The Whiskerly Sisters (3 page)

“Been there, done that. No joy,” countered Charley, strangling the notion as it was born.

“You could try capturing the sound of the dogs on tape and playing it back to them.

Maybe they don't realise how noisy they are being,” said Fresna ever practical.

“I've done that as well. It didn't work.” Charley was beginning to sound depressed.

“Soundproofing?” tried Celia.

“Any idea what that costs?” replied Charley scornfully.

“Why don't you just move?” muttered Izza, pressing send on her mobile.

“I would if I could. Not being funny but, with your head stuck in your phone, you may not have noticed that there's a recession on and nothing is selling.”

“Well, there must be something you can do,” replied Izza, finally flipping the top over her Nokia and looking up at her.

“Such as?” challenged Charley.

The room suddenly bloomed with ideas as each of the women tried to talk over the others to be the first to come up with a workable strategy.

And so it went on. An enjoyable, spirit series of What Ifs, Yes Buts, If Onlys and It's not my faults that lasted all evening and passed through the problems of the group, with the exception of Fresna for whom life was exactly how she wanted it to be, and yet none of their issues were resolved. Not Charley's bad neighbours, nor Jax's low self-esteem, nor Tiff's unsatisfactory love life, nor Izza's manipulative boyfriend, nor Bex's introversion, not even Celia's working life.

Because there was nothing any of them could do about any of it.

Was there?

H
aving folded the laundry neatly into the airing cupboard, Bex turned her attention to the vacuuming. Bex hoovered, dusted and polished her way through the entire first floor of her four bedroomed executive detached every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, following with the all the downstairs rooms on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. With everything so regularly cleaned, it didn’t take her long. On Sunday, she gave herself a day off. If one of her children was around, they might have lunch. If not, she might drop in at the Town Hall to listen to the Choral Society, perhaps visit some friends or take herself off for a long ramble in the country. She was sure to be home by six to put the finishing touches to the nourishing yet light supper she had prepared earlier so that it was ready to serve just as her husband returned from his club at 6.30pm sharp

It wasn’t that Bex was naturally a person with an innate preference for routine. On the contrary, she would have preferred to spend her time plunging her neat, nimble fingers into the rich brown soil of the garden, embedding the dirt into her nails and showering herself in mulch and leaf debris. She would have liked to have been able to join the Rambler’s Association, put on her wellies and tramp for miles through muddy fields, down winding lanes, whatever the weather, to some cosy little country pub where she could enjoy a hearty plate of sausage and mash in front of a roaring fire. She often imagined herself as a painter, throwing great splashes of colour haphazardly across a blank canvas, hopefully covering herself in a rainbow of acrylic in the process and earning a fortune as a contemporary artist. She had been known to fantasize about life as a traveller, dressing herself in tie dye cotton, espadrilles and an endless supply of clinking, jangling bracelets, surrendering her greying curls to the wind and earn her living reading palms or selling pegs.

It could definitely not be said that Bex was someone who enjoyed centering her life around the ticking of a clock. Rather, she was a restless spirit, a free thinker, a rebel, a changeling. How the hell she had ended up married for nearly thirty years to Mr. Stopwatch and embracing a life of neatly domesticated suburbia was beyond understanding. Why she stayed beggared belief.

In the early years, of course, Malcolm had been much more of a free spirit too. Back then, they would often drop everything, climb into his little Morris Minor and drive to wherever the mood took them, sometimes breaking into an empty beach hut for the night, eating fish and chips, wrapped in newspapers with their fingers, giggling together as they stuffed their faces full of the rich, hot taste of fat and salt. Back then, they had enjoyed making out in daring places – under a blanket amid festival crowds or amongst the dunes not too far away from sunbathing families, in an empty train carriage, wondering if anyone would pass by and see them or, on one very exciting occasion, in the ladies toilet at the local Roxy during a matinee performance of Grease.

Nowadays, Malcolm rarely went anywhere without his satnav, preferred the impersonal isolation of an executive hotel room and always used a knife and fork. These days they never giggled together. These days they never made love.

The children had come along and Malcolm eventually got himself regular work as Time and Motion Assistant at a local factory so that her carefree days had gradually turned into clockwatching days of four hour feeds and homework schedules, meal times and ballet classes, swimming lessons and nine to five. And, through it all, time had ticked inexorably by and somehow, seamlessly, second by tiny second, the leisurely ebb and flow that had been her early life had slowly petrified into the solid rock formation of conformity, monotony and routine.

And yet, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been happy. She had adored watching and caring for her children over the years as they moved from plump, adorable babies through to wobbling, adventurous toddlers, to little people in their own right in over-sized uniforms on their first day at school and onto slightly awkward, mulish teenagers so that now she could stand back and take pride in them as fully achieving adults. She had relished being in their company, taking them here, fetching them from there, helping them with their homework and kissing their hurt knees. She had been more than content to stand by Malcolm’s side too as his career flourished, as he rose from Assistant to Manager and upwards to Director; delighting in being able to ease his burden by offering him the warm, organised, uncluttered home he needed at the end of a stressful day at the office.

She had subsumed her former love of anarchy, her yearning for the different and disorderly to provide an anchor for her family, a haven from the storms outside, a place of peace, tranquillity and order.

But she hadn’t expected this. No, she hadn’t expected anything quite like this.

For as the years rolled by, somewhere between teenagers and young adults, somewhere between Manager and Director, Malcolm had changed beyond recognition. Her young, spirited, passionate boyfriend, her hardworking, affectionate, deskbound husband had turned into an obsessive, compulsive, authoritarian bully.

And her reaction to it was even more unexpected.

S
he had her first and only child at sixteen.

Her lover, and the father of her unborn child, a man ten years her senior, had turned deathly pale on hearing the news and had hurriedly fled the scene, leaving Fresna alone and bewildered by his reaction. He had returned two hours later, wearing a sheepish grin, carrying a small mixed posy and a little carrier bag in which there nestled a tiny pair of lemon yellow, knitted bootees.

Following a difficult family conversation, Alex had proposed to her the following week, solemnly kneeling at her feet to proffer the tiny diamond ring. As Fresna smiled her acceptance, he dutifully slipped the simple solitaire onto her slender finger, effectively sealing their future. Fresna felt over the moon, delirious with happiness.

Since her mother had tragically died giving birth to her and her father, unable to cope with the depths of his grief and the demands of a new baby, had absconded for a new life in New Zealand, leaving his tiny daughter in the care of her maternal grandparents, it was only natural that Fresna should turn to them for support with the wedding preparations. Money was tight, but Granddad insisted that things would be done properly. Under the circumstances, he suggested a quick wedding followed by a short, low budget honeymoon. It was agreed that the newly married pair would live with her grandparents until more suitable accommodation could be found. The banns were duly posted.

Fresna and her best friend, Evie went shopping for the trousseau. Village custom dictated that she could not wear white and so she chose instead a fashionable, cream, lace mini-dress with matching jacket. Evie, who had agreed to act as bridesmaid, found some material at half price in a bargain bucket outside the haberdashery and made her own pale blue sateen, knee length creation. It was agreed that the handmade bouquets would consist of lilies and orange blossom with matching buttonholes for the men. When Fresna saw them, her heart soared. They were simply stunning. Granddad had arranged that he and Fresna would be taken to the church in the horse and cart owned by Johnny Pony, the baker.

Following the ceremony, a quiet chicken supper at the British Legion for relatives and close friends had been arranged. There was no money for an official photographer, but Uncle Earle had agreed to bring along his Instamatic so there would be a record of her perfect day. It was the best that could be done. It was more than Fresna had ever dreamed of.

On the morning of the wedding, her grandmother woke Fresna just before eight in the morning, quietly placing a cup of tea on her bedside cabinet, an act which both surprised and delighted her granddaughter, who had never before been allowed to eat or drink so much as a morsel in her bedroom. As Fresna lay back in the bed, relishing this unexpected treat, her grandma pulled back the curtains to let in the bright, early morning sunshine.

“Got a lovely day for it, sweetheart.” she remarked and, smiling fondly at the lovely young girl still entangled in the cotton sheets, she crossed the room. “Happy is the bride on whom the sun shines,” she added, softly dropping a kiss on her beloved granddaughter’s cheek. “Take your time, my lovely. Breakfast will be ready when you are,” she said and left the room as serenely as she had entered it, closing the door gently behind her.

Fresna found herself far too excited to eat more than a small piece of toast. Granddad, having mopped up the last of a loaded plate of eggs and bacon, smiled indulgently at the ecstatic child before him, scraped back his chair, put on his cap and announced that he was off to water his allotment and would be back when all the fuss and nonsense had died down. At ten o’clock, Mrs. Hobbs from No. 12 popped in to wash and set Fresna’s hair. Having carefully put in far too many rollers, she left, promising to return at noon to do the backcombing and to weave some of the orange blossom into the bride’s strawberry blonde hair. Just after lunch when Mrs. Hobbs had finished her most important duty of the day, Evie knocked on the door and the two excited young girls ran up to Fresna’s bedroom to get dressed. Together, the two friends helped each other into their respective garments and applied simple make-up. Granddad would not allow either of them to look like painted trollops, no matter what the occasions, but despite his old fashioned attitude and disdain for frivolity, he had amazed the two young girls by insisting the family take the bus to the nearby town the previous weekend where, to everyone’s surprise and to Fresna’s utter delight, he had bought his granddaughter her very first pair of stiletto heels. Thrilled, she had returned home to squirrel away her treasure in the depths of her wardrobe.

Almost reverently, Evie extracted the precious package and carefully removed the lid. The pair stared in awe at the cream, pointed bridal shoes nestling within the crisp lilac tissue. Kneeling beside her best friend, Evie took it upon herself to place one, and then the other, on Fresna’s feet. The bride-to-be stood up carefully and then, without hesitation, walked purposefully across her bedroom, testing her balance against the unusual steepness of the daring heels. Turning, she broke into a delighted smile, causing tears to prick Evie’s eyes at the sight of the stunning bride in front of her. The two friends just had time to hug each other before Evie had to leave for the church. Alone in her bedroom, Fresna looked around at the room in which she had spent many happy hours, gently touching her favourite childhood relics and contemplating the rosy future in front of her. How lucky she felt to have bagged such a prize as the gorgeous, gorgeous Alex.