That'll Be the Day (2007) (5 page)

Lynda had partly resented this and yet was deeply protective of her mother, always feeling she should understand why this dreadful thing had happened to them, but never quite managing to do so.

With Jake being six years younger and missing his father badly, he had suffered even more. There had been the bed wetting, the insomnia and his temper tantrums for Mam to deal with on top of working full time on the market. No wonder she was always exhausted.

Yet they had survived, and Lynda really didn’t know why these old issues were dwelling so much on her mind today. Perhaps it was seeing Judy’s valiant attempts to cover up her own unhappiness.

‘Mam’s mistake was that she refused to talk about Dad, wouldn’t even let us see him. If she had, then I’m sure it would have been much less painful for us both. If Tom and Ruth still had regular contact with their father, they’d be perfectly happy, even if you did split up.’

‘I never said anything about us splitting up,’ Judy said, a slight edge to her tone.

‘No, course you didn’t. Sorry!’

There was a silence, one that stretched out between the two old friends for several long seconds until Lynda gave an expressive little shrug. ‘I just care about you, Jude, that’s all.’

The frozen look thawed a little. ‘I know you do, but I’m all right, really I am. Marriage isn’t all frosted icing and moonlight dinners, you have to work at it. Like life, most of it is fairly dull and boring.’

‘But . . .’

Judy raised one forbidding eyebrow. ‘Have another sandwich. I’ll listen to no more lectures or advice, however warmly offered. What will you wear tonight? Where is Terry taking you?’ And the two young women retreated into a far safer discussion about the dance, the band, what Lynda would wear and whether she was too old to adopt the current fashion for hooped petticoats.

Chapter Five

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead to prepare a delicious meal for his return from work and see that there are fresh flowers on the table. Wear your prettiest dress, perhaps put a ribbon in your hair, and of course touch up your make-up and refresh your lipstick. Do remember to smile and welcome him home. Let him know that you have been thinking about him all day
.

Judy could recall every word of the article in the magazine, even without re-reading it. She pushed it under a cushion, tweaking at her shirt and slacks with frantic fingers as she glanced anxiously at the kitchen clock. She might just have time to change, if she was lucky. A quick wash and brush up would have to do. She rarely wore make-up, didn’t much care for it, much to Sam’s continual disappointment.

Judy groaned. Oh, but why hadn’t she washed her hair this morning? There certainly wasn’t time to do it now, and she’d just wasted ten precious minutes rubbing cerulean blue oil paint out of her fringe. As a result she stank of turpentine instead of Evening in Paris.
 

It served her right if she was in a dreadful rush. Her concern for Betty had made her late enough but then she’d exacerbated the problem by spending far too long chatting to Lynda. Worse, this afternoon she’d taken it into her head to start painting a still life of the chrysanthemums while they were still fresh, enraptured by the idea to lay one glorious golden globe beside a brilliant blue glass. Fatal! Once she became engrossed in her painting every other consideration went right out of her head.

Why had she allowed herself to be so stupid when she knew there were a score of jobs still waiting to be done, ironing Sam’s shirts for a start? He liked to wear a clean one every day. Perhaps it was to prove, to herself at least, that Lynda was wrong in implying Sam was in control of her life, and that she could do as she pleased.

But where was the point in such defiance if, in the hour before he was due home she was running around sweeping up crumbs and plumping cushions, cooking with one hand and tidying with the other as if she were a naughty schoolgirl afraid of incurring the wrath of the headmaster?

Maybe Lynda was right, after all, and her marriage was a total disaster. Perhaps, Judy thought, she should have concentrated on her dream to become a famous artist instead of allowing herself to be overwhelmed by Sam’s indisputable charms?

Oh, but then she wouldn’t have had her lovely children and Judy simply couldn’t imagine life without them. They were her reason for living. Her children were the best things that had ever happened her, the very core of her existence. More prosaically, they were also the reason she put up with this far from perfect marriage.

But where was the point in chewing over the old bones of her life? Her decisions had been made long ago. She’d fallen headlong in love with Sam Beckett and, for better or worse, had married him within months of meeting him at just eighteen. He’d reminded her so much of her own father, since they were both soldiers, except that Sam wasn’t a regular and had offered her a home and stability, something she hadn’t known as a child constantly moving to different barracks. The idea of being in one place, able to put down roots and make proper friends had seemed like heaven, even if it was a scruffy old market.

She’d also been three months pregnant with Ruth at the time.

 
How young and foolish she’d been. How naïve! Still believing in love at first sight, fairy tales and happy endings.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the tiled fireplace, at the tired face and the weary resignation in those eyes that Sam had once called a patch of blue heaven, and shivered.
 

‘Mum, is something burning?’

‘Oh, drat! Ruth, do please go and wash your hands and face. Daddy will be home any minute.’

Judy flung open the oven door and gazed in dismay at the singed crust of the steak and onion pie, flapping away the hot smoke as she hastily turned off the gas, grabbed an oven cloth and flung the pie dish on to the draining board. Don’t panic, she told herself, heart fluttering nonetheless. If she cut off the charred edges and smothered it with gravy he’d hardly notice. You could cover a lot of sins with sufficient gravy, so long as it was tasty. Sadly, hers had a tendency to break out in lumps at the last moment.

‘Ugh!’ Ruth, increasingly critical of her mother, stood condemningly at her elbow. ‘I think you’ve really done it this time, Mum. Dad won’t be pleased.’

Judy wanted to reply that Dad could take a long jump, but she was again recalling the words of the Good Wives Guide:
Remember he is the master of the house and as such will exercise his will with fairness. A good wife will always know her place.

Sam may well consider himself to be master but when had he ever been fair? Oh, she knew her place right enough, a long way down the list when compared to the other women in her husband’s life, of which she dutifully feigned ignorance.

‘I love
you
, Poppet, not them,’ he had blithely remarked when, in the early days of their marriage, she had ventured to protest. ‘Chasing a bit of skirt adds a touch of spice to life and does no harm to us at all.’

 
Judy had been desperately upset by his betrayal in those innocent days of her youth, but nowadays Sam’s fondness for women troubled her scarcely at all. She’d grown accustomed to his philandering, accepted it as an inevitable part of his character. She knew that he would never leave her. Sam needed the stability of a solid home life every bit as much as she did, and he loved his children, of course.
 

Judy cut and scraped away the blackened parts of the offending crust, turned down the gas then pushed the pie back in the oven to keep warm along with a dish of mashed potatoes and one of carrots.

‘I’ve just got time to change, if I hurry. Set the table for me please, love. Tom, put those soldiers away. At once, if you please and help your sister! Yes, you do know how to lay a table. You can fetch the knives and forks, and spoons for the rice pudding,’ which thankfully she hadn’t burnt. ‘You know how Daddy likes things to be just so when he gets home. Where is your tie, Tom? No, don’t argue, just find it and put it on.’

Children are such little treasures. He will want to see them looking their best.

‘ Ruth, remember to stir the gravy occasionally. It’s all ready but I don’t want it to go into lumps when I’m not looking.’

‘Daddy says I make the best gravy,’ said the self-confident nine-year old. ‘I’m not a child, Mum.’

‘Of course you aren’t, except to me, of course. You will always be my precious baby.’

Judy dropped a kiss on her daughter’s brow, trying not to be hurt when she wiped it quickly away. ‘If Daddy arrives while I’m upstairs pour him a beer and whatever you do,
don’t let him see that pie
! It looks oddly naked without its crimped edging.’

It seemed wicked that she should ask her children to aid and abet her in these little deceptions, but one had to survive as best one could. Both were only too aware that their father was not an easy man to live with, being an ex-POW with an unpredictable temper. Ruth was very like him in many ways, so full of herself and rather headstrong, tending to take his side since Sam spoiled her dreadfully. She also had the same light brown hair and freckles.

But these reflections weren’t getting her anywhere. She really must hurry and change.

In her bedroom Judy quickly splashed cold water on her face, ran a comb through her dark, unruly hair and added a dab of pale pink lipstick. One had to use every defence . . .
 

A wife’s duty is to show interest in her husband, to lift his spirits after a long hard day. Learn to listen and be attentive to his needs.

Oh, and she would, she really would be far more attentive this evening. She wouldn’t fall asleep in the chair or lose herself in a book. She’d fetch his slippers and the paper, plump up the cushions and, as the article instructed, speak in a soothing and pleasant voice as she asked him to tell her all about his day which he spent selling nails and screws on his ironmongery shop. Not a particularly fascinating environment and he rarely wanted to talk at all. Sometimes they’d sit in silence for hours on end.

But despite his failings, Judy still loved him, still needed him. Didn’t she? Overwhelmed suddenly by tiredness after all her rushing around, she slipped out of her grubby shirt and slacks and lay down on the bed with a sigh, trying to ensure that she didn’t crease the green silk counterpane or Sam would complain.

Not that Lynda would approve of the magazine’s advice, Judy thought, smiling wryly as she recalled how her friend had urged her to start putting her own interests first, such as taking her painting more seriously. They’d very nearly quarrelled over that, which was most unusual for them.

Of course, it was Judy’s own fault if Lynda had overstepped the bounds of their friendship by feeling compelled to make such a remark. She’d made the mistake of saying she had to dash back home to rush round with the vacuum cleaner, pick up the kids and slave over a hot stove. Lynda would rather be found naked in a snow storm than be seen waiting on a man. More like her mother than she cared to admit.

Nevertheless, her friend’s words had brought a surge of rebellion soaring through Judy’s veins, as if she might take it into her head to walk out of a kitchen which at times felt more like a prison than a home, grasp life with both hands and do something totally different and exciting. A heady thought which even now lingered beguilingly in her head.

Judy was only too aware that she hadn’t been entirely honest in saying Sam encouraged her in her hobby. He tolerated her painting only so far as it didn’t conflict with his own needs, so perhaps Lynda did have a point.

And it would be fun to try to sell her pictures on the market. Judy wouldn’t have the time to go every day, naturally, but Wednesdays and Fridays when the farmers and craft people attended wouldn’t impinge too much on her housewifely duties, surely? It might also provide her with a small independent income of her own, which would at least off-set the expense of her paints and canvasses if nothing else.

Maybe she’d look into the costs involved, tentatively broach the idea with Sam. If he was in a good mood she might even mention it this evening.

Judy was instantly overwhelmed by a sense of deep despair, knowing this to be a hopeless dream. Discussing money with Sam was an impossible exercise. He would never tolerate the idea of an independent wife working beside him on the market. He’d see it as some sort of failure on his part, as if he couldn’t afford to keep her, as if it made him appear less than a man.

Judy sat up to stare bleakly at her own face in the dressing table mirror, recognising the all too familiar expression of hopelessness, the pale skin stretched far too tightly over high cheekbones, seeming even more translucent and delicate than usual. Was life passing her by? Was she growing old and missing valuable opportunities?

She noted that the shadows beneath her blue eyes were almost purple and wondered why she even listened to Lynda. Her dear, well-meaning friend dripped dangerous rebellious thoughts into her head which did her no good at all.

Judy picked up the hair brush and began to sweep it slowly through her tangle of dark curls, desperately trying to tame them to the kind of sensible bob Sam approved of, while her mind drifted back to the chrysanthemum still life. The shadows weren’t deep enough. The picture was too flat, still needing much more work while the paint was wet. But where was the point in spending hours on the task if it was to moulder for ever in the attic, unseen and unjudged along with all the rest of her efforts?