small
Austin.
Prue was wrong. Barry’s delight seemed out of all proportion to the news. First, laying aside his cigar, he hugged her – something he had never done before. Apart from the times he
bashed roughly into her, he never touched her other than to guide her with a hand on her wrist to their table in the hotel dining room on the occasions he took her out for dinner. His arms round
her were so tight that Prue felt the breath squeezed out of her and gave a little cry. Barry released her, apologetic, and took up his cigar again. Then he suggested they celebrate – a word
Prue had come to dread, with its usual connotations. They would be off in the Daimler for a slap-up dinner, champagne. She was to wear one of her new dresses, her new scent. They’d have a
good time.
Barry’s excitement, so much greater than Prue’s own, was puzzling. She felt once again that she didn’t begin to understand her husband, so oddly delighted by her small
achievement of passing a driving test yet so completely uninterested in her barren days. What did he imagine she did? Read romantic novels, eating fudge? Perhaps, she thought, she should take
advantage of his sudden liveliness. She decided to interrupt his usual stories of his past, and mention chickens. Or the possibility of a baby. Or perhaps both.
They sat at their usual table, had their usual miniature cutlets and mashed potato forked into a pattern that reminded Prue of the permanent waves her mother was so skilful at conjuring in
elderly hair. She giggled.
‘What’s up, sweetheart?’
‘Nothing. I was just thinking.’
‘You know what? You’ve the greenest, prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen on a girl.’ The compliment left him as surprised as it did Prue. With a hitch of his shoulders he had
braced himself to deliver it. Now he sank back against the chair, deflated.
‘Barry! You’ve never said anything so nice!’
‘Nonsense, sweetheart. I’ve often thought it.’
Perhaps, reflected Prue, finishing her wine very quickly, this is where I start to love Barry Morton, for all his funny ways, and it really could be happy-ever-after.
Strawberry ice cream arrived. Prue pushed hers aside, clasped her hands as if in prayer and she leant towards her husband. ‘Barry,’ she said, ‘you’re the most generous
husband in the world, and I know how lucky I am, but . . . there’s just one thing.’
‘Out with it.’ Barry’s frog eyes narrowed.
‘I haven’t much to do all day.’
‘What? You’ve time to yourself, sweetheart. Nothing more precious than that. Total luxury. You can do anything you want. What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying . . . Well, I’ve always loved working hard. I’d like to work hard at something again.’
Barry pushed his ice cream to join Prue’s and lit a cigar. ‘Far be it from me to stop you.’ His previous softness, almost loving, was suddenly gone. He spoke like someone in a
meeting. ‘You’ve got the world at your feet, all the money you want, and you’re complaining.’ He was slightly frightening.
‘Not complaining, honestly.’ Prue sighed, smiled, uncertain which way to go. ‘I was thinking that perhaps with so much time on my hands . . .’
‘You could always work for charity, visit old people, that sort of thing. Make yourself useful. Help those a great deal less fortunate than yourself He was scornful now.
‘I could. But what I had in mind – I don’t know how you’ll take this, Barry – but what I had in mind was that perhaps we should try for . . . a baby.’
There was a very long silence. When she and Barry One had first mentioned the possibility of a child – a spring day in the woods – they had hugged and declared it would be the most
exciting thing in the world. Now here was her husband pursing his lips and tapping his cigar, weighing up all his boring doubts like some financial adviser. ‘That hadn’t occurred to
me,’ he said. And again there was a sudden, unexpected shift in
Austin.
Prue was wrong. Barry’s delight seemed out of all proportion to the news. First, laying aside his cigar, he hugged her – something he had never done before. Apart from the times he
bashed roughly into her, he never touched her other than to guide her with a hand on her wrist to their table in the hotel dining room on the occasions he took her out for dinner. His arms round
her were so tight that Prue felt the breath squeezed out of her and gave a little cry. Barry released her, apologetic, and took up his cigar again. Then he suggested they celebrate – a word
Prue had come to dread, with its usual connotations. They would be off in the Daimler for a slap-up dinner, champagne. She was to wear one of her new dresses, her new scent. They’d have a
good time.
Barry’s excitement, so much greater than Prue’s own, was puzzling. She felt once again that she didn’t begin to understand her husband, so oddly delighted by her small
achievement of passing a driving test yet so completely uninterested in her barren days. What did he imagine she did? Read romantic novels, eating fudge? Perhaps, she thought, she should take
advantage of his sudden liveliness. She decided to interrupt his usual stories of his past, and mention chickens. Or the possibility of a baby. Or perhaps both.
They sat at their usual table, had their usual miniature cutlets and mashed potato forked into a pattern that reminded Prue of the permanent waves her mother was so skilful at conjuring in
elderly hair. She giggled.
‘What’s up, sweetheart?’
‘Nothing. I was just thinking.’
‘You know what? You’ve the greenest, prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen on a girl.’ The compliment left him as surprised as it did Prue. With a hitch of his shoulders he had
braced himself to deliver it. Now he sank back against the chair, deflated.
‘Barry! You’ve never said anything so nice!’
‘Nonsense, sweetheart. I’ve often thought it.’
Perhaps, reflected Prue, finishing her wine very quickly, this is where I start to love Barry Morton, for all his funny ways, and it really could be happy-ever-after.
Strawberry ice cream arrived. Prue pushed hers aside, clasped her hands as if in prayer and she leant towards her husband. ‘Barry,’ she said, ‘you’re the most generous
husband in the world, and I know how lucky I am, but . . . there’s just one thing.’
‘Out with it.’ Barry’s frog eyes narrowed.
‘I haven’t much to do all day.’
‘What? You’ve time to yourself, sweetheart. Nothing more precious than that. Total luxury. You can do anything you want. What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying . . . Well, I’ve always loved working hard. I’d like to work hard at something again.’
Barry pushed his ice cream to join Prue’s and lit a cigar. ‘Far be it from me to stop you.’ His previous softness, almost loving, was suddenly gone. He spoke like someone in a
meeting. ‘You’ve got the world at your feet, all the money you want, and you’re complaining.’ He was slightly frightening.
‘Not complaining, honestly.’ Prue sighed, smiled, uncertain which way to go. ‘I was thinking that perhaps with so much time on my hands . . .’
‘You could always work for charity, visit old people, that sort of thing. Make yourself useful. Help those a great deal less fortunate than yourself He was scornful now.
‘I could. But what I had in mind – I don’t know how you’ll take this, Barry – but what I had in mind was that perhaps we should try for . . . a baby.’
There was a very long silence. When she and Barry One had first mentioned the possibility of a child – a spring day in the woods – they had hugged and declared it would be the most
exciting thing in the world. Now here was her husband pursing his lips and tapping his cigar, weighing up all his boring doubts like some financial adviser. ‘That hadn’t occurred to
me,’ he said. And again there was a sudden, unexpected shift in
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