time he withstood the pressure from his father and the emotional blackmail from his mother. From that day on he’d had nothing to do with the family business.
Philip nodded at Tom over his Guinness. ‘Oh yes, yes, I can always go into the family business.’ His tone was heavy with scorn. ‘It’s what everyone’s always wanted. Everyone, that is, except me.’
‘Well …’ Tom swung one short leg over the other and drummed his fingers on the table, ‘… I know you’ve never been keen. But at least you have that to fall back on, haven’t you? Damn lucky you are, really, you know. Considering the alternative.’
‘The alternative,’ Phil stated unnecessarily, ‘is to move down to the Bristol office with what’s left of the London mob. And in spite of the amalgamation I can even keep my position … if I decide that’s what I want.’
Tom blew out his cheeks; Philip sounded as though he were actually considering the choice. Personally, he had soon told Spittal’s what they could do with their Bristol plans.
‘But Phil, you wouldn’t be wanting to move, would you? Not at your time of life?’
Philip met his friend’s incredulous gaze. His time of life? Did Tom see him as an old man? He didn’t feel it.
‘I don’t think this redundancy idea’s something to rush into without giving it serious thought,’ he hedged.
‘No … no. Maybe not.’ Bemused, Tom stood up and went to the bar for refills, leaving Philip alone with his thoughts.
Philip sighed when he’d gone; he had hoped Tom would understand, but he hadn’t really expected him to. Tom wouldn’t know anything about how he’d begun to feel lately, because feelings weren’t things they discussed. The trouble was that unlike Tom he was nowhere near ready to hang up his hat.
He needed a change, that was certain; needed to climb out of the rut that his life had sunk into, and Bristol seemed like an answer. The Bahamas would have been better, admittedly, but Bristol would have to suffice. Anywhere away from the area in which he had been born and bred would do. For too long he had felt as though he was still tied to his parents; still under their watchful eye. What a ridiculous state of affairs at his age!
For a long time he had wanted to escape to pastures new but it had never been practical, or so Marjorie had said. Each time the subject cropped up she had constructed a case against it. Usually it was because of the girls: they were at a crucial stage of their schooling, or too bound by their social lives. When weren’t they? But the girls had long since finished their schooling and gone on to make lives of their own. So nothing tied him and Marjie to south London any more. Nothing much would be missed.
Oh, how he longed for change! Life had become so predictable of late, with each year following the same pattern. Everything revolved almost entirely round the family circle, because Marjorie liked it that way. A great one for family, Marjorie was, particularly on birthdays and at Christmas. Birthdays demanded a slap-up meal together in a restaurant, and Christmas was celebrated at their place or at his parents’ or – a recent innovation – with their daughter Becky and her husband Steve.
Holidays, at least, they took with friends: usually Tom and Beth but sometimes with Val and Ian as well. And it nearly always had to be Spain because Beth claimed she loved it and didn’t want to try anywhere different.
They would spend most of the first week listening to Val’s long list of complaints about the hotel or scouring souvenir shops for Beth, who tended to get lost in them. The second week would pass in endless discussions on where to go next year – as if it would make any difference – and Ian would invariably make himself ill from too much beer and sun. Marjorie’s nose would turn red and start blistering towards the end of the holiday; Tom would stop speaking to Beth; and they would all come home wondering why they’d bothered to go in the first place.
When all their children were young it had been even worse, but that was thankfully in the past. They’d had a few good laughs it was true, yet one holiday inevitably became blurred with the previous one and none stood out in the memory.
Philip longed to go off with Marjorie on their own somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter. But whenever he’d suggested it, Marjorie had looked at him as though he were an alien.
Philip shifted on the pub’s padded stool. His feet fidgeted beneath the table. The upheaval at Spittal’s had dug up feelings long since buried and almost forgotten. But now he must do something about those feelings before old age crept closer and it was too late. Spittal’s was showing him a way out. He would never get another chance.
‘Tom,’ he said when his friend returned, dripping their drinks over the carpet and across the table, ‘I want you to promise me something.’
‘Oh?’ Tom fixed him with a wary eye; Phil’s tone had alerted him. ‘And what would that be now?’
Philip looked away. Explaining wasn’t easy. ‘If you happen to bump into Marjorie, I’d rather you didn’t say anything to her about any of this kerfuffle. About the redundancy package I mean. And don’t tell your Beth about it either; the two of them are bound to get together before long, and then it would all come out.’
‘What? You mean …?’ Tom’s jaw began to drop. ‘But I’m taking redundancy, no question, so how … you can’t … Marjorie’s bound to wonder why you’re not leaping at the chance to do the same.’
Phil had thought about that. ‘Look, you’re two – nearly three – years older than I am. Let’s pretend there was a cut-off point and that you were given the chance of redundancy but I wasn’t; that the powers that be consider there’s still life in this old dog and they expect me to soldier on.’
‘But – Marjorie’s not stupid, Philip.’
‘She’s a little unworldly though.’
Tom knew what he meant. As with his own wife, Marjorie had never been out in the cut and thrust of big business. Both women had been content to be mothers and housewives. Marjorie would probably accept Phil’s word as gospel, not dig about asking questions. But that didn’t mean Phil could ride rough-shod over her the way he seemed intent on doing. She ought to be consulted over this important issue, given a chance to air her views, and certainly have some say in the final decision.
Tom looked this way and that, planted his stubby hands on the table and gasped like a landed fish. ‘Now let me get this straight, Phil,’ he finally managed to say, his neck reddening round his shirt collar. ‘You haven’t any intention of taking redundancy, have you? And you’re sitting there and telling me that you’re going to lie to your wife about it?’
‘Yes,’ Phil said quietly, ‘I’m afraid I have to. For the time being at least. Maybe when she’s come round to the idea … oh, I just cannot work for my father!’ His warm brown eyes pleaded for understanding. ‘I’ve never deceived Marjorie before, you know. It’ll be for the very first time. And I’m sure it’ll all work out for the best in the end.’
A difficult silence fell between them.
Tom rubbed his moustache with one hand. It made no difference to him whether it was the first, the hundredth, or the last time Phil deceived Marjorie. He might even tell a few porkies himself. But Phil? Phil, whom he had always thought of as a fair, honest sort? The man was tumbling in his estimation.
‘Well, then –’ Tom’s voice, when
