by Rosie Harris
‘You always are!’ She waited until he reached the door. ‘Steven!’
‘Yes?’
‘It might still be a good idea for you to ring your mother … in case I don’t manage to get there today.’
‘Mummy! You said we were going to see Granny today.’ Matthew’s face crumpled.
‘Do stop whingeing.’
‘But you did, you did, you did.’ His voice rose shrilly. ‘You told Daddy we were going to see her after school.’
‘And so we are.’
‘So why ask me to phone her?’ demanded Steven angrily.
Sandra began to collect up the dirty breakfast dishes and stack them in a pile.
‘She is your mother so you should be the one to get in touch with her.’
‘And I will. It’s just that I know I am going to be pushed for time today. Anyway, I’m sure she’d love to see Matthew and Hannah. It would help to take her mind off things.’
‘I think you worry more about her than you do about me,’ Sandra told him peevishly.
‘Don’t be silly. I don’t like to think of her on her own at a time like this, that’s all.’
‘Then go and see her yourself.’
‘I will, tonight. I’d take the day off if it was possible but this meeting has been set up and it is too important to cancel.’
‘Lovely funeral they gave your Reginald yesterday. I was dreaming about it all night,’ said Monica Wright with a sigh as she washed up the breakfast dishes.
‘Certainly a lot of folks there,’ agreed Silas. Picking up the tea towel, he began drying the dishes as she stacked them on the draining board.
‘Nice to see so many of the family all together like that.’ Monica’s plump face softened into a warm smile. ‘Some of those youngsters had grown so much I hardly recognized them.’
‘Yes, it was more like a family gathering than a funeral.’
‘Nice though! I would like to think that’s what folks would do when I go. Have a happy get-together. Good food, plenty of drink and a good old chinwag. There’s no sense in being miserable about it, now is there?’
‘Can’t bring you back, can they?’ agreed Silas. ‘Our Reginald had a pretty good innings. Two years older than me.’
‘And he’s been ill with his heart for such a long time, poor man.’
‘It proves one thing; it’s worry that brings on heart attacks and not what size you are,’ commented Silas, patting his protruding stomach.
‘You ought to get a bit of weight off you though,’ said Monica, frowning. ‘We both could do with losing a couple of stone. Our Peter could as well. He weighed fourteen stone the last time I got him to stand on the scales.’
‘What about Edward?’
‘He’s not quite so hefty. He’s thirteen stone and a bit, mind you, but then he’s a couple of inches taller than Peter.’
‘Furthermore he takes a lot of exercise. Peter never does a damn thing except sit and watch the television. Couch potato that one.’
‘I think I’ll put us all on a bit of a diet,’ Monica said thoughtfully.
‘Lay off those ideas. Good food never hurt anyone. When did one of us last have a cold?’
‘I’m not talking about colds, I’m thinking about heart attacks. They probably run in your family. I think I’ll go over and ask Margaret’s advice.’
‘On how to kill me off?’
‘No, on how to make sure you don’t kill yourself off by overeating.’
‘Margaret won’t want to be bothered with all that nonsense at a time like this. Only drag up what’s happened. Have a bit of feeling, woman.’
‘She didn’t look all that upset to me. Probably found it a relief to know he’d gone. Crabby old devil, your Reginald, and you know it.’
‘That was because he didn’t get enough food to eat. Feed me the same as she fed him and I’d be crabby.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That diet she had him on. No fats, no alcohol, not much meat, no puddings, cakes or biscuits, and just one egg a week.’
‘It doesn’t mean he went hungry,’ protested Monica. ‘They probably had lots of fish, salads and fruit.’
‘No substance in rabbit food! Our Peter will have something to say if you start serving up those sorts of meals.’
‘He can always move out if he doesn’t like what I put in front of him.’
‘You’d miss him if he did. Look how upset you were when Edward moved into a place of his own a couple of years ago.’
‘I didn’t mind him moving into a place of his own, it was the woman he moved in with that I objected to!’
Silas chewed his lower lip in silence. He hadn’t liked Edward going off to live with a black woman any more than Monica had. Still, they seemed to be happy enough together and Edward was no oil-painting, even Monica admitted that. He was not yet fifty, he was already bald and had run to fat, so perhaps he’d been the lucky one to find someone who’d have him.
The trouble with Monica was that she made too comfortable a nest for her chicks, Silas reflected, as he looked affectionately at his plump little wife. That was why neither Peter nor Edward had been in any hurry to leave home and fend for themselves.
Now she was paying the price. Here they were, both in their late sixties, and not even one grandchild, whereas at Reginald’s funeral there had been five second-generation youngsters.
If anything happens to me, Silas thought morosely, Monica will be a very lonely old woman.
He ran a hand through his thinning grey hair; he didn’t want to think about that. Reginald popping off like he had didn’t mean a thing. He was good for another ten years; perhaps even longer and by then Peter could be married and might have two or three children.
‘When we go shopping we could nip round and see if Margaret is all right,’ suggested Monica breaking into his thoughts. ‘She might be feeling a bit down in the dumps being all on her own.’
Jan Porter slipped from between oyster-coloured satin sheets, slipped her arms into a coffee-coloured satin negligee, her feet into fluffy toning mules and padded into her en-suite bathroom. Ten minutes later, revived by a shower, she was back in the bedroom ready to plan her day’s activities.
She walked over to the window and pulled aside the turquoise damask curtains. The bright sunlight of a glorious April morning flooded the room. She gazed across the manicured communal lawn in front of the block of flats to the glittering River Thames beyond, feeling it was great to be alive. Crossing the room to the built-in fitted wardrobes, she dropped her negligee and stared at the reflection of her statuesque nude body speculatively.
‘Not bad for almost sixty, not bad at all,’ she murmured, approvingly, as she ran her long tapering fingers over her firm breasts and hips. Even her legs were still as shapely as they had been when she was in her teens.
She swept her shoulder length blonde hair up on top of her head, twisting this way and that to study her profile, wondering for the hundredth time whether or not to have her hair cut short. It was so fine that, unless she had it permanently waved, it needed a short style to keep it looking good. She hated perms. With her type of hair they invariably ended up looking frizzy.
Thelma wore her hair cut short and dyed black; sculpted to her head at the back and taken from a side parting in front. And because she had such strong features it looked far too mannish in Jan’s opinion. Then, she reflected, Thelma liked the sleek tailored look; it showed in her choice of clothes.
Brenda’s hair was naturally curly and frothed, like a mottled halo, around her plump face from which her blue eyes peeped alertly. She was a round dumpling of a woman with more money than style when it came to clothes. Her choice was always the exact opposite to Thelma’s.
It was probably because of their individuality that they had remained friends for so long, Jan reflected, as she selected a white pants suit and a brilliant red blouse.
It would be great having Margaret back with them again. The four of them had been almost inseparable un
til a few years ago when Margaret had dropped out after Reginald’s heart attack had led to his retirement. She’d missed her a lot.
Perhaps they could all meet this morning for coffee, she mused as she put the finishing touches to her face. The idea delighted her. Impulsively she reached for the phone. She’d ring round right away before any of the others went out or made plans for the rest of the day.
The sooner the old order was restored the better, she told herself as she began dialling Margaret’s number.
Seven
‘Right! You want me to be there at ten thirty? Yes, Jan you’re so right, it will be quite like old times!’
Margaret Wright felt a thrill of anticipation as she replaced the receiver. Just like old times, she wondered. Could you turn the clock back all those years? Could you pick up the broken threads and tie a knot in them as you did when you were sewing? Or did you have to weave them in carefully so that the ends didn’t show, like strands of wool when you were knitting?
It wasn’t always successful when you did that, she mused thoughtfully. Mostly it was better to start a new ball of wool at the beginning of a new row, so that the ends could be merged into the seam and then they didn’t show at all.
She’d like to think that now with Reginald’s funeral over she had just come to the end of a row and was about to start a fresh one and that she was joining on a completely new ball of wool.
Not one in the same colour, either. This one would be in a vibrant, glowing shade so that it would lift her spirits, and bring joy to her heart.
She thought back to previous coffee mornings; the bright, inconsequential chatter, the exchange of news, their individual accounts of what had been happening to them since they’d last met. Before they parted they usually planned an outing or shopping trip of some kind, and she wondered if they still did.
In those days, the four of them rarely made any major moves without talking it over together first, whether it was purchasing an item for their home, buying a new dress or a hat, or even deciding on what colour to redecorate a room.
It had been this more than anything else, Margaret reflected, that Reginald had found so infuriating.
‘Why do you have to take them into your confidence and ask them what they think? It’s none of their business,’ he would rant whenever she passed on an opinion voiced by one of them.
‘Surely it’s always a good idea to hear what other people think?’
‘Depends who it is you are listening to. If you are being given advice by someone of professional standing then, yes, of course it is worth listening to, but pronouncements from a bunch of giggling women, no! Especially those three! They all strive to say the opposite of each other simply in order to be different.’
That was an exaggeration, of course, but Margaret had to admit he did have a point. Jan, Brenda and Thelma were individualists, and determined to remain so. That, to her mind, was what made them such good company. They would comment, even criticize, but they didn’t try to reform each other.
Jan was all for luxury and elegance. With the generous settlement she received after her divorce from an oil magnate she could afford to indulge her expensive tastes. She spent lavishly on clothes as well as on her home. She liked to be in the height of fashion but she refused to follow current trends unless they met her personal criteria and suited her.
Margaret had always been impressed by the way Jan stamped her individual personality on all her possessions, and surroundings, with brilliant touches of colour or dramatic design.
Brenda’s taste was so completely opposite that Margaret sometimes wondered how the two of them had ever struck up a friendship. Brenda liked the cottagey look. She’d been a widow for so long that no masculine traces remained in her cosy little bungalow. There were lots of frills, mountains of cushions, countless bowls and vases of flowers, a plethora of ornaments and photographs of her grandchildren covering every available surface.
Thelma’s home, on the other hand, was practical and highly serviceable. Even her antiques were the robust kind; solid Georgian pieces that could be polished energetically without risk of damage.
Margaret wandered into her own sitting room and looked around. The place was badly in need of redecorating. What had once been a silver-striped wallpaper was now dingy, and had faded into an indistinct grey. The ceiling had lost its pristine whiteness and the once gleaming paintwork had yellowed with age.
She looked down at the multi-patterned green and beige carpet, and noticed that it was threadbare in places. Fortunately, the canvas backing was so close in tone to the beige background that it didn’t show unless you looked closely.
She studied the rest of the room. One or two pieces of antique furniture, like the writing bureau and matching bookcase, were worth keeping. The beige velvet three-piece suite had lost its looks long ago and most certainly needed replacing. The cushions were lumpy and misshapen, and shiny with wear. She hated the ultra-modern TV with its enormous screen that Reginald had chosen because he had liked a big picture.
In fact, she thought, as she looked around her critically, the room was a hotchpotch. A terrible miscellany of individual items which had not been put together with any care or attention.
Thelma had a mix of old and modern in her living room but they blended harmoniously. Brenda’s room was so bright and cosy with its chintzy curtains, and red carpet, that you didn’t even question whether the bookcases, cabinets full of Goss china, and little tables covered by lace cloths that were almost hidden beneath pots of flowers, and framed photographs of her grandchildren, were old or new.
Margaret walked out and shut the door firmly behind her. She intended changing the look of the entire house but the sitting room, she determined, would be the first room to get ‘the treatment’.
There was so much to be done that it was quite daunting. She’d like to have a completely new bathroom; have her bedroom fitted out with built-in wardrobes; install an up-to-the-minute kitchen with a dishwasher, a new washing machine with a tumble-dryer, a new fridge-freezer and a cooker with a built-in extractor hood. She sighed, the list was endless.
She’d start with the sitting room, she decided, as she got ready. The bedroom could wait until later. She’d talk to Jan and the others about it. They’d have plenty of ideas. Jan had probably had her place done over two or three times since she was last there.
It was only a ten-minute drive to Jan’s flat in Maidenhead, but she wanted to give herself plenty of time.
Using Reginald’s set of keys she opened up the garage. Reginald’s pride and joy, his immaculate silver grey BMW sat there in solid glory. She had never driven it so it was with a feeling of nervous trepidation she unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel.
The dashboard looked so complicated that for a moment Margaret felt like a pilot in the cockpit of a plane for the very first time. Taking a deep breath, she slipped the key into the ignition and switched on. The engine whined. She tried again. It whined and died. She felt a moment of panic. The battery must be flat. What did she do now?
She sat for a moment, studying the controls. Then relief flooded over her. She hadn’t used the choke. But surely that was automatic? It was only in an older car like the Escort she’d had that the choke was operated manually.
She switched the ignition on once more. This time the engine fired. She pumped the accelerator, revved up too quickly, or too violently, and the engine spluttered and died. Now she’d flooded the damn thing!
It was almost as if Reginald was hovering in the background trying to stop her taking his car. Biting down on her lower lip she counted very slowly to ten. Then she tried again.
This time she used the accelerator very gently and felt a sense of achievement as she managed to maintain the revs. Cautiously, she put the BMW into reverse and backed out on to the driveway.
She knew she ought to stop and shut the garage doors but she was afraid to take her foot off the accelerator in case the engine died again. Leaving them wide open she
carefully backed down the driveway and on to the road.
The BMW was twice the size of her Escort and Margaret felt as if she was driving a bus. She felt a sense of panic as she reached the main road and realized that she didn’t even know where the indicators were. All the controls were in different places to where she was used to.
She’d known where the reverse gear was simply because when she’d sat in the front passenger seat beside Reginald he had always caught her leg with the back of his hand when he was using reverse. She had no idea where the rest of the controls were, though. As soon as she got back from Jan’s place she would read up the handbook, she told herself. She daren’t take it out at night until she knew how to work the light switches.
She felt herself breaking out into a cold sweat as she went over the level crossing at the end of Lower Road in Cookham. Even though the lights weren’t on red and everyone else was driving over it, she was scared stiff that a train would appear out of nowhere and sweep her away down the track.
There wasn’t much traffic across the Moor but as soon as she entered Cookham High Street she was caught up in congestion. With cars parked all the way down on the left-hand side there really wasn’t room for two cars to pass and the amount of traffic coming the other way was quite horrendous.
Margaret froze as a high-sided lorry tried to squeeze past her, its offside wheels mounting the pavement on the left as it went by her.
And the speed they were all moving at! Didn’t any of them realize that there was a thirty m.p.h. limit?
She shivered; thank heaven it wasn’t much further to Jan’s place. At the end of the High Street a right-hand turn would take her along by the river, past Boulter’s Lock and she’d be there.
It sounded simple enough but, because she had positioned herself in the centre of the road, and forgotten to indicate, she found herself cutting right across the front of the car travelling behind her that was also turning right.
The driver blasted his horn in exasperation and, in panic, Margaret slammed on her brakes. There was a squeal of tyres from the car behind her and as its bumpers jammed into those of the BMW the impact jarred her forward on to the steering wheel.
