The Peacock Emporium(40)

When she had tried to discuss it with Douglas, he had looked at her with an expression of such unalloyed horror that she had backtracked, promising to sort it out herself. Several times she had sat with Rosemary at lunch, trying to muster the courage to ask whether she was having a bit of trouble with her “waterworks.” But something in her mother-in-law’s trenchant demeanor, the aggressive way she now shouted, “What?” whenever Vivi tried to broach some innocent topic, that prevented her. And then her GP, a matter-of-fact young Scottish woman, had presented her with a range of state-subsidized services that had meant Vivi could perhaps remedy this without having to talk directly about it to her mother-in-law.

Mrs. Abrahams—a plump, capable sort with a comforting manner that suggested not only that she had seen it all but had a plastic-backed non-sweat-inducing, discreetly wrapped solution for it—had arrived shortly before eleven. Vivi had explained the delicacy of the situation.

“Much easier if it comes from outside the family,” Mrs. Abrahams said.

“It’s not that I mind the washing, as such . . .” Vivi had trailed off, already feeling guilty of betrayal.

“But there are health and hygiene considerations as well.”

“Yes . . .”

“And you don’t want the old lady to lose her dignity.”

“No.”

“You leave it to me, Mrs. Fairley-Hulme. I tend to find that once they’ve got over the initial hurdle, most ladies are rather relieved of the help.”

“Oh . . . good.” Vivi had knocked on Rosemary’s door, and placed her ear to the wood to see if the old lady had heard.

The door had opened, leaving Vivi crouched awkwardly.

“What are you doing?” Rosemary had stared crossly at her daughter-in-law.

Vivi righted herself. “Mrs. Abrahams to see you, Rosemary.”

“What?”

“I’ll make some coffee and leave you to it.” She had scuttled into the kitchen, flushed, aware that her palms were sweating.

There had been peace for almost three minutes. Then the earth had cracked open, volcanic fire spewed forth, and, moments later, against the backdrop of some of the worst language Vivi had ever heard uttered in a cut-glass accent, she had witnessed Mrs. Abrahams walking briskly across the gravel to her neat little hatchback, her handbag clutched to her chest, glancing back at the house as various plastic-wrapped items were hurled after her.

“Douglas, darling, I need to talk to you about your mother.” Ben had gone out for lunch. Rosemary was still locked in her annex. Vivi didn’t think she could keep this to herself until bedtime.

“Mm?” He was reading the newspaper, thrusting forkfuls of food into his mouth, as if he was in a hurry to get out again. It was the drilling season, time to get the arable fields sown—he rarely hung around for long.

“I had a woman here, for Rosemary. To talk about . . . that thing we discussed.”

He looked up, raised an eyebrow.

“Rosemary took it rather badly. I don’t think she wants any help.”

Douglas’s head dropped, and his hand waved dismissively above it. “Send it all to the laundry, then. We’ll pay. Best thing all around.”

“I don’t know if the laundry will take things that are . . . soiled.”

“Well, what’s the bloody point of it being a laundry, then? You’re hardly going to send things that are clean.”

Vivi didn’t think she could bear the thought of the staff remarking upon the state of the Fairley-Hulmes’ bedding. “I don’t . . . I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Well, I’ve told you what I think, Vivi. If you don’t want to send it away and you don’t want to do it yourself, then I don’t know what you want me to suggest.”

Vivi wasn’t sure either. If she said she just wanted a bit of sympathy, understanding, the faintest idea that she wasn’t in this on her own, she knew Douglas would look at her blankly. “I’ll sort something out,” she said glumly.



* * *



—

Suzanna and Neil had not argued in almost five weeks. There wasn’t a cross word, a mean-minded snipe, or a careless spat. Nothing. When she realized this, Suzanna had wondered whether things were changing, whether her marriage had begun to reflect the satisfaction that she was gleaning from her shop. Now on waking she felt, perhaps for the first time in her working life, something approaching anticipation when she thought about her day and the people who now populated it. From the moment she put her key in the door, her spirits lifted at the sight of the cheerful, stuffed interior, the brightly colored ornaments, the gorgeous scents of honey and freesia. And despite her reservations, Jessie’s presence had not just worked for the shop economically: something of her Pollyanna-ish nature seemed to have rubbed off on herself too. Several times, Suzanna had caught herself whistling.

When she allowed herself time to think about it she realized it wasn’t that she felt any closer to her husband, it was simply that, with both of them working long hours, they had neither the time nor the energy to fight. On three nights this week Neil had not been home before ten. Several times she had left the house before seven, only dimly aware that they had spent any time in the same bed. Perhaps this is how marriages like Dad and Mum’s survive, she mused. They just make sure they’re too busy to think about them.