Five French Hens. Judy Leigh

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      ‘… completely over the top. I’ve never seen you like that. I had to go and sleep in the spare bed. I thought you might be sick over me.’

      Tess felt sad. ‘You might have looked after me?’

      ‘You were drunk, Tess. It’s not very appealing to sleep next to someone who is drunk, mouth open, snoring.’

      ‘You snore all the time,’ Tess retorted.

      ‘I can’t imagine what the women you were with are like. A group of harridans, screeching and baying and drawing attention to themselves, no doubt.’

      Tess expelled air sharply. ‘No, they weren’t, Alan. I just drank too much. I was enjoying myself. Anyway, perhaps you and I should go out more. It was ages since I’d been out – before Christmas – and I really needed to let my hair down.’

      Alan shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to go to a cocktail bar. I don’t like Italian food much either.’

      ‘No, all you seem to like is golf.’ Tess didn’t mean to say it. Alan’s eyes widened. For a moment, he seemed cross, then his expression softened.

      ‘Tess… there are social evenings up at the golf club sometimes. Some of the wives go down with their husbands. Cliff takes Celia most weekends. You’d like Celia. She’s friendly enough.’ He took a deep breath. ‘To be honest, love, I think she might benefit from having you as a friend. She’s a bit dowdy, you know, a bit frumpy, dull. You’d cheer her up – you have so much more fun than she does. You should tag along.’

      Tess didn’t feel that she had any fun. She felt inclined to shout at him, to tell him that she’d heard enough about his golf during the daytime and she didn’t want to spend her evenings talking to an equally bored, dull golf wife while the men chatted about irons and caddies and whatever else it was that obsessed them. She stared at her husband and he smiled softly. Something about the twinkle in his eyes, the gentleness that used to be a light in his gaze when he looked at her took her by surprise for a moment. Then a wave of tiredness or nausea came over her, the toxic tingling of too much alcohol. She sighed.

      ‘Maybe, Alan. Or maybe we could go out somewhere together, just the two of us.’

      He came to sit next to her on the sofa, resting his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re right, Tess. We must do that, soon. We need some quality time together. I need to make more fuss of you.’

      Tess thought about covering his hand with hers. Her fingers fluttered, ready to move, then he folded his arms and his hands were lost to her…

      His eyes were sad. ‘Tess, I know it’s Saturday and we usually spend the evening together. It’s just – well, the weather is really good today and a few of the chaps are meeting at the golf course this afternoon. I said I’d go down with Cliff. I might be a little bit late home, so – perhaps it might be wise not to cook anything for me this evening.’ He smiled at her, raising his eyebrows. ‘I’ll grab a sandwich. Perhaps you can get an early night. You know, so you feel a bit better tomorrow.’

      Tess nodded. ‘OK. I’ll do that.’ She glanced at him. ‘But I thought Sunday was the day you played golf all day.’

      His voice was light. ‘Oh, yes – tomorrow’s Sunday session is still on.’ He stood up and shifted back to the doorway. ‘But we’ll go out somewhere next week, love. I promise.’

      ‘Alan…’ Tess rubbed her temples. ‘Do you ever think you neglect me?’

      He shrugged, sauntered back to the sofa and placed a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I’ll make it up to you, Tess.’

      With a hint of an apologetic smile, he turned and walked away, towards the hall where he kept his coat, his car keys and his golf clubs.

      Tess shook her head sadly. ‘How?’ she asked, but the room was empty.

      The spring sunshine streamed into the lounge, pale as melting butter. Rose smiled and tugged the hoover into the centre of the room, switching it on and searching for dust. She’d air all the rooms today, give the house a good spring clean; she’d polish the piano, dust the photos and perhaps even treat herself to a cream slice from the baker’s later. She moved her feet nimbly as she manoeuvred the machine, shoving the nozzle in all nooks and crannies while she was doing a little dance.

      Her heart felt light. She’d really enjoyed the evening out with the girls. The half a cocktail, a glass of Valpolicella and most of a spaghetti carbonara had left her feeling very sophisticated. She had no pupils for piano lessons today – the one she usually had on a Saturday morning, eight year old Candice, had cancelled, so she was determined to pamper herself. A hot bath with scented bubbles would be in order.

      Rose hoovered around the sofa, pushing it back to reach the carpet underneath. Despite the roar of the machine, she was humming a sprightly tune. She paused a moment to recollect what it was: Abba’s ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man after Midnight)’. Rose thought about the very idea of a mysterious stranger sneaking into her bedroom and she smiled.

      Sylvester hugged his wife, almost sweeping her off her feet, although they were almost the same height when Della wore heels. She giggled. ‘What foolishness is this now?’

      ‘I’m taking you out for lunch.’

      ‘We can’t afford it, Sylvester. Besides, you should be out in the snack van by the sea wall.’

      He lifted a lip in a pretend sneer. ‘The van can go to hell right now. I’m taking my pretty wife to lunch. She deserves it.’

      ‘Are you crazy?’ Della rolled her eyes. ‘I was out last night, partying with the girls. I don’t need two treats in a weekend.’

      ‘And you came home in such a good mood. I love it when you wake me up for cuddles at midnight.’

      ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, Sylvester.’

      ‘Your feet were cold – I had to warm them up.’ He took her hand, kissing the back of it gently. ‘So today, I want to treat you. I’m taking you for lunch. I can do the van afterwards this afternoon – there are enough customers to make it worthwhile. I have a good reputation to keep up – Sylvester Donavan is always out there with hot coffee and rolls, in all English weathers, the cold, the freezing, the ice and the snow.’ He smiled, his eyes crinkling. ‘But I want to spend some time with you today, look into your beautiful eyes across a table and…’

      ‘… eat fish and chips,’ Della spluttered.

      Sylvester was serious. He held up Della’s jacket, waiting for her to slip it on. ‘I want to show my appreciation for my wife. Then we’ll go for a stroll along the headland, just like we did when we were twenty-something and we used to go walking together.’

      ‘When we were twenty-something we were young and energetic, living in Stepney, strolling through the streets in the dark, with nowhere to go, nothing to do. It was lovely though. We were so poor then. That seems so long ago.’ She sighed. ‘We’re still not well off though…’

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