“I should like a pouffe, really,” said Mrs Thorpe in a wistful tone.
“A pouffe!”
“To sit on, you know. Or put your feet up. They take up very little room—you can put them away underneath a table.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen one lately.”
“Some are leather—well, pretend to be leather—and some are silk, or chintz, you know.”
It turned out that our so-and-so who was leaving Hudley to live with a married daughter in London owned a pouffe; having observed Mrs Thorpe’s admiration, she had it recovered and offered it with becoming diffidence.
And so at last everything was complete, and Miss Ellis went to Rutland Court for a cup of tea. Everything was really perfect; Bingo slept comfortably, tail out-curved, on a finely knitted blue mat on the Telly; mats, rugs, curtains, towels, upholstery, all matched in the most tasteful style; flowers decked a table in the hall, china gleamed, cushions were fresh and plump. Miss Ellis admired it all wholeheartedly.
“You have made it a real home,” she said.
But Mrs Thorpe’s ethics forbade her to accept a personal compliment. A rebuke, she felt, was necessary.
“There’s a beautiful view,” she said sternly.
“Good,” approved Miss Ellis.
Mother-in-Law
1974
It was Friday, Mrs Blacker, grey-haired, widowed, old-age pensioner, wearing her decent coat and hat and carrying her new striped nylon shopping bag, unlatched the gate on the trim little council house rented by her son Ronnie and his wife Lucy.
She had come, as usual on Fridays, to wash up, clean the house, do the week’s shopping, cook an evening meal and share it with Ronnie and Lucy. This was all very helpful, for Lucy, who taught in the same secondary-modern school as her husband, was as conscientious and enthusiastic a teacher as Ronnie, and extra activities for her pupils gave her very little time for domestic duties.
Mrs Blacker, as usual, walked sedately up the trim little path. But here the course of events departed from the usual, for the trim white door was vigorously thrown open by Lucy, who then stood back to allow Ronnie, who came rushing down the stairs, to bound over the two outside steps and charge towards the gate.
“Mom! Train!” he cried as he flew past.
Mrs Blacker was naturally a little perturbed, but not seriously so, for Ronnie’s pleasant face—he had a thick thatch of fair hair, with fair complexion to match—wore a look of happy excitement. This agreeable impression was confirmed by the appearance of Lucy, who now stood visible in the open doorway, beaming.
“Mother!” she exclaimed. Mrs Blacker always winced a little when Lucy called her Mother, but she approved the motive and concealed the wince. Soon, she hoped, the appellation Grannie would become applicable. There had been no announcement yet, but Mrs Blacker’s hopes were strong. “He’s short-listed for Annotsfield!” cried Lucy.
“How splendid!” cried Mrs Blacker.
She had heard nothing of the appointment in question, but knew from experience of Ronnie’s teaching posts, what a “short-list” meant.
“Yes. We didn’t tell you he’s applied—we didn’t tell anybody except our head teacher,” said Lucy, panting just a trifle from embarrassment. “Because it’s not wise for too many applications to get around, if they’re not successful, you know.”
“No, indeed,” agreed Mrs Blacker loyally. But she was wounded. “Not tell his own mother,” she mourned to herself. To conceal any awareness of the slight, she took off her hat and coat, and hung them up, with the shopper, behind the door.
“The letter summoning him for an interview came this morning. Fancy his being on the short list for the first headship he’s applied for!” marvelled Lucy.
“He’s a wonderful boy. And you’re such a help to him in his career, Lucy,” said Mrs Blacker, generous as usual.
Lucy kissed Mrs Blacker.
“He’s catching the five past nine train to Annotsfield. He expects to be back this evening. Why not sit a moment and have a cup of coffee, Mother?” urged Lucy happily.
Mrs Blacker’s digestion, soothed by nearly seventy years of tea, shuddered at the thought of coffee, which did not agree with her. (She suspected that it did not agree too well with Ronnie, either.)
“No, thank you, dear,” she said cheerfully. “I’d rather get on with the house.”
“Well, I must be off,” said Lucy, bustling about for coat and briefcase. “I must give the head time to rearrange the time-table in Ronnie’s absence today, before prayers. Luckily I have a free period this morning, so I’ll be available to substitute for Ronnie then.”
“Shall you be in for lunch?” said Mrs Blacker, making the effort to use for this midday meal the word preferred by Lucy.
“I’m not sure—probably not,” said Lucy, rushing out.
Mrs Blacker cleared the breakfast things, got out the vacuum—yes they had a vacuum, she was proud to know, paid for too—and cleaned the house from top to toe. It was not a tiresome task, for Lucy was a very tidy person; all clothes were neatly put away in drawers and cupboards, and dressing-table and sideboard fitments were geometrically arranged. Mrs Blacker took great pains to memorise the positions of these and replace them exactly. When Ronnie and Lucy first married and she began these Friday visitations, she had not troubled about this overmuch, for though she kept her own home scrupulously tidy, she ordered it by instinct rather than by calculation. But one Friday evening she saw Lucy, with a tiny frown of vexation, alter the relative position of two ornaments on the mantelpiece. Mrs Blacker took the hint, and since then she had never left anything out of place.
Mrs Blacker liked using the vacuum. It was efficient, easy, and she enjoyed following the edges of carpets and chairs exactly. There was something playful in this exactitude which pleased her robust and cheerful nature. But more than this, its drone made a protective barrier between herself and the outside world. Within it she was free to dream. Now, with this splendid news about Ronnie’s short-listing to set her off, she began to re-live her life since his birth.
A strong, beautiful, healthy boy, he very soon developed a most deliciously friendly and interested expression in his fine dark-blue eyes. Was Jim proud of him! Ah, well; Jim. Best not to think of Jim; the old wound, the piercing grief, was still there. Jim came back safely through the war, Dunkirk and all, only to die of rheumatic fever before Ronnie was ten years old. Jim was most terribly proud of Ronnie.
“He’s a clever boy, a right down clever lad, is our Ronnie,” he said. “He’s far above our heads, Cissie love.” (Jim was a warehouseman in a textile merchants’ firm; nicely paid and a clean job, but not, of course, like a teacher.) “We must do all we can for Ronnie.”
Cissie agreed with all her heart, and after she had lost Jim, Ronnie became the great motive, the moving passion, of her life. Of course in these modern times, with grants and exams and what not, and Ronnie up to all of them, it was not too difficult to get him the education he wanted. All the same, it was hard work. Ronnie had to play games, of course, like other boys, and go camping and so on. So there were football boots, blazers, gym shoes, and all that; and how that boy ate, how he grew out of his clothes! Jim had been just medium size, but Mrs Blacker’s family came bigger, and Ronnie was a fine figure of a lad, tall and broad, though lean. Mrs Blacker went out as a daily woman, five days a week, for twelve years. It came hard on her particularly, because living with her old widowed mother she had a bedridden invalid on her hands as well, to care for. Ronnie took a newspaper-round and ran errands, which helped, but it was hard. Then her mother died and pensions came in, so things were easier.
Mrs Blacker wanted Ronnie to go to university, as they said nowadays, and everyone told her he could easily do it, but Ronnie said no.
“I’m going to a training college,” he said, “and I’ll be at work this time year after.”
Mrs Blacker expostulated, argued. Not that she knew much about what it all meant, but other people occasionally told
her.
“Shut up, Mom,” said Ronnie firmly at last. “I’m not your blue-eyed little boy any more. I’m a man and I must do things my own way. You’ve had enough of working for me. It’s time I began to work for you, for a change.”
The words were rough, but his tone was extremely tender—after all, he was a Yorkshireman, like his father.
“You’re a good son, Ronnie,” said Mrs Blacker, tears in her eyes.
“Ha! Can’t say I’ve noticed it,” said Ronnie sardonically.
So he went to a training college and soon began to teach.
In his first job he was not altogether content. Not that he ever had any trouble with his pupils, either boys or girls; with them everything went as it should. But the head teacher was rather frustrating.
“He’s a good man in his way,” said Ronnie. “But facing back instead of forward.”
However, he soon got another job, under a very forward-looking man this time. Now he was happy; everything went swimmingly; he worked extremely hard, he took courses; he was dedicated to the life of the school; he liked all the teachers and they liked him. Soon the job of deputy head fell vacant, and he got it as everyone knew he would.
The only thing which worried Mrs Blacker at this time was the number of pretty young women teachers who flocked around him. Of course Mrs Blacker wished her son to marry, but was anxious he should find the right wife.
“Do be careful amongst all those young girls, Ronnie,” she said.
“It’s an occupational hazard, Mom,” said Ronnie, laughing. “I’m on my guard.”
Sure enough it was three years before he suddenly became at first rather quiet, then rather snappy, then brought Lucy to tea on Sunday afternoon. On this occasion he was beamingly happy, and Lucy was beamingly happy too. When consulted, Mrs Blacker gave warm approval to their betrothal and marriage. It was obvious, thought Mrs Blacker, that they were made for each other. If she was a little afraid of Lucy, a trifle chilled, what mother-in-law did not feel the same? But Lucy was just the right girl for a head-teacher’s wife, no doubt about that. She was dark and slender, not pretty but distinguished-looking; she was clever, she was well read, she was a history specialist, she cared for her pupils just as Ronnie did; she loved him (it was obvious) dearly. She spoke well, with a good accent; her dress, though quiet and inexpensive, was always agreeable and neat. She always had herself well under control. Mrs Blacker saw at once that she could not come to live with Lucy and Ronnie, though Ronnie pressed it; but Lucy without doubt was just the right girl for a head-teacher’s wife. And here was Ronnie already on a short list for a headship!
Of course one could not expect him to succeed the first time. Mrs Blacker had the impression that it was usually about the third application which succeeded. But succeed he would; he was all set to lead a happy, useful, successful life. Mrs Blacker was in the couple’s bedroom now. The vacuum droned, Mrs Blacker smiled; the noise seemed a purr of happiness in her happy world.
Suddenly she started.
“Lucy!” she exclaimed.
Lucy, the sound of whose footsteps had of course been drowned by the vacuum, stood in front of her, panting, a look of anxiety on her pointed little face.
Mrs Blacker switched off at once.
“Is there anything wrong?”
“No—I forgot to give you the shopping list, that’s all,” said Lucy. “In the excitement of getting Ronnie off for his train.” She laughed.
“But won’t you be home for—lunch?”
“No. I’m taking Ronnie’s lunch duty. So I’ve just dashed home in break time. Here’s the list.”
Mrs Blacker took the quarter-sheet of paper, neatly inscribed, as usual, with all the quantities carefully listed beside the groceries.
“I’ll just get the money for you,” said Lucy, hurrying to the dressing-table. She pulled open a top drawer.
There was a silence. Mrs Blacker stood expectant.
At last Lucy turned. Her face, a moment ago flushed from her hurry, was now pale, drawn, and, Mrs Blacker could not help feeling, somehow hostile.
“Have you been into this drawer, Mrs Blacker?” said Lucy quietly.
“Me?” said Mrs Blacker, dumbfounded. “Of course not! I never go into your drawers or cupboards, Lucy.”
“Oh. Well. Of course not. Here are the notes for the shopping,” said Lucy. “Give me the list a moment, please. I’ll change it.”
She took the paper from her mother-in-law’s hand, and with a few well-chosen alterations, as the experienced housewife Mrs Blacker clearly saw, knocked nearly a pound’s expenditure off the list.
The Town Hall clock struck. Lucy with a harassed exclamation rushed down the stairs and left the house. She did not bang the front door, for Lucy never banged doors, but she closed it with some determination.
Mrs Blacker stood gaping in the middle of the bedroom floor, with the shaft of the vacuum cleaner in her hand. What? How? Why? What was all that about? She pondered. Suddenly she understood. Lucy thought that she, Mrs Blacker, Ronnie’s mother, had opened Lucy’s drawer and stolen a pound note.
Blood rushed to her face. She stamped her foot in rage. The shaft of the vacuum cleaner fell heavily to the ground. She kicked it as it lay. Lucy! That thin, pinched, mean, breastless (Mrs Blacker was a full-bosomed woman), plain, arrogant, affected creature had dared to think an accusation of dishonesty against her! Against Mrs Blacker, who had never stolen or misused a ha’penny in her life! Against Ronnie’s mother! It was insufferable, it was intolerable, it was beyond bearing! She had always felt that Lucy was unworthy of Ronnie. Hateful creature! She loathed her! What would the children of such a woman be? A frightful vista suddenly opened before her of a couple of pale, mean-minded, ugly children with suspicious natures and superior smiles, whose conduct would lacerate Ronnie’s warm generous heart. Well, that should not happen. She would separate Ronnie from his odious wife. She had only to tell him of Lucy’s detestable suspicion to turn him against her for ever. An accusation against Ronnie’s mother! Who had brought him up through all these years of hardship! Who had loved and cherished him, sacrificed for him, given up everything for him! (She remembered fleetingly Jack Tolson, who had wanted to marry her in her widowhood, but of course she had refused.)
“The very minute Ronnie enters this house I’ll tell him. And then we shall see.”
She wound up the flex of the vacuum and put it angrily in the cupboard, dusted the furniture and replaced it exactly in the room.
It was now time for her midday meal, but after taking out a snack of bread and cheese, she suddenly threw it back into the cupboard, finding it. impossible to eat anything which belonged even partly to Lucy. Instead, she inserted Lucy’s pound notes into her purse with hands that trembled with fury, put on her hat and coat, took down her shopper from the back of the door, and left the house. As she walked down the hill to the town she went over and over again in her mind the speech she meant to make to Ronnie.
“Your wife thinks your mother stole a pound note. What do you think of that?”
Her face was crimson, her heart pounded, every fibre of her body seethed with pain.
She began to make the required purchases with meticulous care, writing down the price of each in large angry figures, opposite the items in Lucy’s list.
It was when she placed her first purchase in her striped shopper, her shopping bag, that a small qualm assailed her. With the second purchase the qualm was sharper. With the third it really hurt. With the fourth it was unbearable.
The qualms were the fault of the shopper. Ronnie had given her the striped shopper a week or two ago, to replace her old basket.
“Baskets are out, Mom,” he said, laughing. “You must keep up to date, you know. You must be with it. Nylon shoppers are all the go, nowadays. Seriously, Mom,” he added, spreading the shopper’s plastic handles wide to show its capacity, “this will be easier for you. Less bumpy. Lighter. More flexible.”
Always such a good son, Ronnie. Thoughtfu
l. Observant. All that about baskets being unfashionable at the moment was nonsense, of course. He had simply noticed that her basket was growing hairy and feeble, indeed had been mended with string. He wished to replace it without wounding her pride, without appearing to give her anything. Mrs Blacker emphatically did not want her son to be always giving her things, as if she were a poor relation. Mrs Blacker’s independence was, she freely admitted, quite ferocious. Yes, Ronnie was kindness itself. He really loved his mother. He would be furious when he learned of his wife’s accusation. He would be furious. Yes, he would be furious. His fresh, pleasant, happy face would change, would darken and sadden, would harden and chill. For the first time it occurred to Mrs Blacker to consider, not how she would feel, but how Ronnie would feel, when he heard of his wife’s accusation. A boy so sensitive to a decrepit basket obviously felt everything very strongly. The accusation would make him unhappy. When you came to think of it, he would never be quite as happy again. Of course he wouldn’t believe Lucy’s accusation for a moment, Mrs Blacker was sure of that. He had been through too much with his mother, knew her too well. But what would he think of the wife who had made such a charge? He would feel deeply grieved, even angry, bitterly disappointed in any case, to be unable to trust his wife to feel as he did. Yes, bitterly disappointed to be unable to trust his wife.
And was she really planning to destroy her son’s happiness in this way? Did she really intend to introduce the worm of distrust into his heart?
All these years she had worked for him, cared for him; was she now to tarnish his married happiness? From disappointment it was but a step to resentment, to feeling estranged, misunderstood. Was Ronnie’s mother to—No.
“No,” thought Mrs Blacker, closing the handles of the shopper firmly as the last parcel went in. “No. Certainly not.”
“But Lucy’ll tell him,” she thought as she toiled wearily up the hill. “She’ll tell him tonight, when they’re alone. Well, that’s her look-out. If she does, she’ll spoil their marriage. I won’t, choose how.”
More Tales of the West Riding Page 18