did her best. She joined the Parent-Teacher Association, took part in church activities, went to classes in cookery and flower-arranging. She made an effort to do something about her appearance, bought new clothes in the latest fashions at prices she could scarcely credit. But they never felt right on her. She settled in the end for upmarket versions of the plain, functional, serviceable garments she had always worn.
And still there remained a wilderness of leisure she didn’t know how to fill. Paul didn’t appear to notice as she began a slow slide into depression, punctuated by unnerving, seemingly random attacks of panic.
Now, on this November morning, she glanced about and saw that the children had finished breakfast. She sent them upstairs as usual to wash their hands and faces, brush their teeth, make themselves ready for school. It was always she who drove them to school; Paul’s works lay in the opposite direction.
She sat watching her husband with tense concentration. He looked at his watch, drained his cup and pushed back his chair. At once she nerved herself, launching precipitately into speech.
‘Will you be coming with me to the musical evening next week?’
He paused, surprised.
‘In the church hall,’ she added rapidly. ‘Tuesday, half past seven, it’s for Third World charities. I mentioned it to you last week. You promised to think about it and let me know.’
‘I’m afraid I forgot all about it,’ he told her amiably.
She twisted her hands together. ‘It’s a good programme, in a very good cause.’
‘I’m sorry.’ His tone was still easy and amiable. ‘I simply haven’t the time. We’ve got a rush on just now.’ He stood up, smiled down at her. ‘Anyway, it’s hardly my style. But don’t let me stop you going. You get out and enjoy yourself. There must be some woman from the church you can go with.’ He gathered up his newspapers. ‘I may be late this evening. Don’t bother about any supper for me, I can get a bite somewhere. If I want anything when I come in I can get it myself.’
She sat gazing up at him, her hands tightly clasped. ‘That’s three times this week you’ve been late home.’
He made a comical grimace. ‘Is that so?’ He patted his pockets, checked his keys. ‘You know how it is, the business won’t run itself. If there’s work to do, it’s got to be done.’ He kept impatience from his voice, kept his expression friendly and smiling. ‘Competition’s fiercer than ever these days. If you don’t keep pushing forward you very soon grind to a halt.’ He went round the table, stooped and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, straightened up, turned to go.
She suddenly overflowed with anger and resentment. ‘You’re seeing that girl again! That’s why you’re late!’
The muscles tensed along his jaw. He didn’t turn back to look at her. ‘What girl?’ he asked lightly.
‘What girl?’ she echoed fiercely. She was on the edge of tears, but she kept her voice low because of the children. She had an air of being astounded at her own temerity but she pressed resolutely on. ‘Have you got half a dozen girls on the go, then, that you don’t know who I’m talking about? I’m talking about Karen Boland.’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ he said soothingly. He half turned, half smiled. ‘You’re upsetting yourself for nothing. I haven’t laid eyes on Karen since she left Wychford, months ago.’
There was a brief silence. ‘Is that the truth?’ She looked beseechingly up at him.
He patted her shoulder. ‘Of course it is.’ He glanced again at his watch. ‘I may have been a fool but I’m not a damned lunatic. That’s all water under the bridge, best forgotten.’ He gave her shoulder another encouraging pat and left the room. She heard the front door open and shut, his car starting up, moving off down the drive.
She got slowly to her feet, shaken and trembling. From force of habit she began to gather up the breakfast things, set them down on the draining-board. She stood beside it with her head lowered and her eyes closed, fighting back the tears.
When the children came running downstairs again a few minutes later she looked her normal self. She cast an eye over them, gathered up her purse and shopping-bag. ‘Come along, then,’ she said in her everyday tones. ‘Mustn’t be late for school.’
In Jubilee Cottage also breakfast was coming to an end. Ian Wilmot was pouring himself a last cup of coffee when he heard the postman. He rose with controlled haste and went into the hall, coming back with a handful of mail which he put down in front of his wife. ‘All for you again,’ he remarked cheerfully.
Christine glanced quickly through the post and laid it aside. All business mail, to be dealt with later. She looked up at Ian. ‘Nothing from your application?’ He had applied for a better job in the South.
He picked up his cup. He remained standing by his chair, drinking the coffee. He shook his head, smiling. ‘No, not yet.’
She continued to gaze up at him. ‘If you’re on the short list, surely you’d have heard by now?’
‘Possibly.’ He kept his amiable look, his light, dismissive tone.
She frowned. ‘You had real hopes of this one.’ Until six months ago he’d been confident of promotion in due course in his own department in Cannonbridge where he’d worked for the last twelve years. He believed he’d given satisfaction, he’d always got on well with his head of department. But six months ago the head had died suddenly and a new man had been brought in. The easy-going atmosphere altered overnight. The new man was a good deal younger than his predecessor, a good deal sharper, far more critical. He began a relentless drive for efficiency, singling out in uncomfortable ways those members of staff whose performance struck him as less than satisfactory. Ian’s name figured well up on this list.
Christine tilted back her head. ‘That’s the fifth job you’ve applied for in the last few months,’ she observed.
He moved his shoulders but said nothing.
‘Is there anything else on the cards?’ she pursued.
He drank his coffee. ‘Not at the moment.’ He smiled again. ‘Something will come along one of these days.’
She made no reply but sat gazing up at him.
He finished his coffee. ‘Are you nearly ready?’ he asked Karen.
She nodded, ate her last morsel of toast, drained her cup.
Ian went into the hall to put on his outdoor things. Christine stood up and began to clear the table.
Karen followed Ian into the hall. She reached down her brown quilted jacket from the hallstand and slipped it on. She gathered up the long tresses of her wavy gold-brown hair, twisting it loosely into a coil on top of her head before pulling on over it a knitted woollen cap of bright daffodil yellow.
Ian took her long matching scarf from its peg. ‘You’ll need this,’ he warned. ‘It’ll be a cold day.’ He draped the scarf round her neck and shoulders, tucking in the ends as if she were a child, smiling tenderly down at her. She stood in docile silence, smiling up at him.
In the kitchen Christine, returning from
