by Pamela Evans
‘You won’t break my spirit by locking me up, you know,’ Jane said to him the following Friday night after the children were in bed.
He hadn’t been in touch all week and had arrived home earlier than usual this evening, behaving as though nothing had happened. Jane had played along with him in front of the children but now that they were alone she was speaking her mind.
‘All I want is for us to be together like we used to be,’ he said, dark eyes appealing to her as he sat at the other side of the hearth, which was filled with a large vase of flowers on this warm July evening, the rain in the early part of the week having cleared up.
‘Can’t you see that that isn’t possible?’ said Jane patiently. ‘Everyone changes with time. Nothing stays the same indefinitely.’
‘I haven’t changed.’
She thought he had probably changed less than anyone else she knew which was part of the trouble: the fact that he hadn’t matured or broadened his outlook as she had.
‘You must have to a certain extent, at least. We all do.’
‘Nah, not me,’ said Mick proudly.
‘Well, if you want our marriage to work, you’re going to have to have a more mature attitude towards it.’
‘Oh?’ he said, scowling. ‘And what do you mean by that?’
‘I don’t want to share my life with someone who plays infantile pranks like the one you played on me last Monday,’ Jane told him. ‘All that does is make me think the whole thing is hopeless . . . that we’ve drifted too far apart.’
‘Okay, maybe I did go a bit too far,’ Mick conceded, voice clipped with tension. ‘But can’t you see what it’s like for me, having my status in the family taken away?’
‘You haven’t lost your status, Mick. You’re still the children’s father and my husband.’
‘You’re not reliant on me any more, though, are you?’
‘Not totally, no,’ she said. ‘But that should be a help to you rather than a burden. At least it takes some of the worry off your shoulders.’
‘I don’t need help . . . all that does is belittle me,’ he said. ‘If you care about my feelings, you’ll do as I ask.’
‘That’s emotional blackmail.’
‘All I’m asking is for you to go back to being a full-time wife.’
She gave an eloquent sigh.
‘Look, Mick, I didn’t want the responsibility of earning a living. I had it forced on me when you went missing. But fending for myself comes naturally to me now. I can’t go back to being dependent on you for company, for money, for every single thing, as I used to be. I need something else, especially now that the children are growing up. I’d be only half alive if I did what you’re asking of me . . . surely that isn’t what you want?’
‘You’d enjoy it once you got used to it again,’ was his stubborn response.
‘Many marriages work very well with both parties having a career,’ she pointed out. ‘I can’t see why you’re so dead set against it. It isn’t even as though I’m away from the house much. Most of the time I’m at home working in the kitchen. My profits aren’t for me, they’re for us - all of us, the family. Why can’t you be pleased that I’m doing well and enjoy it with me?’
‘I’m afraid of losing you.’
‘Well, you will lose me if you carry on as you are,’ she told him gravely. ‘Because I can’t stand much more of the way things are.’
‘Oh, God, Jane, don’t say that!’ he said, looking stricken.
‘There has to be give and take in any relationship,’ she said. ‘I’m doing my best to adjust to your being back. Why can’t you do your part and try to accept me as I am now? I’m sure you’ll find it’s easier than you think once you start to make an effort.’
‘I could try, I suppose,’ he said, smiling, his mood seeming to change.
‘Oh, Mick, do you really mean that?’ said Jane uncertainly.
‘Yeah. I’ll give it a try.’
‘Oh that’s wonderful,’ she said, her hopes renewed.
But it was all just words to Mick. He had no intention whatsoever of losing this battle. For the moment his main concern was to end this discussion to Jane’s satisfaction so he could get her into bed feeling well-disposed towards him.
One autumn evening Wilf Parker was in the King’s Arms with his cronies, setting the world to rights. The subject under discussion was the latest fashion craze with youngsters: platform-soled shoes.
‘They should ban ’em,’ declared Wilf. ‘It’s a recognised fact they’re dangerous. Lethal, in fact. There was something in the paper about it a couple of months ago.’
‘Women falling over in ’em, you mean?’ said a man called Ginger.
‘Well, yeah, but mostly women driving cars in them,’ said Wilf. ‘I mean, how can they feel the pedals through thick soles like that? Might as well have bricks strapped to their feet.’
‘It isn’t only women,’ said Ginger. ‘I’ve seen men wearing them too.’
‘Only on the telly,’ said Wilf. ‘Pop stars and that.’
‘I’ve seen ’em in the street an’ all,’ said Ginger.
‘You’d have to be a right . . .’ Wilf stopped in mid-sentence because of a sharp pain in his chest. He felt suddenly very hot and peculiar.
‘What’s the matter, Wilf?’ he heard someone ask as though from a distance.
He stood there in terror, bathed in sweat . . .
‘You all right, mate?’ asked Ginger.
The pain subsided and Wilf calmed down and rejoined the conversation.
‘Yeah, I’m all right,’ he said, feeling better. ‘I was just saying, you’d have to be a right ponce to go out in shoes like that.’
‘Anything goes with young people today,’ said Ginger.
‘Not half,’ agreed Wilf. ‘What with kids and women, I don’t know what the world’s coming to. The government’s talking about setting up some sort of Equal Opportunities Commission now, to give women more equality with men. God knows where it’ll all end.’
‘With women ruling the world, if they have their way.’
Wilf winced at another twinge.
‘Yeah . . . anyway, I’m off now, lads,’ he said and proceeded to do the unthinkable - he left without finishing his drink.
When he got home, Rita was surprised to see him. ‘You’re back early,’ she said.
‘Mmm.’
‘Anything wrong,’ she asked looking at him closely. ‘You look a bit pale.’
‘I came over queer in the pub,’ he said, sinking gratefully into an armchair, very shaken by the incident though no longer in pain. ‘But I’m perfectly all right now.’
‘What sort of queer?’
‘I had a pain in my chest,’ he said. ‘Must have been a touch of indigestion.’
‘Are you sure that’s what it was?’
‘ ’Course I’m sure, you silly cow,’ he said impatiently.
‘You must have been feeling rotten to come home this early . . .’
‘I’m all right. Don’t fuss.’
‘Perhaps you ought to pop down the doctor’s in the morning?’
‘There’s no need for that,’ he said. ‘You know me, I haven’t the time to waste sitting about in a doctor’s waiting room.’
‘I think you should.’
‘Well, I’m not going, so you can shut up about it.’
‘I’ll go and make a cuppa tea,’ said Rita worriedly.
‘How are things in London, Mick?’ asked Patsy across the bar of the Drake’s Arms as she served him with a scotch one evening in the autumn.
To anyone else he would have lied and said everything was wonderful. But to Patsy he said, ‘Not brilliant, Pats.’
‘Still finding it hard to adjust?’ she said, handing him his change.
‘Very.’
‘Give it time.’
‘Jane and I have been back together for over six months now,’ he said gloomily. ‘How much more time do we need?’
‘Dunno . . . I’m no exper
t on marriage.’
She went to serve another customer. Mick sipped his drink and lit a cigarette, drawing on it with pleasure. After the tension of weekends at the cottage with Jane and the children, it was a blessed relief to return to his bachelor life in Brighton. He felt much more at home here than he did in London. He’d be even happier if he could persuade Patsy to move back in with him, but she wouldn’t entertain the idea now that he was back with Jane. It was probably for the best. Keeping two women happy might be a bit too demanding.
The Drake’s Arms was practically his second home during the week and felt much more like his local than the pubs near Jane’s cottage which were full of arty types and office workers. He wouldn’t even consider the idea of moving back to London full-time. Jane would have to concede to his wishes and move to Brighton eventually. Jane . . . just the thought of her depressed him because things weren’t going at all as he’d planned.
‘Hey, watch what you’re doing with that fag, Mick,’ said Patsy, returning to finish their chat and hastily extinguishing a mini bonfire in the ashtray, caused by the match he hadn’t put out setting light to the cellophane paper from his cigarette packet. ‘Are you trying to put us out of business by burning the pub down or something?’
The idea came to him in a flash. His next move was obvious. Fire had worked against him once. Now it could be made to work in his favour . . .
‘Mick, what are you grinning at?’ Patsy was saying. ‘Have you come into money?’
‘No, but I have found the answer to my problems,’ he said gleefully. ‘Ooh, Pats, I could kiss you!’
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ she said, lightly but firmly. ‘I’m strictly off limits to you now that you’re a properly married man again.’
The fire at Cottage Cakes was the talk of Chiswick High Road that November. The other traders were shocked by the rumours of its being arson, fearing they might become the next victims. The general feeling was that it must have been vandals, high on drugs, who had broken into Cottage Cakes in the middle of the night and torched the shop just for kicks, having gained access by breaking a window at the back. What other explanation could there be for the fire?
Unbeknown to anyone, Jane knew the rumours weren’t true. She knew who had been responsible for destroying her business premises in the early hours of that Wednesday morning. But she could never prove it and wouldn’t shop him to the police even if she could.
‘You won’t break me down this way,’ she said to her husband when he came home the Friday after the fire. He was late arriving and the children had already gone to bed. Mick settled in an armchair in the living room with a cigarette and a glass of whisky. ‘You can lock me in and set fire to my shop but I still won’t give up everything I’ve worked hard for when it isn’t necessary.’
‘I don’t know what you’re going on about,’ he said.
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about,’ she told him. ‘You came up from Brighton on Tuesday night after dark, set fire to my shop and went straight back to Brighton without anyone knowing you’d been in the area. You’re the last person anyone would suspect. Apart from the fact that a husband usually has his wife’s best interests at heart, everyone knows you’re away during the week.’
‘You’re mental!’ he bellowed.
‘Shush! Keep your voice down,’ she warned him. ‘I don’t want the children to hear us quarrelling again. Nor do I want them to know that their father is an arsonist.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Oh, no, you’re the one who’s crazy - crazy with determination to get your own way,’ she corrected him firmly.
His reply was a mocking look.
‘It won’t work, Mick,’ she continued through gritted teeth. ‘This latest dirty trick has made me even more determined not to give in to you. I’ll be back in business again before you can say Swan Vestas. Fortunately, I’m insured against fire.’
‘I suppose that’s a dig at me?’
‘Not really,’ she said, voice rising with anger and frustration. ‘I just want to make sure you know that your latest piece of malice failed completely.’
‘What makes you so sure it was me?’
‘Because you are so paranoid about my being in business, you’ll do anything to ruin me,’ she said. ‘Locking me in didn’t make any difference so you thought you’d make a real job of it this time. You’re damned lucky I’m not going to say anything to the police!’
‘They wouldn’t listen . . . you’ve no proof.’
‘You’re right, I haven’t. But I don’t need proof to know it was you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to make another move ever since the locking in incident. I didn’t think even you would sink this low.’
‘Honestly, babe, I think you ought to go and see a doctor and get something to calm your nerves,’ he sneered. ‘All this work you’re doing is turning your brain.’
‘No matter how many times you knock me down, I’ll pick myself up and start again,’ Jane vowed. ‘And even if I didn’t have a business or this cottage, I would never be like I was before because I have grown up and moved on. It’s a natural progression and you can’t change that.’
‘Don’t underestimate me, Jane,’ said Mick, tight-lipped with anger. ‘You’re stubborn but I’m even more so.’
Their eyes met.
‘You did do it, didn’t you?’ she said.
His half smile was all the reply she needed but he just said, ‘That’s a very serious allegation, especially when you’ve no proof. You wanna be careful . . .’
The door opened and Davey burst in, marching straight over to his father.
‘Why don’t you go away and leave us alone?’ he said, voice trembling.
‘Davey, love . . .’ Jane was up in an instant and at her son’s side. ‘Back to bed, this minute. This is grown-up talk.’
‘He set fire to your shop!’ said Davey, who had obviously heard it all. ‘He’s spoiling everything!’
‘Back to bed now,’ she urged.
But the boy didn’t seem to hear and turned angry eyes on his father.
‘You’ve done nothing but cause trouble since you’ve been back . . . bullying my mother and making her miserable. You’re upsetting us all. So why don’t you stay in Brighton and leave us in peace?’
Mick looked grim. His face was flushed from the whisky but his eyes were ice-cold.
‘If you aren’t out of my sight in two seconds, boy, you’ll really know that your father’s home,’ he barked. ‘Because you’ll feel my fist in your face and my boot in your arse - something I should have done when I first got back, instead of letting you sulk around the place like a spoiled brat!’
‘I hate you,’ said Davey vehemently, his eyes full of tears. ‘You’ve ruined everything by coming back. Things were good when Uncle Giles was here. We were all happy then.’
There was an echoing silence as Mick looked at Jane questioningly.
‘He means our neighbour, Kevin’s dad,’ she explained, trembling with fear at this alarming development.
‘I know who Giles is,’ Mick said gruffly. ‘But what’s all this about him being here?’
‘He used to pop in quite often before you came back,’ she said, mouth dry with dread. ‘Just in case we needed anything. You know, with us not having a man about the house.’
‘He was Mum’s boyfriend,’ said Davey, glaring at his father in triumph. ‘And she would have married him if you hadn’t come back. And then he’d have been our father and I’ve have been glad ’cause he’s a lot of fun and really cares about people.’
Mick stood up and stared at Jane accusingly.
‘You and the bloke next-door?’
Since there was no longer any point in denying it, she nodded.
‘You bitch!’ he exploded, grabbing her roughly by the arms and shaking her. ‘You dirty, filthy whore!’
‘Mick, calm down . . .’
‘So while I’m away in Brighton, you and him are at it . . .’
&nbs
p; ‘No, Mick, no,’ she gasped, face twisted with pain from the iron grip he had on her arms. ‘It’s over. I ended it when you came back.’
A guttural cry rose from the back of his throat and he hit her across the face so hard it stunned her. While she was still reeling from the blow, he hit her again and again across the face and body.
‘Leave her alone! Leave her alone, will you?’ Davey screamed, desperately trying to pull his father away from her.
With a mad look in his eyes, Mick turned on his son and punched him in the face so hard he staggered back and fell to the floor.
The noise had woken Pip, who stood in the doorway screaming.
‘Daddy, Daddy, stop it!’ she wailed. ‘Leave them alone!’
Mick was too lost in his own feelings to pay her any attention. Leaving Jane in a state of near collapse on the sofa and Davey lying on the floor, he stormed from the house.
Giles was listening to some jazz on his record player when there was a loud knocking on the front door. Puzzled, he went to answer it and found himself being pushed inside on the receiving end of a brutal attack.
‘You bastard!’ Mick fumed, pinning him against the wall. ‘I’ll teach you to mess about with another man’s wife . . .’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Giles, the surprise element having put him in the weaker position.
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ growled Mick, banging Giles’s head against the wall. ‘You’re supposed to be setting an example to youngsters, not screwing around and turning another man’s wife and son against him. Men like you didn’t ought to be allowed to work with children!’
Although normally opposed to violence, Giles was so enraged he found the strength at last to defend himself. He brought his knee up into Mick’s groin, and while he was creased over, held him fast.
‘You’re the one who should be ashamed,’ Giles told him. ‘Treating your wife like a possession and making her life a misery just because she had the guts to make a decent life for herself and the children while you were away.’ He paused to get his breath. ‘And, yes, I admit it, I am in love with her. But there was nothing immoral in our love affair.’