Читать книгу Puppies Are For Life - Linda Phillips - Страница 4

After the first major row of their married lives Susannah and Paul Harding slunk separately to their bedroom and spent the night back to back.

In the morning they glared into their muesli bowls, cast agonised glances at their watches, and dashed out to their respective cars. She didn’t remind him that he’d left his sandwiches in the fridge. And he didn’t tell her about the mascara on her cheek.

But he did mutter something about seeing a doctor.

I do not need to see a doctor, she fumed silently as she scrubbed at her face in the office cloakroom later that morning. All I need is an understanding husband.

Then, much to the dismay of her friend Molly, who happened to be applying lipstick beside her, she burst into helpless tears.

‘I thought everything was hunky dory these days,’ said Molly, steering her red-eyed companion away from the row of chipped china sinks and along the concrete corridors of C & G Electronics in the direction of the canteen.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Susannah tried to assure her friend. ‘It’s just me, being very silly. Oh lord, what’s Duffy doing there? I don’t want him to see me like this.’

Mr Duffy, their boss, was hovering by the Flexi machine.

‘Just checking up on us.’ Molly grunted. ‘Has to make sure we checked out before we powdered our noses.’ She pushed through the doors of the canteen where a strong combination of boiled cabbage and chips assailed them, and quickly changed course for the salad bar.

‘Things don’t sound fine to me,’ she said, picking up a tray.

‘Well, they are,’ Susannah insisted. She eyed limp brown lettuce leaves through the Perspex display unit, opted for grated carrot with watercress, and shuffled listlessly on. ‘Buying the cottage was the best thing we ever did. It’s been lovely decorating and settling in; wonderful to have no one to please but ourselves. We can watch what we like on the television, go for Sunday lunch at a pub. It’s wonderful … only –’ Her pale face clouded over.

‘So what’s the problem?’ Molly prompted when they had paid up and threaded their way to a vacant table. Dumping her tray among the previous occupant’s debris she settled her majestic figure on one of the chairs. ‘No, don’t tell me,’ she said, raising her hands, ‘let me guess. Er … the authentic gnarled old beams have got woodworm? Or the Aga’s set fire to the thatch?’

Susannah flapped a hand at her friend, smiling a little in spite of herself. ‘Of course not! Would the surveyor have passed it if it had woodworm? And you know we didn’t go for an Aga.’

‘Oh, you know I’m only jealous.’ Molly grinned, tossing her head, and then her face grew serious. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what’s really wrong, Sue?’

Susannah bit her lip. Could she tell Molly about the row? Would it help to get it out of her system? The scene had been replaying itself in her mind all through the night and most of the morning too. It was still so horribly vivid …

News at Ten had been blasting out its closing music when she’d wandered into the sitting room.

‘There!’ she’d said proudly, holding out the product of many hours’ hard work. Her back ached; so did her head. It had all been worth it, though – because she could see now that she might actually make a success of this thing, given time. ‘Well, Paul, do you like it? What do you honestly think?’

Paul yawned widely and stood up, unfolding himself from one of the chintz armchairs until his hair brushed the low beamed ceiling.

‘What is it?’ he asked, stretching and yawning again, and looking as though he wished he’d gone to bed hours ago.

‘Well, you can see what it is. It’s a teapot stand. Made out of mosaic tiles. I’ve just finished it.’

Paul blinked and looked more closely. ‘Ah,’ was his only comment.

‘Is that all you have to say, Ah?’ Susannah glared first at her husband, then at the article in her hand. ‘What’s wrong with it then?’

‘Um …’ He scratched the back of his head and cast her a sideways glance. ‘You do want an honest opinion?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, not meaning it, and something inside her went phut.

‘Well,’ he said, frowning, ‘it’s a bit – I don’t know. What’s the word – crude, maybe?’

‘Crude? Crude? What do you mean, crude? This, I’ll have you know, happens to be based on a Graeco-Roman design!’

‘Is that so?’ He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rocked back on his bony heels and treated her to one of his crooked, most supercilious little smiles. ‘And did they actually have teapots in those days, do you think?’

‘What? Who? Oh, you – aargh!’ She snarled furiously, and flung it at his grinning head. It missed by inches and hit the wall, making a gash in the new magnolia silk-finish before bursting out of its wooden frame.

It was still lying in pieces on the carpet back at home, as shattered as her dreams.

No, Susannah decided, she couldn’t tell Molly all that; it was somehow much too private. Ignoring her salad she leaned forward on her elbows.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘we had a bit of a barney last night, Paul and I.’

‘You and –?’ Molly’s eyes grew round. ‘Good heavens.’

‘Yes. It’s not like us, is it? Well, it wasn’t exactly Paul’s doing, really; more my fault, I suppose.’

‘Never accept the blame for anything,’ was Molly’s prompt advice. ‘Takes two to tango, remember.’ She chewed thoughtfully on a bread roll, as though a picture of Paul doing a tango – all knotty knees and elbows – had temporarily taken her attention.

‘Mmm …’ Susannah was considering her friend’s advice. She wished she could be assertive like Molly. And wasn’t that just her problem? There had been few occasions in her life when she had held out for what she believed to be right. Normally she was placid and easy-going, doing herself down, deferring to others for the sake of a quiet life. She hated scenes; it was only when pushed to extremes that she was inclined to dig in her heels and say all manner of things that she wouldn’t have dreamed of saying in the normal course of events.

One such incident came to mind right now – one that she had long since lived to regret, because parents were always right in the long run, weren’t they? At eighteen she had defied her father and refused to re-sit a history A-level that she had badly failed. What was the point, she’d wanted to know? Taking after her mother, she was hopelessly non-academic; she would never achieve a pass. She might as well give up any idea she might have had about going to college.

Her father had been livid. A teacher at the boys’ part of the grammar school she attended, and struggling for excellence in all things so that he might one day make it to headmaster, it was hardly surprising that he did not take kindly to his daughter’s new-found independence. But Susannah had stuck to her guns. She left school with her one A-level in Art and launched herself into the job market, landing – to her delight – a reasonably well-paid clerical job with a travel agent. Those were the days! Money in her purse. Clothes. The swinging sixties. And she had met Paul.

‘Anyway –’ Molly brought her back to the matter in hand – ‘what was it that triggered off the row? That is, if it’s not a state secret?’

‘No-o, no, it’s more – well – embarrassing.’ Susannah hesitated while she picked open a minuscule paper napkin. ‘I ended up throwing something at him, would you believe?’

Molly’s next look was one of amazed admiration. ‘Lord, what I would have given to see that! You, losing your cool for once, and the mighty Paul with his dignity in shreds.’ She shook her head, chuckling.

‘But I was the one who lost my dignity,’ Susannah was quick to point out. She stared miserably at her plate. ‘Paul remained his usual gentlemanly self. He just looked at me kind of stunned and walked away. Oh dear. I’m going to have to apologise this evening, I know I am, and I’m not looking forward to it one bit.’

‘Don’t do it then.’ Molly grunted. ‘I wouldn’t.’ She began to dig into a bowl of cold pasta, bringing fat rubbery twirls to her mouth in bundles of no less than six. ‘I’m sure he must have asked for it. Men usually do.’ She chewed quickly and gulped down a stream of Coke. ‘But really, I can’t imagine you two rowing. There can’t be anything to row about. You’ve got everything you could possibly want in life: more money than you really need; a cottage most people would die for. And your kids are off your hands. What more do you want, Susannah – jam on your wodge of cake? Cream on top of the jam?’

‘But – but material things aren’t everything,’ Susannah argued timidly. She stared at a distant window. ‘Molly … haven’t you ever wanted – well – personal fulfilment, I suppose is what I’m getting at? And – and recognition? Oh, not just for being a mother and a boring old pay-clerk, but for being good at something that counts? For doing something you’ve always wanted to do and –’

But then she noticed the lines of discontent that had gathered round Molly’s lips, and was suffused with guilt. Molly was struggling to bring up three growing children on a pittance in a council house, she hadn’t had a holiday in years and there was no man in her life at all. How could she be expected to understand?

‘Oh –’ Susannah ran a hand through her short hair – ‘you don’t want to hear about my petty little problems, Molly. Let’s talk about something else.’

‘They weren’t petty little problems just now. I thought the world had come to an end.’

‘But things get on top of me at times, just like they do with anyone. Oh, I don’t know, Moll. Perhaps all the decorating’s taken it out of me.’

‘Perhaps you should take another holiday,’ Molly couldn’t help adding with more than a touch of sarcasm. The Hardings had only recently returned from a Lake District weekend in a plush hotel. They were always bombing off somewhere for ‘a little treat’.

Susannah pushed away her plate with an air of resignation. ‘OK, fair enough. So I’m a spoilt bitch. I’ve got a wonderful life and I should be grateful for it. Let’s just say I’m going through some sort of mid-life crisis and leave it at that.’ She stood up and tucked her bag under her arm. ‘Look, I don’t know about you, Molly, but I must get back to the office. I need all the Flexi I can muster for that funeral I’m going to tomorrow.’

She began to hurry away, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid hearing Molly mutter to herself: ‘Mid-life crisis my giddy aunt!’ Her tone implied that life for most people was a whole series of crises – real ones. And that Susannah didn’t know she was born.

Not a single red light. Not one tail-back of traffic. Susannah’s Peugeot hummed homeward that evening on virtual auto-pilot, leaving her too much time to think. Time to think about uncomfortable things like whether Molly was right about not apologising: should she apologise to Paul, or he to her? He had practically asked to have something thrown at him, after all.

The gears clashed from fifth to second as she changed down for the Sainsbury’s roundabout. Why should she be the one to climb down? Where had his support been when she needed it? All he had done was belittle her efforts. But then, wasn’t that what he had always done?

Her thoughts flew back to their early days together, when Simon was just a toddler and Katy no more than an infant. Paul had risen hardly any distance up the civil service ladder by then and they’d had to watch every penny he earned.

Mothers who went out to work had still been the exception rather than the rule in those days, and Susannah had never been exceptional. What could she do anyway? Jobs for the less than well qualified had been scarce and not extravagantly paid. Anything she earned would have been swallowed up in childcare costs.

She had tried to help out at home as best she could. There were the children’s clothes she’d run up from market remnants and tried to sell; the teddy bears she’d made with bells in their ears one Christmas; the rag dolls that it had been hard to get Katy to part with; lampshades; envelopes – everything you could think of.

But Paul had pooh-poohed the lot.

‘Don’t give up the day-job,’ he’d once told her, eyeing her almost-stagnant production line of headless bodies …

Susannah’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Maybe he’d meant it as a joke, but it had hurt then and it hurt now.

It had hurt last night when he’d joked about the teapot stand, which was why she had suddenly exploded. Resentment had been building up for years. Oh, she’d give anything to wipe that superior expression from his face, have him look up to her for a change, with pride and – and respect. But she couldn’t see that happening in a million years. Unless she had some success.

Success. In Paul’s book that meant making money. So that was the answer, wasn’t it? She would have to make some money, even though they were no longer greatly in need of it. It was the only measure of success that Paul and the rest of the world recognised.

And it wasn’t all pie in the sky, when you thought about it. Other women had done it before – made fortunes by making things – especially in the eighties. You could hardly pick up a magazine at one time without reading how so-and-so had begun by mixing pots of cream or make-up in their kitchen, or printing lengths of cloth in the spare room, and they’d ended up running empires. So why shouldn’t she do something similar? Of course it would mean having to suck up to that nauseating Reg Watts in the craft shop once more, but nothing ventured nothing gained, as the saying goes. Yes, that’s what she would do: she would hurry home right now, collect one of the other teapot stands … and sell it!