Chapter Two

The dress was made in heavy white silk, the bodice curved over her breasts and down over her slim hips to the floor. There was a huge bow at the back of the waist that fanned out into a train. Penny set the orange blossom circlet on Barbara’s blonde hair and carefully arranged the lace veil over her shoulders. ‘There! Now you can look.’ Barbara moved carefully over to the mirror. The veil softened her features, gave her a dreamy quality which was not altogether false. She was living in a dream. Nothing was quite real.

‘Nervous?’ Penny was wearing a pale lime-green dress in the same style as Barbara’s but without the train. But unlike Barbara’s, which had a boat-shaped neck filled in with lace, and long narrow sleeves, Penny’s was off the shoulder and had short puffed sleeves. Both had matching velvet capes lined with white fur to keep them warm. February was hardly the month for a wedding.

‘Terrified.’

‘You aren’t having doubts, are you?’

She wasn’t, was she? George loved her and she loved him and she meant to be a good wife to him, to have his children, to help him in his business, to be there supporting him. Always. It was how her mother had been with her father and theirs had been a particularly happy marriage, which was why she could not understand his obsession with Virginia. Virginia was nothing like her mother. She stopped her thoughts from spiralling away and turned to Penny. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Good. I’m off.’ She rose and went to the door. ‘See you in church.’

Barbara stood looking round the room. It looked bare. The picture of her mother, the bookcase containing her books, her tennis racket which had been propped in the corner, sundry photographs and ornaments, had already been taken to her new home. Dad had offered her the furniture too, but even the small amount she had taken had crammed their bedroom to bursting point and there was no room for more. George had laughed and said there wouldn’t be space to swing a cat. Her battered old teddy bear sat on a cushion on a basket-weave chair, looking at her balefully with his one beady eye. She had picked it up to take with her, but then George, helping her carry everything down to his van, had seen it and laughed. ‘You’re never bringing that old thing with you, are you?’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s a child’s toy and you’re not a child. Leave it. We’re looking to the future, not dwelling on the past.’

She walked over and stroked its nose, then turned her back on it and hurried from the room and went downstairs to join her father before her overflowing emotions got the better of her.

He looked distinguished in his tail suit. His face had very few lines and the little grey in his hair served to make him look distinguished. Just lately he seemed a lot younger, though she would not admit it might have anything to do with Virginia. He had done his best to persuade her to finish her studies. ‘Why the rush?’ he’d wanted to know the morning after the new year ball, when she told him she wanted to marry George straight away. ‘I’ve nothing against George Kennett, he’s a likeable enough young man, but he is only just starting in business, it’s not going to be easy and you are so young. Why not wait a year or two?’

‘I don’t want to. Please, Dad, give us your blessing, it’s important to me.’

He loved her and had always spoilt her a little, more than her mother had. He had sighed and reached out to take her hand. ‘If you’re sure…’

Now she smiled at him, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Everyone said getting married was an emotional experience and she was certainly finding it so. He offered her his arm. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.’ He wished he had tried harder to dissuade her but, to his eternal shame, had realised that this marriage would be a way to avoid conflict between his daughter and Virginia. If they were not living under the same roof, sharing their lives, then he would not be torn apart by their antipathy towards each other. But was he being fair to Barbara, catapulting her into something she might regret?

‘I’m not going to change my mind. Are you?’

He looked startled, as if she were confirming his fears. ‘No, but I sincerely hope that’s not the reason for this…’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ she said quickly, picking up her posy of lily of the valley from the table. ‘I only meant that if you can fall in love and want to get married, so can I.’ She meant it, she really did.

Dora Symonds, who had never been married, loved weddings, and she could never pass a church if she saw white-ribboned carriages at the gate. Brides were lovely and grooms were handsome and, like the chimney sweep with his brushes, she liked to wish them well.

‘Blimey!’ she said, as Barbara emerged from the large hired car and took her father’s arm to be escorted into the church. ‘If it i’n’t John Bosgrove and his daughter, old enough to be married. Don’t time fly?’

‘Who’s John Bosgrove, when ’e’s at ’ome?’ Rita demanded. In her late twenties, she was a younger version of her mother, though her hair was a natural carrot colour and her mother’s owed more to a bottle. Both were plump and freckle-faced. Dora had a black shawl pulled tightly over her deep-puce dress and a battered straw hat with red ribbons. Rita wore a three-quarter coat but no hat. Between them was a young girl in a faded blue coat several sizes too small for her. She was bored and looking mulish. The women ignored her.

‘He owns Beechcroft Farm, that big house on the Lynn road. The family’s been there for donkey’s years.’

‘How d’you come to know him?’

‘There i’n’t many people I can’t name in this town, me girl, you ought to know that.’

‘True,’ her daughter said and laughed.

‘It weren’t like that,’ Dora said, huffily. ‘Not with ’im it weren’t. I knew his wife more’n him. She was always good to me, never judged me. I met her at the church…’

‘Church? You?’ Rita laughed again. ‘I don’t believe it!’

‘They were giving away second-hand clothes. Mrs Bosgrove arranged it for the poor and needy and I was needy all right, leastways you were growin’ that fast I couldn’t keep you in clothes. She helped me choose dresses and shoes for you. Give me a guinea too to keep us outa the workhouse. She died a few years back. I often see him in town and he always speaks.’ She grinned at John and called ‘Good luck’ to the bride as she made her way down the church path on her father’s arm. ‘Let’s wait and see them come out, see who it is she’s marrying.’

‘Whatever for?’ Rita demanded. Her feet ached, the potatoes and onions and the bit of scrag-end in her shopping bag was heavy and Zita was tugging on her arm. ‘They’ll be ages yet and I haven’t got time to stand about doin’ nothin’.’

Reluctantly Dora moved away and did not see George Kennett, or his mother in her beige silk suit and matching hat, which was just as well. It would have spoilt her day.

The service seemed to be over before it began and most of the time Barbara was shivering, though whether from cold or nerves she couldn’t tell. Then she was walking down the aisle on her husband’s arm, Mrs George Kennett, and out into the weak sunshine, smiling at well-wishers who stood along the church path. There were photographs and showers of confetti and then everyone climbed into motor cars, carriages and pony traps, or took Shank’s pony, back to the farmhouse for the reception.

‘Happy?’ George asked her, as they mingled with their guests.

‘Yes, very.’

‘Happy?’ asked her father, standing beside Virginia, who wore a navy silk dress, matching three-quarter coat and a large navy hat with a pink rose on the brim.

‘Happy?’ queried Penny, dragging Simon behind her. He was the same as ever, blonde hair falling on his forehead, his smile very much in evidence. It was strange how the sight of him brought a great lump to her throat. She told herself that it was because he reminded her of a carefree time which could never come again.

She shook the mood away and smiled. ‘Yes, very.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘And you can tell your husband from me, if he doesn’t treat you right, he’ll have me to answer to.’ He was looking at her in a strange crooked way, his eyes boring into hers, sending her messages she could not, would not interpret.

‘I heard that,’ George said. And though he was laughing, making a joke of it, Barbara sensed undercurrents. Could he be just a little jealous? Had he understood more than she had?

She looked up at him. Beside the slim-hipped Simon he appeared very large, a man beside a boy. His grey tail suit seemed to be stretched across his broad chest, as if he had grown an inch or so since it was fitted. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. He grinned with pleasure. Penny and Simon melted away. It left her feeling strangely down: she would like to have talked to them, asked what they had been doing with themselves since she saw them last, shared a few memories of college with Penny, which seemed such a long while ago.

‘How long before we can escape?’ George whispered in her ear.

‘We have to cut the cake and you have to make a speech. Then I’ll go and change.’

George couldn’t leave his business to have a proper honeymoon and so they were going to have a weekend in London, which was all the time he could spare. ‘We’ll have a proper holiday when the business is on its feet,’ he had told her.

They arrived at their hotel in time for dinner and afterwards went to the Haymarket to see a music hall. Barbara would rather have seen a play, but she had left the choice to George and in a way she was glad: the bright antics of the performers made her laugh, made her forget for a little while, the night to come. She was not ignorant of what to expect but she was apprehensive.

‘Drink?’ he queried, when they arrived back in their room about eleven o’clock. A maid had been in and drawn the curtains, so they were enclosed in their own little world. There was a huge flower arrangement on a round table and an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne with two glasses beside it.

She had already had more than she was used to. She laughed nervously. ‘Are you trying to make me tipsy?’

‘Not at all. I want you to remember tonight for being all you had hoped it would be.’

She went over to him and reached up to link her hands behind his neck. ‘I am sure it will be, but…’

‘You’re not afraid, are you?’

‘No, a little nervous, though.’

He kissed her. ‘So am I.’

‘Good heavens, you’re not…’ She paused. ‘Are you?’

He grinned, kissing her again. ‘No, but I’m afraid to spoil it by being clumsy. It’s important, you see.’

He was sweet, saying the right things, doing the right things to allay her fears. She had kissed other boys in an experimental way, had been kissed herself, but no man had invaded her body. She giggled suddenly. ‘I’m awfully green…’

He kissed her again, moving his lips from her mouth, down her throat and into the neckline of her tubular dress. He undid the buttons and slipped it off her shoulders, then fiddled with the straps of her underslip until her breasts were exposed. He cupped one in his hand and ran his thumb gently over the nipple. She felt every inch of her responding in a shivering, excited way. She kicked her dress from around her feet and pushed herself closer to him. Her petticoat, suspender belt, stockings and knickers went the way of the chemise. There was a tingling in her groin, a damp, soft surrender to sensation, and then as his hands and lips worked their way over her, a need to participate, to help this tumult along, to make it blossom. He lifted her and stepped backwards and they fell together onto the bed. He lowered his head to kiss her belly, his lips roving down into her pubic hair. She moaned softly. He stopped and took off his own clothes, not watching what he was doing but looking into her face, studying her features, the fine brows, lovely eyes, flecked now with passion, the mouth, partly open, waiting.

He smiled and lowered himself gently onto her, his mouth covered hers and she could hardly hold back the flower waiting to burst into glorious bloom. The tiny shock when he penetrated she hardly noticed. She opened to him, taking him into her, deep inside her, so that his limbs and hers, his mouth and hers became a single writhing body. He made it last, so that in the end she was crying out, digging her hands into his back, pushing herself against him, forcing him to quicken. And then suddenly his whole weight was lying on top of her and he was gasping for breath.

A moment later, he rolled off her. ‘My, you learn quick.’

‘Put it down to love.’ She did not ask him how he had come to be so skilled, how it was he knew exactly what to do to rouse her; she had a feeling she would not like the answer. A minute later he was asleep and she lay awake. With him sleeping soundly beside her, she began to realise the enormity of the change in her life. She was no longer the spoilt daughter, she was a wife, George’s wife, so long as they both should live.

The next morning, they set out for a walk. Post-war London was a shock. All the old buildings were there, Buckingham Palace, the Tower, London Bridge, the shops, but the people looked weary: four years of war had sapped their energy. And there were so many beggars about, men missing limbs, with placards round their necks proclaiming their poverty, others apparently healthy except for the haunted look in their eyes. That look reminded her of Simon, though he was not reduced to begging. How much worse it must be for these poor men. And there were children, ragged and barefoot, their eyes large in pinched little faces. Her heart went out to them and she emptied her purse of small change into their eager hands.

‘There are too many, Barbara,’ George said. ‘You cannot give to them all.’

‘I know.’ It was said with a sad little sigh.

They returned to their hotel for lunch and in the late afternoon they caught the train home.

Barbara intended to find herself a job; she wasn’t particular what sort of job, she told George, she simply wanted to be useful. After all, he was still feeling his way and any money she could bring into the house would help, leave him with more to plough back into the business. She was unprepared for his veto.

‘No,’ he said, with a stubborn set to his mouth. ‘If I couldn’t support a wife, I had no business getting married.’ He had grown up with pre-war ideas of a woman’s place, when the relative roles of husbands and wives were clearly defined: the man was the provider, the wife stayed at home and did not question him.

‘But I can’t sit around doing nothing.’ It wasn’t as if she was being selfish: her desire for a job was for both their sakes.

‘Then help Mum.’

‘I would if she’d let me, but most of the time she doesn’t want me to. I feel like a guest.’

‘That’s nonsense. This is your home.’ His voice took on a placatory tone. ‘Darling, I need you right here.’

‘In your bed, you mean?’

‘Don’t be vulgar, Barbara, it doesn’t suit you.’ It was funny how he could be so wonderfully sexy at night and never mention it during the day. And even at night, it was not the same as it had been in London. She thought it was because his mother slept in the next room and the walls were very thin. She imagined every creak of the bed springs, every soft moan was heard; it inhibited her and she suspected George was aware of it too.

For the sake of peace she gave in, and putting her sketch pad and water colours into her bicycle basket, pedalled out to the fens and painted the landscape, splashing the page with great streaks of pink and purple and grey, dotting the foreground with pollarded willows and water birds, empty rowing boats and broken reeds. Sometimes she put herself into her pictures, sitting on the riverbank, staring out over the flat fields or lying in a drifting rowing boat. That was how she felt, a drifter. Surely she shouldn’t feel that so soon after the wedding? Shouldn’t she be feeling fulfilled and happy, just being a wife? Elizabeth seemed to think so.

‘I never had the opportunity to stay at home,’ she told Barbara one day, when they were washing up after the Sunday roast, always eaten in the middle of the day, though the rest of the week they had their main meal in the evening. ‘George’s father was in the navy, a handsome man, big too, like George. I fell for George right after we married and then he went off to sea again…’

‘And he didn’t come back?’

‘Yes, of course he did, when his ship was in port. Then on one voyage he left his ship when it docked in Canada, had some fool idea he could find a gold mine and come back rich. He never did. Died out there.’ She spoke flatly, without emotion. It had happened a long time ago and the cruel edge to her memories had faded. Most people thought she had spent a lifetime mourning a beloved husband, that she had been overwhelmed by grief, but the truth was that it had been a relief: heaven knows what would have happened if the bastard had come back. ‘After that it was just George and me. I had to go out to work, I had no choice. I went cleaning during the day, took in washing at night.’

‘Yes, but times have changed. Lots of women go out to work now, married or not. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘For George it is. He knows how I struggled, how I was always tired, having to cook the dinner and do the housework and other people’s washing, having to ask neighbours and friends to fetch him from school, worried to death in case he was ill and I lost a day’s work. He doesn’t want that for you.’

‘I know that, but I haven’t any children and I don’t have any housework to do because you do it all.’

‘I need to keep busy and I know how I like things done.’ To which there was no answer.

The washing-up done, they joined George in the sitting room. He was sprawled in an armchair reading the Sunday paper.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ Barbara suggested.

‘No, I’d rather stay here. Sunday is the only day I can have five minutes peace and quiet to read the paper. Besides, I have to do the books before tomorrow.’

‘Can I help with them?’

‘No, it would take too long to explain.’ He smiled to mitigate his refusal. ‘But thank you for offering, darling.’

She sat down and picked up some knitting. Elizabeth did likewise and for perhaps half an hour no one spoke, until Barbara could stand it no more. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Elizabeth said. ‘You stay with George.’

Barbara sank back into her chair. Useless again, not wanted. She could hear her mother-in-law in the kitchen, running water into the kettle, lighting the gas cooker that George had recently bought for her, setting out cups and saucers, and she longed for a home of their own. ‘George,’ she said tentatively. ‘This council contract you’ve got. Is it a big one?’

‘Middling. Why?’

‘You said we could buy a house when you were paid for it. You did mean that, didn’t you?’

‘I did, but the trouble is it’s not been all plain sailing. I have to make sure of getting the next contract and the one after that and that means oiling wheels…’

‘Oiling wheels?’

‘Yes, keeping people sweet, you know.’

‘Bribery?’ She was shocked.

‘Not exactly, but you can’t expect to get contracts, especially if you’re a small, untried firm, without greasing a few palms.’

‘Is that how you got the contract you’re working on now, or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘Ask all you like. I found out which of the council officers had an Achilles heel – this chap’s wife was ill, needed an op. I paid for her to have it done.’

‘But surely that’s illegal?’

‘Everyone does it. You don’t get a look in if you don’t.’ He smiled at her. ‘Don’t look so shocked. It’s how it works.’

‘And this man persuaded the council to accept your tender?’

‘No, he couldn’t do that. He simply told me what all the other quotes were and I made sure I undercut. I’ve had to cut corners and I’ll have to pay suppliers late to make it work, so you see, the house I promised is a little way off yet. Be patient, my darling, you shall have your house, I promise. The next contract will be a big one. It seems Lloyd George meant it when he said we would build homes for heroes, and the town council have been given a grant to build a hundred and fifty houses to rent. And with Donald Browning opening all the tenders when they arrive, I reckon I’ll get it.’

‘It needn’t be very large,’ she said, afraid that his ambitions in that direction might match his other aspirations and she would have to wait until he could afford the perfect home. She didn’t want a perfect home; she simply wanted somewhere of her own. And it seemed that to get it, she must condone what she knew must be dishonest and risky practices. ‘If I got a job, we could do it quicker, couldn’t we?’

‘No. You know my views on that, Barbara.’ He stood up, just as his mother came in with the tea tray. ‘I’m going into the dining room to do those books. I’ll have my tea there.’

‘I’ll bring it to you,’ Elizabeth said, setting the tray on the table.

He disappeared. Barbara watched her mother-in-law for a few seconds, then stood up. ‘I don’t really feel like tea, after all. I think I’ll go for a ride.’

Most weekdays she went up to the farm to exercise Jinny, going when she knew Virginia, who was personal secretary to the local estate agent, would be at work, but today she felt so restless she was prepared to risk bumping into her. What she most wanted was to talk to her father, to ask him if he thought she was being unreasonable to want a job and to question him about the ethics of bribing a council employee, but she couldn’t. For one thing, she had seen very little of him since her wedding, and for another, it would be disloyal to George. This was something she had to sort out for herself.

She didn’t go up to the house but made straight for the stables, propping her bicycle against the fence. There were five horses in the stalls, contentedly munching hay. Her own mare, Jinny; Virginia’s chestnut, Amber; the sturdy pony her father used to pull the trap and two big farm horses. She was just taking her saddle down from a hook on the wall when she was startled by a sound behind her and spun round to see Virginia standing in the doorway, dressed for riding in jodhpurs and hacking jacket. She had her hat in her hand and her long blonde hair was tied back with a narrow ribbon. ‘Hallo, Barbara,’ she said. ‘You are quite a stranger these days. How’s married life?’

‘Very good. How are you?’

‘Very well.’

‘And Dad?’

‘He’s finding the farm hard going. He’s a little tired.’

‘I’ll pop in and see him when I come back from my ride.’ She could not imagine her father giving up his farm. It had been his whole life and his father’s before him. What would he find to do if he could not be out tramping the fields, looking after the stock, talking to his neighbours about yields and harvests? He would be lost.

‘He will like that, he’s always saying he does not see enough of you.’ She paused. ‘I love your father, Barbara, and his happiness is important to me. We have that in common, don’t we?’

‘I very much hope so.’

‘Then let’s try and be friends. For John’s sake.’

‘All right.’ Solemnly, they shook hands. And then, as they were obviously both going riding, they spent the next hour on horseback, cantering over the meadow and down the bridleway to the common, where they enjoyed a gallop before returning home.

‘Barbara, I want to ask you something,’ Virginia said, as they dismounted.

‘Oh.’

‘Will you be my bridesmaid?’

‘Me? But bridesmaids aren’t usually married, are they?’

‘I’d have said matron of honour, but it sounded so old.’ She laughed. ‘So what do you say?’

Marriage must have made her more tolerant. She found herself saying, ‘Of course. I’d like it very much.’

‘Good. Let’s get the horses settled and go indoors. You can talk to John while I make some tea. Then I’ll show you my dress; it might give us some ideas for yours.’

George looked up as his mother came in to take away his empty cup. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

‘OK. Where’s Barbara?’

‘Gone riding. She’s bored, George.’

‘I know, but what can I do about it? You know how it is with the business. It needs all my attention at the moment.’

‘Why don’t you give her something to keep her occupied?’ She smiled at his questioning look. ‘I’d love a grandchild.’

‘I’d love to give you one, but we decided no children until we have a home of our own. There’s no room here…’

‘Yes, there is. That little front bedroom is big enough for a cot. There’s plenty of couples have families in houses this size, big families too.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Barbara’s very young…’

‘Not that young. And she doesn’t have to agree. Just do it.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, Mum, you devil!’

They were still laughing when Barbara came back into the house and it did nothing to make her feel less isolated.

‘I saw Virginia this afternoon,’ she told George, that evening as they settled by the fire. ‘She asked me to be her matron of honour.’

‘And you agreed?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a step in the right direction, anyway.’ He tried not to smile, but she caught the look he exchanged with his mother. ‘Virginia Conway is a nice girl, not the wicked stepmother of your imagination.’

‘I didn’t know you knew her.’

‘She was in my class at school.’

She supposed it must have registered that her husband and her father’s bride were roughly the same age, but until now she had not thought about it. ‘Anyway, we went riding together and had coffee and talked about the wedding. It’s to be the second Saturday in April. You will be able to manage it, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘I saw Dad too. He’s lost a lot of weight. We had a long chat.’

‘I am glad to hear that,’ Elizabeth put in. ‘It’s sad when parents and children quarrel. You hear so much of it, these days. Families breaking up, children defying their parents and going their own way. Thank God, George and I never had that problem.’

‘Neither did Dad and I.’ She almost snapped it, but swiftly moderated her voice and accompanied it with a smile. ‘It was nothing.’

‘Nothing,’ Elizabeth repeated. ‘It was enough to make you fling yourself at the first man who’d have you.’

In the silence that followed, George looked across at Barbara and saw the bleak look in her eyes. He reached out and took her hand. ‘Mum, that’s not fair. You know I always meant to marry Barbara, and we simply brought it forward, that’s all.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘Isn’t that so, darling?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, shaken to the core; she had not realised before just how much Elizabeth resented her presence. Her mother-in-law had always been cool towards her, but she had not been openly hostile. The unease she had felt before she went riding returned tenfold and she longed to get away. If only they could afford a home of their own.

She decided to have a day in London to buy her outfit for her father’s wedding and use it as an excuse to see Penny, and it would take her out from under her mother-in-law’s feet for a few hours.

Penny met her at Liverpool Street station. She was looking very glamorous in a double-breasted coat fastened with a single enormous button. It had a fur collar and fur cuffs to the sleeves. ‘Let me have a look at you,’ she said, holding Barbara at arm’s length and surveying the belted overcoat she had had for some time; new clothes, Barbara had recently discovered, were a luxury they could not afford. ‘You’re looking a little peaky.’

‘I’m fine. I didn’t sleep too well last night, that’s all.’ She gave a shaky laugh. ‘It must be the excitement of coming up to town and seeing you again. You look stunning.’ She surveyed her friend. ‘And you’ve had your hair cut.’

‘It’s all the rage.’ Penny twirled round. ‘Do you like it? It is so easy to manage. You should try it.’

‘I don’t know what George would say if I went home shorn.’

Penny laughed, leading the way out of the station, throwing a few coins to the beggar who was sitting against the wall out of the keen wind. ‘We’ll have lunch first and then we’ll go shopping. I’ve got lots to tell you and I want to hear all your news.’

Barbara expected to go to the cab rank, but instead Penny made for a cream-coloured car, parked at the kerb. ‘Yours?’ she asked.

‘No, it’s Simon’s, but when he heard you were coming he offered to lend it to me. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ It was too. It had gleaming chrome headlights and door handles and a spare wheel strapped on the luggage compartment at the back. The upholstery was brown leather. ‘He would have been here himself, but he had to go to the office. Dad finally persuaded him to buckle down to work. He sends his love.’

‘Oh.’ She didn’t know what to make of that. ‘And can you drive it?’

‘Of course. It’s easy. You should get George to buy one.’

‘He needs his van and we can’t afford both, but when the business is on its feet, he says we’ll have one.’

Penny drove them to a little restaurant in a back street which, she assured Barbara, was managing to defy the shortages and produce edible meals and was a place where they could talk uninterrupted. ‘Now spill the beans,’ she said, when they had ordered.

‘What about?’

‘Married life. Is it all it’s cracked up to be?’

‘Why, thinking of venturing yourself?’

‘No fear! I’m intent on a career. A husband would only get in the way.’

‘And how is the career?’ She didn’t want to talk about marriage.

‘I had a walk-on part in a play and I was the victim in a murder film, killed off within five minutes of the start, neither of which will put my name up in lights, but you have to start somewhere. One of these days someone will notice me.’

‘I don’t see how they can fail to. You’ll always stand out in a crowd.’

‘Thank you. Enough about me. What about you?’

‘Nothing to tell.’

‘Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. You are not having regrets, are you?’

‘No, of course not.’ It was said a little too quickly and Penny looked hard at her, but she was saved from comment by the arrival of the waiter with their order. They sat back while he set everything on the table and left them to serve themselves. ‘What’s it like, making films?’

‘It’s not like being on the stage. It’s all done in short scenes. The title is put up on a screen and the actors actually speak the words to get the timing and the actions right. One of these days, we’ll have talking pictures. They’ve been experimenting with recorded sound but they haven’t been able to synchronise the action with the sound yet, but it will come and it will have a tremendous impact. Some of the actors we’ve got now have terrible accents. It will be a dreadful shock to their devoted followers to hear their voices. They’ll have to learn to speak properly or they won’t last.’

‘You have a lovely voice.’

‘Thank you. You need a good voice for stage work. And wireless. That’s the coming thing. There’ll be wireless sets in every home before long, you see. Simon thinks I should stick to films. I can’t make up my mind. What do you think?’

‘Don’t ask me. I’m the last person to advise you. I can’t even make up my own mind about getting a job. I’ve never had one.’

Penny grinned. ‘Child bride, straight from college to domestic bliss.’

‘Something like that. But I don’t have enough to do at home, Elizabeth does everything. The thing is, what could I do? I’m not qualified for anything.’ She smiled. ‘And don’t you dare say it’s my own fault for not finishing my course. I had enough of that from Dad.’

‘I won’t. No good crying over spilt milk. So, what have you got going for you?’

She paused to butter a roll. ‘You’re presentable, you’re articulate and your smile is a knockout. You can read and write and add up.’

‘Office work, you mean?’

‘Or shop work. Something high class. A dress shop perhaps. Or an antique shop. I know! An art gallery, then they’d show some of your pictures and you’d be famous. We’d become famous together.’

Barbara laughed. Penny was good for her, she cheered her up, made her get things in proportion, even if she had no intention of following her advice. ‘I don’t think George would like that somehow. He is against working wives.’

Penny laughed. ‘Oh, how very Victorian! Barbara, this is 1920. Women have become emancipated. Put your foot down.’

‘I can’t. Whenever I mention it, we almost quarrel.’

‘Only almost?’ Penny laughed. ‘Do it. Have a good row and get it over with. If you don’t, you’ll regret it, I promise you. You’ll always be the one to back down.’

Barbara had no answer to that. They ate in silence for a few minutes and when they finished Penny insisted on paying the bill. ‘I can afford it,’ she said, when Barbara protested. ‘Dad gives me an allowance, but as it happens I’m not paying for this, Simon is. He told me to treat you.’

‘That was kind of him, though I can’t think why he should.’

‘Because he wanted to, I expect. He’s very fond of you. I think it was quite a blow to him when you married George.’ She did not wait for Barbara to comment, which was just as well because she did not know what to say. ‘Bond Street, here we come.’

They went from shop to shop, trying things on, and in the end Barbara chose a pale-blue chiffon tubular dress over a silk slip, a pair of tan kid sandals and a small cloche hat in tan, with a ribbon bow at the side in a blue to match the dress. ‘I mustn’t outdo the bride,’ she said, twirling round to look at her rear view in the fitting-room mirror.

Penny laughed. ‘No, but you’re not exactly enamoured of the idea of your father marrying again, are you?’

‘I just wasn’t sure Virginia was right for him. She’s so young, the same age as George.’

‘Surely that’s for your father to decide?’

‘Yes.’ She managed a smile. ‘If Dad wants her, then who am I to object?’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘You could say I’ve matured and learnt about marriage and what it means.’

‘And what does it mean?’

‘Being less self-centred. Thinking of your husband first, making him happy.’ She paused, realising Penny was about to quiz her about it and had to be forestalled. Although she confided most things to Penny, she didn’t think she could tell her about Elizabeth’s cutting remark: it was too near the bone, something to push into the recesses of her mind and try to forget. She wanted to believe she had misunderstood, that her mother-in-law had been joking. Some people had a funny sense of humour.

‘It works both ways, you know.’

‘Of course I know. George is loving and generous. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me.’

‘Except allow you to go to work.’

‘He’s just a little old-fashioned, that’s all. He likes to pamper me.’

The wedding ceremony was over, attended by half the town, or so it seemed to Barbara, all wanting to wish John Bosgrove and his new wife well. The bride had looked a picture in her white lace gown and John was a handsome and distinguished man. There were many more guests than had been at her own wedding, Barbara realised with a pang, though that had been her own fault for marrying so hastily.

‘I don’t intend to be your typical farmer’s wife,’ Virginia told Barbara. ‘I’m keeping my job. At least, for the time being.’ They were standing in the drawing room at the farm, crushed among the other guests, all holding glasses of champagne and trying to balance plates of wedding cake at the same time. Her father was being jovial to a group of fellow farmers.

‘But there’s a lot to do on a farm, you know. Mum was always busy, she never went out to work.’

‘I am not your mother, Barbara.’

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. What does Dad say about you working?’

‘He tells me to do whatever makes me happy.’

‘He would.’

Virginia gave her a rather startled glance, as if she were reading more into the comment than the two words she had spoken, but at that moment one of the other guests intervened to speak to the bride and they became separated. Barbara mingled with the company, chatting inconsequentially, though her thoughts kept coming back to the fact that George hadn’t said, ‘Do whatever makes you happy.’ George had put his foot down. She looked over at him, talking to her father. Was he expounding his views on a woman’s place in society? She moved to join them. They were talking politics.

The next day she saw the advertisement for an assistant stuck in the window of a craft shop which specialised in picture framing. It also sold prints and original paintings on a commission basis. It seemed to be tailor-made for her, and because she was still feeling peeved with George she pushed open the door and went in. She was given an interview there and then, at the end of which she was offered a job. The pay was minimal, only ten shillings a week, but that didn’t matter. It was something to get her out of the house, a way of bringing money into it, if only a little. She went home treading on air.

Her euphoria lasted until the evening. Why she thought George might be pleased for her when faced with a fait accompli, she had no idea. Even in the midst of his lecture on the subject of working wives, she could hear Penny’s words: ‘Have a good row and get it over with.’ The trouble was that it wasn’t a row. He refused to get angry. ‘You know how I feel about it,’ he said without raising his voice. ‘And I’m more than disappointed that you went and did it behind my back.’

‘You wouldn’t have agreed.’

‘Knowing that, why do it?’

‘I’ve got to do something, George. I’ll go crazy, if I don’t.’ She intercepted the look which passed between her husband and his mother; it was as if they were enjoying a secret joke. ‘Anyway, I’ve said I’ll take it.’

He sighed. He hated rows, always had. He supposed it had something to do with having to stand on his own feet very early on. He remembered his first day at school. Being an only child, he had never had to relate to other children, had never learnt to share anything. He reacted with tears and anger and sheer bloody-mindedness but, by the time he went to grammar school, he had learnt how to win friends, mostly by buying them – a bag of sweets, a currant bun and, later, cigarettes and beer. He had discovered he had a facility for manipulating people and that was something his mother had never taught him. It might have come from his father, but as he had never known that gentleman he couldn’t be sure. All he did know was that quarrels were to be avoided, tempers controlled, if he was ever going to get what he wanted from life and make his mother proud of him. But his mother was not his only consideration now: he had a wife and there had to be some give and take. In any case it would not be for long.

‘Well, as you seem so determined,’ he said. ‘You’d better give it a try.’

She had won, but it didn’t feel like a victory. Elizabeth, without actually saying so, made it plain Barbara had transgressed, and George himself was only pretending to agree. She didn’t know if the win was worth the price in nervous tension. Only while she was at the shop, and involved in serving customers and familiarising herself with the stock, did she feel the strain seeping away. She enjoyed it and would have loved to share her enthusiasm with George when she went home each evening, but she dare not. They spoke about everything else: Elizabeth’s day; local gossip; a car crash which had happened just outside the town; the division of Ireland which didn’t seem to have solved its problems; the growing unemployment and what George would do about it if he were in charge; and the latest film to reach Melsham’s tiny picture house. Anything except how Barbara had spent her day. It was almost as if they had to pretend her job did not exist.

It didn’t exist for long. One morning, in the middle of July, she woke up feeling nauseous and had to rush to the bathroom to be sick and she couldn’t face her breakfast.

‘You know what’s wrong with you, don’t you?’ Elizabeth said, standing over her, teapot in hand. ‘When did you last have the curse?’

She stared at her mother-in-law. There was a gleam in her eye which looked suspiciously like triumph. ‘I can’t be. George is taking precautions. We agreed…’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

She began counting back. What with starting a new job and everything to learn, and the atmosphere at home, she had been too preoccupied to notice she was late. ‘It’s only a week or so over.’

‘Have you been late before?’

‘No, I’m usually as regular as clockwork.’

‘There you are, then. Mistakes can happen in the best regulated families. So-called precautions are far from foolproof.’

She was sick again before she left for work, but she struggled in, though she felt dreadful and must have looked deathly because they sent her home again. But by the time George came in at six o’clock that evening, she was feeling better and decided Elizabeth must be wrong.

As soon as the meal was cleared away, George spread some plans out on the table and began working on them. Barbara went to help Elizabeth wash up.

‘Have you told him about the baby?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘I don’t know there is a baby. It’s much too soon to tell. Just because I was sick…’

‘Go and tell him now. I’ll finish off here.’

It was easier to do as she was told than argue. She put the tea cloth down and went back into the dining room. George was drawing on a large sheet of tracing paper over what appeared to be a street plan. He didn’t look up and she stood at his elbow watching him making slight changes to the lines which appeared through the transparent paper.

‘George, your mother thinks I might be pregnant. I’ve only missed by a week, but I was very sick this morning.’

He put his pencil down and looked up at her, grinning. ‘Wonderful.’

‘But I can’t have a baby here. There’s isn’t room and…’ She couldn’t add that she was sure his mother would take over the child; it would never be entirely hers and George’s while they had to share a home. ‘You said not until we had a home of our own.’

‘And we will.’ He smiled and tapped the papers on the table with his pencil. ‘By the time the baby is born, or very soon afterwards, this will become reality. We will have our own house.’

‘Really?’ She flung her arms round him from behind and put her cheek against his. ‘Then, of course, I’m pleased as punch. That’s if I’m really pregnant.’

‘Go and see the doc. He’ll tell you.’

‘It’s too soon. I’ll go in a week or two.’ She paused. ‘But that’s not a house plan, is it?’

‘No, it’s the ground plan of the new council estate. One hundred and fifty houses and I’ve got the contract to build the lot.’

‘And did you have to…’ She was going to say ‘cheat’ but changed her mind. ‘…oil wheels, to get it?’

‘Of course.’ He didn’t know how it had happened, but Donald Browning’s part in the affair of the flats had become known and he had been asked to leave, which was why he was now on Kennett’s payroll. He would never amount to much but he did know how the wheels of local government turned and he got on well with both suppliers and customers for his apparent ponderous honesty. It was that which had convinced his employers that his lapse from his usual integrity had been due to his wife’s illness. He was not prosecuted and nothing was made public.

‘And the profits will be enough to buy our house?’

‘It won’t cost us a penny.’ He laughed and pulled the plan from under the tracing paper. ‘This is a plan for one hundred and fifty houses and where they are to go on the available land.’ He tapped the tracing paper. ‘This is a plan for one hundred and fifty-one houses on the same land.’

‘I don’t understand. You’re going to build one more than they’ve asked for?’

‘Yes. They’ll never know the difference.’

‘But you can’t do that. They know how many bricks and things you need. They aren’t going to pay out for more.’

‘They won’t have to. It won’t cost them a penny either, that’s the beauty of it.’ He was so obviously pleased with himself, he couldn’t keep his scheme to himself. ‘I’m not the only one who oils wheels, you know. Suppliers of bricks and tiles and timbers are all prepared to put their hands in their pockets to get orders. I give them the order for bricks for one hundred and fifty houses and they supply sufficient for one hundred and fifty-one. No paperwork, just enough to build an extra house. The same goes for tiles and roof timbers and windows and floorboards, plaster and paint, the lot.’

Barbara was horrified. Oiling wheels was bad enough, but this. ‘But it’s dishonest.’

‘No, simply clever business practice.’

She was appalled. ‘But the council are bound to find out in the end.’

‘I haven’t cheated them, except out of a tiny piece of land. They’ll hardly notice that and they won’t want to make a fuss about it, if they do. How d’you think it will make them look? They won’t want the publicity.’

‘Oh, George,’ she said, thoroughly worried. ‘Why do you have to do it?’

‘I’m doing it for you. You want a home of your own and this is the only way of getting it without having to wait years and years.’

‘Are you saying it is my fault? Because if you are…’

‘No, of course not. I want it too.’

She was about to remonstrate again, but he silenced her with a kiss.

How easily she was bought, she thought, as she lay awake that night. George was sleeping the sleep of the innocent beside her while she lay sleepless, full of guilt, conjuring up all sorts of punishment, both for him and herself. Something dreadful might happen to the baby, if there was a baby; she wasn’t even sure of that. The man, Donald, might spill the beans, someone from the council might find out. George would be arrested. Why was he so confident he wouldn’t be? Did all business really run on such shamelessly oiled wheels? Even if it did, it was wrong. And she was condoning it. She was betraying her principles for a quiet life, for a home of her own. But what else could she do?