Puppies Are For Life

Time kicked its heels while she eyed him back belligerently, but eventually she felt that one of them had to say something, so nodding at the doll he carried tucked under his arm with its felt feet sticking out, she said, ‘I hope Reg doesn’t take you for a shoplifter. Hadn’t you better go back?’

‘What?’ He looked vaguely at the shop, then at the upturned doll. ‘Oh, it’s all right, don’t worry. I chucked a plastic card at him on my way out. I’ll go back and settle up properly when we’ve had our cup of tea.’

‘Our –?’ She looked at the hand on her arm – a moderately large hand with broad, straight fingers.

‘Well, I could certainly do with one.’ His eyes roved over her face. ‘And I rather think you could too.’

There was no question of refusing; he didn’t give her a chance. He hustled her down a cul-de-sac before she could even begin to think what was happening. And in no time at all they were sitting opposite each other in the Copper Kettle with the doll propped against a sugar bowl as chaperone.

‘Not as comfortable as I’d hoped,’ he remarked, grimacing as he tried to settle himself on his chair. ‘One of those places that looks better from the outside than it actually is, I’m afraid. I haven’t sat on one of these horrible things since my Sunday school days.’

As he bent to examine the cane seat she saw that his hair grew thick and strong down the back of his head and was hardly streaked with grey at all. Paul’s was entirely grey and it didn’t grow right from the forehead like it used to either. There ought to be a way, she mused silently, of telling a man’s age by the amount his hair had receded. Like the rings on the trunk of a tree. A decade per half-inch perhaps? But that wouldn’t work; it would make this man young enough to be her son, which he was patently far from being.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, coming up a little flushed, ‘I suppose that dates me horribly, doesn’t it, talking about cane seats in Sunday schools?’ It was as if he’d read her mind. ‘In this day and age it’s probably pre-formed plastic, if they have them at all. I mean, I don’t know … do kids still go to Sunday school these days?’

Susannah hesitated. She didn’t want to sit drinking tea with a perfect stranger, making polite conversation about chairs and Sunday schools, of all things. And he hadn’t even asked her if she’d wanted to come; just assumed she’d be delighted to have his company. She firmed her lips and stuck her jaw out a little, making up her mind to answer him only in monosyllables. But he was a difficult sort of person to dislike and she relented almost immediately.

‘Mine went to Sunday school for a while –’ she told him, smiling faintly in spite of herself – ‘until they learned to vote with their feet, that is. But – that’s going back quite a few years now. I don’t know what goes on these days either. Anyway, if it’s any comfort to you, I remember having chairs like this at Sunday school too. So there; that dates me as well.’

And don’t you dare come out with any pat little ‘Oh, surely you’re not that old’ nonsense, she silently warned him. But he didn’t and she felt disappointed. Nor did he pick up on the mention of children, from which she deduced that he didn’t have any of his own or he would have leaped at the chance to talk about them, which was a shame because he looked as if he would have made a nice dad.

But now he seemed to be gazing about him and wondering what to say next. No doubt he was already regretting having brought her here and couldn’t wait to get away again.

‘Ugly little trollop, isn’t she?’ he came out with in the end, the laughter lines round his mouth deepening good-humouredly. ‘Our friend here, I mean –’ he inclined his head in the direction of the doll and added in a stage whisper – ‘not the waitress.’

Susannah glanced at the elderly waitress shuffling from table to table and allowed herself another small smile, then she smoothed creases from the doll’s dress with hands that she didn’t know what to do with. She suddenly felt warmer than she had all day. This man was turning out to be quite a charmer. But – she pulled herself up sharply – didn’t she know better by now than to put trust in charming men?

‘Why did you choose this doll,’ she wondered out loud, ‘if you really think she’s awful?’

‘Well –’ he watched Susannah’s deft fingers tweak the doll’s clothes into better shape – ‘there was another one sitting beside her, dressed in a creamy lacy underthing and a coat of green – um –’

‘Velvet.’

‘Is that what it was? Yes, I suppose so. Well, I’d have preferred that one if it had been up to me. Much more tasteful, I thought. But I knew Julia wouldn’t agree with me. She never does. She’s more a frills and ribbons type, you see.’

‘Uh-huh. Julia being your … daughter?’

‘Wife.’

They leaned back to accommodate the arrival of the tea things.

‘So,’ Susannah said lightly, happy to leave the stirring and pouring to him since the tea had been his idea and he seemed to want to take charge, ‘you don’t think much of Lucy-Ann, I take it?’

‘Lucy-Ann?’ Glancing up from his teabag dunking his eyes followed Susannah’s back to the doll. ‘Oh lord. You don’t mean to tell me … not more of your handiwork, surely?’

‘I made them both, Mr – er –’

‘Webb,’ he had to remind her, ‘Harvey Webb.’

‘– and I made them different to appeal to all tastes. Not that it made a scrap of difference,’ she added bitterly.

‘Sorry?’ He looked puzzled.

She drew a long breath, wishing she’d not made the comment. Now she would have to explain. ‘They’ve travelled the length and breadth of the country with me over the years, those dolls, moving from shop to shop on sale or return. Just about anywhere my husband’s work has taken us, they’ve gone too. Yes –’ she sighed, putting down her cup – ‘Paul’s spectacular promotions have taken us all around the country – abroad as well on two occasions – while my sad little failures have trailed along behind us.’ She forced a grin. ‘Congratulations, Mr Webb –’

‘Harvey.’

‘– you are the first mug ever to actually buy one.’ And, she thought, surprised at herself, you’re the first person I’ve ever told this to.

He appraised her gravely – as gravely as a face like his would allow. ‘I think,’ he said after a pause, ‘I’m beginning to see why you were a bit touchy back there. But they’re beautifully made, those dolls. And so is the Roman teapot stand. I meant what I said about that.’

Inadvertently – or not, she couldn’t be sure – he had covered one of her hands with his as he spoke, and holding her eyes with his own he went on, ‘I think, Mrs Harding, you’re one hell of a talented lady. And don’t let anyone tell you you’re not.’

She gazed back at him with obvious pity. Men were so utterly transparent it was unbelievable. Did he really think she was going to fall for this stupid malarkey? Any minute now he would conjure up a huge shipping order that he was sure he’d be able to get for her: a thousand teapot stands, he would reckon, for someone he just happened to know in the business. In return, of course, for … well, really, he must be desperate, the dirty old so-and-so!

Frustration that had only been lightly tamped down since its last eruption swept her to the edge again. She slid her hand from beneath his, grabbed hold of her bag and stood up.

‘And you, Mr Webb,’ she replied as coolly as her wavering voice would allow, ‘are one hell of a patronising bastard.’

CHAPTER 3

The flowers shivered in their cellophane as Paul walked past. He stopped and looked down at them, arrested by a flash of remorse. He had only come to the service station for petrol and perhaps the evening paper, but should he buy flowers for Sue?

‘’Scuse me,’ a young woman in a green coat rasped in his ear as she attempted to dance her way around him. She might as well have bawled, ‘Get out of the flaming way!’, her tone was so full of irritation.

Paul stood his ground for a moment, blocking the woman’s path and treating her to a hostile stare before politely holding open the door for her. Women these days! What on earth was the matter with them? Bolshie. Aggressive. They’d stab you in the back as soon as look at you.

And what was the matter with Sue? What did she think she was playing at? She’d damn nearly killed him last night. If that mosaic thingy had caught him on the head, goodness knows what might have happened. He was certainly seeing a side of her just lately that he’d never seen before, and he didn’t like it one bit.

When had things begun to change? When Katy went to live in London, he supposed. But at first it had all seemed for the better. Susannah didn’t appear to be one of those women who pined over an empty nest – unless she was doing her best to hide it. But he didn’t think that was the case. And they had both thought it a good idea to go for the cottage too; so it couldn’t be that.

No, everything had been great to begin with. If retirement was going to be like this, he’d thought, then let them chuck him out of his job tomorrow! One of these pushy power-hungry young women could bash their brains out in his place, and the best of British luck to her.

Next thing he knew, Susannah had wanted to set up a work room for herself. Fair enough, he’d said, a hobby would be nice for her. He had helped her organise the room and not batted an eyelid at the cost of stocking it with materials. Meanness had never been one of his failings, and he’d quite enjoyed the project. But what he hadn’t bargained for was the amount of time she ended up spending in the room when it was finished.

At first it had been the odd hour or so. Then he would find her, in the middle of TV programmes, stealing out of the room for what he thought was going to be a trip to the fridge for an apple, or a brief visit to the loo, and not coming back for hours. He even woke up a couple of times in the night to find the bed stone cold beside him.

And then she started making excuses for things like not going out for a walk with him, or to the pub for a drink. She would always have ‘something to do in her work room’.

Gradually, day by day, he was losing her.

‘Oh, er, number four,’ Paul muttered to the forecourt attendant. Taken abruptly from his wool-gathering he began ferreting for his wallet while a queue built up behind him. At last, anxious to be out of the place and alone again with his thoughts, he threw down two twenty-pound notes, though by the time the assistant had checked the notes for forgery and slowly counted out a handful of small silver change he realised it would have been quicker to use his credit card.

But at last he was free to go – except that someone was blocking his way.

‘’Scuse me.’

Paul found himself glaring into angry blue eyes again. The woman in the green coat, having helped herself to a free read of one of the magazines on display, had dropped it back on the shelf and made for the exit at precisely the same moment that Paul reached it.

He sighed, pulled the door open and let her pass through ahead of him.

‘Women!’ he snarled. Not only had he received no thanks whatever for his chivalry, he had been rewarded with a two-finger sign.

The flowers were still shivering in their cellophane as he stomped past them. But Paul had made up his mind. Susannah would not be getting a bunch. She simply didn’t deserve it.

Black. Something black. It had to be something black.

Susannah yanked the hangers along the rail, setting her teeth on edge. Black suited her mood just fine. What a shambles she’d made of things that afternoon! If she’d kept a cool head she might at least have had the satisfaction of selling one of her dolls: cause for celebration indeed. Even Paul would have been forced to concede that. As it was, Harvey Webb, if he had any sense, would probably have marched Lucy-Ann straight back to her shelf in the shop, demanding the return of his credit card. He might have been genuine, too. He might have been a useful contact. He might even have bought her teapot stand, had she not flown off the handle.

But now she had really burned her boats. She would never be able to face Reg again, and the likelihood of finding other suitable outlets was pretty remote. Of course there were plenty of likely shops in the area, but she knew from experience that very few would show any interest in her work; and it would take her for ever to get round to them all. She simply didn’t have time. She would try as soon as she had a spare moment, of course – but her most immediate priority had to be her Uncle Bert’s funeral.

Her father had phoned her late one evening with news of the death, his voice revealing shock, for all its bluster, because his brother had been two years his junior.

‘Bert’s next-door neighbour,’ Frank May had thundered down the line, ‘a Mrs Wardle – ever met her? Well, she thought you might like to go to the funeral. Apparently you always sent Bert a card at Christmas. Can’t think why,’ he’d added with a sniff of contempt, because he’d never had much regard for Bert himself.

‘He taught me to play Canasta,’ Susannah had tried to explain, remembering how her uncle had sat opposite her at his little card table for hours at a time, sucking placidly on his pipe while the more boisterous members of the family cavorted around them. That was how she had always thought of him, if she’d thought of him at all: as something of a loner; a bit of an odd-ball whom nobody understood, except maybe herself. Perhaps she took after him, she mused, lifting a black satin party dress from the wardrobe rail.

Of course, black satin was entirely unsuitable for a funeral, even supposing she could still get into the dress, which was doubtful, but it had long been one of her favourites and she couldn’t help holding it against herself, recalling happier days. Days when she had been content with her lot and this madness about wanting fulfilment hadn’t seized her. What had happened to change things? Was Paul right? Should she really see a doctor?

She turned her head from the mirror to listen to a sound outside. As if conjured up by her thoughts, Paul’s car had squeaked to a halt on the drive. And that was him coming into the cottage. Now he’d stopped on his way through the kitchen – no doubt to look at the day’s mail – and silence fell once more.

Susannah pretended absorption in her task, dreading the coming confrontation. Another battle, she thought wearily, because she no longer felt inclined to apologise. And the likelihood of Paul suddenly seeing the light and showing understanding towards her was very remote indeed.

Eventually – after what seemed like decades – Paul creaked up the steep little staircase to their room in search of her. She didn’t have to look round to know that he had come into the room and was standing at the foot of the bed, his jaw tense and truculent as he slowly pulled off his tie.

But suddenly he was behind her, much closer than she had imagined, his hand coming up to knead the back of her neck.

‘Susie,’ he sighed into her hair, ‘I’d forgotten all about your old Uncle Bert. And I’m sorry. No wonder you’ve been so uptight. It must have been a bit much, coming on top of the kids flying the nest and us selling up the old family home.’ He turned her round to face him, his hand still massaging imagined knots at the top of her spine. ‘There’ve been too many changes in a short space of time,’ he told her, smiling down at her indulgently. ‘I think perhaps I should have been surprised if you hadn’t blown your top. Don’t you?’

She swallowed her amazement and gazed back at him; he had actually managed to come up with a solution that let them both off the hook without either of them having to admit they were in the wrong.

Did he really believe his own reasoning, though? His expression revealed nothing, it seldom did, but she thought not. The problem was still obvious to them both, and they really ought to discuss it. But when it came to relationships it was typical of Paul to sweep difficult issues under the carpet.

He couldn’t help being that way: he had been brought up by a single aunt, his parents having been killed in a London air-raid towards the end of the war, and he had had only narrow experience of relationships. His views on parenthood and families were consequently based on ideals, and he couldn’t bring himself to admit that they might fall short in any way.

‘Paul, I –’ she began, but he put a finger to her lips.

‘Don’t let’s waste any more time, analysing,’ he said, turning away. ‘It’s all over. Finished. Forget it.’

‘OK.’ She caved in. She hadn’t the energy to pursue the matter right then.

‘Well, what do you think of this for the funeral?’ she asked, snatching at a hanger and swinging a pleated skirt around on it. ‘I’ve a jacket that matches, somewhere.’

‘It’s fine. Perfect. I like it.’ The relief in his voice was obvious: they were back on an even keel. He flashed her his most wicked grin, which prompted her to throw the garment aside in disgust.

‘It looks like my old school uniform,’ she said.

‘I know; I remember it from your old photographs.’ He squeezed her bottom. ‘Perhaps that’s why I like it.’

‘Cradle-snatcher pervert,’ she murmured, knowing he was nothing of the sort. She nestled against his chest. She hated not being friends as much as he did and wondered again why she had rocked the marital boat. Held tight in the circle of his arms, the temptation to forget her crazy ideas was immense; life would be so much easier if she could do that. Could she?

Paul unbuttoned his shirt and drew her closely against him so that she could feel his erection against her navel. For a moment she tensed and almost prevented him from taking things any further, but then she remembered that they could make love when and wherever they fancied without fear of interruption, or the possible embarrassment of their offspring. It had taken them a while to adjust to this new-found freedom, but when they had got used to the idea they had made love joyfully and with abandon in just about every room in the house.

‘Would you like me to come with you tomorrow?’ Paul asked, unclipping the fastening on her bra. ‘Drive us both up to London?’

‘To the funeral?’ Her head jerked up, leaving the tickly nest of chest hair and the comforting smell of his skin. For Paul to make such an offer was a penance indeed. ‘But why? You hardly even knew my uncle.’

‘Neither did you,’ he tossed back at her, then he quickly compressed his lips. But he was too late; he’d given the game away. Using Uncle Bert as an excuse for his wife’s odd behaviour didn’t wash.

Desire flew out of the window.

‘You’ll hate the funeral, you know you will,’ she said, pulling away from his arms. ‘It’s not your kind of thing. Thanks all the same, Paul, but I’ll go on my own as planned.’

CHAPTER 4

Julia crawled across the mattress to her own side of the bed, her buttocks wobbling invitingly. Leaning out to retrieve her nightdress, she was careful to take her time; Harvey would get a good long – and hopefully stimulating – view. But it was no good and they both knew it, although there was nothing he would have liked more than to oblige her.

‘I’m sorry.’ He sighed, staring helplessly. Oh to feel normal again!

‘It’s OK,’ she said, and collapsed into the pillows.

‘But it’s your birthday …’

‘I said it’s OK. It can’t be helped. Forget it.’

‘But we always do something special on our birthdays.’

‘Well, we’ll have to do something else that’s special, that’s all.’

‘Oh, I’m getting o-o-old,’ he said, dragging the last word out into a long self-pitying moan. ‘Correction, I am old.’

‘You’re only as old as you feel, Harvey.’

‘Right now I feel a hundred.’

Julia knelt up beside him and began pulling the sparse folds of shiny blue satin over her shaggy, highlighted hair. She wriggled, shaking the bed as she eased the garment over her breasts. Harvey looked on morosely as he watched them bounce, rubber-like, back into place. Nothing.

‘Look,’ she said, sliding under the quilt, ‘this is only a temporary thing. It’s like – well – missing periods, you know? You get a shock in your life, a bit of bad news, and the next thing you know your body’s all up the creek. Women are used to this sort of thing. Well, I am anyway; you know what my cycle’s like.’

Harvey did know. He had had to learn to live with it.

‘It’s this being pensioned off that’s done it,’ Julia went on. ‘But we’ll get over it soon. You’ll see.’

‘Made redundant,’ he corrected through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t make it sound even worse than it already is. And it’s nothing whatever like missed bloody periods! For heaven’s sake, girl –’ he thumped the mattress with his fists – ‘don’t you hear what I’m telling you? I’m old. I’m old! They were right, weren’t they? They were right all along.’

‘Who were? What?’ Julia lay back on one elbow and considered getting up. It was probably too early for her yoga class, but anything was better than lying here listening to Harvey in one of his moods. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table, spotted a stack of cotton wool pads and a bottle of nail varnish remover among the debris, and began to take off ‘Burnished Bronze’.

‘Everybody was right,’ Harvey went on. ‘All those kind, well-meaning souls who told us we would regret it.’

‘Regret –?’ The word had caught Julia’s attention.

‘I mean,’ Harvey amended hastily, wrinkling his nose as the acetone hit him, ‘you must be regretting it. Marrying me. You’ve still got your life ahead of you. And all those things they said about finding it difficult with such a big age gap between us are beginning to make sense. There you are, in the prime of your life. And here am I –’ he looked down at the mound of his body under the covers – ‘a clapped-out husk.’

Julia regarded her husband gravely for a second. Until recently he had not been so – so – negative. Yes, that was the word to describe him these days. She had never seen him like this in all the time she had known him. On the contrary, he had always been so positive, so alive, and vital, and – what did they call it? – motivated. The way she liked him to be. She scarcely fancied him like this. Actually she’d gone off sex a bit herself just lately, so perhaps that had something to do with it …

But these thoughts disturbed her a little so she dismissed them.

‘Oh, you’re being silly, Harvey,’ she scolded. ‘Just because you aren’t in the mood for once doesn’t mean anything at all. Talk about making mountains out of molehills!’

Harvey kept his next thoughts to himself. He couldn’t tell Julia that this morning’s fiasco was the culmination of days of going off it. There had been times when he had had to exercise his imagination even more vigorously than his body, just to see him through. Up until now it had worked well enough. But this time it hadn’t worked at all.

‘I tell you,’ she said, throwing back the quilt to deal with her toes, ‘you weren’t like this when you were working. You were full of energy all the time, not lying around moaning and feeling sorry for yourself.’

She’s right, he thought, pulling the bedding back to cover the parts of him that offended right now. And that was a first, too. When did Julia last let drop a pearl of wisdom from her full, pouting lips? Must have been some time before he met her.

Annoyed with himself for his lack of charity – especially as it was her birthday – he put out his hand. ‘Sorry,’ he said, stroking the warm roundness of her left arm and finding that the feel of it under his finger-tips only brought home to him more vividly her enviable youth. ‘I don’t mean to be a pain. I’ll take you to Partridges for dinner tonight. OK?’

‘Lovely,’ she said, bending to kiss him and letting her breasts swing forward near his face. Perhaps there’s still a chance, she thought, flicking her tongue out to find his. But she quickly pulled away from him and left the bed; she could see by his eyes that he had slipped further from her than ever.