That'll Be the Day (2007) (15 page)

‘I’m sorry, I really don’t have time. I’m heavily embroiled in organising a coffee morning to raise funds for Leo’s campaign. You will just have to amuse yourself.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, silly me. I didn’t even know he’d agreed to stand. He’s never really shown any interest in politics.’

‘Of course he will stand,’ Helen snapped. ‘Would you like him to run you home to Lytham St Anne’s next weekend, before he gets too busy with the campaign?’

‘Oh,. . . I really hadn’t thought. How long is it since . . .?’

Too long, Helen thought. ‘Six weeks.’

‘It seems like only yesterday when my darling Jonty . . . Dearest Helen, how generous of you to put up with me for so long. I find it surprisingly pleasant to be back here in what was once my old home, if you remember, since this used to be our house before you and Leo took it over.’

‘Yes, I do remember,’ Helen acidly commented, grinding her teeth with barely restrained impatience. ‘How could I ever forget?’

‘I do so enjoy living in the city again, and being close to the market, just like in the old days before Jonty retired. I’d forgotten how very much I always loved the old place. It still feels like home, do you see? I know I ought to go back to Lytham, although the bungalow will seem cold and damp having not been lived in for so long.’

‘You’ve only been gone a short time, Mother-in-law, so I hardly think that likely.’

‘Well, it will certainly feel lonely without my darling Jonty.’

Helen wanted to scream at the woman that her darling Jonty had been a difficult, over-critical, officious pain in the backside but she managed to hold her tongue.

Dulcie was still talking. ‘Perhaps I’ll speak to Leo about going home, see what he thinks.’ And she fled to her bedroom from which, minutes later, emanated the sound of heartbreaking sobs.

Helen hardened her heart and left the house, determined not to be blackmailed into feeling sorry for the silly woman, or allowing her to stay a moment longer than absolutely necessary.

Judy couldn’t believe her good fortune. He’d agreed! Over the next week she made all the final arrangements for the stall with Belle Garside and spent many happy hours in the attic sorting through her paintings again.

Some she framed, while others seemed better suited to their simple canvas state. Were they even good enough to sell? she worried. Were they too photographic, a bit too chocolate box perhaps? She mainly painted flowers, cats playing on the cobbles, or children. She loved doing figures best of all, and the dark industrial landscape, but generally people wanted something pretty and colourful to hang on their wall and Judy didn’t presume she could ever hope to reach Lowry’s brilliance.

Even Ruth showed an interest and helped her to carry the final selection downstairs.

‘This is my first morning and I’m so scared,’ Judy admitted to her children over breakfast. Tom paused in eating his shredded wheat to look at her, as if the very idea of a mummy being afraid was beyond his comprehension. Ruth gave her a bracing smile, as her father might have done had he cared sufficiently.

‘Just think that
you
painted the pictures, not anyone else. If they criticise, let them see if they can do any better.’

Judy looked at her daughter in surprise, so young, so determined, so sure of herself. ‘Sometimes, darling, you are so very wise,’ and this time when Judy kissed her, Ruth actually giggled and didn’t wipe the kiss away.

Sitting at her stall in the early morning sunshine of a bright autumn day was not unpleasant yet Judy’s nerves were so twitchy she kept rearranging the display, and almost cringed with embarrassment whenever anyone came near. A woman wandered over, picked up a canvas to examine it, then considered Judy with equal intensity.

‘Did you paint this?’

‘Yes, actually, I did.’

The woman put the picture down and walked away. Judy’s heart plummeted. What had she been thinking of to imagine anyone would wish to buy her work? She had a great urge to hide some of her less effective efforts under the table. What was she doing here? Setting herself up for ridicule, that’s what.

Several more people came by, but no one else touched a single picture. They would study them with interest, often from different angles, some would even smile at her and nod as if in praise, but then walk on. It was almost dinner time and she still hadn’t made a single sale.

And then Dena Dobson came over. ‘Hi, are these yours, Judy? I never realised you were so talented. How much are they? They look very expensive.’

‘Oh, my goodness, I haven’t put any prices on.’

Dena burst out laughing. ‘First rule of a market stall – always price your product. The customer might haggle since there’s nothing they enjoy more than a bargain, but they need a starting point to get them going, otherwise they’ll assume they’re too expensive.’

‘Oh, Dena, you’re right. How stupid of me. Thank you so much.’

‘You should have seen the mistakes I made when I first got started with my dressmaking. Bought fabric that was far too expensive, stitched the left sleeve in the right armhole, and gave myself far more work than I could cope with. If it hadn’t been for Winnie’s belief in me I’d never have survived. Look, I could keep an eye on your stall while you go and buy some postcards, if you like. They’ll do as price tickets for now.’

Half an hour later Judy made her first sale. It was the golden chrysanthemum, bought by old Mrs Catlow who seemed enchanted by it.

‘I’ve never seen anything so lovely in my life. Did you paint this, dear, all by yourself? Well done! I shall treasure it. Look at the gloss on that flower, and the light on the blue vase. I feel as if I could pick it up, fill the vase with water, and just drop the chrysanthemum right in.’

Judy rather thought this delightful lady could well be her friend for life. She was in business.

‘I really shouldn’t be here,’ Helen said as Sam hoisted her up onto the work- bench in his tiny stock-room. ‘And it is somewhat claustrophobic.’

Sam wasn’t listening to her complaints, he was too busy admiring her French silk panties even as he struggled to understand how the little ribbons operated on each hip so that he could get them off. Growing impatient, he tugged harder, resulting in a ripping sound.

Helen gave a little squeal. ‘Now you’ve ruined them, ohhh . . .’ Whatever other complaint she might have been about to make was forgotten as she threw back her head, flung back her porcelain pale arms and gave herself up to ecstasy. The work-bench rocked beneath them as the pace of their rhythm increased, but all Helen cared about was the glorious sensation cascading through her body, as if she were soaring up through the clouds to a bright exploding star.

She really didn’t mind at all making love in a room little bigger than a cupboard, nor lying on a work bench among the screws and nails while Sam plunged into her. These interesting places he found seemed to make their trysts so much more exciting, and the words he whispered in her ear so very appropriate.

‘You know you love it when I do this, and this - and how about this,’ making her gasp with shock as he licked her in places he really shouldn’t. Leo would never do anything of that sort!

Helen felt no guilt. Whatever naughtiness she got up to with Sam Beckett, or anyone else for that matter, really didn’t impinge upon her marriage with Leo one little bit. After all, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Besides, she was utterly convinced that this other, secret part of her life added an extra dimension to their relationship. It wasn’t that Leo didn’t satisfy her as a lover, of course he did, it was simply that she needed so much more than he could possibly provide, especially as he was working such long hours. He would often come home exhausted and be asleep in seconds, and what good would it do for him to have an unsatisfied, lonely wife? Far better for her to be content and fulfilled. Where was the harm in that?

And there was often a lovely bonus to her little escapades, as her liaisons sometimes proved to be most useful, like her little dalliance with David Barford for instance, which had resulted in the offer to ask Leo to stand as the next parliamentary candidate in the borough. So exciting! If she could but persuade Leo to appreciate how beneficial such a position would be to him. How much
power
it could bring.

Helen moaned with pleasure as Sam suckled her breast, sending sharp little pains shooting deep down inside her, increasing her excitement to fever-pitch. Goodness knows what he’d done with her bra but she truly hoped he hadn’t ripped that too. Not that she minded too much as she had plenty more, and she too had popped a few buttons on Sam’s shirt as she’d fought to get her hands on that powerful muscled body of his, slick with the sweat of their coupling.

She wrapped her legs about his waist and concentrated on the glory of the moment, her head spinning and her teeth cutting into her lower lip in her efforts not to make any noise. The very thought that Barry Holmes or even his wife Winnie could at this very moment be the other side of the stock-room door riffling through Sam’s myriad of boxes in search of curtain rings or cup hooks, made her want to scream out loud with laughter. The very danger of their situation greatly added to the thrill of it.

What would these people say if they opened that door to be confronted by the sight of Sam’s bare backside, trousers round his ankles, and the ice queen of the market with her legs in the air? Helen almost choked with glee as she imagined their shocked faces.

With a last shuddering gasp Sam withdrew and Helen slumped on to the hard, uneven surface. She experienced a nudge of regret that it was over but she’d reached her own climax long since, several in fact, so felt delightfully sated. Sam was, after all, a most diligent and skilled lover, if not particularly considerate or gentle. But then, she didn’t expect him to be. That’s why she enjoyed herself so much. She wasn’t seeking emotional involvement or love. She got both of those in spades from her marriage with Leo, more than enough in fact.

Nor was Sam seeking emotion either. The attraction between them was purely physical, you could say almost businesslike, which was how she liked it. That’s why they got on so well. Sam was brimming over with aggressive energy so why shouldn’t she channel a little her way?

Helen was quite sure she must be covered in bruises and scratches from all the nails lying about on the bench, and she felt suddenly desperate for a bath.

She put back her torn knickers, pulled down her skirt, dusted her hands and ten minutes later was walking innocently across the market, basket swinging on her arm with only a slight flush on her cheeks to reveal that anything untoward had taken place.

Helen glanced about her in open contempt. What fools these people were, what boring little lives they must lead. Content with nothing more than manning their sad little market stalls day after day, while she was perfectly in control of her life, and of Leo’s too, if she had her way.

Save for the presence of her dratted mother-in-law, a situation that was merely temporary, Helen reminded herself. Of that she was quite certain. One way or another, and no matter how often the woman might express her pleasure at being back in her old home, Dulcie would soon be returned to her bungalow by the sea and life with her flying ducks and dreadful pink candlewick bedspreads.

Helen arrived home to find the painting of a still life: a chrysanthemum lying beside a blue vase for goodness sake, hanging on her lounge wall cheek by jowl with her precious Constable. Admittedly the masterpiece was not an original, only a print, but even so it surely deserved not to be sullied by an amateur daubing, which this other painting most clearly was.

When Helen challenged Dulcie on the matter the older woman sounded almost belligerent, as if she’d every right to put pictures up on what had once been her wall, if she’d a mind to.

‘I thought it lovely. I bought it from a very pleasant young woman on the market. It looks delightful there, don’t you think?’

‘I have to say that no, Dulcie, I really don’t care for it at all.’

‘But that wall looked quite bare with just the one picture.’

‘It’s meant to be that way, to show off a single worthwhile painting, not clutter the place up with any old rubbish.’ Helen took the painting down, annoyed to find that Dulcie had driven a picture hook into her brand new imitation Chinese silk wallpaper without even asking permission. ‘Why don’t you put it away until you go home. I’m sure it will look very well in your bungalow.’

‘You’re probably right, dear. Our tastes are not quite the same, I will admit,’ Dulcie agreed in a stiff little voice.

‘And I’m sure you’ll be going home quite soon. Perhaps I could help you to pack?’

And then the stupid woman came down with a stomach infection. She was sick half the night, ruining a pair of perfectly good Irish linen sheets. And when the next morning Helen insisted she take a walk, in the certain belief that fresh air never hurt anyone and would be sure to bring a little colour back into her pallid complexion, Dulcie had the gall to collapse in the street and shame them before everyone.

The doctor had to be called, giving his opinion that her mother-in-law was suffering from a bronchial infection. There was certainly no question now of her returning home to Lytham St Anne’s, not for the foreseeable future.