Living In Perhaps by Julia Widdows

have a husband, was
grotesque.
    'I'm not going to marry,' Barbara said, writhing to get a stone
out from under her backbone.
    'Oh, nor am I!' I said, with relief, finding that this was an
option. Of course it was an option; my aunt Stella was not
married. But then Stella's whole purpose in life – leaving aside her
career in the fish-and-chip line – was to Find A Man. A perfect,
or, at a pinch, less than perfect M-A-N with whom to settle down .
Settling down was what my mother called it, as if unmarried men
and women were dangerous and erratic, liable to set off chain
reactions of inconstancy in others, in settled married others.
People who were not married were unanchored, brittle things,
casting around hopelessly for a set of rules and regulations that
applied to them, and were liable to get cracked and damaged in
the process. More damaged as the years slipped by. The only way
to stop the rot was by getting married. The rules for married
people were quite clear. My mother felt happier when the rules
were clear. So settling down seemed to be the ultimate end
for everyone, no matter how old they got before it happened. I
couldn't really see how you could avoid it.
    'I'll go to London and have fun,' Barbara said. 'I'll be a single
girl. But I might have children, in the end.'
    'I won't have children,' I said, just to see if the sky would crack.
    'No, Isolde's not going to have any children,' Barbara went on,
in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. 'She says she doesn't like
them.'
    So all things were possible in the Hennessy world-view. In their
best of all possible worlds.
    When I got home, nobody said anything. My mother was busy
with the Hoover, then with the treadle sewing machine. So
perhaps the roaring of one and the clattering of the other – and
always in the background the cheerful musical tones of the wireless
– covered up all evidence of my treachery.

11
Reading Matter
    Someone left a magazine in the front hall today. It was lying on a
chair as I walked through. I could hardly believe my eyes. Some of
the pages had come right off the staples at the back and I
managed to pinch a couple and bring them up here. There's a
quiz. It's that cheap kind of paper where the colour print comes
off on your fingers. But you could starve for want of reading
matter in this place. Anyway, I like doing quizzes.
    Question six. (Unfortunately questions one to five must have
been on the facing page, which I didn't manage to get hold of,
along with the title of the quiz. So I don't quite know what we're
supposed to be finding out here. It could be 'Are You Huggable?',
or 'Would Your Best Friend Recognize the Secret You?' It could be
almost anything.) So – question six: 'When buying a pet would
you choose (a) A cuddly Labrador puppy? (b) An elegant Siamese
cat? (c) A flamboyant South American parrot? Or (d) A goldfish?'
    Well, it's obvious that you shouldn't go for the goldfish, not
even granted an adjective. Who wants to be indescribable? Maybe
the whole thing is entitled 'Are You Completely Lacking a
Personality? Find out now by completing our simple quiz!'
    I'd definitely choose (a). Or (b). You can catch a disease from
parrots. And goldfish swim happily around with great long
ribbons of fish-shit trailing beneath them. Not very huggable.
    See, Lorna? See what your rules and regulations reduce us to in
here?
    When, for days on end, for reasons I couldn't begin to imagine,
Barbara failed to intercept me out in the street or on the way
home from school, I took my courage in both hands and went to
call on her. My passport was that phrase of hers: 'Just come
round.' I hoped she truly meant it. My heart was beating hard. Her
sister Isolde let me in. She showed me into the front room and sat
me down. 'Barbara's busy at the moment. Would you like to wait
in here?'
    She was only a year older than Barbara, but seemed terribly
grown-up. Her well-shaped legs moved in a carelessly elegant way.
She wore slip-on shoes with tiny heels, over