The Mixture As Before

by Rosie Harris

  If her information was right, though, Sandra did have a point. It was rather soon for his mother to go gadding off on a holiday, especially on her own.

  He looked at his watch, wondering whether or not to phone her. It was rather late. Perhaps he’d better leave it until first thing in the morning. If he was up in time he might even call round on his way to work.

  Ten

  Margaret Wright studied Charles covertly as he rose from his father’s armchair, and walked over to the drinks cabinet. As, he helped himself to a whisky she stared fixedly at the back of his head. It was hard to believe that this giant of a man, whose straight dark hair was already showing a sprinkling of grey, was her beautiful first born. He’d been such a bonny baby. She’d been overjoyed when she had first cradled him in her arms.

  Watching him now was like seeing a reincarnation of Reginald; Reginald as he had looked when they’d first been married.

  The thought sent a shiver through her. He’d been her boss, and she’d been head over heels in love with him. Or thought she was; she’d often wondered since if it had been love or merely infatuation. He’d been so handsome, so self-assured, that she had been enraptured when he’d singled her out for special attention.

  She tried hard to merit his approval and when he appointed her as his private secretary she was bursting with pride.

  Determined to please, she’d checked and rechecked her work anxious to justify his faith in her ability, and prove herself to be an ultra-efficient secretary. She sometimes worried about whether he really noticed her as a person

  She was absolutely obsessed by trying to please him. He filled her thoughts not only from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning until she closed them at night, but in her dreams as well.

  His occasional words of praise, the card and single red rose on her birthday, the expensive perfume at Christmas had all delighted her.

  He was wonderful, a boss in a million, she told all her friends.

  Then came the ‘working lunches’. These tête-à-tête meetings outside the office became the highlight of her working day.

  The whirlwind courtship that followed left her breathless. The term ‘swept off her feet’ suddenly had tremendous meaning for her. The first time they kissed she felt as if a fire had spread through her. After that she had ached for him so much that she was utterly convinced she had fallen in love.

  She had been seventeen, burning with innocent desire, and pent-up longing. He had been an experienced man in his mid-thirties and more than willing to quench those fires.

  A strict moral upbringing, coupled with a fear of pregnancy, had made her reject Reginald’s amorous advances at first. Being held at arm’s length had made Reginald even more determined to have her and, when all else failed, he’d proposed marriage.

  In seventh heaven, she’d ignored her father’s objections because she was so young and her mother’s warnings that Reginald would be impossible to live with because not only was he too good-looking and much too debonair but also far too worldly-wise.

  Impulsively, on the eve of her nineteenth birthday she had said yes.

  Reginald’s business connections, together with the difference in their ages, ensured that their wedding a few months later made local headline news.

  He was her first lover, her only lover, fulfilling every romantic fantasy she had ever known.

  At first she hadn’t realized how possessive and aggressive he was, or that he completely dominated her life.

  Starry-eyed, she was swept along on a whirlwind of change. She had no idea she was pregnant until she blacked out one morning while out shopping.

  Reginald’s initial astonishment speedily turned into pride. Overnight he became a sober family man, taking his responsibilities so seriously that he changed completely. Almost at once he lost the dazzling flamboyance that had attracted her to him in the first place.

  Three babies in quick succession had made her feel trapped and she found herself wondering whether Reginald wanted a wife or a breeding machine.

  Absorbed by the children, indiscernibly their own relationship had cooled. One minute, or so it seemed to Margaret when she looked back, they had been turgid lovers, the next pragmatic parents.

  Reginald had shown a strong preference for Charles. Perhaps it was because right from his birth Charles resembled him so closely.

  There had been a natural affinity between the two of them. As a toddler, Charles had been his father’s shadow. As a gangling schoolboy he’d hung on Reginald’s every word, obedient to his wishes, eager to please him in any way he could.

  It had been as natural as night following day that Charles should go to work for his father as soon as he left college. Pupil, disciple … he’d been both, echoing his father in words as well as mannerisms. Nepotism had triumphed over experience, and time and time again Charles had been promoted until eventually, at twenty-one, he became a director of the company.

  In the years that followed, the workload had gradually shifted from Reginald to Charles so there was no problem when, after his heart attack, Reginald had decided to take retirement. Charles was already groomed to take over as managing director and had assumed the role without any hesitation.

  Reginald’s name still remained on the company letterheads. It looked more imposing that way. Also, as she since learned, it had meant that Reginald could continue to have the use of a company car, as well as membership of BUPA and various other perks.

  Margaret knew she should be proud of Charles and she was, in a detached sort of way. There never had been much warmth between the two of them, not once he started school. Even as a small boy he had always been so laid back, so aloof, so self-contained, that she had felt superfluous.

  As Charles reached adulthood she was intensely conscious that he didn’t approve of her. Not that he ever voiced the slightest criticism, of course. That wasn’t his way. He was far too well mannered to do such a thing. Yet she was sure he knew instinctively that he possessed the power to make her cringe inwardly without ever uttering a single word.

  No one else seemed to notice but she was acutely conscious of his facial expressions, the lightning lift of his thick dark brows, the inscrutable look in his dark eyes as they raked her from head to toe, the controlled tone of his voice as he answered her questions.

  She obviously irritated him and most of the time his mute annoyance when she expressed an opinion created an impenetrable wall between them.

  Reginald had a very similar effect on her, only in his case he voiced his opinions aloud. When she had worked as his secretary, she had steeled herself to turn a deaf ear when he ridiculed anything she said. She accepted his sarcasm without comment or retaliation. Chauvinism had been part of his attraction.

  At work he was so confident about his own ability. He believed that he was always right and that he always knew best. He was so self-assured that she accepted, without question, everything he said.

  Later on, after they were married, she knew she ought to stand up to him. On the few occasions when she had attempted to do so he had destroyed her argument with a few blistering words that had left her feeling utterly crushed and deflated.

  Realizing that she was no match for a man used to supremacy both over his staff and in the boardroom, she had avoided further confrontations. She had accepted that it wasn’t worth the hassle to fight battles she knew she stood no chance of winning.

  It had meant that he had made all the decisions; whether it was the colour scheme they should have when the house was redecorated, how the garden should be landscaped, or where they would go for their holidays each year.

  While Reginald had been at work and she had been free to organize the day-to-day details of her own personal life, it hadn’t mattered too much. It was after his enforced retirement, after he had sold her car and expected her to spend every minute of the day with him that her inner resentment had begun to flare up.

  By then, of course, it had been too late to do very much about it. Regina
ld’s heart condition had been like a protective shield. It would have been unthinkable to involve him in an argument. So her life had become more and more intolerable. The countless years of avoiding any hassle had established a pattern that she couldn’t break even if she’d wanted to. Her ability to stand up for herself had been so undermined that she felt as helpless as an orphan taken into care.

  She didn’t altogether blame Reginald for organizing everything to his dictate. He’d probably never for one moment realized how resentful she felt. If she had attempted to tell him, especially after he had retired, she knew he would have raised his bushy grey eyebrows and given her a look that spoke volumes, and made her feel so inferior.

  Now Charles was doing the same thing. Treating her as though her opinion was of no importance at all and assuming that she was not capable of managing her own life. Exactly as his father had done, he was dictating what she must do and expecting her to accept his advice unconditionally.

  This time she didn’t intend to give in. Leastways, not without taking a stand. It was a long time since she had stood up for herself, but now she was determined to do so. What was even more important was that she intended to win.

  She’d refuse to let Charles supplant Reginald in her life. She’d visualize him as he had been some thirty or more years ago. A skinny little kid who was expected to do what she told him.

  Margaret sighed. Even that wouldn’t work. Even as a small boy he had been independent of her. He had never answered her back like Alison, or tried to wriggle out of doing things, like Steven. If she told him to tidy his room he would acquiesce quietly, and disappear upstairs. He didn’t tidy the room but instead he kept out of her way long enough for her to forget that she had asked him to do it.

  The two younger ones had played together, Charles had always remained aloof. As the eldest he always did everything first, always had the new bicycle, the new tennis racket. He never had to accept hand-me-downs of any kind. Perhaps that was why he had always had such a superior manner; perhaps such preferential treatment had made him assume that he was better than the others.

  ‘Is it really necessary to talk about all this tonight? Surely it could have waited until tomorrow,’ muttered Charles impatiently, irritated by her brooding silence.

  ‘You were the one who decided you would come over this evening,’ Margaret reminded him.

  ‘Only because on the phone you seemed to be in such a state …’

  ‘No, because you were in such a hurry to eat your dinner that you wouldn’t listen to what I had to say!’

  He looked taken aback. ‘Nothing of the kind!’ he defended. ‘Anyway, it’s now almost ten o’clock …’

  ‘You and Helen never go to bed until after midnight.’

  Charles sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Come on then, let’s discuss whatever it is that’s bothering you. What’s the problem?’

  Eleven

  ‘There are two things I want to do,’ Margaret told Charles as he waited impatiently for her to start. ‘I want to change the BMW for a different car and I want the key to your father’s bureau so that I can check if my passport is in there.’

  Charles ran a hand over his hair. ‘Let’s deal with the car first. You can’t exchange it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not yours …’

  ‘Nonsense!’ She stared at him belligerently. ‘Your father left all his personal effects to me.’

  ‘He didn’t own the BMW. It belongs to the firm. You are not even covered to drive it, so you shouldn’t have taken it out today.’

  The colour drained from Margaret’s face. She bit down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. So that was why Reginald had never let her drive it. All these years, and she’d never known that she wasn’t insured to drive it.

  ‘And the key to the bureau?’

  ‘I can’t help you there. As far as I know there are no keys of his in the office.’

  ‘So how do I get into the bureau?’

  Charles shrugged. ‘Call in a locksmith, I suppose.’

  ‘That will take days! Will you see if you can force the lock for me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mother!’ He laughed mockingly, his dark eyes fixed on her in sharp antagonism. ‘That bureau is a very valuable antique; it would deface it if I forced the lock. In fact, it would probably lower its value by hundreds when you want to sell it.’

  ‘But I don’t want to sell it. I merely want to open it so that I can see if my passport is inside.’

  He shook his head, searching for some way of deterring her. ‘I take it you wanted the passport as proof of your identity at the garage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why do you need it in such a hurry?’ He made no effort to conceal his irritation.

  ‘What do you usually want a passport for?’ she snapped back.

  ‘To go abroad, but you’re not going abroad, now are you?’ The subtle inflection in his voice, as if he was talking to a child, angered her.

  ‘Who says I’m not? I intend to take a holiday in Cyprus and—’

  ‘On your own?’ He looked shocked.

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘It’s not safe for a woman of your age to be travelling alone, that’s why not. Especially when you will be travelling to a foreign country where you don’t understand the language. You could be mugged or even murdered.’

  ‘Grow up, Charles!’ She steeled herself to make her voice casual. ‘I’m quite able to look after myself. I need a holiday. I haven’t been abroad for over ten years. I fancy some sea and sun …’

  ‘You can get those in this country,’ he interrupted. ‘What’s wrong with Bournemouth? You and Father went there every June—’

  ‘Which is precisely why I don’t wish to go to Bournemouth on holiday.’

  He looked dismayed. ‘I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me … I didn’t mean … memories, and all that …’

  ‘Memories have nothing at all to do with it,’ Margaret told him crisply. ‘I don’t want to go to Bournemouth ever again because I am fed up with the place. I want to take a holiday somewhere quite different. That’s why I’ve decided to go to Cyprus.’

  Charles became more conciliatory. ‘I can see you feel the need to get right away but I really don’t think it’s a very good idea to go abroad on your own.’

  Margaret hid a smile. Charles’s tone had changed and so, too, had his approach. He hadn’t been so courteous to her for years. Nevertheless, she intended to stand her ground.

  ‘Stop being such a fuddy-duddy, Charles,’ she chided. ‘Come on, see if you can open up the bureau and let me have my passport.’

  It took very little effort to prize open the lock. Everything inside was stacked in neat piles. Electric bills, gas bills, phone bills, and other household papers on the left. Reginald’s personal bills for his golfing expenses, tailor and wine merchant on the other side. In the centre there were various documents, his bank statements and personal insurances. There was also the one thing that interested her, their two passports.

  ‘Do you want me to take all these papers away, and go through them?’ asked Charles.

  ‘No, leave them. I’ll do it at my leisure. There’s probably nothing of any great importance in there, anyway. Except this of course.’

  She clutched at her passport like a drowning man grabbing at a lifebelt. She’d go back to the travel agent’s first thing in the morning. If that particular holiday had gone then she’d book another. She didn’t care where it was. She simply wanted to get away, to taste her new-found freedom.

  Charles held out his hand. ‘Let me check it.’

  ‘What for?’ She clung on to it. She didn’t want to let it out of her hold now that she had it.

  He held up the other one that he had taken from the desk. ‘This one is Dad’s and it is out of date, so yours probably is as well.’

  ‘Out of date?’ She stared at him in disbelief. It couldn’t be, it mustn’t be. She felt tense as she opened it
. The photograph came as a shock. Taken twenty years or more ago it showed her as an attractive dark-haired woman about the same age as Charles was now. Her fingers felt clumsy with the tension building up inside her as she turned the pages. She couldn’t even read the date of expiry her hand was shaking so much.

  Charles took the passport from her and read out the date stamped inside it.

  ‘So has it expired?’ She had to fight to keep her voice steady.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Seeing the melancholy expression on her face, he placed an arm around her shoulder. ‘Cheer up! It’s not the end of the world. You can get it renewed.’

  ‘That takes time …’

  ‘So, what’s the hurry? You have all the time in the world.’ His tone was calm and conciliatory, as if speaking to a fractious child.

  ‘My mind’s made up.’

  ‘You will be able to plan exactly the sort of holiday that suits you,’ he went on ignoring her interruption. ‘Saga have some splendid schemes …’ He stopped, shocked into silence by her withering stare.

  ‘Why don’t you pack me off to an old people’s home and have done with it,’ she snapped bitterly, moving away from him, brushing the back of her hand across her eyes. She felt an overpowering sense of doom. It was as if the whole world had turned against her.

  ‘Mother!’ His slightly condescending tone carried scorn, embarrassment, irritation and impatience.

  ‘First the car, and now this!’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s the way things go. Look,’ he went on in a lighter tone, ‘Why don’t you come and stay with us for a few days. Being here on your own is making you feel depressed—’

  She cut across his words, ‘No, thank you! I want to be on my own,’ she stated fiercely. ‘I’m not feeling in the least lonely,’ she added before he could speak.

  ‘Right!’ He stood up, ran a hand over his hair and pulled his sweater down over his hips. ‘If that’s really how you want things to be left then I may as well go home. I did offer, remember.’

  ‘I know, and I’m grateful for your suggestion, but it’s not what I want to do. From now on, I intend to do what I want, not what other people think I ought to do,’ she added, her voice rising.