best thing?
But she swept the notion aside. Eric’s proposal had touched and flattered her; why should she look a gift horse in the mouth? She had always felt as much loved by the couple as their own children were – perhaps even more so since her own parents’ tragic death – and to be trusted with Eric’s pride and joy … well, it was surely to be taken as an accolade. An accolade that she had been hoping for all along but one that she’d dared not expect.
She’d not whispered a word to anyone about her troubles of late, but the truth was that she had been feeling a little low and oddly insecure, what with it being that time of life when a woman feels less than her best and society conspires to make her feel utterly useless – fit only for the scrap-heap. The future had begun to look so empty and she had been desperately seeking something she could look forward to, with pleasure or even zeal.
Next year she and Phil would be celebrating twenty-five years of marriage; and with modern medicine being what it was, and people living longer and more healthily, it looked as though they stood a fair chance of maybe twenty-five more together. What on earth were they going to do with all that time? Or more to the point, since he at least had a busy career for a while, what was she going to do? These were the thoughts that had begun to haunt her, even before their two daughters had left home and her ‘caring’ role had already begun to dwindle. Since the girls had physically removed themselves from the family home and needed her even less, a kind of panic had set in.
But she had not let her concerns remain mere thoughts. No one could accuse her of sitting back, bemoaning her fate and wailing that there was nothing to be done about it. Instead she had started sowing seeds. And it wasn’t entirely by chance that Eric had come up with his proposal, if she was honest about it: she had been slowly and carefully working on him as she helped him in his shops, slipping in the odd suggestions here and intelligent comments there, and making herself pretty well indispensable, until one evening, just after Christmas, he’d hung up his overall, turned to her with a grave expression, and said he had something to say.
He had then proceeded to put forward what were essentially her own ideas for the future of the business as though they were all his own. It seemed not to have occurred to him to promote one of his managers to do the job in his place; his only thought was of her. And what a boost it had given her! Especially when she realised the size of the salary he was considering paying her, and the degree of control she was to be given. It was all far more than she’d ever imagined.
So now her life was mapped out. With the shops to keep her occupied and the prospect of grandchildren on the way, she could happily spend her remaining years here in London where she’d always lived, amongst family and friends, and not ask for anything more.
But what if Spittal’s closed down?
Whipping a towel from the radiator she scrambled to her feet. She must see Eric and Sheila at once.
By the time she reached her in-laws’ house, two blocks away from her own, the half-heard news about Spittal’s possible closure had become hard fact in Marjorie’s mind, and the only possible outcome a dead certainty. Grimly, her keys rattling in the lock, she let herself in at the front door.
She had had free access to the house for many years, but only in recent times, when Sheila’s joints had begun to grow too painful for her to greet guests at the door, had she taken advantage of it.
Stepping into the wide, well-polished hall with its thick Indian rug she never ceased to be impressed by her surroundings. She tried not to be because Philip always referred to the house – behind his mother’s back and well out of earshot – as ‘hideous’.
Never, he had been known to say, his eyes narrowed against the clashing wall-papers, the gaudy paint work and the eclectic assortment of ornaments, had so much money been squandered to such disastrous effect.
Certainly Marjorie would not have chosen such bold patterns either, or so many of them crowded together in quite the way they were – above the dado, below the dado, outlined with borders, panelled with borders; nor would she have considered the over-large crystal chandeliers as fitting for such a house. She would not have lain inch-thick ornate rugs on top of deep-piled patterned carpets. And the swags and drapes at the window were way over the top. Yet the whole was immaculately kept and gave out a sensation of luxurious comfort. Stepping into number fourteen Rosewood Gardens was like entering a secure, well-padded sanctuary.
Marjorie slipped off her shoes, as was the custom in this household, and waded across yards of Axminster in search of her mother-in-law, calling out as she went. She found the stout little figure of Sheila Benson sitting in the breakfast room, as usual, busy with her needlepoint.
‘Thought you were going to the hairdresser’s,’ the older woman said, blinking up at Marjorie through glasses that magnified her eyes.
Marjorie gave a weak smile. ‘Oh … yes, that’s right,’ she said vaguely, her hand straying up to her hair. ‘But first I’ve some mind-blowing news for you.’
‘What? Not the baby already?’
‘No, no!’ Marjorie fluttered her hands at the idea. Her first grandchild wasn’t due for another ten weeks at least.
‘Wow, you gave me quite a turn.’ Sheila had struggled halfway out of her chair; now she fumbled her way back to it. ‘What is it, then, this news? You’re looking rather upset.’
Marjorie flopped into the large wing chair on the other side of the French window and sat with her feet tucked up under her skirt. A smell of spring and fresh-mown grass wafted through the open door, but she was hardly in the mood to enjoy it. For a while, ordering her thoughts, she watched the gardener that her in-laws hired for two mornings a week plough up and down the long lawn, making the first striped cut of the year. The man’s irritation with the ungainly cupid that had been cemented to the centre of his work area since last autumn was obvious by the way he kept hurling aside the electric cable.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I suppose you haven’t had the radio on? And perhaps it wasn’t on the local TV news. I could hardly believe it at first. But, really, it must be true.’ She turned wide, incredulous eyes to her mother-in-law. ‘Spittal’s is closing down.’
Sheila let fall her embroidery frame. She dropped her scissors as well. ‘But … but surely that can’t be true?’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘My but you’ve given me another turn!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Marjorie knelt down to retrieve the scattered items, barely managing to locate the tiny scissors amongst the swirls of leaves and flowers. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. I should have broken this to you more gently.’
Sheila waved the apology aside and put a hand on Marjorie’s arm. ‘It was just the thought of all those poor people. Not to mention Philip. Whenever I hear of places closing down and folk being put out of work I’m reminded of my childhood and my father losing his job.’
For a moment her face reflected her bad memories but she quickly rallied. ‘Anyway, let’s not look on the black side. These days there are redundancy payments, aren’t there? Help from the government too. Not that it’ll matter so much to Philip; he won’t be needing it, will he?’
Marjorie was about to lay down the horse-and-cart tapestry in her mother-in-law’s lap, having first admired all the tiny stitches, though she had no patience herself for anything involving needles and thread. Now she glanced up sharply at Sheila’s words.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well
