True Colours (2 page)

‘Who’d have thought that Fran would have turned out so posh and glamorous?’ she remarked.

Sophie nodded. ‘She’s obviously done well for herself; no shortage of money obviously.’ She turned to glance at Katie. ‘But
did you notice that although she had photographs of her son she didn’t have any of her husband?’

Katie shook her head. ‘It didn’t occur to me. Do women usually carry photographs of their husbands?’ She looked at Sophie. ‘Have you got one of yours?’

‘As a matter of fact I have.’ Sophie drove into the station forecourt and parked the car. Switching off the engine, she rummaged in her handbag and came up with a small leather wallet which she opened and took out a snapshot which she passed to Katie.

‘It was taken on our honeymoon, in Italy – Catolica, on the Adriatic.’

Katie looked at the photograph of a smiling couple on a beach. Sophie wore a bikini and her hair was wind-blown. The tanned, handsome young man with his arm around her shoulders had dark curly hair and gleaming white teeth. They looked happy and in love. Katie felt a small twinge of envy.

‘He looks great. Very dishy,’ she said. ‘Did you say his name was Rex?’

Sophie nodded. ‘Ghastly, isn’t it? More like a dog’s name. But somehow he couldn’t be called anything else.’

Katie was about to make a joke about collars and leads but bit her tongue just in time. Somehow her jokes all seemed to come out sounding wrong. ‘And you say he’s an illustrator. Does that mean he works from home – freelance?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like me,’ Katie volunteered. ‘It’s pretty precarious if you don’t have a day job too. I work as a sales assistant in Fantaisie, in the King’s Road. Do you know it?’

‘No.’ Sophie said. Her face coloured. ‘Rex doesn’t need a day job. He can hardly keep up with all the work he’s offered. He’s very much in demand.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he is.’ Katie winced inwardly, noticing Sophie’s heightened colour. There she went again, putting her foot in it. She looked at her watch. ‘My train’s due,’ she said. ‘I’d better get on to the platform.’ She reached for Sophie’s hand and squeezed it. ‘It’s been so lovely to see you again and have a good old gossip,’ she said. ‘You will get in touch again, won’t you?’

Sophie nodded. ‘Of course. Give me a ring any time if you want a chat. Take care, Katie. I’ve really enjoyed today.’

Katie got out of the car and stood waving as Sophie drove away. The three of them had exchanged addresses and phone numbers but now she wondered rather wistfully whether she would in fact ever see either of them again. They were poles apart – Fran in her restored manor house with her son and wealthy husband, Sophie with her arty lifestyle, all loved-up with her handsome other half. They had always been poles apart of course but back in the old days they had had school in common, plus the fact that they’d all had problems at home like most teenagers. They’d been the Three Musketeers – all for one and one for all. She sighed and walked through the ticket hall and on to the platform just as the train came in.

After I’d dropped Katie off at the station I headed for the motorway. If there wasn’t too much traffic I reckoned that I should be home by six. But as I drove down the slip road and merged into the stream of traffic it began to rain which was bound to slow things up.

On the whole I didn’t regret organizing the reunion. It had been lovely to see my old school friends again but talking to Katie and Fran had been quite an eye opener. Who would have foreseen that shy little Fran would blossom into the glamorous wife of a successful businessman? As for Katie – endearing little Katie; she’d always been one to embroider her life with glamorous fantasies but
fashion designer
! That took some swallowing, like all the stories she was always spinning. The thing was, she managed to make her outrageous fibs sound so much fun that we let her get away with it. She’d always been quite clever with a needle of course. I couldn’t help smiling, remembering the way she’d earned a few pence to augment her pocket money by subtly altering those awful uniform skirts we had to wear, turning up the hems and whittling down the side seams to give the more clinging look we all craved, to enhance our budding teenage curves. Oddly enough, none of the teachers ever seemed to notice, or if they did they must have decided to turn a blind eye.

But now the day was over and as I peered through the streaming windscreen through the mist thrown up by the endless stream of vehicles, I wondered what was awaiting me at home. Would Rex have begun working on the kitchen? It was doubtful – with football
on the box. I couldn’t help wondering, not for the first time, if buying Greenings had been an enormous mistake.

I remembered how excited I’d been the first time I’d seen the house. It had been a showery spring afternoon much like this one, almost two years ago. At the time we’d been living in a poky little flat in Leicester, quite close to the school where I taught. It was hopelessly cramped. There was nowhere for Rex to set up a studio so he’d been working in the living room and I was sick and tired of his drawing board and other paraphernalia cluttering the place up. We’d been talking of getting a foot on the property ladder for some time but the weeks kept passing and we hadn’t got around to doing anything about it.

It was on a Sunday afternoon and we were out for a drive. We’d promised to look in on my parents to see their new house and we’d stopped to ask directions to the village where they lived when I spotted the house. The rain had stopped and, getting out of the car to stretch my legs, I spotted an agent’s ‘For Sale’ board leaning drunkenly by tall wrought iron gates almost obscured by foliage. Hidden behind a screen of tall silver birches on the edge of a village, the little Georgian house seemed to beckon invitingly. If I’d thought about it at the time it might have occurred to me that the lurching agent’s board, stained green with algae, and the general air of neglect was a sure sign that the house had been on the market for some time, but at that moment I was too enchanted to think practically. While Rex was asking a passerby for directions I unlatched the squeaky rusting gate and peered inside. The gravelled drive was weed infested and overhung with tree branches but I could glimpse the house, its windows winking in the sunlight. Solid and square, it looked like something straight out of Jane Austen, the kind of house I’d always seen myself living in. I felt excitement quicken my heartbeat as I rushed to get Rex.

He had been maddeningly cautious. ‘Ye-es, it’s attractive, I grant you, in a distressed kind of way, but it looks as if it’s been empty for ages. It’s probably falling to bits. It’d cost a bomb to put right.’

‘Not if we did most of the work ourselves,’ I argued. ‘It seems like fate that we stopped in this very spot today, like an omen. Aren’t you excited?’

He pulled a face. ‘Not really, no.’

‘Well, let’s at least get in touch with the agent and take a look round?’

‘Oh God, must we?’ Rex groaned. ‘Hey! Wait a minute, what are you doing?’ I’d already fished my mobile out of my bag and was punching in the agent’s number that was printed on the ‘For Sale’ board. ‘You’re wasting your time, it’s Sunday,’ he wailed.

‘Estate agents are always open on Sundays,’ I pointed out, already listening to the number ringing out at the other end. ‘It’s when they do most of their business.’

A few minutes later it was all arranged. We had an appointment to view the house on the way back to Leicester later that afternoon.

My parents had bought their new house in the country to retire to. I’d been surprised when they told me their plans. I thought they’d never retire from the chain of hairdressing salons they’d created together, let alone bury themselves in a village like Little Penfold, miles from the bustling city life they’d always enjoyed. Since Rex and I married I’d been on slightly better terms with them than before. When I was a kid they literally never had time for me. I was what’s known as a latchkey kid. When I was little there had been a kindly woman who had collected me from school and given me my tea. She’d wait with me till Mum came home, hopefully in time to put me to bed. I’d envied kids like Fran, whose mums were always there, waiting for them at home time, taking them to the park on the way home, buying them sweets or ice creams. By the time Mum got home she was always too tired to read me a story or even talk to me much. When I went on to secondary school I was given my own key which I wore on a ribbon round my neck so that I could let myself in when I got home. It was impressed on me that having your own key and being trusted to get your own tea was a very grown up thing and I should be proud of the responsibility they were trusting me with. Sometimes I’d be allowed to invite Katie and Fran for tea on Sundays. We’d always play in my bedroom afterwards because Mum and Dad would be busy catching up on their paperwork in the study downstairs and mustn’t be disturbed. The girls had always been impressed by my pretty dresses and expensive toys, and more especially by the fact that I had my very own telly. I never drew their attention to the fact that I’d realized long ago that these things were only really meant
to keep me out of the way. I’d much rather have had parents who found time to play and give something of themselves to me. I let Fran and Katie envy me because even at a young age I’d latched on to the fact that envy was preferable to pity and that material things were better than nothing.

College was a revelation. For once I felt like a real person, not just an inconvenience to be tolerated. I guessed that Mum and Dad were relieved to see the back of me, even though they put on a show, insisting that they would miss me. Most of the students’ parents drove them to college at the beginning of that first term, seeing them settled in before driving home. Mum took an hour off to come to the station with me, pressing a cheque for a hundred pounds into my hand as I boarded the train. ‘For emergencies – or treats,’ she said with a slightly apologetic smile. As the train drew out I watched her walk across the platform, slim and elegant in her high heels and designer suit. As she returned my wave I could almost hear her sigh of relief.

I met Rex almost at once. He was a mature student, seven years older than me. He’d decided to study art after serving a plumbing apprenticeship. He told me that his working class parents had always been hard up and he hadn’t had the chance to go to university, but his grandmother had died and left him a legacy which had enabled him to break free and do what he’d always wanted to do. He had plans to become an illustrator and he certainly had talent. I loved the way he took charge, making decisions for me, planning surprise outings for us, concerts and exhibitions to go to, arranging things to do that I’d never have thought of myself. Some girls might have resented having decisions made for them, but I couldn’t believe that someone actually thought me important enough to spend time with, saw me as a worthwhile person and not an irritating inconvenience. I suppose it was inevitable that I’d fall in love with him.

We were married in our last year at college. Mum and Dad put up no objections, even paying for our honeymoon in Italy. They seemed to approve of Rex but I suspected that they’d have approved of Quasimodo if he’d offered to take me off their hands.

At the end of my course I went on to study for a teaching diploma while Rex began the tortuous task of getting a foot in the
door as an illustrator. We lived in a tiny bedsit and worked in bars and clubs in the evenings to keep the wolf from the door, but we were happy – perhaps happier than we’d ever been, before or since. What a pity we never realized it at the time.

On that spring afternoon, when we first viewed Greenings, Rex had been appalled at the state of it. ‘It’s even worse than I thought,’ he said. ‘It wants knocking down if you ask me.’

I glanced hopefully at the estate agent. ‘It’s a very fine example of eighteenth century architecture,’ he said, encouraged by my enthusiasm. ‘And, all things considered, it’s in quite good condition.’

Rex looked at him, one cynical eyebrow raised. ‘Really? I dread to think what you’d consider
bad
condition.’

I was scarcely listening. The hallway was already working its magic on me with its enchanting arched ceiling and elegant curving staircase. There were three reception rooms on the ground floor and a well proportioned drawing room that looked out on what had once been a pretty garden. It had a beautiful Adam fireplace and lovely cornice work on the ceiling. There was also a dining room and what I suppose had once been called a morning room.

‘This would be perfect for your studio,’ I enthused. ‘It faces south so the light would be perfect.’ Rex grunted.

The agent led the way through to the kitchen and I stood in the doorway enraptured as I pictured how it would be. ‘This flagged floor is great. It only needs a bit of elbow grease and we could have an Aga over there,’ I said, pointing to where a black cast iron range crouched in a recess. ‘And a big round table in the middle, a dresser over there with willow pattern china and a big squashy chintz sofa under the window.’ I turned to Rex. ‘Oh, can’t you just picture it, reclining on the sofa with a glass of wine while I cook dinner?’ But when I looked at him I could see that he saw only what was before his eyes, an empty square room with a dirt-ingrained stone floor, cobwebs festooning the window and peeling chocolate brown paint. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake use your imagination, darling,’ I said exasperatedly. ‘We could make it absolutely wonderful.’

‘At a guess I’d say that the windows would all have to be replaced,’ he pointed out, prodding the rotting woodwork. ‘Then
there’s the wiring. No supplier would risk his reputation by connecting this place to the local electricity supply. It’d plunge the whole neighbourhood into darkness. There’s no central heating so it’d be like living in an ice box in the winter and as for the plumbing….’ He turned on a rusting tap in the adjoining scullery and threw up his hands. ‘It must have been put in in the stone age!’

‘But darling, you’re a qualified plumber,’ I reminded him. ‘If you did the work yourself it would save us a small fortune!’

‘You’re kidding!’ He laughed. ‘In your dreams!’

But in the end after a lot of wheedling I managed to talk a reluctant Rex into buying Greenings. My chief argument was that it would be a fantastic investment once we’d done it up. It had been empty for three years and I think that the thing that kept him teetering was the price, which was incredibly low. As a last resort I daringly suggested that we make an even lower offer and to my delight and Rex’s astonishment it was accepted. I knew he was right when he said it needed a lot of work, but as I constantly pointed out, we’d save money by doing a lot of the work ourselves and we’d be well into pocket if we ever decided to sell. Once the house was all in order it would be worth a small fortune.

The rewiring and the window replacement were done before we moved in and I found a retired gardener in the village to prune the trees and shrubs and tidy up the garden. I was ecstatic, but as the weeks passed and our overdraft increased Rex grew more and more convinced that we’d made a huge mistake, and of course he blamed me.

Although I would never admit it, he was right. Everything was so much more expensive than we’d foreseen and there were peripheral things that we hadn’t even thought of, like the second car we quickly realized we’d need so that I could commute to school and back, public transport being almost non-existent. One bus a week into town was all there was, which toured all the local villages and therefore took hours. I was grateful for my private commissions, mainly children’s portraits which were well paid and for which I was becoming quite well known by word of mouth. I tried hard to convince Rex and myself that everything would be fine but he continued to be resentful about what he called the money pit I’d landed him in.

The trouble was, with me working school hours and weekends as well, I had very little time to spend on the house restoration. Being freelance, Rex worked from home so it was decided that he would do most of the work, fitting it in around his commissions, which was fine in theory but in practice was quite another matter. I worked solidly on the decorating all through the school holidays and usually instead of putting my feet up in the evenings I’d be wielding a paint brush as well as trying to fit in the preparation for the next day’s teaching. Most of the time I was exhausted and the harder I worked the more excuses Rex seemed to find to get out of it. He argued that his work had to come first and that anyway, it was me who wanted the house. My resentment grew until at last I could contain it no longer and it erupted into a row when I came home one summer evening to find Rex sunbathing in the back garden, the grass almost up to his ears as he sat in the deckchair.

‘Couldn’t you even mow the grass? I stormed. ‘Do I have to do everything round here?’

‘I’ve been hard at it all day,’ he protested.

‘Hard at
what
?’ I demanded.

‘My work, of course. The stuff I earn my living by – remember that? I might not exactly be the bread winner around here but you know I’ve got to finish that magazine commission by the deadline if I want to get any more work from them. The bloody plumbing will have to wait.’