an intelligent animal’s.
‘No, no,’ he said, controlling the emotion, looking now amused, boss-like. ‘I can’t let you work yet, not until I start paying you.’
‘Well, I could start properly today,’ Katherine said. ‘You wouldn’t have to pay me the full day. You obviously need help.’
‘I can’t,’ Nick said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to talk it through with my brother. It’s half his money.’
‘Where is he?’ Katherine said.
‘New York,’ Nick said. ‘I’ll mention it at the weekend.’
‘Is he coming over, then?’ Katherine said, treading cautiously. She was inexperienced in lives and brothers like that, New York brothers; she felt in danger of saying something that showed where she was and where she’d seen. What she was.
‘No,’ Nick said. ‘I’ll speak to him on the phone.’
‘Can you do that?’ and ‘That’s an awful expense,’ came to Katherine, but she managed to say, ‘Of course,’ in quite a natural way, and went away quite soon afterwards.
This brother was a new, tantalizing fact, a good one for the tea-shop, but she’d not be in a rush to share it. In repetition, under the unsparing investigation of the Broomhill matrons and virgins, that urbane ‘of course’ would not save her, and she could hardly pass as a woman to whom phone calls to New York brothers were an ordinary matter. Pretence with a Jacqueline Susann flavour made those women’s eyes widen, their lips licked even if it were true, a holiday in Morocco with photographs from Boots; she could not associate herself with this bold life without examining her own, and it started with the furniture.
She could not revolt from the second-hand, passed-down nature of her house’s furnishings – hadn’t she always said she liked old things, family things? – uncomfortably eliding a guilty table her mother-in-law had bought thirty years before with the notion of a ‘family heirloom’. It was rather the sense that her life would pass among superseded objects, things too vast and bulky to throw away without life-changing resolution. She saw herself, elderly, negotiating her own house like a mountaineer with crampons. There was some betrayal of her own existence, too, in the choice of a flower shop. Responsibility; waste; luxury; gardens. That was what it was about. When the time came, she would put on her orange rubber gloves and throw away the stock at the end of the week with a flash of excitement like the anticipation of adultery. Goodness. She would set her face. Nick would fold his arms, study her. She saw the whole scene quite clearly, and she was starting there on Monday. What she had betrayed had, quite suddenly, become not her existence but her husband’s.
That oasis of mutable beauty, bought wholesale, was a startling addition to Broomhill’s black and, where cleaned, yellowish sandstone. Nick’s flowers were the only things sold there both useless and shortlived. Frivolous, unnecessary and lovely.
‘Have you seen the new shop? The flower shop?’ Miss Johnson said, bumping into Katherine a day or two after it had opened. They were outside the post office; this was Miss Johnson’s way of letting Katherine know she had been seen sitting casually with the young man, and had not been seen at all.
‘Yes,’ Katherine said. ‘Don’t you think it looks lovely?’
‘Lovely?’ Miss Johnson said. ‘Yes, it does. It does look—’ she tried the word out ‘– lovely. It would be nice to have that and an ironmonger’s. You see, I’m not in a forgiving mood. I don’t know where I’ll go for the practical side of things now Townsend’s is gone.’
‘You could go to Marshall’s in Crookes,’ Katherine said, a little impatient at being dragged away from the topic of Nick after so promising a start. ‘There’ll always be ironmongers.’ She’d been thinking, and couldn’t come up with another florist’s in the whole of the west of Sheffield, even in the splendid beech-sheltered ramparts of Ranmoor.
‘Well, some people might think there’s more of a need for ironmongers,’ Miss Johnson said. ‘But you’re right, Marshall’s is perfectly satisfactory.’
Katherine wouldn’t let on she’d be working at Nick’s the next week, and left Miss Johnson to read as best she could the scene she’d witnessed. She was clearly busting to know. She satisfied herself by remarking that the young man seemed nice, and went on. She didn’t mind the prospect of acquiring a reputation for slyness when the news got out in the tea-shop.
Malcolm had to be told, of course, and the evening had to be chosen carefully. He was out two and a half nights a week. Tuesday was his battle re-creation society; Thursday the gardening club; Friday he liked to go out with the staff for a drink in the pub and wasn’t home before eight. ‘Liked to’ in the sense of ‘thought it a good thing to do’: he didn’t have much of a drink, and said they enjoyed it more than he did. Probably enjoyed it more when he’d gone, Katherine always thought. She toyed with the idea of saving it for one of those nights when he’d come in half an hour before bedtime, to limit the discussion. But there probably wouldn’t be much of a discussion anyway. On Wednesday she thought hard and recalled what Malcolm’s favourite dinner was. She shopped and bought it to soften him up. She even thought about getting a bottle of wine, but that seemed too blatant.
‘Steak!’ Malcolm said. ‘And mushrooms!’ He was standing in the kitchen doorway, having changed out of his suit. The room was steamy, loud with the radio and the steak’s sizzle. Most food he said nothing much about. But at either end of the scale, he had two responses: after anything new, he’d set down his fork and say, discouragingly, ‘Makes a change, at least.’ The other thing, the massively keen one, was what he said now, not even after finishing but before. ‘Haven’t had steak for an age.’
‘What’s so funny?’ Daniel said, wandering into the kitchen, looking for something to eat once his dad had gone.
‘Your dad,’ Katherine said, though really it was herself, the neatness of the plan. ‘Don’t start picking, your dinner’s nearly ready.’
‘I’m starving,’ Daniel said.
‘The inexhaustible appetites of the adolescent male,’ Jane said, coming down the stairs.
‘Gi’ o’er,’ Daniel said, lapsing into school talk.
She didn’t change the tablecloth, she didn’t get out anything but their usual weekday plates. For pudding there was, deliberately, the trifle left from the day before – a delicious one with strawberries in it: she’d been softening them up. The whole thing, apart from Tim saying, at one point, ‘I don’t like steak’ (‘Why not?’ ‘It’s got tubes in it’) was a great success. It was almost a pang to remember what she’d done it for; it was quite a glimpse of a perfect family, all sitting up neatly and eating their delicious steak dinner. The kids might as well have said, ‘May I get down?’ at the end.
‘Do you know what?’ Katherine said, when she and Malcolm were alone. ‘I’ve got myself a job.’
Malcolm looked at her in assessment; she looked back, firmly; he dropped his gaze to his empty plate. You could see him recalculating the steak, which had been only enjoyment, a treat.
‘We’re not that short of money,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve worked before. I like having a job. I haven’t had one since the children were born.’
‘What’s all this, then, all
