The Secrets of Tenley House

by Patricia Dixon

  Startled from her musings by the sound of the train’s whistle as it entered a tunnel, Georgie’s tired eyes focused on her reflection in the window, her image slightly distorted by the juddering carriage. It occurred to her then that perhaps the ghostly figure in the glass represented another world, her old life or the one she was about to begin. Earlier, as she loaded her suitcases onto the train and her departure drew near, Georgie was already resigned to her fate, and also accepted that it was too late to turn back the clock. Not on her dalliance with the theatre manager, which after all was merely a means to an end, or more pointedly, the lead in the next production. What she regretted most was saying goodbye to the Butchers and the disregard she had shown her own mother, understanding the pain of rejection and perhaps the solace one might find in an embrace, some compassion even.

  While other travellers hugged and kissed goodbye, Georgie had received neither before being waved off by Mavis who, without a tear in her eye and betraying a hint of a smile, turned and walked swiftly towards the exit long before the train had moved off from the platform. And that was how they had left it on a chilly February morning. As the steamer chugged out of the station, direction London, inside the second-class carriage sat Georgie, en route to the home of Evelyn, her maternal second-cousin, the landlady of a three-star boarding house on the Gloucester Road.

  Another large sigh escaped Georgie’s lips, this time unheard by her dozing, dribbling fellow passenger. Evelyn was a woman who, by every account, had seen it all during her years running the well-respected establishment but nevertheless, still lived by certain high standards. Having great sympathy for the predicament of her cousin, and according to Mavis, less so for the errant Georgie, Evelyn had agreed to take in her wayward relative and thus ensure she behaved and found gainful employment quickly. After all, Georgie would need to pay her way. Dragging her thoughts from whatever fate awaited her, Georgie turned her attention to the tea trolley that was rattling along the aisle. Taking out her purse she counted the loose change and despite a rumbling tummy, knew she would have to make do with just a cup of tea. Forbidding tears, Georgie plastered on a smile and placed her order, requesting two big sugars from the trolley-dolly, it would be her only sweet treat that day.

  Back in Harlbury, after exiting the train station, Mavis concentrated on making it to the haberdashers before lunchtime. She was in need of more angora so returned to the car where her puffed-up, eternally angry husband waited, tapping impatient fingers on the steering wheel. Mavis cared not about the weight of shame that hung heavy on his shoulders. She was adept at closing her ears as he remonstrated over and over, bemoaning not only their child’s sordid behaviour but his own life. It was Clifford’s favourite subject.

  During the drive, Clifford fumed as Mavis turned her head sideways, looking out of the window, silently forbidding discussion on any matter. Georgie’s shame was another burden for him to bear – as if his life wasn’t difficult enough. He had a bank to run for heaven’s sake, not to mention enduring life with his halfwit, dreary wife. Much worse was being suffocated by his overbearing parents who, mortified by the disgraceful behaviour of their ungrateful and sullied grandchild, were more insufferable and vindictive than ever.

  Throughout the short journey home, the interminable silence was broken by deep sighs from Mavis who, due to her husband’s dithering at the traffic lights and snail-like pace, had missed the haberdashers.

  To add to his angst, Clifford’s thoughts were peppered by snippets of a conversation with his mother who, still reeling from shame and wallowing in self-pity had managed to salvage some hint of hope from the wreckage. In her opinion, once dust and divorce matters had been settled the theatre wife and their gossip-thirsty community would tire of the sordid tale. All being well, they could put ‘the situation’ behind them, especially if Georgie remained in London, out of sight and mind.

  “Mother, don’t you think you are being a tad dramatic? Georgie is in London now so just move on. Quite frankly I’m bloody sick of hearing about it.” Clifford was staring out across the lawn, losing the will to live with every word his mother spoke.

  “Dramatic! How dare you, and mind your language. This whole disgraceful affair has made me ill and your poor father has had to endure all manner of jibes at the club, not to mention from Uncle Albert who seems to find it amusing. I wish I could pack him off to London too, or the South China Sea, anywhere will do. As God is my witness, I shall never forgive that girl and mark my words she won’t be getting a penny in our will. I’d rather leave the lot to the Conservative Party, which brings me on to your marital state of affairs.”

  “What on earth have I got to do with all this, or the Conservative Party for that matter? Just because Georgie has put you in an eternally foul mood, don’t take it out on me.” Clifford had had enough but knew better than to leave before his mother had finished her tirade.

  “Don’t be facetious or play the innocent, Clifford, it doesn’t suit you. I know all about your bit on the side, and as much as your dreary wife drives me to distraction I think it’s about time you put in a bit of effort where Mavis is concerned. Perhaps you should book a holiday and in the meantime attempt to rekindle the flame before it goes out forever and she has you in the divorce court. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sighing, Clifford attempted to reply in a voice that belied both exasperation and resignation. “Crystal, Mother.”

  After being reminded that he was the last bastion of family respectability, Clifford realised his mother’s comments were akin to a death knell. Any hope that he had of extracting himself from his unhappy marriage and perhaps taking up with his buxom secretary immediately withered and died, just like the poinsettia on the sideboard. It was abundantly clear that their family couldn’t, wouldn’t, tolerate or survive one more scandal. Clifford’s zip would have to remain in the up position and his stockroom fumbling with Sylvia curtailed. His fate was sealed.

  As the car turned into the drive, Mavis muttered her unenthusiastic intention to make some lunch as she searched her bag for the door key, lost in a fantasy world that didn’t include the man sitting beside her or a selfish spoilt child heading southwards on a train. As far as she was concerned if her toady red-faced husband dropped dead, right there and then, turning blue at the wheel she would leave him where he sat to dribble, leak and decompose. And similarly, if her vain, self-obsessed daughter, the beautiful child she’d hoped to love but never got the chance, who had pushed her away and treated her like a drudge, never came back again, not one tear would be shed. In fact, the absence of both husband and child would not perturb Mavis. Yes, her life would be empty and incomplete, lacking love and warmth but she had become accustomed to that, therefore she would survive.

  The sixty-mile journey to London took long enough for Georgie to recover from her rejection and in fact, derive some admiration for her mother who had successfully taught her one more valuable life lesson. As much as it had hurt, for just a moment, when Mavis turned her back and walked away, Georgie knew her punishment was warranted and what’s more, served cold. She would remember it always. For now, she had more important issues to occupy her mind and as the train rattled along and she avoided eye contact with the suited gentleman opposite who had got on at the last station, Georgie used her time wisely.

  It was necessary to re-evaluate, re-align loyalties and change opinions, calculating also the true cost of persuading the theatre manager to coerce Freddie, the director, into giving her the part of Desdemona. A task she would have happily taken on herself had he not been gay as a lord.

  On reflection, Georgie thought she would miss her beautiful bedroom, some of her friends, and definitely the rough hands and many talents of the groom at the stables. But the worst part of leaving home by far had to be the four pairs of shoes and two handbags she was unable to cram into her suitcases. And she couldn’t even bear to think of her hats. The choice of which to take had been so desperately hard. Maybe she could ask for them to be sent on wit
h her summer things. As for her cat and cold-fish parents, she would just learn to live without them.

  Mother was a drudge who deserved to be treated with disdain by her in-laws, too cold and closed to give her own child a farewell hug, a lost chance that Georgie hoped would haunt Mavis’s dreams for the rest of her life. Father was weak, cowed by his parents, and wore their disappointment like a badge. It should have been tattooed onto his perspiring forehead.

  And as for them, the unbloodied grandparents with lily-white hands, how Georgie despised them for their shallow souls, their pursuit of excellence in others that was so failed in themselves. They’d been like putty in her hands, so desperate to please whilst in pursuance of their own goals, living vicariously through her. That was their truth and she had spotted the lie long ago, even as a small child. Of all her family, they were the most pathetic and Georgie despised them the most.

  But there was one thing she had left behind for which she felt sorrow and pain – the Butchers. Georgie had to dig her nails into the palm of her hand, forcing back tears, blanking from her mind and heart the love she felt for them. Mercifully it dissipated quickly because it was not the time for sentiment, and no more looking back, the future was just ahead.

  By the time Georgie had drank the last drop of tea, she had cleared her mind and like the fields of Hampshire, left the past and her family behind her. The world had said goodbye to 1963, a year of scandal and horror and her sins were nothing compared to Mr Profumo and Miss Keeler. If Jackie could survive the assassination of President Kennedy and the Russians could send a woman into space then Georgie would be just fine by herself. It was 1964, a new year had begun and like Steve McQueen she had made her great escape. Georgie had a life to live.

  Yes, being caught in a less than ladylike position underneath a man old enough to be her father was rather unfortunate, but the worst that had come out of that situation was a bruised bottom and a bad case of chaffing. She had endured similar liaisons and later suffered mild irritations in the past, after a jaunt in a Rolls Royce with the uncle of her best friend and following a vigorous session with her tennis coach. The first instance rewarded her with a delightful Biba handbag and the clap. The second turned out to be an invaluable and memorable karmic experience of the sutric kind. Georgie learned much from both experiences.

  As she disembarked the train at Paddington, the hubbub surrounding her failed to demoralise, in fact it had the opposite effect and after thanking the kind guard who helped her with her luggage, Georgie stepped confidently onto the platform.

  She’d only taken a few paces when one of her bulging suitcases popped open, the steel clasps allowing the contents to spill onto the platform, exposing the very best of her underwear to one and all. As she hastily gathered her frillies, squashing them back inside, she became aware of being watched, a plain pinched face observed her from the platform bench. Finding a pair of red knickers on her shoe, the woman bent down and removed them before passing the offending article to Georgie, holding them between finger and thumb as if they carried disease, a hint of disdain held in dark pigeon eyes. As Georgie stood, the discomfort caused by the woman was swiftly erased by that from the smart gentleman seated at the other end. Raising an eyebrow, he seemed amused and rather appreciative of the little display, giving her a cheeky wink as she sauntered off, a smile playing on her lips, hips swaying.

  On the busy street outside, Georgie steeled herself, determined not to be intimidated by the noise or bustle, confidently hailing a taxi like she’d done it a hundred times before. From inside the black cab that scurried through the city streets, Georgie took in her surroundings, curious and already enamoured but always keeping one eye on the meter, fearful of being unable to pay the fare.

  Passing young women just like her who strode purposefully along, going off to exciting jobs or to meet fabulous people, or to lunch with some handsome chap in a swanky restaurant, Georgie felt a thrill, a sense of expectancy. She was going to be one of these city dwellers. Soon she would inhabit their world, wear clothes just like them, and perhaps even speak as they did. She had arrived and who knew what the future would hold.

  But one thing Georgie did know for sure was that as she had been rejected, cast out and looked down upon, no matter how they begged, because one day they would, of this she was certain, she was never going back. Ever.

  Ivy

  Ivy was cold and couldn’t feel her toes which no matter how much she wiggled them, just wouldn’t warm up. Not only was she perished, she was hungry and rather lost, not in the logistical sense, more in her heart. Perhaps it was the waiting that had allowed a touch of melancholy to creep in, or maybe she was tired as it had been a long day preceded by a sleepless night and a very early start. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t shake off murmurings from the past, mainly because they had such great bearing on her present chilly predicament. As she waited for her connecting train, her brain insisted on setting itself straight, dissecting the past no doubt in an attempt to bolster her wavering resolve, the ebbing of her desire to flee.

  Ivy Elizabeth Emsworth was born in 1944 in the market village of Tabberton, ten miles north of Worcester. On the eve of her birth and whilst most inhabitants slept, her mother, Betty, had screamed her way through the delivery, distressed more by the indignity and mess than the pain which tore apart her body. At the same time, across the Channel, her twenty-three-year-old husband Ronald was fighting with the 33rd Armoured Brigade and was witnessing first-hand horrors of a different kind.

  Many weeks later, just before Christmas, Betty’s letter announcing the birth of their daughter managed to get through the lines and accompanying it was a crumpled photo of a baby her husband never got to meet. Sadly, Ronald’s delight at being a father was snuffed out during the Battle of the Bulge. His body was never returned to Betty as along with the photograph, it was scattered far and wide, ashes to dust and snow.

  Once the war was over, life for Betty ground on in Tabberton where decent full-bodied men remained in short supply which was the reason she accepted the proposal of the first decent chap to come her way. Her suitor was a kindly gentleman named Geoffrey, the eligible headmaster of the local school. His six-foot-two square framed bulk belied his polite manner and shy nature, bachelorhood being previously blamed on his disability whereas, compared to others who returned, Geoffrey was somewhat regarded as a good catch. Being more or less physically intact and mentally unscarred by war, educated, baggage free and employed it was no wonder that where the headmaster was concerned, Betty was eager to be at the front of a very long queue.

  During the war, Geoffrey had skirted danger due to his affliction – a shortened withered leg had deemed him unsuitable for the front line, so he did his bit in The Home Guard, along with educating the next generation of free British children. During his courtship chats with Betty, he omitted to mention that the school environment also provided a fine place from which to observe, casting his benevolent eyes upon those who waited patiently for their loved ones to return. Geoffrey’s attention was particularly drawn to widowed women with young fatherless girls and amongst the inhabitants of Tabberton, Geoffrey had the pick of the crop at his disposal. He bided his time and waited to see who came back and in what state. The wives of the men whose names were engraved upon the cenotaph in the square interested him the most. After a respectful amount of time had passed, he picked from those desperate not to be left on the shelf but most importantly with hungry mouths to feed. Geoffrey chose Betty.

  Following a brief courtship then a timely and respectful proposal, Betty and her daughter moved up and in to Geoffrey’s home where she resumed married life, but desperate or not, this time it was on her own terms. To Betty’s mind, their union was one borne more from convenience and the desire for financial stability. The other stuff, her conjugal duties, she endeavoured to reduce to the minimum and if possible avoid completely.

  Geoffrey seemed content with their arrangement, acquiescing immediately when Betty laid down her term
s, minutes after his proposal and prior to her acceptance.

  “Dearest Geoffrey, I would be most honoured to accept your proposal but there are areas of married life that women of a certain age feel less inclined to, shall we say, partake in. That said, I am also a woman of the world and respectful of the fact that a husband expects his conjugal rights to be upheld. With this in mind, I am prepared to accommodate you once a month but in return I request that for the remainder we sleep in separate beds. Would this be agreeable?”

  Rejoicing in his wonderful luck at the unexpected gift of a wife and stepdaughter, Geoffrey accepted the conditions and was emphatic in the conviction that his ready-made family was a dream come true. Geoffrey swore to provide for them always and should he ever stray from this or his earlier promise, would pray to God for forgiveness and the strength to crush his selfish desires.

  Consequently, Betty was quite happy with her lot. The role of part-time postmistress already afforded her some standing in the community so being the wife of the well respected headmaster boosted her up the ranks. Having a mild-mannered obedient child who studied hard was also a cause for quiet celebration and an easy, crinkle-free life so when Geoffrey decided which path Ivy’s life would take, Betty was in full agreement.

  Following in his footsteps and under his devoted guidance, Ivy was to become a teacher, a noble profession to which everyone thought she was well suited. Geoffrey had assured his wife that it was the perfect way to keep their daughter close and safe, whereas secretly, Betty rather hoped that once the time came, Ivy would stand on her own two feet and bugger off. Then her burdensome contract as Mother would finally be fulfilled.