Five French Hens. Judy Leigh

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      ‘Have you met him, Tess?’

      Pam and Tess were walking home together. It was well past five and the light was fading already, the sky streaked with indigo and crimson wheals. The two women lived several streets away and it was their habit to walk home briskly together after aqua aerobics and put the world to rights. But today there could only be one topic.

      ‘No – but Jen seems very taken with him. I’ve never set eyes on him – have you?’

      ‘Yes.’ Pam took a breath. ‘I was out with Elvis, jogging on the beach a couple of weeks ago. They were walking along in the other direction, arm in arm. I stopped to say hello and Jen introduced me.’

      Tess wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s he like?’

      ‘Handsome, mid-seventies – a tall man, broad chested, well mannered.’ Pam shrugged. ‘I can see why Jen would like him. He seemed very – protective, you know, the sort of old-fashioned-gentleman type who wraps a woman in cotton wool.’ She thought for a moment; somehow she had sensed all this within moments of meeting Eddie. ‘He didn’t seem to like Elvis much when he leapt up at him. He seemed more concerned with his expensive coat. I had to carry on with my jog pretty quickly after that.’

      Tess increased her pace to keep up with Pam. They were going up a steady hill. ‘I’m amazed how fit you are, Pam, at seventy-three. Jogging, yoga, swimming – you never stop. You’re just amazing.’

      ‘I believe that we either use it or lose it.’ Pam grinned. ‘It’s not all plain sailing. I have aching knees sometimes and a sore heel most mornings. I love to get out though, in the fresh air. Elvis loves it too.’

      ‘It’s too cold for me.’ Tess shivered. ‘Alan is happy to be out in the winter chill though. He’s moody as anything when he can’t play golf. And as for me, I’m glad to see the back of him, when he’s out on the course. I get a bit of time to myself.’

      Pam’s brow was furrowed. ‘Do you really not get on, Tess?’

      ‘To be honest, we see so little of each other now, it’s hard to tell. We just bumble along really.’

      ‘Why don’t you leave him if it’s so dull?’

      ‘Habit, I guess.’ Tess shrugged. ‘I used to love him once.’ She chortled. ‘Passionately. Then we had the kids. Lisa’s forty-seven now. Gemma’s forty-five. Once they came along, I just seemed to be involved in their lives. I suppose Alan and I grew apart. Then he gave up work, retired, took up playing golf in all his spare time and we only saw each other first thing in the morning and late at night.’ The pounding of their feet on the pavement was the only sound for a while, then Tess said, ‘It’s normal now, I guess. And breaking up would be difficult, selling the house, being alone, like poor Rose. I’m not sure which would be worse, being with Alan or being lonely.’

      Pam chewed her lip. ‘I’m happy by myself.’

      ‘Have you never lived with anyone?’

      ‘There have been – you know – people in my life…’ A small laugh escaped Pam’s lips. ‘Nothing ever worked out though. I always became bored – it was always too claustrophobic. Or people got bored with me, or things went wrong. I wonder sometimes if I ought to be sensible, settle down, just like everyone else…’ She sniffed. ‘But really I’m glad I’m single.’

      The mood had become a bit morose. Spaces between conversations seemed to fill with thoughts, regrets. Then Tess said, ‘Well, Jen’s getting married. How about you and I plan something for us all this weekend – a girls’ night out for the five of us? What do you say, Pam?’

      ‘Perfect.’

      They had arrived at Pam’s front door, a little terraced cottage in the middle of the street. Tess had two more streets to cross then she’d be home. They hugged, feeling the warmth of the other’s cheeks, then Pam said, ‘I’ll ring you. We’ll sort out a great night to celebrate Jen’s engagement.’

      Tess nodded, pushing her hands deep into her coat pockets, her voice trailing back to Pam as she strolled away. ‘I think we could use one. It might cheer us all up a bit.’

      Della was peeling plantains. Sylvester’s favourite. He had such a sweet tooth. He’d be home soon from the snack van on the seafront, which he managed most days at lunchtime and sometimes into the evening. Oil was sizzling in the pan. She was thinking about marriage. She and Sylvester had married in a tiny church in Stepney, forty-nine years ago. She’d worn a lacy gown she’d made herself. Sylvester was all done up in a second-hand suit and his pork-pie hat. He’d looked so handsome. She diced the plantains, throwing the pieces into the oil, listening to the fizz.

      Linval had been born less than a year later; Aston one year after that. They’d never had much money as a family. Sylvester had worked hard, two jobs sometimes, but they’d been happy. Throughout their marriage, laughter had kept them entwined. They’d talked together, tucked up in bed on cold nights, about going back to live in Jamaica. Sylvester had left St Ann’s Bay at sixteen. Della had arrived in the UK earlier, as an eight year old, her parents leading her by the hand from the boat onto the bleak windy quay. She’d never known such bitter cold weather and she’d never got used to it.

      But their love had kept her warm, Sylvester’s embrace, his cheerful smile, his kisses. She didn’t want for much else. She put a hand to the ache in her lower back. The oil spat and hissed in the pan as she flipped the golden plantains over. She hoped Jen and her Eddie would be as happy as she was.

      Rose sat at the piano and stretched out her hands. Bertie Small would be here in ten minutes for his lesson. He was quite good, a chirpy ten year old, but Rose suspected that his mother was keen for him to progress at a faster rate. Apparently, Bertie’s grandfather had been a good pianist. Rose wriggled her fingers. She had neat hands – they could fly across the keys nimbly. She was glad she’d never inherited the arthritis her poor mother had to endure, fingers twisted into brittle claws at sixty-five. Rose was seventy-five and, despite or perhaps because of the constant use, her fingers were as deft as ever. She began to play, Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto No 1. She loved the way the notes filled the room with resonating sadness. It was somehow pure, soothing, as if the rest of the world could understand and share her melancholy.

      Rose СКАЧАТЬ