It always was. Lill didn’t like it, but she recognized there was nothing she could do against the collective lethargies of the other four. Saturday night was always Fred’s big night of the week: darts at the Yachtsman’s took it out of him, and Sundays he crept blearily about the house, all passions spent and considerably in overdraft. Brian and Gordon, as a rule, followed suit, if Gordon had nothing sporting on: they sprawled in armchairs reading the papers, they played cards or they watched television. ‘It’s natural,’ Lill would explain to people, ‘they work and play hard the rest of the week in their different ways—Gordon the physical, Brian more the—’ she shied away from the word mental —‘more the psychological!’ Debbie just took herself off, quite inconspicuously. As usual, thought Lill bitterly, though she would certainly have gone on at her ceaselessly if she for once had been around. So Sunday they slept, ate well of Gordon’s birthday dinner of beef, Yorkshire pudding and three veg, followed by tinned peaches, then reread the Sunday Mirror and the Express and watched Bruce Forsyth on the enormous colour television that Lill said (and Fred believed her) she had picked up for practically nothing from a family going to live abroad.
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