Springtime at Hope Hall Page 10

  “Better.” Maggie looked thoughtful as she dipped a long-handled spoon into the cream on top of her hot chocolate. “I felt totally out of control last night, as if my world was being torn apart and ransacked, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. But I do have rights, and at least now Brian can be the one to tell Dave what those rights are. He can’t just barge in and cherry-pick all the best items from our house, my home, simply because he’s decided that’s what he wants. I mean, having another baby when he’s fifty-two years old!”

  Unable to stop herself, Maggie chuckled. “And I wish him luck with that. He was never good with our kids when they were babies. He hated being woken up in the night, and he didn’t cope very well with all those years of early mornings when they’d want us to get up at six o’clock just because they were awake. I can’t remember him ever changing a nappy, or having any patience when they kicked balls around in the lounge or had a Star Wars fight in the middle of his vegetable patch. He hated it when I insisted we all went out for the day in the car. He was always grumpy, and would go off on his own, usually to a nearby pub, so that he could get a bit of peace and quiet before the drive home.

  “My Dave likes routine. He likes dinner on the table at six, his shirts all hung up in the wardrobe with the top button done up and all the coat hangers facing in exactly the same direction, and he gets in a real strop if anyone dares to take the TV remote control without his permission. And there he is, bringing up someone else’s children, having his meals cooked by a dolly bird with ‘more modern taste’ than me. He’s even having to take an interest in whether the vacuum cleaner works. I didn’t think he knew what a vacuum cleaner was before now! And what’s more, that grumpy old man is going to have a new baby on his hands. Really, this couldn’t be happening to a nicer fella.”

  “You are going to change those locks on all the doors, though,” pressed Kath. “You don’t want him turning up with a van when you’re not there. He knows what hours you work.”

  “I’ll sort that out straight away when I get back home.”

  “And how do you feel about the divorce itself? It’s a very emotional decision to make.”

  Maggie nodded. “Yes, it is. I can’t believe it’s happening. We’ve always been so strong as a couple, as a family. Never a cross word really, nothing that ever worried us. We’ve been very happy, completely comfortable together through all these years.”

  Kath reached out to cover her friend’s hand. “You will be happy again. You may not feel it now, but you are such a wonderful person, Mags. Everyone loves you.”

  “Except my husband.” Maggie’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she fumbled for the tissue she kept up the sleeve of her cardigan, to dab them dry.

  “Still,” she said at last, with a note of determination in her voice, “I have to be practical. After all, that’s what Dave is doing. He’s sorting out what he wants for his future. I need to do that too.”

  There was a lull in their conversation as Maggie stabbed a fork into her lemon meringue pie.

  “What do you think will happen?” asked Kath as she picked up the freshly made shortbread she’d chosen. “Do you think Dave will stick at this?”

  Maggie considered the question.

  “Not a chance! That’s my gut feeling, but it’s based on the character of the Dave I knew. I’d never have imagined he had it in him to do something as dramatic as this. All this change, the upheaval, the inconvenience – none of that would have appealed to the Dave I’ve known for years. But just look at what’s happened, so perhaps I never really knew him at all. I thought we were settled and contented, but maybe he thought our marriage was just boring. He must have wanted something different, something dramatic and exciting that would give him the life he really wished he’d had. I mean, what’s exciting about me? I am boring.”

  “No,” said Kath firmly. “No, my dear Maggie, there is nothing even remotely boring about you.”

  Maggie shrugged, as if she couldn’t believe that.

  “If he turned up at the door tomorrow saying it was all a horrible mistake, and he’s sorry and wants to come back, what would you say?”

  “I’d shut the door in his face. I am so angry at the moment. I’d tell him where to shove his apology.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  “But I don’t know how I’ll feel a couple of months down the line. I’m not the sort of person who enjoys living on her own. My home has always been full of family – but the kids have left, and now Dave’s gone too…”

  Maggie bristled as a new thought occurred to her. “And where will my home be anyway? The solicitor says I’ll have to agree to the house being sold. We moved into that house the year we were married, a lifetime ago. Where will I be this time next year? What have I got to look forward to?”

  Once again, as tears began to course their way down her cheeks, Maggie’s shoulders slumped and her head dropped in an effort to hide her misery.

  A classroom on the ground floor of the old school building was booked, and the piano placed there in good time for the first official gathering of the Can’t Sing Singers. Pauline and Flora arrived first, followed minutes later by Peter and Olive Spencer (husband and wife, both in their eighties); Brenda Parker (loud voice but stone deaf – always picked a note, any note, and stuck to it); Mary Brownlow and her sister Elizabeth (spinster sisters, members of the St Mark’s Church choir since attending Sunday school there fifty years earlier); Sophia Mansell (in her late forties, a contralto who says she was professionally trained when she was a young woman); and Bruce Edison, who used to sing in a rock band. One unexpected latecomer was Keith Turner, a young man with a lovely tenor voice to whom Gregory, the new music maestro at the church, had graciously awarded a place in the prestigious St Mark’s Choral Choir. Keith loved a bit of scandal almost as much as he loved singing, so he couldn’t resist taking a peep at the breakaway group.

  “The St Mark’s rehearsals are all so serious now,” he moaned. “He makes us do scales and vocal exercises before we start – all that na-na-na-na-na and me-me-me-me-me! And we have to read music, which you know has never been my forte. This choir sounds like much more fun. What are we going to sing?”

  “A good question,” said the tall figure who walked into the room at just that moment. They looked up from their gossipy huddle to see a man in his late fifties, with thinning hair and very blue eyes that had a definite twinkle in them. Pauline was the first to recover.

  “Ronnie! Thank you so much for coming. Shall I do the introductions?”

  “I tell you what,” said Ronnie, pulling out the piano stool and opening the lid. “Why don’t I just play a song or two, and you can all join in whenever you find one you like. If you don’t know the words, don’t worry. I probably don’t either. Remember I’m not expecting much. You’ve already made it abundantly clear you can’t sing!”

  They gathered rather shyly round the piano, with Keith, Bruce and Sophia pushing their way to the front, while the others formed an odd-shaped crescent behind them, with sisters Mary and Elizabeth hiding at the back. Peter and Olive didn’t move from their seats at the side of the room. Perhaps they thought this was a performance they’d just come along to watch, rather than a rehearsal in which they were expected to take part. It wasn’t long, though, before they were joining in with the rest, even though they never left their seats. The music was so infectious. They sang everything from “My Old Man Said Follow the Van” to the “Hallelujah Chorus”. They sang “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine” and “All People that on Earth Do Dwell”. They sang “Three Blind Mice” in a round, and “Amazing Grace” with an attempt at a line or two of harmony.

  That was the point at which Ronnie finally stopped playing. They all held their breath as they looked for his reaction. Were they too terrible for a professional like him to consider? Was it possible that anyone able to play as wonderfully as Ronnie could ever really want to take on a mismatched, out-of-tune, over-enthusiastic but thoroughly endearing bu
nch like them?

  His broad smile came like a ray of bright sunshine. “Brilliant! I haven’t been so entertained by singing in years. You are so terrible that you’re glorious. Can’t Sing Singers, you’ve just got yourselves a musical director.”

  The following week as pensioners began arriving for the Grownups’ Lunch, Ida clucked with disapproval as she squeezed past Percy Wilson on her way to join Betty, Doris and Flora at the next table.

  “Just look,” grinned Percy, nudging Connie to look in the right direction. “There they are – the Merry Widows. Mind you, you can’t be merry and look down your nose at the same time, can you? Perhaps that’s why they always seem so miserable.”

  Two old friends, John and Harold, reached them at that moment, and asked if the remaining seats on the table for four had been taken.

  “No, lads. Come and join us!” guffawed Percy, his arms thrown wide in welcome. “John, I’ve not seen you for months. How’ve you been?”

  “I lost Marion. Did you know?”

  “I did hear,” replied Percy, his voice softening. “She’d been ill for a while, hadn’t she?”

  “Two years since the diagnosis. She put up a good fight, my girl.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Your Marion was a good ’un. Made the best fruit cake I’ve ever tasted.”

  John smiled in agreement.

  “And Robert, are you still playing bowls?”

  “The odd game of carpet bowls once in a while. The outdoor club got too competitive for me – all that spiteful business with people trying to distract players as they bowled, getting in their eyeline at the crucial moment. I only ever went along for the tea at half-time and the company.”

  “We three go back a long way, Connie. Robert and I played in the church football team, and John, you joined our youth club, didn’t you?”

  “We all lived quite close to each other, you see,” John explained to Connie. “We never had television or any of those computer games the kids have today. We just hung around together.”

  “Mostly up to no good,” chortled Robert. “We stood on street corners hoping our dads wouldn’t catch us sharing a fag.”

  “Well, your dad was always a bit of a hoot,” grinned Percy. “All those stories he told about being a painter and decorator, the things he got up to…”

  “Oh, he had dozens of tales to tell. He did make us laugh, although I’m not sure Mum always approved.”

  Percy’s eyes sparkled as he thought back. “Do you remember that one he told us about when he was painting Mr and Mrs Smith’s outdoor lavatory at number 17?”

  “Oh yes,” roared Robert. “How could any of us forget that?”

  “What happened?” asked Connie.

  “Well,” said Robert, “Dad was known in the area as a good handyman, able to do a reliable job on anything needed in a house. Mr and Mrs Smith booked him to paint their outside toilet in green and white paint. Dad had done all the gloss paintwork and thought he’d take a break outside, but when he went to clean his brushes, he realized that he’d left his usual paintbrush cleaning rag behind, so he nipped into the lav, pulled off some sheets of toilet paper to wipe the brushes, threw the lot down the pan and shut the lid. He was just outside putting his other stuff away when Mr Smith came hurrying out of the house. He rushed into the smallest room and slammed the door behind him. Apparently, he wasn’t allowed to smoke indoors, so he liked to sit on the lav and smoke for a while after lunch.

  “Just then, Mrs Smith called Dad into the kitchen for a cup of tea, and suddenly there was a howl of pain, and Mr Smith came flying out of the lavatory with his trousers round his ankles! He’d sat down as usual, and because he was engrossed in his newspaper, he did what he always did, and lit his cigarette with the box of matches he kept on the windowsill. Then he threw the match down the lav between his legs. The toilet paper all soaked in my dad’s gloss paint ignited – so, with flames licking at his underpinnings, Mr Smith upped and ran for his life!”

  The table erupted with laughter, until eventually Connie made herself heard enough to ask, “Did your dad get paid?”

  Robert immediately stopped laughing as he considered the question. “Do you know, I can’t tell you the answer to that – but that story is absolutely priceless.”

  Toby and Max leapt out of the car and belted at full speed towards the main door of Hope Hall in their enthusiasm to get to their second Beaver meeting. Catching up, Gary helped them wiggle out of their jackets and change their shoes before going through to the hall. A small group of parents were in the foyer, some chatting together as if they knew each other quite well, others leaving as soon as their sons were settled. A coffee, thought Gary. Perhaps he’d master the intricacies of the machine a little better this time.

  And he did. With triumph he withdrew a cup of hot coffee that smelt okay, even if the colour was a rather odd shade of mucky grey.

  “Well done!” said a voice behind him. “You’ve cracked it.”

  Gary turned to see Claire’s friendly smile as she reached out to take a cup for herself.

  “Your boys were keen to come back then?”

  “Honestly, they’ve been counting the days,” grinned Gary.

  “Josh is just the same, especially now he’s earned himself a couple of badges. It’s all I can do to get him to take that sweatshirt off. I think he’d sleep in it if I let him.”

  “Do they have to sew the badges on themselves, or is that the challenge they set the parents?”

  “No good with a needle and thread then?”

  “Hopefully I can pass the buck on that one. Karen used to like sewing, although she doesn’t have much time for anything like that now.”

  Claire’s expression was questioning as she turned back from pushing buttons to get the coffee she wanted.

  “Karen works really long hours. She’s in IT, and has to go into London every day.”

  “Oh, that must be exhausting for her, especially in the rush hour. What time does she leave in the morning?”

  “She’s always on the quarter past seven train, and gets back in the evening around quarter past seven too. At least she manages to see the boys before bedtime, but only just. It’s very hard for her.”

  Claire watched the coffee steaming into the cup for several moments before she answered.

  “How are the boys about their mum having to work such long hours?”

  “Ah, you know kids, how resilient they are. They can’t remember anything different, so they’re used to it really.”

  “And what does that mean for you?” she asked as Gary led the way over to a table where they both sat down.

  “It means that I’m a house husband – well, sort of, because I am able to work at home, so it’s not as hard as it sounds.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Graphic design. Catalogues, advertising material, magazines – anything that comes my way.”

  “Freelance then?”

  “I am now, but I worked in a big design company for about six years before the boys came along, and when I left, quite a few of my clients followed me. That’s meant that I haven’t had to struggle too much to keep the money coming in.”

  “Do you miss working in a team with other designers around you? Does that matter in your line of work?”

  Gary stirred his coffee as he thought about the answer.

  “I suppose I do in some ways. It’s good to spark off other people, share ideas and concepts. But I don’t miss all the internal politics of working in a large company. Every single meeting we ever had there seemed to start with a discussion about who was eligible to use the company car park spaces.”

  She laughed. “It’s just like that at the school where I work. There are only four parking places on the school premises, because all the other ground is needed as a playground for the children. The spaces go to the headmaster, the deputy head and then two different heads of department on a rota basis.”

  “How many departments are there?”


  “It’s a big secondary school. There must be about ten departments in all.”

  “So the rota is hotly disputed then?”

  She chuckled. “You can say that again. The daggers are out, I can tell you.”

  “Not slicing tyres, I hope!”

  “I wouldn’t have put that past a couple of them.”

  “Do you ever get a space?”

  “A lowly assistant in the art department? Not likely! No, I got a bike instead.”

  Gary laughed. “Keeps you out of trouble and in shape too.”

  “Difficult to balance my art folder, though.”

  “What kind of things do you do?”

  “Well, the kids range from eleven to eighteen, although the older ones are doing A-levels so I don’t have much to do with them. It’s mostly for the younger classes – and I do all sorts of work really. I prepare for lessons, of course, following whatever the teacher has planned for them, then clear up afterwards, and make sure all the artwork is kept safely so that the students can add to it again the following week if they need to. And I mount exhibitions of the pupils’ best work. I also catalogue and submit the pieces they’re putting in as part of their external exams.”

  “Are you an artist yourself?”

  “Perhaps in another life I might have been, but art wasn’t really offered as a viable option for girls at my own school. My parents were both professional people who thought the only way forward was academic study, and I suppose I did well enough at all those basic subjects. I was able to do art as part of the general curriculum as I moved up the school, but when it came to exams, my parents made it clear that art was a frivolous subject that would never fit into the career progression they had in mind for me.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “I didn’t realize it at the time, because I just did what I was told. I got four A-levels in Maths, English, Biology and Latin, and before I knew it I was enrolled at university to study medicine.”

  “Wow, so you trained to be a doctor?”

  “For four years, yes, I did. And then, just to prove my complete understanding and grip on all the intricate workings of the human body, I got pregnant with Josh.”