Blue Bedroom and Other Stories (28 page)

“They'll fill the walls,” Henry had said, and hung them in the dining room. “They'll do till I can afford to buy you an original Hockney, or a Renoir, or a Picasso, or whatever it is you happen to want.”

He came down from the top of the ladder and kissed his wife. He was in his shirt sleeves and there was a cobweb in his hair.

“I don't want those sort of things,” Alison told him.

“You should.” He kissed her again. “I do.”

And he did. Not for himself, but for his wife and his children. For them he was ambitious. They had sold the flat in London, and bought this little house, because he wanted the children to live in the country and to know about cows and crops and trees and the seasons; and because of the mortgage they had vowed to do all the necessary painting and decorating themselves. This endless ploy took up all their weekends, and at first it had gone quite well because it was wintertime. But then the days lengthened, and the summer came, and they abandoned the inside of the house and moved out of doors to try to create some semblance of order in the overgrown and neglected garden.

In London, they had had time to spend together; to get a baby-sitter for the children and go out for dinner; to sit and listen to music on the stereo, while Henry read the paper and Alison did her gros point. But now Henry left home at seven-thirty every morning and did not get back until nearly twelve hours later.

“Is it really worth it?” she asked him sometimes, but Henry was never discouraged.

“It won't be like this for always,” he promised her. “You'll see.”

His job was with Fairhurst & Hanbury, an electrical engineering business, which, since Henry had first joined as a junior executive, had grown and modestly prospered, and now had a number of interesting irons in the fire, not the least of which was the manufacture of commercial computers. Slowly, Henry had ascended the ladder of promotion, and now was possibly in line, or being considered for, the post of Export Director, the man who at present held this job having decided to retire early, move to Devonshire, and take up poultry farming.

In bed, which seemed to be nowadays the only place where they could find the peace and privacy to talk, Henry had assessed, for Alison, the possibilities of his getting this job. They did not seem to be very hopeful. He was, for one thing, the youngest of the candidates. His qualifications, although sound, were not brilliant, and the others were all more experienced.

“But what would you have to
do?
” Alison wanted to know.

“Well, that's it. I'd have to travel. Go to New York, Hong Kong, Japan. Rustle up new markets. I'd be away a lot. You'd be on your own even more than you are now. And then we'd have to reciprocate. I mean, if foreign buyers came to see us, we'd have to look after them, entertain … you know the sort of thing.”

She thought about this, lying warmly in his arms, in the dark, with the window open and the cool country air blowing in on her face. She said, “I wouldn't like you being away a lot, but I could bear it. I wouldn't be lonely, because of having the children. And I'd know that you'd always come back to me.”

He kissed her. He said, “Did I ever tell you I loved you?”

“Once or twice.”

He said, “I want that job. I could do it. And I want to get this mortgage off our backs, and take the children to Brittany for their summer holidays, and maybe pay some man to dig that ruddy garden for us.”

“Don't say such things.” Alison laid her fingers against Henry's mouth. “Don't talk about them. We mustn't count chickens.”

This nocturnal conversation had taken place a month or so before, and they hadn't talked about Henry's possible promotion again. But a week ago, Mr. Fairhurst, who was Henry's chairman, had taken Henry out to lunch at his club. Henry found it hard to believe that Mr. Fairhurst was standing him this excellent meal simply for the pleasure of Henry's company, but they were eating delicious blue-veined Stilton and drinking a glass of port before Mr. Fairhurst finally came to the point. He asked after Alison and the children. Henry told him they were very well.

“Good for children, living in the country. Does Alison like it there?”

“Yes. She's made a lot of friends in the village.”

“That's good. That's very good.” Thoughtfully, the older man helped himself to more Stilton. “Never really met Alison.” He sounded as though he was ruminating to himself, not addressing any particular remark to Henry. “Seen her, of course, at the office dance, but that scarcely counts. Like to see your new house…”

His voice trailed off. He looked up. Henry, across the starched tablecloth and gleaming silverware, met his eyes. He realised that Mr. Fairhurst was angling for … indeed, expected—a social invitation.

He cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps you and Mrs. Fairhurst would come down and have dinner with us one evening?”

“Well,” said the chairman, looking as surprised and delighted as if it had all been Henry's idea. “How very nice. I'm sure Mrs. Fairhurst would like that very much.”

“I'll … I'll tell Alison to give her a ring. They can fix a date.”

*   *   *

“We're being vetted, aren't we? For the new job,” said Alison, when he broke the news. “For all the entertaining of those foreign clients. They want to know if I can cope, if I'm socially up to it.”

“Put like that, it sounds pretty soulless, but … yes, I suppose that is what it's all about.”

“Does it have to be terribly grand?”

“No.”

“But formal.”

“Well, he is the chairman.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Don't look like that. I can't bear it when you look like that.”

“Oh, Henry.” She wondered if she was going to cry, but he pulled her into his arms and hugged her and she found she wasn't going to cry after all. Over the top of her head, he said, “Perhaps we are being vetted, but surely that's a good sign. It's better than being simply ignored.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” After a little, “There's one good thing,” said Alison. “At least we've got a dining room.”

*   *   *

The next morning she made the telephone call to Mrs. Fairhurst, and, trying not to sound too nervous, duly asked Mrs. Fairhurst and her husband for dinner.

“Oh, how very kind.” Mrs. Fairhurst seemed genuinely surprised, as though this was the first she had heard of it.

“We … we thought either the sixth or the seventh of this month. Whichever suits you better.”

“Just a moment, I'll have to find my diary.” There followed a long wait. Alison's heart thumped. It was ridiculous to feel so anxious. At last Mrs. Fairhurst came back on the line. “The seventh would suit us very well.”

“About seven-thirty?”

“That would be perfect.”

“And I'll tell Henry to draw Mr. Fairhurst a little map, so that you can find your way.”

“That would be an excellent idea. We have been known to get lost.”

They both laughed at this, said goodbye, and hung up. Instantly. Alison picked up the receiver again and dialled her mother's telephone number.

“Ma.”

“Darling.”

“A favour to ask. Could you have the children for the night next Friday?”

“Of course. Why?”

Alison explained. Her mother was instantly practical. “I'll come over in the car and collect them, just after tea. And then they can spend the night. Such a good idea. Impossible to cook a dinner and put the children to bed at the same time, and if they know there's something going on they'll never go to sleep. Children are all the same. What are you going to give the Fairhursts to eat?”

Alison hadn't thought about this, but she thought about it now, and her mother made a few helpful suggestions and gave her the recipe for her own lemon soufflé. She asked after the children, imparted a few items of family news, and then rang off. Alison picked up the receiver yet again and made an appointment to have her hair done.

With all this accomplished, she felt capable and efficient, two sensations not usually familiar. Friday, the seventh. She left the telephone, went across the hall, and opened the door of the dining room. She surveyed it critically, and the dining room glowered back at her. With candles, she told herself, half-closing her eyes, and the curtains drawn, perhaps it won't look so bad.

Oh, please, God, don't let anything go wrong. Let me not let Henry down. For Henry's sake, let it be a success.

God helps those who help themselves. Alison closed the dining room door, put on her coat, walked down to the village, and there bought the little notepad with pencil attached.

*   *   *

Her hair was dry. She emerged from the dryer, sat at a mirror, and was duly combed out.

“Going somewhere tonight?” asked the young hairdresser, wielding a pair of brushes as though Alison's head was a drum.

“No. Not tonight. Tomorrow night. I've got some people coming for dinner.”

“That'll be nice. Want me to spray it for you?”

“Perhaps you'd better.”

He squirted her from all directions, held up a mirror so that she could admire the back, and then undid the bow of the mauve nylon gown and helped Alison out of it.

“Thank you so much.”

“Have a good time tomorrow.”

Some hopes. She paid the bill, put on her coat, and went out into the street. It was getting dark. Next door to the hairdresser was a sweet shop, so she went in and bought two bars of chocolate for the children. She found her car and drove home, parked the car in the garage, and went into the house by the kitchen door. Here she found Evie giving the children their tea. Janey was in her high chair, they were eating fish fingers and chips, and the kitchen smelt fragrantly of baking.

“Well,” said Evie, looking at Alison's head, “you are smart.”

Alison flopped into a chair and smiled at the three cheerful faces around the table. “I feel all boiled. Is there any tea left in that pot?”

“I'll make a fresh brew.”

“And you've been baking.”

“Well,” said Evie, “I had a moment to spare, so I made a cake. Thought it might come in handy.”

Evie was one of the best things that had happened to Alison since coming to live in the country. She was a spinster of middle years, stout and energetic, and kept house for her bachelor brother, who farmed the land around Alison and Henry's house. Alison had first met her in the village grocer's. Evie had introduced herself and said that if Alison wanted free-range eggs, she could buy them from Evie. Evie kept her own hens, and supplied a few chosen families in the village. Alison accepted this offer gratefully, and took to walking the children down to the farmhouse in the afternoons to pick up the eggs.

Evie loved children. After a bit, “Any time you need a sitter, just give me a ring,” said Evie, and from time to time Alison had taken her up on this. The children liked it when Evie came to take care of them. She always brought them sweets or little presents, taught Larry card games, and was deft and loving with Janey, liking to hold the baby on her knee, with Janey's round fair head pressed against the solid bolster of her formidable bosom.

Now, she bustled to the stove, filled a kettle, stooped to the oven to inspect her cake. “Nearly done.”

“You are kind, Evie. But isn't it time you went home? Jack'll be wondering what's happened to his tea.”

“Oh, Jack went off to market today. Won't be back till all hours. If you like, I'll put the children to bed for you. I have to wait for the cake, anyway.” She beamed at Larry. “You'd like that, wouldn't you, my duck? Have Evie bathing you. And Evie will show you how to make soap bubbles with your fingers.”

Larry put the last chip in his mouth. He was a thoughtful child, and did not commit himself readily to any impulsive scheme. He said, “Will you read me my story as well? When I'm in bed?”

“If you like.”

“I want to read
Where's Spot?
There's a tortoise in it.”

“Well, Evie shall read you that.”

*   *   *

When tea was finished, the three of them went upstairs. Bath water could be heard running and Alison smelt her best bubble-bath. She cleared the tea and stacked the dishwasher and turned it on. Outside, the light was fading, so before it got dark, she went out and unpegged the morning's wash from the line, brought it indoors, folded it, stacked it in the airing cupboard. On her way downstairs, she collected a red engine, an eyeless teddy bear, a squeaking ball, and a selection of bricks. She put these in the toy basket that lived in the kitchen, laid the table for their breakfast, and a tray for the supper that she and Henry would eat by the fire.

This reminded her. She went through to the sitting room, put a match to the fire, and drew the curtains. The room looked bleak without flowers, but she planned to do flowers tomorrow. As she returned to the kitchen, Catkin put in an appearance, insinuating himself through his cat door, and announcing to Alison that it was long past his dinner time and he was hungry. She opened a tin of cat food and poured him some milk, and he settled himself into a neat eating position and tidily consumed the lot.

She thought about supper for herself and Henry. In the larder was a basket of brown eggs Evie had brought with her. They would have omelettes and a salad. There were six oranges in the fruit bowl and doubtless some scraps of cheese in the cheese dish. She collected lettuce and tomatoes, half a green pepper and a couple of sticks of celery, and began to make a salad. She was stirring the French dressing when she heard Henry's car come up the lane and pull into the garage. A moment later he appeared at the back door, looking tired and crumpled, carrying his bulging briefcase and the evening paper.

“Hi.”

“Hello, darling.” They kissed. “Had a busy day?”