by Pat Rosier
‘Okay?’ Bob put a hand under her elbow, encouraging her towards the food. She smiled, but he wasn’t looking at her, he was scanning the huge plates of blackened meat and sausages. ‘Go for the steak,’ he said, ‘You won’t get many chances to eat anything this classy, best eye fillet, he gets it every year.’ He passed her a plate and began filling his own. Isobel looked around to see how other people were managing food and drink together. Marion, hovering over the tables, caught her eye and smiled, nodding towards a wrought iron table and chairs on the lawn, taking a plate from Lois and making no attempt to put food on it. ‘Save me a chair if you can,’ she mouthed so Isobel made her way there quickly before anyone else took the place. She had a small piece of steak, a sausage, some salad with hard-boiled egg, and didn’t think she’d manage to eat any of it.
‘Uh, Marion, asked me to save her a chair,’ she said to Bob, as he made to sit down with her, plate piled high. He looked pleased.
‘I think she likes you.’ It sounded to Isobel as though he would take credit for that. By the time Marion came and sat down she’d waved away three other people with the same explanation and eaten all her food.
‘Barbecues are all very well, but I can’t get used to eating standing up. Excuse me a moment, I need to get something in me.’ When Marion pushed her plate away there was still food on it. ‘That’s better,’ she said, and examined Isobel. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked, ‘
‘I’m rather enjoying myself,’ Isobel replied, surprised that she was. ‘Mostly,’ she added before she could stop herself and blushed. ‘I mean, it’s a lovely party …’ There was no way she could explain how different Bob was from how she knew him at home.
‘It’s all right. Some of the wives find it gruesome, I’m sure. Lois certainly does and she even works … she’s gone, you’ll have noticed … ailing father – where would we be without fathers?’ There was a pause. Isobel couldn’t think of a thing to say, then Marion sighed and stood up, ‘that’s my time out over, there’s teas to make now, for those that aren’t on something stronger.'
Isobel jumped up too. ‘I could help … ‘
‘No.’ She held up a hand as emphasis. ‘Guests don’t, it’s a rule.’ What about the men helping with the barbecue? But she didn’t ask out loud. When she couldn’t see Bob anywhere Isobel got up and wandered around the deck, smiling at people when they caught her eye, holding up her empty glass and nodding towards the drinks table whenever someone tried to include her in the conversation. There was no sign of Bob. It didn’t matter, she told herself, he’d be around somewhere. Joyce was in animated conversation with Maureen — no, Mavis. Marion was everywhere. Isobel wandered into the house, past the kitchen, along a hallway, towards a sound, a radio perhaps, television even. It would be a relief to sit in a comfortable chair and watch television for a bit. As she pushed a door that was slightly open, Mavis came up behind her, grasped her by the upper arm and led her away.
‘Blue movies,’ said Mavis, ‘boys only. It’s a tradition.’
Speechless, mortified, Isobel said, ‘Oh. Thanks,’ as graciously as she could and bolted outside, her cheeks burning.
‘Oh-oh, you stumbled on the blue movie club, I’ll bet.’ It was Joyce. ‘Come on, come and join the girls bitching about their men.’ Once she had recovered enough from her embarrassment to listen, Isobel was fascinated by the women’s conversation. Several were competing for the worst ‘my husband is a slob around the house’ story. She contributed, ‘Bob won’t do dishes or change the babies’ nappies,’ but it was a comparatively feeble offering. Suddenly she was very very tired. Only ten past eleven, she supposed they couldn’t leave until after midnight. Her mother had insisted Joe would go home to bed at his usual nine thirty and she would nod off on the sofa, they musn’t rush back, Bob could drive her home.
Isobel went in search of the toilet, to sit on her own for a few moments then went back to the group of women who appeared to dislike their husbands. Without saying anything more, nodding and smiling or shaking her head as it seemed called for, she passed the forty minutes until midnight in mild bewilderment; this was supposed to be her group of people and she felt as though she were in a foreign country. She wanted to ask whether any of them went out to work, but didn’t get up the courage.
Midnight came and went quickly in the end. Marion went around with bottles of sweet, bubbly wine, every-one toasted the new year with hurrahs for 1967, decimal currency year, that would be so good for business. There was hugging and kissing. Bob found Isobel and kissed her in a way he never did and she wondered about the movie he’d been watching. Everyone held hands in a circle and sang Auld Lang Syne in a messy manner and leave-takings began.
‘Thank you, I’m really glad I came.’ Isobel meant what she said to Marion as they shook hands at the door.
‘I’m glad you came too,’ said Marion, smiling, before she turned to the next person in the departure bustle. Bob called good night to everyone and guided Isobel down the steps and along the drive with a hand at her back again. Proprietorial, Isobel thought, turning to wave back towards the door so she could move away. Bob was pleased with himself, and with her, and she maintained what she hoped was cheerful chatter about the evening on the drive home.
‘Not a peep out of either of them since they went down,’ her mother announced, standing up and gathering her coat and handbag as soon as they came in. By the time Bob came back from driving her mother the short distance home, Isobel was in bed, reading. She’d hung up her dress and its matching bolero carefully, and put her shoes side by side next to the jumble at the bottom of the wardrobe. When she heard the front door closing she dropped the book on the floor beside the bed, and turned on her side under the bedclothes.
‘She’s a good sort, your mother.’ Bob had said that before. She heard him moving about, could imagine him hanging his trousers and jacket on their particular coat-hangers, heard the toilet flush, then felt the weight of him as he got into bed. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Boy, am I ready for sleep,’ he said, and she said, ‘Goodnight’ back and within a minute could hear the not-quite-snore of him sleeping.
Isobel lay awake for a long time, trying to imagine herself and Bob and the boys after two more years, five more, ten more, feeling ‘No!” hardening inside her. Silent tears fell until she was desperate to blow her nose and eased herself quietly from the bed. Sitting on the toilet, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose and resolved to go to the main branch of the library in the city, to see whether they got the Public Service Circular where jobs were advertised every week. It was harder to get there, involving buses with drivers who didn’t know her and wouldn’t necessarily help with the pushchair, but she would make herself manage. And she’d look in the local paper for women who looked after other people’s children as Bob’s mother had suggested.
~~~
Chapter15
Joyce came to visit on the Saturday morning following the New Year’s Eve party. She rang first. Bob of course was working, as he would be, he said, every Saturday until July, as well as being away one or two nights each week. In spite of her best efforts, Isobel was increasingly irritated by his excitement whenever he talked about the change over to decimal currency, which he always referred to as ‘DC day’. She wanted to shout at him when he said DC day in that this-is-so important voice. ‘It’s simple!’ she wanted to yell, ‘just sums and adjusting a few machines!’ Trying to match, or at least admire, his firm’s and hence his importance in the changeover, made her feel as though she was being stilted and unconvincing. Her mother was much better at it, not that Bob was around much these days when her mother was; occasionally he would have a late start or be home early on a week-day to make up for those Saturdays. There’d be a big bonus when it was all over, he assured Isobel, so it would all be worth-while. Once he even mentioned the possibility of there being enough to put a deposit on a house but he’d never brought that up again, she suspected because she couldn’t stop her panic from showing on
her face. As he did increasingly when he didn’t understand her response to something, Bob had shrugged and watched television. Most of their evening conversations were about television programmes they were watching, they didn’t even talk about the boys much.
Joyce arrived with lollipops for the boys and afghans for morning tea. When she’d said hello to Isobel and agreed to a cup of tea, she went down on her haunches and introduced herself to the boys as Aunty Joyce. They were more interested in the block towers they were building so they could watch them fall down. Andrew wanted to knock them over as soon as they were three or four blocks high, Neil wanted to keep adding blocks until they fell themselves. He’d push Andrew’s hand away and add another block and so far Andrew was letting him. When the tower fell they’d both fall down themselves and laugh and laugh. This had been one of their favourite games for a while and Isobel generally left them to it, noticing when one of them, she couldn’t remember which, had started saying what she thought was ‘fall down’ and the other echoing it. Joyce joined in, even falling on the floor, to their surprise and Isobel’s, laughing and saying ‘all fall down’ over and over. Then the boys were climbing on her and she was tickling them. Bob did that with them sometimes. Isobel turned away to make the tea.
‘Okay, fellahs, break time.’ Joyce extricated herself, stood up and looked at Isobel to see if it was all right to give them the lollipops. Isobel nodded. She never gave them sweets, she never thought of it. She sat down at the table and watched as Joyce demonstrated to them how to remove the cellophane wrapping. They seemed to know instinctively what to do with the hard flat orange circles the size of a half crown once they were unwrapped, and sat side by side in the middle of the blocks, sucking quietly and seriously.
Isobel poured tea and pushed the plate of afghans towards Joyce.
‘You’re very good with them,’ she said, nodding at the boys. And relaxed, not like you were at the party, she thought.
Joyce nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I love being with kids. We could take them to the park,’ she suggested, ‘I’ve got my car.’ Isobel wanted to know more about her not being able to have children and being separated, but didn’t know how to start asking.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘that would be lovely.’ Neil held up a, waxy white lollipop stick. ‘Gone,’ he said. Andrew took his stick, chewed, out of his mouth and looked at it and said, ‘Gone,’ too and held it out. As she took it Joyce scooped him up onto her lap, nuzzling into his neck, so Isobel picked up Neil and held him on her lap, smelling his hair. There was an awkward moment, then both women got up and began the bustle of tidying blocks, clearing away the tea and the afghans neither had eaten. Neil had held out his hand for one so Isobel broke off a piece for him and one for Andrew – wiping faces and hands, finding two pairs of sandals and getting them all in Joyce’s car.
It was a warm, humid, cloudy summer’s day. The playground was busy. Mothers and children of all ages, a few fathers, were hovering, chatting, pushing swings, cautioning, cajoling, rubbing sore spots, soothing. One woman was sitting on her own on a bench, reading. Isobel watched as a girl, maybe four years old, ran up to her, said something and ran off again, the woman watching for a moment then going back to her book.
She could never come here with the boys on her own, Isobel thought, even if she could face the long walk, it definitely took an adult per child when they were as small as her boys. Bigger children generally made room for them on the climbing frame, or climbed around and over. One girl came too close behind Neil on the slide and landed on top of him. He screwed up his face as though he were about to cry and then didn’t. The girl ran off. The swings were the worst, neither boy had the slightest idea that the wooden seat, with or without an occupant, would come swinging back, so Isobel and Joyce each stayed close to her charge, pointing out the moving swing, making them see how the hard board swung back to where they had been standing. Both boys liked the small slide, going up the steps and sliding down over and over and over. After fifteen minutes Isobel was guiltily bored. After an hour, Neil came and leant against her leg, sucking his fingers, so she gestured to Joyce that they should leave.
‘I think he needs a sleep.’ She had Neil on her shoulder when Joyce came over, Andrew slung under her arm, laughing.
Back at the house Isobel made the boys marmite and cheese sandwiches and offered Joyce lunch and was relieved when she said no, she had to go. ‘Thanks,’ she said to Isobel, ‘can we do that again? What about a picnic at the beach next time?’ All Isobel could do was nod and smile.
Over the next few weeks there were more visits and outings, including two to the beach. The boys would run to Joyce when she arrived, looking for treats or pulling her down to the floor with them to join in with whatever game they were in the middle of. Isobel never played with them like that, though she read them stories every night and sometimes during the day. The local branch of the library had several shelves of picture books that she was working her way through. And they sang nursery rhymes together, Isobel for the first time in her life unselfconscious about her singing, except when Bob was home or her mother was there. ‘I can only sing with children,’ she told them one night, when Andrew was trying to get her to join him in ‘Twinkle twinkle,’ which he said as ‘Tinka, Tinka,’ and Bob was standing in their bedroom doorway.
One sunny Tuesday in February, Sally arrived, unannounced, with Sarah, asking if she could leave her for an hour. ‘There’s an auction,’ Sally explained, ‘I really want to go and my usual woman is having an emergency of her own.’ Isobel didn’t feel she could refuse. Sarah and the boys spent the afternoon on the back grass with a dribbling hose, playing a game of Sarah’s devising, the boys obligingly following their older cousin’s directions. When Sally returned she offered to show Isobel the china she had bought but Isobel shook her head. ‘It’s wasted on me,’ she said. Then, ‘I don’t mind looking after Sarah now and then.’
‘Really? That’s fantastic. I could pay you …’
‘No, no I don’t want that.’ She wasn’t going to mind children, even her niece, as a job. ‘She and the boys are fine together. And she starts school in October, doesn’t she?’ Isobel nearly talked to Sally about looking out for jobs in the Circular at the library, and the list she had made from the local paper of women who minded children that she intended to visit. But she wasn’t ready to do that yet, she had to have a plan fully worked out before she could deal with the disapproval she expected. It was one thing to buy and sell things at auctions, like Sally did, another to have a job that you had to go to every day. With two pre-schoolers. Isobel read in the paper, saw on the television news, even heard on the radio occasionally, about women with preschoolers going to work. She liked numbers — one report in the Herald that said that 18.5% of women working had at least one preschooler — and that cheered her immensely. She ignored the judgments about women taking the jobs off men with families, especially with unemployment rising. None of that was going to stop her. What was a worry was how hard it would be to get a job, a good enough job to afford childcare payments, and even before that, how she would explain her two years not working. There was still a lot to work out before she even made an application, but there were jobs in the Circular, jobs she could do. And now the government had a national advisory committee on employing women, so some people must think it was all right, though she supposed that could be about women without children.
As far as Bob’s mother was concerned, it seemed as though the conversation about finding child minders in the local paper had never happened. Isobel felt warmer towards her, though, and was kinder about covering up Andrew’s continuing dislike. She’d pass her Neil’s sandals or jacket, encourage Neil to show her a toy or hold her hand.
By mid-March Bob was away up to three nights a week and often making work phone calls on evenings when he was home. He’d acquired a brief case and obviously enjoyed clicking the catches to open and close it and made a fuss about keeping it away from the boys. The price for finding
a way to respond when he talked about his work, a cheerfulness and interest that seemed forced to her but that he apparently accepted at face value, was that she felt, not exactly old, but middle-aged. A middle-aged woman humouring her husband was how she felt. She could imagine herself in a group of wives, like the one at the New Year’s Eve party, laughing at how seriously he took it all, them joining in with stories about how important their husbands felt at this big, pending moment in the life of those in the cash register trade. If it wasn’t so pathetic it would be hilarious Isobel thought.
Not one of the potential child-carers she visited would do, not at all, for a whole range of reasons — a kitchen so dirty even Isobel noticed, a hardness of manner, big-eyed silent children looking at her solemnly, a growling dog that meant she kept walking right past the gate. The one woman that could almost have been suitable, and had the added advantage of living nearby, was adamant she didn’t take any child that wasn’t completely out of nappies. Isobel was determined to find someone, someone warm and kind. Her mother asked how she was getting on.
‘What? Getting on with what?’ she didn’t know her mother knew. She’d gone for lunch and the boys were asleep on her parents’ double bed, she’d been encouraging them to walk rather than always be in the pushchair and this day they both had, all the way from the shops and the library.