it’s fine,’ said Violet. ‘I’m more of a lone shopper.’
‘But you went dress hunting with friends yesterday, didn’t you?’ said Glyn. Violet could have kicked him. Luckily she thought of something off the cuff that sounded perfectly
acceptable.
‘Yes, and that’s most probably why I didn’t find anything, because I’m better off shopping by myself. Other people put me off.’
‘Come on, Violet. That wouldn’t fill a bird,’ urged Joy, gesturing towards her plate. She said the same every time they dined there, though Violet wasn’t a huge
eater.
She glanced over at Glyn’s plate, which had an Alp of food on it. He was tucking in as if he hadn’t eaten for days. His chin was glossy with dribbled gravy and Violet flicked her
eyes away because these days the sight of him eating made her feel slightly queasy. He hadn’t been overweight when they met; in fact at a distance, with bad glasses on, he could have passed
for a Phillip Schofield look-alike. Now he had a big wobbly belly and more than a hint of moobs. Glyn didn’t see a problem in his meteoric weight-gain – he just said that there was
‘more of him to love’.
‘I can’t wait to get married. I don’t know how I’d live without you, Violet,’ Glyn reached over the table and squeezed her hand.
‘Aw,’ chorused Joy and Norman.
Chapter 11
Monday morning was the first chance Violet had to visit Postbox Cottage. For once, Glyn remained asleep when she stole out of bed. She tiptoed around getting dressed and
didn’t use the loo in case the flush woke him. At every second she was convinced his eyes would flick open and there would begin the inquisition about where she was going and when she would
be back and what did she want to eat for lunch/tea and what should he buy from the shop. Glyn had a strange kind of agoraphobia, Violet decided. It would allow him to visit the row of shops round
the corner and his parents’ house, but nowhere else. Although she could add a caravan at the seaside to the list as well now, apparently. As guilty as it made her feel, Violet was only glad
that his complex neurosis didn’t permit him to venture to her workplace . Going out to create her dishes was her freedom, her oxygen. Without it, she didn’t know how she would
stand her life. And now she had another place – a secret place – to hide.
Miraculously she made it outside into the fresh air and couldn’t help but breathe a massive sigh of relief after starting up the car. She knew that she shouldn’t feel so
‘free’ at being away from the man she was going to marry in seventy-five days. But, for now, there was nothing she could do about it but enjoy the periods of parole away from the prison
of his flat.
Postbox Cottage was on the other side of Maltstone, in a nuclear hamlet called Little Kipping. The last in a row of three double-fronted – but tiny – properties, the cottage
resembled a doll’s house with its lozenge-paned windows. Violet sat behind the steering wheel staring at the facade of her grandparents’ cottage and she sighed. She couldn’t
believe it was all hers.
She eventually got out of the car, pushed open the creaky wooden front door and lifted up all the junk mail that had collected behind it. She walked from room to room, seeing it through new
eyes: the eyes of an owner. It sent a delicious thrill tripping across her heart. The last tenants had left it in a reasonable state inside but not clean enough by Violet’s standards. The
bathroom, especially, needed an extra scrub, and a lot of food had been left in the cupboards and needed to be thrown out.
It was a dear little place. The front windows were small and leaded and didn’t let in a great deal of light so Nan and Grandad Jack had knocked down the wall between the lounge and kitchen
to ‘borrow’ light from the south-facing back windows. A heavily shelved cellar housed a box freezer and was dry enough to be used for storage. Upstairs there was
‘But you went dress hunting with friends yesterday, didn’t you?’ said Glyn. Violet could have kicked him. Luckily she thought of something off the cuff that sounded perfectly
acceptable.
‘Yes, and that’s most probably why I didn’t find anything, because I’m better off shopping by myself. Other people put me off.’
‘Come on, Violet. That wouldn’t fill a bird,’ urged Joy, gesturing towards her plate. She said the same every time they dined there, though Violet wasn’t a huge
eater.
She glanced over at Glyn’s plate, which had an Alp of food on it. He was tucking in as if he hadn’t eaten for days. His chin was glossy with dribbled gravy and Violet flicked her
eyes away because these days the sight of him eating made her feel slightly queasy. He hadn’t been overweight when they met; in fact at a distance, with bad glasses on, he could have passed
for a Phillip Schofield look-alike. Now he had a big wobbly belly and more than a hint of moobs. Glyn didn’t see a problem in his meteoric weight-gain – he just said that there was
‘more of him to love’.
‘I can’t wait to get married. I don’t know how I’d live without you, Violet,’ Glyn reached over the table and squeezed her hand.
‘Aw,’ chorused Joy and Norman.
Chapter 11
Monday morning was the first chance Violet had to visit Postbox Cottage. For once, Glyn remained asleep when she stole out of bed. She tiptoed around getting dressed and
didn’t use the loo in case the flush woke him. At every second she was convinced his eyes would flick open and there would begin the inquisition about where she was going and when she would
be back and what did she want to eat for lunch/tea and what should he buy from the shop. Glyn had a strange kind of agoraphobia, Violet decided. It would allow him to visit the row of shops round
the corner and his parents’ house, but nowhere else. Although she could add a caravan at the seaside to the list as well now, apparently. As guilty as it made her feel, Violet was only glad
that his complex neurosis didn’t permit him to venture to her workplace . Going out to create her dishes was her freedom, her oxygen. Without it, she didn’t know how she would
stand her life. And now she had another place – a secret place – to hide.
Miraculously she made it outside into the fresh air and couldn’t help but breathe a massive sigh of relief after starting up the car. She knew that she shouldn’t feel so
‘free’ at being away from the man she was going to marry in seventy-five days. But, for now, there was nothing she could do about it but enjoy the periods of parole away from the prison
of his flat.
Postbox Cottage was on the other side of Maltstone, in a nuclear hamlet called Little Kipping. The last in a row of three double-fronted – but tiny – properties, the cottage
resembled a doll’s house with its lozenge-paned windows. Violet sat behind the steering wheel staring at the facade of her grandparents’ cottage and she sighed. She couldn’t
believe it was all hers.
She eventually got out of the car, pushed open the creaky wooden front door and lifted up all the junk mail that had collected behind it. She walked from room to room, seeing it through new
eyes: the eyes of an owner. It sent a delicious thrill tripping across her heart. The last tenants had left it in a reasonable state inside but not clean enough by Violet’s standards. The
bathroom, especially, needed an extra scrub, and a lot of food had been left in the cupboards and needed to be thrown out.
It was a dear little place. The front windows were small and leaded and didn’t let in a great deal of light so Nan and Grandad Jack had knocked down the wall between the lounge and kitchen
to ‘borrow’ light from the south-facing back windows. A heavily shelved cellar housed a box freezer and was dry enough to be used for storage. Upstairs there was
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