Linda Phillips - Puppies Are For Life

Time kicked its heels while she eyed him back belligerently, but eventually she felt that one of them had to say something, so nodding at the doll he carried tucked under his arm with its felt feet sticking out, she said, ‘I hope Reg doesn’t take you for a shoplifter. Hadn’t you better go back?’

‘What?’ He looked vaguely at the shop, then at the upturned doll. ‘Oh, it’s all right, don’t worry. I chucked a plastic card at him on my way out. I’ll go back and settle up properly when we’ve had our cup of tea.’

‘Our –?’ She looked at the hand on her arm – a moderately large hand with broad, straight fingers.

‘Well, I could certainly do with one.’ His eyes roved over her face. ‘And I rather think you could too.’

There was no question of refusing; he didn’t give her a chance. He hustled her down a cul-de-sac before she could even begin to think what was happening. And in no time at all they were sitting opposite each other in the Copper Kettle with the doll propped against a sugar bowl as chaperone.

‘Not as comfortable as I’d hoped,’ he remarked, grimacing as he tried to settle himself on his chair. ‘One of those places that looks better from the outside than it actually is, I’m afraid. I haven’t sat on one of these horrible things since my Sunday school days.’

As he bent to examine the cane seat she saw that his hair grew thick and strong down the back of his head and was hardly streaked with grey at all. Paul’s was entirely grey and it didn’t grow right from the forehead like it used to either. There ought to be a way, she mused silently, of telling a man’s age by the amount his hair had receded. Like the rings on the trunk of a tree. A decade per half-inch perhaps? But that wouldn’t work; it would make this man young enough to be her son, which he was patently far from being.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, coming up a little flushed, ‘I suppose that dates me horribly, doesn’t it, talking about cane seats in Sunday schools?’ It was as if he’d read her mind. ‘In this day and age it’s probably pre-formed plastic, if they have them at all. I mean, I don’t know … do kids still go to Sunday school these days?’

Susannah hesitated. She didn’t want to sit drinking tea with a perfect stranger, making polite conversation about chairs and Sunday schools, of all things. And he hadn’t even asked her if she’d wanted to come; just assumed she’d be delighted to have his company. She firmed her lips and stuck her jaw out a little, making up her mind to answer him only in monosyllables. But he was a difficult sort of person to dislike and she relented almost immediately.

‘Mine went to Sunday school for a while –’ she told him, smiling faintly in spite of herself – ‘until they learned to vote with their feet, that is. But – that’s going back quite a few years now. I don’t know what goes on these days either. Anyway, if it’s any comfort to you, I remember having chairs like this at Sunday school too. So there; that dates me as well.’

And don’t you dare come out with any pat little ‘Oh, surely you’re not that old’ nonsense , she silently warned him. But he didn’t and she felt disappointed. Nor did he pick up on the mention of children, from which she deduced that he didn’t have any of his own or he would have leaped at the chance to talk about them, which was a shame because he looked as if he would have made a nice dad.

But now he seemed to be gazing about him and wondering what to say next. No doubt he was already regretting having brought her here and couldn’t wait to get away again.

‘Ugly little trollop, isn’t she?’ he came out with in the end, the laughter lines round his mouth deepening good-humouredly. ‘Our friend here, I mean –’ he inclined his head in the direction of the doll and added in a stage whisper – ‘not the waitress.’

Susannah glanced at the elderly waitress shuffling from table to table and allowed herself another small smile, then she smoothed creases from the doll’s dress with hands that she didn’t know what to do with. She suddenly felt warmer than she had all day. This man was turning out to be quite a charmer. But – she pulled herself up sharply – didn’t she know better by now than to put trust in charming men?

‘Why did you choose this doll,’ she wondered out loud, ‘if you really think she’s awful?’

‘Well –’ he watched Susannah’s deft fingers tweak the doll’s clothes into better shape – ‘there was another one sitting beside her, dressed in a creamy lacy underthing and a coat of green – um –’

‘Velvet.’

‘Is that what it was? Yes, I suppose so. Well, I’d have preferred that one if it had been up to me. Much more tasteful, I thought. But I knew Julia wouldn’t agree with me. She never does. She’s more a frills and ribbons type, you see.’

‘Uh-huh. Julia being your … daughter?’

‘Wife.’

They leaned back to accommodate the arrival of the tea things.

‘So,’ Susannah said lightly, happy to leave the stirring and pouring to him since the tea had been his idea and he seemed to want to take charge, ‘you don’t think much of Lucy-Ann, I take it?’

‘Lucy-Ann?’ Glancing up from his teabag dunking his eyes followed Susannah’s back to the doll. ‘Oh lord. You don’t mean to tell me … not more of your handiwork, surely?’

‘I made them both, Mr – er –’

‘Webb,’ he had to remind her, ‘Harvey Webb.’

‘– and I made them different to appeal to all tastes. Not that it made a scrap of difference,’ she added bitterly.

‘Sorry?’ He looked puzzled.

She drew a long breath, wishing she’d not made the comment. Now she would have to explain. ‘They’ve travelled the length and breadth of the country with me over the years, those dolls, moving from shop to shop on sale or return. Just about anywhere my husband’s work has taken us, they’ve gone too. Yes –’ she sighed, putting down her cup – ‘Paul’s spectacular promotions have taken us all around the country – abroad as well on two occasions – while my sad little failures have trailed along behind us.’ She forced a grin. ‘Congratulations, Mr Webb –’

‘Harvey.’

‘– you are the first mug ever to actually buy one.’ And, she thought, surprised at herself, you’re the first person I’ve ever told this to.

He appraised her gravely – as gravely as a face like his would allow. ‘I think,’ he said after a pause, ‘I’m beginning to see why you were a bit touchy back there. But they’re beautifully made, those dolls. And so is the Roman teapot stand. I meant what I said about that.’

Inadvertently – or not, she couldn’t be sure – he had covered one of her hands with his as he spoke, and holding her eyes with his own he went on, ‘I think, Mrs Harding, you’re one hell of a talented lady. And don’t let anyone tell you you’re not.’

She gazed back at him with obvious pity. Men were so utterly transparent it was unbelievable. Did he really think she was going to fall for this stupid malarkey? Any minute now he would conjure up a huge shipping order that he was sure he’d be able to get for her: a thousand teapot stands, he would reckon, for someone he just happened to know in the business. In return, of course, for … well, really, he must be desperate, the dirty old so-and-so!

Frustration that had only been lightly tamped down since its last eruption swept her to the edge again. She slid her hand from beneath his, grabbed hold of her bag and stood up.

‘And you, Mr Webb,’ she replied as coolly as her wavering voice would allow, ‘are one hell of a patronising bastard.’

The flowers shivered in their cellophane as Paul walked past. He stopped and looked down at them, arrested by a flash of remorse. He had only come to the service station for petrol and perhaps the evening paper, but should he buy flowers for Sue?