On the Monday morning, having got permission from the head teacher at Piers’ school for him to attend school with his arm still in plaster, Myra had to face crossing the pedestrian refuge where he’d had his accident. He couldn’t get to school if she didn’t and he was keen to get back to his new friends, plus a day on her own in the house felt very appealing, so she reminded herself it was Piers and not herself who’d been injured and for his sake she must be confident.
So they set off, the two of them each with their own demons to face. But in the end the traffic was not as heavy as usual so they crossed the main road without having to pause on the refuge, so all Myra had to face was speaking to the headmistress about the arrangements they had made for Piers to be at school with an arm in plaster.
‘Like I said, I’m afraid I can’t take responsibility for him to be in the playground at break time, but he can stay in and read comics that we keep for wet days and someone will always be about to make sure he’s OK. Will that do?’
‘Of course. I’m glad you feel able to cope with him. There’s nothing wrong now, except for a few fading bruises and his arm still in plaster. Keep his mind busy won’t it?’
‘Indeed. He’s a very good boy in class, no problems there.’
‘Thank you for allowing him to come to school.’
‘It’s a pleasure Mrs Butler. Say bye-bye, Piers, and off you go.’
All the way home Myra felt this strange loneliness coming over her. She’d thought that being at home by herself would be lovely but her footsteps echoed on the parquet flooring and the stillness closed in on her and she found the reality of being alone didn’t appeal as much as she had expected. When the doorbell rang she was delighted but surprised; knowing it couldn’t be Viv because she always came round the back, she rushed to answer it.
Standing on the doorstep clutching a huge box which appeared too heavy for her was Betty Bannister. Though she was her next-door neighbour this was the closest view of her Myra had had in fifteen years.
‘Can you take this, it’s awfully heavy for me.’
‘Of course.’ It was reasonably heavy but not too difficult for Myra and as Betty didn’t add any more to her original statement Myra found herself asking her in to fill the silence. ‘And this is . . .’
Betty followed Myra in and shut the front door. ‘It’s a train set.’
‘Oh, right!’
‘It’s for your boys. Your two new boys.’
‘That’s extremely kind, too kind in fact.’ She stood it on the hall table and waited for an explanation.
‘May I sit down?’
‘Of course, we’ll go in the sitting room.’
‘Oh! This is a lovely room, so much nicer than ours, it’s strange how they’ve made the houses in the cul-de-sac so different from one another. Ours is narrower, and it’s got a funny extra bit making it l-shaped.’
‘Do sit down.’
Myra noticed Betty was dressed rather oddly. Nothing matched, in fact the colours she’d chosen clashed: a yellow shirt with a purple jumper and a thick green jacket with brass buttons. Brown shoes and a rather curious woolly black hat pulled down over her ears completed the ensemble.
‘So tell me about this train set? It’s awfully thoughtful of you.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind second-hand, it’s a lovely thing, Myra. Do you mind if I call you Myra? I’m afraid I don’t know your surname.’
‘It’s Butler but yes, please call me Myra. I can’t believe we’ve been neighbours all these years without having a proper chat. But you were saying, about the train set?’
‘Ah, yes. I’ve been thinking about it since I saw the boys arrive. It needs to be played with so it’s not on loan, it’s for keeps. And before you say anything, I don’t want any money for it.’
‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘No, you’re doing me the favour. It’s been gathering dust in our house for years and it’s time it got some use. It was our Col’s. Our son. You won’t have seen him coming and going because he doesn’t, he hasn’t for twenty years.’ She crossed her ankles and sighed.
‘Has he been abroad then?’
‘No. We had a big falling out when . . .’ She fell into silence and looked at the floor.
‘I’m sorry. Is he your only child?’
Betty nodded.
‘That’s very sad for you and your husband . . . Roland, isn’t it?’
Betty nodded. ‘It was when he told us he was . . . not what his father expected.’
Tired of beating about the bush and Myra inquired rather brutally. ‘What do you mean – had he changed job, or moved away? He’s not ill, is he?’
‘No, no, he’s in perfect health as far as I know. We get a card at Christmas and he’s doing well in his job, but . . . Roland said some dreadful things and I was caught between them – I should have said something.’
‘You just wish he’d come and visit, I’m sure.’
‘No, not as things are. It would only lead to rows and I’ve had enough of those. They make Roland even more furious.’ Betty paused. ‘He’s gay. That’s all.’ She smiled, relieved to have spoken freely at last. ‘But Roland is dreadfully old-fashioned you know, limp-wristed he calls it.’
‘Oh! I see.’
‘But he’s still our son, isn’t he?’
‘Of course and I expect you’d like to see him and make sure he knows you support him.’
Betty nodded.
‘Why don’t you go to see him then?’
‘But Roland wouldn’t want to go.’
‘Go yourself then.’
‘Oh no! Not by myself, Roland wouldn’t want me to. He likes to know where I am at all times.’
‘It’s up to you. He’ll always be your son no matter what. If you want to see him just go one day while your husband’s out at work.’
Betty rapidly changed the subject. ‘How are you getting on with these two boys of yours? They are so much like your hubby. The older one even walks like him.’
‘Well, they are his brother’s boys so they have the same genes.’
‘Yes, Graham told me what happened when I called round with the flowers when you were in hospital. It’s not easy bringing up children. But it makes life worthwhile, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s early days yet, I’m still getting used to it all.’
Betty stood up to go. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you. The train set is complete and I hope they have as much pleasure in it as our Col had when he was a boy.’
‘Will he mind? You giving it to the boys?’
‘I don’t expect he thinks we’ve still got it.’
‘It’s very kind of you to give it to us, thank you very much.’
‘It’s a pleasure. And do come round any time, Roland usually has his head in a book, he’ll never notice you’re there, but I’d be glad to see you.’
Myra stood in the sitting-room window watching her trotting back home. Poor old stick. Afraid of her own shadow. If she wanted to see her son why didn’t she just go? She would. She’d been so used to laying down the law at home, and until his recent attempts at defiance, Graham had always bowed to her wishes. But she thought of how Betty had spoken about her husband, assuming his word was law, and how miserable it made her. Was that what she did to Graham? It made her seem like some kind of monster. Surely he’d always been happy to go along with her choices until now, hadn’t he? And anyway, maybe Roland wasn’t as bad as Betty made out. She’d only seen him when he worked in his garden or occasionally out at the local shops, but always without Betty. Perhaps if Betty saw him as others saw him, chatting with ladies in the precinct, sometimes surrounded by four or even five all laughing at his jokes, she might see a different aspect of her husband. He appeared a very sociable chap from what she saw. But perhaps he displayed a whole different side of his character at home. Just as she’d seen a different side to Graham the day of Piers’ party. She thought about all those times since John had died when Graham had exerted his authority and gone completely against what she had planned. Which then was the real Graham? Did she want to know? Had she dominated him to the point of him having no personality beyond what she allowed him to have, no decison-making capacity, no independence of mind? Deep down somewhere buried very deep she acknowledged it wasn’t right to stifle someone like she had done. It was only his kindness of heart that had stopped a rift developing that would have ended in divorce. Was that what she wanted?
Determined not to let her mind wander any farther down that dangerous path, Myra turned away from the window, straightened her shoulders and dragged the ironing board out from the cupboard in the kitchen. How many shirts was it nowadays? Seven a week had suddenly turned into seventeen plus the boys weekend t-shirts. She couldn’t face it right now so instead she went to investigate the box Betty had brought.
The set was complete right down to little figures of men and women and children to stand on the platform as though waiting for a train. A signal box carefully wrapped in tissue, signals, lines, a bridge, trees and bushes, a waiting room and ticket office, even a man with a trolley loaded with suitcases. And beautifully detailed engines and little carriages. Everything was absolutely pristine as though it had never been out of the box, except for one man whose right leg had been snapped off. The money this must have cost when it was new, surely Betty and Roland should have some recompense for all this. As Myra began stowing it away again so the boys could open it for themselves and have all the pleasure of discovery she thought about the memories there must be within it and how sad Betty was about never seeing her son. With the lid safely replaced Myra stood up and went to begin the ironing.
This state-of-the-art iron Graham had bought for her glided its way through the piles of ironing so quickly and so easily she felt really grateful to him for choosing it. Her old one he had consigned to the bin saying it came from the dark ages, and when she protested he jammed the lid on tightly so she couldn’t rescue it. He was right, but she hated losing an old friend. She didn’t like trying new things and it had taken some persuasion for her to try the new iron and admit Graham was right – it made things much easier. She recalled Graham remembering the nightie she wore the night Piers came home from hospital. He was right about that nightie too, she’d worn it those early stolen nights together when they’d anticipated their marriage and she’d felt guilty about it all and yet exultant.
Exultant? Myra thought about that word and decided it was the right one for that particular feeling. Then the new shop in the High Street sprang to mind – the one that specialised in womens’ underwear and nightwear. When it first opened, she’d taken one look at the window display and decided it wasn’t for her, it was for women in their teens and twenties. But she thought of that nightie again and realised even when she was young she’d never have dared wear something like those little wisps of silk and satin she’d seen in the window.
Then completely without warning she switched off the iron, stood it up on the kitchen worktop, dug her coat out from the hall cupboard, checked in her bag for her purse, picked up her keys and left.
Viv happened to see her leaving and noticed the determination in her stride. No stoop, no plodding feet, she didn’t even have her old shopping bag with her. She obviously had an unusual mission in mind and Viv longed to know what it was.
Secrets was the name of the shop and it was written in fancy handwriting above the window in shining chrome. The window was filled with daring underwear and nightwear; after one brief moment of hesitation she opened the door and marched in. The inside was even glossier than the outside and she was dazzled by the choice. A man emerged from the back. ‘Good morning, madam, how may I help?’
‘Do you have a lady assistant?’
‘I do but she’s just gone to the bank. Can I be of any assistance?’
‘I see. Right. I want some pyjamas.’
‘For yourself madam?’
No doubt he’d taken one look at her, thought Myra, and clocked her dowdy coat and practical clothes and decided she was not his normal kind of customer.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Very well, madam. We have these satin ones here in some gorgeous jewel colours.’
As he reached up to bring her some to examine she said to her great surprise, ‘No, I’ve changed my mind.’
The manager assumed she’d decided to leave so he was shocked by the unexpectedness of her reply.
‘A nightgown, actually, with lace if you have it.’
‘Do you have a particular colour in mind, madam?’
‘Black.’
His smooth face almost broke into a grin but he kept it contained. He loved those moments when he helped people find their inner vixen. That was the joy of lingerie – you never knew what secrets people were hiding under their sensible clothes. So she wanted a black nightie. What was she up to? An unexpected lover? Or more likely a husband who needed sparking up a bit? Well, he’d the very thing.
‘I have two or three for you to choose from.’
The first was very plain – more of a nightshirt in fact, with long sleeves and buttons right up to the neck. Gaining confidence, Myra rejected it and chose instead a comparatively flimsy one with black lace at the v-neck and at the hem, and low at the back and clinging.
When he told her the price she almost died from shock and it showed in her face. ‘You see, madam, it’s designer lingerie, so you pay for the exclusivity. Would madam care to try it on?’
Myra wished the floor would open up and she could disappear. Certainly not, especially with only a man in the shop. She held it up against herself and decided this was definitely the one. ‘No, thank you, I’ll take it. I shall be paying by card.’ After all, in the last ten years she’d hadn’t bought one new nightie so she wasn’t going to feel guilty about the price.
The carrier he put it in shouted extravagance and it unnerved Myra. She’d be sure to meet someone she knew, you could guarantee it. If they commented on it she’d say it was a present for someone, she decided. But she didn’t meet anyone she knew, and she sighed with relief as she pushed open their garden gate. Safely home and no one the wiser.
But she hadn’t seen Viv shielded by her cherry tree picking up rubbish the bin men had spilt on her front path. She spotted the unmistakable magenta pink of Myra’s carrier and hiding behind the tree she raised her clenched fists in the air and shouted ‘Hallelujah!’ to herself.
In the house Myra raced upstairs and put the nightgown right at the back of the drawer where she kept her miserly collection of pyjamas. Back downstairs she went, opened the back door, finding to her horror she’d never locked it before leaving the house, and went out to bring Little Pete in. He wasn’t nearly so little as when she’d first brought him in to the kitchen but he was still as charming and cuddly as always. She cut half a carrot into little squares and gave him it in a little dish by the boiler where he loved to sit.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the nightie stashed upstairs. She was being silly. No one knew, least of all Graham, whom she intended to surprise with it. But when? A nightie like that was an open invitation to . . . sex. She said the word out loud hoping Little Pete wouldn’t know what she meant. She laughed out loud at herself. The older she got the dafter she became. Honestly! She turned back to the ironing. Three shirts later she decided her new purchase would come out on display when she was good and ready and not before. Heaven alone knew when that would be. The question was, having rejected not just sex but any kind of intimacy so emphatically for so long, would she ever be ready? Did she want it? And for that matter, did Graham?
The doorbell rang. Standing there was Roland Bannister looking furious, his face dark red, his breath coming in great forceful gasps. ‘Betty had no business to bring our Col’s train set round for your boys. I’m sorry, very sorry, but I’ve come to take it back.’
‘That’s your perogative. I had thought we should pay something for it, it must have cost a lot when it was new.’
Roland shook his head. ‘It’s not that, not the money. It’s more that Col might very well need it sometime, when he has children of his own. He just needs to find the right girl.’
‘Oh! I see.’ Myra opened the door wider. ‘Well, here it is just as Betty brought it. Do come in.’
Roland did and bent to pick it up from the floor. His temper and and his big fat stomach almost did for him; he simply couldn’t pick it up.
‘Here let me pick it up for you.’ Myra handed it to him saying, ‘If any time you decide to pass it on, Graham and I would be glad to pay you something for it. Mind how you go.’ He trundled awkwardly down the front path in imminent danger of dropping the whole lot, but managed to get back home without Myra hearing an almighty crash. The poor man deluding himself about Col being in need of a wife.
‘Well, really,’ she said to Little Pete, ‘did you ever?’
The day wore on with Myra having to find things to keep her occupied; she was delighted to be setting off to collect Piers from school and find out how he’d managed and even more delighted when Oliver got home. Then there was supper to supervise followed by the welcome sound of Graham letting himself in.
Oliver gasped, ‘Uncle Graham!’
Piers said, ‘Oh! I say!’
Myra said, ‘Sit down, Graham, I’m just serving. Boys go wash your hands, please.’
She heard their laughter but took no notice because she’d just remembered the nightgown she’d bought and was blushing at the thought, never mind the deed.
As she was putting Graham’s plate on the table she glanced up at him and almost dropped it.