by Mary Nichols
‘Affairs is the right word.’
‘You’ve no call to use that tone.’
‘I’ll use any tone I like if it’s going to make you see sense.’
‘Who’s been telling you this? Was it Barbara?’
‘Does Barbara know?’ Her surprise told him it hadn’t been his wife. ‘Oh, George, you fool! You crass, reckless fool.’
‘Who did tell you, then?’
‘Half of Melsham. If Barbara hasn’t heard about it, she soon will, unless you put a stop to it.’
He forced himself to sound calm. ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip.’
‘When the gossip involves my son and the welfare of my grandchildren, then I listen. I do not comment, but I listen. I’m listening now. And what I’m hearing is a man in a hole he’s dug for himself, and it’s getting deeper with every word he utters.’
‘If that’s what you think, why are we even talking about it?’
‘We’re talking about damage limitation, George. We’re talking about putting a stop to it before it ruins you. Melsham won’t forgive you, you know; it’s an old-fashioned kind of place, it likes its prominent citizens to be pillars of respectability. What do you think your chances are of being re-elected if this affair goes on? You’ll be the shortest serving councillor of all time. The Gazette will have it all over the front page. Is that what you want?’
‘No, of course not. It won’t come to that. Why are you getting so worked up?’
‘I thought I’d brought you up to be decent and honest. You never knew your father, and I hoped—’
‘Oh, Mother, don’t be ridiculous. I can’t help it if I don’t live up to his ideals.’
She gave a short, humourless laugh, but decided not to disillusion him. ‘Never mind his ideals, what about yours? George, whatever possessed you?’
‘I don’t know. It was just one of those things…’
‘Things don’t just happen with you, George, you make them happen, always have. How long has it been going on?’
‘Since John Bosgrove died or at any rate just after.’
‘What’s wrong with the life you had, son?’ she went on, speaking softly. ‘Barbara has been a good wife to you and a good mother to your children.’
If he was surprised at his mother taking Barbara’s side, he did not voice it. ‘I didn’t say she hadn’t. It’s just… Oh, I can’t expect you to understand.’
‘Oh, I understand all right. The grass is greener on the other side of the fence, that’s all it is.’
‘No, it’s not! It’s not a bit like that.’
‘Do you want a divorce?’
‘No, of course not. Anyway I’ve got no grounds.’
‘Barbara has, and now the law has been changed, she can use it. What’s sauce for the gander…’
‘She wouldn’t do it.’
‘Can you be sure? Think about it. Everything we do has a consequence, George, and the consequences of this could be horrendous. A broken marriage and desperately unhappy children. Don’t they mean anything to you anymore?’
‘Of course they do. I love my children. And they love me. They don’t judge me.’
‘They might in years to come. They love their mother too, don’t forget. And what about Barbara? She’s the one who has to carry on looking after the home and family, who has to bear the strange looks and whispers, the gossip that there must have been something wrong with her or you’d never have gone off the rails. You make her feel worthless, George, of no importance. I can tell you it’s not a nice feeling at all. She deserves better.’
Why was she lecturing him, defending Barbara? It was so out of character he was astonished. She’d only been married a couple of years before his father had gone abroad and after his death she remained a widow, keeping his memory, trying to mould her son in his image. Well, he wasn’t his father, he was his own man and he needed relief from the pressures of his life. She didn’t understand that. Neither did his wife, who was only interested in her house and children; he needed more than that. ‘Have you been talking to her about it?’
‘No, I most certainly have not. That doesn’t mean I don’t know how she must feel. Finish it, George, before it finishes you. It isn’t worth the grief.’ She stood up. ‘Now, I must go. I’ll leave you to think it over.’
He sat on after she had gone, staring into space, his work forgotten. His mother had made him feel more of a heel than ever Barbara could. He found himself looking at a future in which all the bright goals he had set himself receded from his grasp. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been aware of the risks, but whenever he thought of them he told himself he thrived on risks. Half the success of his business had been down to calculating the risks and then defying them. It had been a mixture of good judgement and luck. Was the balance of luck tipping away from him now? He picked up the phone and rang Virginia.
‘There’s going to be a reception at the town hall on Friday,’ George told Barbara that evening. ‘It’s to celebrate the success of the trip to Paris.’
‘So? You don’t expect me to go, do you?’ She didn’t want to go, to be the subject of whispers, derision. They all knew, they must do; the wife was always the last to find out. Why couldn’t he see that all she wanted to do was find a dark corner somewhere and hide?
‘Of course. What will everyone think if I turn up without my wife?’
‘Nothing, seeing as you nearly always do.’
Her eyes were bleak as winter, full of misery. He felt a stab of remorse. He had loved her once, had found her beautiful and funny and charming. Where had all that gone? ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve asked Mother to come at lunchtime and look after the children so that you can have your hair done and pamper yourself a bit. Buy a new dress.’ He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Now, I’m off. I’ll be home about six.’
She watched him pick up his briefcase and leave the house, heard his car go, and had absolutely no intention of going to that reception.
It was Elizabeth who persuaded her to go. It was the last day of term and the children were being let out of school at midday. Alison had been loaded with pictures she had drawn which had been unpinned from the wall where they had been displayed for weeks; a red balloon on a string; a shoe bag stuffed with plimsolls and a cardigan which turned out not to be hers. Elizabeth arrived as she was piling everything on the kitchen table. While Barbara put the kettle on the gas stove, Elizabeth pulled Nick onto her lap and hugged him. He scrambled off again and ran into the garden.
‘I swear he grows every time I see him,’ she said, looking covertly at Barbara, busy setting out cups and saucers, taking milk from the refrigerator, fetching the tea caddy from the cupboard. There were great hollows under her eyes, and her lips, devoid of make-up, looked dry and pale. She moved with a kind of listlessness. Elizabeth’s thoughts went tumbling back through the years, back to that other misery, to the last time she had seen Fred, the misery and anger and the struggle that followed as she tried to bring George up alone. ‘You look as though you haven’t been sleeping,’ she said carefully.
‘No, I haven’t. It’s the heat, I expect.’ Her smile was a wry twist of the lips, no more. She put a cup of tea in front of her mother-in-law. ‘I don’t think I’ll go tonight.’
‘Why not?’
She couldn’t tell her the real reason, couldn’t be that disloyal, and besides, Elizabeth adored her son; she would see no wrong in him, would blame her daughter-in-law. Perhaps it was her fault, some inherent failure to give her husband what he wanted. She wasn’t beautiful enough, talented enough, socially outgoing enough, was probably a dreadful failure in bed; she had no way of knowing. ‘They are so false, these receptions,’ she said. ‘No one seems genuine, all trying to cultivate whoever will do them most good, finding fault with their opponents, talking about people behind their backs…’
‘If you’re there, they can’t talk about you behind your back, can they? They can’t begin to wonder why George Kennett is there without his wife.’
Barb
ara looked at her sharply. ‘Are they talking about me behind my back?’
‘I don’t know. Is there any reason why they should?’
‘This is silly…’
‘You go, Barbara. Get yourself up in your glad rags and go. You’re a beautiful woman, you know, an asset to George. He knows that.’ She paused. ‘I tell you what. I’ll take the children home with me for the night, and tomorrow I’ll take them on the train to the sea. You and George can have some time to yourselves. What do you say?’
Barbara looked across at her mother-in-law and wondered what had prompted her to make the suggestion. ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘But—’
‘No buts.’ Elizabeth reached out to cover Barbara’s hand with her own. ‘My dear, you have one advantage that no one else has and it’s a very big one. You are George’s wife. Use it. Use it for all you’re worth.’
Barbara couldn’t understand Elizabeth. She was a most unlikely ally and yet she was certainly behaving like one. Why wasn’t she siding with George, blaming her daughter-in-law for the breakdown of her son’s marriage? Perhaps she didn’t know. Then what was all that doublespeak about?
After Elizabeth had taken the excited children away, Barbara went into town and splashed out on a new dress, a green silk sheath with a pouched bodice gathered into a low waistline, from where floating panels of chiffon fell below the hemline. The sleeves were long and full and the neckline boat-shaped. She had lost weight recently, the plumpness of motherhood had sloughed off her, leaving her with an enviable figure. She had her hair washed and cut into a gentle bob and returned home. In the flurry of packing the children’s overnight things, waving them goodbye and shopping, she had no time to think about the evening, and it was only when she returned to the empty house, her slight return of confidence ebbed away.
By the time George came home, she was a quivering mass of nerves and had to force herself to get ready. ‘You look wonderful,’ he said, when she finally joined him in the sitting room where he was waiting, handsome in white tie and tails, his dark hair carefully slicked back, his big hands cradling a whisky tumbler. ‘We should dress up and go out more often.’ To which there was no answer.
To Barbara’s surprise, everyone seemed genuinely glad to see her. They came and shook her hand, or kissed her briefly, told her she was looking stunning and what a lucky devil George was. Slowly, helped by several glasses of wine, she began to thaw, to stop shaking. Then, across the room, she saw the object of her fear and her heart rushed into her throat and she began to tremble again. Virginia was dressed in a long midnight-blue dress which shimmered with sequins; it was split up one side and revealed shapely calves and feet in high-heeled strap shoes which made her taller than anyone around her. Her blonde hair was swept up into a chignon, emphasising a long neck. She was surrounded by a crowd of men and women and seemed to be holding them in thrall with a story she was telling. Their laughter carried across the room.
Barbara risked a look at George. He was standing motionless, watching Virginia, his expression inscrutable, though a nervous tic worked in his jaw. Had they quarrelled? Had she tired of him? Was that the reason for Barbara’s own return to favour? The shaking stopped and she had an inexplicable desire to laugh. Careful, she told herself, don’t throw away the advantage you’ve got.
‘Shall we see if we can get something to eat?’ he said. ‘I didn’t have time to eat today and I’m hungry.’ He put his hand under her elbow and guided her towards the buffet table set out down one side of the room.
Later she saw Virginia and Donald Browning in earnest conversation. He was chewing the end of his moustache. ‘I didn’t think Donald would be invited,’ she said, picking at the sausage roll on her plate.
‘Why not?’
‘Because this is a council reception and he left under a cloud.’
‘Water under the bridge, my dear. Besides, I believe Virginia invited him. She didn’t have a partner and they’re both single. And both lonely, I shouldn’t wonder.’
She nearly choked on her pastry and had to take a gulp of wine to wash it down. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How nice for them both.’ That was what the evening was about, to tell her, so obliquely she might have missed it, that the affair was over, that she needn’t worry anymore. There was to be no craven admission, no expression of regret, no gentle reconciliation. Without a word being said she was supposed to put it out of her mind, to forget all about it, and it was done somewhere so public, he knew she wouldn’t make a scene. Cunning bastard! ‘The lady mayoress is looking a trifle neglected, George. Do you think we should go over and talk to her?’
After speaking to the mayoress, they moved on to chat to Arnold Bulliman, and after that, with Mr Gosport, who had aged dreadfully since she had last seen him. George greeted him as if he were an old friend, pumping his hand and asking him how he was enjoying his retirement. ‘You’re well out of it,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ he said, smiling gently. ‘I’m sure I am.’
‘Silly old fool,’ George said, as they moved away. ‘He’d never have survived another year.’
‘Don’t you feel just the tiniest bit sorry for him?’
‘Of course I do. A whole lot, as a matter of fact. That fire was the last straw. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.’
The crowds were beginning to thin out, goodbyes were being said, coats collected. Barbara left George to go to the cloakroom to pick up her stole. Virginia was there, putting on lipstick. Barbara almost turned and went out again, but then she remembered Elizabeth’s words: You have one advantage that no one else has. You are his wife. She went forward smiling. ‘Virginia, how nice to see you. We saw you across the room but couldn’t get near in the crush. It’s been a pleasant evening, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’ The smile was so firmly fixed there wasn’t a hint of a wobble. ‘How are you, Barbara?’
‘I’m very well.’ She handed her cloakroom ticket to the attendant. ‘I hear you did very well in Paris. George was singing your praises.’
‘That was kind of him.’
‘Well, that’s George all over. Kindness itself. I tell him it will be his undoing one day. People take advantage, you know. Well, must be off, he’s waiting in the car.’ Picking up her stole, she turned on her heel and walked steadily out of the room, down the corridor and out into the night.
‘You took your time,’ George said as she got into the car.
‘I stopped to talk to Virginia.’
‘Virginia?’ His voice was carefully controlled. ‘What did she have to say?’
‘Nothing actually.’ And then she spoilt whatever tiny victory she had gained by adding, ‘I did all the talking.’
Instead of driving away, he turned towards her. ‘What have you been saying to her?’
‘Nothing much. Take me home.’
‘When you tell me what you said to Virginia. If you’ve upset her—’
‘Me? Upset her?’ she shrieked. ‘I notice you don’t ask if I’ve been upset.’
‘You said she didn’t say anything.’
‘George, I am sick to death of this cat-and-mouse game. Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I don’t know what’s been going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘You’re a liar, George. She was in your room, in your bed in Paris, and it wasn’t the first time, was it? How do you think that makes me feel?’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
She supposed it was the sort of conversation that had taken place between husbands and betrayed wives throughout history, full of resentment and bitterness and hurt. She had wanted to be different, to be dignified for the sake of her children. And her pride. That she was like every other wife in a similar situation did nothing for her self-esteem. She stared through the windscreen, watched the car park emptying, saw nothing, dare not look at him.
‘What are you going to do about it, George?’
‘Do about what?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, are you g
oing to sit there pretending injured innocence or are you going to behave like a man and face up to what you’ve done?’
‘I am certainly not going to sit here listening to this.’ He put the car in gear and roared off, turning out of the car park onto the road much too fast.
‘You’ll get us both killed if you drive like that,’ she said dully.
He slowed down and they drove on in silence, the air between them heavy with accusation, guilt and resentment, and the kind of bleak misery that admits no hope, no end to a situation which is past endurance but which has to be endured.
As soon as he stopped the car at the door, she got out, went into the house and up to their bedroom and slammed the door behind her. She kicked off her shoes, peeled off the lovely dress and flung herself face down on the bed. She knew he would not follow her. She half expected him to go out again, back to his mistress, to tell her the attempt at reconciliation had been a total failure and he was all hers. But he didn’t. She heard his heavy step coming up the stairs very slowly and then pass her door and go into the guest room. The door clicked behind him.
She was in the kitchen, sitting over a cup of coffee at six the next morning, when he appeared in his dressing gown. She looked up but did not speak. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite her. ‘You’re up early.’
‘There didn’t seem any point in staying in bed. Do you want something to eat?’
‘I’m not hungry. That buffet last night is still sitting on my stomach. It wasn’t that good, was it?’
‘No.’
He put his cup down on the saucer with a crash. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
What she wanted was for it never to have happened, to be loved by him as she once was, to go back to a time when the thought of either of them cheating on the other was inconceivable. ‘Say what you like, anything that comes into your head. Just talk, can’t you? I want to know why, what I’ve done…’