Читать книгу Five French Hens - Judy Leigh - Страница 5

Jen held the umbrella over her head and listened to the rain drumming on the canvas. It would be cosy inside the pub. The wind blew hard through the material of her jacket. She’d thought she’d be warm enough, but there was ice in the February gusts that sifted around the corner and lifted her hair, rearranging it across her face. She’d spent the afternoon in the hairdresser’s and had been pleased with the glossy style, silver strands streaked through the chestnut locks. In the grey suit and neat heels, she’d thought she’d look smart, but the cold weather and the sharp breeze had taken the edge off her preparations and she was sure her nose would glow red beneath the light dusting of powder. But Eddie wouldn’t mind – the first thing he always said was how nice it was to see her and how lovely she looked.

There were posters in the windows of the Olive Grove, huge red hearts and cute Cupids with arrows, proclaiming the evening’s special Valentine dinner. Jen could hear the hushing of the waves breaking against the sea walls in the distance and, from down the road, the crisp sound of approaching footfall. It was Eddie, in his pale mackintosh, the collar up, looking debonair, just like Inspector Morse. It was seven thirty, sharp.

Half seven, thought Rose. The torture must end soon. Little Amelia’s nimble fingers pressed the pristine ivory keys on the piano: the discordant jangle made a pulse in Rose’s head throb.

‘Try again from the beginning, dear,’ she murmured, watching the second hand twitch on the wall clock. It would soon be over and Amelia would leave her in peace. Rose sighed and spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Shall we call it a night, dear? I think Mummy’s here – someone just rang the doorbell, I’m sure.’

Amelia slammed the piano lid down without turning round and stood up, still in her school uniform, tidy in the crisp white blouse and tartan skirt, her blonde plaits neatly secured with bows. Rose held up the child’s coat and led her to the door where a tall, slim woman with dark hair in a no-nonsense cut and a smart coat was standing in the porch, the rain teeming behind her. Amelia went straight to her and took her hand, a dutiful six year old. But Rose was sure that the child wrinkled her nose and stuck out the edge of a pink tongue at her. Amelia’s mother smiled, although her eyes remained cold.

‘How was Amelia’s lesson, Mrs Grant? She’s been practising all week. Is it time for her to be put forward for a grading?’ She held out two notes, a ten and a five.

Rose noticed Amelia scowling. She was unsure what to say, her hand fluttering in front of her face. ‘She’s making progress, Mrs Bassett. Soon, I hope.’

Amelia’s mother frowned. ‘My friend, Sally, tells me that Joni Yates puts all her pupils in for grading early. They all seem to pass with distinctions too.’

Rose sighed. She wished she could tell the woman to take her child to Joni Yates, then, and see how she coped with Amelia, who clearly didn’t practise anything from one week to another. But her pupils were becoming scarcer: she had no idea why she didn’t just retire. After all, it wasn’t as if she needed the money. Bernard had left her comfortably off and piano teaching was a routine that left her feeling unfulfilled, flat, without energy. ‘Keep practising Für Elise, Amelia, and maybe we’ll discuss grade entry next week.’

Amelia gazed up at her mother, her tiny brows meeting in a knot. ‘Furry Liza is boring, Mummy. Can I learn the violin instead? Elsa in my class goes to violin. She says the teacher is really cool.’

Amelia’s mother met Rose’s eyes, as if her daughter had just made up her mind for her, and turned on her heel, tugging the child towards the pouring rain and a dark car parked by the kerb. Rose closed the door, locked it securely with the bolt and chain and muttered, ‘Minx.’ As an afterthought, she mumbled, ‘What a blessing that Beethoven was deaf. If he’d heard Amelia slaughtering his Für Elise for the last forty-five minutes, it would raise him from the grave.’

She stood in the hallway, thinking. Half past seven. She hadn’t eaten since lunch, and then just a slice of toast. She wasn’t really hungry, but she ought to look after herself better. Her skirt was hanging off her, the waist baggy, and her legs felt weak. She would find something in the freezer, something with calories. There was a box of macaroni cheese for one. She could heat it up in the microwave. Rose sighed again. She didn’t like February. Spring was too far away and the house was too cold. Besides, Bernard had died in February two years ago and each year she felt the cold, haunting loneliness grasp her by the shoulders and whisper in her ear that she was by herself and companionless and that was how it would always be now.

Of course, she had her new friends, the four women she’d met at aqua aerobics last October when the club first started. They were nice women, but they only met for coffee once a week and then she came home alone and it was back to the silence again. She shuffled into the lounge and picked up a yellow duster, rubbing it over the piano. It had been hers and Bernard’s. He had been a wonderful musician, a church organist too. She replaced their wedding photo lovingly on top, over the circle left by a wine glass years ago. Not hers, of course – it might have been made by their son, Paul, one Christmas when he’d visited with the children. His visits were a rare thing nowadays – he was a busy man, of course, he had an important job.

Rose stared at the photo, black and white in the silver frame. It all looked so dated now. Bernard was in his suit, a flower in the lapel, his hair wavy, a broad grin on his face, and she was much shorter than him, gazing up in the lacy dress, her eyes full of love. That had been in 1967 – it was so long ago and yet, strangely, she could remember exactly how she’d felt, her heart fluttering, the thrill of becoming Mrs Grant and not Miss Rosemary Tucker. They’d had almost fifty good years, well, mostly good. She’d done her best as a wife. She couldn’t really complain.

Rose shuffled forward to the kitchen and opened the freezer. The macaroni cheese meal for one was next to the loaf of bread and the half-empty bag of frozen peas. She’d need to do some shopping. She plucked out the cardboard meal and headed towards the microwave.

Della heard the knocking at the door. ‘Sylvester? You forgotten your key?’ She rushed to the front door, wiping her hands on a tea towel, patting the dark curls smattered with grey sprinklings. ‘That man,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘He’s out too late again. His dinner is ruining in the oven.’

She pulled the door open and he was standing there, his pork-pie hat on his head, water dripping from the brim onto his misted glasses, his lips pursed for a kiss. He held out a bunch of roses. ‘Come to me, my valentine,’ he purred.

‘Get in out of the rain and stop the foolishness.’ She laughed, tugging at his sleeve and helping him out of his damp coat. ‘I wish you’d give up this crazy snack-van job. You’re late again and drenched through…’ The flowers were thrust in her arms and he had her round the waist, waltzing.

‘Come here, my valentine girl. I bring you flowers and what do you do but all this nagging me again?’ Sylvester giggled, kissing her full on the mouth. He pulled away, whipping off his hat. His head was smooth and shiny, but there were tufts of grey whiskers on his chin. Della hugged him to her.

‘I prepared your favourite. Salt fish.’

‘Ah.’ He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘My mommy’s salt fish and ackee, I remember it so well, when I was a boy. Life in Jamaica was good before we came to this godforsaken cold country.’ They walked into the kitchen and he sniffed exaggeratedly. ‘No wonder I married you, Della Donavan – you cook just like my mommy used to.’

Della turned to him and put her hands on her hips, frowning. ‘You telling me there are no other benefits, Sylvester?’ She swirled away, reaching for a vase, unwrapping the flowers and arranging them carefully. She knew he was studying her, the sway of her hips, the way she moved with a roll – it was the first thing he’d ever noticed about her when they’d met in Stepney fifty years ago. ‘The flowers are beautiful.’

He pulled her to him in one expert move and she was on his knee. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘We eat first, then how about an early night, my valentine?’

She pulled off his glasses and gazed into the soft brown eyes. ‘You think you’re still the man you were at twenty-five?’

‘You put fire in my belly, woman.’ He put his mouth against hers, crushing their lips together. Della pushed him away, laughing.

‘Your technique still needs work,’ she said, grinning. ‘But you’re the sexiest man I ever met, Sylvester.’ She levered herself up, rubbing a hard hand across the ache that had started to settle in her lower back, and moved awkwardly towards the cooker. ‘And I’ve made your favourite ginger cake for pudding, with rum.’

She lifted a pot from the hotplate although her wrists ached with the weight of it. Her husband was sitting back in his seat smiling. ‘You have a fine figure on you, Della.’

‘I’m not the slim girl I was at twenty-two.’

‘You are still the same to me.’ He lifted his knife and fork and winked at her. ‘Come on, then. Let’s eat first. Afterwards I’ll chase you round the bedroom.’

She laughed. ‘I look forward to it. And when you catch me, will you still remember what to do?’

Tess stared at her plate. She had no appetite. She’d been on her own all day, cooking, tidying, watching daytime television, looking forward to Alan coming home. But now he was here, and they were sitting across the table from each other, she had nothing to say. The only sound was of Alan chewing, a wet sound, slurping mixed with the snapping of teeth. He had gravy on his chin.

She tried a question. ‘How are the chops?’

‘A bit tough, Tess,’ he mumbled, his fork in the air.

‘Oh.’ Tess concentrated on her plate. She hadn’t started on the chop yet but it looked all right to her. The potatoes and peas looked fine. She tried again. ‘How’s the mash?’

He said nothing for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Mash is mash.’

Tess clanked her knife and fork against the porcelain plate, cut the chop and chewed. It seemed tender enough. She gazed at her husband across the linen tablecloth. ‘The weather’s not good, is it?’

His eyes sparked with sudden interest. ‘No, it’s not. This rain is forecast for the whole weekend. I won’t get out on the course if it carries on teeming down. I have a new iron I want to try out. I’ve been practising the swing with Cliff’s club. I think it might improve my game. Cliff always buys the best for himself. My handicap would improve vastly if I just…’

Tess scraped back her chair and stopped listening. She collected his plate, now empty, and took it to the dishwasher. ‘Shall I make coffee, Alan?’

Alan frowned, leaning back in the chair and rubbing his portly belly. ‘If you like, Tess.’

She felt strands of platinum-blonde hair loosen from the clip at the top of her head and she pushed back the silky skeins. ‘I could open a bottle of port if you like.’

Alan pressed the black-framed glasses towards his eyes. ‘Port? Whatever for?’

‘It’s Valentine’s Day,’ Tess chirped. She’d bought him a card, a blue tie wrapped in tissue paper; they were upstairs, next to the bed.

Alan shook his head. ‘It’s just commercial rubbish,’ he grunted. ‘I was going to get you some chocolates, but I thought with you being on a diet you wouldn’t appreciate it.’

Tess looked down at herself, at the baggy pullover and comfy jeans. She didn’t remember telling Alan she was on a diet – she thought she was fine; her waist was a bit thicker than it had been before the children, but she was not bad for her seventy-two years. She met his eyes. ‘Do I need to go on a diet?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s an after Christmas thing, I suppose – you had too much wine and chocolate and cake.’ He sniffed. ‘Tess, bring the coffee into the lounge, would you? There’s some golf on Sky Sports. I thought I might…’

He shoved back his chair and mumbled as he moved towards the door. Tess stared at him – the dark hair, sparse on the top – and sighed as she watched him go. There had been a documentary she’d wanted to watch about a woman who had travelled to Egypt, an archaeologist in search of evidence about the life of Nefertiti. Tess had wondered what it would be like to travel and research, to go somewhere exotic and interesting. But now she’d have to take her book in the lounge and read while Alan watched golf and gabbled a ridiculous running commentary on each shot, speaking to himself as he always did. Tess filled the kettle and thought about Nefertiti. She’d been a mysterious and powerful woman in Egypt. Tess was a skivvy in Exmouth to a man who was a slave to golf.

‘Elvis. Elvis, I’m home.’

The black cocker spaniel rushed towards her, his long ears swinging, and leapt up at her knees. Pam reached down and fondled the curly fur on his head. ‘I haven’t been too long, have I, Elvis? I just wanted to do a mile – the weather’s awful.’

To prove her point, Pam ran her fingers through her hair. The usually blonde spiky cut hung in dark dripping clumps over her face. ‘A man at the bus stop shouted at me: “You must be bloody mad, woman, running in this weather at your age.”’ I just laughed. But I’m freezing now. I must get out of these jog pants and into the shower. Come on up with me, Elvis – no, I’ll feed you afterwards, I promise. I must get this clobber off and get warmed up.’

Pam rushed up the stairs, the spaniel bounding behind her. She peeled the damp layers from her body and hurried under the stream of hot water, reaching for soap and lathering herself. Through the steam and the glass, she could see the dark shape of Elvis, sitting patiently on the bath mat, waiting for her.

Swathed in a fluffy dressing gown, her feet bare, Pam padded downstairs, Elvis at her heels. In the little living room, the wooden table had been set with one plate, one knife and one fork, and a fire was blazing in the hearth. Pam curled up on the colourful rug, pushing a hand through her hair. Elvis snuggled down next to her legs, placing his wet nose on her lap. She rubbed his head and met the soulful eyes.

‘OK, it’s dinner time soon, Elvis.’

The spaniel wagged his tail, a steady drumbeat against the rug. She smiled at him. ‘I’ve got some food for you in the kitchen. And I was going to make a nice Buddha bowl for myself but guess what? I’ve just remembered. It’s Valentine’s night. I’ll do a pizza and open a bottle of red wine and afterwards we can both have a treat. Mine’s ice cream. What’s yours?’

Elvis bounded up towards her, his front paws on her chest. The dressing gown sagged open. Pam laughed.

‘Elvis, really! I know you’re the best valentine I’ve ever had but you need to keep your passion under control.’ She hugged him close, the fire warming her face, and she offered him her wide smile.

‘I must be the only woman in the world sharing Valentine’s night with Elvis. But it has to be said, although you look gorgeous…’ she kissed his damp nose ‘… your breath is terrible.’