Judgment Day by Penelope Lively

Author:Penelope Lively
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780802139665
Publisher: Grove Press
Published: 1980-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Shirley Bryan seldom got out of bed before ten. What was the point? Martin could get himself off to school; Keith was poisonous in the mornings, they never exchanged a word anyway. She would lie frowsy in the curtained room, hearing the milkman's clink, passing cars, passing people. Quick, busy footsteps. She couldn't think what other people did with themselves: Sue Coggan, always on the go, off to the shops, baking, cleaning, bustling hither and thither. Her own days were cavernous with boredom, a long slouch from one hour to the next, with accompaniment by Radio One. The house was full of abandoned projects: half-finished garments, hexagons for patchwork cut out and then stuffed into a drawer, a junk-shop chest of drawers painted sparkling white until the paint ran out and it was too much of a sweat to go and buy some more. Occasionally she had tried evening classes: yoga, fitness, upholstery. But dropped out, always, after the second or third time. She couldn't be bothered when something became an effort; it was always like that, the dress or skirt or whatever would run into difficulties, or the recipe would turn out more of a bother than she'd reckoned, or she'd just lose interest, cop out.

Today, she thought, lying there (the bed a bit smelly, the sheets needing a wash, curse it}, she'd wash her hair and do it in a new style. Yes. Get a rinse maybe from Boots and try something really way out. The day took on some color: yes, she'd do herself up nicely, give Keith a surprise, and finish off that pink shirt and wear it this evening. He wouldn't know what had hit him. And they'd go out for a drink.

She got up and ran a bath. Lying there in the steam, she thought of the night before. He'd been late—but he was always late, these days—and they'd had a row, of course. And in the middle of it he said, “Christ, I wish I hadn't bloody well bothered to come back at all.” And her stomach plummeted; he means it, she realized, it could happen. But later it had all been all right again. He'd had a drink—given her one too; surprise, surprise—and they'd sat watching the telly together, first the new comedy series and then the news. On the screen, robed figures in some hot country were digging the bodies of children out of rubble: she said, “That's terrible. Isn't that terrible, Keith?” and he nodded, and she thought, he's coming around, he'll snap out of it by bedtime, thank God for that. “Another beer?” “Yeah, thanks.” There would be sunny periods tomorrow, the forecast said, and temperatures around normal. She went out into the kitchen; it's O.K. really, she thought, I mean really everything's all right.

A blond rinse? Or one of those coppery ones?

* * *

He said, “My dad's taking me to the Air Show.”

“So's mine.”

“We're all of us going. Mum says I can take Steve.”

“I'm going,” Martin said, “all on my own with my dad.

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