The Seduction of Mrs Pendlebury Page 2

  The little yard, when she finally stepped out into it, was full of sunlight. She blinked, and shaded her eyes with her hand. Not only was her sight not so good – she had also noticed that any strong light made her eyes water. Bouncing off the concrete ground the sudden sunlight was very powerful. She had always planned to cover in the yard. A bare six feet by four, it filled the space between the two additions before the garden began. The living-room window looked out on to it so that it was like looking through a tunnel to the open air beyond. In winter it gave her the creeps – she was always expecting somebody to come round the corner and surprise her. In summer, the sun was kept out of the house by the shadows cast on either side. She hated the yard.

  Head bowed, she was about to rush through it when clear and strong she heard a voice say, ‘Who do you suppose lives next door?’ Unaccountably, her heart began to thud and she found herself hanging back.

  ‘What do you mean – “who”?’ came the reply.

  ‘Well – you know – a family, or fiats, old or young, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Should imagine an elderly couple by the look of the front.’

  ‘That’s a pity, isn’t it. It would have been nice to have children next door.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll babysit.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The people next door, if they haven’t got kids.’

  ‘The things you think of.’

  The voices went on, but farther away. She waited until they had died out and then, in a hurry, trotted through the yard onto the grass. Keeping close to the bushes she walked as naturally as possible to the bottom of the garden towards the garage. There she tried the door to make sure it was locked. The garage was on a raised bit of ground from where she could look into the next-door gardens, which she did, furtively. They were empty. Relieved, she came down, the excitement passing. Nobody could accuse her of eavesdropping. Eavesdroppers quite rightly never hear good of themselves, but she had not eavesdropped. What could she have been expected to do – go back inside, not walk in her own garden when she felt like it?

  When Stanley came back she was still trembling with indignation. She burst out immediately, ‘You’ve taken your time coming home, I must say.’ Stanley took his hat off and gave her a long look that annoyed her to death. It wasn’t what one could call a searching or penetrating look – Stanley was much too blank to apply such adjectives to. It was, on the contrary, a vacant look, if anything. It had proved very useful to him over a number of years, saved him from making a lot of silly mistakes. He had always employed this delaying device to great effect with his wife. Though at first it would produce anger in her, if he kept it up long enough it resulted in her telling him what all the fuss was about without him having to ask a lot of tiring questions and, if he could get away with sustaining his dramatic pause even further, she could be depended on to solve the problem posed herself. Hopefully, Stanley held his hat in his hands and concentrated on The Look, taking care not to let the slightest glimmer of either amusement, boredom or bewilderment creep into his expression. He had only to move a muscle to bring disaster on his head. He had no wish for a late tea.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me it took forty-five minutes to walk from the Centre?’ Rose shouted at him. ‘You might be slow but you’re not crawling, not yet, though when I look at you tottering along like an eighty-year-old, not a seventy-year-old, I sometimes wonder which side of the grave you’re on. A man who leaves his wife that long when anything could have been happening, anything. I might be dead and murdered the time you take, but oh no, I don’t matter – and now I suppose you’ll be wanting your tea, won’t you, you’ll be wanting your tea unless you’ve been stuffing yourself with shop cakes up there, have you? More than likely, you’ve never known what’s good for you. Well, do you want your tea or don’t you? Don’t just stand there like a tailor’s dummy.’

  Stanley knew it was vitally important that that was precisely how he should continue to stand. He might risk clearing his throat at this juncture, or very carefully putting his hat down, but that was all. His pale, watery eyes were fixed on Rose’s chest, which soon began to heave as she got going again. She had dirty marks on her dress which she didn’t seem to notice. She’d washed that dress only last week. He’d seen her scrubbing it furiously but somehow not where the dirty marks were. Now, with the rest of the dress so clean, they stood out even more, except to Rose. Well, let sleeping dogs lie.

  It all settled down nicely. Contentedly, Stanley munched his chicken salad and listened. He never thought of Rose as a hen-pecker or a shrew. He never even thought of her as bad-tempered because he understood her. She only shouted when she was upset or frightened and he saw it as his duty to console her by his calm. He was rock-like. She could hurl herself against him and he wouldn’t break. He would be just the same afterwards. Not many people had witnessed Rose’s funny ways. She had funny ways in public too, but not this kind. Only Frank, before he left, had asked him, ‘Don’t you get tired of her going on, Dad?’ and he had been truthfully able to say that no, he didn’t. The fact that Frank did would have hurt Rose dreadfully. It was all Stanley could do, when she took on so at his departure, not to tell her. It was something she must never know. Frank had gone to further his career.

  ‘We’ll keep ourselves to ourselves,’ Rose was saying as though it was a newly discovered text, ‘and mind our own business. Though if I can’t walk in my own garden in peace I don’t know what I’ll do.’

  ‘Nobody can stop you doing that,’ Stanley said, ‘you walk in it as much as you please.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ Rose said. ‘We’re exposed out there these days.’

  ‘I could put up a fence,’ Stanley suggested, secure in the knowledge that he would not be called upon to expend the energy this would entail.

  ‘No,’ said Rose, ‘my garden isn’t a prison. We’ll manage without fences, thank you very much. We’ll just face up to the worst and keep smiling. And keep our mouths shut.’

  ‘Least said soonest mended,’ said Stanley, happily.

  Chapter Two

  RAWLINSON ROAD, FOR all Rose Pendlebury’s criticisms, had become a friendly place. People knew each other, talked to each other, even helped each other. The fact that they were all much the same kind of people naturally helped this good-neighbourliness. Within days the latest arrivals had received many overtures of friendship – names had been exchanged, invitations issued, that kind of loose middle-class camaraderie. The child of the couple who had moved into No. 8, a girl of eighteen months called Amy, was at once seized upon by mothers with similarly aged offspring and initiated into playgroups. And yet there was a sense of disappointment on both sides.

  Rose Pendlebury knew nothing of it. She saw them coming and going, heard the voices voicing in a way that set her teeth on edge, and retreated into the core of her house. She did not witness the partial rejection, was not aware that her new next-door neighbour stood apart, nor would she necessarily have been glad if she had. The whole business of flashing smiles and shouted greetings in the street upset her, always had. It had nothing to do with being neighbours, which was why she had always ignored anything of that variety directed at herself. All she noticed were two things – no builders and no parties. For both she was grateful.

  There was an impression of poverty, she fancied, and scolded herself for thinking so. Just because they were not knocking the house about did not mean they were poor. Nobody who was poor could even buy a house in Rawlinson Road. Her curiosity was nevertheless aroused by the extreme silence next door. If there had been carrying-ons like those Stewarts she would never have given the new people a thought, she’d have shut them right out of her consciousness as they deserved, and been ready for them when they came, grinning and grinning and all Christian names like the Stewarts. She remembered what they’d said – ‘We’re Jeremy and Penny Stewart and we’ve moved in next door, how do you do?’ How do you do and goodbye. She never wanted anything to do with them, not eve
r. Let Stanley chat to them if he had to, showing his weakness. That was for him to decide.

  Perhaps the new people were stand-offish. Good for them, as long as it was for the right reasons. If they were, they’d exclude her too. They’d have nothing to do with her, if they’d have nothing to do with the rest. They were welcome. But the woman – the girl, she wasn’t more – didn’t look stand-offish. Rose was quite surprised to find she looked shy. She’d seen her going out and in with the child and she had no appearance at all. Pretty, but no presence: you weren’t aware of her the way you had those others thrust in your vision. She was shabbily dressed too, or perhaps just old-fashioned with her gathered skirts and short-sleeved blouses. She walked with her head down, her shoulders hunched, and she had a twitch about the eyes. Rose saw nobody could be intimidated by her.

  Working away in her own house each morning, Rose Pendlebury could not help wondering how the girl in No. 8 was making out. How was she managing with all that big house to get straight? A system, that was the only way, a system like she herself had had, starting at the bottom and working upwards because the bottom part housed everything that was important. There had been such pleasure in that organization. Never at any time had she felt overcome, not by that, not by getting straight. All that had overwhelmed her had been the strangeness of the atmosphere, the pungency of new smells, the coldness of a light she did not know. She had to learn the house and that had at times put her into a panic. It wasn’t something you could do easily or quickly. Their rooms, two rooms, in Stoke Newington had been so utterly familiar, not a corner she didn’t know, not a part not meaningful. Leaving had been like coming out of a shell – she felt naked and vulnerable and in a hurry to bury herself again but it couldn’t happen like that, the new layers had to grow, one by one. Were they growing for her next door? Was she appreciating these houses, seeing what they had to offer? Time would show, as Stanley would have been bound to say.

  They were quiet in everything they did. The child laughed and shouted sometimes – it was a shock, at first, but lovely – but she had never minded children. They could make as much noise as they liked. It was adults who annoyed, but not these adults. He seemed as considerate as her, no thumps or bangs, no coming in or going out like the devil himself. He had a car, she noticed, but he never started it up at inconvenient times. She had to give them full marks for consideration – if that was what it was. There was no fault could be found – except that they were neglecting the garden. The grass was long and thick, already covered in dandelions, losing the shape the Dalys had given it. The small flowers along the borders were choking with weeds and there would never be a second crop of roses if they continued to neglect the first. Since that first day she had heard nobody, only the child, in the garden, certainly nobody working as they should be doing.

  Cleaning the bedroom windows three weeks after the new people moved in – something Stanley ought to do but never would – Mrs Pendlebury could not help seeing her new neighbours. As they came into the garden she almost dropped her bucket with fright. It was silly, but the garden had always been so quiet and empty, even when the Dalys were alive, that the invasion shook her. She didn’t know whether to stop or not, but when the woman lay down and closed her eyes she didn’t see why she shouldn’t go on with what she’d been doing. Squeezing her cloth out she tried not to look at the figure in the yellow dress but her eyes kept straying back to it, and especially to the toddler climbing over it. It was a girl, she could see that now, a pretty little thing, dark-haired like her mother. Watching the chubby hands grasp the flowers and the frown of concentration on the small face as the child tried to pick them, Mrs Pendlebury smiled. She liked them that age, just learning to do everything and yet babyish enough to cuddle and cradle in your arms.

  Slowly, she went on cleaning the windows, the child’s chatter floating up to her. She tried to pick out words but it was all gibberish except for the persistent ‘mama’ and ‘flowers’. After a while, the little girl stopped and sat down beside her mother, looking round the garden for new diversions. Mrs Pendlebury knew it was only a matter of time before she saw her – the moving cloth would attract her attention. Should she go away quickly? She wanted to and yet she didn’t want to. Anxiously, she wiped away, debating with herself, half hoping the child would see her before she had time to move. She saw the little head go back and the large brown eyes looked up at an aeroplane in the sky and then found the windows glittering in the sun and Mrs Pendlebury’s cloth going backwards and forwards. Hardly daring to breathe, Mrs Pendlebury went on steadily with her job. The eyes stared, then moved away, then stared again. She smiled and nodded her head. The eyes went on staring but there was no answering smile nor any sign that the child had seen her. Finally, the child turned right round and began picking stones out of the soil in the border.

  Mrs Pendlebury felt disappointed. Her job was finished. She replaced the net curtains and took her bucket downstairs. Stanley was in the front room watching horse-racing on television. Typical – only someone like Stanley could shut himself up in a dark room on such a beautiful day for such a worthless reason. She clanged her old iron bucket as loudly as possible to register her disgust as she emptied it and washed it out, not that he would hear. He only heard what he wanted. She was going out in the fresh air now she’d finished, once she’d changed her dress. Without realizing it, she was hurrying. Up the stairs she went again and into her bedroom. The curtains needed adjusting. The child was still there. She chose any old dress – they all seemed the same now, drab and uninteresting – and pulled it on. She was getting too fat for everything but then they’d all been bought ten years ago. Couldn’t be bothered with shops now. Down she went again, taking a pair of garden scissors from the hook beside the kitchen door on her way out. There were a lot of dead heads needed clipping off the roses. Humming, she clipped away, working nearer and nearer the gap between the lilac bush and the forsythia, where for a yard or so one could see quite clearly into the next garden.

  The child saw her at once. She merely put her nose on a level with the wall, still holding a dead rose for an alibi, and it saw her. She. smiled. The same stare. She dipped down and up again, playing peek-a-boo. To her tremendous pleasure the child smiled, such a beautiful, wide, crinkly smile, and began to get up. Just then Stanley appeared at the back door and shouted ‘What you up to, then?’ She could have wept with mortification. Pushing herself away from the wall, she rushed up to him, mouthing ‘Shut up’ and flapped her hands at him. He stepped back and she charged in, yanking him after her.

  ‘How could you!’ she shouted. ‘How could you do a thing like that? Making a fool of me, your own wife, what will she think? You sit in there all this lovely day then you come out and do a thing like that. Oh, I could kill you. Don’t you ever think before you speak?’

  ‘I only said –’ Stanley began, breaking his rule, such was his bewilderment.

  ‘That’s the point,’ Rose said, ‘you don’t think, you don’t care what embarrassment you might be causing. What call was there for you to say anything at all? Why can’t you leave me alone? Go up to your precious Club or somewhere instead of hanging about my house. You spoil everything.’

  Stanley breathed deeply, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. This was a turn-up for the books. What the devil had she been doing out there? She was a mystery, that woman. What was she rushing upstairs again for? Up and down all afternoon, ruining his programme. Whatever she did up there, it calmed her down. She returned to the kitchen looking much better, but nothing would persuade her to go in the garden again. He went on his own and thought about some weeding but in the end just sat in the sun.

  Throughout the next few weeks Stanley became aware that his wife had a secret. She was up to something. He tried hard to think what it could be but his mind had never taken an inventive turn and at a time like this it let him down completely. Eventually, he ceased trying to fathom the reasons for Rose’s behaviour and was simply glad that whatever it wa
s that preoccupied her at least made her more cheerful. She sang more than usual – not the rather aggressive hymn-singing she often went in for (though she never went near a church) but nice old-fashioned melodies like ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’. Stanley enjoyed that. He was even moved sometimes to hum an accompaniment but that didn’t please her so he had to stop. He risked saying, when this had gone on some time, ‘You’re a little ray of sunshine these days,’ but that made her huffy so he didn’t chance his luck. All would be revealed, no doubt, in good time.

  What had worked such a transformation in Mrs Pendlebury’s mood was the daily game she now found herself playing with the toddler next door. She found herself, every day, looking out of the upstairs windows as a matter of course to see if she could see the child. Soon she learnt to expect to see her in the morning about eleven and in the afternoon about three. She must have a nap and lunch in between which showed a sensible mother. Quite often Amy – her name was called often enough to satisfy that part of Mrs Pendlebury’s curiosity – was in the garden on her own, just wandering about, running into the house on her own. The very first day after she had first waved, Mrs Pendlebury saw Amy look up to her window. There was no doubt about it. She distinctly looked up. At once, Mrs Pendlebury drew aside the net and nodded and waved and smiled. Amy watched, as grave as before, and then came that huge, cheek-bunched smile that made Mrs Pendlebury’s inside turn to water. She even found tears in her eyes and had to wipe them with a corner of her apron. Thank God Stanley was so unobservant, for her eyes often misted over after an encounter with Amy, and she had to rush away to hide if Stanley came upon her. She told herself off for being a silly old fool but it was no good. All Mrs Pendlebury wanted was a smile and she was content – at least for the moment. She knew about children. She had studied them and she knew it was important to gain their trust. Just to be a face that beamed and nodded in the same place every day was enough.