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  ‘Oh, George,’ she said, thoroughly worried. ‘Why do you have to do it?’

  ‘I’m doing it for you. You want a home of your own and this is the only way of getting it without having to wait years and years.’

  ‘Are you saying it is my fault? Because if you are…’

  ‘No, of course not. I want it too.’

  She was about to remonstrate again, but he silenced her with a kiss.

  How easily she was bought, she thought, as she lay awake that night. George was sleeping the sleep of the innocent beside her while she lay sleepless, full of guilt, conjuring up all sorts of punishment, both for him and herself. Something dreadful might happen to the baby, if there was a baby; she wasn’t even sure of that. The man, Donald, might spill the beans, someone from the council might find out. George would be arrested. Why was he so confident he wouldn’t be? Did all business really run on such shamelessly oiled wheels? Even if it did, it was wrong. And she was condoning it. She was betraying her principles for a quiet life, for a home of her own. But what else could she do?

  Chapter Three

  George went around with a permanent smile on his face, full of bonhomie towards everyone. In spite of talk of depression and unemployment, his business was doing well. True, his suppliers didn’t like his delaying tactics when it came to settling bills, but they knew he was going places and a little patience now would be rewarded with bigger orders in the future. And the future looked promising. As he told Barbara, one contract didn’t make a successful business; he had to go after others and that meant wooing people out of working hours, and to do that with some aplomb he bought his first motor car, a brown Morris Cowley. He went to council meetings because it was vital to know what was happening in the town as soon as it happened, before it happened, if possible. He joined the golf club, maintaining more business was transacted at the nineteenth hole than ever was done in the boardroom. He frequently wined and dined prospective decision makers and members of the council. It was imperative to keep them sweet. Barbara never knew where he was. And their house was a long way from being finished.

  ‘No point in trying to find him,’ Elizabeth said, the day Barbara’s labour pains began. ‘You’ll be hours yet.’

  The two women had been washing up the coffee cups after their mid-morning break. It was the only chore Barbara was allowed to do. She knew some young women of her acquaintance envied her idleness, but they weren’t living with their in-laws. Elizabeth liked doing things her way, and she resented any suggestions Barbara made for change. But it wasn’t that so much as the fact that she was there, doing everything for her son, just as she always had, cooking, mending, making sure he had clean socks and a newly starched collar every day, packing his sandwiches. But today Barbara was glad of her mother-in-law’s presence. She was unsure at what point to ring the midwife and the doctor on the telephone George had recently had installed. She didn’t want to appear to be panicking, but the thought of the baby arriving before the midwife filled her with apprehension.

  They finished the washing-up and went to sit in the front room. Barbara picked up some knitting, but she was too aware of the strange things that were happening to her body to concentrate on it. By the middle of the afternoon, the pains were much stronger and more frequent, and Elizabeth agreed that it was time to make a move. ‘Go up and get on to the bed,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch Mrs Milton.’

  Barbara nodded, unable to speak as another contraction seized her in its grip. She held her breath, waiting for it to pass and then toiled up the stairs, made the bed up with the rubber sheet under some old flannelette sheets, undressed and put on her nightie. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with her head down and her hands between her knees when Elizabeth joined her. ‘She’s on her way, said not to disturb the doctor yet, she’ll send for him when the time comes.’

  ‘Did you ring George?’

  ‘Whatever for? This is women’s business, nothing to do with men, not until it’s all over. Now, come along and get into bed.’

  Her waters broke a few minutes later, and by the time the midwife arrived, her contractions were only a minute or two apart. ‘You’re only just in time,’ Barbara said through gritted teeth, as another spasm attacked her.

  ‘Nonsense, you’ve got hours yet.’ She was a big capable woman who was not prepared to stand any nonsense from her mothers, but she changed her mind when she examined her patient. ‘Seems like this one’s in a bit of a hurry.’ Barbara hardly heard her: she was concentrating on trying not to disgrace herself and scream. Between the spasms she heard the midwife instruct Elizabeth to ring the doctor.

  The pains were thick and fast now, but neither Mrs Milton nor the doctor, who had arrived with commendable speed, seemed sympathetic. They were intent on making her suffer, urging her to push, telling her it wouldn’t be long now. They had been saying that for hours. Now she had to push, had to rid herself of the lump that was giving her so much agony. And then something huge and wet slithered between her thighs and the pain subsided. She heard the baby cry and opened her eyes to see Mrs Milton lifting it onto the scales. ‘A girl, six pounds five ounces,’ she said, then looked at her watch. ‘Half past eight, tenth of March 1921.’

  The afterbirth was quickly disposed of and the new little life was cleaned and wrapped and put into Barbara’s arms. She had a daughter, a perfect, rosy-limbed baby, with tiny fingers which had a surprisingly strong grip, a red nose and a lot of dark hair. Barbara lay looking at the bundle in her arms and was moved to tears by the wonder of it.

  Elizabeth came in, bearing a cup of tea, and stood looking down at the baby. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she said and there was a catch in her voice. ‘And she’s just like George.’

  ‘Is she?’ Barbara looked at her daughter, searching for the likeness, but she couldn’t see any resemblance to her rugged-featured husband, except the dark hair. ‘Have you rung him?’

  ‘He’s on his way. He’d been to a meeting, and was just about to come home, so you timed it nicely.’

  George was over the moon with his daughter and it didn’t occur to him that being close at hand when she was born was any part of his fatherhood. They called her Alison Margaret Elizabeth.

  Her father came in to see her the following day, bearing a huge bunch of daffodils. ‘From the garden,’ he said, stooping to kiss her. ‘How are you, sweetheart?’

  ‘Fine, just fine.’ She buried her nose in the flowers, visualising the garden at the farm, the borders round the lawn crowded with the yellow blooms. Impatiently she brushed the tears from her eyes and smiled up at him. ‘Do you want to see your granddaughter?’

  ‘Of course.’ He turned to the cot and stood looking down at the sleeping baby. ‘Except for the dark hair, she’s just like you. I remember the day you were born. I was bursting with pride.’ He turned to sit on the side of her bed, his own eyes moist. ‘I’m still very proud of you.’

  She reached for his hand. ‘Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Goodness, what for?’

  ‘Being so bitchy about Virginia. I didn’t understand…’

  ‘But you do now?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  She wished their new house had been finished in time, but it was still some weeks to completion. George said it couldn’t be helped, he had to concentrate on the hundred and fifty he was supposed to be building because there was a time clause in the contract and he couldn’t afford the penalties for being late. So, like it or not, she had to continue living with her mother-in-law. But at least she now had something to occupy her.

  Feeding, bathing and dressing Alison and taking her out in her pram filled her days. Sometimes they went shopping, sometimes to the park and sometimes she wheeled the pram up to the Newtown estate past the new council houses, to the one on the corner which adjoined a street of private houses. She would stand looking up at the house, wanting it finished, wanting to move in, but full of apprehension. Nothing George said could make her feel any easier in her mind about
how it had been obtained. She had sleepless nights about it, and that made George laugh. ‘I can see it was a mistake to tell you anything,’ he said. ‘You don’t have the stomach for business. Forget it, will you? Let me do the worrying.’

  ‘So you are worried.’

  ‘Not at all. You will have your house and I will make lots of money.’

  The last time she had been there, the roof was on and plasterers and carpenters were working inside. Retribution could not be long coming, she was convinced of it.

  And then George came home one evening carrying a bottle of champagne. ‘The house is ours,’ he said, washing his hands at the kitchen sink, before rooting around in a drawer for a corkscrew. ‘The council numbered the houses today.’

  ‘And they found one too many. Oh, George!’

  He laughed. ‘You should have seen their faces. They counted them twice and stood scratching their heads, wondering how it had happened.’

  ‘What did you say? What did they do?’ Her heart was pounding in her throat, in spite of the fact that he seemed to be treating it as a joke.

  ‘Oh, I enlightened them, told them the last one was mine, paid for outside the contract. They went away to ask the chief officer what to do about it.’ The cork left the bottle with a satisfactory pop and he began pouring the wine into the glasses his mother had fetched. ‘He sent for me.’

  ‘Then what?’ Elizabeth asked, because Barbara had been struck dumb.

  ‘I told him straight out what I’d done. He was a bit miffed at first, but I pointed out the publicity wouldn’t do him or the council a ha’porth of good, the Melsham Gazette would have a field day and he’d be a laughing stock. No one would blame me, they’d probably say if I could pull one over on the authorities, then good luck to me. He saw my point. I’ll send him a case of Scotch for being such a good sport.’

  ‘You mean you got away with it?’ Barbara couldn’t believe her ears.

  ‘I told you I would, didn’t I? I swore to keep mum, so you two must promise not to tell any of your friends.’

  ‘It’s not something I want to boast about,’ Barbara said tartly.

  Nor did she, not even to Penny when she came down for Alison’s christening at the beginning of May. She looked at her god-daughter, cradled in Barbara’s arms, wearing the long christening robe Barbara herself had worn, but did not take up the invitation to hold her. She was uncomfortable around infants: they had a disconcerting habit of discharging the contents of their stomachs from one end or the other and the cream linen suit she was wearing had cost her all of twenty guineas. She admired from a safe distance and allowed Virginia, the baby’s other godmother, to do the honours.

  Barbara envied her friend her smart clothes. She had bought a new dress for the ceremony, but most of the time she wore a cotton blouse and skirt which was more practical while she was breastfeeding. They held a small party which overflowed into the back garden, though that was no more than a long strip of lawn with a gate at the end. George had set out hired tables and chairs and brought in a caterer. He went round pouring champagne, accepting the congratulations of his friends as if he alone had accomplished the miracle that was their daughter.

  ‘I bet he doesn’t get up when she cries in the night,’ Penny said to Barbara. She didn’t know why she did not like the man. It wasn’t only that he had taken Barbara from Simon – who had never complained of his loss, but she knew her brother through and through and beneath that smiling exterior was a man who felt deeply disappointed – but that she simply didn’t trust George Kennett, and she hoped for Barbara’s sake it would not all end in tears.

  ‘No, but he works long hours and needs his rest and I really don’t mind.’ They had come indoors to the front room so that they could sit and chat comfortably. ‘Enough of me. What have you been up to?’

  Penny looked at her friend over the rim of her glass and decided not to say what was in her mind, that in her opinion George was a selfish dominating brute and before long Barbara would become a drudge with no life of her own. ‘I’ve got a lead in a West End play.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ Barbara’s eyes lit with pleasure.

  ‘I’m going to have a party after the first night when we know what the critics say. It will either be a celebration or a solace. You’ll come, won’t you?’

  ‘Oh, Penny, I wish I could, but I can’t leave Alison.’

  ‘Of course you can. It’ll only be one night and Mrs Kennett will look after the baby. It’s not for a couple of months, she’ll be weaned by then, won’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not just that. I’m not sure when we’re moving…’

  ‘You’re just making excuses. You’re vegetating, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. It’s simply that I know I’ll be busy.’

  ‘Busy doing nothing,’ Penny said firmly. ‘When did you last pick up a paintbrush?’

  ‘I’ll do plenty of that soon.’ She laughed. ‘We’re decorating the new house ourselves. It will save George having to pay his painters to do it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that and you know it.’ Penny could see that the newness of marriage was already wearing off and her friend was not as blissfully happy as she pretended.

  ‘I’m sorry, Penny. You must be very disappointed in me.’

  ‘Yes, I am. I thought you had more spirit.’

  ‘I’m tired, that’s all. It will be better when Alison sleeps through the night.’

  ‘Then you’ll find other excuses. If you neglect a talent, you lose it. Think about that.’ She looked up as Elizabeth came into the room and wondered how much she had heard. ‘Hallo, Mrs Kennett.’

  ‘It’s Miss Barcliffe, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth said, as if she didn’t remember her.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry I can’t stop, I’m rehearsing this afternoon.’ She picked up her crocodile handbag and turned back to Barbara. ‘I’ll send you an invitation. Be sure and come.’

  ‘What invitation?’ Elizabeth asked, plumping up the cushion on the chair Penny had used, as if she couldn’t wait to erase the evidence of her presence.

  ‘A party she’s giving to celebrate a new play she’s acting in. I told her I couldn’t go.’

  They moved into the new house on a scorching day at the end of June. Numbered 1a Cambridge Crescent, and not, as Barbara had expected, 150a Newtown Estate, it had one large living room and a kitchen with a gas cooker, two bedrooms and, unlike the neighbouring council houses whose baths were in the kitchen, it had an upstairs bathroom whose water was heated with a gas geyser. The bathroom was Barbara’s delight. The one at Victoria Street had been added to the back of the kitchen by George just after the war, but having a bath meant you had to stoke up the kitchen range hours beforehand to get hot water.

  She spent days going round the shops choosing carpets, curtains and furniture, sometimes taking Alison in her pram, sometimes leaving her with Elizabeth. She took an immense amount of trouble, using her flair for colour to make it special. It had to be to eradicate the feelings of guilt which still beset her. But the distempered walls in a pale coffee colour were a little too bare.

  ‘We need a few pictures,’ George said, hanging their framed wedding photograph up in the lounge and rooting in a box for another of his mother. He had no picture of his father, which Barbara thought rather strange. But photographs were not what was needed, she decided, and after he had gone to work, she set about covering one of the bare walls in the sitting room with a mural.

  It was great to have a brush in her hand again, to look down at the different coloured pots of paint she had set out on a small table, and know that she could create something lasting, something that was unique to her. Alison was asleep and in no time at all she was totally absorbed. She painted a rural scene, a meadow with daisies and buttercups, running down to a ribbon of river, where a small dinghy sailed. The sky was cobalt blue and the sun a golden orb. A young man on a bicycle rode along the towpath. A girl sat in the shade of a tree, fondling a dog. She stopped to
give Alison her lunch and ate a sandwich herself, and then went straight back to it, propping Alison up in the corner of the sofa so that she could talk to her about it, just as if her daughter could understand. And then George came home and spoilt it all.

  Dinner wasn’t ready, something he could have forgiven if she had been busy unpacking the tea chests of small possessions which they had accumulated while living in Victoria Street, but the chests hadn’t been touched and she had wasted the whole day, daubing that monstrosity on the wall. ‘When I said pictures, I meant real pictures,’ he said. ‘In frames.’

  ‘Then I’ll give it a frame,’ she said angrily and, picking up a brush, dipped it in brown paint and drew a thick line round it. ‘There! Now it’s got a frame.’

  ‘It’s too big. It dominates the room. Whatever made you do it, Barbara?’

  ‘I felt like it.’

  ‘Felt like it! I wish I could neglect my work to do something useless simply because I felt like doing it.’

  ‘Perhaps you should. Perhaps if you gave yourself a little time off now and again, you wouldn’t be so grouchy.’

  ‘I’m not grouchy. I’m simply pointing out that it’s not—’

  ‘What you employ me for?’ She couldn’t help saying it; it simply burst out of her. She felt guilty about his dinner, but not about the picture. And she was disappointed he didn’t see any merit in it at all. Was he right? Didn’t she have any talent after all? She looked at it critically and saw all its faults: its perspective wasn’t quite right and the man was too big compared with his bicycle, and she wanted to weep. Instead she became angry. ‘I am not one of your employees, George. I am your wife.’

  ‘Quite,’ he said.

  And then she burst into tears.

  He looked perplexed, raised his hands and then dropped them to his sides, at a loss to know what to do in the face of this torrent of grief. ‘Oh, do stop it, Barbara, it’s nothing to cry about,’ he said. ‘I hate weepy women.’ He took the handkerchief from his top pocket and handed it to her. ‘I suppose you have taken quite a lot of trouble over it. You never said you might do it or I might have been prepared…’ He stopped and looked more closely at the painting, showing a belated interest in it. ‘I see now. It’s the Cam and that’s supposed to be me on the bicycle, the day we met. But you should be in a rowing boat, not under the tree.’