That'll Be the Day (2007) (12 page)

But she needed to be the only woman
in his life
, not simply the one he cared for the most. Although whatever rules she applied to Leo, did not necessarily apply to herself.

Jonty’s voice intruded into her thoughts, loud and clear. ‘You’ll damage your cash flow if you allow creditors too much leeway. Never mind thirty days, I never gave them thirty minutes. Cash on the nail, that’s the best way.’

‘That’s not how business is conducted these days, Pa.’

‘Stuff and nonsense. Don’t be dictated to by idiots, make up your own rules . . .’

And so it continued. Drat this bungalow, far too small for comfort. Pulling the covers over her head, Helen snapped off the lamp and tried to get some sleep.

Helen was woken by the sound of a door banging, of voices shouting out in panic, and of running feet. A light snapped on, momentarily blinding her and then everything was mayhem. Dulcie was sobbing, Leo was leaping from his bed and charging about in his pyjamas, one moment making frantic telephone calls the next pounding his father’s chest where he lay sprawled on the hall floor. Apparently Jonty had gone off to the bathroom and collapsed before he reached it.

‘At least put your dressing gown on,’ Helen ordered Leo. ‘You look ridiculous swanning about in your pyjamas. What will the ambulance men think when they arrive?’

For once Leo had no patience for her sensitivities. ‘For God’s sake, Helen, does it matter? Pa has had a heart attack. He could be dying.’

Jonty Catlow passed away early that morning without ever regaining consciousness. Perhaps his final disagreement with his son had been too much for him, but even Helen dared make no mention of this possibility.

When a pale sun emerged over the horizon Dulcie was sitting motionless on her chintz sofa, a cup of tea gone cold in her hand and Leo was still on the phone, now dealing with undertakers and solicitors.

During the course of that endless Sunday neighbours and relatives called to leave their condolences; more tea was brewed than was actually drunk and Helen sat and watched it all unmoved. She’d never liked her father-in-law and really saw no reason for her to weep and wail as the rest were doing. It would simply be hypocritical to pretend she grieved for the difficult old man.

Sam Beckett liked to enjoy a peaceful weekend. Once he’d closed up his ironmongery shop, carrying inside all the boxes of second-hand tools, the buckets and shovels that he stacked all around, his one wish was to go home, put up his feet, and relax. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked to spend hours in a pub, drinking. He felt perfectly capable of entertaining himself with his various hobbies: his fishing, his running and boxing, and his collections of badges and memorabilia which he was cataloguing and displaying on shelves he’d made himself.

He naturally expected his wife to provide him with a good meal, a warm hearth and a smiling face, plus a willing body when it was time to go to their bed. That went without saying. Where was the point in being married otherwise? A man had his appetites after all.

He was, Sam believed, a man who asked little from life but somehow he constantly met with disappointment and failure. Judy seemed quite incapable of achieving any sort of order or comfort in their home. She left everything to the last minute, constantly forgot things and forever either had her head in a book or her fingers covered in oil paint from those dratted daubs of hers.

But she’d really done it this weekend, had completely ruined any hope of relaxation. Sam could hardly believe what he was hearing and stared at his wife in total disbelief. ‘You want to what?’

Judy cleared her throat nervously. ‘I’d like to have a stall of my own on which to sell my paintings.’

She’d spent days making her plans, hours and hours going through her paintings and choosing those she perceived most suitable for sale, coming up with quite a good selection. Judy had spoken to Belle Garside who was now Market Superintendent and really had been most helpful, assuring Judy that she was more than welcome to have a stall in the Farmer’s section of the market. Craft stalls, Belle said, were always popular and because they were held only two days a week, required very modest rents.

The only obstacle remaining was Sam, and Judy had known instinctively this would be the hardest of all to overcome.

She’d chosen to show him the still life of the golden chrysanthemum lying beside the blue vase as a demonstration of her skill and talent, but he’d scarcely glanced at the painting. Seeing his lack of interest, Judy had stuffed the picture quickly out of sight behind her back, feeling very much as if he’d slapped her.

Now she drew a steadying breath and tried again. ‘I thought that selling some of my pictures might help to finance my little hobby,’ she said, carefully using the same phrase Sam himself had adopted to describe her work.

‘Are you suggesting that I keep you short of money?’

Judy was appalled. ‘Of course not! Heaven forbid. You are the most generous of husbands,’ and she kissed him on the cheek to prove it. He hadn’t shaved yet this evening and it was prickly with bristles, nevertheless she bestowed upon him her warmest smile. ‘But oil paint and canvasses are expensive, and since it’s my little indulgence I feel I should finance it myself.’

‘I don’t see why.’ Sam considered her carefully, face devoid of expression, pale eyes hooded.

‘It’s only two days a week and won’t intrude on the children. I’ll make sure I finish in good time to meet them after school, as usual. They won’t even know I’ve been out of the house.’

‘
I
will know. So will everyone else.’

Judy tried a little laugh, to cover up her attack of nerves. He must agree, he simply
must
. Ever since Lynda had made the suggestion she’d become more and more excited by the prospect of having a stall of her own. Now she’d quite set her heart on it. ‘I should hope everyone
would
know, otherwise I’d have no customers, would I?’

Sam was not amused by her little joke. ‘I won’t have people thinking that I can’t afford to keep my wife and family, that my ironmongery business is failing in some way.’

‘But you’ll think about it? Please?’

‘I’d like my Sunday dinner now, if it isn’t too much trouble.’

The meal, roast chicken followed by Queen of puddings, was eaten in silence. Judy feeling far too nervous to risk mindless chatter. Even Ruth and Tom said very little, casting each other warning glances as they recognised the frigid atmosphere between their parents.

When the meal was over Sam slept for an hour or two in the chair with the newspaper over his head. When he woke he demanded a cup of tea, then put on his grey duffle coat and announced that he was going out. He could tell that Judy was disappointed even before she begged him not to go.

‘Not now, please. I was hoping we could talk some more about the possibility of my having a stall, now that I’ve got the children off to bed. I could perhaps show you more of my pictures.’

Sam didn’t trouble to respond to this suggestion, merely announced that he had far more important business matters to attend to than listening to ‘silly dreams’.

Ten minutes later, thankfully safe from the threat of being disturbed since Big Molly and Ossie were, predictably, in the Dog and Duck at this hour on a Sunday evening, Sam was peeling off Fran Poulson’s baby doll nightie up in her back bedroom and pounding out his furious frustration into her willing body.

There was no question of them going home, naturally, not until after the funeral, which passed with unconscionable slowness and pomposity. Jonty Catlow had been a noted figure in the community, a man of business and therefore greatly respected. The local press must have their interviews with the bereaved, the vicar was zealously consoling and the family solicitor insisted upon reading the will in the traditional manner, even though everyone was aware of its predictable contents. The bungalow, together with a modest income from her husband’s shares in the family business, was left to Dulcie, and the company itself to his son in its entirety.

Helen drew a heartfelt sigh of relief when the whole performance was complete, the relatives had gone on their way with the usual meaningless remarks to let them know if there was anything they could do. Then she closed the door with a firm click on the last.

‘May we now go home?’ she asked Leo, with what she believed to be exemplary patience.

‘As soon as Mother is ready.’

Helen stared at him, hoping she had misunderstood. ‘Perhaps Dulcie should have asked one of your aunts to stay with her for a while.
We
certainly can’t stay any longer. I have a committee meeting for the new leisure centre fund-raising committee on Thursday, and I’m sure you have a great deal of business to attend to in the office.’

Leo sighed. ‘Of course I do, and I’m as anxious as you to get home, but there’s no question of leaving Ma here alone. You could speed things along by helping her pack.’

‘Pack? She’s coming with us? You can’t be serious. You surely aren’t expecting me to open up my home to your mother?’

Leo gave a sad little smile. ‘
Our
home, I think, would be a more accurate term, or even
my home
, but yes, I am. Not, however, your heart. Even I do not ask the impossible, Helen.’

‘But it
is
impossible. Utterly! Your mother and I simply don’t get on.’

‘Well, you’ll just have to try to do so in future. Go and help her to pack, Helen, please. She’s still in shock and doesn’t know how to cope. Don’t forget, charity isn’t simply about fund-raising.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake!’

Dulcie’s quiet voice intervened in their heated argument. ‘I should be perfectly all right staying here. It’s very sweet of you to offer me a home, Leo, but I think I’d rather stay in my own. The last thing I want is to be a nuisance to you and Helen. You have enough on your plate already.’

Leo strode over and gathered his mother in his arms. She felt so frail suddenly, so – old. ‘Nonsense, I won’t hear of you staying cooped up all alone in this bungalow. It would do you no good at all. You need people around you, people who care about you at this dreadful time. And you won’t be a nuisance, don’t even think that. We want you to come with us, don’t we, Helen?’

Helen drew her lips into a tight little smile. ‘Of course we do, Dulcie. At least until you feel fit enough to manage on your own, which I’m sure you will in no time at all.’

‘Of course, whenever you feel ready,’ Leo conceded. ‘Maybe later, in a few weeks or months perhaps you could try coming back home, once I’m sure that you are over the worst of the shock and have had time to adjust. But you must give it time.’ He stroked his mother’s white hair, kissed her paper soft cheek. ‘Let
me
look after
you
for a change.’

‘You’re the best son in the world,’ Dulcie said, blowing her nose rather loudly. ‘I’d better get packed then, but only for a few weeks, you understand. I can’t leave this place unattended for too long.’

‘Don’t worry about the bungalow. I shall ask Joe next door to keep an eye on it for you.’

And so it was decided. There was to be no picturesque tour of the Ribble Valley on their journey home, no stopping at a tucked-away country pub for a cosy lunch. That dream had been swallowed up by days of family duty, and it made Helen shudder to contemplate what lay ahead with their privacy threatened and the future looking decidedly grim.

The car was packed with several of Dulcie’s fine leather suitcases and they drove straight to Manchester, stopping only once for a cup of tea along the way.
 

The weekend had turned into a week of hell, far worse than Helen could ever have imagined.

Chapter Thirteen

Betty was in her favourite spot, standing on her duck board watching the world pass by her stall. Her feet were frozen despite the fur lined, zip-up suede boots she wore, but she was smiling as she made up a bunch of miniature zinnias for Molly Poulson. Her life might be falling apart but these were such glorious little flowers with their padded heads in brilliant jewel colours. As she wrapped them, she was listening with only half her attention to a long-drawn out sob story about the other woman’s worries over her elder daughter, Fran. The girl hadn’t been seen around the market in months but was now back home creating more worry for her mother.

‘She’s never in the house more than five minutes, and when I complained she threatened to run off again. What can I do with her, Betty? I’m sure she entertains men on the sly in that bedroom of hers. The other night when we came home early from the pub I could hear all sorts of funny goings on. I told our Ossie to knock on her door but he wouldn’t. Reckoned he couldn’t hear anything and says it’s none of our business, that she’s of age and I should be grateful that the lass has at least come home. What cowards men are!’

‘Well, he does have a point, Molly. You were out of your mind not so long since, wondering where she was.’

‘Aye, well happen I was better off not knowing.’

Betty tried to sound sympathetic, making suitable noises about the benefits of Fran making a fresh start, since things had gone so badly wrong for her when her fancy man had gone back to his wife. Not that she put it quite so bluntly to Molly, trying at least to sound tactful over a girl who was said to have earned her living under the arches with the likes of that prossy Maureen.