Five French Hens. Judy Leigh

energy. ‘Keep practising Für Elise, Amelia, and maybe we’ll discuss grade entry next week.’

      Amelia gazed up at her mother, her tiny brows meeting in a knot. ‘Furry Liza is boring, Mummy. Can I learn the violin instead? Elsa in my class goes to violin. She says the teacher is really cool.’

      Amelia’s mother met Rose’s eyes, as if her daughter had just made up her mind for her, and turned on her heel, tugging the child towards the pouring rain and a dark car parked by the kerb. Rose closed the door, locked it securely with the bolt and chain and muttered, ‘Minx.’ As an afterthought, she mumbled, ‘What a blessing that Beethoven was deaf. If he’d heard Amelia slaughtering his Für Elise for the last forty-five minutes, it would raise him from the grave.’

      She stood in the hallway, thinking. Half past seven. She hadn’t eaten since lunch, and then just a slice of toast. She wasn’t really hungry, but she ought to look after herself better. Her skirt was hanging off her, the waist baggy, and her legs felt weak. She would find something in the freezer, something with calories. There was a box of macaroni cheese for one. She could heat it up in the microwave. Rose sighed again. She didn’t like February. Spring was too far away and the house was too cold. Besides, Bernard had died in February two years ago and each year she felt the cold, haunting loneliness grasp her by the shoulders and whisper in her ear that she was by herself and companionless and that was how it would always be now.

      Of course, she had her new friends, the four women she’d met at aqua aerobics last October when the club first started. They were nice women, but they only met for coffee once a week and then she came home alone and it was back to the silence again. She shuffled into the lounge and picked up a yellow duster, rubbing it over the piano. It had been hers and Bernard’s. He had been a wonderful musician, a church organist too. She replaced their wedding photo lovingly on top, over the circle left by a wine glass years ago. Not hers, of course – it might have been made by their son, Paul, one Christmas when he’d visited with the children. His visits were a rare thing nowadays – he was a busy man, of course, he had an important job.

      Rose stared at the photo, black and white in the silver frame. It all looked so dated now. Bernard was in his suit, a flower in the lapel, his hair wavy, a broad grin on his face, and she was much shorter than him, gazing up in the lacy dress, her eyes full of love. That had been in 1967 – it was so long ago and yet, strangely, she could remember exactly how she’d felt, her heart fluttering, the thrill of becoming Mrs Grant and not Miss Rosemary Tucker. They’d had almost fifty good years, well, mostly good. She’d done her best as a wife. She couldn’t really complain.

      Rose shuffled forward to the kitchen and opened the freezer. The macaroni cheese meal for one was next to the loaf of bread and the half-empty bag of frozen peas. She’d need to do some shopping. She plucked out the cardboard meal and headed towards the microwave.

      Della heard the knocking at the door. ‘Sylvester? You forgotten your key?’ She rushed to the front door, wiping her hands on a tea towel, patting the dark curls smattered with grey sprinklings. ‘That man,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘He’s out too late again. His dinner is ruining in the oven.’

      She pulled the door open and he was standing there, his pork-pie hat on his head, water dripping from the brim onto his misted glasses, his lips pursed for a kiss. He held out a bunch of roses. ‘Come to me, my valentine,’ he purred.

      ‘Get in out of the rain and stop the foolishness.’ She laughed, tugging at his sleeve and helping him out of his damp coat. ‘I wish you’d give up this crazy snack-van job. You’re late again and drenched through…’ The flowers were thrust in her arms and he had her round the waist, waltzing.

      ‘Come here, my valentine girl. I bring you flowers and what do you do but all this nagging me again?’ Sylvester giggled, kissing her full on the mouth. He pulled away, whipping off his hat. His head was smooth and shiny, but there were tufts of grey whiskers on his chin. Della hugged him to her.

      ‘I prepared your favourite. Salt fish.’

      ‘Ah.’ He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘My mommy’s salt fish and ackee, I remember it so well, when I was a boy. Life in Jamaica was good before we came to this godforsaken cold country.’ They walked into the kitchen and he sniffed exaggeratedly. ‘No wonder I married you, Della Donavan – you cook just like my mommy used to.’

      Della turned to him and put her hands on her hips, frowning. ‘You telling me there are no other benefits, Sylvester?’ She swirled away, reaching for a vase, unwrapping the flowers and arranging them carefully. She knew he was studying her, the sway of her hips, the way she moved with a roll – it was the first thing he’d ever noticed about her when they’d met in Stepney fifty years ago. ‘The flowers are beautiful.’

      He pulled her to him in one expert move and she was on his knee. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘We eat first, then how about an early night, my valentine?’

      She pulled off his glasses and gazed into the soft brown eyes. ‘You think you’re still the man you were at twenty-five?’

      ‘You put fire in my belly, woman.’ He put his mouth against hers, crushing their lips together. Della pushed him away, laughing.

      ‘Your technique still needs work,’ she said, grinning. ‘But you’re the sexiest man I ever met, Sylvester.’ She levered herself up, rubbing a hard hand across the ache that had started to settle in her lower back, and moved awkwardly towards the cooker. ‘And I’ve made your favourite ginger cake for pudding, with rum.’

      She lifted a pot from the hotplate although her wrists ached with the weight of it. Her husband was sitting back in his seat smiling. ‘You have a fine figure on you, Della.’

      ‘I’m not the slim girl I was at twenty-two.’

      ‘You are still the same to me.’ He lifted his knife and fork and winked at her. ‘Come on, then. Let’s eat first. Afterwards I’ll chase you round the bedroom.’

      She laughed. ‘I look forward to it. And when you catch me, will you still remember what to do?’

      Tess stared at her plate. She had no appetite. She’d been on her own all day, cooking, tidying, watching daytime television, looking forward to Alan coming home. But now he was here, and they were sitting across the table from each other, she had nothing to say. The only sound was of Alan chewing, a wet sound, slurping mixed with the snapping of teeth. He had gravy on his chin.

      She tried a question. ‘How are the chops?’

      ‘A bit tough, Tess,’ he mumbled, his fork in the air.

      ‘Oh.’ Tess concentrated on her plate. She hadn’t started on the chop yet but it looked all right to her. The potatoes and peas looked fine. She tried again. ‘How’s the mash?’

      He said nothing for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Mash is mash.’

      Tess clanked her knife and fork against the porcelain plate, cut the chop and chewed. It seemed tender enough. She gazed at her husband across the linen tablecloth. ‘The weather’s not good, is it?’

      His eyes sparked with sudden interest. ‘No, it’s not. This rain is forecast for the whole weekend. I won’t get out on the course if it carries on teeming down. I have a new iron I want to try out. I’ve been practising the swing with Cliff’s club. I think it might improve my game. Cliff always buys the best for himself. My handicap would improve vastly if I just…’

      Tess scraped back her chair and stopped listening. She collected his plate, now empty, and took it to the dishwasher. ‘Shall I make coffee, Alan?’

      Alan frowned, leaning back in the chair and rubbing his portly belly. ‘If you like, Tess.’

      She felt strands of platinum-blonde hair loosen from the