The Seduction of Mrs Pendlebury Page 3

  The only worry in Mrs Pendlebury’s mind as she plotted her relationship with Amy was the mother. She could hardly become friends with the little girl over the garden wall without the mother knowing, and it made her nervous to think of that encounter. The mother might not like her. She might not think her a suitable person to be friends with her daughter. Mrs Pendlebury bridled at the thought, forgetting she herself had put it there. She had never pretended to be anything that she wasn’t and that was nothing to be ashamed of. She lived decently and if that wasn’t good enough it was too bad. There were enough airs and graces in Rawlinson Road these days to make you sick. Her at the end of the road, for example, with her la-di-dah voice and her au pair girl and her stuck-up nose as though there was a bad smell. Real quality didn’t behave like that. Mrs Pendlebury had worked for a lord and lady and they were as natural and nice as you please. No condescension at all. If that muck down the road was what Amy’s mother wanted, then she was welcome to it.

  In fact, it was Stanley who spoke first to Amy’s mother. He came in one day looking smug and self-important and over his tea brought it up that he’d been speaking to their new neighbour. Mrs Pendlebury choked with suppressed curiosity. She went on drinking tea and not asking all the questions she wanted so badly to ask. Let him be maddening, see if she cared.

  ‘Yes,’ Stanley said, ‘she seems a nice sort of person. Had quite a chat, must have been all of twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’m surprised you noticed the time if it was so fascinating,’ Rose snapped.

  ‘They have a youngster, you know,’ Stanley said, ‘a little girl called Amy, eighteen months old. Seems a nice little thing. I said she was welcome to bring her in any time.’

  ‘You said what?’

  ‘I said she was welcome to bring her in any time.’

  ‘And what was that meant to mean?’

  ‘Well, you like kiddies. I thought it might be nice for you to have one about now and again.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rose gasped, ‘oh – you’re so clumsy, you’re so insensitive – what am I supposed to be, a silly old fool or something? Bedridden, am I? Deaf and dumb? I don’t need you or anybody else to make advances for me, Stanley Pendlebury. I’ve still a civil tongue in my head and I’ll use it when I want to issue invitations so keep your big mouth shut in future.’

  ‘Have it your own way,’ Stanley said, adding as he left the room, ‘Storm in a teacup.’

  ‘What?’ Rose shrieked. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I was only trying to do you a good turn,’ Stanley said.

  ‘I don’t need good turns,’ Rose shouted, ‘just you let me be, that’s all. When I want your advice I’ll ask for it.’

  Afterwards, she worried that Amy’s mother would come to the door and take Stanley up on his grand gesture. She worked out an elaborate plan for such an eventuality, but knew that as she had no intention of opening the door she would not be called upon to put it into operation. She would not be pitied. She didn’t want anyone being kind to her. If Amy came into her house it would be naturally, in the normal course of events. Quite how this would happen she did not know but she had confidence it would, some day. It might take months or even years but she was prepared to wait. So she settled down, the quality of her life already enriched in a way Stanley was too stupid to appreciate.

  Chapter Three

  AT TWO O’CLOCK on a very hot August Sunday Mrs Pendlebury sat down in the sitting-room, where it was always cool, to write to her son Frank. By four o’clock she had written, ‘Dear Frank, Thank you for your last sorry I have been so long replying only’ – and that was all. Only what? Frank’s last letter, or rather his wife Veronica’s last letter, for she did all the writing except at Christmas, had arrived in March. How did she explain five months’ silence? She hadn’t been ill. She hadn’t been what you could call busy. Nothing had happened to write to Australia about, that was the point. She had nothing to write. But you couldn’t put that. You couldn’t put ‘only nothing has happened’ after a silence of five months. It would be insulting and childish.

  In front of her, propped against the Quink ink, was Frank’s last letter. She was always reduced to going through the letters line by line saying, ‘Glad to hear that you had a nice day out on the beach, glad to hear Carol’s cold is better, glad to hear Paul is doing well at school, glad to know the baby is walking at last my how he is growing I wish I could see him.’ But she mustn’t say that. She’d been invited umpteen times to see the baby and all of them. Every year for the last ten years since he started making money out of his farm, Frank had invited both of them out, all expenses paid, for as long as they chose to stay. Always, they had replied, ‘We’ll see.’ But it never went farther. They never did see.

  Sometimes Rose wondered if the people in the coloured snaps they kept sending existed at all. Was that Frank? Two stone heavier, a big square confident-looking man of thirty-nine instead of the scared, thin-looking lad of nineteen who had emigrated so long ago? And the woman, this Veronica, this doctor’s daughter, herself a nurse, with her long red hair and perpetual smile – who was she? Rose had studied her photographs with a magnifying glass and still she could get no clues. Her letters Were warm and friendly enough but they were only words on paper. You couldn’t tell from letters. At least, Rose hoped you couldn’t. God forbid that anyone should judge her by her painful epistles. Only her grandchildren’s notes had any intrinsic value. Surprisingly, the girl Carol, who was fourteen on Christmas Day, wrote a poor hand and never had much to say, but the boy Paul, who was ten, had a real gift for writing. She enjoyed his little letters and it depressed her to think he would never tell from her words how pleased she was. What a waste. Three lovely grandchildren growing up not even knowing their grandma. Frank talked already of Carol coming over on her own soon and it terrified her. What would she do with a strange girl? It was the baby she most wanted. Alexander, aged eighteen months, would be no problem.

  She wanted to write, ‘I wish you would wrap Alexander up in a big brown paper parcel and post him to me,’ but she didn’t. She wasn’t sentimental. It would just be silly to write such sloppy things. But if she had no news and wasn’t to be foolish what could she write? There were no events in her life. She sometimes had an outing to relate, or very occasionally a wedding or a funeral to record, or a purchase to inform them about, but this time there was nothing. Except next door. There was next door. She hesitated, uncertain. Did they want to hear about next door? Slowly, she wrote, ‘Next door has been bought for a lot of money they say but I don’t know about that but they seem a nice young family there is a baby about Alexander’s age a nice little thing called Amy.’ She stopped. It was the longest sentence she had ever written. Reading it over it didn’t sound right. Stanley would know why but she wasn’t going to ask him. It put her in a rage to think she couldn’t write a proper sentence and he could. But then he had been lucky, staying on at school till fifteen and then going to night school later. She hadn’t had the opportunities. Out at thirteen and glad to go, that had been her lot. Her pride in Frank’s achievements scholastically had always been tinged with a fierce resentment that shocked her and made her feel ashamed. How could she begrudge her son what she longed for? But she had.

  Compressing her lips, she managed a few more lines about the weather and being converted to North Sea Gas. Doubtless Veronica sneered at her poor English. She could just imagine her daughter-in-law, the nurse, daughter of a posh doctor, laughing at her letters. Probably Frank didn’t even stick up for her. Probably he laughed too, quite forgetting her upbringing. Probably by now the children joined in. They never said anything, of course. They always thanked her most fulsomely for her letters, saying how lovely it was to hear from her, but she knew what they must think.

  Stanley came in as she was sealing the edges of the airmail form.

  ‘Finished then, have you?’ he said, beaming his approval. ‘That’s a good job done.’

  ‘One you should have done long ago,’ she said.
‘When did you last write to Frank?’

  ‘It’s you they want to hear from.’

  ‘What rubbish. You’re too damned lazy to put pen to paper, that’s your trouble.’

  ‘I’ve had a lifetime of it,’ Stanley said, ‘and that was enough.’

  Rose made a scornful noise. To hear him talk you’d think he’d worn his fingers to the bone pushing a pen when she knew perfectly well that as a minor clerk in the Civil Service only an hour or so a day had involved any kind of writing. But she never dared call his bluff. His former employment was a matter he took very seriously. Every day of his working life he had departed for the office with the greatest gravity and to be fair she had admired such sense of purpose in him. She missed it now he slopped about all the time. The only bit of character in him had gone when he closed that front door at eight forty-three precisely for the last time.

  ‘Sealed it, have you?’ Stanley said.

  ‘I have. Why? Did you want to censor it?’

  ‘I might have added a line, that’s all,’ Stanley said, smiling at her joke, ‘but it’ll do next time.’

  ‘And when will that be?’ Rose asked.

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what, pray?’

  ‘On when they reply.’

  ‘Oh, they have to reply, do they, before you’ll have anything to say to them. Why? Why should they? I don’t know how they have the heart to keep up a correspondence with a miserable pair like us. It’s a mystery to me, it is really. What was this line, anyway? What have you to say to them? Some silly remark I expect, something they can well do without hearing.’

  ‘I thought I ought to mention going over.’

  Rose stared at him. He liked saying sneaky things like that, very softly so you could hardly hear. She smiled unpleasantly, the corners of her mouth turning down immediately afterwards. There was only one way to deal with Stanley when he got big-headed.

  ‘By all means,’ she said, ripping open the letter she had just sealed. ‘There you are – I’ve only used the half sheet. Plenty of room for all the details.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Stanley said, ‘now you’ve wasted it. You can’t open those sheets like that, you won’t be able to fasten it up again.’

  ‘That’s nobody’s loss,’ Rose said, grandly, and threw the crumpled ball of airmail paper into the fireplace among the red paper chrysanthemums. ‘I don’t need to write if we’re going over.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Stanley repeated. He wanted to retrieve the airmail sheet but knew if he kept out of the way she would do it herself, later.

  ‘Isn’t it time, then? Aren’t we off to Australia tomorrow?’

  ‘No need for that, either,’ Stanley said, cross now. ‘You’re just showing off.’

  ‘I’m showing off? Oh my word, the cheek of it. You’re doing any showing off that’s being done. Who just said we were going to Australia and now we aren’t?’

  ‘I never said that. I said I wanted to discuss it.’

  ‘What’s the difference. Anyway, what is there to discuss – we’ll never go.’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop us. Never has been. If we’ve never gone it’s for one reason and one reason only – you won’t. You want to but you won’t.’

  Stanley was about to carry his accusation further but Rose suddenly sat down in that heavy what’s-the-use sort of way that he knew so well and he kept quiet. She was upset again. Writing to Frank always had this effect, which was why he never mentioned it or encouraged her. He’d told her over and over Frank understood, he knew his own mother, he didn’t expect a book, but she went on striving to imitate Veronica’s six pages and blaming herself when she couldn’t. She took everything so hard, that was the trouble, her imagination was fearsome. What she needed now was a cup of tea and something to take her mind off things.

  Quietly, Stanley went into the kitchen and brewed a good strong cup. As he fiddled about there he wondered whether he should take the bull by the horns and go to see that travel agent in the High Street. Theoretically, there was no harm in it. He’d get a few leaflets, make contact, set the ball rolling. It wouldn’t cost anything. Except effort. He’d have to think about whether it would be wise. Even supposing he made the trip to the agents the subject would need such careful introducing. Rose would have a fit if he were to brandish timetables and prices in front of her. She’d collapse on the spot. Anything new panicked her. Any journey, even out to Hackney to see his sister, had her in hysterics. She was timid to the point of hiding herself away rather than meet anyone. Frank had said it was an illness and that there was a name for it and that she ought to be treated, but he had pooh-poohed the idea. There was nothing wrong in being timid. Rose liked a quiet life, that was all.

  Stanley carried the tea in with the pleasant feeling of doing the right thing. Rose was still sitting where he had left her. She hadn’t moved a muscle. He poured her a cup how she liked it and was gratified when her inert-looking hands suddenly came to life and clasped the cup.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ he said. She had once told him his eyes twinkled when he was up to mischief. He tried hard to make them twinkle now.

  ‘Oh yes. That’s a change,’ she said, quite nicely.

  ‘It’s out in the garden. You finish that cuppa and I’ll show you.’

  He noticed she drank it quickly but with relish and got to her feet the minute she had finished. He only hoped the surprise hadn’t moved on. Out they went into the garden with him giving her little nudges and her saying ‘Go on with you’, but pleased all the same. Down at the bottom of the garden was a patch they had once grown strawberries on but now had small shrubs. Searching carefully, Stanley found the surprise and set it down at Rose’s feet. Her laughter was a treat to hear. She laughed and laughed and clapped her hands and got down on her knees to examine the tortoise they thought had disappeared for ever.

  The sound of Rose Pendlebury laughing out in her garden made Alice Oram jump. She had been sitting under the apple tree for so long that she felt she had become part of the thick grass, until the great gust of laughter reminded her that she was merely surrounded by it. She and her daughter Amy had already spent whole afternoons lying or rolling in the green, strong-smelling, clean grass that parted to receive them and then sprang up again with only the faintest of indentations left. Looking at other people’s shaven lawns Alice could only shudder and wince as her hand stretched out and felt what it would feel like to touch such stubble. Their grass could grow as long as it liked, as high as a jungle. Perhaps if it grew too high for Amy to see through they might clip the tops off in a delicate way, but lash and slash it with tearing metal blades – never.

  She did not have to move because someone laughed. They had wanted a house, a cottage, out in the country with fields round it and views but there were no departments of the Board of Trade in fields and Tony had to work, it seemed, and she would have to cope with streets and neighbours and the city. She shouldn’t complain: this garden was heaven, even with laughter on the other side of the wall. She was lucky not to have anyone leaning over at every minute, and she knew when the old lady spoke she would speak too and be friendly, as was her nature. Friendly but afraid, of herself. She could only ever overdo friendship and had to watch who she became friendly with, understanding something quite different by the term. It was such a responsibility, being friends, one had to cry and endure pain and worry for a friend.

  It was a long time before Alice went inside. Her daughter slept, her husband was not yet home, and if the truth were told she was a little depressed by inside. She had no confidence in it, failing to recognize the ugly pieces of furniture that seemed to fit nowhere. Passing them, all heaped together till she decided where they should go, she was given to kicks and curses. Most of the stuff had been her mother’s. Why, when she had had her pick, why she had chosen such horrid pieces she did not know. Laura, her sister, had gone with her to the house and told her to pick first, anything, everything she
wanted and she had made all the wrong choices which she must now put up with, not having the skill to disguise her lack of taste.

  There was, however, supper to make. She had to watch her dreamy state. Trying to overcome the dangerous apathy that could at times engulf her, she had trained herself to observe certain rituals that Tony and Amy might not suffer. Neither would complain if there was no supper but her own remorse would hurt her. So she chopped vegetables, liking the textures and colours, and trimmed meat and laid the table, an island of bare board among crowded surfaces. She liked doing it, it gave her an easiness she was always looking for. Without such tasks she was a mess, having nothing she wanted to do and watching always for the slide into listlessness. Everything was ready when Amy woke and Tony came home.

  They were a silent, non-talking couple, alarming to be with, so little was said. Sometimes they talked in a stilted way as though talking was something that must be done or the art would be lost.

  ‘Today,’ Alice said, ‘the lady on the other side of the wall laughed.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘She has a very jolly laugh, not frightening, but I jumped.’

  ‘It was quiet, I suppose, when she laughed.’

  ‘Yes. She waves to Amy a lot. She seems to want to be her friend.’

  ‘Amy has lots of friends.’

  ‘Yes. She likes company and talking, trying to talk.’ They both smiled, over the child’s head.

  ‘What I wonder is,’ Alice said, ‘is it wrong not to be friendly? They embarrass me, all these people. I want to tell them to leave me alone but it seems rude.’