Believe me, it happens!” Sidney draped a dry towel around my neck and gusted another sigh. “Poor sainted Mrs. Haskell. Ben must be out of his mind with worry.”
I shook my head and apologised to the woman at the next basin for spraying her. “He speaks with surprising calm of his mother going off on an extended holiday. Whenever I bring up the subject, he brushes me off.”
“You feel shut out. Who wouldn’t?” Sidney deftly parted the front of my hair into sections.
“Sidney, if I didn’t know Ben to be a very deep-feeling person, I might be concerned at his apparent callousness. I might wonder just how bothered he would be if anything happened to me.”
Sidney produced scissors and began snipping. “Ellie, you mustn’t let yourself get worn down. Are you sleeping well?”
“I hate to complain, Sidney, but since you ask-no. I keep having these dreadful nightmares.”
“Ask your doctor to prescribe something.”
“I don’t know. I keep hoping the nightmares will stop. Mrs. Haskell is always in them-and so is food. One night I was pursued by chickens-cooked ones. And there was the one about the hamburgers with their tomato sauce smiles. Ben thinks I am becoming obsessive about my diet.”
Sidney plugged in the hand dryer. “Obsession,” he said with relishing gloom, “is part of our culture. You’re not normal if you aren’t a little cracked. Even dear Ben has his claustrophobia.” The broad shoulders lifted and fell. “I don’t think he ever believed it was that idiot Patterson kid, not me, who shut him in the potato bin. And your goblin is…”
“Yes?”
“Trying to please that savage little tyrant-you.”
“Really? What about you, Sidney?”
“Duck-waddle Sid?” He turned the hairdryer down to a hum and blew a welter of hair over my forehead. “Old- fashioned bloody greed. I tell you, Ellie, it can be a pain. I can never buy two matching pillow slips. I can’t be satisfied with stripes, I want flowers-until I see polka dots.”
“I noticed the teacups. All different and beautiful.”
He turned off the dryer and rippled his fingers through my hair. “Mum thinks I’m this way because Dad left us. Course, she thinks Maggie Thatcher’s Prime Minister because Dad bunked.” Sid’s eyes met mine in the mirror and he gave me a clown’s sad smile. “Is this satisfactory? We didn’t want anything too drastic, did we?”
I reached up a tentative hand. “Perfect, Sidney.”
“Nice seeing you, Ellie. Best to Ben. That will be five pounds fifty, please. Pay Sally at the desk.”
Another customer approached. Time for me to decide whether Sidney would consider a tip an insult. Something about the way his right hand dangled, palm outward, indicated he would not. Sidney must rake in a lot of pennies to keep himself in pillow slips and Minton teacups. I walked outside into a grey drizzle and wondered what the devil had come over me in there.
According to the tower clock it was only five to twelve. Would Ben still be at The Dark Horse? My feet hesitated under the creaking pub sign. But, after downing a few pints of malt-liquor air, I crossed the square. The secure, confident wife does not tread on her husband’s shadow.
High noon. Before meeting Bunty, I had time for a little window shopping. I idled past The Muffin Pan Bakery and drooled past The Chocolate Box. Damn this diet! I would break out at lunch and eat… the leaves on my celery. To sublimate my base urges I would look in at Abigail’s and measure the staircase window. I had found a marvellous ruby-and-gold damask which would be ideal for a valance. And if Ben had finished at The Dark Horse and happened to be there, I could lure him into the buttery to… to take its measurements.
I went up the red brick steps of Abigail’s and stepped under the dark green awning to the pounding of invisible workmen. A building inspector had denounced sections of the attic floor as dangerous, so I imagined that most of the carpenters were up there. Not so the painters. A little man, so wizened even his bald head was wrinkly, a paintpot dangling over his arm, careened into me as I came through the door. Before I could say hello, he was off down the hall, muttering.
“I know, I know, your husband told you to come spying. But I’ll have you know this is the lunch hour, so don’t give me any gaff. Get enough of that from the gov’ner.”
Really! Naturally not everyone could love Ben as I did. But such hostility!
Then I forgot the painter. A wave of warmth flowed over me as I looked around the square hall with its heavy, timbered door frames and uneven floor. This building had originated as a small inn in 1703, and the ghosts of caped and bewigged travellers passed to and fro as I went from room to room. No sign of Ben. However, he was present in spirit. Taped to the walls I found numerous notes to workmen. Some kind, some restrained, many caustic, all ending with a scrawl of initials.
A firm hand, yes-I could see that might be needed (as I stepped around two purple-haired youths doing lasso tricks with electrical cord), but I would probably have inserted it in a velvet glove. I went into the kitchen which was stripped pathetically naked, imagining how it would be when all shiny white and stainless-steel bright, with Jonas’s geraniums flourishing on the wide quarry-tiled window sills. I knew equally well how the reception room to the left of the front door would look. That bluebell wallpaper I had discovered would be perfect. Trailing up the stairs, my fingers savoured the satin feel of the bannister. I took the measurements of the landing window and went on to the second floor. This long room with its linen scroll paneling, elaborate ceiling molding, and tall latticed windows would be ideal for our opening bash. There would be candles in sconces and white roses in silver bowls on refectory tables flanking each side of the room.
I unflipped my tape measure and went into the room two doors down, already being used as Ben’s office. Its neatness brought a tender smile to my lips. Even the paper clips were stacked in rows, and the notes he had made to himself were all lined up. I stopped smiling. One of the notes was to me. It said:
I almost forgot myself to the point of crossing out the ‘a’ in laying and initialing above the correction, but a passage from
My watch told me I had time to nip down to Delacorte’s Antiques to see if they still had those picture frames. Even should they be gone, there was bound to be something to tempt me.
Delacorte’s bow window was lush with treats. There was a late nineteenth-century copper kettle and matching trivet, an embroidered shawl draped over an easel. Cold and repellent Mr. Charles Delacorte might be, but he did know his business.
I entered to a tinkling rendition of the
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Haskell.” Inclining his head of fair hair and consulting his watch, he stationed himself behind the counter. As I went up to him, the curtain spread again and Ann came in. Today she was wearing an olive green brocade suit, the skirt narrow, the jacket pinched at the waist and fanned out over her hips. Her dark hair was puffed into a roll in front, the back falling in a smooth pageboy behind. Very elegant and undoubtedly the height of fashion forty years ago.
“Ellie, how charming to see you.” Her cool hands touched mine. “I have been wanting to tell you again how radiant you were as a bride.”
“Thank you.”
“And the wedding dress was a good fit? When you bought it, I was somewhat concerned about the waist.”
“Oh?” I clutched my side.
