Mrs Fytton's Country Life Read Free Page A

bedroom to redress such foolishness.
    It was as well that these investments had been made. During the lean times of the early nineties not only did Ian's father die but his mother needed capital as the paternal business went to the wall.
    'Well done, Angie,' said Ian, almost to himself, as they cashed in the investments she had once advocated. Partner Bernard slapped him on the back and congratulated him on his foresight in the matter of stocks and shares and he - rather awkwardly - took the praise as his due. Angela just smiled and said nothing.
    'Where would I be without you?' said her husband again one evening as she slid back his shirt collar and massaged his tired neck.
     

    Mrs Fytton senior was moved to a comfortable new house in Taunton, from where she observed the world with increasing sourness and immobility. Angela arranged for a daily companion and went down to visit her mother-in-law whenever she could. The children, now teenagers, refused. Angela withdrew their monthly allowances. The children, now teenagers, agreed. Ian saw this through a haze of firm and peaceful family discussion. He never interfered in the rows, or felt obliged to deal with a door slammed in anger. That was
    Angela's department and she dealt with it - as in all things -extraordinarily well. Never once, in anger, did Angela say, ' You deal with this, I've had enough.. .' Though she asked his advice, of course. Her job, her business , was the family. His part in it was to be there for it and enjoy it. He played tennis with his son at weekends and he took his sweet little teenaged girl shopping occasionally and bought her and her friends hamburgers. They knew better than to give their father a hard time. Or their mother, mostly, come to that. She ruled the roost with a velvet glove covering a hand of razor wire. She even knew how to disengage the woofer from the hi-fi if they played the bass too loud. When their father was at home they behaved. Life ran as smoothly as a well-oiled clock. Whatever, in those days of digitalization, such an old-fashioned item might be.
     
    Business colleagues and the men of the neighbourhood looked upon Ian with envy. They were working twice as hard as before in the harsher economic climate. They had wives who screamed and threw crockery when they were late home from the office. He had a wife who stayed late at the office with him or went on occasional business trips with him. Or who was waiting, powdered and painted, in his bed, when he returned. They had wives who were passing their sell-by dates, had hot flushes, cold sweats and neurotic syndromes. He had a wife who was still young enough - just - to be a floozie from the typing pool, with legs to match, and from whose clear eyes shone nothing but the light of admiration. They had wives who thought computing was as exciting and sexy as running an abattoir. He had a wife who not only knew what he did for a living but understood it, respected him for it and - if he was ill - could step into his shoes. Ian, when this was pointed out to him, found it quite hard to smile the smile of the Pantocrator. For some reason.
     

    As the tough early nineties gave way to easier times, Angela still worked with Ian, but only for a day a week. The technology - as he pointed out to her - was getting more and more difficult even for him to understand and he and Bernard really needed another full-time partner. She acceded cheerfully. Another working partner would make it even easier for Ian to devolve when the time came. Of course, at the moment he had to work flat out because the scars of the early nineties were still healing. But they were on course . .. Definitely on course ... And Angela needed to give a little extra attention to the children, who were in the process of completing their GCSEs. David Draper - a lively Jack the Lad - came on board with Ian and Bernard and the future seemed assured.
     
    It was at this point that Ian said, very firmly, that she should take some