by Isla Dewar
Nell slowly, slowly dried a teaspoon and gazed out into the garden. Late spring, and light was fading. Tulips were in flower. Not in clumps, but in splendid regimental order, shoulder to shoulder, braving the breeze. Nell stopped drying the spoon. She looked out the window in amazement. The garden was small. She hadn’t noticed that before. In fact, for years she’d thought it huge. Well, she thought, it was huge when I was three.
She looked round the room. It was small. When did this happen? Had it shrunk, or had it always been this size? And her mother suddenly was so much smaller than Nell thought. She had to stretch on tiptoe to reach the back of the draining board. Had she always done that? Nell gazed into the distance, wondering at this new revelation.
Her mother snatched the tea towel she was using and waved her towards a chair.
‘Give me that. You’ve been wiping that spoon for the last ten minutes. You’ve drifted into a dream. You’re always dreaming. Too much dreaming and not enough doing, that’s you.’
Nell turned arms spread, taking in the kitchen. ‘Has this place got smaller? Have you got smaller?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Nancy said. ‘That’s the silliest thing anyone’s ever said to me. This place is the same size it always was. I’m not getting smaller. It’s you is getting bigger.’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Nell.
‘Of course you are.’ Nancy flapped the dishtowel at her. ‘You’ve moved out. You live in that fancy flat; go fancy places with that man of yours. Your world’s expanding. I knew this day would come. When you’d look at me and your dad and notice what we’re really like – plain and ordinary, a bit dull. Well, that’s what happens to you when you’ve been married for years. It’s the routine does it. Anyway, I like being dull. It suits me. I know what’s happening everyday when I get up. No surprises, that’s what I like.’
Nell sat on the top deck of the bus going home. She watched the world slip by, catching fleeting glimpses of passing front rooms. Families watching television, a man polishing his shoes, a woman ironing – these things pleased her. She loved to speculate about other peoples’ lives. Tonight, though, she cursed herself for her stupid remark about her mother getting smaller, and wondered if, now she was married, she was on her way to being plain and ordinary and a bit dull. Certainly Carol was up in arms about how dull her own life had become.
Last week Carol had phoned Nell. ‘I’m lonely.’
It was nine o’clock at night. Nell and Alistair had just taken up their television-watching positions on the sofa. Alistair had been slouched in the corner, Nell lying with her head in his lap. She’d heaved herself to her feet and, complaining bitterly, stumped to the kitchen to pick up the receiver.
‘Why are you lonely? Isn’t Johnny there?’
They always launched straight into conversation. Announcing themselves, saying hello, it’s me, would have taken up precious gossiping time.
‘Yes, he’s here. But he’s sleeping in front of the telly. That’s what he does every night when he’s home. He never talks to me.’
‘He’s tired.’
‘So am I. Really tired. It’s exhausting looking after a little one all day. I look forward to a little adult conversation at night, but all I ever get is him snoring.’
Nell had said nothing. She hadn’t needed to speak; Carol had been working up to a full rant.
‘He comes home, throws down his jacket, eats, then goes off to watch the TV. Hardly says a word. This isn’t right. I’m not putting up with this. He goes off every Friday night, and says it’s his relaxing time. But what about me?’
‘What about you?’
‘I need relaxing time, too. I need a night out. Remember when we used to go to the Locarno? I was happy then. Out on the town. Dancing. Having fun. I was really living then. Now my life is really boring. I’m fed up and I’m eating too many biscuits. Ever since I left school, it was my big ambition to get married. And my mother was forever saying that one day I’d have a husband and children and live in a house of my own. She never mentioned how awful it is – cooking and cleaning and that. I’m bored and I’m lonely and I’m getting fat.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to go out and find some fun for myself before I get any older and fatter.’
Nell had heard Katy start crying in the background.
‘Bugger. Katy’s awake. She’s probably had a bad dream. I’d better go.’
Nell had gone back to her television-watching position with Alistair. ‘It was Carol complaining that she’s bored and she’s getting old and fat.’
Alistair had yawned. ‘Aren’t we all?’
Now the bus trundled into Princes Street. Nell got off; she’d walk the rest of the way home. The city was busy tonight. She made her way through the crowds, stopping now and then to window gaze and people watch. She liked looking at the young men who strutted along the middle of the pavement eyeing passing girls. Thursday night was just for flirting. The drinking and swaggering would come tomorrow after they’d been paid. Nell was good at observing from the sidelines without being noticed. It was a skill she’d learned at the Locarno.
Still she was glad she was no longer part of this parade. Time was, she and Carol would walk, arms linked, secretly watching the boys while pretending to be more interested in the shop windows. They’d nudge one another if they spotted someone they fancied, giggle if he noticed them and winked, whistled or smiled. Back then Carol had been the one who got the admiring glances. She’d been queen of the street game, the one who’d mastered the fine art of noticing she’d been noticed and acting coy. Nell had been the dowdy best friend. She never got the boy.
Remembering this, she sighed and quickened her pace. She wanted to be at home and hoped Alistair was already there waiting for her. She reached the West End and glancing across the road at the Caledonian Hotel, saw Carol standing at the entrance. She was laughing. Nell stepped toward the kerb, raised her hand to wave and was just about to call her friend’s name, when a man came out. He too was laughing.
The man put his arm round Carol, pulled her to him. Kissed her. Nell lowered her hand. That wasn’t Carol. It couldn’t be Carol. But there was something about the kissing stance that was very familiar. The woman across the road had her arms round the man’s neck and was standing on one leg, the other bent behind her. Carol’s favourite street kissing position copied from a film she’d seen years ago. The kiss ended. The woman gazed up at the man, stroked his cheek then put her lips softly to his mouth for a little finishing-off mini kiss – one of Carol’s trademarks.
Nell stepped back, hid in a doorway. There was no mistaking it. That woman across the street, laughing and kissing, was her best friend. Carol was out on the town having fun before she got too old and too fat.
Heels clicking on the pavement, handbag banging on her side, Nell ran home. She had to tell Alistair about this. He was calm, steady and reliable. He could mend fuses, change plugs, fix flat tyres – he could do just about everything. He’d know what to do. He always did.
She burst into the flat, bristling with her news, calling his name. He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a bottle of whisky in front of him.
‘Well,’ he said topping up his glass, ‘that’s it.’
‘What’s it?’ said Nell.
‘I’ve left the family. Told my ma and pa I don’t want to know about their business dealings. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of them in future.’
Nell’s face said it all. She was confused, worried and disappointed.
‘There are things going on,’ said Alistair. ‘My mother and father’s dealings aren’t exactly legal. I’m a lawyer; I can’t be in on that sort of thing. I’d lose my job. My whole career would go down the plug. To be a lawyer you have to be a fit and proper person.’
‘What sort of dealings?’
‘Illegal ones,’ said Alistair. ‘I’m not going to tell you about them. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’
‘
But you can’t do that. You can’t leave your family.’
‘I just have,’ he said. He smiled. ‘I have you. You’re all I need. We’ll be fine.’
Nell was struggling to take in this dreadful news. She was sure the dubious dealings Alistair mentioned couldn’t be that bad. She was totting up all the things that were about to drop out of her life: the elaborate meals; the flowing wine; the lavish Christmases; the out-of-the-blue gifts. She’d been hoping she and Alistair would get a Jaguar soon.
This was awful. Why, the family was part of the reason she’d married Alistair. It broke her heart. The fabulousness would go on – the roaring fires, the food, the glistening glasses kept constantly topped up with wine, the laughter – and she wouldn’t be there to enjoy it.
Chapter Fourteen
A Running-away Fund
Rutherford’s opened in August. May and Harry had put up a huge dark-green sign outside with their name in gold lettering. The building was bedecked with fairy lights. They celebrated by throwing a party for over two hundred people. The hospitality was lavish: champagne and a buffet table laden with gleaming glazed hams, lobsters, chickens and an array of salads and multi-tiered cakes. May had wanted a roasted hog’s head complete with apple in its mouth as a centrepiece but Harry had told her no. ‘People will think it’s giving them the evil eye.’ She’d opted instead for a huge shimmering ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower. ‘Since we’re to be serving French food.’ She’d sighed when she saw it. ‘It’s shiny. It’s magnificent. When it comes to Rutherford’s, that sculpture says it all.’ She’d taken Harry’s arm and put her head on his shoulder. ‘We’re shiny and magnificent.’
The guests mingled, marvelled and sweated. It was hot; one of those nights when the heat of the day lingers deep and thick long into the evening and seems to suck the oxygen out of the air. The heat was intensified by the roaring flames in the huge hearth – May insisted that the place didn’t look inviting enough with the fireplace empty and dead. ‘You need flickering flames to give the place sparkle.’
Alistair and Nell were there. They hadn’t been invited – they’d been summoned. Don’t you dare not turn up, May had written along the bottom of their embossed official invitation, this family has to present a united front to the world. So, dressed in their best clothes, they’d turned up. Nell wore a blue dress, high at the neck and cut low down her back. Alistair had raised his eyebrows when she appeared in it. ‘New?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t seen it before.’
She told him she’d bought it in a sale. ‘Half price.’ She lied. May had paid for it.
Two weeks after Alistair had told his family that he wanted nothing more to do with their shenanigans and had walked out of the business meeting, May had turned up at the pen shop. ‘Just passing,’ she’d told Nell. ‘Thought I’d drop in to say hello. Have you had your lunch?’ It had been one o’clock.
Nell had shaken her head.
‘Well, let’s go and get a bite.’
They’d gone to a small café on the High Street. May had ordered sandwiches and coffee. She hadn’t asked Nell what she wanted. She’d been sure she didn’t need to. She had a natural instinct for other people’s nutritional needs. ‘Well,’ she’d said, ‘just because Alistair has fallen out with his family, it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. How is he, anyway?’
Nell had told her he was fine. ‘Busy at work, but fine.’
‘Good. Now, I want you to phone me once a week to tell me how he’s doing.’
Nell had asked why.
‘Because I’m his mother. I worry about him. It’s my job. I need to be told regularly that he’s all right.’ She’d rummaged in her bag and brought out an envelope. ‘For you.’
Nell had turned it over in her hands.
‘Open it,’ May had told her.
The envelope had contained a bankbook with a single deposit of two hundred pounds. ‘What’s this for? I already have a bank account. Well, a joint account with Alistair.’
‘That’s your secret account. A joint one with me. It’s your running-away fund.’
‘Why would I run away? Where would I go?’
‘Most women go to the shops. When you’re running away, you don’t have to run far.’
The sandwiches had arrived. May had opened them, and peered at the fillings. ‘I’m studying sandwiches at the moment. We’re going to be serving them at Rutherford’s.’ She’d fished a notebook from her handbag and jotted down crab with mayonnaise, cheese and onion, and cucumber with cream cheese. ‘Very nice,’ she’d said. ‘Every woman should have a running-away fund. I have one.’
‘In a bank?’ Nell had asked. ‘I thought you didn’t like banks.’
‘I don’t. My fund is in cash.’
‘So why do you need another one? A joint account with me?’
‘Oh, it’s your fund. I only put my name on the account so I could pay money in from time to time.’
‘Did you ever run away?’
May had taken a bite of her sandwich, and had chewed thoughtfully, ‘Cream cheese and cucumber is a good sandwich idea. I’ll put it on the menu. Of course, it’s a woman’s sandwich. Men prefer roast beef or cheese and onion.’ She’d taken a sip of coffee. ‘I often ran away. You don’t know what it’s like, alone all day with two toddlers. The little fights, the big fights, squabbles, nappies, loneliness. I needed to get away from time to time. Kept me sane. Mostly I just went to the shops and bought a bar of chocolate that I ate by myself. Sometimes I had a long bubble bath. But that was when we’d no money and my fund was small. Later, I’d go shopping and get a new coat or something. I never actually ran away anywhere. I couldn’t. I’d have been on the phone every night checking that the boys had eaten a decent meal and cleaned their teeth before bed. I wouldn’t have been able to let go.’ She’d sniffed. ‘I won’t ever let go.’
Nell had eaten a crab sandwich and wrestled with this new information.
‘It’s just a matter of having secret money,’ May had told her. ‘It gives you independence.’
‘Do you think Harry has a running away fund?’
‘Good heavens, no. He’s a man. Men don’t think like that. See, women are stoics. Men aren’t. They just yell when they’re in pain. They don’t suffer in silence. Women need the fund for when the suffering and the silence get too much. It’s a little escape route. And knowing they have a nest egg put aside for a rainy day keeps them going.’
‘Does Carol have a fund? Did you give her one?’
May had shaken her head. ‘I expect Carol has worked out something for herself. But I didn’t help her. You need things pointed out to you. You’re an innocent. If you don’t watch out for yourself in this life, you’ll get trampled.’ She’d put down her sandwich. ‘Why do you ask about Carol? What’s she been up to?’ She’d stared at Nell, scrutinising her face, watching for small movements of the eyebrows or lips that might indicate a lie.
Nell had squirmed, looked down at her coffee and wondered if lunch with the Spanish Inquisition might be more enjoyable. How did this woman know something was amiss with Carol? How did she hone in on it when all she’d done was ask a simple question? Clearly May had a secret sixth sense when it came to matters concerning her family. She’d wondered if she should tell May about spotting Carol doing her famous one-legged kiss in the street, but decided against it. It didn’t do to tell tales about your friends, so she’d said she didn’t think Carol had been up to anything and had changed the subject. ‘Thing is, I don’t think I could turn up at home with a new coat. Alistair would want to know where I got it and how much it cost.’
‘Yes, Alistair’s like that. He notices things. Nothing gets past him. You’ll just have to lie to him. Say the coat’s been in the wardrobe for ages. Or if you can’t do that, tell him you got it in a sale – a bargain you couldn’t resist.’ She’d looked at her watch. ‘Time you got back to work. Don’t want you to get into trouble for being late.’
She’d walked Nell back to the door of the pen shop. �
��You can pop some money into the fund if you want. But remember, the time may come when you’ll need it, so don’t go frittering it away. It’s for when misery strikes.’
At the party, May spotted that Nell and Alistair had arrived and teetered towards them. She was wearing an extremely tight floor-length glittering gold dress, the sort of frock Nell had only seen on television, worn by Saturday night singers as they belted out throbbing songs about everlasting love on variety shows. She thought it dreadful.
But May was thrilled with how she looked, even if walking was tricky. She did a shuffling high-heeled twirl, and when she was once again face-to-face with Alistair and Nell, she said, ‘Don’t I look gorgeous?’
Nell agreed. She didn’t dare do anything else.
May coldly handed Alistair a glass of champagne and gave him her best dismissive look. He remembered it well from his childhood – a thin-lipped, icy-eyed glower that told him he’d been a naughty boy and she wasn’t speaking to him.
When she had finished being frosty with Alistair, May turned to Nell, put her arm round her and beamed. ‘You’re looking lovely, darling. Come and have some food.’ Leading Nell away, she turned and gave Alistair another glower, just in case the first hadn’t registered. He smiled at her, shook his head and said, ‘Glower away, Ma. I’m not coming back into the family business. You’ll have to take my name off the headed notepaper.’
