No more fretting, Ethan told himself as the bus came into the town centre. You sound like an old woman.
Soon he was off the bus and walking slowly, doggedly, down the few streets to the house of his intended. Her front windows were fogged with the steam from her ironing. He stood by the garden gate and serenaded her with ‘Love is in the Air’. His voice was booming and off-key and people on the main road stopped to look. Ethan couldn’t care less. He sang at the top of his voice with his arms spread out wide.
Rose wiped the condensation away with a tea towel. She saw him and mouthed, ‘Silly bugger!’ at him across the grass, grinning delightedly.
It’s ridiculous, really, Ethan thought as she came out, stamping her winter boots on and fastening her furry coat. It’s only about two hours since we last saw each other. What’s making us carry on like this? She came up and linked arms with him. ‘Ha’way then, Captain Birdseye,’ she said. ‘Let’s get into town.’
‘You mean Long John Silver,’ Ethan said. ‘He was the one with one leg.’
‘Who was Captain Birdseye then?’
Ethan frowned. ‘Wasn’t that Burt Lancaster?’
Suddenly she laughed. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m thinking of. Fish fingers!’
‘Oh.’
‘Ha’way, Captain Birdseye!’ she cackled, and led him into the main street. All the way down the road she tempered her usual healthy stride and brought herself down to his pace. He struggled manfully to wield his wooden leg faster for her. Together they were keeping pretty good time.
Seemingly overnight the big supermarket in town had changed hands. Cardboard signs swung from the ceiling, yellow spots on red backgrounds. Liz was confused when she walked in. Everything was in different aisles, just as she had learned her way round. At least the delicatessen was in the same place, its tiled walls covered in yellow and red posters. The woman serving on was in a new red and yellow uniform, scowling with her tongs held out. ‘Giving me bloody migraine, all those spots,’ she said. A tannoy voice announced, ‘Welcome to Yellow Spot!’
Liz shuddered and concentrated on shopping. She would dish everything up with expansive gestures, be gregarious, spreading good will as she went, letting the wine flow like busted guttering. It was to be a family meal. The vegetables here were rubbish. Where were the fresh herbs?
While she took out her chequebook in the queue, she felt everyone was peering into her trolley. At the last minute she plucked a cheap CD off the display by the tills. It was a Burt Bacharach compilation, all his best songs played by the Boston Pops Orchestra. In her haste Liz had assumed they were hits by the original artists. Perfect for tonight, she thought.
‘I saw her this morning,’ Jane was saying. ‘Sneaking back from somewhere. His place, I suppose. The bus driver’s. Wherever he lives.’
‘Fancy her leaving Penny all night like that!’
‘No sense of responsibility. And she looked awful, too. Hadn’t done her hair properly or anything. Had a massive duffel coat on. His, I suppose.’
‘That’s passion for you.’
Jane frowned. ‘I think that hair of hers is a wig.’
‘Do you?’ Fran mused, playing with her own.
Rose had made her own life. Unlike most fairy-tale princesses she had had to carve out her own niche in the world. This didn’t stop her thinking of herself as a princess. She shared her birthday with the Queen. When her Prince Charming had at last appeared, slobbery and drunk at the Labour Club one night in late spring, she had accepted him belatedly as her reward. He clung to her under the club’s new glitter ball as they danced, pivoted to one spot by his leg slowly unscrewing itself as they revolved, love in their eyes.
Until then, Rose had lived a life of hardships. Of early deaths, single parenting, skivvying after others, one-night stands, the lot. And she had relished every minute of it. It was the same kind of relish she felt once when she lost a ring in the swing bin and found it again by tipping everything on to the lino and rummaging through every particle of filth. She picked through the grime and got rid of it, systematically, finding her treasure, tarnished and safe, then scrubbed her skin red raw under the hot tap afterwards. Jane had picked up the same habits. Mother and daughter spent their lives purging themselves under hot taps. They owed a lot to their immersion heaters.
Now Rose had decided it was time to chuck in the tea towel. Someone else could support her from now on. No more faked fiances, no more soldiering on. At last it was time for the big white wedding and the trip around the world. She wanted a cruise that would never end. She wanted a big brassy tart of a finale to all those years spent scrubbing.
She beamed at Ethan as he trundled along beside her. They were circumnavigating the boating lake. It was in two tiers, connected by mechanical waterfalls. Both lakes a dull silver, j ruffled by wind. Ragged willows ranged their edges and three banana-yellow kayaks transported children back and forth.
She thought about a photo of the same scene, taken for the town’s official postcard in the seventies. There were still a faded handful left on sale in the newsagents in town. In the photo everyone was wearing tight nylon turtlenecks and long hair that needed brushing. Perhaps the card would be reprinted soon — wasn’t that look coming back? If she closed ] her eyes she could smell lake water dried into denim flares, i And what was it Jane had had a craze for that summer? A kind of lolly without a stick. A big hunk of flavoured ice in a packet. She had eaten seven in a day once and given herself the runs.
Rose remembered the photo because she was in it. Twenty j years younger, in
