Homes and Gardens
Short story by Sarah Miller Walters. For more of Sarah's stories, visit her Amazon page:
Homes and Gardens
Bobby
and Flora had agreed to meet at the entrance to the Festival Gardens in
Battersea. It was Saturday afternoon, a half day off work for them both. Spring was growing old, but it was not yet
time for the summer holidays. People had
not quite abandoned the city in favour of the seaside or the countryside.
Instead, they all sought respite by investigating what the famous festival and
its pleasure ground had to offer. “Come on then,” husbands said to wives, and
mothers said to their children “Let’s go and see what all this festival fuss is
about.”
Because
of this crowd of curiosity, Bobby and Flora’s meeting point could only be
reached by determined shuffle. But they had been married since New Year’s Day –
long enough now that just a glimpse was all that was needed. Their clothes,
their gait – the shape of a bare forearm would be enough. Bobby balanced
himself on the edge of the pavement, confident that his wife would find him.
When she did, she touched his sleeve, which was rolled over two or three times.
She carried a lemon coloured cardigan in the crook of her arm.
“I’d
really like an ice, Bobby. Let’s go and
join a queue.”
He
ran his finger ends through her permanent wave and smiled. “Alright. Whatever
my wife wants, she shall have…”
“…except
a home of her own, we can’t work ruddy miracles.”
Flora
finished their catchphrase off and they both chuckled. On a day like this, when
the return to their temporary home at Bobby’s parents’ house was hours away,
they could treat the matter lightly.
Bobby
bought two small ices. They walked
quickly, looking for somewhere to sit before the drips ran any further. Every
deck chair and every seat was taken. Even finding a decent gap on the grass
wasn’t so easy. But they found a satisfactory place to settle, just at the edge
of a shadow. Flora sat on her cardigan,
her legs tucked underneath her skirt. Bobby stretched his own legs outwards, showing
a sock that was threadbare. They ate quickly and licked their fingers. Young boys dashed about them in short
trousers, their legs still milk bottle pale. Their mothers and grandmothers sat
gratefully in deckchairs, the tips of their noses beginning to turn pink. Flora leaned into Bobby’s arm.
“What
were we supposed to be doing this afternoon?”
“Going
to look at that flat in Brixton.” Bobby
answered without enthusiasm.
“I’m
sure that it will have already gone by the time that we get there. And it seems
such a long way from our families.”
“I
know. Wasting our time really aren’t
we?”
Flora
nodded carefully.
“Aw
let’s not bother. Who wants to live in
Brixton?”
“Not
me! What shall we do instead?”
“Shall we go along to Waterloo to the
Festival? Have a bit of a spree?” He whispered to the top of her head with a
smile.
Flora
grabbed Bobby’s arm. “Can we? We shouldn’t, we’re meant to be saving up!”
“Doesn’t
hurt once in a while to enjoy ourselves does it?”
Flora
was on her feet before he’d finished speaking, brushing the back of her skirt.
*
They
queued to get out of Waterloo, then queued to get through the Festival turnstiles.
Once they had entered, they absently joined another queue. Five minutes later, this one seemed to
disperse, revealing just the plinth of a sculpture. Bobby and Flora walked
around aimlessly for a time, taking in the colours and staring up at the
Skylon. They joined the slow moving line for the Dome of Discovery. Flora put
her cardigan on, ready for the shade. When they quietly left again an hour
later, the sun was lower in the sky.
“Do
you think that your mother will be cross? She might start to wonder where we
are.”
“Well,
there’s not much we can do about it is there? If we send her a postcard it
won’t get there until tomorrow.”
“Ought
we to think about getting back?”
“No! We’ve paid our five shillings to get in, I
want my money’s worth!” Bobby turned and
took hold of Flora by the shoulders.
“You have to stop worrying about upsetting them. You seem to be tiptoeing around all of the
time, but it’s your home now. Just for a while.”
“I
know. But I feel like a guest…and I can
always tell when your mother disapproves of me.
I seem to do or say something wrong every week. “
“I
understand, you know. I feel the same
sometimes…and I’ve always lived there.” He ticked Flora under the chin. “It’s
not your fault. Don’t worry. We’ll get a
home of our own soon.”
They
held hands and began to walk without purpose again, taking in the honeyed
reflections. They sauntered underneath the rumbling railway bridge, stared up
at the old familiar Shot Tower, and then found themselves at the Homes and
Gardens Pavilion. They both remained quiet, but felt each other’s frustration.
At last, Bobby spoke out:
“I
wonder how many houses they could have built instead of all this?”
They
stood beside a mock-up of a sitting room, artfully laid out and ready to
receive a modern family. The chairs
looked a little uncomfortable, there was none of the clutter that made it look
homely. But it was so different to the faded Victoriana at Bobby’s parents’
home, which was all dark wood and claret florals.
“We
ought to go and get some food in one of the restaurants, then stop here for the
night.” Flora giggled with a hint of nervousness.
“Yes,
yes we should. Make a protest.”
Flora
looked up at Bobby. He looked directly
back at her.
“Shall
we do it? Come back before closing time, sit down and refuse to move?”
“Oh
but Bobby, darling. What would be the
point? What would you want to gain from it?”
“Some
attention! We say that we won’t move
until the authorities give us somewhere to live.”
“But
Bobby, we might get into terrible trouble.
You might lose your job…and then we wouldn’t be able to afford to live
anywhere anyway.”
Flora
took hold of Bobby’s sleeve. He thrust
his hands into his pockets and pushed out his chin. This worried Flora even
more, it marked a determination in his spirit. There was only one thing for it.
“Let’s
go and try and get a drink in a restaurant.
I’ve never had wine before, I’d like to try some.”
If
the effect was anything like a pint of mild, Bobby would be a lot easier to
handle afterwards. And she wouldn’t care what his mother said when they got
home.
The
lights began to glow on the South Bank.
posted by Sarah Miller Walters @ 04:00
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