If only she hadn’t touched his beard.
Brian emerged from this reverie to find himself gazing at a residue of black sludge in the bottom of his cup.
‘What the hell’s all this?’
‘All what?’
‘This mud.’
‘It’s filter coffee.’
‘But we don’t have a filter.’ He spoke slowly and loudly. ‘We use a coffee pot.’ A. Coffee. Pot. For extra emphasis he held it up.
‘You won’t drink anything but Costa Rican. And Sainsbury’s only had it in filter grind.’
Patience, Brian, patience. She can’t help it. Count to ten.
‘It’s all right if you don’t stir it.’
‘How on earth you ever got through teacher-training college beats me.’ He poured the thick, dark stuff over his muesli and pushed the lot aside.
There was a rattling from the front door and Sue said, ‘I think that’s the post.’
Brian did not move. Sue hesitated. As head of the house he always picked up the post. It might be something important. But to her surprise he said, ‘Well, go on then. No doubt it’ll be more bills. You eat me out of house and home the pair of you.’
Forbearing to mention that invoices for provisions rarely arrived via the Royal Mail, Sue went into the hall. There was one letter - a long, white envelope, immaculately typed. She took it into the kitchen and Brian held out his hand, murmuring wearily. ‘Let’s have it, then. Might as well hear the worst.’
‘It’s for me.’
‘What?’
‘From London.’
Sue, sick with anticipation, stood holding the envelope. It was not big enough, not nearly big enough, to contain her drawings and manuscript. She eased up the flap with trembling fingers, drew out a sheet of stiff, headed paper and read, frowning. And read again. Then, with one swift collapsing movement, she fell into the armchair.
‘Now what?’
‘It’s from Methuen.’
‘Who?’
‘Methuen - children’s books.’ Brian looked cross and bewildered. ‘I sent them a story and drawings - “Hector’s New Pony”.’
‘You didn’t tell me that.’
‘They want to publish it. Ohh Brian . . .’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Reluctantly, as if letting the piece of paper out of her possession even momentarily might instantly devalue its contents or, worse, render them null and void, Sue passed it over.
After a quick, efficient scan Brian handed it back, saying, ‘As I thought. Trust you to get the wrong end of the stick. It doesn’t mention publishing at all.’
‘What?’ His wife studied a letter suddenly, mysteriously, bereft of promise. ‘But the editor says—’
‘She merely suggests a meeting.’
‘Lunch.’ Sue sounded surprisingly firm.
‘OK, lunch,’ said Brian snappily. ‘They obviously see some vague merit in the sketches and are offering some encouragement. I think you’d be very foolish to read more into it than that.’
Sue went over the letter for the fourth time. It was true that it did not actually contain the word ‘publication’. Even so . . .
‘I’m only saying that,’ continued Brian, ‘because I hate to see you getting all worked up only to be disappointed.’
Sue did not reply.
‘They must do this sort of thing all the time. Keep tabs on people they think might have a bit of talent.’
‘I see.’
Sue saw exactly. She lowered eyes brimming with excitement, so as not to annoy him further but could do nothing about her joyful countenance.
‘No wonder this place looks like a squat,’ Brian squeezed himself out from behind the narrow table, ‘if all you’re doing all day is messing around painting.’
Sue watched him in the sitting room struggling into his tartan lumberjacket and checking his Puma bag before making for the front door.
‘Brian?’
Grunt.
‘Why are you walking like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘As if your knees are tied together.’
‘Don’t be so bloody rude.’ Brian turned and glared at his wife; the tips of his ears burned fiercely.
‘Well. You are.’
‘I hit my knee on the car door, if you must know.’
When he had slammed off Sue sat motionless until she had heard the VW drive away, then she stood up, flung her arms open wide and let out a great cry. Jumping out of her heavy clogs she began to dance. Around the kitchen, into and out of each corner of the sitting room, up and down the stairs, to and fro between the bedrooms.
And as she danced, she sang. Nonsense words, old songs, new songs, bits from Hector’s story, jingles from commercials, half-remembered poems and nursery rhymes, snatches of operatic arias. She sang her Methuen letter and the Guardian headlines and all the ingredients for a Leek and Potato Soubise.