I Made a Mistake

by Jane Corry

  Jock no longer tried to make me laugh or be kind or look after me, as he had done during most of our engagement. If supper wasn’t ready within a few minutes of us getting home, he’d ask me why I wasn’t more organized. He started to object to my eyeliner, which made me ‘look like a tart’, and my clothes. The polyester navy-blue jumpsuit my mother had bought me as a birthday present was ‘too revealing’. Goodness knows what he’d have said about some of the things that Melissa and Daisy wear!

  We had constant rows about money, too. One day, one of the heels from the only pair of shoes I owned came off. The mender said he couldn’t do any more for it so I had to buy a new pair. ‘What?’ thundered Jock when I told him how much they’d cost. ‘How do you think we can afford that?’

  ‘It was the cheapest I could find,’ I protested.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to do without meat for a month. And the electric fire as well.’

  He put his coat on. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, alarmed.

  ‘To the pub.’

  ‘But we don’t have any money.’

  ‘You don’t. I’ll do what I like with my wages. I’m not the one who spent half a week’s pay packet on shoes.’

  Nowadays, girls wouldn’t stand for this. At least not many. But in our day, women like me were less certain of ourselves. I didn’t want to tell my mother that things weren’t good between Jock and me. It made me feel that I was a failure. But one day, when we were asked over for Sunday lunch, and Jock made a great show of putting his arm around me and calling me his ‘lovely wife’ (affection he never displayed at home), I burst into tears in the kitchen.

  My mother instantly shut the door so I couldn’t be heard. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  I told her between sobs. ‘There are some men,’ she said slowly, ‘who need to be in charge. It comes from the war. Women had more independence then, and when their menfolk came back, they didn’t always like it.’

  ‘But that was years ago,’ I said.

  My mother gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Attitudes stick. They get passed from one generation to the other. Sounds to me like Jock takes after his father.’

  She stopped. I didn’t care for my father-in-law, although, of course, I’d never actually said so. He was a gruff man who thought nothing of spitting on the ground, even if he was in the house. Maybe that’s why Jock had discouraged me from going too often round to his place when we were engaged. He also expected his wife to wait on him, just as Jock now expected me to do.

  ‘Does he beat you?’

  My mother said this in such a casual manner that I was shocked.

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘That’s something, then.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ I cried. ‘I’m not happy. What shall I do?’

  My mother shrugged. ‘You do what countless women over the centuries have done. Just get on with it.’

  ‘But I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘You can’t get divorced.’ My mother’s voice was low and sharp. ‘What would people think of us? Anyway, you have to work at a marriage. It’s normal to have ups and downs at first. It will be better when you have a baby.’

  ‘But we can barely afford to eat, let alone have a child.’

  My mother shook her head. ‘You lot don’t know when you’re well off. I didn’t even see an orange during the war years when I was a kid. Where’s your spirit, Betty? I’d have thought more of you than this. Besides, you were desperate to marry Jock.’

  ‘Yes, but he was different then.’

  ‘They all are.’ My mother sounded wistful for a minute. Then her voice turned tough again. ‘You girls with your modern ways! You think you know it all, don’t you? Well, you don’t. It might sound hard, but you’ve made your bed and now you’ll have to lie in it. There’s no way you’re bringing disgrace on this family by leaving.’

  So I soldiered on. I became a different me to make the new Jock happy. I wore cheap baggy clothes from the market. I gave him the best cuts of meat, telling myself I wasn’t hungry. I pretended not to care when the girls at work ignored me because I didn’t smoke during breaks or cuss like a trooper.

  And when Jock made love to me, I pretended he was someone else. An actor in the series we were watching on television. Anyone. Just so long as I could get through it.

  This went on for two years. Then Jock got promoted at the factory. His wages doubled. ‘See?’ he said. ‘I told you we’d be all right. The boss says I’ll go far.’ He preened. ‘Reckons I’ve got what it takes to get right to the top.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ I said. I’d learned that the best way to make Jock happy (apart from providing regular food and sex) was to praise him.

  ‘We’ll be able to afford a baby soon.’

  ‘Really?’ My heart thudded. Of course, I wanted a child. But that would also mean I’d have to stay in the marriage. There’d be no way out. Although I’d told myself my mother was right about not leaving Jock, I also took heart from the fact that I could still do it one day if things became unbearable. But if there was a child, I couldn’t. Single mothers, you see, were still disapproved of in those days.

  The night after his pay rise, Jock refused to wear what he referred to as a French letter. I’d been using a Dutch cap too, just to be sure, but he took it out of its box and threw it away. ‘There,’ he said, beaming at me. ‘We don’t need that either.’

  I tried to reassure myself. No one got pregnant first time without contraception. I’d learned that from gossip amongst the girls on the assembly line. Some of them had been trying for months.

  But four weeks later, my period didn’t come.

  I said nothing for another four weeks just in case. Then I began to be sick every morning.

  ‘It’s a bug that’s going around,’ I told Jock. But my mouth tasted metallic. Again, I knew from assembly-line chat that this was a sign of early pregnancy.

  Still I said nothing and waited. If I told Jock I was pregnant and I wasn’t, he might blame me for ‘getting it wrong’. But my third period didn’t start, I went to the doctor. The receptionist rang two days later. ‘I’m delighted to tell you, Mrs Page, that you’re pregnant.’

  At last I’d done something he’d be pleased with. And he was. ‘I’ve done it,’ he said, punching the air. ‘That’ll show the boys.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He looked slightly abashed. ‘They kept asking when I was going to be a father, as if there was something wrong with me. But now we’re going to be a real family.’

  That night, he made love to me so hard that I cried.

  The following morning there was blood on the sheet and the cramps in my stomach were so bad that I was doubled over with the pain. Jock rang my mum, who came racing round.

  ‘Get the doctor,’ she said.

  I was terrified. We’d never got the doctor out in our lives.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I cried. ‘Am I going to be all right?’

  But my mother didn’t answer.

  7

  Poppy

  The doorbell goes straight after supper. ‘Expecting anyone?’ asks Betty as we’re clearing up together.

  ‘No,’ I say, finding myself going red as I rush to answer it.

  It’s Doris! Looking quite the part in a natty little lime green 1950s-style suit and high heels. I breathe a sigh of relief, although it’s not really necessary. I mean it’s not as though Matthew is actually going to turn up on my doorstep. He doesn’t have my address and, besides, why should he visit me?

  ‘I know we’d arranged Monday for me to sign the contract,’ she trills, ‘but I was passing on my way out to meet friends and thought I’d call in on the off chance. I hope it’s not too inconvenient.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Please. Come up to my study. The paperwork is there.’

  ‘What a pretty house,’ she says, following me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I love your office,’ she says, looking around. ‘To think that all your magic
happens here!’

  I glow with the compliment. ‘None of this would work without brilliant people like you on the books,’ I tell her, giving her the contract to sign.

  ‘You know,’ says Doris, ‘today’s my birthday. That’s why I’m celebrating with friends. But my life has only come into its own since I met you. You really have made all my dreams come true!’

  ‘That’s so nice of you,’ I say, giving her a hug.

  ‘Mum!’ calls out Daisy from downstairs.

  ‘I must leave you to your little family,’ says Doris, heading for the door. ‘OH!’

  To my horror, she falls to the floor. ‘I tripped on the carpet,’ she groans.

  Her right high heel is still entangled in the worn section that the chesterfield usually hides. Betty must have pushed it a bit further over when vacuuming. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask, worried.

  She gets up and rubs her right shoulder. ‘This hurts quite a bit.’

  ‘Would you like an ice pack?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Doris carries on down the stairs, still holding her shoulder. ‘I don’t want to be late for my friends.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nods. Doris is a real trooper. She’s from the generation that never complains. Once she told me that, just after the war, they were so poor that her mother had pulled out one of Doris’s teeth with a pair of pliers because they couldn’t afford a dentist. I hadn’t realized it was her birthday. Maybe I’ll send her some flowers.

  After she’s gone, I order a lovely bouquet of roses and lilies through an online site and do a bit more work on my computer. Then Betty, Daisy and I snuggle up on the sofa to watch a soppy box-set romance. I’m not entirely sure if it’s suitable for a fourteen-year-old but, as my mother-in-law says while she hands round a plate of home-made honey-and-sultana flapjacks, times have changed.

  I try to concentrate but I’ve got a blinding tension headache. The trauma of seeing Matthew again – and then turning down what might or might not have been an innocuous invitation to coffee – has taken its toll. Every now and then I can’t help checking my mobile but he hasn’t responded. Of course he hasn’t. My polite rebuff had been more than enough. There is, however, a text from Stuart to say he’s been delayed at the conference and will be back ‘late’. He doesn’t specify a time.

  ‘Ooh,’ squeals Daisy, grabbing my arm as the film hots up. ‘Look! He’s going to ask her out.’

  How sweet! I do hope my youngest daughter doesn’t grow up too fast. May she be blessed with an uncomplicated (if old-fashioned) married life like my mother-in-law had had. As for Melissa, I’ve got a feeling that she might always be looking for something that doesn’t quite exist. At the moment, she seems quite sweet (as my father would put it) on a boy called Jonnie from school. ‘He’s just a friend,’ she told me tartly when I inquired. I’m not sure I believe her but I don’t want to push.

  When the programme finishes, Daisy goes up without demur to bed. ‘Think I’ll turn in now,’ says my mother-in-law, yawning. She’s looking tired, I notice with a pang. Betty usually seems much younger than her age. Since Jock died, she’s started to wear a touch more make-up and buys well-cut trousers instead of what she refers to as ‘slacks’. She’s also so much in tune with the rest of us that I forget that she’s actually seventy, according to the paperwork we helped her with after Jock’s death. (Betty herself has always been a bit hazy about her age. I suspect it’s because she doesn’t like getting older.)

  ‘Sleep well,’ I say, giving her a big hug. Once more, I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her. Other women I know are always moaning about their mothers-in-law. Mine is the mother I never had …

  ‘What about you?’ she says, holding me out with her arms as though inspecting me. ‘You must be exhausted after that work do of yours last night.’

  Is it my imagination or can she sense all the emotions churning inside me?

  No. Of course not. Betty, with the experience of her steady, traditional marriage with Jock, would be shocked if I told her about the imaginary scenes that had been playing in my head since I’d seen Matthew again.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I tell her. ‘Now, you go off to bed. I’ll wait up for Melissa.’

  One of the other parents is bringing her back from the party but it’s nearly 1 a.m. by the time I hear my eldest daughter’s key in the lock. By then I’m out of my mind with worry, imagining all kinds of disasters.

  ‘Sorry,’ she slurs. ‘Jonnie’s mum got lost trying to find the house.’

  ‘I tried to ring you,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you pick up?’

  ‘Out of battery.’

  How often have I heard that one? ‘Have you been drinking?’ I say, following her up the stairs. It’s a stupid question. Of course she has.

  ‘No. And stop nagging.’

  She goes into her room and shuts the door in my face. For a minute I wonder whether to go in after her but then decide to have a calmer discussion in the morning. Instead, I have a long lovely hot steamy bath in which I close my eyes and imagine that …

  No, I tell myself. This isn’t right. So I get out and check my mobile. Nothing from Stuart. Or anyone else.

  At some point in the night, I’m aware of my husband climbing into bed next to me. ‘You’re back,’ I mumble.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says. He doesn’t exactly smell but I can tell that he hasn’t washed either. I take this as a reassuring sign. Men are meant to have power showers or deep baths as soon as they get back if they have affairs, aren’t they? At least, they are according to the odd magazine article I’ve read. Anyway, Stuart simply isn’t the kind of man who would cheat. Isn’t that one of the reasons I’d married him? Besides, he only has eyes for his work.

  Then he starts to snore gently. I’ve always envied my husband’s ability to fall asleep the minute his head hits the pillow. I, by contrast, am now wide awake.

  I lean over and try to kiss him.

  He turns away. ‘Don’t wake me up,’ he murmurs, before starting to snore again.

  ‘When are we going to show each other some affection then?’ I want to say. I almost want to tell him that if he’s not interested, there are others who are. I don’t want to cause a row. It’s more a question of self-esteem. But he’s out like a light now.

  Or at least pretending to be.

  In the morning, I wake to find an empty space beside me. I wander downstairs, feeling better after a night’s rest. It’s already 10 a.m. I haven’t slept this long for ages.

  Stuart is in the kitchen, washing up everything I’d put in the dishwasher the night before. This is an ongoing area of tension between us. My husband prefers to do it all himself by hand, carefully cleaning each little fork prong or knife edge. ‘It’s a dentist thing,’ he’d once told me. ‘When you see what’s inside people’s mouths, you realize the importance of sterilizing anything that enters it.’

  ‘Sorry if I woke you up last night when I came to bed,’ he says now, dropping a light kiss on my forehead.

  If he remembers his rebuff, he isn’t going to apologize. Why should he? It’s not as though it was the first time.

  ‘How was your work party on Friday night?’ he continues. ‘We haven’t had a chance to discuss it. Did you have a good time?’

  My husband isn’t being sarcastic. Stuart and I are used to going our own ways when it comes to work. He has his out-of-hours appointments for patients while I often have shoots that go on into the evening or interviews with possible clients and also ‘wraps’ to enjoy the success and make more contacts. Part of a casting agent’s responsibilities is to make sure that clients are happy and doing what they should be. Even at the weekend, one of us might well be working. We each accept this is part of our respective jobs. Yet today I feel I’ve broken the rules. Which I have. Even if it’s only in my head.

  ‘It was all right,’ I say, trying not to sound nervous. But inside, I feel as though I am a different woman from the one before the party. I almost exp
ect the kitchen to have changed; for its gleaming range, the expensive vintage-look kitchen table, the honey-pine floorboards and the view out of the French windows to our long (if thin) garden to have been somehow transformed. We are particularly proud of the latter, given that in this part of north-west London each square centimetre costs a small fortune. How can everything still be the same when I drifted off to sleep last night thinking of Matthew Gordon and doing things to my own body that I wish he had done? Some might say I am overreacting. Maybe I am. But it still feels wrong.

  ‘I tried to get back from the party,’ I say, ‘but I had a couple of drinks and then couldn’t get a taxi because of the weather.’

  I’d already told him all this in a text during the day yesterday but Stuart doesn’t seem to think it’s odd or that I’m babbling nervously.

  ‘We had a lovely family evening last night,’ I add, deciding to skip the various earlier domestic dramas. ‘Your mum, Daisy and I watched a film. Melissa was out partying. How are you? How was your conference?’

  ‘Really interesting, actually. There was this new paper on …’

  He then launches into a lengthy monologue about the pros and cons of a certain filling mixture. Is this really the man who, on our first date, had recited the whole of the ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ sonnet by Shakespeare. (Later, he told me that he’d learned it off pat in order to impress me because he thought I’d like that, as an actress.) Now I pretend to listen to his dental talk, nodding at the right bits, or so I hope, while making toast on the Aga.

  ‘Are the girls still asleep?’ I ask when he’s finished.

  ‘No. Melissa’s having her driving lesson.’

  It had completely slipped my mind. ‘But she had too much to drink last night. She’ll be over the limit.’

  Stuart looks concerned. ‘Really? She seemed all right to me this morning.’