that case, I’d like to buy a new dinner set. Last time we had a meal with the Willards, Libby was showing off her recently acquired Crown Derby. It’s our turn to entertain them on Saturday and I’d like to have something equally nice.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the stuff we have now.’
‘George, it’s cheap rubbish in comparison to Libby’s china.’
‘Celia, I’m sick of hearing about Libby Willard and the things she’s got. You wanted a television as soon as they got one, then it was new crystal glasses, and now you want another dinner set. I don’t know why you think you have to keep up with the woman. It’s getting bloody ridiculous.’
‘And I’m sick of hearing your bad language!’ Celia snapped, her temper rising.
With that George reared to his feet and leaning across the table he hissed, ‘Well you won’t have to hear it any more, Celia. I’m going out!’
‘Good! I’ll be glad to see the back of you,’ she shouted in reply.
‘And I’m glad to hear you say that,’ George said enigmatically before marching off, the front door slamming behind him while Celia was left to ponder on his words.
George wished he had kept his mouth shut and as he walked down the hill to the bottom of the Rise he was kicking himself. He wasn’t ready to make his move yet and hoped he hadn’t given the game away.
It was only six thirty, too early, so with half an hour to kill he headed for the pub. A few blokes were propping up the bar, but George wasn’t in the mood for chatting so after ordering a pint, he sat down at a table. He took his time, just sipping the beer, after all, he didn’t want to arrive tipsy and ruin the evening.
At seven fifteen the door opened and Stan Miller limped in. George wasn’t surprised, the man was a regular, and spotting him Stan called, ‘Watcha, George. Can I get you another pint?’
‘No thanks, mate. I’m only having this one then I’m off.’
‘Yeah, you don’t want to upset the wife. Mine’s gone off to work so I’m all right.’
George had heard that Phyllis Miller did evening cleaning at a local factory and cynically he wondered if Celia knew how lucky she was. Since their marriage he had been the provider and she’d never had to work, yet despite that Celia had become more and more demanding. It was one thing after another, new this, new that, while he had to work his guts out to provide them.
Stan had gone to the bar, and was soon chatting to another bloke, while George continued to think about Celia. It really riled him that she looked down on people, especially the Millers. Stan had been reduced to poorly paid factory work since he’d been wounded during the war, and Phyllis had to work to supplement their income, yet Celia had never taken that into consideration.
A grim smile of satisfaction crossed George’s face. If things worked out the way he hoped, Celia had a shock coming. He finished his pint and rose to leave. It was time for his next port of call, and he couldn’t wait to get there.
Stan lifted his arm to wave to George as the man left the pub, feeling sorry for him. Fancy having to go home to a wife like Celia Frost, he thought, old frosty knickers. Stan frowned as a thought crossed his mind. It was Rose’s night off. Was George going home to his wife, or was he headed in the other direction? No, surely the bloke wouldn’t be daft enough to get mixed up with Rose. If he was going to have an affair, it wouldn’t be so close to home – at least Stan hoped that was the case, especially as Amy was still seeing Tommy.
Stan had never been tempted by another woman, not that a nice pair of legs didn’t catch his eye. His thoughts turned to Phyllis and despite her saying she was fine, he couldn’t help worrying a bit about what had made her pass out. It wasn’t like Phyllis. She was usually as tough as a horse and the cleaning jobs had never over-tired her before. Of course she was now looking after Winnie Morrison too; mornings, lunchtimes and after work she’d sort the old girl out, getting her to bed before coming home. Winnie wasn’t a relative, she was just a neighbour, and it wasn’t as if Phyllis was getting paid to look after her.
That thought led to another, and though it hadn’t crossed his mind before, he wondered if Winnie stumped up anything towards the meals that Phyllis provided.
He’d have to find out, have a word with Phyllis, because there was no way he was going to fork out for Winnie Morrison too. As it was, he handed over Phyllis’s housekeeping money every week, and with her two cleaning jobs, she always seemed to manage. The rest of his wages he kept as spending money, enough to ensure that he could buy a few pints of beer most evenings.
Frank Cole came in and went to join the darts team, while Stan ordered another pint, his mind still on Phyllis. He was still worried about her fainting and he began to fret. He’d have to put his foot down about Winnie, tell Phyllis that the old girl would have to find someone else to look after her. After all, he didn’t want Phyllis becoming so worn out that she had to give up one, or even both of her cleaning jobs. That would mean stumping up more housekeeping money and Stan really didn’t want to do that.
Mabel had seen George Frost earlier, illuminated by a street light before he passed her window. She’d been puzzled. He wasn’t in his van so he wasn’t working, and it had seemed a bit early for him to be going out. Maybe he’d had words with his stuck-up wife and was going to the pub to drown his sorrows. She’d tell Phyllis about it in the morning, but to make it interesting she’d have to weave it out a bit.
She had seen Phyllis leave for work, followed soon after by Stan, limping down the Rise en route to the pub. He did this most evenings while Phyllis was at work and Mabel hadn’t really thought about it before, but this time she’d felt a surge of anger. He must have seen how worn out Phyllis looked. Instead of putting money over the bar, he could increase Phyllis’s housekeeping money so she could cut down on the hours she worked.
Mabel turned away, her eyes settling on Jack, her husband. He was a good provider, didn’t drink, never had, and he worked as a guard on the railway. It was shift work, but this week Jack was on normal hours. He’d been a quiet man when she married him, and he still was, but since they had lost their son all those years ago, he’d also become morose. The only thing that interested him was history books – he always had his nose stuck in one.
Mabel looked outside again, but there was nobody about. It was dark, cold, and there weren’t any children playing outside now. She had seen some earlier, playing marbles in the gutter, their fingers blue with the cold which Mabel thought disgraceful. If her son had lived she’d have made sure he was well wrapped up before letting him play outside.
With nothing to see now, Mabel moved away to sit down opposite Jack. The silence of the room was only broken by the ticking of the clock, and for want of some sort of conversation she asked, ‘What are you reading now?’
There was an audible sigh before Jack looked up, but he finally answered, ‘It’s a history of Battersea.’
‘What on earth do you want to read that for?’
‘It’s interesting.’
‘Why’s that?’ Mabel asked shortly, hoping to draw Jack out.
‘Because Battersea wasn’t written about until the end of the seventeenth century, and it was a lot different then.’
‘In what way?’
Jack flicked back a couple of pages and said, ‘For instance, in those days, Battersea Park was just marshland. It goes on to describe gentle slopes leading up to Lavender Hill that gave way to untamed heath, sweeping away to the wilds of Surrey.’
‘It’s all built up around here now and I just can’t picture it,’ Mabel said, surprised to find that she was interested. ‘It must have been like living in the country.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Jack said, ‘and in eighteen forty-six, Battersea Park was known as Battersea Fields. It was fertile land where crops were grown,