by Angela Huth
Stella, who lived by the sea in Norfolk, was full of apologies for not having been able to come to the wedding.
‘Oh, that. It wasn’t much of a wedding,’ said Prue. ‘Very quiet.’
‘And Barry – your second Barry – what’s he like?’
‘Kind. Generous. Tons of presents. Huge house.’
‘All the things you wanted, then.’
‘Almost. Not quite. I’m learning to drive. Nearly there, though it’s not as much fun as the tractor.’
‘No.’
Prue, sitting comfortably on the carpeted stairs, wanted to go on talking to Stella for ever. Her soft, comforting voice, her way of indicating she knew what was going on even if nothing was said. ‘Once I’ve passed my driving test,’ she said, ‘perhaps I could come and see you.’
‘Please, please do. I can’t leave here often. Philip needs a lot of looking after. He’s so brave and uncomplaining, but he keeps getting infections. Come and see us long before we next meet in London.’
‘I will, I promise.’ Cheered by the thought of a visit to look forward to – Barry One used to say everyone should have something to look forward to – Prue then telephoned Ag. She and Desmond lived in Devon.
‘I thought you’d never ring,’ said Ag. She was in high spirits. ‘We’ve just moved into our new home. I’m over the moon.’
‘Crikey, Ag! Wonderful. When I can drive I’ll come and see you.’
‘We’d love that. You’d like it here – all much smaller than Hallows Farm, but I’ve a good orchard full of Mrs Lawrence’s plums and we’re about to buy some cattle. Lots of hens, of course.’
‘Hens? Gosh.’
‘And you, Prue, what’s your news?’
‘I’m a very respectable, grown-up married lady. My husband’s a little older than me, very rich, very generous. I’ve a diamond ring, jewels, a fur hat, kid gloves and all that stuff . . . And, well, that’s the sort of thing I wanted, didn’t I?’
Ag hesitated. ‘Gold taps?’
‘Almost,’ said Prue. They both laughed.
Two visits to look forward to: Prue’s spirits lifted, though she continued to sit on the stairs, remembering. Two ideas began to form an inchoate shape in her mind: pregnancy and chickens. If she had a baby, and half a dozen laying birds, she could be busy again. Work hard. It was the idleness in this dark, rich, bleak house that was so depressing.
A few weeks later Prue passed her driving test. She couldn’t think who would be pleased for her. She rang her mother – by now she made frequent use of the telephone – who congratulated her, but plainly underestimated the scale of the achievement. She thought Barry would not be much interested, though perhaps it might spur him on to buy her a very small Austin.
Prue was wrong. Barry’s delight seemed out of all proportion to the news. First, laying aside his cigar, he hugged her – something he had never done before. Apart from the times he bashed roughly into her, he never touched her other than to guide her with a hand on her wrist to their table in the hotel dining room on the occasions he took her out for dinner. His arms round her were so tight that Prue felt the breath squeezed out of her and gave a little cry. Barry released her, apologetic, and took up his cigar again. Then he suggested they celebrate – a word Prue had come to dread, with its usual connotations. They would be off in the Daimler for a slap-up dinner, champagne. She was to wear one of her new dresses, her new scent. They’d have a good time.
Barry’s excitement, so much greater than Prue’s own, was puzzling. She felt once again that she didn’t begin to understand her husband, so oddly delighted by her small achievement of passing a driving test yet so completely uninterested in her barren days. What did he imagine she did? Read romantic novels, eating fudge? Perhaps, she thought, she should take advantage of his sudden liveliness. She decided to interrupt his usual stories of his past, and mention chickens. Or the possibility of a baby. Or perhaps both.
They sat at their usual table, had their usual miniature cutlets and mashed potato forked into a pattern that reminded Prue of the permanent waves her mother was so skilful at conjuring in elderly hair. She giggled.
‘What’s up, sweetheart?’
‘Nothing. I was just thinking.’
‘You know what? You’ve the greenest, prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen on a girl.’ The compliment left him as surprised as it did Prue. With a hitch of his shoulders he had braced himself to deliver it. Now he sank back against the chair, deflated.
‘Barry! You’ve never said anything so nice!’
‘Nonsense, sweetheart. I’ve often thought it.’
Perhaps, reflected Prue, finishing her wine very quickly, this is where I start to love Barry Morton, for all his funny ways, and it really could be happy-ever-after.
Strawberry ice cream arrived. Prue pushed hers aside, clasped her hands as if in prayer and she leant towards her husband. ‘Barry,’ she said, ‘you’re the most generous husband in the world, and I know how lucky I am, but . . . there’s just one thing.’
‘Out with it.’ Barry’s frog eyes narrowed.
‘I haven’t much to do all day.’
‘What? You’ve time to yourself, sweetheart. Nothing more precious than that. Total luxury. You can do anything you want. What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying . . . Well, I’ve always loved working hard. I’d like to work hard at something again.’
Barry pushed his ice cream to join Prue’s and lit a cigar. ‘Far be it from me to stop you.’ His previous softness, almost loving, was suddenly gone. He spoke like someone in a meeting. ‘You’ve got the world at your feet, all the money you want, and you’re complaining.’ He was slightly frightening.
‘Not complaining, honestly.’ Prue sighed, smiled, uncertain which way to go. ‘I was thinking that perhaps with so much time on my hands . . .’
‘You could always work for charity, visit old people, that sort of thing. Make yourself useful. Help those a great deal less fortunate than yourself He was scornful now.
‘I could. But what I had in mind – I don’t know how you’ll take this, Barry – but what I had in mind was that perhaps we should try for . . . a baby.’
There was a very long silence. When she and Barry One had first mentioned the possibility of a child – a spring day in the woods – they had hugged and declared it would be the most exciting thing in the world. Now here was her husband pursing his lips and tapping his cigar, weighing up all his boring doubts like some financial adviser. ‘That hadn’t occurred to me,’ he said. And again there was a sudden, unexpected shift in his demeanour. His mouth edged into a half-smile. His free hand tapped Prue’s wrist. ‘That’s something to think about, any road,’ he said. ‘I rather fancy a son with your green eyes. My brain,’ he added with a laugh. ‘We could put that plan into action, sweetheart. We could start tonight. We can keep at it. That’s a good idea.’
Prue inwardly quailed as her husband’s eyes trawled her exposed chest and the small rounds of her breasts. If his intention was to work at conceiving like some kind of business plan, she hoped it would happen very fast and that once she was pregnant she would be spared his hammering.
Barry asked for the bill. He seemed to be in a hurry to get home. Prue put aside her idea of suggesting chickens. Two major possibilities at once might be too much for him. Chickens would have to wait.
All the way home Barry drove with one hand on the steering-wheel, the other on her knee. ‘That’s a good idea, love, that baby plan,’ he said several times. ‘I like the idea of green eyes, handsome little bugger.’
Despite Barry’s apparent enthusiasm to get going straight away on the baby plan, the first attempt did not take place that night. When Prue obligingly walked from the bathroom, naked, to the bed, Barry impatiently told her to cover herself up. ‘No jiggery-pokery tonight, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I’m all for getting going soon as possible, like I said, but I’m knackered. Lot of stuff on my mind at work. Don’t worry. Won’t be long till you’re tripping ro
und with a stomach like a balloon. Only we’re not going to make it happen tonight.’
There was a hint of apology in this, and Prue could see he did look unusually tired. So with mixed feelings she got into bed and turned out the light. A baby, she knew, would be the answer to everything. But curiously, for all Barry’s initial enthusiasm, his threat ‘to keep at it’ did not come about. The old routine of Saturday nights only carried on, and there was no sign of Prue conceiving.
There was serious deflection from this disappointment. Within a few days of Prue passing her driving test, a scarlet Sunbeam Talbot was delivered to the driveway of The Larches.
She sat in the pale leather driving seat overawed. She felt sudden tears blur her eyes. ‘This is the most beautiful car I’ve ever—’
‘It’s so you can do what you like, sweetheart. Go where you like, drive all over. Keep you happy.’ Barry stood beside the open car window, chomping on his cigar.
‘Thank you, Barry. How ever can I say thank you enough?’
‘I like to keep you happy.’
‘I’m going for a first short drive. Can’t wait to try her out. Want to come?’
‘Best you go alone. I’ve got things to do.’
Prue waved, wound up the window and started the engine, which made the most thrilling music she had ever heard.
She spent many days driving about in her car – not far, at first, but once she had grown used to it she bought a map and began to explore the country beyond Manchester. Several times she went to Derbyshire, which she loved. Often, when she parked at the roadside to study the view, she consciously thought: I’m happy now. Quite happy. She made a plan to go to Yorkshire, once she was a more confident driver, to visit Mr and Mrs Lawrence.
One afternoon, on returning from an outing to the city where with long-saved coupons she had bought a pair of irresistible pre-war red shoes, she found a man standing in the porch, his hand on the knocker. He turned to her as she got out of the car. ‘Whew! Quite some car.’
He was tall and thin, with the kind of quirky face that was attractive. He had red hair – a ruddy amber rather than carrot, Prue judged, but red enough for him to have been teased at school. He reminded her a little of Robert, and of George, a man she had met on a bus soon after she had returned to Manchester just after the war. He had got off at the same stop as her, said he’d walk her home. She had asked him in for a cup of tea – her mother was still at work – and they had had a long talk about the breeding of rabbits. Then they’d rogered themselves to a standstill in her virgin bed, and he had slipped out just before Mrs Lumley arrived home. He also reminded her, this stranger waving a letter in his hand, of a sweet looking sub-lieutenant who had once sat beside her in a cinema and added hugely to the pleasure of the film.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said the man. ‘I’m looking for Barry Morton. I’m Johnny Norse.’
‘Prue. His wife.’ They shook hands.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m one of Barry’s tenants, as I expect you know.’
Prue smiled. She had never met any of Barry’s tenants, had no idea how many there were. ‘He should be back in an hour or so. Would you like to come in?’
‘I don’t want to bother you.’ He waved the letter again. ‘Just want a word about the tenancy agreement, that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask about . . .’ He trailed off.
‘Come on. I’m not exactly busy.’ Prue liked the way his eyes screwed up when he gave even a minor smile. She opened the front door. The early-evening light was flung over the heavy furniture, the elaborate mirror, the grim pictures of unknown ancestors, certainly not Barry’s.
‘Blow me down,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s not at all like this next door, my place.’
They stood awkwardly in the hall – awkwardly because, as Prue explained on the telephone to Ag the next day, she had suddenly found herself in a social dilemma. Her instinct was to go to the kitchen, put on the kettle, settle down at the table. But she knew that was not possible in this house. The kitchen was out of bounds. To take a visitor there and start finding tea and biscuits was not something Bertha, so fierce in her silent way, would tolerate. Prue knew the housekeeper was capable of being rude in her disapproval, and she did not wish anyone to be rude to this friendly man, who had turned out to be the next-door neighbour. The alternative was to go alone to the kitchen and ask Bertha if she would mind bringing a tray of tea into the sitting room. But in the shadow-packed hall Prue’s courage left her. Even if Bertha agreed, her grim disapproval would shade, rather than ease, the atmosphere. Nothing for it but to go and sit down and make conversation. She led the way not into the front room but to the smaller sitting room that overlooked the garden.
Johnny immediately went over to the window and stood staring out, his back to Prue. ‘Same shape garden as mine,’ he said, ‘but otherwise different altogether. You could do a lot to this – lots of potential.’ He turned round. ‘Have you and Barry got plans? Because I know a lot of plants people . . . I could put you in touch.’
‘I’m not sure Barry’s a very keen gardener,’ said Prue. ‘Won’t you sit?’ She asked this so primly she made herself giggle. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you—’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that sort of thing. I only wanted to deliver this.’ He smoothed the envelope with a swirl of his long fingers. There was a faintly expectant silence, as if each of them was waiting for the other to suggest the next move. Prue uncrossed her ankles, gave a high kick with one leg and crossed it over the other.
Johnny did not smile, or compliment her on the prettiness of her legs, but seemed deep in thought. ‘You know what?’ he said at last. ‘All that grass? Chickens would make all the difference.’
‘Chickens?’ Funny they should both have the same thought. Prue felt almost faint with excited possibility.
‘Chickens. I’ve got a couple of dozen Rhode Island Reds, fresh eggs every day in the laying season. It’s a bonus, I can tell you. They’ve got a good run, and a house at the end of the garden. I’ve camouflaged it with a few bushes. They’ve made a real difference to the place.’
‘I can imagine.’ Prue now chose to uncross her legs, put her elbows on her knees and cup her chin in her hands. Suddenly reckless, she felt like trying out all her poses, see if she could get anywhere with this man. At least they had one thing in common: chickens. Not a bad beginning. She fluttered her eyelashes, furious with herself for not having bothered to put on her mascara. ‘On the farm where I was a land girl, there were dozens of chickens, and bantams. In fact . . .’ Prue now screwed up her eyes, wondering whether to confess the small incident to this stranger.‘. . . the day we arrived we were greeted by all these birds running all over the place, and I was stupid enough to say I’d never seen such small chickens. The posh girl, Ag, she soon put me down. “I think you’ll find it’s a bantam,” she said, in her lah-di-dah voice. Snubbed me, all right, but we were soon friends. And, I mean, I’d never seen a live bird before, just the dead one at Christmas for roasting.’
Johnny laughed politely. ‘You were a land girl?’
‘I was.’
‘Well, good for you. Congratulations.’ He nodded, full of respect. Prue felt herself blush. ‘I don’t know what we’d have done without you girls. How was it?’
‘Best time of my life,’ Prue said quietly.
‘Never be anything like it again. When it comes to history, land girls will take their place.’
‘Maybe.’
‘But to get back to chickens.’ Johnny returned to the window, scanned the bare lawn. ‘I don’t mean to be impertinent, but here’s an idea. Why don’t you suggest to Barry you have a chicken run at the bottom of your garden, too? I could get you half a dozen layers to start you off. I could even build them a house – I do carpentry in my spare time.’
‘I might suggest it.’ Prue went to join him at the window. She stood close to him, but not close enough to make him think she was standing close.’
Johnny handed over the
envelope. ‘Will you give him this? I just want his permission to extend my own chicken run.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I’m sorry he’s not back.’ She took the envelope, wanting to detain him for a few moments longer. ‘Do you work in Manchester?’
The question produced a very large smile: the slight raise of the amber eyebrows indicated self-deprecation. ‘If you can call it work. At home, not in an office. I sit at my desk looking at my chickens, writing what I like to call poetry. But I’m also thinking of starting a market garden some miles from the city. Not a good time, of course, but I’ll persevere. During the war I ran an allotment, gave the stuff to people who were having a hard time – sold it just for what it cost me.’ He moved away from the window. Prue sensed a slipstream of chill replace the brief warmth. ‘I must go and shut up the birds for the night.’ Prue went with him to the front door. ‘Let me know if Barry agrees to the chicken idea. We could go off and buy the first batch.’ He nodded towards the Sunbeam Talbot. ‘It’d be a good excuse for a ride in your swanky car.’
Prue laughed.
When Johnny had gone a sense of anti-climax swarmed through her, but beneath it simmered nebulous anticipation. With Johnny the chicken-lover next door, perhaps there would be new ways of filling the days. She had enjoyed his interest in her days as a land girl.
Prue returned to the hall. She decided on a long bath, in which to think about things. Then she would put on one of her new dresses in which to approach Barry about the chicken idea, guessing that he would not take to it as eagerly as he had to the possibility of a baby, so she would be spared another celebratory dinner in the posh hotel. As she began to climb the stairs, Bertha appeared from the kitchen. Prue hesitated, looking down at the housekeeper whose jagged line of top teeth dug into her scant bottom lip.
‘Visitor?’
Prue nodded, blushing, even though she could not see any reason for her to be either guilty or ashamed. ‘Just the man from next door,’ she said, ‘with something for Barry.’ She moved on up the stairs, curiously put out.