Old Dogs, New Tricks. Linda Phillips

had not let her concerns remain mere thoughts. No one could accuse her of sitting back, bemoaning her fate and wailing that there was nothing to be done about it. Instead she had started sowing seeds. And it wasn’t entirely by chance that Eric had come up with his proposal, if she was honest about it: she had been slowly and carefully working on him as she helped him in his shops, slipping in the odd suggestions here and intelligent comments there, and making herself pretty well indispensable, until one evening, just after Christmas, he’d hung up his overall, turned to her with a grave expression, and said he had something to say.

      He had then proceeded to put forward what were essentially her own ideas for the future of the business as though they were all his own. It seemed not to have occurred to him to promote one of his managers to do the job in his place; his only thought was of her. And what a boost it had given her! Especially when she realised the size of the salary he was considering paying her, and the degree of control she was to be given. It was all far more than she’d ever imagined.

      So now her life was mapped out. With the shops to keep her occupied and the prospect of grandchildren on the way, she could happily spend her remaining years here in London where she’d always lived, amongst family and friends, and not ask for anything more.

      But what if Spittal’s closed down?

      Whipping a towel from the radiator she scrambled to her feet. She must see Eric and Sheila at once.

      By the time she reached her in-laws’ house, two blocks away from her own, the half-heard news about Spittal’s possible closure had become hard fact in Marjorie’s mind, and the only possible outcome a dead certainty. Grimly, her keys rattling in the lock, she let herself in at the front door.

      She had had free access to the house for many years, but only in recent times, when Sheila’s joints had begun to grow too painful for her to greet guests at the door, had she taken advantage of it.

      Stepping into the wide, well-polished hall with its thick Indian rug she never ceased to be impressed by her surroundings. She tried not to be because Philip always referred to the house – behind his mother’s back and well out of earshot – as ‘hideous’.

      Never, he had been known to say, his eyes narrowed against the clashing wall-papers, the gaudy paint work and the eclectic assortment of ornaments, had so much money been squandered to such disastrous effect.

      Certainly Marjorie would not have chosen such bold patterns either, or so many of them crowded together in quite the way they were – above the dado, below the dado, outlined with borders, panelled with borders; nor would she have considered the over-large crystal chandeliers as fitting for such a house. She would not have lain inch-thick ornate rugs on top of deep-piled patterned carpets. And the swags and drapes at the window were way over the top. Yet the whole was immaculately kept and gave out a sensation of luxurious comfort. Stepping into number fourteen Rosewood Gardens was like entering a secure, well-padded sanctuary.

      Marjorie slipped off her shoes, as was the custom in this household, and waded across yards of Axminster in search of her mother-in-law, calling out as she went. She found the stout little figure of Sheila Benson sitting in the breakfast room, as usual, busy with her needlepoint.

      ‘Thought you were going to the hairdresser’s,’ the older woman said, blinking up at Marjorie through glasses that magnified her eyes.

      Marjorie gave a weak smile. ‘Oh … yes, that’s right,’ she said vaguely, her hand straying up to her hair. ‘But first I’ve some mind-blowing news for you.’

      ‘What? Not the baby already?’

      ‘No, no!’ Marjorie fluttered her hands at the idea. Her first grandchild wasn’t due for another ten weeks at least.

      ‘Wow, you gave me quite a turn.’ Sheila had struggled halfway out of her chair; now she fumbled her way back to it. ‘What is it, then, this news? You’re looking rather upset.’

      Marjorie flopped into the large wing chair on the other side of the French window and sat with her feet tucked up under her skirt. A smell of spring and fresh-mown grass wafted through the open door, but she was hardly in the mood to enjoy it. For a while, ordering her thoughts, she watched the gardener that her in-laws hired for two mornings a week plough up and down the long lawn, making the first striped cut of the year. The man’s irritation with the ungainly cupid that had been cemented to the centre of his work area since last autumn was obvious by the way he kept hurling aside the electric cable.

      ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I suppose you haven’t had the radio on? And perhaps it wasn’t on the local TV news. I could hardly believe it at first. But, really, it must be true.’ She turned wide, incredulous eyes to her mother-in-law. ‘Spittal’s is closing down.’

      Sheila let fall her embroidery frame. She dropped her scissors as well. ‘But … but surely that can’t be true?’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘My but you’ve given me another turn!’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ Marjorie knelt down to retrieve the scattered items, barely managing to locate the tiny scissors amongst the swirls of leaves and flowers. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. I should have broken this to you more gently.’

      Sheila waved the apology aside and put a hand on Marjorie’s arm. ‘It was just the thought of all those poor people. Not to mention Philip. Whenever I hear of places closing down and folk being put out of work I’m reminded of my childhood and my father losing his job.’

      For a moment her face reflected her bad memories but she quickly rallied. ‘Anyway, let’s not look on the black side. These days there are redundancy payments, aren’t there? Help from the government too. Not that it’ll matter so much to Philip; he won’t be needing it, will he?’

      Marjorie was about to lay down the horse-and-cart tapestry in her mother-in-law’s lap, having first admired all the tiny stitches, though she had no patience herself for anything involving needles and thread. Now she glanced up sharply at Sheila’s words.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Well –’ Sheila spread her hands as though she thought an explanation superfluous ‘– it looks as though he will be going in with his father after all. I mean to say, he’ll have no other choice now, will he? No one will give him another job at his age. So you see, it’s an answer to all our prayers – and not a minute before time. Just what we’ve always wanted.’

      ‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ Marjorie’s voice was faint.

      ‘It’s what he should have done long ago,’ Sheila went on, ‘when his father reached retirement age. In fact he should have done it right from the start, the minute he got his degree. But what he should do and what he wants to do, are two different things to Phil.’ She gathered up some loose ends of wool, took off her glasses and chewed on one of the arms. Absorbed in her thoughts she failed to notice the dismay in Marjorie’s expression.

      ‘What makes you think,’ Marjorie said, trying to keep her voice calm, ‘what makes you think that Phil will agree to take over the business even now? Maybe he’ll have other plans.’

      ‘Well, I can’t think what they would be. This must have come as a shock to him; he won’t have had time to plan anything. My feeling is that he’ll be only too glad he has this to fall back on. Ha!’ She let out a chuckle, still oblivious to Marjorie’s agony. ‘Life’s full of nice little surprises, isn’t it? There you were, thinking you’d have to soldier on alone with all the shops, and what happens? Suddenly there’s Phil beside you, free to help after all. And Eric will be so thrilled when he hears the news.’

      ‘But – but I thought we had it all planned …’

      Marjorie watched helplessly as Sheila wrapped her tapestry frame in an old pillow case and stowed it with her wools inside a hinged footstool. Something in Marjorie’s tone must have penetrated at last; she paused before shutting the lid, then put it down at half-speed.

      ‘You don’t sound very happy about this,’ she exclaimed with concern and surprise.

      Marjorie