‘That’s nonsense, Polly. We might live in a big house, but we aren’t rich. Horace lied, only telling me after our marriage that other than our place, he doesn’t own any property. He just acts as an agent, collecting the rents and so forth for his employer.’
‘Oh, yeah, who does he work for then?’
‘I don’t know. Horace said the man likes to keep his business private.’
‘To keep that big house running, he must earn a good few bob, though.’
‘No, you’re wrong. When his first wife died, he had to make severe cut-backs to avoid selling the house. That’s why he got rid of the staff and closed so many rooms.’
‘It all sounds a bit odd, if you ask me. If he’s only an agent, how did he manage to buy that house in the first place?’
‘He didn’t. It belonged to his first wife. She was a spendthrift and it was only after her death that he found out they were almost penniless.’
Polly’s eyes narrowed. ‘So that’s why you still do the cleaning?’
‘Yes, but listen, Polly,’ Emma added urgently, ‘please don’t tell my father or anyone else about this. I shouldn’t have said anything. If Horace finds out he’ll go mad. He likes people to think he owns all the property otherwise they’d run rings around him with their rent.’
‘Well, he certainly fooled us. I mean, look at you, dressed up like a dog’s dinner and talking like you’ve got a plum in your mouth.’
Emma’s smile was grim. ‘I’m wearing his late wife’s clothes. To save on money, Horace paid a woman to alter them. As for my “diction”, it still isn’t good enough for him. He instructs me every evening and hates it if I don’t speak correctly. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve had to say, “
How now brown cow
.”’
Polly chuckled. ‘Well, love, with the front he’s putting on, I suppose you can’t blame him for that. Blimey, and there was us thinking you’re living in clover.’
‘In comparison to Battersea, I suppose I am. I get regular housekeeping money; I have lovely clothes, albeit second-hand, but oh, how I wish I could turn the clock back.’
‘Leave it out, love. You may not be rich, but you’re a darn sight better off now. If you ask me, you should count yourself lucky.’
‘Lucky! You think I’m lucky? Oh, Polly, I wish I felt the same. Instead I feel like a prisoner, with Horace my gaoler.’
‘Rubbish! You’re a married woman now, and once spliced you can’t expect the same freedom.’ Polly knew she sounded harsh, but despite the shock of finding out that Horace wasn’t a rich man, she still didn’t think Emma had much to moan about. ‘Come on now, get yourself home, and if you want my advice, stop complaining and count your blessings.’
Emma stared at her for a moment, but then said a curt goodbye, turning on her heel and marching out of the flat. Polly stood looking at the closed door for a moment, but then she sat down, thinking deeply.
So Horace Bell didn’t own this house after all…but if that was the case, how come they were living here rent free? It was all a bit odd, and she wondered what Tom would make of it. As for Emma’s complaints about the sexual side of her marriage, Polly was sure the girl was exaggerating. Maybe in her innocence Emma had expected sex to be all romance and roses. Well, she had put her straight and hoped that was the last she’d hear of it. Bloody hell, she had enough on her plate with four kids. As far as she was concerned, Emma was old enough to look after herself.
Emma hurried home. With any luck Horace wouldn’t discover she’d been to Balham, but just in case he’d popped home, she needed a cover
story. She passed the grocer’s, flying inside to purchase a few things, hoping that shopping would suffice as an excuse.
She walked into the house now, gratified to find it empty, and going through to the pantry she placed her shopping on the shelf. Polly’s words were still churning in her mind. The last thing she’d expected was to be told that the problem was her fault–that she was frigid. Polly had said that Horace’s demands were normal, but to her they were monstrous, and she still dreaded hearing his key in the door.
Emma tidied the house, then picked up a book, burying herself in the story. She read avidly now, loving the luxury of having so many authors to choose from. At the moment she was reading
Jane Eyre
. The Brontë sisters were fast becoming favourites. Reading was her solace, a way of drowning out the world and her unhappiness. Horace still hadn’t introduced her to any of his friends, and they never socialised, leaving her feeling that he was ashamed of her. She felt lonely, isolated, and having found a book on household management on the shelves, along with one on etiquette, she had read them from cover to cover. Maybe if she became more of a lady, they’d have a social life. If they weren’t always alone, if Horace had other distractions, his sexual demands might diminish–at least she hoped so.
At last Emma rose to prepare dinner, and when Horace came home at seven that evening, he greeted her as usual with a passionate kiss. Emma bore it, hating the way his tongue snaked into her mouth, but then the groping began and she became rigid.
‘Dinner will be ruined,’ she protested. ‘Why don’t you have a nice bath and it’ll be ready by the time you come down?’
He huffed, but released her. ‘I suppose I do need to freshen up, and we can continue this later.’
With that he went upstairs and, feeling sick inside, Emma returned to the cooker. When Horace returned she served dinner in the dining room and, hoping to keep him at bay, she forced a smile. ‘I’ll just clear the table and then I expect you’ll want to give me another lesson on my diction.’
‘Yes, it still needs work. When you’ve finished the dishes, join me in the drawing room.’
Emma took her time with the washing up, her legs feeling leaden as she carried a tray of coffee to the drawing room. The lesson began, one she usually enjoyed, but she couldn’t concentrate, her eyes continually flicking to the clock. She wanted to delay Horace, to put off the inevitable. On that thought, Emma picked up a book saying, ‘I saw a word I was unsure of in this novel. What does “irrevocable” mean?’
‘Well, my dear, essentially it means inevitable, something incapable of being avoided. Why didn’t you look it up in the dictionary?’
‘I intended to, but I knew you’d be familiar with the word,’ she said, hoping flattery would keep him in his chair. ‘There was another one too, it’s—’
As though aware of her ploy, Horace interrupted, his smile sickening. ‘I think that’s enough for this evening, and anyway, I would prefer that you find the meaning of words for yourself. It’s the only way to learn. Nevertheless, I’m pleased with your progress.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Come now, I think it’s time for bed.’
She couldn’t do it again! She just couldn’t. Oh, if only Horace would just go to sleep, to keep his hands off her body.
Drink! Polly had suggested a drink might help, and with this in mind Emma spluttered, ‘I…I’ll just rinse these cups and then I’ll join you.’
‘Very well, but don’t be long.’
As soon as Horace left the room, Emma went to the drinks cabinet. She had never tasted whisky or brandy. Pouring half a glass, she sniffed it, her nose wrinkling with distaste. God, it smelled awful, but by now she was ready to try anything, so she gulped it down. She was left gasping, her throat on fire. It was dreadful, but maybe the brandy would be nicer. Again she poured a good
measure, finding it equally bad, but Polly had said it would help, so another one might be in order.
By the time Emma had drunk three huge measures, she was swaying on her feet, giggling. Goodness, she did feel strange. Reeling across the room, she made it to the hall, holding on to the banister as she went upstairs. Her smile was inane as she stumbled into the bedroom, sure that the floor was tilting under her feet.
‘Emma, what on earth’s the matter?’ Horace said, and she was aware of him hurrying to her side.
She blinked, unable to focus, and the last words she heard before passing out were, ‘My God, woman. You’re drunk!’
Tom listened to Polly, and like his wife, couldn’t make sense of it. ‘Hang on, love, are you sure you’ve got it right? I mean, Horace must own this place or he couldn’t let us have it for nothing.’
‘Maybe he’s paying the rent.’
‘No, that doesn’t make sense either. If they’re as hard up as Emma is making out, he wouldn’t be able to afford it. If you ask me, I reckon Emma’s got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘I don’t think so, Tom. If Horace had money they’d open up the house, employ a cleaner, and she certainly wouldn’t be wearing his dead wife’s clothes.’
‘Huh, what does that prove? The man’s known as a skinflint and hates putting his hand in his pocket.’
‘He ain’t rich, Tom. He’s only an agent.’
‘I don’t believe it. He’s too posh, too up his own arse to be a rent collector. If you ask me, I
reckon he’s been telling Emma porky pies and my daughter is daft enough to believe him.’
‘But why would he do that?’
‘’Cos he doesn’t want her spending his precious money.’
‘But, Tom, that’s awful!’
‘Yeah, well, we can soon put her straight.’
Polly reared up in her seat. ‘No, we can’t say anything. He’d go mad if he found out that Emma has told us, and if we upset him he could chuck us out of this place.’
‘All right, calm down.’ Tom considered for a moment. ‘You’re right, and we’ll say nothing, but it’s a shame really. I’d love to show Horace up as a liar and wipe that supercilious look off his face.’
‘Blimey, love, that’s a bit of a mouthful! Where did that word come from?’
‘Oh, I dunno, I must have heard it from somewhere.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Emma. She talks as though she’s swallowed a dictionary lately.’
‘She’s swallowed Horace’s tosh too. Still, it ain’t that bad. He may be hiding his bank balance, but she’s still doing all right.’
‘My thoughts exactly, love. Now do you fancy a cup of Ovaltine before we go to bed?’
‘Yeah, I wouldn’t say no,’ Tom said, slumping back into his chair as his eyes roamed the room. Thanks to Emma’s marriage, there’d been a change
in his fortunes and he wasn’t going to rock the boat. Nowadays he was a happy man. He still found his thoughts drifting to Myra at times, but had to admit that he’d made a good choice in Polly. She was marvellous with the kids and made sure the youngest were in bed by eight. Susan went half an hour later, and Luke, at fourteen, was allowed up until half-past nine. Nowadays Tom no longer dreaded coming home. His life was comfortable, ordered, his kids scrubbed and clean, and this place a far cry from that dump in Battersea. Instead he looked forward to the smashing meals that Polly dished up and, not only that, she didn’t mind him going out for a drink in the evening.
Polly leaned forward to place a cup beside him, her breasts spilling out of her blouse. Tom grinned. ‘Come here, woman.’ She smiled back, and he gasped as she kneeled between his legs, her hands slowly unbuttoning his flies. Myra would never have done anything like this, and as Polly’s mouth went down, he groaned with bliss, his thoughts now only on the feelings that ripped through his body.
In Battersea, Dick turned over in bed. Though the mattress was lumpy, it wasn’t what was keeping him awake. He was content with his room in Charlie’s house, the two of them mucking in well
together, and he was enjoying his independence. Well, that was until recently. He went to see the kids at his father’s new flat once a week and was pleased to see them looking so well. Polly was a real mother hen and he’d been a bit envious. They seemed a proper family and he the odd one out. It didn’t seem possible that the family had fragmented in such a short time. James and Archie were with Alice Moon, happy lads and blossoming. Emma was a married woman now, but Dick knew he was unwelcome in Horace Bell’s house, the man showing his displeasure if he dared to call. Truth be told, he was missing them all but he’d have to get used to it. Dick fidgeted, thumping the pillow with impatience. He had to be up at the crack of dawn and needed to sleep. He tried to settle, but then, minutes later, with a groan he sat up and crawled out of bed. Maybe a hot drink would settle him down. With this in mind he tiptoed to the kitchen.
‘Blimey, what are you doing up?’ he asked, surprised to see Charlie slumped in a chair.
‘My stomach is giving me gyp again.’
‘You’ve been complaining about your stomach for months now. Why don’t you see a doctor? He might be able to give you something to settle it down.’
‘I’ve seen a doctor.’ With a sigh Charlie added, ‘Look, sit down, lad, I’ve got something to tell
you, and as we’re both up it might as well be now.’
There was something in Charlie’s tone that made Dick stiffen and, taking a chair opposite him at the table, he looked at the old man worriedly.
For a moment Charlie said nothing, but then rheumy eyes met Dick’s. ‘It ain’t good news, lad. You see, I ain’t got long left.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Fuck it. There ain’t an easy way to put this, so I’ll just spit it out. I’m dying.’
Dick shook his head in disbelief. ‘Don’t be daft! Of course you ain’t.’
‘I am. According to the doctor, I’ve only got a few months left.’
‘No, he must be wrong! Can’t he do something?’
‘I’m afraid not, but don’t worry, lad, I’m sort of resigned to it now.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Oh, for a while. The doc gave me something for the pain, but lately it ain’t doing much good. I’ve done me best, but I won’t be able to run the stall for much longer, and I’ve been sitting here working out what to do.’ Charlie grimaced, his hand involuntarily clutching his stomach, but when Dick reared to his feet, he said, ‘Sit down, lad, it’ll pass.’
‘Where’s this stuff the doctor gave you?’
‘I can’t have any more just yet, and anyway, it fogs me mind and I want to tell you what I’ve decided about the stall.’
Dick slumped down again.
Charlie said, ‘I ain’t got any family left, lad, and so I’ve decided to let you have the stall.’
‘Me! You’re giving it to me?’
‘Yeah, and enough to keep you going for a while to buy stock. The stall ain’t made me a rich man, but it’s given me a fair living, and if you keep up the good work, you’ll do all right.’