‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m here, darling. Truth is, not long after you’d gone Barry asked me over to tell me your news -the parting. The end of the marriage, I
mean.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t have time to tell you before I went.’
‘No – well . . . Besides, it’s difficult to break that sort of news. I feel very sorry for you both.’ She took a handkerchief from the old leather handbag Prue had known
all her life. ‘We got to talking, and I told Barry all about the salon.’
‘What about it?’
‘If the truth be known, its heyday’s over, Prue. People just aren’t coming. It’s never really got back to how it was before the war – you remember? The place jammed
every day. Rushed off my feet, I was.’ She paused to blow her nose and to dab at one bright eye. ‘And the other thing is, there’s competition just down the road. Some fancy place
with a French name. I’ve seen people going there. To be honest, I’m not sure I can struggle on. I’m thinking of closing.’
‘Mum—’
‘I told Barry all that. He was most sympathetic. And then this morning he telephoned me and asked me round to tea. He said an idea had come to him. That’s why I’m here.’
She stood up, adjusted her hat, which had lurched over the tearless eye. ‘Tell you what, I’ll run into the kitchen, bring us a pot of tea. Barry shouldn’t be long.’
By the time she returned she seemed to be in better spirits.
‘So you get along with Bertha, then?’ said Prue. ‘I was never welcome in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, Bertha and I get along all right. We understand each other.’
Prue wondered how many visits it had taken for this understanding to take place. It was all faintly puzzling but, also, she didn’t much care, felt no eagerness to know the answer. She
watched her mother, with the definite air of the hostess, peel back the napkin from the sandwiches.
‘The other day I told Barry how to brighten up a sandwich,’ she said. ‘He was ever so grateful. He said he would never have thought of cucumber and parsley on the side, what a
difference they’d make.’ She smiled, pleased with herself. The hat slipped down again. ‘It’s good to see you, Prue. I hope you’re going to be all right. Barry said
he’ll take good care of you. You’ll not want for money. You’re a bright girl, can turn your hand to anything. I’m sure you’ll find—’
‘I’ll be fine, Mum.’
Barry walked into the room. On seeing Prue he paused quickly to adjust his surprise to pleasure. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here, sweetheart.’
‘I didn’t know what time I’d—’
‘I thought you’d be back later.’
‘I was surprised, too, Barry, finding Prue here,’ said her mother.
Barry went to his wife and kissed her on the cheek. Then the three of them sat in a triangle round the low table on which the tea tray glowed with its rose-strewn, gold-rimmed cups and the pile
of imaginative sandwiches.
‘Well, it’s good you’re here together,’ said Barry, ‘because now I can put to both of you the plan that’s been going through my mind.’ He turned to
Prue. ‘Your mother has told me the salon’s not doing well and she’s thinking of calling it a day. Well, it’s to be expected. Not so many people after the war with money to
spare on permanent waves.’ Mrs Lumley nodded. She smiled at Barry, grateful for his understanding. ‘So what I’ve been thinking is this, ladies. I’m in need of a new
housekeeper.’
Mrs Lumley gave a small start which dislodged, her hat once more. She put out a hand to Prue, who held it.
‘What about Bertha?’ Prue asked.
‘Ah, Bertha.’ Barry put down his cup of tea, leant back in his chair. He felt in his inside pocket for his cigar case, and gave Prue a look. ‘I think Bertha and I have come to
the end of our run. She seems to have gone off the job, doesn’t make much effort any more, though she’s taken to brushing her hair. I’ve a feeling she’s met someone, might
want to be off to pastures new.’ He laughed. ‘Anyhow, I thought I’d put the idea to you, Elsie. If it appealed to you, I’d give Bertha her marching orders – see she
was all right, of course.’
Mrs Lumley sighed audibly. She took her hand from Prue, leant over to pat one of Barry’s knees. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so kind, Barry,’ she said.
‘What do you think, Prue?’
‘It’s a wonderful idea, Mum.’
‘I know you like cooking, I’ve enjoyed your cooking, you’re a good cook,’ said Barry. ‘I’d be in clover and you’d have a decent job. You could stay in
your house, come daily.’ He paused. ‘Or move in.’
‘Oh, I’d keep my house for the time being. See how it all goes. Don’t you think, Prue?’
‘Whatever’s best for you, Mum.’
‘You could start in a couple of weeks, if that suits. Or whenever you’ve made arrangements about the salon.’
‘If that suits,’ mimicked Mrs Lumley, a trembling hand lifting her cup to her lips. ‘Tell you what, Barry, it’s the best news I’ve had in years.’
Barry stood up and went to the window to light his cigar. Prue sensed he wanted her mother to go now. Mrs Lumley herself received no such signals, but when Barry said he’d run her home,
either in the Daimler or the Humber, whichever took her fancy, she stood up, smiles flickering to and fro across her face. She went up to her new employer, tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well,
there’ll be a choice of cars once I’m here, won’t there?’ she said, with a skittishness that made Prue blush. ‘So what I’d really like to do today, maybe my last
chance, is get my daughter to give me a ride in her Sunbeam . . .’
‘You buzz along with her, then. I’ll sit down and work out some kind of formal arrangement.’ Barry dabbed at her arm, avoiding a fox leg.
‘Oh, you’re a marvellous man, Barry.’ She made as if to kiss his cheek. Then, thinking better of it, she skipped away from him, child-like. Prue hadn’t seen her mother so
happy for years.
In the time she had lived at The Larches Prue had learnt to judge Bertha’s mood from the food she produced. By some instinct the housekeeper knew what she liked, or
didn’t like, and frequently produced the things she most disliked. From time to time she served up dishes Barry disliked, too, as if challenging him to complain. He loathed the sliminess of
tinned peaches and assured Bertha he was willing to pay anything for fresh ones from France – he knew how to get hold of them from some (probably dubious) source. Bertha ignored this repeated
offer and continued her praise of peaches in a tin. The peach disputes were the only times that boss and housekeeper clashed in front of Prue, though often she heard raised voices coming from the
kitchen.
That evening Bertha had left a plate of cold, mottled meats and baked potatoes. For pudding there was strawberry blancmange from a packet, a delicacy that Prue could scarcely swallow. This
choice of menu was plainly the sort of welcome home Bertha felt her employer’s wife deserved.
But the food was not important on this occasion: Prue was too intrigued by Barry’s news.
‘I’m extending into a new world at last, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Cinemas.’ He paused to take in her reaction.
‘You mean you’re going to have something to do with making films?’ For a moment Prue saw a new chance on the horizon: film star. A Rank starlet, perhaps.
‘Actual cinemas. I’m going to start buying them up – have a whole chain in a few year’s time. I completed a deal on the first one a couple of days ago. Brighton –
well, on the outskirts, overlooking the sea, a lovely site. Pretty run down, but that’ll be seen to. What do you think of the idea?’
Prue, who could summon no thoughts about it at all, agreed it was good. Barry pushed away his scarcely touched blancmange, so Prue did the same.
‘Be quite different when your mother’s working here,’ he said. ‘Supper will be something to look forward to. Now, here’s the next piece of news.’ He took his
cigar case from his pocket, chose one of the two cigars, ran through the whole rigmarole of pre-lighting preparations. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t light up in
here.’
‘Oh, do if you want to.’ End of the marriage: why should she care where he lit his cigar? With a grateful look, Barry struck a match and puffed away till at last a wisp of smoke
brought him relief. But for the scrape of the match and the exertion of his breath, there was silence between them.
‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘So it happens this lovely old cinema has a little flat above it. One day the manager might like to be installed there. It’s fully furnished
– nothing very grand, but perfectly comfortable, all included in the purchase price. I was just wondering if it might be the answer to where you could go while you’re . . . deciding
what you want to do. Where you want to live.’
Prue looked at him but he did not meet her eye. The fingers of his free hand were doing a five-finger exercise on the table. ‘Well,’ said Prue, ‘yes. It might be just the
thing, mightn’t it? Flat by the sea, and I can’t swim. Don’t know a soul on the south coast. It might be just the thing.’
‘I’m only suggesting temporary,’ said Barry. ‘You could try it. If it didn’t work out you’d only have to wave the flag and I’d send a driver with the
Daimler for you.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ said Prue.
‘And another thing. I know you don’t want to hang around here much longer, now we’ve come to our agreement. And I’m sure going back to your mother wouldn’t work. So
I thought, well, sweetheart, you could move in soon as you like. I’d make all the arrangements for you.’
Prue looked down, swallowed. The whole idea was so preposterous she could think of no words with which to respond. Finally she said: ‘I’m going to stay with Stella and Philip next
week.’
‘So you are!’ By now Barry’s head was in a swirl of smoke. He batted it away, but his expression was still hard to decipher. ‘You could make arrangements, then, as soon
as you get back.’
Prue gave an unplanned nod of acquiescence. It was suddenly clear that Barry wanted to be rid of her as soon as possible. Considering that her desire to end the marriage was strong as his, Prue
was puzzled why his suggestion for her imminent departure was unsettling. She had imagined she could take her time. Stay at The Larches while she looked around for somewhere to live – where
to begin, she had no idea. But, she told herself, in so many ways Barry had been good to her: it was only fair not to make a fuss when he had so quickly found her somewhere to go. She stood up,
went to the door. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to Brighton. Try it out.’
‘If it doesn’t work, sweetheart, you can always . . . I mean, I’ll always provide a roof over your head.’
‘Thanks.’ She turned the door handle.
‘Just one more thing. When you were away your friend Johnny rang a couple of times. He wanted you to get in touch soon as possible.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Why don’t
you ring him now? See what he wants.’
Prue went into the hall, sat on the dark oak chair by the dark oak table, picked up the receiver and asked for Johnny’s number. On hearing her voice, he sounded cheerful, as he used to
before the incident in the barn had put constraint between them.
‘I’ve news for you,’ he said, ‘but it’ll keep till we meet.’
‘That’s good,’ said Prue. ‘I’ve had enough news for one night. My head’s spinning. So: I hope your news is good.’ ‘It could be,’ said
Johnny.
They ate cottage pie made from tinned mince and reconstituted potato at a pub in Bakewell.
‘When you think,’ said Prue, ‘how many potatoes I dug up . . . There must still be some. Why give us this muck?’
‘Easier,’ said Johnny. ‘There are still lots of places where the scrambled egg is powdered. Probably will be for years. Last time I came here, with my father – well, I
suppose it was a year or two before the war – the food was wonderful. Sorry about the decline.’
The poor quality of the food did not stop them having a merry lunch. Prue, with a lightness of touch she liked to employ for serious matters, told Johnny a little about the decision to end the
marriage, and Barry’s suggestion she should move to a flat in Brighton. Johnny grimaced, but made no comment other than to say he was sorry. Then, over blood-red jelly topped with imitation
cream, which made them both laugh, Johnny broke the news to Prue that he, too, was soon to leave Manchester. It seemed he had a childless uncle who lived in a cottage in Wiltshire and was
emigrating to Australia. He had offered to let Johnny have the cottage for a peppercorn rent on the condition he kept it and the garden in good order. There was a large shed in the garden where,
Johnny said, he could set up a proper carpentry business, take on an apprentice. His idea was to make furniture from local wood, particularly elm, which he loved best of all woods.
‘That all sounds pretty good,’ said Prue. ‘But what about the poetry?’
‘A poet has to live. I’ll keep writing. There’ll be plenty of room for the chickens. I’ll sell the eggs.’
‘When will you move?’
‘Soon as Barry can get a new tenant for my flat.’
‘And is this cottage far from Brighton?’
‘Yes. Miles. But you can have my number if there’s a telephone. You’d be welcome any time.’ He poured pale coffee from a pot into their two cups. ‘As a matter of
fact, it had occurred to me that. . . the cottage might be a solution for you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, we could live there together.’
‘What – as—’
‘As friends. Platonic friends.’
‘I see. Can platonic friends live under one roof?’
‘I believe they can. Men don’t only want sex, you know.’
‘Most of the ones I’ve met did. It’s a kind thought, but it could be difficult. I mean, the woman of your dreams might turn up to order a table or something, and then
you’d have to chuck me out.’
Johnny gave a wry smile. ‘Doubt it,’ he said.
‘I’ve said I’ll try out the Brighton flat. Might as well. I’ve nowhere else to go. I hate the sea, what I’ve seen of it, but I dare say there’ll be pubs
nearby. Maybe I’ll run into some friendly young things, find some boring job, make a life.’
Johnny asked for the bill, spent a long time counting out coins. His face had closed again. ‘Chickens’ll have to do better,’ he said, with a wry smile. Prue considered taking
the bill from him, but resisted. Johnny would be affronted. He stood up, left sixpence on the table and went to the bar to pay. ‘The offer will always stand,’ he said. ‘Now
I’m going to take you up into the Dales. We’ll go for a walk.’