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Things We Never Had

Tales from Boldover Street

By Ruth V JarvisPublished 2 years ago 11 min read
2

Vivian dabbed each side of her lips and set the napkin on the breakfast table.

“I take it you will be having another cup of tea Harold?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Don’t overdo the sweeteners.”

“No, dear.” Harold finished his porridge and sat silently as Vivian cleared the table and fixed her lipstick across her pursed lips. “See you at six. Make sure you do the washing up and peel the potatoes.”

“Okay, dear.” But his voice fell flat against the front door as it closed. He breathed out. It felt like he held his breath from six pm till seven-thirty every morning. The sun through the frosted glass left a dappled light across the new linoleum, highlighting toast crumbs. He swept them up and quietly made his way upstairs, where he removed his bedtime reading from under their mattress.

“Harold?” Vivian’s footsteps came thudding up the stairs. Harold froze to attention, his hands behind his back. “I forgot my purse. What are you doing standing there like that?”

“Nothing, dear.” She looked at him with a familiar disdain and left.

He watched her walk down the front path away from their 1950’s council semi-detached. They had moved into Boldover Street the same day as their neighbours Jim and Betty Wainwright, whom he had worked alongside in military communications during the war. In fact, half the street had ferried boxes from small vans on that day thirty years ago. Nobody had much, a few possessions cobbled together from living in tiny spaces with their children, home from evacuation, changed, curious, detached and ruddy-cheeked. The houses on the street uniformly absorbed the light as they stretched like rows of epitaphs away over the hill, and in their way, they honoured the fallen because this was the normalcy they had fought for, their souls now crimson poppies waving from far-off fields.

Harold realised the postman was handing Betty a parcel at her gate. The postman laughed at one of her chirrupy quips, and as he left, she turned to look up at Harold and waved. He smiled back.

Betty had been up to her chubby elbows in suds cleaning mason jars when the had postman knocked. She returned to the kitchen to find her strawberry jam erupting on the stove, leaving a smattering on the mat. Mr Tibbs wandered in with his daily offering, today a juicy mouse. He rubbed himself up against her pop socks and dropped it next to the smatterings of jam. She tickled him under the chin, stepped over the mess, put on her flip-flops and made her way to the far end of the garden. As she eased herself into her deck chair, the wooden sides pinched her thighs, but the memories of family picnics in the dunes were so ingrained on her heart she wouldn’t get rid of it till it collapsed.

She had taken to listening to Woman’s Hour on the radio. Discussions about feminism had sparked Betty’s imagination. Having been a widower for nearly two years now, she felt perhaps it was the time for her to partake in some of this so-called liberation. So, she sat up, removed her blouse, and subsequently her brassiere to let her ample bosom spill out and meet the sun.

“There we go, Mr Tibbs, ‘bout time the boys got an airing.” She patted them proudly.

Meanwhile, next door Harold had taken his book into the spare room and sat on the bed. The sheets were folded back, white and crisp over Vivian’s mother’s patchwork quilt. Vivian’s mother Beatrice Verity Stanton-Brown, was a staunch member of the Women’s Institute. As an uncontested trophy winner for embroidery, jams and pickles, she was an ardent perfectionist. So much so he suspected she had even timed her death to exactness when she popped off in her freshly starched & pressed nightie. She was the constant standard that Vivian strived to uphold. He opened the bedside cabinet and swapped Fanny Hill for a dog-eared copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. As he turned the pages and read of Connie’s liberal way of life, he allowed his mind to wander. Harold imagined himself dancing at a socialite dinner. Dashing as he was in his younger years, he still cut a sharp jawline, wore his hair pristinely cut and shaved closely every day. He neatened his tie, then rose from the bed with a bow.

“My Lady, would you care to dance?” Gracefully taking Connie’s hand, he patterned out a Foxtrot. Harold closed his eyes, music carried him across the parquet flooring, and an abundance of champagne flowed.

As he reverse turned the lady in question, his arm caught the netting. Out the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of his rather vivacious neighbour sunning herself on her deck chair. It took a moment to register what he had seen. His loins certainly had not missed a trick and stopped him dead in his tracks. Harold got down on his knees and peered carefully over the window ledge: he was right, he was not going mad. There before his very eyes was Betty revealing all and sundry and what a sundry they were. She sat brazenly in all her glory eating fresh strawberries from a bowl resting on her stomach.

The strawberries tipped Harold over the edge. He recollected the summer fete of 1955. A glorious sunny day much like this one, bunting was abroad and the judging marquee was filled with abundant delights. After years of rationing, it felt as if he had died and gone to heaven.

Vivian had spent weeks perfecting her mother’s strawberry jam recipe to produce the winning jar. All eyes were on her to follow the exacting standards of Mrs Stanton-Brown. The lids were off, and little teaspoons rested by the side of each pot. In the centre was a small trophy and on a neatly inscribed card were the judge’s comments. ‘This is clearly the star of the show. Betty Wainwright must be very proud.’ Vivian’s jar sat to the side sporting a blue rosette with 2nd stamped in gold.

Now let’s say that on that day, curiosity got the better of Harold. Vivian had not let Harold try a speck of her second-class jam; in fact, it felt like rationing would never end in the Thomas household. He peered over into Betty’s bright red, sticky pot of jam and, before he knew it, had filched a taster. His taste buds awoke in a delight of summer flavours; his first-ever kiss with Minnie Frosstrup in the back row of the coronet cinema drifted through his mind. As he opened his eyes, he found himself face to face with Vivian. Her face could have curdled the entire row of Victoria cream sponges. She snatched up her jam and rosette, then fled from the scene. That evening the rosette was in the bin, and Vivian took to bed early with one of her heads.

It wasn’t until the following summer Harold started to get an inkling of the humiliation the scenario had exacted on his wife. As he dug the garden over with his youngest daughter Margaret, he spotted her flipping a snail into Betty and Jim’s garden, followed by a rather fat slug.

“Young lady, what are you doing?”

“It’s okay. Mother does it all the time.” Harold peeped over the fence, and there on the other side, he spotted Betty’s strawberry patch and what a sorry sight it was.

At that year’s fete, in the middle of the table, sat the trophy and next to it was Betty’s jar of raspberry jam. Vivian warned Harold that if he dared to indulge himself this time, it would be liver and cabbage for a week.

The following summer, Harold noticed Jimmy digging up the Raspberry bush from the side of the potting shed.

“Oh dear, that doesn’t look good, Jimmy?”

“I don’t really understand it. She’s been bursting with fruit every year, and she’s just given up the ghost almost overnight. Betty will be very disappointed. Harold’s belly turned over, and his suspicions weren’t unfounded when he found the empty bottle of root killer as he put out the bins that night.

Betty didn’t enter a jam the following year. Instead, on the adjacent table, by a slightly larger trophy, was her pot of pickle. Harold overheard the judge that afternoon.

“Never ceases to amaze me how that woman can turn her hand to anything. Jimmy Wainwright is a very lucky man.” And my goodness, Harold knew it.

Vivian’s nightly routine had not changed in years. At ten, she would take care of her ablutions, put her blindfold on and sleep like a mummy as if waiting for her impending retirement. Harold, however, would lie awake straining his ears to listen to the couple next-door chatting happily about their day. Once, he had heard Jimmy talking about how hard Vivian made Harold work covering the front garden with the latest modernity of crazy paving. The weeds in the cracks had become the blight of Harold’s life. Even their pools winnings had gone on double glazing, and the day it was fittedHarold watched through the pristine glass as the Wainwrights returned from a week in Southend—Jimmy with a “Kiss Me Quick” hat and Betty chasing him down the path with a couple of sticks of rock.

Those nights when Harold listened, they would often make love. It didn’t feel intrusive, more a comfort to know that they were so very much in love. He would sleep after they climaxed, wondering what it would feel like to be loved that much.

Two years ago, Vivian had done her worst. She set her new sprinkler to spray Betty’s garden with pesticide and nearly killed every plant in sight. Harold was furious. However, he understood Vivian all too well and pitied her need to live in her dead mother’s shoes. So, he said nothing. The Wainwrights never stopped being polite; they even left a pot of Betty’s winning gooseberry jam on his doorstep made from Phillis’s bumper crop at number 42.

“Ha! Your sprinklers can’t reach that far, you old sourpuss,” he had thought as he closed his eyes that night listening to Betty’s warm giggle through the paper-thin walls; then her quiet moans and Jimmy’s rampant fervour that had the bedpost knocking a few times as Vivian slept on. Then, no climax came. Instead, Betty repeating Jimmy’s name over and over, a panic in her voice and then fretful sobs. Soon blue lights lit up the bedroom, and then the house fell silent.

The following year there was no jam, no pickle, just an empty space on the table. Of course, Vivian had snatched the titles. She preened around like a peacock for days, no understanding of what her winning and Betty's absence meant, but he knew. From then on, Harold tried to sleep when Vivian did so he didn’t have to listen to Betty cry herself to sleep. Later that year, he had taken to reading racy literature in the day to fill what had become a rather large hole in his somewhat empty life.

Now, with all these thoughts that Betty’s magnificent display had stirred, Harold felt a tear roll down his cheek. His initial excitement of her nakedness amongst the blooming garden had waned, but it was so good to see her happy, fulfilling some part of that joyous womanliness she exuded. He watched her for some time, then went about his daily chores. No doubt it was liver again for tea.

That night as he lay in bed listening to Vivian snoring lightly, he heard Betty turn off the light, the bed springs squeaking as she got into bed, and then her sobbing began. He felt all the happiness wash out of his thin body. Would nothing ever be the same?

As he lay there in the dark, he took a teaspoon off the saucer on his bedside and started to tap morse code on the bedpost.

<Please don’t cry>

The crying stopped. He lay in the deafening silence. Now he felt awful. How dare he make her feel so self-conscious.

<I miss him so much>

< Can I help?>

<Maybe? Come for tea?>

<I’d like that >

<Night H>

<Night B>

Harold slept through his alarm that morning. He woke to Vivian shaking him sternly. He got out of bed and went about his morning routine, boiling the kettle, making porridge, setting the table, observing his wife. When she left, he watched her disappear over the hill. Then he had a shave, fixed his hair and returned to the bedroom to patiently watch the clock. When it struck eleven, it seemed to him a suitable time to visit.

Harold left his house by the front door, walked up his pristine path and then down Betty’s, blooming and overgrown with colour. Before he could press the bell, Betty opened the door. With her huge welcoming smile, she curtseyed and beckoned him in.

The table in the parlour was set with a gingham table cloth, two plates with a pretty floral pattern and a matching teapot. Another larger plate was piled high with fresh warm scones, and there in the middle of the table sat a jar of Betty’s prize-winning Strawberry Jam.

Short Story
2

About the Creator

Ruth V Jarvis

Ruth is a writer of script, poetry, creative non-fiction and fiction.

Her series of short stories Tales from Boldover Street are situated in post world war 2 Britain and uses magic realism to reveal the personal battles of trauma narrative.

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