loyalty from her three oldest friends. Reginald had always been so offhand with them whenever she had invited them to Willow House that she had felt embarrassed. She had been almost relieved when gradually they had stopped phoning or dropping in to see her. Even Thelma, a seasoned local councillor with an argumentative streak almost as strong as Reginald’s, had found his manner so abrasive that she had eventually thrown in the towel.
A coffee morning would be an excellent way to dip a toe into the water again, she resolved. Would she enjoy it, though, or would she find the trivia and gossip as inconsequential as Reginald had claimed it to be?
There was only one way to find out, she decided. She’d accept the challenge and she’d join them the next time they planned to meet up.
It was seven o’clock before the last of the mourners departed and another hour before the rest of the family finally left.
‘Are you sure that you don’t want to come and stay with us, just for tonight?’ persisted Helen.
‘I think you should,’ urged Charles. ‘I don’t think you are in any state to be left here on your own.’
‘I’m all right. Really.’
‘Daddy, Gran doesn’t want to come to our house, she wants to be on her own.’
‘Petra! Go and wait in the car. You
don’t know what you are talking about,’ admonished Helen severely.
‘But I do.’ Petra’s voice rose. ‘Stop treating me like a baby. I know a lot more than you think and I know that Gran wants to be on her own because she’s said so, only you don’t listen.’
Margaret sighed. ‘Petra’s quite right. I do want to be on my own.’
‘Not the first night, surely! You’re going to be on your own for the rest of your life, remember.’
Charles frowned. ‘We would feel much easier if you stayed with us … for tonight, at least.’
Margaret tried not to smile. That’s what all this argument was about. Peace of mind for Charles and Helen. If she slept at their house there would be no need for him to waste time worrying about her.
Give in to him this time and it would be the start of a snowball that wouldn’t stop rolling. It would be daily phone calls to check she was all right, lunch and tea on Sundays, going on jaunts with them, even joining them when they went away on their annual holidays.
Before she knew what was happening, he’d be persuading her that the house and garden were too much for her to maintain and suggest they should build a one-bedroom granny flat on to the side of their house so that they could keep an eye on her.
‘I shall be fine, I promise you.’
She walked to the door and opened it, waiting for them to leave. Halfway down the garden path Helen hesitated, then turned round and came back.
She took Margaret’s hand in hers. ‘Look,’ her voice was wheedling as if she was addressing an intractable child, ‘if you should change your mind you have only to pick up the phone and one of us will come and collect you.’
‘I won’t change my mind.’
Helen’s green eyes hardened. ‘You might! Reaction may set in later when we’ve all gone. You’ve scarcely shed a tear you know,’ she said reprovingly.
Margaret closed the front door before the car had even pulled away. She stood with her back pressed against it, listening to the silence. She felt a deep sense of peace and yet, at the same time, she had a feeling of tremendous anticipation. Like a four-year-old on Christmas morning, or setting out on the first stage of a long holiday to some unknown destination.
She wanted to dance; to twist and twirl and waltz around with complete abandonment. Instead she walked through every room in the house, from top to bottom, like an animal establishing its territory.
The air of gentle decay was depressing. She was dismayed by how shabby and dreary everything looked. It was only to be expected. Over the past few years, ever since Reginald had retired, they’d done no decorating at all. He’d said he couldn’t stand the fuss and upheaval involved, and that the smell of paint would bring on his hay fever. She hadn’t insisted. It was easier to leave things as they were and keep the peace.
Now, though, it saddened her to see how neglected it all looked. The entire house called out for loving care – lots of it. It needed decorating and refurbishing from top to bottom, she decided, as she took stock.
The pile on the carpets was threadbare – not only in the hallway but in most of the other areas where it got a lot of use. There were shiny patches on the upholstery, scuff marks where people had rested their feet on the stretchers of the chairs and stains on the dining table where Reginald had placed down hot dishes without a protective mat underneath them.
In the hall and living room, the wallpapers had faded and the once pristine-white ceilings were now a murky grey. The oak kitchen units that had been her pride and joy fifteen years ago looked dated. Most of the work surfaces were chipped and stained with use, the glaze on the tile surrounds dulled by constant cleaning. The bathroom, too, was drab and dingy, and old-fashioned.
In her mind’s eye, Margaret viewed the interior of her house as a prospective buyer might see it and envisaged all the things that needed to be done to bring it up to date. It would be a mammoth task, she told herself. Quite a daunting prospect in fact.
Still, she thought, there was one consolation – there would be no arguments. There would be no one to try and dissuade her by telling her that this or that was all right for another year or two. Nor would she have to choose the conservative sort of colour schemes Reginald preferred.
She felt suffused with pleasure. Everything would be to her taste, no conferring with anyone. She could have the sunny yellow kitchen she’d always hankered after; she could bring down all the ornaments and pictures that were stored away in the attic and replace them throughout the house.
She’d be able to indulge her every whim, give rein to her preferences, not only for colour and choice of fabrics for curtains and bedspreads, but even the sort of furniture she chose for each room.
She couldn’t wait to get started. She’d begin in the main bedroom … her bedroom, she decided. It had wonderful proportions and a big bay window looking out over the garden. It should have felt spacious, yet it always felt claustrophobic. She was sure it was because of the heavy dark furniture; two massive wardrobes, a matching dressing table, a chest of drawers and bedside cabinets all in dark mahogany. There had once been a matching dark mahogany headboard but, after years of complaining, she had finally managed to persuade Reginald to change it for a padded velvet one. However, even that had been dark brown, so it had done nothing at all to relieve the sombre tone of the room.
Now she could have walls in lilac or pink, stark white, light blue or primrose yellow. The options were endless. She felt as excited as a child with a new paint box. She would change the entire appearance of the room.
Years ago she had suggested that they should have fitted wardrobes in French grey with mirror doors and gilt trims and a rose-pink deep pile carpet.
‘That sounds more like a French boudoir than a serviceable bedroom,’ Reginald had pronounced, dismissively.
‘It’s so dark as it is …’
After a long argument he’d agreed to have it redecorated with white ceiling and cream walls.
With so little wall space left on view it hadn’t made a great deal of difference. Now she could get rid of all the old-fashioned furniture and make it as light and airy as she chose. It was an exhilarating thought.
Reginald would turn in his grave if he knew she was spending money in such a frivolous manner, she thought guiltily. Still, why not? She tried to assuage her conscience by telling herself that it was pointless hoarding it to leave to Alison, Charles and Steven. They all had good jobs and already had lovely homes. They all had their own cars and they were always buying new clothes and going off skiing or else on some exotic holiday, so why should she have any compunction about spending money in whatever way she chose?
It wasn’t as though she was squandering it. Beautifying Willow House was an investment. They’d be the ones to benefit when they eventually came to sell it. Even so she felt guilty about how much it was bound to cost to do all the things she was planning to do.
Perhaps she ought to discuss it with someone first. Not with Charles. On principle he would veto the idea. Alison, too, would probably try to talk her out of it and say it was far better to spend the money on clothes. Steven? No, he wouldn’t be much help. He’d simply give her a bear hug and tell her to please herself. Or advise spending the money on a holiday. To him, a holiday was the answer to every problem.
The only ones in the family who might understand what she was trying to do were Joseph and Hetty. They both had an artistic streak and a strongly developed sense of colour so they would appreciate why she felt it was so important to give Willow House a facelift. Was it fair though, Margaret wondered, to burden them with her problem? There was so much more to it than merely picking the right colours; coordinating textures and styles could be quite tricky. And what about quality? Ought she to have Axminster, Wilton or one of the man-made fibres for the carpeting? She had no idea how they compared for wear or value for money.
It was the same with curtaining. How did you know how much material you needed if you wanted pinch pleats for example, or gathered or with
drapes? Everything was metric now and she still hadn’t really got the hang of that.
It was such an enormous undertaking that perhaps she ought to get professional help. It needed someone with expertise to do the actual physical work; not just a slap-it-on-the-wall handyman, but a skilled decorator.
She really needed advice from someone who would listen to her ideas and fantasies, and interpret them. He’d need to be an expert who would also know where to find the right tradesmen to carry out the various stages of the work that would have to be done. She didn’t know how you found someone like that, except in the Yellow Pages.
Perhaps Thelma, or Jan, or Brenda could recommend someone. She must remember to ask them when they met for coffee, she mused as she undressed and climbed into bed. She stretched out and lay spreadeagled, luxuriating in the vastness of the king-size bed. Feeling blissfully content, she reached out and switched off the light and felt herself floating towards sleep.
Four
The sudden darkness seemed to activate a switch within her head. Her thoughts began to race, the events of the day rotating crazily like the barrel of a fruit machine. Then they became horrifyingly jumbled as though she was caught in the throes of some monstrous nightmare.
Unable to bear it, she switched on the light, pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs. She wandered around the house feeling lost and lonely, listening to the eerie sounds from the water pipes, and the creaks and groans from the floorboards as they shrank and settled as the temperature dropped.
When the children had been small, such sounds had scared them. They’d thought the house was haunted. Sometimes when they were watching television and the lounge door suddenly clicked open, it had been difficult to convince them that it was a draught or build-up of air pressure and not some unseen hand.
Now, alone in the house those sounds were making her feel edgy, and she felt she must satisfy herself that all the windows and the outside doors were firmly bolted before she went back to bed.
