The Husband's Story by Norman Collins Page A

Marleen’s sake. But Beryl had been adamant. Dogs, in her view, were destroyers, vandals who went round chewing things, scratching on door panels, leaving patches on fitted carpets. That was why, on Sunday mornings, after he and Marleen had brought down Beryl’s breakfast-tray and put everything away again, Stan had to set out alone.
    Alone, that is, except for his camera. At week-ends, his camera was part of him. Indeed, some of his best studies –
Deserted Platform, Winter, Coming back from Church
, and
The Paper Seller
– had been obtained simply by mooching around Crocketts Green with his eyes open.
    More than once, towards the end of the month when funds were low, he would sling his second-hand Pentax over his shoulder knowing perfectly well that there was no film in it. And that is something that only a fellow-photographer, one of the priesthood, could understand. Because it’s the feel of the instrument that counts. Once you know that the skill is yours, there’s nearly as much pleasure in framing-up and focusing as there is in actually taking anything. It keeps the eye in. And it’s cheaper.
    In earlier days Beryl hadn’t minded in the least if Stan took Marleen out alone for little Sunday morning outings. Had rather encouraged it, in fact, so that she could have a few minutes to herself just to catch up with things. Even so, it had been only on condition that he didn’t let go of her hand, not even for a single second. Marleen, however, was too big for that sort of thing now; hand-in-hand stuff at her age would simply look silly. And Marleen herself had lost all interest. Going as far as the Memorial Pond in one direction, or out past the allotments and the recreation ground in the other, somehow no longer held the charm that she had experienced so keenly when she was five. Shepreferred nowadays to stay at home, and read. Or lie on her bed, and think. Or finish her homework. Or help Beryl. Anything, in fact, rather than look at ducks or beans growing.
    Not that Stan really minded. Photography is a solitary and full-time business. You can’t concentrate, can’t detach the mind sufficiently, if you’ve got to keep a conversation going. And, above all, you can’t stand still as often, or for as long, as you want to if the other person asks what it is that you’re looking at. Enjoyable though they had been for both of them, the years from four to eight in Marleen’s life had been about the least productive in Stan’s.
    And there was another reason why Stan did not mind. That was because, on his way back, he used to call in at the Bull and Garter. Not secretly, either. Nothing furtive about it. ‘Daddy’s little drinkie’ was how Beryl always referred to it; and she liked herself every time she said it. It showed that she wasn’t the self-centred sort of person some people might take her for. Nor jealous. She didn’t mind in the least if Stan was out enjoying himself while she was indoors working. Indeed, she felt that it was right for a man to have his own circle of friends: there was something so… so manly about it. A lot of marriages in her view would be a good deal better for it if only wives allowed their husbands to have a bit of a spree sometimes. And twelve-thirty to about ten-to-one on Sunday mornings was the time that she had allocated to Stan for his.
    Beryl herself had never been inside the Bull and Garter. Stan, more than once, had suggested it. But Beryl had declined; and been firm about it, too. She was glad for his sake, she said, that it was nice enough for him to want to take her there, but just imagine what one of the teachers from Marleen’s school would think if she were passing at the time and happened to see her coming out, and on a Sunday of all days.
    It was certainly the only pub in Crocketts Green that Stan would have considered going into himself. That was because it was still recognizably a part of old