asked impatiently, flicking the kettle on behind her and sitting opposite me, still in her
coat. ‘Were you doing OK, or was it seat-of-the-pants stuff, like me and Dan? Smell of an oily rag?’
Dan was self-employed, and now that the recession had bitten hard, seemed to go less and less to London. Perhaps people were
drinking less wine? I hadn’t mentioned it.
‘No, I think we were doing OK. I mean, there was always enough in my account and I did very well on my …’
‘Housekeeping,’ Jennie finished drily.
Jennie had always been rather scathing about Phil’s financial arrangement whereby he put a certain amount into a monthly account
for me, out of which I paid all household expenses.
‘But what if you want a new coat or something?’ she’d say.
Jennie and Dan had a joint account from which they both helped themselves, not that there was anything in it, as Jennie would
remark tartly.
‘Well, I either save a bit each week, or I ask him. He’d probably say yes,’ I’d say uncomfortably as her eyes would grow round.
‘Yes, but it’s the whole idea that you have to ask. It’s so nineteen-fifties.’
‘It’s his money,’ I’d say defensively. ‘At least you earn a bit, Jennie.’ Jennie was a cook and rustled up dinner parties
for friends, food for freezers, that sort of thing. ‘He earns every penny of ours.’
‘Well, I won’t go into the fact that you’ve given up a career to raise his children,’ she’d say, ‘or that my children are
at school so I
can
work, and you’ve still got a baby so can’t,’ and I was glad she didn’t. And in turn didn’t go into the fact that Phil called
my monthly allowance my salary. I could hear her squeal of horror at twenty paces.
Now, though, it seemed I might not get away with keeping
too much dark. Jennie had that determined look on her face which meant she intended to get to the bottom of something.
‘Did he have a life insurance policy?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Poppy, has all this completely knocked the stuffing out of you?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, even the most grief-stricken widow might, in an anxious moment, have wondered whether her chickens were going to be
provided for. Are you going to get dressed today, incidentally?’
I glanced down at my towelling robe. ‘D’you think I should?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact; you didn’t yesterday. Who took Clemmie to school this morning?’
‘Alice’s mum picked her up for me. Has done for a bit.’
‘Right. Good. But … well, brush your teeth at least, won’t you?’ she said awkwardly.
I shrugged. So demanding. And so many questions.
She swallowed. Licked her lips for patience. ‘OK, Pops, back to basics. Money. Where did Phil keep his papers?’
‘In there.’ I pointed vaguely behind me, through the open kitchen door to the sitting room, where a walnut bureau sat under
the bay window.
‘Would you mind if I …?’
‘Be my guest.’
She was in like a rat up a drainpipe. Shimmying out of her coat and tossing it en route on the sofa, she hurried across the
sitting room and spent the next half-hour getting very busy. I watched her flicking through his files, which, typical of Phil,
were organized and methodical, but which
somehow, even though I’d walked across to the desk a few times and stared at it, I hadn’t been able to face opening. I turned
and resumed my contemplation of the tiny back garden, the sheep in the field beyond. All ewes now, grazing peacefully. Were
they happy to see the back of Shameful, I wondered? Or was any man, demanding or otherwise, better than nothing? They looked
pretty content to me, munching away out there.
Behind me I could hear the rustle of papers as Jennie burrowed deeper. I sat on. On the one occasion I did glance around,
it was to see Angie peering through the sitting-room window from the road, perfectly plucked eyebrows raised enquiringly under
her fur hat. Jennie gave her a quick thumbs
coat. ‘Were you doing OK, or was it seat-of-the-pants stuff, like me and Dan? Smell of an oily rag?’
Dan was self-employed, and now that the recession had bitten hard, seemed to go less and less to London. Perhaps people were
drinking less wine? I hadn’t mentioned it.
‘No, I think we were doing OK. I mean, there was always enough in my account and I did very well on my …’
‘Housekeeping,’ Jennie finished drily.
Jennie had always been rather scathing about Phil’s financial arrangement whereby he put a certain amount into a monthly account
for me, out of which I paid all household expenses.
‘But what if you want a new coat or something?’ she’d say.
Jennie and Dan had a joint account from which they both helped themselves, not that there was anything in it, as Jennie would
remark tartly.
‘Well, I either save a bit each week, or I ask him. He’d probably say yes,’ I’d say uncomfortably as her eyes would grow round.
‘Yes, but it’s the whole idea that you have to ask. It’s so nineteen-fifties.’
‘It’s his money,’ I’d say defensively. ‘At least you earn a bit, Jennie.’ Jennie was a cook and rustled up dinner parties
for friends, food for freezers, that sort of thing. ‘He earns every penny of ours.’
‘Well, I won’t go into the fact that you’ve given up a career to raise his children,’ she’d say, ‘or that my children are
at school so I
can
work, and you’ve still got a baby so can’t,’ and I was glad she didn’t. And in turn didn’t go into the fact that Phil called
my monthly allowance my salary. I could hear her squeal of horror at twenty paces.
Now, though, it seemed I might not get away with keeping
too much dark. Jennie had that determined look on her face which meant she intended to get to the bottom of something.
‘Did he have a life insurance policy?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Poppy, has all this completely knocked the stuffing out of you?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, even the most grief-stricken widow might, in an anxious moment, have wondered whether her chickens were going to be
provided for. Are you going to get dressed today, incidentally?’
I glanced down at my towelling robe. ‘D’you think I should?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact; you didn’t yesterday. Who took Clemmie to school this morning?’
‘Alice’s mum picked her up for me. Has done for a bit.’
‘Right. Good. But … well, brush your teeth at least, won’t you?’ she said awkwardly.
I shrugged. So demanding. And so many questions.
She swallowed. Licked her lips for patience. ‘OK, Pops, back to basics. Money. Where did Phil keep his papers?’
‘In there.’ I pointed vaguely behind me, through the open kitchen door to the sitting room, where a walnut bureau sat under
the bay window.
‘Would you mind if I …?’
‘Be my guest.’
She was in like a rat up a drainpipe. Shimmying out of her coat and tossing it en route on the sofa, she hurried across the
sitting room and spent the next half-hour getting very busy. I watched her flicking through his files, which, typical of Phil,
were organized and methodical, but which
somehow, even though I’d walked across to the desk a few times and stared at it, I hadn’t been able to face opening. I turned
and resumed my contemplation of the tiny back garden, the sheep in the field beyond. All ewes now, grazing peacefully. Were
they happy to see the back of Shameful, I wondered? Or was any man, demanding or otherwise, better than nothing? They looked
pretty content to me, munching away out there.
Behind me I could hear the rustle of papers as Jennie burrowed deeper. I sat on. On the one occasion I did glance around,
it was to see Angie peering through the sitting-room window from the road, perfectly plucked eyebrows raised enquiringly under
her fur hat. Jennie gave her a quick thumbs
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