A 60's Tale

A 60’s Tale

1962, Friday, 2:15 pm. Barbara sits in her car, her long dark hair hangs limp in front of her face. She stares out the window at nothing as she replays that last forty five minutes in her heard. She walked into her estranged husband’s offices, as she walked through the beige, dim lit corridors towards his office she noticed the sympathetic looks from the secretaries, even other business men. How could they know? Did they really know who Stanley is? She reached his office. Time seemed to warped and grow foggy. The words “keep the damn house, do what you want with it, sell it. But don’t contact me again” ring and blast through her ears. A traffic warden taps on the hood of her car, bringing her back from her thoughts. She begins the slow drive home. In her rearview mirror she looks at her son and daughter’s clutter on the backseat, wrappers from rhubarb and custards litter the floor and sandy footprints line the interior. Barbara smiles to herself thinking the freedom they must feel, her smile fades when she thinks of them for too long.

She drives down a small dusty track through an open woodland, she opens her window to let in the heady September breeze. Amber sunlight tracks between drying out fern bushes and gnarled trees. She passes a den made from branches stacked against a fallen tree. She drives past a post box and into a well hidden garden, a white house with large windows appears. Barbara walks into the kitchen and sits at a red and white formica table. She lights a cigarette, from her handbag she produces a small black book. Inside the book are meticulously drawn lists, some with rows scribbled out. Exact amounts of a weekly grocery shop can be seen. Child benefit figures and even electricity, gas and phone expenses, to the hour. She shakes out the contents of her purse, splitting the change into groups. Pausing for a second, she moves two pennies over to the side of the table. She goes over to the backdoor and pics the phone off of the receiver, she dials and rests her cigarette on a small ashtray next to the phone.

“Bensons’s estate agents how may I help you?” A perky voice announces. “Oh hello, I was wondering who should I speak with to make an appointment, it’s about selling my house” Barbara says, taking a quick drag of her cigarette. “Well it would have to be an appointment, I have one available this afternoon, could you make that?”. After hanging up the phone, she hurriedly stubs out her cigarette and rushes to the table, she gathers all her change and purse into her handbag, she places the two coins in her dress pocket and grabs her car keys, she pauses to strike out a page in her notebook, writing underneath, “three calls left”.

She sits in her car, putting on lipstick and toying with tying up her hair, before sighing and letting it fall around her shoulders. Barbara is somewhat conscious of never looking put together enough. Mothers at her children’s school often look down at her. A daughter to an immigrant father, her dark hair and olive skin always sparked conversation at the school gates. That and her preference to wear capri jeans and floaty blouses instead of the starchy, stiff dresses, donned by many of the other women. Her saving grace was being seen driving her husband’s Ford Escort. Sometimes she would stifle a smile when she saw the parents horrified faces when sweet wrappers fell from the backseat, as her children exited the car.

A steamy cup of tea sits in front of her, the brown china cup makes it look much less appealing but Barbara politely sips. “So” continues the perky administrator, Christina “without your husband present we couldn’t possibly list your house as for sale, it’s under his name you see”. Christina seems thrilled at being able to deliver this news, however disappointed she is supposed to sound. Barbara smiles warmly at her, despite her utter frustration she knows what a gift it would be to feel this important. Barbara gets up to leave. “Oh, don’t forget your handbag” Christina says and points with her gold pen. Barbara glances to a smart black hand bag under her chair. “That’s not mine, perhaps someone left it here earlier” she says and gathers her jacket. “Well maybe you could drop it to the police station, it is on your way… I would but, I’ve just got so much to do!” Again, Christine is ecstatic to explain just how busy she is. Barbara’s amicability is wearing thin but she smiles and collects the hand bag. Outside the estate agents she looks over the road at the sweet shop, surrounded by buzzing children, like flies to a drop of honey. Barbara smiles at them, their happiness is contagious, she reaches into her dress pocket.

Emile and Nancy clamber off the rowdy bus and walk down the dusty lane. Nancy has her fathers light complexion but makes up for it with masses of her mothers silky dark hair, tangled into two braids. She’s busy reading her book out loud whilst marching towards their drive. Emile shyly follows Nancy, his long dark eyelashes flutter as the orange dust kicked up by the bus, settles all around them.

“Nancy look” Emile croaks, spotting a note on the letter box. “Not now, I’m reading to you!” Emile stops and tugs at the note that reads “Meet me at the den”. “Nancy, look, look! There’s a surprise for us” Nancy stops in her tracks and snatches the note from Emile, she looks down at him wide eyed. Both run into the woods giggling.

The low sun beats down in between the tree’s and the warm afternoon breeze makes the dry bracken and falling leaves sound like cicadas. Emile and Nancy find the den floor covered in white sheets and paisley blankets, three cushions from the settee are on the floor and cups and saucers are sat on a small wicker basket. Two sticky iced buns are on flowery plates. There’s even a small bunch of hand picked flowers in a little vase on an upturned cardboard box. Emile and Nancy screech and squeal as they get into the den, the look up and see Barbara walking towards them carrying a bundle of what seems to be old coats.

“Mum its amazing!” Shouts Emile. “Are those buns for us?!” Calls Nancy. Barbara climbs into the den with them and sits on her assigned cushion. “Well I thought we could have a little tea party, to celebrate the weekend!” “Yeah!” Cried Emile. “But” said Barbara “You have to dress up very smart for high tea” Nancy pulls are face whilst shovelling sticky bun into her mouth. “You have to look nice when it’s a nice occasion!” Continues Barbara in an over the top voice. “You always look nice” Emile said in a small voice. Barbara shuffles over to him and kisses him on the cheek. “Okay so, I’ve got this for you!” She hands Emile a top hat. “It was your grandfather’s, I think it will look fab!” Barbara hands Emile the hat as he tries on a large dinner jacket he’s found in the pile. “And for you Nance” Barbara wraps a white Lacey shawl around Nancys shoulders “what do you think?”. Nancy stands up and twirls around “oh mother dearest, I think I look splendiferous” She says in her best voice between giggles. “What about that?” She points to the black handbag. “Well someone left that in the village, but I suppose they won’t mind you borrowing it to dress up, here”. Barbara begins pouring tea in each of the cups just as Nancy squeals “Wow, look at this!” Emile and Barbara both look up as Nancy puts on a pair of white gloves she’s found in the bag, admiring her hands with them on.

The afternoon turns into evening as both Nancy and Emile are busy chasing each other round the woods. Barbara begins to clear up the plates and saucers. “Hey don’t throw that away, I’ll eat it” Nancy shouts and runs over, rescuing the last mouthful of Emile’s sticky bun. “But that’s mine, I was saving it!” Puffs Emile, as runs over. Nancy turns to Emile “Well, good sir, I should like to buy it off you!” Barbara giggles as she folds up the blankets. Nancy pulls out a roll money and hands it to Emile. “Where did you get that?” Emile says, eyes wider than saucers. Barbara looks up and freezes. “Where did you get that, Nance?” Suddenly quieter Nancy replies “I found it, in my hand bag”. Barbara walks over to them both and looks at the wad of notes. “Do you think they’ll let us borrow this too?” Asks Emile.

“No, absolutely not. We have to phone the police” Barbara stammers, half to herself. “But I found it” whines Nancy as her and Emile collect the last of the den’s interior. “Okay, inside now, both of you, before it gets dark. And wash up before dinner” Barbara says and she stares at the money in the hand. She puts it in her pocket and follows Emile and Nancy to the house.

The back door is open allowing the cool evening breeze to sweep through the kitchen. Nancy and Emile take their plates to the sink and go and lay down on the brown floral carpet in front of the TV. Emile’s eyes get heavy and Nancy pulls him up. Barbara looks over and smiles. She see’s Nancy playing with Emile’s soft brown hair and reads her book aloud to him. Nancy yawns and Barbara moves over to the sitting room. She scoops up Emile and carries him through to their bedroom. Nancy follows undoing her plaits. Barbara turns off the corridor light and peeps back in at each of her children sleeping. She yawns herself and carries on into the sitting room. She turns off the tv, picks up her cigarettes and lights one. She sits down at the kitchen table, flicks ash into the ashtray and picks up the phone, she dials nine, nine and pauses. Looking to her little black book, “two calls left”. She hangs up the phone and stares at the money. She puts the cigarette down and tentatively takes the elastic band off the roll of notes. Barbara starts laying each note down one by one, dividing them into piles. A few minutes pass, her cigarette has burnt down to nothing in the ashtray and she exhales long and slowly. She grabs her little black book and writes, $20,000. She lights another cigarette and turns the page of her book. She starts writing, faster and faster, column after column. Then she begins splitting the money into groups of four, five, tearing off sheets and putting them on top of each pile, labelling each mound of cash, she scribbles away into the night.