Puppies Are For Life (6 page)

‘What?’

‘How can you say that? You know perfectly well you wouldn’t have been able to hack it for one moment. What would you have done when your career clashed with your wife’s? When you needed to take up a post in – in Timbuktu, say, and she had to be in London?’

‘We’d have worked out something.’

‘Cloud cuckoo land,’ Susannah muttered.

‘You ought to have gone to college, Sue. You still could, you know, if you wanted. I wouldn’t stand in your way.’

‘I see.’ She nodded grimly. ‘So you really do think you’d have preferred a professional wife. You no longer think I’m good enough. You can’t go bragging to your pals at work about your wife who’s doing such-and-such a clever course at so-and-so college and who’s going to walk off in a few years’ time with some spiffing sort of degree. All you can talk about is my wife who’s only a pay clerk and mucks about making these god-awful coffee tables.’

‘Susannah,’ he said wearily, ‘this is not what I’m saying at all. Nothing could be further from my mind. What’s actually bothering me at the moment,
if you really want to know, is that I feel you slipping away from me, and I don’t know why. You’re remote. You’re preoccupied. We don’t do things together any more. I’m beginning to wonder whether you stayed with me because of the children all these years and now you’d like to go.’ He stared out through the window at the night. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening to us.’

Susannah melted towards him. It must have taken a lot to admit his insecurity – Paul, who normally exuded nothing but inner strength; a core of solid rock running through him that could never be shaken.

‘Paul, I –’ But the phone began to ring. Tutting with exasperation, she snatched the receiver off the wall.

The voice on the line was not immediately recognisable; it was thin, high, and tearful.

‘H-hello?’ it said haltingly, then there was a long, drawn-out sniff. ‘It’s me. I’m at the station. Can you come and get me?’ Then the caller cut off.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Paul said as Susannah looked blankly surprised. ‘That was one of the children … Simon?’

‘No.’ Susannah’s thoughts had gone winging in a different direction: sickness, death, disaster! But she managed a grim little smile. ‘When did Simon ever phone us?’

‘Not since he discovered it cost money. So it was Katy, then, was it?’

‘Well, how many children have we got? Yes, it
was our dear Katy. She wants me to pick her up at the station.’ Susannah frowned as she moved towards the door. ‘She sounded very upset. I wish, now, that I’d had time to pay her a visit after the funeral. I was a bit rushed, though, in the end. What do you think’s the matter?’

‘No idea. Boyfriend trouble, I shouldn’t wonder. But I’ll go.’ He’d already reached for an old gardening jacket behind the door, eager to have something to do. ‘You’d better make up the bed, hadn’t you? I doubt whether she’ll be going back to London tonight.’

‘The bed … yes, of course. I suppose you’re right.’

The guest room had been the last one they’d decorated in the eight months since moving in, and there had been little point in making up the bed before it was needed. Actually, Susannah thought, it seemed a shame to take the new, co-ordinated sheets out of their packets. But Katy might need them so she would have to.

She sighed. She had so wanted to get on with her new project; this additional interruption was most annoying. But she instantly admonished herself for her selfishness. What kind of mother was she, to put new sheets and her own needs before a daughter who sounded as if she was in trouble?

After leaving school Katy had spent a year at secretarial college and had lived at home until she was twenty while she gained work experience with an assortment of local companies. When London beckoned with its better opportunities and higher
salaries she had set herself up with a good job there, sharing a bedsit with a college friend, and leaving her parents feeling slightly nervous for her safety but with their blessing.

They needn’t have worried. Katy had fallen on her feet. When months passed with barely a backward glance or a visit from her they had decided it was time to look to their own future, hence the purchase of the cottage. So, Susannah now wondered, what could have gone wrong?

Casting a last lingering look at her splintered wood, she went upstairs.

Paul scanned the small group of people waiting outside the station. There was Katy all right; she’d abandoned her luggage and was running full-tilt towards him, her arms stretched out for a hug. Nice to know someone loved him. And she didn’t look ill or anything, which was a relief. Her ‘problem’ was probably nothing at all. An incident blown up into a crisis, if he knew his little Kate. It would all be over by bed-time. And then perhaps life in the cottage would feel a bit more normal for a few days – if she was going to stay that long. She would probably stay the weekend, anyway. And her mother could hardly ignore
her.

When the bed was made Susannah stood back to look at the room. Everything in it was new, not just the sheets. Out had gone all the dilapidated furniture they had made do with over the years, and in its place was pine. The carpet and curtains were new too, and it all looked very inviting.

Giving the neat row of scatter cushions a final tweak, she switched on the two pleated table lamps and ran downstairs; already there was the unmistakable throb of Paul’s car outside on the drive, and the slam, bang, boof! of closing doors meant he’d successfully accomplished his task. He had brought Katy home.

Susannah reached the lounge just as Paul came staggering in with a huge blue suitcase weighing down one hand and a ghetto blaster in the other. He was followed by their daughter carrying – nothing at all. Except a tiny handbag in quilted leather that dangled from her shoulder by a chain.

‘Wow!’ she said over her mother’s shoulder after the briefest of dutiful kisses. ‘Is it finished now?’
Her big brown eyes, made larger than life by the none-too-discreet application of eyeliner, began taking in her surroundings. She’d seen the cottage a couple of months after they moved in, when they were just starting work, but hadn’t been back since they’d transformed it.

But Susannah found it impossible to answer right then; she could only stare at Katy’s new hairdo. It had been bleached blonde from its normal, beautiful red-gold, and most of it had been cut off – except for one odd strand, which for some reason had been left to run down over her left cheek. Parts of it caught on her lashes as she blinked, though she seemed not to notice the inconvenience.

Susannah caught Paul’s eye and saw him shrug; then he gave her a quick shake of the head. So he had no idea why they were being honoured with this visit either. What had they talked about in the car, for heaven’s sake? Trust him to leave all the awkward questioning to her.

‘Yes, it’s all finished,’ Susannah said, spreading her arms wide and trying not to stare at the disastrous hair. ‘What do you think of it, Katy? Do you like it?’

Katy made considering noises in her throat. ‘It’s much smaller than I remember.’

Susannah and Paul exchanged glances again. So far, everyone who’d seen the cottage had raved about its cosiness and its charm; they weren’t accustomed to it being criticised.

‘It’s certainly smaller than Windy Ridge,’
Susannah had to concede, ‘but you know we bought it with a view to retirement.’

‘But that won’t be for ages yet!’ Katy shot her father an alarmed glance.

‘You don’t have to be old these days,’ Paul told her. ‘People are being thrown out of our place at a rate of knots.’

‘But that won’t happen to you yet, will it?’ Now it was Susannah’s turn to look fearful.

‘Who knows what will happen?’ Paul picked up the suitcase because it was blocking the sitting room. ‘I’ll take this little lot upstairs.’

‘You’ve bought a new three-piece suite,’ Katy declared as her father struggled out of the room. ‘What was wrong with the old one?’

‘What was
wrong
with it?’ Susannah laughed outright. ‘What was
right
with it, more like. After you and Simon had used it as a bouncy castle it was never the same again.’

She looked at Katy who had sat down stiffly on the chintz two-seater and was gazing thoughtfully round at the pale peach carpet. Anyone seeing her would have thought she had come home to discover a new set of parents instead of just different furniture.

‘Come and look at the spare room,’ she said brightly to cover her disappointment. Why wasn’t Katy falling in love with the place like everyone else?

Katy rose to her feet and trudged up the stairs in ugly lace-up ankle boots that looked almost
identical to a pair Susannah remembered being forced to wear as a child. She had loathed those boots almost as much as the thick brown stockings that went with them. Come to think of it, Katy’s skin-tight leggings strongly resembled those awful stockings too. Ugh!

‘You saw our room when you were here before,’ Susannah reminded her at the top of the stairs. ‘But you haven’t seen this one done up. This is the guest room.’ Pushing open the door with a flourish she saw that the suitcase now dominated the bed and the ghetto blaster was perched on top of the smart pine dresser. It didn’t look quite the same.

‘Oh,’ Katy said from the door. She slowly stepped in, her eyes drawn to the bed. ‘You’ve got a new bed too!’ she gasped. ‘What have you done with my old one?’

‘Katy –’ Susannah picked up a doll from the window-sill and fiddled with its hat. She had dressed it to tone in with its surroundings, but Katy appeared not to have noticed it. Turning round she found a recumbent Katy – boots and all – testing the bed fully clothed. ‘Katy –’ she began again; but how could she explain to her daughter that this was not exactly her room? Nor was it her home any more, not really. Well, of course it would always be home to her in a sense. And yet … it wasn’t.

‘We – er –’ she thought quickly – ‘we decided we ought to put in a double, since this is really a guest room, you know. I mean, when you’re here a single would be fine, but when Simon and Natalie come
to stay – and little Justin, of course – it makes sense to –’

‘But this one’s hard as a rock. Mine was nice and soft. It had a hole that fitted me, too. Right in the middle of the mattress.’

‘Well, now it’s gone to the tip.’ Susannah sat the doll down with a bump. ‘This mattress will be much better for you,’ she added, struggling for a more sympathetic tone. After all, she reminded herself, Katy had definitely sounded upset about something over the phone. ‘Soft beds are bad for your back. And anyway you’ll not notice it just for a few days.’

Katy slanted a look at her mother. ‘I’ve come for much longer than that.’

‘Oh … really? How – how come you’ve got time off right now? I thought you were saving your days for Christmas.’

Katy swung herself off the bed. ‘I’ve lost my job,’ she said flatly, beginning to pull drawers from the dresser to see what was inside. There was nothing in them; only a woody piney smell that began to permeate the tiny room.

‘Lost your –’ Words failed Susannah for a moment. Then she hurried over to where Katy was standing. No wonder she’d shown no enthusiasm about the cottage, with news like this on her mind. ‘Oh, Katy I’m so sorry! But how?’ She could see the girl’s reflection in the cheval mirror and sensed that tears were close in spite of her attempt at non-chalance.

I –’ Katy swallowed – ‘I can’t do the work any more; they’ve given me the sack. I’ve got two months’ pay to come – and – and – oh, Mum, I don’t know what to do!’

Susannah saw her own distraught face reflected back at her as Katy turned and buried herself in her arms. When her daughter finally came up for air she ventured another question.

‘But why can’t you do the work, Katy?’ She took the opportunity of brushing aside the hair lock. ‘You were managing very well. I thought they liked you. They made you secretary to the Head of Department, didn’t they?’

Katy nodded and sniffed and mopped her eyes with a tissue. ‘I thought he was so nice at first but he turned out to be nothing but a slave-driver.’ She snorted with disgust. ‘He had me working all hours and I didn’t get a penny extra money for doing it. But if you complain you’re done for, you know; they just get shot of you for some reason or other and find someone else.

‘Do you know, there were forty-three applicants for that poxy little job? I was over the moon when they picked me. But now –’ her tears welled up afresh – ‘I’ve got RSI!’

‘Oh good God!’ Susannah whispered, her stomach taking a turn. This was her worst nightmare realised: that a child of hers should contract some deadly disease. How on earth would she cope? She found herself sitting on the edge of the bed, not knowing how she had got there, or what
to say. ‘But what is it, this RSI?’ she managed eventually. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.’

‘Where have you been all your life?’ Paul said suddenly from the door. ‘It’s what typists and chicken factory workers get these days –’ He went over to Katy and hugged her for the second time that evening. ‘Isn’t it, my precious love?’

Katy nodded and allowed herself to be comforted by her father’s long, strong arms. He was like a cuddly bear in his thick woolly sweater and she sighed with a surge of relief.

‘Repetitive Strain Injury,’ Paul went on over his daughter’s head, for Susannah’s benefit. ‘I was watching a programme about it the other night. If you perform the same movement with your hands over and over again …’

But Susannah was nodding dumbly; she now recalled hearing about it. You got pains in the hands and arms after a while. Some people got it really badly and were crippled for the rest of their lives: they couldn’t even lift their arms to do their own hair. And they would never be able to work again.

‘A lot of doctors,’ Paul was saying, ‘don’t even believe it exists, let alone trouble themselves to try and sort out a cure. I believe I read about a case in the paper recently where someone successfully sued for compensation. I’ll look into the possibilities tomorrow.’

Katy cast him a look of gratitude: at least he wasn’t taking the attitude that she was swinging the lead, like some people did. ‘I can’t do anything
much with them,’ she said holding out her hands. ‘And they hurt like flaming hell. Do you think I could have a hot water bottle, Mum? Oh, and I’ll need you to unpack my case …’

‘Of course Mum’ll make you a hot water bottle, won’t you dear?’ Paul was still clinging to his daughter as though she had been away for ten years instead of only a matter of months. He let her go at last and followed Susannah downstairs.

‘Well, this is a turn-up for the books, isn’t it?’ he said, rubbing his hands together as they went into the kitchen. ‘Fancy getting our Katy back! Now you won’t be bored any more.’

Susannah turned and stared at him for a moment, before going over to the sink. She began to run water on to the sad remains of lasagne she found there and went to wipe spills from the microwave.

‘How long is this RSI business going to last?’ she asked, Paul trailing her round the kitchen. She stopped to throw a startled look at the ceiling as loud thumping came down through the beams: Katy had managed to plug in the ghetto blaster.

‘No idea,’ he replied. ‘I expect she’s hungry, don’t you? What have you got to give her?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She suddenly felt extraordinarily tired.

‘Well, I must say you seem really pleased to see your own daughter. Couldn’t you make more of an effort? She needs your support, poor kid, not the cold shoulder you’ve been giving her.’

‘Oh, I haven’t! Have I? I didn’t mean to. It’s just that … look, there’s some ham for your sandwiches tomorrow …’

‘Give it to her, I don’t mind.
I
don’t begrudge my daughter anything in her time of dire need, even if some would. Not when the whole world must seem to have turned against her the minute she’s set foot in it. Poor kid.’ He watched Susannah take bread from the bread bin. ‘I don’t understand what’s the matter with you, Sue. You’re her mother, for heaven’s sake.’

‘She’s a young woman now, Paul, not a child. Do you realise I’d had two babies by the time I was her age?’

That seemed to throw him a little. ‘God,’ he muttered, ‘were we crazy?’

‘Just normal for those times. You got married, scraped as much of a home together as you could for a year or so, and then got down to filling it. Just think if we’d waited until I was older, we’d still have little ones hanging around.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, still thoughtful. ‘I don’t mind our young Justin, of course, but little ones at our age …’

‘Well, that’s the way it would be if I had been your career-type,’ she pointed out. ‘Career women are putting off having babies until it’s practically too late to bear them. Over forty they are, in some cases. Here, the hot water bottle’s ready.’

‘Hmm,’ he said again.

It lay between them on the work top – a dingy
flop-eared apology for a rabbit that Susannah had taken from the bottom of the medicine cupboard. It bore a label forbidding anyone to throw it away, on pain of death.

Paul finally picked it up and held it out to her. ‘I think it would look better if
you
took it up. Don’t you?’

Jan was in celebratory mood. She had opened a bottle of Côtes de Bergerac, prepared a crisply roasted duck, and made the farmhouse kitchen as cosy as possible – given the difficult circumstances – with candles and a huge fire: Now all that was needed was for Frank to loosen up a little after his journey, and they could have a memorable evening. But, having demolished the food and drunk two-thirds of the wine, Frank was still withdrawn and barely communicative.

She observed him across the table with the detachment that even a short separation can bring. Something was definitely wrong. Of course he was no spring chicken – nor was she – but the trip back from England seemed to have drained him far more than it ought to have done.

She reached out to the block of mature English Cheddar that now sat between them and cut herself another piece from its corner. ‘Absolutely delicious,’ she pronounced, popping crumbs of it into her mouth. With her cheeks sucked in and her eyes half-closed, she looked to be in seventh heaven.

‘Mmm,’ Frank said absently, toying with a crust of bread. It would have been more than his life was worth to have failed in the minor duties he had been given for the trip, and he congratulated himself on having at least managed to remember the block of cheese, the jar of ploughman’s pickle, the slab of fruit and nut chocolate, the eighty tea bags, and the three tubes of Jan’s favourite moisturising cream from Boots.