The Yorkshire Pudding Club

by Milly Johnson

  ‘S’okay, chuck. Right then, if you’re sorted, I’ll start my cleaning.’

  ‘Eh? Cleaning–you?’ Elizabeth turned to Helen. ‘Hey, Helen, Janey’s cleaning!’

  ‘Oy, you cheeky sods!’ said Janey. She had heard about ‘nesting’ but thought she was the last person who would experience that phenomenon. She had her Marigolds at the ready and was actually raring to go and clean the bathroom. She hoped it would last because it was quite thrilling, although she was not going to make herself look sad and admit that she was getting excited about bleaching some porcelain. She had a reputation as a complete slattern to maintain.

  Elizabeth fell to sleep in her rocking chair in the afternoon. It was a nice, relaxed sleep because she had just finished packing her bag for the hospital and she felt more prepared now if the baby put in an early appearance. Then Father Christmas arrived. A big, black-haired Father Christmas with a Silkstone Properties T-shirt and steel-capped boots, in a Transit van sleigh.

  Elizabeth rocked up to her feet and sleepily answered the door to John, who moved her quickly aside and directed two big lads to carry a changing station past her and into the far corner of the sitting room.

  ‘If you’ve got any of this stuff already, tell me and I’ll take it back to the shop,’ he said, carrying a Moses basket in and plonking it on the sofa whilst she stood there with her mouth agape. Then he wheeled in a sweet little pram full of a stack of blankets and a tiny sheepskin rug, an armful of Fisher Price toys in boxes, a baby bath, something else in a big box, a massive bar of fruit and nut and, to her absolute cringing horror, a carrier-bagful of disposable maternity knickers and sanitary towels.

  ‘I…’ was all she got out before he strode out past her.

  ‘Can’t stop,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve wasted enough time coming up earlier on when you weren’t in and I’ve stuff to do. I’ll see you later,’ and with that he was off before she could protest that she didn’t want his presents or his charity. Or his friendship. Or his love.

  Chapter 41

  ‘Ready, Tiger?’

  ‘I think so!’

  ‘Got your letter?’

  George patted his back jeans pocket. Janey kissed him and hugged him because today he was giving up his job for her. He said it wasn’t a sacrifice really, but she knew different because letting his wife win the bread would filter down and jar on his Northern male ego somehow. She knew he would be the subject of mick-taking for his new status of ‘Househusband’, even though some of those he worked with thought the presence of testosterone in their systems gave them the right to spend all the mortgage money down the pub and chase other women. She knew who was more of a man in her book.

  Even their parents had been a bit shocked by the arrangement, and she could tell Cyril wouldn’t be bragging down the pub about his son’s new career move. ‘Even though you should be!’ she had wanted to shout. ‘You should be proud and shouting it from the bloody rooftops.’ He was doing more for his family than processing pieces of plastic from a machine ever would. She would never find a better bloke than George, ever. Even though she had ended up in someone else’s bed, thinking she wanted to try.

  Three years ago, when she got down to her target weight–a stick size nine with no wobbly bits–she really thought she was something. She had gone on a course to Bristol and it was the first time she’d ever been away with a nice figure to show off and with executive blokes flicking their eyes over her slim-fitting dark-blue suit for a change. It made her feel sexy and powerful.

  ‘He’ had been a Finance Manager from Watford, cocky and arrogant, Hugh Grant floppy hairstyle, plummy voice and an Armani suit; he had reminded her of Simon initially. She got stuck on her computer–well, not really–she pretended she had so he would come to her rescue, which he did. No one had ever fancied her for her body before but it was obvious he was flirting with her, the air was baked with all those smouldering, smokey looks he passed to her and it would have needed a chainsaw to cut through the sexual tension arcing between them.

  She knew exactly what the act of adultery was going to be like before they gravitated up to the room. She’d played the scene out in a million of her fantasies–him: powerful man in a suit–her: sexual dynamite just waiting for her fuse to be lit. And now she was going to be living it instead of dreaming it. She could be completely abandoned–she wouldn’t have to worry about any fat blobbing out of her clothes now and she wouldn’t throw a fit if he left the lights on.

  However, ‘Hugh Grant’ didn’t play to the script she had written for him. He was so carried away that his touch was as rough as sandpaper. He went straight in there without all the wonderful show of slow foreplay she had imagined–the words ‘bull’ and ‘china shop’ came to mind. At the crucial point she had stopped him and asked, ‘Aren’t you going to put a condom on?’

  ‘What do you want me to use one of those for?’ had been his reply. She thought being an executive he’d have had some brains. He had a wedding ring on as well. Didn’t he care about his wife? At least she cared enough about George to protect herself–which was so very big of her, she had told herself later, when it was done. He sighed but got up, went to his jacket and took one out of the inside pocket. What was he doing with condoms in his pocket if he was away from home? she had thought, with a twisted sense of morality.

  He came quickly, she felt nothing, then he said he shouldn’t have done that and should go. She didn’t try to stop him. He sat on the edge of the bed and started to put his pants back on. He had Y-fronts, and not the trendy ones that were all the rage recently either. Unforgettable Paisley and purple, she could identify them in a police line-up tomorrow if she had to. Then he put on some really long black socks with beige diamonds up the side. He had lots of spots on his back, his shirt was stained on the sleeve, and it had gone a bit at the cuffs. She felt sick with disgust at him and herself and had a bath and a shower before falling into an unrefreshing, guilty sleep.

  He did not look anything like a figure of romance the next day, just a seedy, cheating, selfish bloke who happened to be wearing a good suit, musky aftershave and drove a flash car. She couldn’t get his horrible pants out of her head, and the sight of him made her feel cheap and uglier than she had ever been at four stones heavier. She could not wait to get home and never see him again.

  All the way back up to Yorkshire she beat herself up with questions like: Why the hell hadn’t she kept her fantasy behind the line? How could she have done that to George? He had been so pleased to see her when she got back too, hugged her and told her how much he had missed her; and he had cooked something really special and decorated the dining room with balloons and Welcome Home banners for her, and she had cried. He’d been touched at how happy she was to see him, although he hadn’t known that it was guilt pushing most of those tears out.

  She nearly told him once what she had done but she knew it would destroy him. The past was set in stone, it could not be undone. All she could do was make it up to him, and she bought the privilege to do that with her silence.

  There was a weird atmosphere at the factory. The machines were whirring and chugging the same but something was definitely different. George could feel it and so could all the others, who gathered in little clusters throughout the morning to ask each other what was going on. George was less concerned with that and more with trying to have a word with his foreman so he could hand over his letter.

  ‘Not now, lad,’ said his foreman, even though he was three years younger than George was–but looking a good fifteen years older today. George being George, he didn’t push it and stuck the letter back in his pocket for a more conducive time.

  Janey came out of the consultant’s room smiling. He had said that the next time they met, she would probably have her little baby in her arms. It was unlikely he would be delivering it himself though, Mr Greer told her, which disappointed her slightly because she liked him. He had the same gently efficient manner as Alex Luxmore, and she trusted him on sight. He said
he would see her on his rounds afterwards though, which would be nice. It was a good job George wasn’t delivering her baby, she thought. It would take him a fortnight, although the baby would come out perfect at the end. She’d bet anything he had not given his resignation letter in.

  John Silkstone had worked hard in Germany and had earned himself quite a name over there for good quality work, which was a compliment, considering some of the craftsmen he had been up against. It had been a useful seven years and he had picked up many new skills from the German plasterers and the Italian tilers. He did a lot of overtime. He had realized almost immediately that his marriage had been a huge mistake. Lisa was pretty but she didn’t excite him or interest him at all. He knew why he had married her and it shamed him. Then she started the affair with Herman to get his attention–though he was just grateful for the escape route it gave him. They had both thrown themselves into their work to plug the emptiness; she had started importing underwear and had a thriving business in Germany now and he had worked all the hours God sent him to avoid going home to be bickered and nagged at in her frustration at not reaching a heart that was closed to her. Maybe if they hadn’t been so unhappy with each other, they would not have been as successful as they both were now in their careers. It was his only consolatory thought about the past years.

  He had not called after playing Santa’s advocate, so Elizabeth phoned him on Monday and left a message that if he cared to bob in when he was free she would thank him in person for the stuff, though they both knew it was because she wanted to give him a piece of her mind. He bravely turned up that same evening, as she was rounding off a phone call to Janey about her visit to the hospital. She offered him a beer and he thought, She’s got these in for me, and he accepted one gratefully.

  ‘You shouldn’t have spent all that, you know,’ she said, but a lot more gently than he had anticipated. ‘I can afford to kit my baby out myself, I’m not skint.’

  ‘I know you can,’ he said, ‘and before you say anything else, no, I don’t feel sorry for you because you’re by yourself and no, it’s not charity–it’s just a gift, for the baby, not you. Well, the big pants were and the sanitary things. Some gift, huh?’

  She turned away, embarrassed that he was even mentioning those.

  ‘Did I get the right size? It’s not a subject I’m up on.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ she said, trying to shake the subject away and he smiled at her discomfort.

  ‘Okay. I promise I won’t buy any more stuff if you don’t want.’

  ‘There’s nothing left to buy!’ she said. ‘And even if there were, you’ll be bankrupt if you get anything else.’

  ‘Oh, will you shut up, Elizabeth. I’m not exactly skint myself. I did more than okay in Germany.’

  ‘You won’t be well off any more if you keep throwing your money about,’ Elizabeth grumbled and he huffed impatiently.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me. Besides, I’ve nothing as nice to spend my money on. My dad will go into the best home I can find when it’s time, my mam’s well set up and she’ll never want for anything, and actually, Miss Collier, it was really good fun going out and buying your bairn stuff. I think I’ve finally got in touch with my feminine side–I can understand now what you women see in shopping.’

  She laughed. Feminine side? Him with his hairy arms and stubble, standing there as tall and solid as Blackpool Tower?

  ‘You didn’t use that paint I got you then? You didn’t get your nursery done?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll have my money back, please.’

  He laughed then and she went on, ‘Well, there’s no rush, the baby will be in with me for a bit. I left it too late, anyway, and I don’t think I could get up a ladder to paint the ceiling now.’

  ‘I’d do it for you myself, Elizabeth, but I’m run off my feet with these hou—’

  ‘I’m not hinting for you to do it, you know!’

  John made a move to strangle her and growled, ‘I give up with you! Why not get a decorator to do it? Use that money from the house because I bet you haven’t touched it yet.’

  She looked at him, horrified that he had even mentioned it.

  ‘I couldn’t use it.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘Well, half of it’s our Bev’s, for a start.’

  ‘The other half isn’t.’

  ‘I told you at the time the house sale went through that I’d never touch it. You wasted your time setting up that bank account.’

  ‘I bet you don’t even know how much is in there, do you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t a clue,’ she said proudly.

  ‘It was your grandmother’s old house before your mam and dad bought it from her–think of it that way. You liked your grandma, didn’t you?’ he reminded her, but that argument hadn’t convinced her then and it didn’t convince her now.

  ‘It was his money, whatever way you want to put it.’ Her voice softened suddenly. ‘I know you sorted it all out for me with the solicitors, John. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.’

  ‘There was thirty thousand there at least, Elizabeth. Add all your interest payments over ten years and…well, it’s a fair whack,’ he said. ‘The money itself isn’t evil, Elizabeth, and you may need it when the bairn comes along.’

  ‘I can’t see me ever being that desperate that I touch it,’ said Elizabeth, and especially not for decorating her baby’s room. Oh, flaming hell, why didn’t I get the room organized before! she thought. There might not have been a rush to get it finished but it would have been nice to have it done. She felt so out of control, with not a clue how to look after a little baby. She had been bad enough when the cat arrived! She was scared stiff she wouldn’t love her baby and be one of those mums who didn’t bond with her newborn and looked blankly at it, just wanting it to go away.

  ‘Suppose you’ll be off out with your mates on your birthday then?’ said John casually.

  ‘Dunno, hadn’t thought about it yet,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you fancy a nice meal out or the Odeon or something?’

  ‘I don’t think we can sit still long enough for a film and I’m not sure any of us would want to face a big meal by then. We’ve all got cracking heartburn.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, with a slow nod, and something in the way he did it made her think, Bugger, I bet he didn’t mean with the girls, he meant with him!

  ‘Anyway, I suppose I best get off…’

  How the heck do I recover this?

  ‘I…er…egg fried rice?’ she blurted out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I could murder some egg fried rice and Chinese chips. Want some?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t eat chips.’

  ‘Yes–well, I fancy some now. If you want to stay and have some I’ll pay. Sort of a thank you, you know, for all the stuff you bought.’

  ‘You? Say thank you? Twice in one lifetime?’ he said, putting his hands on his chest and feigning a cardiac arrest.

  ‘Look, do you want a Chinese or not?’ she said impatiently.

  ‘Seeing as you put it so charmingly, how can I refuse? You got a takeaway menu then?’

  ‘Or’–gulp–‘we could eat out. The bookies around the corner is the Golden Dragon now. Apparently it’s not bad.’

  He stared at her as if she had just grown another head, then thought, Well, I never! and rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Okay then, but if you’re paying, I’m going to town, lady, because I am one hungry beast.’

  ‘Just as long as you don’t expect to share my rice, mate.’

  ‘Your rice will be your rice alone, I promise.’

  Elizabeth grabbed her jacket and her keys and, together, they walked down the road to the Golden Dragon, both wanting, but not quite daring, to link arms.

  Chapter 42

  ‘Ready again?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be!’ George tapped the letter in his pocket and came over all déjà vu.

  ‘Right, this morning it is then
,’ said Janey decisively, trying not to nag but failing. ‘I mean, how flaming difficult can it be to hand a letter over, love?’

  ‘I’m not just going to slam it in someone’s hand, Janey. I’ve worked there a long time, I owe them more than that.’

  George operated one of the most financially important machines in the factory–a big, reliable German piece of equipment that pressed out tiny plastic cogs. It was also the most boring job in the whole place and he was the only bloke who had ever stuck it for longer than a month without being dragged off in a shirt with sleeves that tied behind the back towards a waiting white van. Day in, day out, George patiently worked on it though, and no one was envious that he actually got paid a bit more on his hourly rate because it was such a brain-dead job. He knew he would be hard to replace.

  Janey shook her head impatiently at him. Yes, he was sure-footed and always got there in the end, but he was so flaming slow! She just wished sometimes a freak stick of dynamite would lodge itself up his backside and detonate. At this rate, he’d still be working his notice when her legs were up in stirrups and she was bearing down to push.

  That was the fourth morning on the trot George had set off with his letter in his pocket but no one had the time to let him book even two minutes in with the Personnel bloke. The management were buzzing around like mad bees looking all serious and intense; it was like working in a very stressed hive. If he had been a pushy sort like Chris Fretwell, he could have insisted on seeing someone and made lots of noise until they took notice, but George reckoned he would get to speak to someone in the end, when they had time to listen to him without forcing the issue and getting people’s backs up.

  He clocked on, then made his way down the factory floor past the big tool shop and the massive machine that made coat-hangers for Marks & Spencer, past the ones that churned out cat-litter trays and right to the far end to his own, anything but cosy, corner. He had just sat down at this machine, noting how much the lazy swine on the night shift hadn’t managed to do, when he noticed his foreman taking Chris Fretwell off his machine and leading him away. Then a little later on he came for Fred Hines, then Johnny Skelly. None of them came back, either. It was like being in an Agatha Christie. Then the foreman came for him.