But the need to get to a pub and enjoy a cigarette in a comfortable seat rather than standing out on her bloody patio was steadily growing. So he began to recover from his feigned despondency, apparently revived by the succession of meals she so lovingly prepared. One day he announced that it was time he sorted himself out. Found a job and place of his own.
Her eyes had widened in alarm at his mention of moving out. “Stay as long as you like. The house is too big for just me. I like you being here. Please.” The desperation in her voice surprised him. It was going to be so easy cleaning her out of everything.
He pondered her words, thinking of the three bedrooms upstairs. The spare room he slept in, her pink nightmare, and the locked door with the nursery placard on it. He’d peeped through the keyhole at the first opportunity and was just able to make out babyish wallpaper and some cuddly toys on a chest of drawers. Three bedrooms and a decent garden. Worth what? Two hundred grand at least.
“What happened to your family, Marjorie? What happened to your babies?” he whispered, curious that, apart from her creepy shrine, all traces of them had been removed from the house.
The question obviously distressed her and she waved it away with an agitated flutter of her hands. “I really can’t speak about it. Not yet. I’m sorry, it’s still all too… raw,” she said, fingers grasping at the crucifix around her neck.
He nodded. “I understand, Marjorie, I understand. But I must repay your kindness somehow. Let me pay you some rent at least.”
She shook her head. “Really, I don’t need it.”
He paused, always amazed at his ability to bring out the maternal instincts of women. “Think of it for me. For my self-respect if nothing else. There’s a job I spotted when I first arrived here. A salesman for those industrial vacuums they use in pubs and restaurants. It’s something I’ve done before. They’d take me on, I just need to brush up a bit…” His words died away and his eyes dropped to his scuffed old shoes.
She sprang to her feet. “You need proper work clothes.” She crossed to the dresser in the corner, took out a file from the top drawer, and extracted several twenty-pound notes from inside. “Here, take this. Buy yourself a nice new suit.”
“No, Marjorie, I couldn’t,” he protested, holding up his hands while making a mental note of the file’s whereabouts.
“Then take it as a loan,” she insisted.
“Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “And I’m paying you back every penny, understand?” he added, knowing she’d never ask for it back.
He scoured the shops for a sale. After finding one and then mercilessly bargaining down the young assistant, he picked up a suit, three shirts, and a pair of shoes for a steal. The deal left him with over eighty pounds in change. He headed straight for the nearest pub with a copy of the Racing Post, where he picked his runners over a couple of pints and several cigarettes.
When he set off back to Marjorie’s at five o’clock that afternoon he was fifty quid and several more pints up. As he ambled happily along he wondered how to explain the state he was in. She opened the door to find him swaying on her doorstep, shopping bag hanging from one arm.
“I rang them. I’ve got an interview tomorrow,” he sighed.
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” she said, confused by the look of sadness on his face.
“But then I went back to my mother’s grave. Oh, Marjorie, if I hadn’t dithered for so long before tracing her, I might have spoken to her before she died. I’m afraid I’ve had a few drinks.”
“Come here,” she said, arms outstretched.
He slipped inside and endured a crushing hug.
“You mustn’t punish yourself. Now take that jacket off and sit down.” She led him to the sofa in the immaculate front room. “I’m making tea. Is beef casserole all right?”
“Great, thanks,” he replied with a weak smile.
She sniffed at his jacket. “This reeks of cigarettes. You really shouldn’t smoke.”
“I know. It’s only when I’m stressed.”
She nodded. “Well, I’ll give it a good airing on the washing line.”
“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the TV’s remote control as soon as she was out of the room.
He woke with a sore throat and cursed himself for smoking so heavily the day before. She’d washed and ironed his shirts the previous evening and he walked down the stairs straightening his tie.
“Oh, Daniel. You look the perfect gentleman.” She moved across the kitchen, encroaching on his personal space. “Stand still, you’ve got a stray strand of hair.”
He fought the urge to slap her hand away, instead gratefully smiling as she smoothed it into place.
“Perfect,” she said, standing back. “I’ve ordered you a cab. We don’t want you going by bus and getting there late.”
He sat down and waited for her to cook him breakfast.
“Just here’s fine, mate.” He leaned over from the rear of the cab.
“The betting office?” the driver replied, confused after hearing the pudgy woman wish the passenger good luck in his job interview.
“Yeah, here will do.”
“That’s four eighty then, please.”
He counted out the exact money, then climbed out, the cabbie not bothering to thank him as he drove off. A bout of coughing caught him by surprise as he walked towards the bookie’s and he lit a cigarette to quell the itch in his throat.
The morning was spent working out his bets. He rang Marjorie at midday. “I’ve got the job. Can you believe it?!”
“Daniel, that’s brilliant. I’ll cook something special for tea.”
“They want me to start straightaway. I’ve got a sales patch right in the centre of town. Mainly pubs, so I’ll probably end up smelling of cigarettes each day.”
“Never mind. Did they say what they’ll pay you?”
“It’s commission only, but the vacuum is a great product. I’m sure I’ll sell loads. I’ve got to demo it to prospective customers. They’re dropping me off and have given me a special trolley to wheel it around on.”
“They’re making you carry one around town?”
“Yes. And I have to drop it back off at the factory at the end of each day.”
“That’s ridiculous. You need a car.”
He smiled to himself. “I’ll manage somehow. Now I’ve got to go. See you later.”
He hung up and then walked over to the Tap and Spile. “Hello there,” he said, taking the same stool at the bar, straightening a pristine shirt cuff.
She looked up, a tea towel in her hand, eyes passing briefly over his suit. “Hello again. Thanks for the champagne the other night.”
“My pleasure,” he replied.
“How’s business going?”
“Okay,” he said. “There’s a few question marks over the rates the council wants to charge. I’m arguing it’s a multi-let property, so not subject to the standard commercial tariffs they’d levy if…” He paused. “Sorry, that’s probably more of an answer than you were expecting. How about you?”
She looked round the deserted pub. “Lunches tend to be quiet. But I’m not giving up the bar meals. Every decent pub should offer them.”
He picked up a menu. “What do you recommend, then?”
“I don’t know,” she said, polishing another glass. “The chicken pie is good.”
“Homemade, too, I see.”
“Of course.”
“Is it breast or leg?” he asked provocatively.
“You’ll have to see,” she replied, one eyebrow arching upwards.
“Fine with me. I love both,” he said, placing an elbow on the bar.
He walked back to the bookie’s a couple of hours later, stopping at a newsagent’s to buy some Rennie for the burning ache at the back of his throat. Things were looking good. Marjorie was proving as easy as he knew she would be and it was going better than he dared hope with Jan. So good, in fact, he’d asked her out to dinner on Sunday night. He pictured her face, her cleavage, and realised she was really growing on him. If his plans for Marjorie worked out, he and Jan could look forward to some fun times together.