The Husband's Story by Norman Collins Read Free Book Online

bottom-Grade clerk like Stan to try to keep up socially with a woman like Beryl. It was, she reckoned, something that the Personnel Officer owed to the Lords of the Admiralty to get his sense of values right.
    The onyx alarm clock on the bedside table – Beryl always set the hand for three-thirty just in case she should happen to drop off – gave a little warning click that meant that it was about to start ringing. She pushed the button down on top, and went over to the dressing-table to re-do her face.
    At least, for once, she didn’t have to rush. On Tuesdays, because of dancing, Marleen didn’t come out until nearly quarter past.
    It was Beryl’s only other quiet moment of the day. The evening meal was over. The plates and dishes were in the automatic washer. The television was on. And Marleen was safely tucked up at last, up in her little chintzy bedroom; tucked up, but not necessarily asleep, Beryl kept reminding herself. That was why she was keeping one ear open. Sometimes the little monkey switched the bedside lamp on again, and went on reading long after her mother had kissed her good-night and left the room in darkness. But Beryl was wise to her. Even above the television, she knew that she could still hear if there was the least tiny sound from Marleen’s room. Leaning over to take another book from the shelf that Stan had fixed up for her would be quite enough to get Beryl beside her in a flash.
    Because they were watching television, Beryl and Stan were both sitting half sideways in their chairs. It is like that in most homes -just one of the natural hazards of television – that there is nowhere really right to have the set. Except in the fireplace, that is. And this was out of the question in No. 16 because it was only last autumn that they’d had the new convection gas-fire fitted. As it was, all the furniture faced one way, confronting the gas-fire; and the television set, smart andgood-looking in its own way, was stuck right over in the corner.
    Beryl turned towards him.
    â€˜I don’t suppose like you’ve heard anything, have you, Stan?’ she asked. ‘About the job, I mean.’
    She hadn’t meant to ask him at all. The question had just slipped out, sudden and unintended. But then she hadn’t really been watching. More just sitting there, thinking. Going over things in her mind; things like wondering how much longer they would have to put up with a black-and-white set when so many of Marleen’s friends had already gone over to colour; and what it would cost to get Marleen properly fitted up with jodhpurs and ankle boots and a tweed jacket and one of those black, peaked caps that were so severe they looked almost saucy.
    Turning towards him had made no difference. Stan hadn’t really been watching either. Just thinking. Even his eyes had gone glazed. He might have been marooned on some desert island, he seemed so far off.
    Even so, she wasn’t going to be ignored, not treated as though she didn’t even exist. So, naturally, she repeated the question. And this time she could tell that Stan had heard because he half raised his hand in a sort of waving-away gesture to shut her up, as though she were a child, or something.
    That was why she shouted at him; shouted even louder than she had intended.
    â€˜Well, if you don’t care, I’m sure I don’t,’ she could hear herself saying, her voice rising all the time. ‘What do we want with the extra money? We don’t need it, do we? We’re rolling in it. We’re rich. That’s what we are – rich.’
    She was sorry afterwards, of course. And surprised at herself. The outburst had been so entirely unexpected. But it showed how run down she was, how close to breaking-point. And naturally she did break down and cry; cried the way she did in the afternoons when she was all alone.
    But perhaps it was just as well. She had noticed before that somehow she always