NINETEEN
Pamela, still much shaken, was caught on her front path by an excitable Peaches, and Peaches was incredulous.
‘You mean you didn’t hear? Nothing?’
Pam shook her head. ‘I was having a guitar lesson last night,’ she said.
Peaches looked at her with renewed interest. Not respect. Just interest. Pam did not explain that it was elementary chords and that she was aiming to one day play Segovia.
‘He was dressed like a real thug,’ went on Peaches.
Pamela forbore to say that he sounded just up her street in her present deprived condition. Her mind wandered free.
Peaches waited indignantly for Pamela’s response, and, when none came, added, ‘Anyway, this intruder nearly broke Dad’s neck.’
Peaches paused again. Pamela, still in the sports shop with the triceps and only half-listening, had lost the thread but was aware she should reply. She smiled, non-committally. Was it something about Peaches’ father’s bravery?
‘Pardon?’ she hazarded.
‘Dad,’ said Peaches. ‘Nearly broke his neck.’
Pamela felt on safe ground. Here was an opportunity for restitution. Paternal courageousness.
‘What do you think of that?’ said Peaches, even more irritated by the lack of response.
‘Serve him bloody well right,’ said Pamela firmly.
Peaches’ mouth opened and a strange noise issued forth. ‘Serve him – ?’ Her colour changed, and the redness sat very peculiarly above the orange of the puffa jacket. She appeared to be beyond speech. Pamela sought for something a little less tricky to say, something that would unite them again in their adversity. . .
‘After all,’ she said cheerfully, ‘just look what he did to my privet.’
‘My father had nothing to do with your privet,’ said Peaches.
Had Pamela known it, she had just saved herself, for ever, from future lime green cocktails. Peaches, with a toss of her head, turned away.
Chocolate. Chocolate would have to do until she could work out what to do.
Having faded in the morning, Peter, Douglas and Dean all looked remarkably fresh and bright again tonight. Jesus, it was confusing. She marched off to Ani Patel’s shop.
Ani Patel looked drawn.
‘I am a little tired,’ she said to Pamela’s enquiry. ‘My son.’
‘Ah,’ said Pamela with all the feeling, it seemed, of the world. ‘Your son.’
The two women looked at each other gravely. Pamela had a sudden moment of understanding – both of herself and of Mrs Patel. She knew the meaning behind those words only too well. She knew that tone of voice. She knew that in the telling phrase ‘My son’ were hidden many griefs. And she knew that it would never be like that for her again. Not quite like that. Not so you lay awake listening for the key in the door. Not so you believed the Sixth Form Head of Year when he said your son would end up sweeping floors. Not so you felt his anger (at the world or at yourself, it mattered little) like a knife in your heart. And not so that every day, in every way, another little wrinkle of despair settled upon your brow. No – Danny was someone else’s, and Danny was his own responsibility. He was her son, but he was now a fully paid up member of the adult human race. If she ever found herself saying this same ‘My son’ to half a stranger, it would be from the position of one who let wither the umbilical cord.
‘Where will it all end?’ said Ani Patel.
Pamela touched her hand. ‘All I can tell you,’ she said, resolute in her new wisdom, ‘is that, eventually, it does.’
And Ani Patel knew that she came from a different neck of the woods and that it never ended for the likes of her.
Pamela purchased her chocolate bar and went off to work on her plans for the study. If she could concentrate. If she didn’t suddenly start doodling pictures of large masculine appurtenances in the margin.
In a way, she thought, chewing the end of her pencil thoughtfully, in a way it was a blessing that her mother was where she was. Safe. One less thing to worry about – and in a controlled environment where she could do no harm.
*
In the darkening gloom the view beyond the window was not inspiring. Apart from two elderly ladies standing staring at the leaden grey sky as if they had forgotten what they were looking at, the outdoor area was full of soggy leaves – the last of them blown down in the first true wintry blasts the day before.
It all looked extremely gloomy.
‘Christmas is coming,’ said Mrs Hennessy, pleased. They linked arms and started walking again. ‘I’m looking forward to spending it here with you.’
‘You may be called away.’
‘No, no,’ said Mrs Hennessy with certainty. ‘I shall be very happy here, thank you.’
Wind shook the bare branches. They both shivered but went on walking.
‘How is that daughter of yours?’ said Eileen.
‘Well – I have to say I don’t think Peter has shifted himself. Here we are, nearly December, and he hasn’t done any courting of a substantial nature at all. One little attempt at a lunch is hardly Errol Flynn.’
‘They do seem a little cautious nowadays,’ said Eileen, shaking her head.
‘I shall have to swing into action again,’ said Mrs Hennessy. ‘Do you agree?’
‘I do,’ said Eileen. ‘I really do. All this emancipation. Everybody’s confused. Really, he should just pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, carry her off and say, Ugh!’
Mrs Hennessy was silent.
‘I don’t see Peter doing that,’ she then said, looking back at the main house.
‘Well, he’d better get on and do something quick,’ said Eileen. ‘A woman doesn’t wait for ever.’
Mrs Hennessy chuckled and pointed at the figure peering out at them. ‘She thinks we’re talking knitting patterns.’
Through the window peered a young helper, a nice girl, plump and consoling.
‘She’s got the brown pleats on again,’ said Mrs Hennessy.
‘And the orange cardigan,’ said Eileen.
‘Odd how they think we’re not worth dressing up for.’
‘They think part of your brain drops off over sixty-five.’ Eileen paused, thought, chuckled. ‘Useful, that.’
‘Very,’ said Mrs Hennessy.
The two women nodded in the direction of the girl, who tapped on the glass and smiled like a mime artist.
‘Wave back and look uncomprehending,’ said Mrs Hennessy.
And they both did.
The girl increased her facial contortions.
‘Let’s hope the wind doesn’t change, dear,’ said Eileen. And waved again.
Linking arms, they moved back towards the house, their sensible shoes squidging through the leaves very satisfactorily. As Eileen said, it had taken her nearly a lifetime to be allowed to mucky her shoes, and no slip of a girl in brown pleats was going to stop it. .
‘It all looks very dead,’ said Mrs Hennessy approvingly.
‘I don’t see one green shoot,’ agreed Eileen.
‘She’d be best off with him,’ said Mrs Hennessy thoughtfully. ‘Grass always seems greener and then it’s not.’
‘Do you know,’ said Eileen, ‘I’ve had more of my gentlemen think they want to leave their wives for me than I’ve had hot facials, and lucky for them I’ve always declined. No idea what they’re getting rid of. Oh, I’d say, you’re a big, strong, powerful man, aren’t you? Next thing you know they want to move in. I always sent them home.’
The girl waved at them from the window.
‘Look at her,’ said Eileen. ‘Dreadful.’
They flapped their hands feebly and the girl gave them smiles of encouragement, as if talking them down for a dangerous landing.
Eileen stopped waving, resumed Mrs Hennessy’s arm and said, ‘Look at wars. . .’
They stood still for a moment, as if surveying a battlefield.
Eileen gesticulated with her free arm.
‘Heroes.’ She sniffed. ‘Stiff upper lip.’ She sniffed again. ‘All right until they’re actually losing a leg or a life, then they suddenly realize how sweet it all is. Too late. It’s the same with their feelings.’
They slowed down a little, giving the young girl another feeble wave each.
Eileen lowered her voice. ‘I told them – I said, go home and tell your wives what it is you want. The fishnet stockings or the galoshes or the poached eggs on your chest.’
Mrs Hennessy made a strange noise.
‘To be perfectly candid,’ said Eileen, ‘nine times out of ten, love is a great disappointment.’
‘Quite,’ said Mrs Hennessy. ‘As I said to Pamela. But what’s left after it can be rather pleasant. If you’re still speaking.’
‘Nice here,’ said Eileen appreciatively.
‘Very nice here,’ said Mrs Hennessy with feeling.
‘Some knitting pattern,’ giggled Eileen. ‘Shall we go in?’
They retraced their steps.
‘I think I will tell that girl about those pleats,’ said Mrs Hennessy. ‘After all, one of the pleasures about being older is that you can say these things.’
‘Well, I’d go further,’ said Eileen. ‘And say it’s expected.’
‘Quite,’ said Mrs Hennessy. When they arrived indoors she made straight for the telephone with firm step and even firmer jaw.
Later, in the warm, dry, biscuity sitting room, as they sipped pale tea, Eileen suddenly smiled to herself and leaned towards Mrs Hennessy, dropping her voice. ‘When I was in a brothel in Praed Street,’ she said.
Mrs Hennessy raised her eyebrows with delight.
Behind them a swing door banged and someone advanced. They both looked smugly in the direction of the footsteps.
‘Here she comes. . .’ they both said.
And they returned the girl’s bright, evangelistic smile with similar expressions of their own. Then they folded their hands in their laps and waited.
‘Nice walk?’ said the girl.
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs Hennessy, evenly.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said the girl.
Both women stared at her. The girl gave them a pleased little smile. ‘We are doing Third Age Therapy in the conservatory tonight,’ she said.
‘Lucky you,’ said Eileen.
The girl smiled even more benignly.
‘And Colour Me Beautiful.’
The two women looked at each other. Their eyes took on a little glaze of bliss. ‘Impossible,’ they said in unison. ‘Impossible.’
It was, as they said afterwards, irresistible. And they filed the experience under the heading Cruel To Be Kind and spoke out clear and strong as a Greek chorus.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Hennessy comfortably. ‘This place in Praed Street. . .’