the jawline. Crow’s feet about the eyes. God we look old, she thinks.
‘How’s your kitchen coming along?’
‘Oh Lord it’s slow,’ says Lauren, craning forward again, flicking the indicator for a right turn. ‘Trouble is, when they’re there – the builders I mean – you can’t wait to see the back of them for all the dust. And then they’re gone again and you’re cursing because it’s all half done and I’m dying to put all me things away. Sorry, I can really get boring on this one.’
‘You let rip love.’
‘Well, since you insist. Eric’s no help.’
‘You do surprise me.’
Lauren laughs. ‘Honestly, that man could drive you to drink. He never talks seriously to the builders, always leaves that to me. He’s their best friend, cracking jokes, charming their socks off. Then, soon as they’re gone, he goes around the kitchen picking at this and that. “They haven’t put these hinges on properly. That tiling should be done by now.” As if I’m his foreman and I should be following him around with a pad and pen.’
They’ve had this conversation, or versions of it, for twenty-odd years. They have this saying, she and Lauren, which they say in unison. ‘Don’t put your husband on a pedestal. He’ll only want dusting.’
‘It’ll be done soon,’ says Ann, ‘and then you’ll love it. You’ll forget this bit.’
‘I know, but I tell you, never again. Anyway don’t let me go on. How are the boys?’
‘Their campaign of secrecy continues,’ says Ann. ‘If they told me owt, they’d have to kill me. Bartholomew is too far away, and Max . . .’
‘Not far enough?’
Ann laughs.
‘It’s always the way,’ says Lauren.
‘Joe says we have to support Max, pay him enough so he can start a family. But we haven’t got a brass farthing. We don’t draw salaries ourselves.’
‘Well good for Joe,’ says Lauren. ‘You were always a mean beggar.’
‘I am tight, it’s true. But why can’t Max go and find other work – shearing or labouring or summat? Supplement his income? Joe glories in it – you know, that Max is working the farm with him when most sons would wash their hands of it – but where’s the glory in a son as can’t think for himself?’
‘Arh, he loves those boys, Ann,’ says Lauren, glancing at her then back to the road. ‘Your Joe, he loves those boys more than any father I’ve seen. Bartholomew’s doing well, in’t he? And you liked that girlfriend of his, Ruby, when he brought her back.’
‘I s’pose. He’s my great white hope, is Bartholomew. But he doesn’t tell us anything.’
‘That’s boys,’ says Lauren.
‘Ruby’s smashing – Joe and I both think so – but he’s not marrying her. They’ve been together a year now and to start with it were all love’s young dream but they seem to have gone off the boil.’
‘These things do. He’s still young.’
‘Thirty-two? I had two boys by that age. This generation, they don’t commit to anything.’
They have pulled into Lauren’s drive and she is pulling on the handbrake. Neither makes a move to get out of the car.
‘Well, it’s different now. Harder for ’em,’ says Lauren.
‘And as for Max, I don’t know how that marriage works. She’s such a pudding.’
‘Raw sexual chemistry I expect,’ says Lauren and Ann laughs.
‘On that note, I think I’ll get off. Thanks for the lift.’
‘Thursday night for flower-arranging?’ says Lauren.
Ann has heaved herself out of the passenger seat. She is stooping to look at her friend who is still seated, gathering her handbag and keys.
‘It’s a date,’ says Ann, then closes the passenger door.
*
Ruby stumbles on the cobbles of Cathedral Way, under the orange street lamps. Stumbles over and into him, and then drags on his arm. He marches her purposefully up the High Street and past the Theatre Royal. There are still plenty of people about – it’s not yet 10 p.m. They’ve not eaten, apart from a steady flow of
‘How’s your kitchen coming along?’
‘Oh Lord it’s slow,’ says Lauren, craning forward again, flicking the indicator for a right turn. ‘Trouble is, when they’re there – the builders I mean – you can’t wait to see the back of them for all the dust. And then they’re gone again and you’re cursing because it’s all half done and I’m dying to put all me things away. Sorry, I can really get boring on this one.’
‘You let rip love.’
‘Well, since you insist. Eric’s no help.’
‘You do surprise me.’
Lauren laughs. ‘Honestly, that man could drive you to drink. He never talks seriously to the builders, always leaves that to me. He’s their best friend, cracking jokes, charming their socks off. Then, soon as they’re gone, he goes around the kitchen picking at this and that. “They haven’t put these hinges on properly. That tiling should be done by now.” As if I’m his foreman and I should be following him around with a pad and pen.’
They’ve had this conversation, or versions of it, for twenty-odd years. They have this saying, she and Lauren, which they say in unison. ‘Don’t put your husband on a pedestal. He’ll only want dusting.’
‘It’ll be done soon,’ says Ann, ‘and then you’ll love it. You’ll forget this bit.’
‘I know, but I tell you, never again. Anyway don’t let me go on. How are the boys?’
‘Their campaign of secrecy continues,’ says Ann. ‘If they told me owt, they’d have to kill me. Bartholomew is too far away, and Max . . .’
‘Not far enough?’
Ann laughs.
‘It’s always the way,’ says Lauren.
‘Joe says we have to support Max, pay him enough so he can start a family. But we haven’t got a brass farthing. We don’t draw salaries ourselves.’
‘Well good for Joe,’ says Lauren. ‘You were always a mean beggar.’
‘I am tight, it’s true. But why can’t Max go and find other work – shearing or labouring or summat? Supplement his income? Joe glories in it – you know, that Max is working the farm with him when most sons would wash their hands of it – but where’s the glory in a son as can’t think for himself?’
‘Arh, he loves those boys, Ann,’ says Lauren, glancing at her then back to the road. ‘Your Joe, he loves those boys more than any father I’ve seen. Bartholomew’s doing well, in’t he? And you liked that girlfriend of his, Ruby, when he brought her back.’
‘I s’pose. He’s my great white hope, is Bartholomew. But he doesn’t tell us anything.’
‘That’s boys,’ says Lauren.
‘Ruby’s smashing – Joe and I both think so – but he’s not marrying her. They’ve been together a year now and to start with it were all love’s young dream but they seem to have gone off the boil.’
‘These things do. He’s still young.’
‘Thirty-two? I had two boys by that age. This generation, they don’t commit to anything.’
They have pulled into Lauren’s drive and she is pulling on the handbrake. Neither makes a move to get out of the car.
‘Well, it’s different now. Harder for ’em,’ says Lauren.
‘And as for Max, I don’t know how that marriage works. She’s such a pudding.’
‘Raw sexual chemistry I expect,’ says Lauren and Ann laughs.
‘On that note, I think I’ll get off. Thanks for the lift.’
‘Thursday night for flower-arranging?’ says Lauren.
Ann has heaved herself out of the passenger seat. She is stooping to look at her friend who is still seated, gathering her handbag and keys.
‘It’s a date,’ says Ann, then closes the passenger door.
*
Ruby stumbles on the cobbles of Cathedral Way, under the orange street lamps. Stumbles over and into him, and then drags on his arm. He marches her purposefully up the High Street and past the Theatre Royal. There are still plenty of people about – it’s not yet 10 p.m. They’ve not eaten, apart from a steady flow of
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