‘Why?’
‘Can’t quite put my finger on it. But you know how it is. Sometimes out of the blue, something hits you. You’re knocked off your perch. All you want. . . and I’m not a
womanizer. Don’t see many girls except the plain bunch who want to learn to drive. First thing we’re warned in our training, of course, is never to get involved with one of our pupils.
Never.’
‘Of course not.’ It was all Prue could do not to put a hand on his arm or his cheek.
‘So, this is no good. I’m going to have to pass you on to another instructor.’
‘No!’ Prue gave a small shriek. ‘Please don’t. I love our lessons. You’re a wonderful teacher.’
‘I love them too. That’s the trouble.’ Rod smiled. ‘Just my luck I get a beautiful young married woman. Happy as they come, I dare say. Socking great house, everything .
. .’
Their eyes locked in the moment before unexpected tears burst upon Prue. The encounter with Bertha must have shaken her more than she had realized, she thought, and now this handsome young man
being sympathetic. She heard herself howling. As she rubbed at her cheeks she could imagine the ragged black mess her mascara must have made of them. The thought turned the tears to laughter.
Rod took out a handkerchief, dabbed at her face. Then he ran a finger along her top lip. ‘You are a surprise,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’
Prue sniffed, and blew her nose on his handkerchief. ‘It’s all just so odd,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry.’ He tried for a light note. ‘That’s why I don’t go for marriage. It’s always struck me as a weird business.’ He took back his
handkerchief. They both laughed in a minor way. ‘Think our time’s up,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if you can reverse into the road.’
When they got back to the house Rod shook her hand. ‘Good luck with the test,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll do fine.’
It was only once he had driven away that it occurred to Prue his wishes for success meant he had definitely decided it would be better to cease being her instructor.
Despite driving lessons three times a week, now with an old and uncharismatic instructor, Prue was finding her days long and empty. Sometimes she went into the city on a bus
– it took up time – to spend one of the five-pound notes, but there was little in the shops and nothing she wanted among the gloomy clothes. Sometimes she went to the salon, but felt
herself in the way now she no longer worked there. She made lists of things she would like planted in the garden, and of the few friends she had had in Manchester before the war.
But one small excitement, two months into her marriage, was finding the telephone – a heavy, dusty black thing with a long tangled brown lead – under a table in the hall. She had
never known Barry to use it and she had never heard it ring. She spent an afternoon trying to get through to two girlfriends with whom she’d been at school. They had both moved away. No one
knew where they were. It then occurred to Prue, who had never written more than a postcard in her life, that she could ring Stella and Ag. God, how she wanted to hear their voices, know about their
lives. Since leaving the Lawrences the three had kept up their arrangement of lunching in London once a year, and it was six months since they had last met. Time to make another plan.
Stella, who lived by the sea in Norfolk, was full of apologies for not having been able to come to the wedding.
‘Oh, that. It wasn’t much of a wedding,’ said Prue. ‘Very quiet.’
‘And Barry – your second Barry – what’s he like?’
‘Kind. Generous. Tons of presents. Huge house.’
‘All the things you wanted, then.’
‘Almost. Not quite. I’m learning to drive. Nearly there, though it’s not as much fun as the tractor.’
‘No.’
Prue, sitting comfortably on the carpeted stairs, wanted to go on talking to Stella for ever. Her soft, comforting voice, her way of indicating she knew what was going on even if nothing was
said. ‘Once I’ve passed my driving test,’ she said, ‘perhaps I could come and see you.’
‘Please, please do. I can’t leave here often. Philip needs a lot of looking after. He’s so brave and uncomplaining, but he keeps getting infections. Come and see us long before
we next meet in London.’
‘I will, I promise.’ Cheered by the thought of a visit to look forward to – Barry One used to say everyone should have something to look forward to – Prue then telephoned
Ag. She and Desmond lived in Devon.
‘I thought you’d never ring,’ said Ag. She was in high spirits. ‘We’ve just moved into our new home. I’m over the moon.’
‘Crikey, Ag! Wonderful. When I can drive I’ll come and see you.’
‘We’d love that. You’d like it here – all much smaller than Hallows Farm, but I’ve a good orchard full of Mrs Lawrence’s plums and we’re about to buy
some cattle. Lots of hens, of course.’
‘Hens? Gosh.’
‘And you, Prue, what’s your news?’
‘I’m a very respectable, grown-up married lady. My husband’s a little older than me, very rich, very generous. I’ve a diamond ring, jewels, a fur hat, kid gloves and all
that stuff . . . And, well, that’s the sort of thing I wanted, didn’t I?’
Ag hesitated. ‘Gold taps?’
‘Almost,’ said Prue. They both laughed.
Two visits to look forward to: Prue’s spirits lifted, though she continued to sit on the stairs, remembering. Two ideas began to form an inchoate shape in her mind: pregnancy and chickens.
If she had a baby, and half a dozen laying birds, she could be busy again. Work hard. It was the idleness in this dark, rich, bleak house that was so depressing.
A few weeks later Prue passed her driving test. She couldn’t think who would be pleased for her. She rang her mother – by now she made frequent use of the telephone
– who congratulated her, but plainly underestimated the scale of the achievement. She thought Barry would not be much interested, though perhaps it might spur him on to buy her a very small
Austin.
Prue was wrong. Barry’s delight seemed out of all proportion to the news. First, laying aside his cigar, he hugged her – something he had never done before. Apart from the times he
bashed roughly into her, he never touched her other than to guide her with a hand on her wrist to their table in the hotel dining room on the occasions he took her out for dinner. His arms round
her were so tight that Prue felt the breath squeezed out of her and gave a little cry. Barry released her, apologetic, and took up his cigar again. Then he suggested they celebrate – a word
Prue had come to dread, with its usual connotations. They would be off in the Daimler for a slap-up dinner, champagne. She was to wear one of her new dresses, her new scent. They’d have a
good time.
Barry’s excitement, so much greater than Prue’s own, was puzzling. She felt once again that she didn’t begin to understand her husband, so oddly delighted by her small
achievement of passing a driving test yet so completely uninterested in her barren days. What did he imagine she did? Read romantic novels, eating fudge? Perhaps, she thought, she should take
advantage of his sudden liveliness. She decided to interrupt his usual stories of his past, and mention chickens. Or the possibility of a baby. Or perhaps both.
They sat at their usual table, had their usual miniature cutlets and mashed potato forked into a pattern that reminded Prue of the permanent waves her mother was so skilful at conjuring in
elderly hair. She giggled.
‘What’s up, sweetheart?’
‘Nothing. I was just thinking.’
‘You know what? You’ve the greenest, prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen on a girl.’ The compliment left him as surprised as it did Prue. With a hitch of his shoulders he had
braced himself to deliver it. Now he sank back against the chair, deflated.
‘Barry! You’ve never said anything so nice!’
‘Nonsense, sweetheart. I’ve often thought it.’
Perhaps, reflected Prue, finishing her wine very quickly, this is where I start to love Barry Morton, for all his funny ways, and it really could be happy-ever-after.
Strawberry ice cream arrived. Prue pushed hers aside, clasped her hands as if in prayer and she leant towards her husband. ‘Barry,’ she said, ‘you’re the most generous
husband in the world, and I know how lucky I am, but . . . there’s just one thing.’
‘Out with it.’ Barry’s frog eyes narrowed.
‘I haven’t much to do all day.’
‘What? You’ve time to yourself, sweetheart. Nothing more precious than that. Total luxury. You can do anything you want. What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying . . . Well, I’ve always loved working hard. I’d like to work hard at something again.’
Barry pushed his ice cream to join Prue’s and lit a cigar. ‘Far be it from me to stop you.’ His previous softness, almost loving, was suddenly gone. He spoke like someone in a
meeting. ‘You’ve got the world at your feet, all the money you want, and you’re complaining.’ He was slightly frightening.
‘Not complaining, honestly.’ Prue sighed, smiled, uncertain which way to go. ‘I was thinking that perhaps with so much time on my hands . . .’
‘You could always work for charity, visit old people, that sort of thing. Make yourself useful. Help those a great deal less fortunate than yourself He was scornful now.
‘I could. But what I had in mind – I don’t know how you’ll take this, Barry – but what I had in mind was that perhaps we should try for . . . a baby.’
There was a very long silence. When she and Barry One had first mentioned the possibility of a child – a spring day in the woods – they had hugged and declared it would be the most
exciting thing in the world. Now here was her husband pursing his lips and tapping his cigar, weighing up all his boring doubts like some financial adviser. ‘That hadn’t occurred to
me,’ he said. And again there was a sudden, unexpected shift in his demeanour. His mouth edged into a half-smile. His free hand tapped Prue’s wrist. ‘That’s something to
think about, any road,’ he said. ‘I rather fancy a son with your green eyes. My brain,’ he added with a laugh. ‘We could put that plan into action, sweetheart. We could
start tonight. We can keep at it. That’s a good idea.’
Prue inwardly quailed as her husband’s eyes trawled her exposed chest and the small rounds of her breasts. If his intention was to work at conceiving like some kind of business plan, she
hoped it would happen very fast and that once she was pregnant she would be spared his hammering.
Barry asked for the bill. He seemed to be in a hurry to get home. Prue put aside her idea of suggesting chickens. Two major possibilities at once might be too much for him. Chickens would have
to wait.
All the way home Barry drove with one hand on the steering-wheel, the other on her knee. ‘That’s a good idea, love, that baby plan,’ he said several times. ‘I like the
idea of green eyes, handsome little bugger.’
Despite Barry’s apparent enthusiasm to get going straight away on the baby plan, the first attempt did not take place that night. When Prue obligingly walked from the bathroom, naked, to
the bed, Barry impatiently told her to cover herself up. ‘No jiggery-pokery tonight, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I’m all for getting going soon as possible, like I said, but
I’m knackered. Lot of stuff on my mind at work. Don’t worry. Won’t be long till you’re tripping round with a stomach like a balloon. Only we’re not going to make it
happen tonight.’
There was a hint of apology in this, and Prue could see he did look unusually tired. So with mixed feelings she got into bed and turned out the light. A baby, she knew, would be the answer to
everything. But curiously, for all Barry’s initial enthusiasm, his threat ‘to keep at it’ did not come about. The old routine of Saturday nights only carried on, and there was no
sign of Prue conceiving.
There was serious deflection from this disappointment. Within a few days of Prue passing her driving test, a scarlet Sunbeam Talbot was delivered to the driveway of The Larches.
She sat in the pale leather driving seat overawed. She felt sudden tears blur her eyes. ‘This is the most beautiful car I’ve ever—’
‘It’s so you can do what you like, sweetheart. Go where you like, drive all over. Keep you happy.’ Barry stood beside the open car window, chomping on his cigar.
‘Thank you, Barry. How ever can I say thank you enough?’
‘I like to keep you happy.’
‘I’m going for a first short drive. Can’t wait to try her out. Want to come?’
‘Best you go alone. I’ve got things to do.’
Prue waved, wound up the window and started the engine, which made the most thrilling music she had ever heard.
She spent many days driving about in her car – not far, at first, but once she had grown used to it she bought a map and began to explore the country beyond Manchester.
Several times she went to Derbyshire, which she loved. Often, when she parked at the roadside to study the view, she consciously thought: I’m happy now. Quite happy. She made a plan to go to
Yorkshire, once she was a more confident driver, to visit Mr and Mrs Lawrence.
One afternoon, on returning from an outing to the city where with long-saved coupons she had bought a pair of irresistible pre-war red shoes, she found a man standing in the porch, his hand on
the knocker. He turned to her as she got out of the car. ‘Whew! Quite some car.’
He was tall and thin, with the kind of quirky face that was attractive. He had red hair – a ruddy amber rather than carrot, Prue judged, but red enough for him to have been teased at
school. He reminded her a little of Robert, and of George, a man she had met on a bus soon after she had returned to Manchester just after the war. He had got off at the same stop as her, said
he’d walk her home. She had asked him in for a cup of tea – her mother was still at work – and they had had a long talk about the breeding of rabbits. Then they’d rogered
themselves to a standstill in her virgin bed, and he had slipped out just before Mrs Lumley arrived home. He also reminded her, this stranger waving a letter in his hand, of a sweet looking
sub-lieutenant who had once sat beside her in a cinema and added hugely to the pleasure of the film.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said the man. ‘I’m looking for Barry Morton. I’m Johnny Norse.’
‘Prue. His wife.’ They shook hands.