That'll Be the Day (2007) (14 page)

Ruth brightened. ‘I suppose it would. Could I help serve on it?’

‘How could you, sweetie, when you’ll be at school?’

‘I mean during school holidays and stuff.’

Judy hadn’t thought that far, had pushed the problem of school holidays from her mind. ‘It might be possible, we’ll see.’

‘Well,’ said Ruth, struggling to be magnanimous. ‘I don’t think
I
mind, but Daddy probably will. You know, Mummy, that he won’t
really
like you having a job. He’ll probably say no.’

Judy rather thought her daughter might be right.

Judy wrapped her arms about her husband, stroking his chest and striving to relax the military hardened muscles. ‘Have you thought about what I asked you the other day? Please say yes, it would mean so much to me.’

She knew him for a stubborn man, tense and highly strung, and not in the least little bit flexible. He laid down a schedule of work for her to complete for each and every week, one she was expected to keep to if she was to avoid a humiliating interrogation.

She could never say, ‘Oh, but Lynda popped in for coffee and we got chatting so the ironing will have to wait until tomorrow. If Monday was marked as washday, then Tuesday must be the day for ironing, and windows cleaned every Thursday, come rain or shine. Polishing the fire brasses and tidying out the under-stairs cupboard was set down for Friday afternoons. The list was long and detailed, always with something new or unusual thrown in just to keep her on her toes, like the time he insisted she take down the washing line every evening to wash and bleach it before tying it up again the very next morning. Laborious, mind numbing tasks which he would always check had been done, rather like a sergeant-major inspecting the troops.

And if she made a mistake Judy would be punished. Put on jankers was the term Sam used, when she’d be made to do extra chores, usually unpleasant, such as white-washing the out-house, or scrubbing the window sills and front step every morning for a week. Or she would be kept in on what he termed detention, confined to barracks, which meant she couldn’t even slip out to chat with Lynda or idly wander around the market choosing something nice for tea. She couldn’t walk in the park or see an afternoon matinee at the Odeon.

Her mother-in-law would be instructed to do all essential shopping, and to collect the children from school in her place, on the grounds that Judy had to catch up on her housewifely duties and couldn’t leave the house.

Judy hated these petty punishments with a venom but however much she might protest she knew there could be no escape. As Sam frequently told her, far easier to carry out the chore or duty correctly in the first place, rather than be obliged to repeat it over and over again until he was satisfied. It made life so much easier.

He was no less disciplined with himself. Sam constantly strived for perfection, polishing his shoes every night without fail and placing them correctly by the side of his bed where he could slip them on first thing in the morning when he woke up. Sam was not a pipe and slippers man.

And he was militant also in his fitness routine. He ran for two miles along the canal bank every morning; worked out regularly at Barry Holmes’s boxing club. And was most particular about what he put into this lean fit body of his. Not a scrap of fat must be found on his meat or there would be hell to pay.

He drove her mad with his lists, his collection of badges and army memorabilia which must be dusted and labelled and kept in the right boxes. Judy came to loath this obsession for order and schedules, his cleanliness and need for perfection.

Sam also insisted that she keep an itemised list of the contents of every cupboard. Labels were stuck inside every kitchen door listing the items within and woe betide Judy if she forgot to cross off a packet of caster sugar or PG Tips she’d removed, or worse still, forgotten to add it to her shopping list for immediate replacement.

Conversely he could be as sentimental and soft as a baby, and beguilingly romantic should he choose to be so. He would think nothing of blowing ten pounds on a meal out, or surprise Judy with an unexpected gift. And he regularly came home with huge bunches of flowers that must have cost him a small fortune. Judy was always deeply touched, striving not to think of the guilt which must lie behind the gift.

Most important of all he absolutely adored his children, always finding time to play with them of an evening, and endlessly patient over helping Ruth and Tom with their homework. In return, they clearly adored him, cheerfully tolerating his room inspections and his silly rules about how the soap should be left dry in the dish, or how their socks should be folded neatly together. So sweet! Maybe that was why she stayed, because he was such a good father, even though Judy had long since stopped loving or wanting him as a husband.
 

Tonight Judy hoped he was in one of his gentler, more sentimental moods. Her first effort to remind him of his promise to consider her request had met with a brick wall and an embarrassing argument right in the middle of the market with everyone looking on. Now, in the peace and quiet of their own home she was ready to try again. She’d taken care to dress smartly in her At Home fashions, as her magazine recommended: a paisley print cotton shirt worn under a coachman corduroy vest with big shiny buttons, and tapered matching pants in a bright pillar box red. Sam loved to see her in bright colours. She’d even put on a little make-up, scarlet lipstick, mascara and blue eye shadow. Judy cuddled beside him on the sofa, letting him kiss and fondle her, doing her best to keep her man happy.

‘I was thinking that people do love to buy something from someone they know, such as a local artist. Aren’t you proud of what I do?’

Sam made no reply, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

Judy gently persisted. ‘Come on, love, admit it. You must be just a little pleased for me, otherwise you would object to the cost of all that oil paint and canvasses.’

‘Money is not a consideration. You are my wife, so it’s my responsibility to fund your little hobbies.’

He made her sound as if she were a charity case but Judy smiled anyway, trying not to mind. He did not return the compliment but then Sam was not a naturally cheerful character, rather soulful in fact, prone to dark moods and long silences. He’d endured a tough war, about which he refused to speak, so she’d learned to be tolerant of his sudden anxieties, his insecurities, his need for mindless sex whether she were in the mood or not, and count her blessings. Some men had come back from the war a whole lot worse, and some not at all.

‘You know I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want me to,’ she said, noting how her words softened the rigid line of his jaw just a little. But did she really mean it? Lynda would never say such a thing, Judy was certain of it. ‘Don’t you see, I
want
you to be proud of me. You are so good at everything you do. I value your high level of ability, as I would like you to value mine.’ She knew that he was ridiculously susceptible to flattery.

Sam had a broad, square face with a smattering of freckles which he hated but Judy rather liked, his nose slightly hooked on the ridge, the nostrils flared. But it was his chin which was his most striking feature. Jutting and square it had a pugnacious quality to it and he would thrust it forward as he walked. Judy placed a kiss on it now.

‘You could send your customers along to view my pictures, and I could send mine to you to buy the picture hooks they’d need to hang them up.’

She felt him stiffen. ‘I don’t need anyone to send me customers, thanks very much. I have a regular and loyal clientele.’

Oh dear, she’d said the wrong thing. Again!. ‘Of course you do, darling. I only meant . . . ‘

‘I know what you meant, Judy, but I really think you’d be taking too much on. You have enough to do already looking after the children, the house, and me, of course. I doubt you could cope with any more work.’

She could feel freedom slipping away from her and Judy snatched at it, grimly determined to hold on. ‘Of course I can cope with more work. The children are growing up and well settled in school. You are out working on the market all day, and it really doesn’t take the entire week for me to keep one small house tidy and clean.’

‘Small? Are you trying to say that I don’t provide you with decent living accommodation?’

‘Of course not.’ Heavens, he was becoming increasingly touchy.

‘I always understood there was more to being a wife and mother than simply cleaning,’ he snapped. ‘What about being there for me? I don’t want a wife who’s tired every evening. And what if either of the children were ill?’

‘Then I would stay home and look after them, of course I would. Or perhaps your mother would help?’ Judy wasn’t on particularly close terms with her mother-in-law but Lillian was good with the children and would often take them for an afternoon to give her a break, even when she wasn’t on jankers.

‘Go to bed, Judy,’ he told her, abruptly ending the conversation. ‘I’ll be up directly.’

‘But . . .’

‘Do I have to repeat myself?’

Judy went. Later, he took her with his usual lack of finesse, but then Judy didn’t expect anything more. She gazed bleakly over his shoulder at a cobweb on the ceiling while Sam grunted and gasped and satisfied his needs, or however he might choose to describe the sex that took place between them. It always seemed to Judy like an act of physical necessity, a part of his regime rather than something you could call love making. Judy’s own needs were never discussed. It would probably surprise her husband to discover she actually had any. Intimacy was certainly not a part of their relationship but at least he never took long over the act. As with other matters he was brisk and efficient, and blessedly swift.

He lifted himself off her and Judy gently drew down her nightdress. She wouldn’t make a move to the bathroom until she heard his snores, which wouldn’t be long in coming. If she moved too soon he’d claim she was accusing him of being unclean by immediately going to wash herself. He was so vigorous she always felt a little sore afterwards despite having learned to comply on demand.

But she was still worrying over her request. Judy simply couldn’t let it go, not after it had taken her so long to pluck up the courage to broach the subject.

Tentatively she stroked a hand over his brow, the light brown hair cut close to his head, military style. ‘Have you thought about what I asked you, Sam? Will you agree to let me try and see if I can cope with a little stall, just part time? If it gets in the way of the children, or your routine, then I’ll stop at once, but allow me to at least have a go. Please. It might be fun and you do want me to be happy, don’t you, darling? I don’t object to your little hobbies, after all.’

It was the nearest she dare come to reminding him of how much he expected
her
to put up with. He lay beside her, saying nothing, but Judy could see that he was considering the point behind those hooded eyes.

Sam was in fact thinking of this new love-interest in his life, a liaison fraught with danger, although that was the part he relished the most. Where was the point of it otherwise? If Judy was around the market more, mightn’t she catch them unawares? He wondered if that would matter or if this further threat of discovery might simply add to the thrill of their encounters?

Perhaps, since this lady didn’t frequent the market a great deal, it wasn’t such a problem. She was far too classy, yet possessed a curious proclivity for having sex in interesting and unusual places. Then again, a refusal might make Judy suspicious and she complained very little, unlike most wives.

Perhaps, in view of these considerations, he could afford to cut her a little slack and be generous. After all, he could put a stop to her little scheme any time it suited him to do so.

Chapter Fifteen

Helen Catlow was being driven demented by her mother-in-law. She tried to make allowances, constantly reminding herself that the woman was recently bereaved, that she had loved her husband even if no one else had. But then Helen would come home and find newspapers and magazines scattered all over her beautiful silk brocade sofa, her mother-in-law happily reading with her glasses perched on the end of her nose, oblivious of the mess, and Helen would have to go round whipping them up in a frenzy of temper before the print marked the cloth.

Or she would go into her pristine kitchen and find the gas jet on and a pan burned dry. She would open a cupboard and discover that all her precious crockery had been put back in the wrong place, lace doilies placed beneath her gold ormolu clock, or a table moved.

‘I thought it might look better there,’ Dulcie would say when she challenged her on the matter.

‘If I had wanted the table against that wall, I would have put it there myself.’

‘Of course you would, dear. Sorry! It’s being at such a loose end, I really don’t know what to do with myself. Perhaps we could go out somewhere this afternoon? Do a little shopping and have tea at the Midland Hotel? Or we could have a nice game of draughts by the fire. Wouldn’t that be nice?’

Nice
! Everything was nice in Dulcie’s world. How Helen hated the word, and the woman who used it. Didn’t it just prove her total lack of education? Helen clicked her tongue with impatience. Sympathetic she might be for her mother-in-law’s situation, but nursemaid she was not.