Old Dogs, New Tricks. Linda Phillips
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was just that – well, I suppose I couldn’t broach it.’
Tom snorted his disbelief. ‘Don’t tell me our sales director is scared of his wife? But … but it’s not as if it’s even bad news for you, is it? Won’t this just suit your Marjorie down to the ground?’
Philip’s expression darkened. ‘You’re assuming I’m taking redundancy, Tom. And all things considered I suppose …’
‘Be plain daft, not to, wouldn’t it?’ Tom demonstrated his ideas with his hands. ‘Take the money – nice tidy sum –’ he grabbed air and clutched it to his chest ‘– and straight into your father’s business.’ He made a throwing motion. ‘Isn’t that what Marjorie’s always wanted? Not to mention your mum and dad.’
Tom knew the history of Philip’s rebellion very well – mostly as related by Marjorie, the ubiquitous ‘girl next door’.
She would have been about eight and Philip nine when his father’s local hardware shop had begun to make money. ‘Real’ money, that is, as opposed to scraping a living. Eric Benson was about the only person not surprised by his success. He had worked damned hard for it, he was quick to tell anyone who would listen, and he lost no time in putting his profits back into the business and buying himself another shop in the adjacent borough. He soon repeated his earlier success and bought yet another shop before calling it a day.
Three shops, he decided at the end of a particularly busy week, hardly left him with time to draw breath. And being the kind of person whose powers of delegation were nil – although it was unlikely that he’d ever realised that fact – he told himself that enough was surely enough.
After the purchase of the second shop the Bensons left their crowded flat and came to live in the house next door to Marjorie and her parents, by which time Philip was eleven and taking the dreaded 11-plus.
Not that the tests presented Philip with much of a problem – he sailed through them all in less than the allotted time and wondered what all the fuss was about – but it brought the Bensons’ attention to the whole question of secondary education, and Eric, his new-found wealth growing steadily in the bank, began to get ideas above his station.
The upshot was that Philip, his sister Chrissie, and later his brother Colin, were forced into private schooling. Forced being the only word for it, where Philip was concerned: he resented the whole idea and dug his heels in as hard as he could. He didn’t want to have to walk in the opposite direction to his friends every day and be called a toffee-nosed pansy, he complained in Marjorie’s sympathetic ear.
Already he had a lot to live down. Since moving into the new house he’d been compelled to witness vulgar displays of his father’s newly-acquired wealth, as all manner of goods found their way from the high street stores to the family home. There had been a huge new television with shiny double doors, a radiogram with record auto-change, a tape recorder that weighed a ton, and a snazzy food-mixer that worked miracles. Even a shiny new car – the latest thing on the market – appeared outside the house one day. That neither of his parents could drive was neither here nor there.
As for his mother, well, she went mad on a whole new decor for the house and ordered a truck-load of tacky knick-knacks.
Philip was endlessly ribbed for all this by his slightly awe-struck friends, and then – horror of horrors – his father had come up with the idea of sending him off to a snobby school! But at least his mother had some sense left: she drew the line at putting any kind of distance between herself and her firstborn child. He must come home to be properly fed, she insisted. The school had to be a local one.
And so Philip had had to grit his teeth – for no one could stand for long against Eric Benson’s domineering manner – and make the best of a bad job. No amount of telling him how privileged he was made a scrap of difference to young Philip as he trudged up the road each morning in his immaculate red blazer with gold and blue braid; he made up his mind to hate every minute of his new way of life. Absolutely every minute.
But of course he hadn’t. He’d gradually settled in to the school, even distinguished himself, and left at eighteen with a batch of certificates that were more than good enough to take him on to university for an engineering degree.
It was only on leaving university that the final stage of Eric Benson’s master plan was revealed, and Philip realised he was expected to take over the hardware businesses from his father.
‘With all your qualifications, lad,’ Eric had told him, throwing out his chest as he stood behind the shop counter, ‘you’ll be able to build all this into an empire for yourself. People are keen to do their own home improvements these days, and there’s big money to be made.’ He made it sound as though Philip ought to be eternally grateful, as perhaps he should; not many could expect to have such opportunities handed to them on a plate.
‘But Dad,’ he’d protested, already planning to go back to university and try for a master’s degree, ‘I didn’t spend years studying for decent qualifications just to sell spanners and plastic buckets! I didn’t, and I won’t. I’m sorry. But I won’t!’
This time he withstood the pressure from his father and the emotional blackmail from his mother. From that day on he’d had nothing to do with the family business.
Philip nodded at Tom over his Guinness. ‘Oh yes, yes, I can always go into the family business.’ His tone was heavy with scorn. ‘It’s what everyone’s always wanted. Everyone, that is, except me.’
‘Well …’ Tom swung one short leg over the other and drummed his fingers on the table, ‘… I know you’ve never been keen. But at least you have that to fall back on, haven’t you? Damn lucky you are, really, you know. Considering the alternative.’
‘The alternative,’ Phil stated unnecessarily, ‘is to move down to the Bristol office with what’s left of the London mob. And in spite of the amalgamation I can even keep my position … if I decide that’s what I want.’
Tom blew out his cheeks; Philip sounded as though he were actually considering the choice. Personally, he had soon told Spittal’s what they could do with their Bristol plans.
‘But Phil, you wouldn’t be wanting to move, would you? Not at your time of life?’
Philip met his friend’s incredulous gaze. His time of life? Did Tom see him as an old man? He didn’t feel it.
‘I don’t think this redundancy idea’s something to rush into without giving it serious thought,’ he hedged.
‘No … no. Maybe not.’ Bemused, Tom stood up and went to the bar for refills, leaving Philip alone with his thoughts.
Philip sighed when he’d gone; he had hoped Tom would understand, but he hadn’t really expected him to. Tom wouldn’t know anything about how he’d begun to feel lately, because feelings weren’t things they discussed. The trouble was that unlike Tom he was nowhere near ready to hang up his hat.
He needed a change, that was certain; needed to climb out of the rut that his life had sunk into, and Bristol seemed like an answer. The Bahamas would have been better, admittedly, but Bristol would have to suffice. Anywhere away from the area in which he had been born and bred would do. For too long he had felt as though he was still tied to his parents; still under their watchful eye. What a ridiculous state of affairs at his age!
For a long time he had wanted to escape to pastures new but it had never been practical, or so Marjorie had said. Each time the subject cropped up she had constructed a case against it. Usually it was because of the girls: they were at a crucial stage of their schooling, or too bound by their social lives. When weren’t they? But the girls had long since finished their schooling and gone on to make lives of their own. So nothing tied him and Marjie to south London any more. Nothing much would be missed.
Oh, how he longed for change! Life had become so predictable of late, with each year following the same pattern. Everything revolved almost entirely round the family circle, because Marjorie liked it that way. A great one for family, Marjorie was, particularly