Old Dogs, New Tricks

Twiddling her wedding ring round her finger Marjorie could only agree with her. She glanced down at the gold band that had once had a pattern on it but had now worn smooth; both it and the diamond engagement ring had channelled grooves in her flesh. Married all those years, she thought with a pang of conscience, and she’d been keeping secrets from Phil because he wouldn’t have liked what she was doing. Whatever would that old vicar who’d married them have to say about that?

Of course he was probably pushing up daisies by now, but recently, for some strange reason, his words had been coming back to her. Not so much about being honest with each other – presumably he’d thought that went without saying – but all manner of other unasked-for advice that he’d seen fit to offer them on the run-up to their wedding day. For example, it was his view that in all their future life-decisions the final word should be Philip’s. He should be the one to wear the trousers and Marjorie should defer to him.

Sitting side by side on the musty vicarage sofa as he delivered this instruction, they had stared at him in silence, hardly able to believe their ears, for even in those days such notions were so out of date as to be laughable.

Marjorie had sensed Phil’s suppressed mirth bubbling up, his hand tightening round hers as they solemnly nodded their heads, and she’d found it hard to keep a straight face. They had escaped from the interview as soon as they could, running hard to get well away from the vicarage before their laughter came spluttering out.

Nevertheless, a few days later Marjorie had found herself promising to obey her husband for ever more until they were parted by death. And she had largely adhered to the vicar’s words throughout her marriage; she had let Philip wear the trousers and had always deferred to him, even if at times he had jokingly had to threaten her with hell-fire and brimstone.

At least it had had the advantage that Phil had no one to blame but himself whenever things turned out badly – a neat cop-out for her, to be true, but it didn’t always suit. It certainly wasn’t going to suit her now if his plans clashed with her own …

‘Come and have dinner with us this evening,’ she urged Sheila. ‘I’m going to tell Philip everything. It’s time to sort all this out.’

2

Philip Benson hurried out of the lift and crossed the glossy foyer of Spittal’s admin. building in ten easy strides. He was far from being a vain man and would have been surprised had he been told that at least a dozen female heads turned to follow his progress before he disappeared through the revolving doors.

This owed nothing to the fact that he was the sales director; the MD himself could have stripped naked on top of the reception desk and no one would have batted an eye. But Philip Benson was ‘something else’, according to most of the women who worked at Spittal’s; he was generally considered by young and old, fat and thin, married and single, to be more than ‘a bit of all right’. Even though he was hitting fifty. Even though he’d gone grey. Even though he would soon be a grandfather. None of that mattered a jot. As for Mrs Benson, well, wasn’t she the lucky one?

Many a time had the phenomenon that was Philip Benson been thoroughly analysed, but no satisfactory conclusions had ever been reached. He was not conventionally handsome – whatever that might mean. Some said it was his slow, shy smile that did it; some his affable nature. Others considered his selflessness was the charm, for what could be more attractive than an all-round decent bloke, they argued, who had no idea that he was?

Philip’s ears would have burned with embarrassment if he’d had any knowledge of these discussions. Either that or he would have assumed that the subject of them was someone else. Happily heedless of turned heads, longing glances or wagging tongues, he ducked into the pub next door to Spittal’s in search of a much-needed drink.

Spotting his old friend in one corner, slumped over a glass of beer, he grinned that slow, charming smile of his.

‘Thought I might find you here, Tom,’ he said, jerking a stool from under the table and straddling it. ‘Things getting too hot for you back there?’

Tom almost choked as Philip clapped him on the shoulder. He looked up sourly, licking foam from his bushy moustache.

‘Bloody chaos, it is,’ he complained with a despairing shake of his head. ‘Here, let me get you your –’

‘No, no, I’m buying,’ Phil insisted. He caught the barman’s eye above the row of backs hunched round the bar and was soon well into a glass of Guinness, with another pint lined up for Tom.

‘Not exactly a good place to be in at a time like this,’ Phil said, loosening his tie. ‘Personnel, I mean.’

‘You can say that again, man, indeed you can. You can imagine what it’s been like. Nothing short of a riot.’ He pretended to mop his brow. ‘I’ve come in here to escape, though I expect the hordes will soon catch up with me, demanding to know why they’ve been laid off with only a pittance when some other sod’s being kept on, and how the devil are they going to go home and break it to the wife? Like it’s all my bloody fault, you know?’

He eyed his companion morosely, and since Phil rarely nipped in for a quick one on his way home asked, ‘And what’re you doing in here, pal? Turning over a new leaf?’

Philip drank down a few more mouthfuls before adopting a wry expression. ‘Wondering how I’m going to break it to the wife, actually, just like everyone else.’

‘She doesn’t know?’ Tom’s surprise revealed the whites of his eyes. They were stained with red threads of tiredness.

‘No,’ Phil admitted reluctantly, ‘she doesn’t know a thing.’

‘But I thought …’

‘That I would’ve told her days ago?’

‘Well … with your prior knowledge … and surely you could have trusted her?’

‘Of course I could have trusted her. She wouldn’t have leaked it.’ Philip waved that line of questioning aside. ‘It was just that – well, I suppose I couldn’t broach it.’

Tom snorted his disbelief. ‘Don’t tell me our sales director is scared of his wife? But … but it’s not as if it’s even bad news for you, is it? Won’t this just suit your Marjorie down to the ground?’

Philip’s expression darkened. ‘You’re assuming I’m taking redundancy, Tom. And all things considered I suppose …’

‘Be plain daft, not to, wouldn’t it?’ Tom demonstrated his ideas with his hands. ‘Take the money – nice tidy sum –’ he grabbed air and clutched it to his chest ‘– and straight into your father’s business.’ He made a throwing motion. ‘Isn’t that what Marjorie’s always wanted? Not to mention your mum and dad.’

Tom knew the history of Philip’s rebellion very well – mostly as related by Marjorie, the ubiquitous ‘girl next door’.

She would have been about eight and Philip nine when his father’s local hardware shop had begun to make money. ‘Real’ money, that is, as opposed to scraping a living. Eric Benson was about the only person not surprised by his success. He had worked damned hard for it, he was quick to tell anyone who would listen, and he lost no time in putting his profits back into the business and buying himself another shop in the adjacent borough. He soon repeated his earlier success and bought yet another shop before calling it a day.

Three shops, he decided at the end of a particularly busy week, hardly left him with time to draw breath. And being the kind of person whose powers of delegation were nil – although it was unlikely that he’d ever realised that fact – he told himself that enough was surely enough.

After the purchase of the second shop the Bensons left their crowded flat and came to live in the house next door to Marjorie and her parents, by which time Philip was eleven and taking the dreaded 11-plus.

Not that the tests presented Philip with much of a problem – he sailed through them all in less than the allotted time and wondered what all the fuss was about – but it brought the Bensons’ attention to the whole question of secondary education, and Eric, his new-found wealth growing steadily in the bank, began to get ideas above his station.

The upshot was that Philip, his sister Chrissie, and later his brother Colin, were forced into private schooling. Forced being the only word for it, where Philip was concerned: he resented the whole idea and dug his heels in as hard as he could. He didn’t want to have to walk in the opposite direction to his friends every day and be called a toffee-nosed pansy, he complained in Marjorie’s sympathetic ear.

Already he had a lot to live down. Since moving into the new house he’d been compelled to witness vulgar displays of his father’s newly-acquired wealth, as all manner of goods found their way from the high street stores to the family home. There had been a huge new television with shiny double doors, a radiogram with record auto-change, a tape recorder that weighed a ton, and a snazzy food-mixer that worked miracles. Even a shiny new car – the latest thing on the market – appeared outside the house one day. That neither of his parents could drive was neither here nor there.

As for his mother, well, she went mad on a whole new decor for the house and ordered a truck-load of tacky knick-knacks.

Philip was endlessly ribbed for all this by his slightly awe-struck friends, and then – horror of horrors – his father had come up with the idea of sending him off to a snobby school! But at least his mother had some sense left: she drew the line at putting any kind of distance between herself and her firstborn child. He must come home to be properly fed, she insisted. The school had to be a local one.

And so Philip had had to grit his teeth – for no one could stand for long against Eric Benson’s domineering manner – and make the best of a bad job. No amount of telling him how privileged he was made a scrap of difference to young Philip as he trudged up the road each morning in his immaculate red blazer with gold and blue braid; he made up his mind to hate every minute of his new way of life. Absolutely every minute.

But of course he hadn’t. He’d gradually settled in to the school, even distinguished himself, and left at eighteen with a batch of certificates that were more than good enough to take him on to university for an engineering degree.

It was only on leaving university that the final stage of Eric Benson’s master plan was revealed, and Philip realised he was expected to take over the hardware businesses from his father.

‘With all your qualifications, lad,’ Eric had told him, throwing out his chest as he stood behind the shop counter, ‘you’ll be able to build all this into an empire for yourself. People are keen to do their own home improvements these days, and there’s big money to be made.’ He made it sound as though Philip ought to be eternally grateful, as perhaps he should; not many could expect to have such opportunities handed to them on a plate.

‘But Dad,’ he’d protested, already planning to go back to university and try for a master’s degree, ‘I didn’t spend years studying for decent qualifications just to sell spanners and plastic buckets! I didn’t, and I won’t. I’m sorry. But I won’t!’

This 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 he finally spoke, crackled with ice ‘– perhaps it’s a good thing we’ll soon be separated, then, if you’re really going to do this. I had thought we were going to have some good years ahead of us, life-long buddies that we are. But if you’re set on going, and – and treating your wife like this, well …’

Phil might have guessed he’d have trouble with Tom. In truth he was having trouble with himself. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, draining his glass and rising. He would like to have gone into all this more fully, unburden himself to Tom, but he could see he hadn’t handled the matter very well; Tom didn’t look ripe for listening any more.

‘No,’ came Tom’s surly response. ‘I bloody don’t understand.’ Then, as Phil started to walk away, he growled, ‘I just hope your Marjorie does, the day she learns what you’ve done.’

3

Oliver Knox checked his watch. Why did Jade always have to be late? She’d turned being late into an art form. And there was no excuse this time. He knew her aerobics class had finished punctually.

Having completed his routine in the gym he’d stopped on his way to the changing room to peer through the glass panel in the studio door. The advanced aerobics session had been drawing to a close and the class – mostly women but there were a few men – had been sitting cross-legged on mats. They had reached the stage where they rolled their heads round on their necks with their eyes closed, which meant they hadn’t much more to do. He knew that soon after that the instructor would creep over to her tape recorder, switch off the snippet of classical music to which her flock was supposed to relax, and clap her hands. Then – rather stupidly, Oliver thought – everyone else would start clapping too, smiling foolishly at each other as though they had just been brought out of hypnosis.

He had stood admiring Jade for some time, for she was by far the most beautiful girl there, even with her long blonde hair scraped into a knot on top of her head. Her stylish aerobics gear – lime green crop-top with black cycle shorts – flattered her superb figure, and her amazing legs went on for yards before they ended at the ridiculously expensive trainers she’d bought last Saturday. In comparison to the other women she was an Aston Martin among a car park full of Ladas. Even the teacher appeared clumsy beside her.

Grinning to himself, and rippling his developing chest muscles – the work-outs were certainly doing the trick – Oliver had slipped away for a shower. Then he had gone on to the club bar in the basement, ordered himself a lager, and waited.

He was on his second pint before Jade turned up. She glided into the chair opposite him smiling her dazzling smile and tossing her freshly-washed hair. But by then Oliver had forgotten his pride in her; he had sunk into a brooding mood.

‘You’ll be late for your own effing funeral,’ he told her. He was sitting with his chin propped on one hand, a small cigar poked between the second and third fingers, and was unaware that he appeared to her to have smoke coming through the top of his boot-polish-black head.

‘Oh dear,’ she soothed, trying not to smile, ‘have we had a hard day?’ She leaned across the table and pecked his pouting lips.

Oliver glared at her all the more. He hated not being taken seriously. ‘It was going all right until I heard about Benson, but then–’

‘Benson?’ She plucked up the little menu, glanced over it and transferred her attention to the ‘Specials’ listed on the wall. ‘I don’t think I know Benson. I’m going to have the venison this time. What’ll you have? Oh, and some of that lovely wine we had the other day. Which one was it, do you remember?’

‘The most expensive one on the list,’ he growled. ‘Have you seen my Gold Card statement? It came in yesterday’s post.’

‘No.’ Jade turned down the corners of her mouth. ‘My Visa was bad enough. Why should I want to know about yours? Horrors! But so what? I could eat a whole horse.’

She studied the menu more closely, but she’d already made up her mind. She called out her order to the barman – whom they both knew well since they spent at least two, and often three, evenings at the country club – and sat back looking around.

Oliver grew more disgruntled at this blatant lack of attention. ‘You do know who Benson is. Philip Benson. Remember? I told you all about him. He’s one of the London mob. A rather significant one.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’ Jade looked faintly put out. ‘Well, I beg your pardon, Olly, but I can’t be expected to remember everything. My head’s full of company law at the moment.’ But she was wasting her breath. It was no excuse, as far as Oliver was concerned, that her law exams were less than a year away and that there was such a lot to cram in: she should have remembered who Benson was.

Oliver had made a lot of fuss about Spittal’s restructuring plans over the past few months. He had been fully counting on promotion to sales director in place of Platt, who was retiring. Instead, although yet to be officially confirmed, it looked as though this bloke Benson might be coming down from London to take the job and Oliver would have to stay put as his assistant.

‘There’s no justice in this world,’ Oliver complained into his glass of lager before tipping the contents down his throat. ‘No justice at all. I mean, he’s fifty, for God’s sake. Why would they want to keep on an old wrinkly like him?’

Jade decided it would be prudent not to speak her mind. It was obvious that the powers-that-be thought Benson the more able man.