hollyhocks, delphiniums and roses in profusion. She would love a pretty garden, a place in the country away from the smoke and pollution which would be so much better for Thomas.
There was a snort, a grunt and then George’s eyes opened. He yawned then said, ‘I could do with a cup of Rosie Lee.’
‘You sound so common. It’s a cup of tea, George,’ Celia chastised.
The tiredness left his eyes to be replaced by annoyance. ‘When are you going to get off your high horse, woman? You may sound as though you were born with a plum in your mouth, but I know you came from a slum.’
Celia felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She had been born in the East End of London, and when her father died, her mother had been left to bring up eight children on her own. Celia could remember the two small rooms they had been crammed into, the rats, and the bugs climbing the walls. Tuberculosis had been rife, and Celia saw three of her brothers and one sister die of the disease. She’d been terrified that she was going to catch it too, and with that fear came a fierce determination to escape the poverty and filth. Angrily she cried, ‘I may have been born in a slum, but at least I had the ambition to better myself, which is more than I can say for you!’
‘That’s it, bring me down again, but you seem to forget that you only worked in a dress shop when I met you.’
‘It wasn’t just any old shop! I had to improve my diction, posture and dress sense before I could gain a position in Knightsbridge. We catered for the wealthy and fashionable.’
‘Yeah, and you still try to emulate them,’ George said bitterly.
‘No doubt you’d prefer me to sound like a fishwife, but let me tell you I’m proud of my achievements.’
‘If that’s the case, how come nobody around here knows anything about it? Instead you’ve fabricated the story that you were born in Chelsea, of middle-class parents.’
‘I won’t have anyone looking down on me.’
‘No, you prefer to lord it up over them by pretending to be something that you’re not.’
‘You didn’t complain when we met,’ Celia told him, annoyed to find tears welling in her eyes. ‘In fact you said you loved my voice, my poise, and everything else about me. Lately though, all you do is criticise me and I have no idea why.’
George shook his head, sighed, then said, ‘Yeah, you’re right and I’m sorry. It’s just that I wish you’d lighten up; learn to live a little, to have a bit of fun.’
‘We went to the dance at the Conservative Club, and there’s another one in a couple of weeks.’
‘You can’t call that fun. It’s all so formal, dress suits and cocktail dresses. We’re only in our forties, but we’re becoming a couple of old fuddy-duddies, and when was the last time we made love?’
Celia stared at her husband, aghast. George didn’t seem to appreciate that lately she’d been worn out with looking after Thomas, sometimes so worried about him that she slept in a chair beside his bed. She didn’t bother to point this out; George would only say she was mollycoddling Thomas again, so she rose to her feet, only saying, ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘Yeah, do that, and then how about a bit of slap and tickle?’
‘George,’ she cried, appalled, ‘what on earth has come over you? It’s four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.’
‘As prissy as ever,’ he said bitterly. ‘I knew you’d react like that, Celia. In fact the only fun I have with you nowadays is in winding you up. Forget the tea. I’m going out.’
With those words George abruptly rose to his feet, and as he walked out of the room Celia chased after him. ‘George, where are you going?’
‘For a walk,’ he snapped while pulling on his overcoat. Moments later he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Celia just stood there for moment, brows furrowed. George had changed lately, had become sharp in his criticism of her, but she felt that something else was going on, something underlying his odd behaviour. Was it to do with his business? Was George having financial problems and keeping it from her? No, that couldn’t be it, she decided, he was as busy as ever.
Whatever the underlying problem was, Celia was sure that it wasn’t anything to do with their marriage. After all, she was a good wife and mother. It was George who had changed, not her.
On Monday morning the fog had cleared and Carol’s mother, Daphne Cole, stood at the bottom of the stairs to shout impatiently, ‘Carol, get up! If you don’t get a move on you’ll be late for work.’
‘Yeah, I’m coming,’ she called back sleepily. Carol hated Monday morning, and her boring job in the shoe shop did nothing to inspire her to get out of bed. She didn’t mind most of the customers, but dreaded those that had smelly feet, especially if they wanted her to take their foot measurements. However, as she became fully awake Carol thought about the shop fitter who had caught her eye. Now he was worth getting up for.
It didn’t take Carol long to get ready, but she wished she didn’t have to put on the black, pencil skirt and white blouse that all the staff had to wear. She needed something striking to be noticed, and as Carol sat at her dressing table she decided that instead of dragging her long, auburn hair into a ponytail, she’d try something more sophisticated. It took a little time, but at last Carol managed to style her hair into a neat French pleat. She then applied make-up, and smiled at her own reflection. Yes, she looked good. Surely the shop fitter would notice her today.
‘Why are you all done up like a dog’s dinner?’ her mother asked as soon as Carol appeared downstairs.
‘I’ve only done my hair in a different style.’
‘It’s more than that. You’ve got far too much make-up on. With all that green eye-shadow and black mascara, you look like a flippin’ clown.’
‘I think it looks nice,’ Carol said, ignoring her mother’s criticism as she poured herself a cup of tea. Sometimes she felt that her mum was jealous of her, and she had never been given the attention or shows of affection that were showered on her brothers.
‘Come on, girl, it’s time you left for work,’ her mum now chided.
Carol glanced at the clock, grabbed a slice of toast, threw on her coat and hurried out, calling, ‘Bye, see you later.’
Amy was just leaving her house too, and Mabel Povis was on her doorstep, cleaning her letterbox. Carol saw the woman looking at her with disapproval, but ignored her as she linked arms with Amy.
‘You look nice,’ Amy said as they walked up the Rise.
‘Thanks,’ Carol said, pleased to hear that after her mother’s carping. She saw that Amy was hardly wearing any make-up, just a touch of mascara and pink lipstick. She still looked nice though, pretty in a wholesome sort of way, with her blonde bubble-cut hair, pink cheeks and clear, blue eyes.
‘I
