by Anne Doughty
‘I have a parcel for you. Came yesterday. And a note from Valerie. I can give them to you then,’ she ended firmly as she looked back over her shoulder and closed her kitchen door.
I worked off my fury on the garage and by ten thirty I was feeling quite pleased with myself. I had a huge pile of newspapers and flattened cardboard for the charity collection, two boxes of magazines for the local hospital, and three boxes of assorted objects which I would insist Colin went through and disposed of. As I swept out the cobwebs and last year’s autumn leaves, I was amazed at just how large the double garage had become.
It was turning into the loveliest of autumn days, mild and blowy, with sudden bursts of warm sun. As I scrubbed my hands at the kitchen sink, blinking in the strong sunlight, I told myself that it was far better to do Karen properly and get it over than to try and dodge in and out of the garden all afternoon, never knowing when that sharp little voice would scatter my thoughts to the four winds. Once I’d done my duty visit, I could whiz through the rest of the house. Then I’d be free to go into the garden. I was dying to go down and look at the chrysanthemums. There might be enough in bloom for a big arrangement in the hall.
‘My goodness, you have been busy, Jenny.’
The small, close-set eyes took in every detail of my appearance in one quick sweep as she directed me through to the lounge.
‘You’d better sit down and have a rest while I perk the coffee. I’ve got it all ready.’
Somewhat taken aback, for Saturday morning coffees were usually served at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, I settled myself on one of the raft-like armchairs identical to the ones we’d inherited with the show house. I looked around me. The place was as pristine as a furniture showroom, even down to the crystal vase containing six long-stemmed red carnations with the regulation two sprays of greenery. And not the remotest trace of two children under three.
I dropped off my mules and drew my bare feet up under me. The seats of these ocean-going armchairs are so deep that my feet don’t reach the ground unless I perch on the edge. And I wasn’t in the mood for that. As I leaned comfortably back, I spotted the smoked glass coffee table. It had been placed squarely between the two armchairs and was laid with a bright red woven cloth and pottery coffee cups. On the pottery plates, matching red paper napkins were aligned precisely with each other.
Watch out, Jennifer, I said to myself, as I took in the detail. Trouble in store. I stared at the two red triangles until their sharp outline blurred. I caught the smell of coffee and fresh scones and braced myself. Karen wanted something. I picked a stray cobweb off my trousers, concealed it in my pocket and sat looking out through the picture window which framed the Saturday morning comings and goings of other inhabitants of Loughview Heights.
Chapter 6
Karen pressed the switch on the coffee percolator and glanced through the serving hatch into the lounge. It was all looking very nice, even down to the flowers she’d bought after she’d met Mrs Erwin and Mrs McKinstry and had such a long talk with them in Brand’s. Jenny Erwin really did look a mess. No wonder they were so concerned about her. No make-up, her hair lank and unwashed and as for what she was wearing, you’d think she’d picked it up at a church jumble sale.
One might have some sympathy if she couldn’t afford to dress properly, but she and Colin were very comfortably off, two salaries, a firm’s car and from what Neville gathered, hardly any mortgage either. She’d got everything, so why on earth was she still working?
She wiped a few drops of water from the polished work surface and spread the cloth neatly on the drying rack above the radiator. The percolator began to gurgle. It really shouldn’t make as much noise as that, surely. Perhaps it was time to use the descaling powder again.
Well, she’d promised them she would do what she could. Having known Jenny so long, it wasn’t surprising they’d felt she was the right person to say something. But it wasn’t easy. Jenny could be awkward. And that was being generous. With Valerie Thompson egging her on, she was downright stubborn. Talk, talk, talk, the pair of them, whenever you saw them together, making up their minds what they thought. Most of it pie in the sky. In the end, they’d just have to do what everyone else did and settle down.
The percolator gulped and spat out small specks of coffee onto the work surface. She retrieved the cloth and decided it really wouldn’t do. A wedding present from one of the Baird cousins, it had been an expensive one but wasn’t really modern. That was the problem with Neville’s family. Even the ones who had done well, like his father, and moved out to detached houses in nice parts of the city, still didn’t have much style. She really must look in Robinson Cleaver’s for something more up-to-date next Friday when she had her day off from the children.
Still focused on the room beyond, her eye caught a movement. She saw her guest bend forward, pick something from the leg of those disgusting trousers and put it in her pocket. What were those strings hanging down below her sweater? The ends looked almost like the tassels on a pyjama cord. Probably it was some peculiar craft work thing Valerie had produced with her backward children in that school of hers. You could never tell what either of that pair would turn up in next. They’d wear anything just to be different.
Well, they weren’t different, for all their great talk. Valerie always said she wanted to be an artist. And Jenny fancied herself as a writer. She’d had a couple of stories published in some little magazine nobody had ever heard of, but there was no mention of writing these days. And Valerie wasn’t going to have much time for being an artist now.
‘There you are, Jenny, a nice fresh cup of coffee,’ Karen began as she came in with the percolator and perched herself on the edge of the raft opposite. ‘Now, do tell me all your news.’
For a moment I was quite taken aback. Then I thought of Maisie and recognised the familiar strategy. She would sit us down in her kitchen, say, ‘Now, dear, we’re on our own, tell me how you are,’ and settle herself just as Karen was doing now. Maisie could ask questions about the job that looked as if she was really interested. But the interest never lasted long. She’d take just enough time to collect the information she needed, some detail like a job we hadn’t managed to do or something I’d not got finished, and then she’d strike.
‘You know, Jenny dear, men never understan’ what it’s like tryin’ to run a house,’ she’d begin, sincerity oozing from every pore. ‘Colin’s the best in the world, I know he is,’ she’d go on, ‘but no man has ony idea, ony idea, what a job it is.’ Her eyes would gaze heavenward as if seeking the agreement of the Almighty Himself. ‘An’ you work so hard, Jenny, tryin’ to do yer best for them girls. All that markin’ and preparin’ work. Even at the weekends.’ I always knew she was about to get to the point when she lowered her voice confidentially, even if the whole house was empty.
‘Jenny, ivery woman needs time wi’ her husband an’ time to herself.’
She would make a little bowing gesture with her head that appeared to mean ‘we married women know about such intimate things, so we don’t have to say any more’. Then she’d pat my hand reassuringly and offer her advice. Maisie could see exactly how to solve my problems of time and conflicting activities. However often it was offered, the advice always came down to the same thing and it was always blatantly obvious that it was what Maisie herself wanted. I should give up work, start a family ‘whenever it suited me’, and devote myself to being a company wife and a mother.
‘And what plays have you seen this term, Jenny?’ Karen persisted when I’d despatched her request for my news with a few dismissive comments.
She moved the basket of fresh scones a little towards me. Reluctantly, I worked out that from my present comfortable position I couldn’t reach either the individual butter pot or the cut-glass dish with the homemade strawberry jam. If I wanted a scone, I’d have to perch on the edge of my raft like Karen.
‘Super scones, Karen,’ I said, after I’d completed my manoeuvre.
‘Do have
another. I know you like fresh scones. You don’t get time to bake very often, do you?’ she asked sweetly.
I shook my head as I spread strawberry jam generously on the still warm scone. Eat, drink and be merry, Jenny, for she’ll shortly get to the point.
But Karen was taking her time. First, I had an account of this super dress she had found in Brand’s the previous morning. Then came details of the marvellous scheme she and Carol had worked out so they could each be free to go shopping and have their hair done once a week. After that, we moved to her new car, and how much easier it now was just to pop in the babies and their things and whisk them over to Rathmore Drive to her mother, or Malone Park, to her mother-in-law, when she wanted a day to herself. It was so nice being able to do things and go places again. She sat back and sighed agreeably as if resting after sustained effort. Now that she looked back on it, the year’s teaching she’d done when she was first married really had been very demanding. Even Neville agreed how difficult it had all been and I knew how easy-going Neville was, didn’t I?
‘Is Neville working today?’ I asked when she paused for breath.
She frowned slightly. Clearly, I had said the wrong thing. But she recomposed her smile and tossed her head. ‘No, not likely. Rugger comes first on Saturdays. He’s off to a lunch for some visiting team. They’re playing at Ravenhill this afternoon. Goodness knows when he’ll appear back.’
‘Don’t you mind him being away all day?’ I asked, curious she should seem so relaxed about his absence.
‘Goodness no. He works hard all week. He’s entitled to a break at weekends. Of course, Mummy comes over on Saturday afternoons and stays the night, so I never mind if he’s late or wants to “go out with the boys”, as the saying is,’ she ended archly.
I thought of the way Neville hopped over the fence at the slightest encouragement and wondered just how much he figured in Karen’s scheme of things. She certainly looked as if she had got what she wanted. She sat, mistress of the smoked glass coffee table, entirely pleased with herself, a smile on her face that made me think of a well-fed pussycat.
Unlike me, Karen had always known exactly what she wanted. At school, she’d been quite open about it. Get her O-levels. Go to Domestic Science College. Marry. Have a lovely home and her own car. And four lovely children. And, presumably, live happily ever after. So far, she was right on target. Two down and two to go. Just the happy-ever-after bit to come.
‘I saw your mother yesterday, Jenny,’ she began, putting down her empty coffee cup. ‘She was with Mrs McKinstry in Brand’s and I was on my own, so I went and joined them.’
‘Oh,’ I said, noncommittally.
‘Your mother said you were going up for a meal.’
I stared silently at the dregs of my coffee and found myself quite unwilling to say anything else. But there was no need to say anything. Karen had picked her moment and begun. There was not the slightest possibility of stopping her.
‘Really, Jenny, she did seem so concerned about you. And Mrs McKinstry too. They both said you’ve been losing weight, and I must say I did notice it myself when you were hanging up Colin’s shirts. Don’t you think, Jenny, it’s all getting a bit much, teaching and trying to run a home?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘Lots of my colleagues seem to manage perfectly well,’ I replied as steadily as I could. ‘Even the ones with children.’
‘Well, of course, it depends what you mean by “manage”, doesn’t it?’ she said, smiling indulgently. ‘I don’t think you’d much enjoy the mess some of them are happy to live in. You’ve always liked things to be nice, haven’t you, Jenny? And you so love your garden and your photography and so on. You can’t have very much time for those any more.’
‘So what are you suggesting I do, Karen?’ I asked quietly. I wasn’t in much doubt what her answer would be and I’d no idea how I’d deal with it, but I was suddenly weary of the play being played. As I looked across at her prim little face, I had a picture of someone just so damn sure of herself, so confident that the little world she’d made for herself was the only one anyone could possibly want. I had the most passionate desire to do something quite outrageous.
‘Well, honestly, Jenny, at your age you really should have begun.’
To my own surprise, I laughed. It was the tone that did it. Two months older than me and Karen was already a matron, full of gravity and wisdom. I wondered if her manner was a side effect of parturition.
‘You make me sound like Methuselah. For heaven’s sake, I’m only twenty-six.’
‘But that’s just the point. You are twenty-six. It’s more than time you were thinking of your first. You know perfectly well that the ideal age is eighteen and after that, fertility begins to drop and complications are more likely. I’m sure that’s what your mother and Mrs McKinstry are worried about. They’re only thinking of your own good.’
‘Oh, I know that’s what they’re worried about all right,’ I replied agreeably. ‘Whether they’re thinking of my own good rather than their own good is another matter.’
Karen’s sympathetic look disappeared like snow off a ditch, but before I had time to enjoy my success, she’d collected herself again. She continued, her voice now much less persuasive, her tone demanding. ‘But, Jenny, all the medical evidence is there. I mean, I do know quite a lot about it. Mr Jones is so good at explaining things. He says it’s so much better to have your family young.’
‘If you’re going to have one.’ My response had popped out without any permission from me.
‘Jenny!’
I felt the colour drain from my face. From the look on hers, it was quite clear I had said the unsayable. And perhaps I had. That Colin and I would have children had always been part of our plan. It was there when we talked about ‘when we came back from Abu Dhabi’ or ‘when we bought our house in the country’. Suddenly, it seemed I had put a large question mark against the whole idea.
‘Perhaps I shall prove infertile,’ I said quickly while I digested the implications of what I’d said. ‘Don’t forget, Karen, that one couple in six are unable to conceive.’ If Karen was going to quote medical evidence then she might as well have a bit of something on the other side. But I might as well not have spoken. I’d forgotten that any fact or figure not a part of her own collection was always dismissed as hearsay.
She tossed my comment aside and went on remorselessly, ‘But you haven’t even tried, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t. And I don’t intend to. Not until I’ve made up my mind about committing eighteen years of my life to what you call “enjoying yourself “. You haven’t told me what I do if I don’t enjoy myself,’ I said sharply. ‘What if I’m not cut out for motherhood?’
She smiled patiently, as if this were no more than she expected. ‘Honestly, Jenny,’ she went on, secure in the knowledge that she had all the answers, ‘it’s no wonder we’re all so concerned about you. You really are upsetting yourself quite unnecessarily. You’re tired out. You’re losing weight. You have far too much to do. Now, tell me honestly, have you ever met anyone who didn’t enjoy having a family?’ She sat back comfortably for the first time, confident she had made an unanswerable point.
‘Yes, I have,’ I replied promptly. ‘I meet them all the time. Only they just don’t admit it. They take it out on their husbands or the children themselves, and go on encouraging other women to do what they’ve done. Why not? If they’ve got it wrong, why shouldn’t everybody else do the same? But it’s grim for the poor kids. Perhaps the problems don’t show up so much when you’re teaching domestic science, but they certainly do when you’re teaching English.’
Karen shook her head and smiled. ‘All my girls were looking forward to being mothers and having a home of their own. Even the juniors,’ she added as she began to gather up the coffee cups.
I hadn’t set out to be provocative but I knew there was an edge in my voice. I was really puzzled and distinctly uneasy as to why she hadn’t reacted.
‘You
know, Jenny, I have always tried to help you but it’s not easy,’ she said patiently. ‘Why don’t you talk to some of your other friends? Perhaps they could help you more than I can, though I’ve known you longer than any of them.’
She stood up and I hauled myself out of the raft, put my feet back in my mules and thanked her for coffee. On the face of it, I had made my point. But as I followed her through to the kitchen, there was something about the set of her shoulders and her self-confident tone that reminded me of schooldays when Karen was well-known for passing on confidences and hurtful gossip. Envious of my friendship with Valerie, more than once she’d managed to create upsets between us.
‘Here you are, Jenny. More poetry books. I don’t know how you find time to read them,’ she said sweetly.
I took them quickly and was about to open the door when she smiled again.
‘Oh, you mustn’t forget Valerie’s note, must you? She came last night and said she hadn’t seen you for ages. She was looking terribly well. Absolutely blooming.’
She was still using the sweet tone that was making me feel so uncomfortable.
‘Oh good,’ I said firmly.
She passed over the note reluctantly.
‘Thank you,’ I added as I stepped outside.
‘Perhaps you’d better just glance at it, Jenny. It might be about tonight. You’ll be wanting a lift, won’t you?’
‘Lift? Where to?’
‘Valerie’s party, of course. Don’t tell me you didn’t know about it?’ she said in amazement.
I didn’t look at her. I could imagine the satisfaction on her face only too well. I didn’t answer her either, I just unfolded the note, which I was sure she’d read. It was written in Valerie’s usual expansive manner with a purple felt-tipped pen and heavy underlinings. ‘Dear Jenny,’ it said, ‘I’m so sorry to have missed you tonight – I came especially to see you. Karen says Colin is away and has the car, but you will still come tomorrow, won’t you? Bob will collect you if Karen and Neville can’t bring you. I must see you – I have so much to tell you. Love and hugs. Val.’