by Maggie Ford
He seemed content with her explanation, but she found herself giving him her address when he said he’d like to write to her. She nearly said, ‘You can write then?’ his speech was so bad, but she didn’t. It seemed uncalled for. He’d been so nice. And when she said goodbye at the station, she felt a tug at her heart, found herself hoping he would write as he said he would.
As she lay in bed that night, she thought again of all her dreams of a rich husband and fought to dismiss him from her mind. But it wasn’t easy.
That the house was jammed to the doors with guests wasn’t due to the numbers but the house itself, which hardly allowed elbow room for the thirty-six individuals who, beside Connie’s and Ben’s parents and siblings – he had two brothers – included Connie’s best friend Sybil, Ben’s grandparents in their sprightly late seventies (no doubt pickled by all that London smoke, she smiled), aunts and uncles on her side, their spouses and offspring plus a neighbour with an accordion to provide the music.
Connie elbowed her way to where the drinks were being doled out in the tiny outhouse, crammed with menfolk getting their beer and rum, before taking another glass back with them into the two crowded small rooms, shouldering their way through a kitchen full of women all busy making sandwiches, balancing plates of food already piled high waiting to be served the moment someone spoke of feeling peckish.
Handed a glass of sherry by her Uncle Reg, Connie grinned over her shoulder at Ben close behind.
He had been her shadow the entire evening and she was glad; she would have felt excluded had he spent it with the men and ignored her.
‘It’s turning out a lovely party, isn’t it?’
Ben nodded and took a swig from a pint glass. She hoped he wouldn’t get himself drunk, but he seemed very capable of holding his drink.
She felt so proud of him, proud that he hadn’t left her all evening; proud as everyone on her side reiterated what a good-looking young man he was and how she’d got herself a good catch there; proud that his family, for all they spoke with clipped Cockney accents, were self-respecting, temperate, decent people. But then she wouldn’t have taken up with him in the first place had he and they been rough and coarse. By contrast she felt more ashamed of her uncles, Dad’s brothers, already rolling drunk and becoming loud-mouthed. What Ben’s people thought, his mother especially who she knew went to church on Sunday mornings, she dreaded to imagine, though none of them had said a word. But Ben’s mother was no doubt wondering what sort of family her son was going to marry into.
‘Let’s go outside for a while?’ Connie suggested to Ben, wanting to escape the hubbub and be alone with him, perhaps explain away her errant uncles in the hope that he’d pass the apology on to his parents later.
The look he gave her told her that he too wanted only her and they hurriedly threaded their way through the knot of drinking men into the tiny back yard. But hoping for a moment of privacy, they were disappointed. On this fine June evening with its warmth and lingering afterglow still lighting the sky, her mother’s brother Bill, his wife and three of her cousins were already taking advantage of it, all five sitting on a plank supported by beer barrels that served as a bench for the overflow.
‘It’s really getting stuffy in there,’ her Aunt Daphne began in her broad and strident East Essex voice as they appeared. ‘And bloody noisy too,’ her snub nose and full florid cheeks wrinkling at the muffled unbroken babble of conversation that filtered out to them together with the disjointed singing to the discordant accordion.
Nodding agreement, Connie and Ben made a nonchalant escape out of the back gate and into the cobbled alleyway beyond. No one would miss them for ten minutes or so.
In the gathering shadows of the old brick wall of the wharf with no one about, Ben kissed and fondled her and they made hurried frantic love, standing up, returning to the party refreshed and rejuvenated. No one had missed them and the smile of satisfaction their secret moments had planted on their faces were taken for enjoyment of the attention showered upon them at this party. All Connie now wanted was for the party to end so that they might with luck repeat their tryst before Ben retired to sleep in Danny’s room.
The rest of his people had booked a couple of rooms over The Ship pub a short walk away, planned to go home tomorrow after first spending Sunday in Southend. Who in his right mind would go off home without taking advantage of the seaside resort just a stone’s throw away?
There was no chance, however, of her and Ben being left alone as the party broke up. At least some of its debris had to be cleared up, a nightcap had to be drunk, and Ben was urged to go settle himself in Danny’s room, Danny himself making do with the settee this night. Connie, her bed shared by Josie, the other one by the other two, lay awake for ages listening attentively above the faint snores of her sisters for the faint rustle through the wall of Ben turning over in the narrow bed next door.
She felt entirely happy, gazed at her engagement ring in the moonlight coming through her window, studying the band of five diamonds. They weren’t large but together they glistened and gleamed in the silvery light and seemed to embrace her whole finger, transforming the look of her hand. From now on, that hand would be fluttered about for the benefit of all who came near, the light catching it to the full.
‘It’s absolutely lovely, beautiful,’ had come the sigh of admiration from everyone at the party and from her work colleagues the week before. ‘You’re so lucky.’
The ring had been bought in London the Saturday before, worn all that week, admired, but the engagement was not official until tonight when she had become just a little bored with all the comments it had received.
‘I wish it was all over,’ she had whispered to Ben. ‘I wish we could be alone.’
‘Me too,’ he’d said, his loving eyes taking her in as the party surged on around them.
Lying here, Connie thought of him now, conjured his wonderful image up behind her closed eyes. Not too tall, but broad and powerful, glowing with health, his broad face strong, his features regular, his brown eyes with a twinkle of humour in them that held her captive whenever she looked into them. For all his physique he was gentle, yet she knew he would never quail from defending her against the world. She in turn would do all she could to make a good home for him. She would bear his children one day and be a wife and mother he’d be proud of. Life was sweet.
She could still feel his hands on her, the uniting of their love, or as near as it could be, for there was still need for precautions – a year remained before they would marry and she couldn’t imagine herself pregnant before that, the finger of condemnation pointed at her, walking down the church aisle in white knowing herself undeserving of the purity the gown symbolised. Ben endorsed her sentiment completely and her trust in him was total. He would look after her and never let her down, horrified of the consequence were he to indulge himself selfishly. But she wished they were already married and the fear of that one thoughtless moment well behind them. She was sure he must have the same thoughts, sleeping there in the room next to hers.
‘What shall we do this morning?’ she asked as he came down to breakfast, one of the first to appear. A strange bed had got him up earlier than intended.
His family had gone off on their own pursuits, and her family were taking their ease after a hard day preparing for the party. She and he had the day to themselves.
Met with his blank regard, Connie answered her own question. ‘I wouldn’t mind going up to St Clement’s for the service this morning. At least to say thank you for the wonderful future we’ve got in front of us. That’s right, isn’t it?’
His shoulders lifted a little. He looked tired, had perhaps enjoyed little sleep in a strange room. ‘Yes, of course, if you like.’
‘Where are you going this morning?’ queried her mother, coming in from the kitchen with cutlery and a pot of marmalade before starting on a large Sunday breakfast of egg, bacon, sausages, tomatoes and fried bread. The house bore a forlorn air, as houses do after
a party, rather like that of a forsaken hostess. It felt empty, cavernous, silent, in need of some new air.
Connie’s reply was stopped by Danny coming bleary-eyed to the table followed by Annie and Pam. Josie refused to get up after such a late night. From the outhouse floated Dad’s uneven baritone as he washed and shaved noisily. He finally came to join them as Mum laid the cooked breakfast in front of them all, his grin revealing unnaturally pure white dentures. He’d lost all his own teeth in his thirties to pyorrhoea – the only way to tackle it had been to yank out every tooth. But he didn’t wear glasses; his eyesight, used to staring at wide horizons, remained as perfect as the day he was born. Mum had dentures too, an upper set. Her teeth had been lost to childbearing, her own goodness gone into making babies. She did wear glasses, for reading and sewing, first candlelight then gaslight ruining her eyes. She read avidly, two books a week when there was time; labouring up hill to the library in the Broadway.
‘Well,’ Dad began, starting on his breakfast with gusto. ‘Not a bad success, eh, the party? Looks like everyone enjoyed themselves. So how’s it feel to be engaged, eh?’
‘Nice,’ Connie said dutifully. It didn’t seem to register with him that they had been engaged since last Saturday, when Ben had put the ring on her finger in Hyde Park in a little ceremony of their own.
‘So what’ll you two be doing with yourselves today?’ Mum cut in.
‘We thought on popping up to the church,’ Connie said this time, at the same time gazing towards Ben with a depth of fondness in her eyes.
He looked back at her and smiled. A loving tolerant smile. It was the tolerant part that halted her as she read its unintended message. He was agreeing to go for her sake, not because he wanted to. He’d be bored but he would not show it or mention it and she realised in that moment that she hadn’t even thought to consult him, merely assumed he wanted to go. The trouble was that she needed to attend, just this once; it seemed important she should. After this, she vowed silently, she would consult him in everything. He was the man, she must treat him as such or else belittle him, and that was the last thing she would want.
‘Just for an hour,’ she added hurriedly, apologetically. ‘And the view from up there is wonderful.’ But they had been up there gazing at the view so many times before.
‘Then we could go down to the beach after.’ She was thinking for him again. ‘It’s up to you, dear. What you want to do.’
‘Beach’ll be fine for me,’ he said readily.
That was the trouble. He tended to leave decisions to her, falling in with them without a squawk, because he was so in love. It might make her just a little selfish, if the condition became a habit. She didn’t want that. Perhaps it was her fault from the first that he was letting her think for him. Away from her, making decisions came second nature to him in his work. How could he continue his job otherwise, those split-second manoeuvres required to operate a tug in any tight corner or unexpected hazard?
The matter was emphasised for her by her mother as they washed up the breakfast things. Mum was quiet, thoughtful, when asked what was wrong, instead of saying nothing was wrong as Connie had expected, she turned instead to look at her, one soapy hand on the washed cup she had just put on the draining board.
‘I’m not keen on all this going to church lark.’
Connie was astounded. It was the silliest statement she’d ever heard her mother make. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Because you never used to. Now all you seem to want to do when Ben’s here is go up to that church. It don’t seem healthy to me.’
‘His mother goes to church regularly and that don’t seem to have done her any harm.’
‘It’s just that it’s happened suddenly. None of us are churchgoers. Not that we ain’t Christians. We believe, the same as churchgoers, but it’s this suddenness that worries me. It ain’t natural. Almost as if you’re trying to do a deal with God Himself so He might keep you and Ben in the best of health and things. I don’t like the smack of it. It looks like you’re going there for all the wrong things. And I don’t like it.’
‘Well, I can’t see anything wrong in it,’ Connie flared and stalked off leaving her mother with the washing up. That in itself was wrong, but no doubt she’d call Pam or Annie to finish off. That she didn’t worried Connie even more as she and Ben left.
It was a steep climb up Church Hill, which was partly cobbled with four or five steps every now and again to help the ascent. Like others going in that direction, she ended at the top quite out of breath. People residing down by the wharf did it daily, labouring uphill to do their weekly shopping if they missed the bus that went the longer, less steep way round, coming down again almost as though walking on the flat. She had seen old ladies in their seventies toiling up here who had done it all their lives. She always took the bus, or else would have arrived in work fit for nothing.
Ben, it seemed, took it in his stride too. He was fit as a fiddle, strong and healthy, from working on the river. She looked at him as they toiled up hand in hand. Was Mum right? Was she going to church in an effort to make a pact with God? ‘Please let Ben live to a ripe old age. Please let us both live to a ripe old age. But please don’t take him before me when the time comes – I don’t think I could stand it, being without him.’ But what about him? Would he be able to stand being without her when that time came? Even her prayers were selfish. No wonder Mum had spoken as she had. Now she saw the sense of what had sounded nonsensical.
‘Do we really want to go to church?’ she puffed at Ben’s side. Again, selfishness in its way. He looked at her quizzically.
‘We’re almost there, love. Let’s carry on now we’re nearly there.’
‘I just thought you mightn’t really be wanting to go.’
He gave a chuckling laugh. ‘So you ask me to come all the way up here and now want me to go all the way back down. I think you’re having me on. It ain’t April Fool’s Day is it?’
Connie laughed too, but they continued, reaching the church as others moved in through the door. But she found herself longing for the service to end, acutely conscious of Ben beside her and the real motive she now saw behind her attendance. Not only that, there was a young curate whom she kept noticing staring at her. Each time she caught his eye, he’d give a flustered smile as though caught doing something wrong and quickly look away. Even with her head bent in prayer she was conscious of his eyes on her and, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, wondered if he might have seen through her reason to be here. It was most unsettling. It was a relief when the service came to an end and she and Ben could escape.
The rest of the day was bliss, just the two of them together, and by the time they’d said goodbye until the next weekend when she would go to see his people, she had quite forgotten the curate and his penetrating glances. But it would be a long time before she went up there again. Mum had been right, there had been an ulterior motive and she suspected that the young curate had known it too.
Chapter Five
Most people who stayed at the Cliffs Hotel had money enough for it. This was where Annie worked as a receptionist. In summer the better class of visitor came to spend a week. Westcliff, called on-Sea for all it sat in the Thames estuary a way from the North Sea, was considered more select than neighbouring Southend with its whelks and candyfloss and public bars, despite its beautiful Palace Hotel at the head of the pier.
To the Cliffs also came the higher-class commercial traveller and company rep staying overnight at his firm’s expense and making sure he enjoyed every moment of the comfort and good food. After four years working here, Annie had developed a nice way of speaking, and her slim figure and attractive looks went down well with guests and management alike. She was in fact more than a receptionist, she was supervisor in charge of the whole of reception, one step below the reception manager; and might have had that job but that her employers preferred a reception manager to be male, deeming a woman’s temperament not to be up to the day to day running
of a large hotel reception desk. It irked but she had no option, though she certainly made her presence felt, and Colin Wakeman, the present reception manager with only a year’s training, was in awe of her, she knew.
He looked to her for guidance and advice should problems arise which he could not deal with. She felt it was she, not he, who ran this place, and it irked to receive far less salary than him for all the hours she put into it.
‘Dedicated,’ she told them at home. ‘That’s what I am, dedicated. I’m often staying late when Mr Wakeman has hopped off home. And no thanks for it. Taken for granted. I just hope one of these days I’ll find someone with money and get married and never have to work again. Then they’ll know what they’re missing.’
But she wouldn’t add that in truth she loved her job, wouldn’t have swapped it for anything else, except perhaps that unlikely marriage she described. Behind her polished oak reception counter she was important, directing arrivals, taking their money, their particulars, solving their queries.
Many a male guest had remarked how civil and helpful and pretty she was, especially pretty. She’d had proposals, but one did not take such spontaneous offers as genuine, ever suspicious of some ulterior motive. Many seemed to think that money would move the proverbial mountain as they flashed their wallets, straightened the lapels of their fine suits. A trilby hat and leather briefcase laid carelessly on the counter were supposed to indicate a disarming gesture of friendly trust to put her at ease enough to trust them in return. She’d seen it all, could cope with that. It was the nervous middle-aged men she didn’t trust, who stammered a shy word on how kind she was being and how at a loss they were feeling away from home; who would begin to confide in her how homesick they were away from their wives who of course never understood their position: the hopefuls in sheep’s clothing. She preferred the brusque guest with the appreciative eye and no more. Even the young men who looked self-consciously away from her official smile had longings prowling underneath their show of discomfort, their imagining of what it would be like if she were to unbend and tempt them to ask her out standing out a mile. She was a rock against which they beat their hopes.