Betty smiled, Treacle turned to look at her again, his head cocked, soft brown eyes intent on her face. He then left his owner, moving across to sit on Betty’s lap, his tongue soft and wet on her cheek.
‘He likes you,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Val by the way. Valerie Thorn.’
‘I’m Betty. Betty Grayson.’
Treacle jumped down, heading for the nearest tree as Val said, ‘It’s nice to meet you at last. We live in the same block of flats and since you moved in I’ve been meaning to introduce myself, but, well, you know how it is.’
‘Yes, all the tenants seem so busy and I hardly see them, but it’s nice to meet you too. You’re on the ground floor aren’t you?’
‘That’s right, in a one-bedroom flat. I live alone. What about you?’
Betty’s expression saddened. ‘Yes, me too, though not by choice.’
Valerie Thorn’s eyebrows rose, but then seeing that her dog was running off she rose swiftly to her feet. ‘Blast, I’d best go after him. Treacle! Treacle,’ she called, and after saying a hasty goodbye, she hurried off.
After this brief interlude, Betty was alone again. It wasn’t unusual. Living in London was different from her life in Surrey, the pace of it much faster, all hustle and bustle, with everyone intent on their own business. Since moving into her flat in Ascot Court she found it the same as previous ones in London, the other tenants seeming not only busy, but distant and remote. All they’d exchanged were quick hellos, but at least she’d met one of them now and felt a surge of gratitude that Valerie Thorn had at least stopped to speak to her. She’d seen the woman a few times, judged her by appearance, her hard veneer, and had expected the woman to be brittle, perhaps standoffish. Instead she’d found her warm with a lovely sense of humour, and hoped that she’d bump into her again.
Betty stood up, deciding to go home in case one of her children rang, or even paid her a visit, which would be wonderful. As she walked towards the gate a young couple were coming towards her – hippies, the girl wearing a cotton, flowing maxi-dress, with strands of love beads around her neck. Her hair was long, fair and, with a flower tucked behind her ear, she looked carefree, happy. When Betty looked at her young man she saw that he was wearing a colourful kaftan, purple trousers and sandals, his hair almost as long as the girl’s. Betty thought he looked disgraceful – if her son dressed like that she would die of shame.
The couple were intent on each other as they passed, their faces wreathed in smiles, and now Betty felt a surge of envy. They were in love. She had felt like that once – just once in her life; but oh, what a fool she had been – a blind, stupid fool.
Betty saw the red Mini pull up in front of the flats as soon as she left the park, and was delighted when her daughter climbed out. It never ceased to amaze her that Anne had her own car, or even that she could drive – something Betty would never have dreamed of achieving as a young woman and something she still couldn’t master. Of course, when she was Anne’s age few women drove; in fact, unless one was very well-off, a car was a rarity. She’d married Richard when she was eighteen years old and felt fortunate to have a bicycle, one that she rode to the local village, the basket on the front crammed with local produce as she cycled home. Home. Her stomach lurched. No, she couldn’t think about it, not when Anne was standing there, a bright smile on her face.
‘Hi, Mum. I can’t stay long but I thought I’d pop round to see how you’re doing.’
‘I’d hardly call driving from Farnham popping round,’ Betty said as they walked into the flats where, after climbing two flights of stairs, she opened her front door.
Anne followed her in, her face dropping as she took in the small living room. ‘Oh, Mum, this is almost as bad as your last place.’
‘It has a nice outlook and after the pittance I got as a settlement, it’s all I can afford.’
‘Please, Mum, don’t start. We’ve had argument after argument about this, but you still refuse to see Dad’s point of view.’
She clamped her lips together. Her daughter had always been a daddy’s girl and, despite everything, she was quick to jump to Richard’s defence. He had spoiled Anne, indulged her love of horse riding, but Betty knew that if she said any more Anne would leave. She hadn’t seen her since moving into this flat, and the last thing she wanted was for her to leave after five minutes. Forcing a smile, she asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’
‘A bottle of Coke if you’ve got one.’
‘Yes, of course I have,’ Betty assured her as she went through to her tiny kitchenette. Coca-Cola was something Anne always asked for on her rare visits, so she kept a couple of bottles in the fridge for just such an occasion. Betty found the bottle opener, snapped off the top, and asked as she returned to the living room, ‘Have you heard from your brother?’
‘No, John’s too busy with his latest conquest.’
‘At least he isn’t like his father.’
‘Mum,’ warned Anne.
Betty regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, but it was hard to stay silent in the face of her daughter’s loyalty to Richard. She felt that, like her, Anne should hate her father for what he’d done – that she should be on her side, but instead Anne had refused to cut him out of her life. When it happened, Anne had been twenty-five, living away from home, though still in Surrey, in a flat-share with another young woman. Her son, John, had been twenty-eight, a surveyor, but with her help he was buying a mews cottage. Unlike Anne he’d been sympathetic to Betty, severing all ties with his father. For that she was thankful, but with his busy career she rarely saw her son these days.
‘How’s Anthony?’ Betty enquired, hoping that asking about Anne’s boyfriend would mollify her daughter.
‘He’s still pushing to get married, but I’m happy to stay as we are. I mean, what’s the point? It’s only a ring and a piece of paper.’
Betty managed to hold her tongue this time. When Anne had met her boyfriend eighteen months ago they’d soon moved in together and she’d been shocked to the core, glad that she no longer lived in Farnham for her neighbours to witness her shame. It had also surprised her that, according to Anne, her father didn’t object, but as he’d lived in sin until their divorce came through he was hardly a good example.
‘What about children? You’re twenty-nine now.’
‘I’m up for promotion and a baby would ruin that. I’m happy to stay as we are.’
‘You could still become pregnant. If that happens, surely you’ll marry?’
‘I’m on the pill so there’s no chance of unwanted babies. Anyway, I’m not a hundred per cent sure that I want to spend the rest of my life with Tony. Living together is ideal. It’s like a trial marriage and if things don’t work out we can both walk away without regrets.’
Despite herself, Betty found that she envied her daughter. There had been no trial marriage for her – no chance to find out that her husband was a womaniser before he’d put a ring on her finger. Divorce had been frowned on too, so when she married Richard she’d expected it to be for life. Instead, at forty-seven years old, she’d been cruelly discarded, as though Richard had thrown out an old, worn-out coat.
‘Mum,
