Injury Time - Beryl Bainbridge [7]
‘There, there,’ soothed Alma, taking Binny’s hand and patting it. ‘It’s probably the change that’s upsetting you, darling.’ And indeed Binny’s normally pale cheeks flamed a deep and fierce red.
‘I can’t help noticing details,’ said Binny. ‘Little clues and suchlike. I’d like to switch over, but I can’t.’
Alma looked at her.
‘I keep thinking I’m watching television,’ Binny said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much difference.’ She stared mesmerised out of the window.
Alma asked for the bill and said she’d phone in the morning to see if Binny felt more settled. Better still, she could call round this evening for a little chat.
‘No,’ said Binny. ‘I shall go to bed early.’ At this lie her face flushed more than ever. ‘But I doubt if it will do any good. I don’t know how you can be so blind. The whole world’s changed. It’s not my little change that’s making the difference.’ Seeing that Alma appeared unconvinced she added, ‘I don’t suppose you called your mother a toe-rag.’
Alma agreed she hadn’t, but then in their day the word had been unknown. ‘Old cow,’ she admitted. ‘Or flipping swine. I got my face slapped.’ She touched her cheek at the memory.
‘I said bugger once,’ recalled Binny. ‘I said it to a chair in Mother’s bedroom and she overheard. She said a policeman would come round and wash my mouth out.’
‘You’re always looking for policemen,’ said Alma thoughtfully. She looked at the bill and was astonished at the service charge.
‘I wonder,’ asked Binny, ‘if we should hit the children more?’ She never had, not even when they punched her or broke something valuable. When she was younger she would have argued to the death that it was wrong to beat a child. Now she wasn’t so sure. Somewhere along the line mistakes had been made: the way everyone accepted those telephone calls in the night from the police holding the children in the cells for disorderly behaviour; the way the children lolled about the house, refusing to go out until the pubs opened. She had started with such liberal leftish ideas upon most things – education, socialism, capital punishment, sex and so forth – and then, like an old and tired horse knowing the road home, had veered inexorably to the right. Only the other day her son had called her a fascist pig. It was true she didn’t want to share anything any more, particularly not with the children.
‘You are in a state,’ Alma said. ‘Perhaps you need a little holiday.’
‘You know I can’t leave the children,’ said Binny hastily. Alma was always trying to get her to go on little holidays. Binny had accompanied her once to Brighton for three days and returned practically an alcoholic. Last summer Alma had wanted her to fly on a package deal to Tunisia. She said it was very cheap and would do her the world of good. Binny hadn’t gone. Alma had come home with a stubborn case of crabs which she said she’d caught off a camel.
‘I must get on,’ said Binny, worriedly, rising from her seat, thinking at this rate she wouldn’t reach the bank before nightfall.
They kissed and parted outside Boots the chemist. Alma decided to wait for a taxi. Trying to keep warm, she hopped cheerfully from one leg to another, shouting Goodbye repeatedly above the din of traffic, as though for the very last time.
Binny went into the bank. In the queue at the cashier’s counter waited a thin woman in a mackintosh. Binny was so surprised she darted back to the door and looked outside. Perhaps the baby was parked in a side street – after all those warnings about leaving children unattended! She walked down the steps, though it was none of her business, and round the corner. There was no sign of a pram. The wind tore at her clothes. She thought she saw familiar faces, framed in windows, flickering past her as the cars swarmed toward the High Street. Confused, she raised her arm in greeting, imagining she heard above the fluttering of her headscarf a voice