Good Husband Material (42 page)

Oh, the joys of living alone – or
almost
alone, for of course the Incubus dictates my taste in foods, my internal capacity for consumption, and the length of time between trips to the loo.

Margaret came round as arranged next morning, looking a little jaded after her party, and I took her into the living room, where Toby still slept with his head under one wing, groaning gently.

There was a difficult silence once we’d wished each other a Happy New Year, until she suddenly said she was sorry for her previous attitude and confessed that she’d been deceived by James and wouldn’t have been his Peace Envoy if she’d known the full extent of his infidelity.

She understood how I felt because she’d been through it herself: apparently her first husband had thought that a
ménage à trois
consisting of Margaret, himself and his pretty young secretary, Sharon, was quite a sensible proposition.

Unfortunately Sharon also thought so, and when she moved in, Margaret moved out. Men have some very strange ideas.

She and Ray are going to get married when her divorce becomes absolute in March.

‘Ray has taught me that there
are
Good Men,’ she explained, in her Awfully Nice Golden Syrup voice. ‘You may feel bitter now, but Mr Right is still out there somewhere.’

‘Then I hope he’s got a tent, because he’ll be out there a long time.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I’m sure James is sorry he’s lost you – he doesn’t
really
care for Wendy at all.’

‘He may not care for her, but it doesn’t stop her spending most nights in the flat.’

She flushed. ‘Oh dear, that sort of thing does get noticed! But it’s not the way it seems – he told her he didn’t want to see her any more, but she just turns up anyway. I didn’t bargain for all this when I let him have the flat.’

‘Throw him out!’ I suggested helpfully.

‘You don’t mean that. And he isn’t really any bother – it’s just this Wendy.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Only twenty, but a bit hard. And she isn’t interested in women at all – if there aren’t any men about she just slumps and looks bored.’

‘Polite!’

‘Mmm … and she eats and drinks anything that comes within reach. I don’t think she’s pretty really, either. If you cut off all that blonde hair she’d look just like a Pug.’

‘That’s funny, I thought she looked like a Pekinese! It’s the nose and the slight pop eyes. And a bit tarty, with those little short leather skirts.’

‘She always wears that sort of thing, and when she sits down her thighs merge into one fatty blob.’

‘I heard about the scene she made outside the flat when James didn’t come back over Christmas.’

‘I think all Nutthill heard it – it was certainly in the
Nutthill Advertiser
! The police came, though by then Wendy had gone off in her car – but she’s back again now.’

‘She phoned me late on Boxing Day to ask if James was still here.’

‘How incredibly brass-faced of her!’

‘Not one of Nature’s more sensitive little plants,’ I agreed. ‘I wonder where he was. I only hope he hasn’t got another girlfriend somewhere.’

‘Someone did say they’d seen him get into a red sports car like that one Fergal Rocco’s girlfriend has – Nerissa,’ she suggested tentatively.

‘Well, they
have
met, and I did wonder … Only it seems a bit unlikely. If she’s set her sights on Fergal Rocco, she’s not going to settle for James! But he might have someone else; he’s probably bored with Wendy. What puzzles me is what Wendy sees in him. Her sister, Alice, who lives with one of James’s oldest friends, asked me to meet her a few weeks ago, to talk it all over.’

‘No! Does she look like Wendy?’ Margaret leaned forward eagerly. ‘What did she say?’

‘Alice looks like something you might find under a rock if you were particularly unlucky, and she said that Wendy wants to marry James. She must be mad!’

‘But I’m sure James doesn’t want to marry
her
.’

‘He’ll have to sort his own problems out – I’ve got enough of my own. I suppose you don’t want a puppy?’

The din from the kitchen was now reaching ear-splitting proportions, and I took Margaret in and showed her the brood: it was just as noisy in the living room, since Toby had woken up and decided to treat us to his impersonation of my Amstrad printer.

I don’t think Margaret is a bird person, going by the nervous glances she’d given Toby even while he was harmlessly asleep, but she was certainly a doggy one.

‘Oh, what darlings!’ she cried, plumping down onto her knees among the damp newspapers, heedless of her immaculate navy wool skirt. ‘Particularly this one. Look at her cute little face!’

‘
His
cute little face, according to Bob. There are six, but one is spoken for already.’

She cuddled the little monstrosity in her arms. ‘I’m surprised this one hasn’t gone – it’s so adorable! I wonder if the children would like a dear little puppy.’

My conscience prompted me. ‘I think the father was an Old English sheepdog … and they aren’t house-trained yet.’

‘May can cope, I’m sure,’ she said confidently.

‘You think about it and let me know in a day or two, Margaret. You can’t take it until it’s eight weeks, anyway.’

She clutched the acquiescent bundle to her bosom. ‘But someone else might see him! I
will
have him! You’ll keep him for me, won’t you?’

‘If you’re quite sure. Will you know which is which?’

‘Yes – mine has that funny black patch over one eye, and a kink in its tail.’

‘So it has, that will be easy to remember, and I’ll make a note of it, too. Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone else have him.’

That decided, we adjourned back to the living room with more coffee (Margaret said she thought the health version ‘interesting’ – she has such lovely manners), where I bribed Toby into silence with a biscuit.

There, she regaled me with a couple of the usual gynaecological horror stories, to which I’m becoming immune, and enquired after my health.

I said I was quite well, considering the strain on my system, and then she asked me if I’d started buying baby things yet. ‘Only one of my friends wants to get rid of all hers, and it’s like new.’

‘Oh, I don’t know really …’ I began doubtfully.

‘Everything came from Harrods. She wasn’t very well during the pregnancy so she just ordered everything the sales assistant recommended on the phone.’

‘Really?’ Harrods second-hand seems somehow different! ‘I expect she’ll want a lot of money, though?’

‘Only a hundred pounds – she needs the space more than the cash. There’s a cot, high chair, crib, lots of clothes …’

‘I’m definitely interested,’ I said firmly, because I wouldn’t even get a new cot with a hundred pounds!

‘I almost said I’d have it myself,’ she confided, ‘only really, I’ve got everything.’

‘Are you …?’ (Is
everybody
?)

She nodded happily. ‘In June! But don’t tell anyone yet – Ray and I want to get married first. So I’ll tell my friend you’d like the things, shall I? After all, if there’s anything you don’t want you can resell it, can’t you?’

‘Yes, please,’ I said.

This agreed, we had some further chat about pregnancy’s more undesirable aspects (though actually, I haven’t come across any desirable ones yet) and then she gave me her no-fail recipe for Hasty Buns, which are a sort of little no-knead bread rolls that even I could make successfully (though she tactfully didn’t put it like that). Then off she went, leaving me feeling better for having had a good talk to someone other than Mrs Deakin.

And I’m sure she would have mentioned it if Wendy had announced her pregnancy; so that was either a lie or a threat.

But there’s already a lot of it going round …

Another year, another antenatal check-up.

The doctor said all was well and asked me if I’d been attending the antenatal classes. When I confessed that I hadn’t, she advised me to go to at least one, and I suppose I really ought to – but later. First I must turn the spare bedroom into a nursery, book extra driving lessons … and time is marching along.

I’m just into the last trimester of pregnancy; soon the baby will be here and I’ll be A Mother. Do all children love their mothers, and all mothers their children? I think mine would have been just as happy with a Tiny Tears doll!

I expect I’ll feel the correct emotions because, after all, I’ve grown to love Bess (and even Toby, despite his attempts to bite the hand that feeds him), and I didn’t like dogs very much. Or I thought I didn’t, because Mother never let me have one, so I’d had no experience of them.

I’ll be glad to get the birth over with. I’d like to feel energetic again, and see my feet when I look down. I’d like to lie back without heartburn and stand without my legs aching and my back going numb. I’d like to get in the bath without the water damming up behind me.

I’d like the feeling of someone’s loving arms around me.

I’d like to drink alcohol.

I’m reaching straight for the bottle after the birth. With Mother’s example before me I’ll never be an alcoholic, it’s just I keep having this craving for champagne.

I’d also like to know Mother’s guilty secret (which, if it is a skeleton in the cupboard, is likely to be that of a very small rodent). But I
need
to know it, for my baby’s sake.

Peggy lives in Cornwall. Could I ask her to dig around a bit? Time I brought her up to date with the situation, anyway!

Fergal: January 2000

    
‘TOO MUCH CHRISTMAS CHEER?

    
Police called out to dawn village disturbance.’

Nutthill District Advertiser

The local paper had been delivered along with the rest of the mail, and that front-page headline caught my eye. At least it wasn’t me making the scandals this time …

I wanted to rush right round and check that Tish was OK, and not upset by all this, but I restrained myself. Leaving Aunt Maria unpacking, I went down to the village shop to get all the news from Mrs Deakin first.

The gardener, who’d been looking after the cat, brought Twinkletoes back just as I was on my way out, and I was halfway to the shop before I realised I hadn’t warned Aunt Maria about the cat’s strange feet …

Lumbered up to the postbox today with Bess. I hadn’t been out very far for a few days because it’s been so icy and I was afraid of falling. What’s happened to my centre of gravity?

Mrs Deakin updated me with the current gossip, including that Fergal had arrived back the previous afternoon, bringing his auntie with him. I felt strangely miffed that he hadn’t rung me to tell me he was back … though why on earth should he?

When I got home, I had to squeeze past a van parked right across the drive, and found a strange man peering through my letter box.

‘Can I help you?’ I enquired coldly, restraining Bess from giving him an effusive and messy greeting.

He straightened abruptly and turned a sharp, vole-like face towards me. His whiskers practically twitched.

‘Mrs Drew? I’m from the TV Licensing authority, and it appears –’ here he scrutinised a red plastic clipboard – ‘that you don’t have a TV licence!’

I opened the door and pushed Bess through, and she bounded off up the hall, scattering rugs.

‘That’s right, I haven’t got one.’

He goggled at me: ‘You haven’t got a licence? That’s a very serious offence, you do realise?’

‘But only if you have a television set, surely?’ I replied, puzzled.

‘You – you haven’t got a television?’

‘No.’

This was obviously too novel an idea to take in all at once. ‘A portable? An old black and white?’

‘No television of any kind.’ Thank goodness the Wrekins’ had gone back!

‘Having a TV without a licence can lead to a very heavy fine,’ he assured me earnestly.

‘So I believe. Now, I’m afraid you must excuse me – goodbye!’ And I slammed the door on his baffled face.

After a while I heard the van drive past.

I dismissed it from my mind and went to do some work on the book, then gave in to my inner urgings and started to paint the nursery a pale terracotta (suitable for a boy or a girl), until I was rudely interrupted by a sudden eruption of yelling and scuffling from the back garden.

Dropping the brush I raced down to discover Fergal holding in a vice-like grip a small, shaken man with a red clipboard.

It reminded me of the day Bob caught the rat.

Fergal gave his captive a shake. ‘This creep was staring in at the windows! Some kind of Peeping Tom. Do you know him?’

‘I wouldn’t say know him, exactly – he’s the TV Licensing inspector who called earlier.’

Fergal relaxed his grip enough for the man to draw a choking breath.

‘That’s right!’ he croaked. ‘Just doing my job! And I could get you for assault, Mr – Mr—’

‘Rocco. You’re welcome to try. Do you usually sneak round peering in at windows?’

‘I was checking that there’s no TV on the premises!’

‘Isn’t that what detector vans are for?’

‘She might have switched it off! Everyone has at least one TV these days.’

‘
Do
you have one, Tish?’

‘No. James took ours and then I rented one for a bit, but I sent it back ages ago as an economy and didn’t renew the licence.’

‘There, you see? No TV. Now, push off and if I ever find you’re round here again I’ll give you some real grounds for assault!’

The man smoothed his ruffled collar and tie and began to back off. ‘There’s no call to be violent. And if there is a TV, the detector vans will get it in the end!’

Fergal made a move forward and the TV Licensing man took to his heels with a squawk and fled.

‘Thank you, Fergal. What a very persistent man!’

‘That’s all right.’ He frowned at me. ‘But are you really so short of money that you’ve had to give up TV?’

‘It wasn’t such a sacrifice. I hardly ever watched it anyway, because I was writing instead. I don’t miss it.’

He was still frowning. ‘Seriously, Tish, are you finding it difficult to make ends meet on your own?’