Tit for Tat

By Adrienne Fox

When Geoff Pollard, epitome of middle class middle England, is entrapped by ex-pupil Catherine Hosker into an affair through which she enacts her revenge on society, both he and his family are precipitated into a series of bizarre events.
Eleanor, his beautiful but unstable wife vows revenge, but thanks to her HRT, a holiday in France and the advent of new friends loses interest in wreaking the havoc she has vowed.
Their three talented offspring reap unexpected good fortune in the face of family financial ruin, and although they hover on the brink of disaster, there is always someone around to avert catastrophe.
Best of all is the great boost to the family morale coming from Jake, the attractive ex-boyfriend of Jo, who has come to lodge with the Pollards. Jake is not only entertaining but helpful, decorative and generally adored by Eleanor, Andrew, and Anitra. He is the answer to a family prayer; a lodger who contributes not only financially but personally. However, Jake's personal contributions turn out to be very personal indeed, and while the family negotiates its way through a minefield of crises, Jake leaves his mark on them all in his own exceedingly charming fashion.
As skeletons are bundled into cupboards, and Eleanor takes refuge in histrionic unconventionality, Geoff is gradually diminished by despair, only to find some path to redemption as a result of Jake's opportunistic behaviour.
When Eleanor takes stock of their plight and concludes, "In the History of Evolution, this sort of situation ranks way down the spectrum as a cosmic joke." she utters the only understatement of her dramatic role in this turbulent family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491895917

Adrienne Fox

Adrienne Fox is a retired musician who began her literary career reviewing concerts. This is her fifth novel. The other novels are the following: The Retirement, Starstruck, Tit for Tat, and IQ.

Book preview

Chapter One

Eleanor lugged the trolley around the final aisle, banging the shelving as she did so, making the bottles of exotic sauces, arranged in a quasi-artistic pyramid; rattle sufficiently loudly to draw the glance of the hard-pressed assistants on the delicatessen counter. She gave them a glassy re-assuring smile, as the arrangement remained miraculously balanced, despite the clout she had just delivered to its foundations.

Bloody trolley! she thought, Why I always get one with a will of its own never fails to amaze me.

She pushed on, concentrating on the serene, unruffled expression that she cultivated for moments when she knew that she could break into a clumsiness that once unleashed and transformed into a fit of anger, could have wrecked the store.

It was unbearably hot, and the usual Friday night crush was denser and certainly smellier than usual. Her heart sank as she manoeuvred the uncooperative carrier toward the checkouts. Huge queues of red-faced customers, some with angry offspring, and all with mammoth loads promised a waiting time of at least twenty minutes. She had a great desire to give her trolley a shove, and abandon it wherever it came to rest, leaving the shopping, the warmth, the sweat, and the overpopulated, over-rated premises. The whole set-up seemed to wriggling in determination to the ultimate exhaustion of their supplies.

But of course she joined the queue with the rest of the squirm and cursed herself for her habit of Friday Shopping.

Why not Thursday? Why not Sunday morning? Why not any time, or any place but here and now, the habit she had built up over the years?

The child in front of her was particularly badly behaved. Its feet were flailing everywhere, and its mother could only say,

You know what’ll happen to you when you get home.

The child was obviously supremely confident, and continued to kick out at everyone around, their shopping, their trolleys and bags alike, happy in the knowledge that home would always produce some chocolate, to ‘keep her a good girl’.

Don’t be a naughty girl Didi. You know what’ll happen to you when you get home echoed a voice from the check out.

The girl had stopped her ponderous passing of items to speak to the owner of the child that had been identified as a female.

She’s a real thing, that one. Aren’t you?

She knows what’ll happen when she gets home. Don’tcha. Didi’s mother parroted feebly, whilst Didi aimed a kick at the checkout girl’s out-stretched hand.

’Ere, ’ere. That’s not nice. The girl smartly removed her hand, and returned to her sluggish routine.

Eleanor waited, entranced by the entertainment, quietly anticipating the mother’s reply, which came with timing that would have done credit to a running gag in a good farce.

She knows what’ll happen to her when she gets home.

Wonderful thought Eleanor.

No, ‘sorry’ or ‘please forgive the little beast, and particularly me for not quite managing to strangle her this morning’.

She couldn’t resist a little stir.

Are you feeling a bit hot then Didi? she asked, putting on a motherly face and local accent.

Didi looked at her and considered her infantile response.

Fut you. she mustered, with some effort, to Eleanor’s delighted satisfaction.

Ee! That’s not nice. Who taught you that? The checkout girl had stopped in her labours again.

She . . . the mother began, and Eleanor took up the chorus,

knows what’ll happen to her when she gets home. she unisoned with perfect intonation and timing, her Drama training standing her in good stead.

The woman nodded, as if Eleanor had just uttered a philosophical contribution of great worth, and the till chirped out its usurer’s melody as it spat the bill at its handler.

Twenty Seven Pounds and forty three pence please Tracey.

Eleanor speculated on the Hollywood influence in the name.

Thanks Tammy. See you on Monday down the gym.

More from the silver screen. she thought as she embarked on her payment process, glad that she hadn’t abandoned her shopping, but had stayed the course to be rewarded by some spontaneous entertainment. She wondered how on earth the child functioned at home, and as she mechanically loaded her goods from the counter, concluded that she could think of nothing in the world worse than being in the same house with a disruptive toddler day after day. She Talk about making a rod for your own back. She thought somewhat smugly to herself, safe in the knowledge of her totally,—well, almost totally obedient family.

She barged her way out of the store and pushed her loaded trolley across the hot tarmac towards her car.

The trolley was getting increasingly uncontrollable by the minute, with one of its geriatric wheels locked into uni-direction and she was quite out of breath by the time she reached her red Polo.

Hello, Mrs Pollard.

Eleanor looked up to see a small group of Sixth Formers from the High School, giggling and apparently watching her struggles with amusement.

Haven’t you got anything better to do than hang around in a supermarket car park then?

She felt a wave of annoyance at the young, cool, faces scrutinising her ineptitude with the wayward trolley, which was threatening to roll off down the gentle slope, as she fumbled in her handbag for the keys to the car.

A boy stepped forward out of the group.

Ill hang on to that before it gets away on you Mrs Pollard, he said, still smiling across at his friends.

That’s a good lad; I’ve had enough for this week.

He held the trolley and she loaded up, whilst the others watched.

Thank you very much she said. You must have to be pretty bored to find your entertainment in such a mundane routine as this. she observed, turning to the group.

Wouldn’t you be better off watching some paint drying, or a small lawn growing?

There was an embarrassed little rustle from the cluster of observers. They seemed very reluctant to meet her eye, and they began to drift away sheepishly. She turned to thank her helper again, but he had vanished with the rest.

She was surprised. Why so embarrassed? Why the interest in the first place? She got into the car, acutely aware of her clumsiness, feeling every movement to be under scrutiny, although she knew that the pupils had gone. She had sensed that they were watching more than her shopping routine, but what on earth could they find interesting in her activities?

Eleanor drove home carefully.

She reminded herself of the dangers of Road Rage caused by menopause, PMS and the heat at every hazard on her route.

I’m a three time loser on all counts she calculated. If someone could escape a murder charge on the grounds of PMS, I wonder if they would wave my No-Claims bonus if I hit a traffic island. I bet they wouldn’t!

And she amused herself with imaginary scenario in court, proving that simply being a woman of, uncertain age was enough to exonerate any female from any crime, be it a minor motoring offence or infanticide of an obstreperous child in a supermarket queue.

The house was cool and quiet when she arrived home. She assumed that Andrew and Anitra, her two youngest children were either playing squash or swimming, as was their usual routine for Friday after school. She began to put away the weekend shopping, wondering where on earth Geoffrey had got to. She was pretty sure that she had seen him leaving school early, but as Head of Geography, he had probably gone out to the local Field Centre to check up on accommodation for the Field Work excursion which formed part of his Examination practical work next week. The fieldwork always took place in the last week of the summer term when things had died down a bit, and this year, he had been almost paranoid about his meticulous arrangements for his group.

No wonder they adore him she mused, "He will have spent hours sorting this course out for them, even down to organising menus for the vegetarians. I’ve hardly seen him for the past month, he must have put in more of his evenings at the Field Centre than he has at home and he’s come in absolutely exhausted every night as a result. I’ve barely spoken to him, apart from the essentials of existence.

Ah well, after next week, it’ll all be over, and we’ll be off to France for the holiday and some family life away from work and all this lot.

She surveyed the kitchen with a mixture of affection and distaste.

They’d lived in the house now for fourteen years, and they had put their stamp on the place, not least the kitchen, which Geoff had installed at great cost to his own self-esteem.

He had never been a practical man, but had insisted that, with modern units;

Any fool could assemble it.

Unfortunately the dimensions of the fitted cupboards were not entirely the same as those of the old walls, and half a days work had become five days.

Then Geoff had developed a sense of perfection in his task, and he had a ripped out the whole assembly, damaging a few units in the process, to begin again, claiming that he had learned how to be a kitchen fitter in five days, and was now ready to render an installation suitable for an exhibition.

The reality had been a little more complicated, when they found that the supplier had sold all the units in the line, and the broken units were extremely unlikely to be replaced. They were an ‘end of line bargain’ and there was scant possibility of the retailer ever re-stocking them again.

From this point, things had got a little fraught.

They had toured every supplier in the chain that had sold the units, wasting valuable leisure time and a lot of petrol in the process. They had even contacted the manufacturer, and eventually with difficulty, had replaced two of the four broken units, at considerable expense.

After that, Geoff had, ‘mended’ the remaining essential piece discarding the other. So now they had two drawers that stuck, and one that shot out, disgorging its contents over the feet of the unsuspecting operator whenever it was used. As these were the only drawers in the kitchen, tempers often became a bit frayed.

The sound of the telephone interrupted Eleanor’s thoughts.

This is Reed Field Centre. I’m trying to get hold of Mr Pollard. Is he at home?

No, I’m sorry. I thought that he was with you. He left school early this afternoon, and I assumed . . .

Eleanor’s voice trailed off, as she wondered where Geoff might be, and whether he was stuck on a country road somewhere, trying to repair his car, or change a wheel.

Never mind Mrs Pollard. We just need to finalise some arrangements with him.

It was on the tip of Eleanor’s tongue to tell the caller that if they were as conscientious as her husband, this telephone call would be unnecessary, but she thought about how the Field Centre had been deprived of funding, and realised that most of the staff were either part time or voluntary. So instead she said, Don’t worry. I’ll get him to phone you as soon as he gets in. Who should I say called?

Jenny. He probably won’t know me, I’ve only been here for three weeks, it’s my Summer University job, and I haven’t got to know everyone yet. I’ll look forward to hearing from Mr Pollard. I’ve heard such a lot about him. Goodbye.

The telephone went dead. Eleanor looked at the handset with mistrust. How could this Jenny person not have met Geoff, when she had been working there for three weeks? He’d been up at the wretched place every night for the last four weeks hadn’t he? And what was this,

Heard such a lot about him?

Had she detected a snigger in the voice?

I must be jam-packed with hostile hormones today. she chided herself. Children in the car park laughing at me, and now a perfect stranger. Hormones and heat, what a deadly combination!

She went into the bedroom to change. A shower, she decided would make her feel more civilised.

She surveyed herself in the mirror.

Not too bad for my age, I suppose. Tum’s a bit droopy, but the bust isn’t saggy yet.

She turned round and swivelled to look at her back. Her hair was skilfully enough dyed to hide the grey, without looking artificial, and it curled down her back to her shoulder blades. Was she too old to have long hair? Years of stage work had told her that long hair was very useful, more versatile than short, and often easier to manage, as she could always put it up. She swept her hand to hold it up, away from her back, and noted the little ledge of fat, just below where her bra strap would normally be. She inspected underneath her upper arms, and was horrified to find that there was a crepe texture beginning, and some more sagging flesh. She tried to think when she had last made this kind of inspection, and began in real earnest to take proper stock of her body, which she realised seemed to have aged and drooped very recently without her suspecting its treachery.

She found a pair of white canvas trousers and a black jersey top in the wardrobe, and took a further critical look at herself. Not at all bad considering! The trousers were tight enough to hold her stomach in place, and the jersey top clung quite sensuously to her well-shaped bosom.

The front door banged as she was executing a final pirouette in front of mirror.

Is that you Geof? The Field Centres been on the phone.

There was no reply. She went downstairs and opened the living room door to find Anitra sobbing on the sofa.

Anitra was a pathetic sight. She had been swimming and her black hair was still wet, hanging in strands around her heaving shoulders. She didn’t look up, but her tears seemed to increase as Eleanor put her hand on the back of her neck to comfort her.

Whatever’s the matter my love? she asked quietly, thinking that she had never seen her thirteen year-old daughter looking so vulnerable.

Anitra’s tears continued, and she made little choking noises in her throat, which Eleanor assumed were attempts at communication.

Come on love, tell me what’s the matter. she said calmly, but feeling an undercurrent of impatience at the girl. If it was so distressing, it must be important, even urgent. Why couldn’t she spit it out and then have a good cry? She tried again.

Is it school? she asked. Anitra made an effort to shake her head.

Are you ill? This time the headshake was more definite.

Is it Andrew? Suddenly Eleanor felt a wave of disquiet.

Could it be Andrew, her beloved son? Had he got into some sort of danger?

Is it Andrew? she repeated.

This time Anitra seemed unable to even shake her head, as she underwent another wave of anguish.

It is Andrew, isn’t it?

Anitra made no gesture, she just continued to weep.

What’s happened? Is he ill? Has he been taken to hospital? Where? When? Eleanor’s voice began to ascend in panic.

Tell me. Tell me now.

Still Anitra gulped and wept.

Hysteria. thought Eleanor, and she smacked Anitra’s face rather harder than she would have done, had she not been so afraid.

Anitra’s pupils dilated alarmingly, but she stopped crying as though responding to a text book prescription.

Oh Mum! Oh Mum! she said in a shaky little voice.

Eleanor took her hand.

That’s better Darling. I’m sorry I had to hit you, but you were out of control.

She stroked the reddening cheek gently, and was horrified to find that her loving gesture had the effect of returning Anitra to her tears.

For Gods sake stop crying child and tell Me. she snapped.

Is it Andrew?

Another headshake.

Dad?

Suddenly she felt terribly afraid. The telephone call, no Geoff at the Field Centre. There must have been an accident.

Sort of. said Anitra, in a tiny voice.

What do you mean, ‘sort of’, she shouted.

Either it’s your Dad or it isn’t. Pull yourself together, I thought you’d have more sense than this in a crisis. Is Dad hurt or ill? Tell me now.

No, he’s not hurt or ill.

Anitra had gone very white and the red weal across her cheek, where Eleanor had smacked her looked alarming.

Can I have a drink of water please Mum? I promise I’ll try to tell you what happened.

Eleanor went into the kitchen feeling very relieved. Anitra had obviously had some sort of a row with her father, no doubt over her latest boyfriend. Geoff was unreasonably protective of his youngest daughter. She often wondered why, because he had never persisted in taking a very strict stance with Jo, who was nineteen now.

Eleanor had only once seen his anger and that was when he had caught Jo on the living room floor indulging in heavy petting with one of the boys from the youth club, but even then, he had appeared not a great deal more shocked at the time than she had been, and considerably less shocked than the male participant in the panting, groping ritual he had disturbed.

She filled the glass and got some ice from the fridge. Poor little Anitra. Geoff must still be remembering his encounter with an unrepentant Jo, and taken out his frustrated authority on Anitra. He had no doubt given her a Hell of a time.

Here you are. Now then, nothings as bad as it seems at first. Tell me all about it.

Anitra paused, drank, opened her mouth, and paused again.

Eleanor’s impatience threatened to get the better of her. With difficulty she said,

Come on, spit it out. You’re not pregnant are you?

Anitra’s face took on an expression of disdain.

No, I am not pregnant.

That’s a relief then. Well. What is it?

"Well it happened at the Swimming Baths. I was in the changing room after my swim, and I could hear two girls talking, and I could hear them saying,

‘Mr Pollard!

‘It can’t be!

‘He’s so old.

And things like that.

They were sniggering, as if they’d just heard a really dirty joke. I couldn’t help listening Mum, Oh I wish I hadn’t!"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she bit her lip. Eleanor pushed the glass over to her, and she drank.

"Then I heard them say,

‘That slag, Cath Hosker, you know, the one who had an abortion last year and left school. Her and old Polly! What a scream!’

"I was very cross, so I went and banged on their cubicle door, and I said,

‘I heard that. I’m Anitra Pollard, and you shouldn’t go around spreading silly, lying stories about my Dad. There’s a law about that, and its called libel"

Slander corrected Eleanor mechanically. It’s slander when you speak, libel when you write.

Anitra ignored her.

"Well they came out straight away.

"‘Sorry’ they said,

‘But it’s time someone in your family knew, the whole school’s talking about it, everyone seems to know except your family. They’ve been seen up the Malton Road in the car, parked, doing, doing, you know what.’

Anitra began to cry again, but managed to continue.

Oh Mum, they started to laugh again, as though it was funny, and so I just pulled my clothes on quickly, and ran out.

Eleanor sat silent, looking at her daughter.

Her stomach felt as if she was on a run-away fairground ride. Pieces of information flashed in and out of her brain like fragments in a cracked mirror, refusing to assemble into an image.

The phone-call.

The absences from home over the past month.

The distancing, particularly in bed.

She had put that down to them both being tired at the end of the term. How could she have been so blind? What a fool trust had made of her. What a clown vanity and security had generated.

Mother and daughter sat in transfixed silence, immobilised.

The front door banged.

Hello! Its me. Geoff’s usual cheery greeting sounded very strange.

Anitra watched her mother in amazement. Eleanor had jumped to her feet, overturning the water glass, which dribbled its last drops onto the carpet. She stood very straight and very still, just as Anitra had seen her stand when she was about to walk on stage for a first entrance.

Geoff came into the room.

What a bloody awful day, I’ve had. That bloody Field Course will be the end of me!

How right you are my dear.

Eleanor’s tone of voice was quite unlike anything Anitra had ever heard before. Just go out for a little while Anitra please. I need to have a word with your father.

Anitra followed the order like a well-drilled soldier. It wasn’t just that her mother’s voice was a mixture of oil and acid, there was something very unnatural in the way in which she was controlling it that alarmed Anitra, yet she knew that to disobey was disloyal, in that it would have ruined the situation set piece she sensed that her mother was so carefully contriving. She went as fast as she could without looking up at her father.

What’s the matter with that child? Geoff seemed oblivious of his wife’s stance, Have you two had a dust-up? Nothing serious I trust.

Eleanor sprang across the room. She raked at his unsuspecting face with her right hand clawed. He started back, momentarily taken off guard, and then he grabbed both her wrists as she thrashed the air. He held her at arms length as she tried to kick, whilst blood began to ooze from two ragged scratches on his forehead and left cheek. The vaguely benevolent look he had been wearing when he entered the room was replaced by an animal wariness.

You traitorous bastard, Ill kill you. How can you do this to me, to us, after all these fucking years? I’ve had your kids, cooked, cleaned, changed my life for you, and you do this, you sad, randy, old wreck.

She gathered the saliva into her mouth and spat hard in his face.

That’s what I think of you. You’re nothing better than my spit! You hadn’t even the guts to tell me, but I had to hear about your sordid little sex via your own daughter, who was forced to listen to some of your precious pupils gossiping in the changing rooms at the pool, and that just about sums your character up,—sweaty, changing-room smut.

Suddenly her act collapsed, she dried, and then she began to weep quietly.

Geoff propelled her to the sofa, and gently pushed her on to the seat.

I’m sorry. I just, I just didn’t know where to start. he muttered weakly. I have wanted to tell you, almost to ask your advice . . . .

Oh Yes! Eleanor’s venom was recharged,

"Advice on what? How to get it up? Get it in? Keep it in? You are not very strong in that department as far as I can remember from my recent recollections, but there again, my memories are fading.

"And now I bloody-well know why, don’t I?

"The Field Course sapping all your energy.

"Hell, that’s a new name for it, fieldwork! Well you can bugger off and concentrate on your fucking fieldwork elsewhere.

"I don’t want you in my house, and I certainly don’t want your stinking, puny, pathetic, little penis anywhere near my bed!

I don’t even want it performing in my lavatory, which is what it’s best at!"

Oh God! Geoff sat down suddenly and put his head in his hands.

Eleanor kicked out at him from the sofa.

Get out. Go. Bugger off. Fuck off to your little cunt on heat. You pollute my space by being here.

He stood up.

His face a blank.

He walked out of the door and she heard his car start up in the drive.

Suddenly she wanted to rush after him and say all the preliminaries that she had assumed normally preceded such a scene, like,

Tell me it’s not true, or It was just a one off, wasn’t it? or even.

We’ve got to work something out.

But she had been so shocked, by Anitra’s news, that her adrenaline had rushed through her, taking over her reactions. As she sat and trembled with emotion and shivered in the heat, the appalling realities of her situation began to bombard her.

Where would Geoff go? Had he already got himself a bolthole in readiness?

The chequebook and Bankers’ cards where were they?

She tried to stand, but her legs were shaking, the calf muscles going into little cramps. She had played the part of the wronged wife on the stage, and she had vainly supposed that the experience helped her to know how it felt.

How appallingly arrogant she had been. There was absolutely nothing in the world that could compare to the searing misery of humiliation and broken trust that she was feeling now.

Chapter Two

Andrew Pollard looked down at his watch, and wondered how he had ever in his life been bored. Since he had begun painting the mural in the Town Hall hospitality room, time had never gone so quickly, nor had he ever been so happy.

It had all started when he had entered a local art competition organised by the Town Chamber of Trade. The challenge had been to offer a title and sketch for a mural that would represent the Town, and the prize had been generous by local standards,—£100. It wasn’t the prize that had excited Andrew, but the task that accompanied it.

To bring the mural to life in the hospitality room, so that guests and overseas visitors would have some idea about the town and its surroundings, or at least something to talk about whilst they were being wined and dined as a preview to some of the business transactions that kept the area alive.

Andrew’s mural was conventional in the extreme, and therein lay its success. The hosts did not have to spend time in explaining the subject to their guests, because there was neither symbolism nor artistic license, just a beautifully designed picture that incorporated the town and the countryside, with its industry, business and leisure activities. Nothing obscure, nothing that needed interpretation, something that could be recognised at a glance, and something easily understood after a few minutes scrutiny.

There had been quite a bit of dissent when Andrew’s work had been chosen. Fully fledged experienced artists had been discarded in favour of the youngest entrant, a fifteen year old without professional training. The Jury’s statement; This work is truth from youth. didn’t soften the anger of some of the other competitors. Even the Mayor’s jocular remark saying that he wouldn’t have to look up fancy translations for foreign visitors to explain something that he didn’t understand himself was made to rebound on him, when one of the losing competitors said that as far as he knew, the Mayor had made a fortune out of doing just that in business, so why should he suddenly change his habits when it came to Art!

Andrew had sailed blissfully along, seeming not to notice the hullaballoo going on around him, and at one stage, even Eleanor and Geoff had thought that he hadn’t taken in the barbs and insults, until coming back from having his photo taken for the Newspaper he had said calmly,

"I wonder if everyone who wins an Art prize makes as many enemies out of the older artists? It’s rather fun listening to them being so nasty. Mr Leeming seems to be the only person in the Art world around here that has any sympathy for me. He said,

‘Don’t worry lad, they’ll get over it.’

And then he told me that when he was at Art College, he was a bit of a rebel. He showed me a picture of himself and he looked a bit like one of Hell’s Angels. Who would have thought that our Art Master, who is so strict could ever have been like that?"

Eleanor and Geoff had privately laughed at Andrew’s amazement at one of his idols once being a rebel.

I wonder what he thought we were like when we were young? Geoff had laughed. I bet he would be pushed to imagine one of those all-night parties we used to go to when we were students. Phew! I can barely identify with the memory myself.

Eleanor had agreed with him, and she had speculated at the time if it was always the prerogative of the old to forget exactly how difficult they had been when they were young, and how many near-misses they had had in the stakes of life.

Andrew climbed down from his ladder, and stood back to survey his work. He was suddenly aware of running footsteps in the corridor outside. The door burst open and he was startled to see Anitra, white faced and tear-stained.

What’s up? he asked, doing his best to appear calm, as a million disasters shot through his mind.

Anitra sat down, and she told him what had happened that afternoon, starting with the changing rooms, and finishing with her exit from the house.

Andrew listened in incredulity.

Out of his million imagined disasters, this had not been on the menu.

We’d better get back home and see what’s happening. Mum’s got an awful temper, she could have done anything by now. You go on ahead Anitra, and I’ll clear this lot up, it will only take five minutes.

I don’t want to go back alone. I’ll help you tidy up, and then we will have to decide what to do.

It may have blown over when we get back, it may all be a mistake. he said hopefully.

I don’t think so. I think we had better telephone Jo, she’ll have got back to her flat from the Conservatoire by now, and she will give us the benefit of her experience.

Andrew looked up at Anitra rather sharply as she said this. Her relationship with her sister had not been very good as they had both got older. Andrew had assumed in the past that it was because they always had to share a bedroom. There had been arguments about toys taking up too much room, and cosmetics being wasted on childish face painting. The age difference of six years between the girls, with Andrew in the middle should have been better than it was, but at best they had coexisted uneasily, and when Jo had got her scholarship to the Royal Conservatoire the whole household had breathed a sigh of deliverance.

They tidied quickly, working in silence, each speculating on the implications of the situation.

When they arrived home, the house was quiet. They tiptoed into the living room, and somewhat thankfully found Eleanor sitting on the sofa. However, relief soon turned to alarm at her pallor and constant trembling. She refused to speak, and when Anitra tried to give her a cup of tea, she thrust the cup away so violently that Anitra was almost scalded by the hot sweet liquid she had been trained to believe was a panacea for all ills.

The children retreated to the kitchen.

Do you think we ought to try some Brandy? Anitra asked. I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell whether she is acting out a part, as she sometimes does when she’s upset, or whether this is real. We’ve never seen her go so white have we? She looked at Andrew seeking some sort of reassurance in her diagnosis.

No. Look, I’m going to phone Jo now. Shut the living room door, and put the radio on in the kitchen so that Mum won’t hear my voice from the hall.

OK. Good luck.

Andrew went to the phone. Jo’s voice sounded very near, and rather impatient.

Oh it’s you. she said, And to what do I owe this honour? She didn’t give him time to begin, before she said, Hurry up. I’m expecting Simon to pick me up. I’m all ready to go to the Saudi Embassy to play some Chamber Music for a reception, and I’m the leading soloist tonight.

Andrew took a breath. Should he upset his sister before she was about to perform? He knew that she was very ambitious, and relied on these engagements not only for a bit of extra cash, but also to find influential contacts for future reference.

It’s Mum and Dad. They’ve had a Hell of a row. he said feebly.

Is that all? Why are you ringing to tell me that. You should hear some of the rows I hear through the walls of my flat going on between some of the couples.

It’s not that. Dad’s gone.

Oh, he’ll be back. They always are. she said confidently.

Andrew felt that he wasn’t quite communicating the severity of the situation.

Mum’s sort of, traumatised. She’s just sitting there, and we don’t know what to do. He heard a door bang at the other end of the phone, and Jo say, Hang on Simon, my little brother is weeding on about domestic tiffs at home, I shan’t be long.

No look here. said Andrew, I heard that, and you’ve no idea how it is.

Well, if I’ve no idea, why the bloody hell are you asking me what to do. I’m just about to do a most important gig, and you come on the phone, whining about Mum and Dad. Let them sort themselves out, they’re big enough, and they think they can sort out everyone else, so let them get on with their own problems. If Mum’s not well, phone the Doctor, but I bet she’s acting. Anything for attention is Eleanor Pollard. Anyway, I have to go. I’ll call in the morning. She rang off without saying cheerio.

Andrew felt tears of frustration prick behind his eyes. He thought of Anitra, and the rotten afternoon she had endured, and he gritted his teeth.

Right then, I will phone the Doctor. He leafed through the home directory. Dr John Deans was a family friend. Andrew decided to tell Dr Deans everything that had happened. He needed some professional advice, and he had suspected as soon as he had entered the room, that his Mother was not acting. This was something different, something more serious than a tantrum. He dialled and managed to catch John just as he was leaving the surgery. Andrew suddenly found it much easier to explain quickly to the Doctor what had happened than he had managed with Jo.

I’ll be five minutes said the Doctor. His voice was professional, calm and in control.

Andrew returned to the Living Room. Eleanor hadn’t moved, but Anitra was holding her hand and trying to talk to her.

I phoned Jo. She was on her way out, and she said to phone Dr Deans. He omitted the unhelpful exchange, knowing that it would just upset Anitra further.

Is Doctor Deans coming?

Andrew noticed that Anitra was watching her mother intently as she spoke, to see if there was any reaction on her face to the conversation. He thought he saw a flicker of something, when the Doctor was mentioned, but it was almost imperceptible, and could have been his imagination. On his way. he said, and at that moment the door bell rang.

John Deans walked into the house, without waiting, and as he entered the living room, he frowned slightly.

He walked over to Eleanor and took her pulse. Then he took her blood pressure.

Nothing amiss there. he said. He shone a torch into her eye and as he lifted the lid a huge tear fell on to his hand.

Just give me a minute or two on my own with your Mum, he said quite cheerfully.

After the door closed, he sat down next to Eleanor. Now then, my dear. What are we going to do to help you?

Eleanor looked up at him. She had stopped shaking, but was still very pale.

You know?

Yes. Andrew was very good, he told me that Geoff had gone, after you had had a dust up over his, er, extra-marital liaison with an ex-pupil.

Andrew told you that? she said, her eyes wide.

Yes. He’s not a child you know, in fact both of your offspring are showing, what I can only describe as, remarkable maturity, in the situation. You’re lucky in the circumstances.

What do you mean, lucky? her voice rose, Geoff’s been messing about with a young . . . she searched in vain for a polite word and gave up, a slag, and you say that I’m lucky.

It’s not so very uncommon for men of his age to behave like that, but there aren’t too many sensible offspring who are concerned enough or mature enough to offer support. Many kids of their age would have taken the opportunity to have their own fling,—off to the disco, in with their mates, drink the booze-cupboard dry, have a few chemical substances. With any luck, this is just a phase with Geoff, the male menopause.

He’s betrayed me. she said. Her tone of voice caused him to stop in his tracks. He knew that he had been giving her the party line, but in these situations, it was a case of grasping at straws to calm patients. He didn’t even truly believe what he was saying. He simply didn’t know, how could anyone? Even the long-term woodworm in the bedroom furniture must be fairly perplexed by now. Eleanor continued.

He’s betrayed me, I will never fully forgive him, and if I can pay him out, no matter how long I have to wait, I will.

John Deans almost laughed. This particular speech he had heard many times,—the revenge, the retribution, using anger to deal with loss; all would be forgotten after a few weeks in a tearful reconciliation, that was the usual pattern. Still, he didn’t envy Geoff’s situation when, or if, he did return. That would present a very interesting picture, but at the moment it was his job to make his patient feel better, and he would resort to the modern traditional methods.

"I’m going to give you something to make you sleep tonight, and something to help you through