| Well
Suited
by Lindsay Satterthwaite
‘I’d like to return this please.’
‘Of course Madam,’ replied the salesgirl. ‘Anything
wrong with it?’
‘No, nothing at all. I bought it with my husband last week, and…’
She took it from the shiny carrier.
‘It’s a nice suit, one of our best sellers,’ said the
salesgirl. ‘There was a good discount on it too, and that promotion’s
over now. Are you sure your husband won’t change his mind/’
‘Quite sure.’
Arthur hates shopping; it took me all my time to get him to come here
last week. Our David, his sister’s boy is getting married again,
and of course, as his auntie and uncle, we’re invited. I like a
good wedding, and in our little family, they’re few and far between,
though it is David’s second time. Perhaps I’ll get a new outfit,
if we can run to the expense.
Anyway I managed to prise Arthur out of his chair by the fire, away from
his telly and his newspapers to come shopping with me. It was a rare event
in our calendar, and not one which either of us looked forward to with
any joy, but his old suit hardly fastened round him any more. He certainly
couldn’t have gone to a wedding in it. The seat of the pants was
so shiny you could nearly have used it for a mirror.
I usually buy all his clothes, all his shirts and socks and stuff on my
own, but he reluctantly agreed a suit has to be tried on. He was in a
right bad mood with himself as he tagged along complete with scowl and
wallet. Complained all the way here on the bus about how he’d be
missing the midday news. I got him into the shop and found him three suits
to take into the changing room. This was the one that fitted best. He’d
have gone for one of the cheaper ones, but I persuaded him that better
quality would last longer. It took some doing, I can tell you.
The young, over made-up sales girl checks the pockets and tries to be
as discreet as she can about sniffing the jacket. She’s certainly
giving it a good going over, very thorough. It hasn’t been worn
though, so she’ll not find any damage. She looks up and smiles,
a smudge of red lipstick on the edge of one front tooth. I bet she doesn’t
realise.
‘We can do you a refund, Madam – how did you pay for it?’
‘Cash.’
Arthur always pays cash. Doesn’t hold with those bits of plastic
cards. If you haven’t the cash, you can’t afford it, he says.
Everyone pays with cards nowadays, I keep telling him, but he doesn’t
listen.
‘Have you got your receipt?’
It’s here somewhere. After scrabbling in my purse for a bit, I pull
out a handful of scraps of paper and hand them to the girl.
‘You’ll have to find it among these dear.’ I try to
sound apologetic. ‘I’ve not brought my specs, so I can’t
see what’s on any of them.’
She spreads the receipts on the counter, smoothing and straightening them
out. Her fingernails are long and the red nail polish, only slightly chipped,
matches her lips. The bill should be there, my bag’s not been emptied
since I was last here.
‘Here it is,’ she says. ‘Two hundred and forty-nine
pounds – is that right?’
I nod, remembering how Arthur complained when he handed the cash across.
Really embarrassed me, he did. Thank goodness the girl who served us then
isn’t here today. Five times, he made her check it, to make sure
he hadn’t handed over too much. And with a great queue behind us,
all tutting and making snide comments. Arthur didn’t pay any attention
though, just took his time. Things like that don’t rattle him at
all.
‘I’m afraid I’ve not got that much cash in the till,’
says the girl. ‘Have you any other shopping to do, while the office
has the money sent down?’
I think for a bit. There’s no rush, really.
‘I suppose I can go and have a cup of tea and a wander. Will it
take long?’
‘Not long, no. Call back at about ten thirty, and it should be here.’
I needed a cuppa to settle my nerves the day we were last here, but Arthur
wouldn’t go in the café.
‘One-pound-fifty for a pot of tea,’ he said. ‘We could
have twenty or more pots at home, for that!’
The café is quiet. Only two other tables are occupied, one by a
man in white painters’ overalls, and the other by an elderly soul
with thinning gingery hair that you can see her scalp through. It looks
as if she has overdone the hair dye once too often.
I’m going to have one of their special all-day breakfasts, seeing
as there’s nobody with me to tell me I can’t. It’s nice,
having something cooked for you. Arthur doesn’t see it from my point
of view. He gets all his meals made for him anyway, by me. He isn’t
one for eating out. Arthur likes familiar things, in familiar places.
I can count on the fingers of both hands, the number of times we’ve
had a meal out in our thirty years together. No, he likes his routine.
We tried Chinese once. I liked it, but Arthur said it gave him terrible
indigestion. He went on for weeks about it, afterwards. Since then, plain
English cooking is what I’ve given him, and he’s not complained
much, really. Even compliments me on it sometimes.
Mopping up the last of my egg with some bread and butter, I notice some
magazines in a rack on the wall. I could read one while I finish my tea.
I don’t generally buy magazines. Some of these are a bit racy, and
I’d be embarrassed if anybody caught me with one of them. They’re
all adverts anyway, and the clothes in them aren’t me, not made
for my shape. Arthur says they’re a waste of money. I take one and
begin to flick through the pages starting at the back, past the ads for
cosmetic surgery and the horoscopes. A quiz takes my eye – ‘Are
You Compatible?’ I start answering the questions, just in my head.
Arthur and I must be compatible. We’ve managed thirty years together,
just. That’s a real achievement these days. Some marriages don’t
last much beyond the reception, it seems to me.
There’s too much emphasis on all the trimmings, and not enough on
the commitment they’re making. Take our David’s young woman.
Nearly eight hundred pounds, her dress cost, and the wedding’s at
that posh hotel with the man in uniform out front. They can’t really
afford it, had to take out a loan. The invitations are really fancy too,
ours is still on the mantelshelf at home. It’s too nice to stick
in a drawer. His first wife just lives round the corner from us, on that
new estate. Her new man has a bigger house than she had with our David,
and he earns a fortune on the oil rigs. She hasn’t married him though,
and he’s never at home.
No, not many will last as long as we have. You’ve got to stay loyal
to each other, even if one of you’s in the wrong some of the time.
It can be bloody hard though. We’ve had our rows, some real ding–dongs!
I could’ve walked out many a time.
I squeeze the last dregs of stewed tea from the stainless steel pot. The
bitter liquid dries my mouth, like sucking on lemons, making me give a
little shiver. It’s been paid for though, so I’ll finish it.
Back at the sales counter, the girl smiles in recognition. She counts
out twenty five ten pound notes as I watch.
‘Do you have a pound coin?’ she says.
Digging in my pocket I find the one I always keep for the trolley at the
supermarket, and hand it over. She gives me the notes, all fresh and crisp.
Resisting the urge to count them again, I stuff them into my bag.
There’s still time for a quick browse before home time. Wandering
into the ladies clothing section, some nice wedding outfits catch my eye.
Flicking through the row of hangers, I come to a lovely lilac dress and
jacket, all lace and chiffon. It’s a fair bet you can’t wash
it, but it’s gorgeous. My size too. Before I know it, I’m
in the changing room. It fits as if it’s been made for me. It’d
be perfect for our David’s do.
How much? There’s a price tag pinned to the lining. A hundred and
fifty-nine pounds. I’ve got more than that on me, in cash. I sit
down on the little stool in the corner, and retrieve my old black handbag
from under the pile of hastily discarded garments. Reaching in, I take
out the new money, gently fingering through it to reassure myself that
it’s all there.
I walk out of the store, one of their smart carrier bags dangling from
my arm, a mixture of guilt and elation churning with my all-day breakfast.
Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten as much. What will Arthur say when
I get home with over half his money spent?
It dawns on me I don’t need to worry now.
Arthur did look good in that suit, but it cost far too much to be buried
in. I know he would have agreed.
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