White With A Hint

Juliet Begbie asked to have her room redecorated pink. Her aunt, Mrs Begbie, could not see that it would be a problem. Her uncle, Major Begbie (Ret’d), was less enthusiastic.
“Girl’s only going to be here for six months,” he grunted. “And what’s Michael going to say when he comes back to a pink bedroom?”
Mrs Begbie gave a kindly sigh and looked at her husband with her head on one side.
“Charles, Michael is never coming back home to live. Regular visits are the best we can look forward to now.”
Major Begbie grunted again.
“One of those whites with a hint, I think,” said Mrs Begbie. “Then we can easily cover it over again, if needs be.”

Mrs Begbie had always prided herself on her ability to ‘manage’ her husband, and so it was that only a couple of weeks after Juliet first made her request, the furniture was cleared, the carpet was covered, and Major Begbie set about applying the white with a hint.

Juliet was demonstrative in her gratitude. She flung her arms round him and nestled her face into his neck. “Thank you, Uncle Charles!”

Mrs Begbie stood in the doorway, watching her normally taciturn husband flush a similar shade to the walls. He made no attempt to disengage his niece’s grasp.
“That colour’s a deeper pink than I thought it would be,” said Mrs Begbie. “More than a hint in that.”
“I love it,” said Juliet. “How clever of you, Uncle Charles, to pick the deeper rose for the woodwork. It works so well.”
“That was my idea, actually,” said Mrs Begbie. “But I thought it would be more of a contrast than it is. Are you sure you wouldn’t like the woodwork redone in white, dear? It might be better.”
Juliet shook her head, and Major Begbie looked relieved.

That night, as they lay companionably reading in their double bed, Mrs Begbie looked round her own bedroom walls. White with a hint of autumnal gold had been employed here, to enhance the polished wood of the furniture and the floorboards, and the colours of Mrs Begbie’s Persian rug.
“This is looking a bit faded,” she said.
Major Begbie turned a page. “Looks fine to me.”
“No,” said Mrs Begbie. “Definitely faded.”
Major Begbie gave another of his grunts.
“We could try wallpaper for a change,” said Mrs Begbie.
Major Begbie put down his book. “I’m not wallpapering. If you want wallpaper, you can get a professional in.”
“But it’s different these days.” She smiled and put her head on one side. “Some if it even comes ready pasted. And the colours are wonderful. You can get stuff that looks just like paint.”
“Why buy wallpaper that looks like paint?” Major Begbie asked. “Waste of money.”
They read on in silence.
“I’ll tell you what though,” said Major Begbie. “Juliet’s right. That old furniture in Michael’s room doesn’t go with the new décor.”
Mrs Begbie laid down her book. “You’re not suggesting we replace all the furniture? Has Juliet been complaining?”
“Not exactly complaining,” said Major Begbie. “But you said yourself Michael probably won’t be wanting the room again. And something a bit lighter would go with any colour in future.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” said Mrs Begbie.

The following morning, when Juliet had gone to school and Major Begbie had gone for his stroll to the newsagents for the ‘Telegraph’, Mrs Begbie went to ‘do’ upstairs. She no longer bothered with a cleaning lady. There hadn’t seemed much point, with just the two of them, and Juliet was neat about her ways. Or she was usually. Mrs Begbie tutted at the damp towel draped crookedly over the bathroom radiator, and gave her own indignant grunt at the Ladyshaver left on the window sill. It was not suitable, not in a bathroom they all shared.

She slipped Juliet’s towel back on the rail. A soft scent of young skin and bath oil floated from it. She pulled it swiftly from the rail and dumped it in the laundry basket. Then she crossed the landing to Juliet’s room.

Perhaps it was the still-drawn curtains, or the muddle of a partially made bed and several clothes flung over the back of a chair, but the white with a hint seemed darker: no longer fresh bud pink, but a ripening flush, defined and barely contained by the deeper cerise of the woodwork.

Mrs Begbie looked uncertainly around her. This was not what she had envisaged, and certainly not what she had planned for Juliet. She went to the window to let in the light and, as she passed, caught another scent, this time from the rumpled bed. A warm body perfume, a rich, rubescent scent matching the enclosing walls.

Mrs Begbie opened the window and breathed in the air from her peaceful, green, suburban garden.

She was relieved to go into her own bedroom, that she and her husband had shared for so many years. Her eyes flickered over its familiar furniture, the ornaments and pictures brought back from their travels, the photographs, the well thumbed books kept in this room precisely because of their familiarity and reassurance.

Faded, she thought, with a sudden, strange pain near her heart.

The autumnal gold had retreated in the harsh morning sun, leaving the walls a haggard white, and the rich colours of the Persian carpet bleached into the worn threads. From where she stood she could see that the double bed sagged, and she knew that if she laid herself down on it, it would creak. The only scent to reach her was that of laundered sheets mixed, very faintly, with hairspray.

“I really don’t think much of that paint,” said Mrs Begbie, as they all sat at the dining table for supper. “It‘s not at all like the colour on the chart, or the label on the tin. I certainly shan’t get that make when we do our bedroom.”
“Are we doing our bedroom?” Major Begbie asked.
Mrs Begbie looked at him and put her head on one side. “I think it’s about time we gave it some attention,” she said. “In fact I thought we could go and look at paint on Saturday.”
“Juliet and I were thinking about going to look at that furniture place on the Ring Road on Saturday,” said Major Begbie. “Still, no reason why between us we can’t do both.”
“We’ll have to see what time we’ve got,” said Mrs Begbie, “after we’ve chosen the paint.”
“Oh, we can drop you off at the DIY,” said her husband. “You won’t need me for that.”
Mrs Begbie’s head snapped back to upright. “It’s your bedroom too,” she said.
“Well, I only sleep in it. As long as it’s something neutral, nothing to give me nightmares.” He winked at Juliet.

After supper, Mrs Begbie heard the murmur of voices from upstairs as she cleared away crockery and cutlery. They were discussing new furniture, and the disposal of the old furniture. She loaded the dishwasher, shook out the tablecloth, and folded the napkins. Then she went upstairs, towards the voices.

They were coming from Juliet’s room. Mrs Begbie stopped at the half open doorway and looked in.

Perhaps it was just the last of the sunlight which gave the room a new, soft luxuriance. Juliet was sitting on the firm bed, which neither sagged nor creaked, looking up at her uncle. He was smiling down at her, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging by his side, fingers absently stroking his leg. The painted walls, engorged and empurpled by the rays of the mature sun, enfolded the two of them.

Unnoticed, Mrs Begbie slipped away into her own bedroom. She lay down on the unaccommodating bed, and closed her eyes against the faded autumn shades.

A few moments later Major Begbie came into the room.
“Oh, have you got one of your headaches? Bad luck. Juliet and I are just going to – “
“Charles.” She raised herself on one elbow. “If you think Juliet’s room works so well, we could try something similar in here. Not exactly the same, of course.” She put her head on one side. “Something a bit more subtle. But perhaps a rose tint would be nice. For a change.”
“In here?” said Major Begbie.
“Why not?” said his wife.
“I don’t think that would be right for in here,” he said. “After all, Juliet’s a teenager. I’d have thought something a bit more neutral for us.”
Mrs Begbie lay back down. “Perhaps it’s not worth bothering after all,” she said.
“I think you’re right,” said her husband. “Not worth changing things now.”

Mrs Begbie turned her head to look at him. He smiled at her as he held the door open, ready for his exit. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but it seemed to Mrs Begbie that, against the white of the door, his fingers bore just a hint of pink.