Free A Five Year Sentence by Bernice Rubens Page B

and pleasurable anticipation. She made a quick reckoning of her income, assessing how much she could put aside for his sundry weekly pleasures. Bus-fares, cafes and pictures were assessable, but she had no notion of the going rates for his other little pleasures, and it was hardly a commodity that lent itself to window-shopping or price comparison. But it excited her none the less. Now the notion of being taken out andof being paid for at every turn, faintly displeased her. She concluded that there was a far greater power in paying than in being paid. But Brian had fashioned his own rationale, and his conclusions, likewise dictated by his needs, were exactly the opposite.
    Miss Hawkins turned her attention back to the screen, and Brian likewise, and both wallowed in their separate myths till the end of the picture.
    It was Brian who chose the café, one that was nearest to the style of
Splendours of the Night
as the present century would allow. It was a large tea-room, upholstered in red plush and walled with flock. In the centre of the salon was a small fountain gushing from a fish mouth. And at the far end, flanked by potted plants, was a small gipsy orchestra who were tip-toeing through the tulips as they were ushered to their table. Miss Hawkins had never seen the like before and she wondered whether it was the first time for Brian too. She wondered how much this pleasure of his would cost her. Certainly more than the ‘Copper Kettle’ she had had in mind. But power increased in ratio to the investment, so she tried not to mind his choice of venue. She reckoned she had almost five pounds in her purse, which would surely be adequate. The rest of the week she would have to economise, especially since she had already spent an unbudgeted sum on her knitting materials. The cost of survival was inflationary. She made do on her pension, but she had a little put aside over the years in a bank deposit. But she would never draw on that except in the greatest emergency. She looked upon her present spending as an investment in marriage, and hopefully Brian would succumb before the nest-egg need be cracked.
    The waiter handed them each a menu. It was a large coloured folder decorated with yellow roses which echoed the name of the café. There was a large choice of items catering for every range of appetite, and the prices were astronomical. In a central rose-ringed box was a menu for a standard tea, which included welsh rarebit for an optional extra of 60p. On a quick reckoning, it seemed to Miss Hawkins that it would be overall cheaper thanchoosing separate items on the à la carte list, and she was quick to point out to Brian that his rarebit was on the menu.
    â€˜Yes,’ he said, he’d have that, and she could have his cream cake. Every large take required a little give, he decided. Thus he could prolong their unequal partnership.
    A few couples were dancing round the fountain, and the bandleader moved around the tables, his baton uselessly beating at a distance as he chivvied along other couples to join them. He reached Miss Hawkins’ table, and she prayed that he would bypass them. And indeed he saw them as unlikely candidates and quickly passed on, scanning the tables for more likely material. Miss Hawkins would have liked to dance, but she decided she would not suggest it. She hadn’t budgeted for dancing and it was up to Brian to make a free offer. But he was silent.
    â€˜That was a nice picture,’ Miss Hawkins said in an attempt to change a subject that had been unspoken.
    â€˜I liked the old man best,’ Brian said.
    â€˜Bit of a tyrant, wasn’t he?’
    â€˜I didn’t think so. All he wanted was respect. That’s not tyrannical.’
    â€˜But they won in the end,’ Miss Hawkins triumphed.
    â€˜But the old man didn’t lose, did he?’ Brian said. ‘What won in that picture was respect.’ Brian marvelled at his sudden profundity.
    â€˜You set a