point when he was out four or five evenings a week, and a large part ofthe weekend as well. Monica had learnt not to ask any questions about where he had been.
She had gradually come to the conclusion that Jim had a tottie, a floozie, a bit on the side, either already in existence or very much in mind. But she had not voiced her assumption. Carefully, she had smiled and nodded, and talked vaguely about evening classes and jaunts with women friends. Then she had signed up for electrolysis to zap the wiry new hairs on her chin, as well as joining Weightwatchers and a local gym. Within six months, she was so in love with her trim new self, that Jim’s activities caused her only fleeting worries.
Jim had been lavish in his admiration, stressing how young and lovely she looked, and for a while he had come home earlier from the King’s Head and introduced her to one or two new bedtime intimacies, gleaned, she assumed, from his growing collection of erotic novels. He bought glamorous underwear and scented candles. ‘Takes me back to when I first married you,’ he said. ‘You’ll have all the blokes after you, at this rate.’ Monica merely smiled, non-committal, and kept her own counsel. When he began to read out to her passages from the paperbacks, she had taken a deep breath and gone along with it. If he needed that sort of thing in order to sustain his virility, shesupposed she would have to indulge him.
At our age , Monica had thought, it’s pretty good that we do it at all . She had friends who hadn’t had sex with their husbands for a decade or more. She and Jim both seemed to become anxious if they went for more than a week between encounters. Monica supposed that as there was so little else that they did together, this was all they had to keep the marriage even partially alive. The first time that Jim had failed to perform had been a year ago, and Monica had unthinkingly accused him of spending so much time with some girlfriend or other that he hadn’t anything left for her. He had laughed it off, and blamed the beer he’d been drinking. But Monica had cursed herself, noting the panic in his eyes.
Now, holding the coffee mug between her hands, she tried to imagine the solitary bed, night after lonely night. Never to feel Jim’s warm skin, generously coated with dark hair; never to share all those silly little private moments. She had heard widows speak of ‘amputation’, losing half of themselves, never recovering from the dreadful loss. Well, no, it wasn’t going to be like that for her. Jim had given shape to her life; he had been a kind of mirror, reflecting her wifely persona back at herself – but he hadn’t been part of her. She still felt whole without him. Andhaving the bed to herself might be pleasant, in a way. She could get cosy brushed cotton sheets, which Jim hated. Maybe even have a duvet, which Jim had always vetoed as newfangled and insubstantial.
But meanwhile, there was all the paraphernalia of death to be endured. Today there had only been a trickle of visitors – by the end of the week it would probably be a deluge. She should tidy up, buy extra coffee and biscuits and milk in, prepare polite platitudes. When Jodie from the printworks had come to the door looking for Jim, while the boys were still here, Monica had been at a total loss as to how to tell her the news. Even responding to the known and trusted Pauline’s avalanche of sympathetic concern over the phone had been an ordeal. She had cut her friend short, and told her quite mendaciously that she had both her sons with her, throwing her the consolation prize of coming along to help arrange the funeral the next morning.
Tomorrow she had to knuckle down to business. Collect the certificate from Dr Lloyd, then to the Registrar, then to the undertaker. She ought to call in at the printworks, too, and commiserate properly with Jim’s workmates – his second family. She had to at least try to be generous in allowing them to miss
She had gradually come to the conclusion that Jim had a tottie, a floozie, a bit on the side, either already in existence or very much in mind. But she had not voiced her assumption. Carefully, she had smiled and nodded, and talked vaguely about evening classes and jaunts with women friends. Then she had signed up for electrolysis to zap the wiry new hairs on her chin, as well as joining Weightwatchers and a local gym. Within six months, she was so in love with her trim new self, that Jim’s activities caused her only fleeting worries.
Jim had been lavish in his admiration, stressing how young and lovely she looked, and for a while he had come home earlier from the King’s Head and introduced her to one or two new bedtime intimacies, gleaned, she assumed, from his growing collection of erotic novels. He bought glamorous underwear and scented candles. ‘Takes me back to when I first married you,’ he said. ‘You’ll have all the blokes after you, at this rate.’ Monica merely smiled, non-committal, and kept her own counsel. When he began to read out to her passages from the paperbacks, she had taken a deep breath and gone along with it. If he needed that sort of thing in order to sustain his virility, shesupposed she would have to indulge him.
At our age , Monica had thought, it’s pretty good that we do it at all . She had friends who hadn’t had sex with their husbands for a decade or more. She and Jim both seemed to become anxious if they went for more than a week between encounters. Monica supposed that as there was so little else that they did together, this was all they had to keep the marriage even partially alive. The first time that Jim had failed to perform had been a year ago, and Monica had unthinkingly accused him of spending so much time with some girlfriend or other that he hadn’t anything left for her. He had laughed it off, and blamed the beer he’d been drinking. But Monica had cursed herself, noting the panic in his eyes.
Now, holding the coffee mug between her hands, she tried to imagine the solitary bed, night after lonely night. Never to feel Jim’s warm skin, generously coated with dark hair; never to share all those silly little private moments. She had heard widows speak of ‘amputation’, losing half of themselves, never recovering from the dreadful loss. Well, no, it wasn’t going to be like that for her. Jim had given shape to her life; he had been a kind of mirror, reflecting her wifely persona back at herself – but he hadn’t been part of her. She still felt whole without him. Andhaving the bed to herself might be pleasant, in a way. She could get cosy brushed cotton sheets, which Jim hated. Maybe even have a duvet, which Jim had always vetoed as newfangled and insubstantial.
But meanwhile, there was all the paraphernalia of death to be endured. Today there had only been a trickle of visitors – by the end of the week it would probably be a deluge. She should tidy up, buy extra coffee and biscuits and milk in, prepare polite platitudes. When Jodie from the printworks had come to the door looking for Jim, while the boys were still here, Monica had been at a total loss as to how to tell her the news. Even responding to the known and trusted Pauline’s avalanche of sympathetic concern over the phone had been an ordeal. She had cut her friend short, and told her quite mendaciously that she had both her sons with her, throwing her the consolation prize of coming along to help arrange the funeral the next morning.
Tomorrow she had to knuckle down to business. Collect the certificate from Dr Lloyd, then to the Registrar, then to the undertaker. She ought to call in at the printworks, too, and commiserate properly with Jim’s workmates – his second family. She had to at least try to be generous in allowing them to miss
Similar Books
