Don’t be ridiculous, Katie. You can do this!
Yes – this was the master bedroom – a messy double bed (the last place Jack ever slept, but don’t think about that now), a dressing table covered in trinkets, a wardrobe and an armchair. She whisked the curtains open to let light completely flood the room and took a big breath before kneeling to look under the bed (slippers, more shoes, more dust). The wardrobe doors slid open easily, to reveal nothing but rows of men’s suits. She stroked the plastic covers, relieved and disappointed all at once. She considered the possibility of letting Chris know there might be some serious vintage up here, but dismissed it as soon as she thought it. Chris in a suit? When would that ever happen? And anyway, it would just make him think of all the men who were missing from his life.
She sat on the bed and closed her eyes to consider the options. Clearly, this was a stupid idea. They’d come all this way and were bound to get bollocked and Mary had probably made up the suitcase, and even if she hadn’t then Mum had already gone through these rooms, so anything interesting or valuable would’ve been noticed. If the suitcase even existed, it most likely had boring stuff in it.
Mum had a fireproof steel box to keep all her important documents safe. She called it her life box, because it had her birth certificate in it, also her medical card, bank account details and marriage certificate. Everything important in one place. Katie knew that in the event of an accident or Mum being incapacitated in some way, in the box there was an envelope with a hundred pounds in cash, the local bank manager’s phone number and Mum’s life insurance documents. Katie wondered if this was also the place where Mum stored all the divorce paperwork she was refusing to sign, but that conversation was off limits. So was the box actually. The key hung on a green thread on a hook in Mum’s bedroom and she was deadly serious when she said it was not to be touched unless there was a dire emergency.
So, Mum’s life boiled down to some paperwork in a box and Mary’s to a mystery suitcase.
What would Katie choose to keep? Family photos were on her phone, she didn’t care about any of her clothes except Mary’s silk dress (was that even hers to keep?) and her boots (and she’d probably be wearing those). Books, she’d be sad about, but that’s why libraries existed. It shocked her to realize that there wasn’t a single thing she owned that she cared about very much.
It was that thought that made her slide the wardrobe doors in the opposite direction. Because if there were men’s clothes in there, perhaps there were women’s in the other half and she might find something else worth saving.
It was the range of colour that was so surprising. None of Katie’s clothes at home were turquoise or spicy orange or dark gold. And it was uncanny how things suited her complexion when she held them up to herself, as if Mary understood some secret about pale skin and red hair that Katie just didn’t.
Several dresses were hand-made, they had to be. The bodice of this one was constructed of separate pieces of material woven together so it twisted into the waistband. A button was missing on the sleeve of this tea dress, but that would be easy to fix with a piece of the same fabric from the hem and a new button covered to match. The side zipper of this skirt worked well. Katie unzipped it, zipped it up again.
There was also labelled stuff – not just Marks and Spencer, but Biba, Mary Quant, and here was an actual little black dress by Givenchy. Some of these things were probably worth a fortune.
Would it hurt to try something on? Was it wrong?
Katie Baxter always wore jeans and jumpers and dreaded hot weather because it was more exposing. Katie Baxter wished her hair was a little less red and a little less wild. But this girl in the mirror looked confident! This olive shift dress totally complemented her hair. It felt exciting, the colour auspicious. Surely no harm could ever befall her if she wore clothes like these?
‘Shoes,’ Mary said, appearing suddenly at the door.
‘Shit!’ Katie’s face rushed to blood. ‘I didn’t hear you come up.’
‘Spare room, in the cupboard, down at the bottom.’
‘I’m sorry, Mary, I should’ve asked.’
‘What size are you?’ She crossed the room and peered at Katie’s feet. ‘I think mine will be too small. I’ve got Alice shoes, patent court shoes, all kinds. Just help yourself.’
‘I’ll wear my boots, they go with anything. Are you saying I can borrow some of these clothes?’
‘Keep them. What’s mine is yours.’ Mary leaned over and smoothed Katie’s hair. It was perhaps the most intimate thing she’d ever done and it made Katie stand perfectly still. ‘No need to look afraid.’ Mary twisted a strand of Katie’s hair between her fingers. ‘You’re always biting that lip of yours. It’s Pat’s fault, poor sod – always expecting the worst. She got numb. Like when you sit on your own leg. There’s no purpose or meaning to that kind of life now, is there?’ She rootled through her handbag and pulled out a lipstick. ‘It’s an old stub of a thing, but you’re welcome to it. It’s all you need to brighten that smile.’
It was ancient, all mashed at the end. Mary prodded at it with her finger and dabbed Katie’s mouth. Katie tried not to think about where Mary’s hands might have been and when she may have last washed them. She liked the taste though. It was waxy like candles, but tasted hot, like the burning red colour it was.
‘You look like a Copper Top with that halo of hair.’ Mary smiled at her. ‘Now, let’s get some sun on our faces.’
Katie got the key from under the sugar bowl and opened the door to the garden. It smelled fresh and earthy despite the heat. A bird with a bright yellow beak looked at her from a branch with its head on one side like it was saying, Who are you?
‘Good question,’ Katie said.
Mary brought out a chair and found a patch of sun right in the middle of the grass and sat in it. She named the flowers, although Katie wasn’t sure they were the right names. ‘Jack grew the lot,’ Mary said. ‘Like little poems, all of them.’
Katie sat on the doorstep. She pulled up a clump of grass and sprinkled it on her lap. She found a twig, snapped it in two and planted both halves in the dry earth.
‘Maybe they’ll grow,’ she said when she caught Mary looking.
‘Best hope for rain then.’ Mary held her palms to the sky as if it would surely never rain again.
‘Are you worried about the garden, Mary? There’s a bucket there. You want me to water Jack’s flowers?’
Mary nodded benevolently. ‘If you like.’
So she did. It was the least she could do in return for the clothes. Back and forth into the little kitchen, watering the flowers pail by pail, Katie felt like a kid. She had a sudden memory of filling a paddling pool like this once, under the summer sun with Dad sitting in a deckchair watching. There’d been a table with glasses of lemonade and a jug. It seemed a long time ago.
Mary sang as she watered. ‘K-K-K-Katie, beautiful Katie, you’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore. When the moon shines over the cowshed, I’ll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.’
And it was fine. So fine. Better than anything. Katie felt like she lived there. They’d stay for ever, watch the flowers grow, sit on the grass, talk. Later, they’d go into town and check out the nightlife. Mary would be up for that. It’d just be a case of persuading Chris to leave the TV behind.
Mary lit a cigarette as Katie watered. She blew smoke up into the sky. ‘Nancy, Nora, Norman, Nelson,’ she said. ‘Now your turn.’
‘Norway,’ Katie said. ‘Netherlands, Namibia, Nicaragua.’
‘Ha!’ Mary cackled. ‘Very good. I can name millions. Towns, villages, flowers. You ask for it, you can have it.’ She smiled contentedly. ‘I could give those people on TV a run for their money.’
‘I think it’s easier to remember stuff when you’re here, isn’t it, Mary?’
‘Easy? I call it blooming marvellous. I call it summer arriving!’ She waved her cigarette. ‘You can stick that in your pipe and smoke it.’
It was won
derful. Like a veil had lifted.
‘What about the suitcase, Mary? You wanted it and I looked for it and I can’t find it. You remember it now?’
‘Absolutely. Come with me.’
She went down the path to the shed and pulled on the handle, but the hinge was broken and the bottom of the door scraped the ground. Katie helped her – with both hands she lifted it and hauled it open. She was half expecting wild animals inside – cats, foxes or even something ridiculous like a tiger. She wouldn’t put anything past Mary.
‘Jack’s den,’ Mary said as they stepped in. ‘He comes here to smoke and look at ladies.’
‘Ladies?’
Mary raised an eyebrow coquettishly and pointed to a picture tacked to the wall. It was a woman – a curvy, fifties, black and white woman smiling at the camera.
Katie leaned in closer. ‘Wow, is that you?’
She was stunning. Her hair in dark waves, her skin glowing, her eyes huge and full of ‘come-hither’ fire as she posed, one hand on her hip as if saying, I will stand here for this photo, but only because I choose to.
Katie peeled it from the wall and turned the photo over, but there was nothing on the back – no name, no date, no clue.
‘Robert took it,’ Mary told her. ‘Jack was sad it wasn’t him I was posing for, but you can’t know one person for ever, can you? Now then, remind me what we’re doing in here again.’
‘Suitcase?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Mary pulled open a drawer and rummaged through. It appeared to be full of gardening things – packets of seeds, a ball of twine, a bundle of wooden sticks, several brown paper bags neatly folded, a single leather glove. ‘Not in here.’ She shut the drawer and opened the cupboard above and peered in. ‘Is this what we’re looking for?’
It was a battered overnight case in red leather. Katie pulled it out of the cupboard and laid it on the bench.
‘It has a silk lining,’ Mary said. ‘A pocket for an alarm clock and elasticated loops for a bottle of perfume or travel shampoo. There’s plenty of room for a change of clothes, a facecloth and makeup.’
She sounded as if she was reeling off the original advert. ‘What’s inside now, Mary? Anything?’
‘I wanted glamour,’ Mary said, ignoring Katie and lovingly wiping dust off the case. ‘I wanted a place in London with big bright rooms and gilded mirrors that reflected the light. I wanted plush white sofas and a chandelier. I wanted a different life from my sister. Pat had a housecoat in quilted nylon. She used to make rags from old sheets and tie them to her feet to polish the lino. She used to darn socks and alter clothes with pin tucks and pleats and gathers.’ Mary leaned over the case as if the memories weighed too much. ‘I took this case when I left. It was a present from my father years before. He was always buying me gifts, though he stopped all that when the baby came.’ She tapped it with a finger. ‘I wrote letters to Pat every day, and – do you know? – she never replied. I thought perhaps she was throwing them away, but she saved every single one.’
‘Is that what’s in the suitcase, Mary? Your letters to Pat?’
She nodded very slowly. ‘And other special things.’
‘Shall we open it?’
‘If you like.’ She looked up at Katie, her eyes full of hope. ‘I expect you’ll know what to do with it all.’
1954 – how to be a good mother, part two
Mary sits at a table in the corner of the staff canteen and waits for the new girl (Joan, is it?) to register what she’s just said.
‘A baby?’
Mary nods, tries to smile. ‘Yes, nine weeks ago.’
‘And you did what with her?’
‘I relinquished care and responsibility to my sister Patricia and her husband Lionel and have no further claim.’
Second time round, the words hold the same foreboding. Mary feels as if she’s placed a funeral brochure on the table amongst the tea cups.
‘Blimey.’ Joan gives Mary’s hand a small and sorry stroke. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘I send letters,’ Mary says. ‘And each Friday I send money.’
‘You must miss her though?’
Every minute of every hour, Mary wants to say. And nothing fills the gap. It’s as if my life has stopped, as if there’s an invisible tie that binds me to a child I fear I may never see again. What she actually says, however, is, ‘Well, it helps to know she’s in such good hands. Lionel’s a friend of our father, a little older than my sister. He’s a good man, and marriage suited them both. Pat will make a wonderful mother. She’s very sensible.’
Pat always turns out lights and locks the door at night. She understands how to get the washing line to stay up with the clothes prop and what halibut oil is for and how to administer it. Both of these arts escape Mary. In fact, if she really thinks about it, the list of things Pat’s capable of is endless. The child will flourish, Mary must keep telling herself this.
‘There was always cake for tea,’ Mary says, ‘all the way through the war.’
Joan grins. ‘Nothing like cake in a crisis.’
‘And it’s comforting to know that if the baby gets a fever, Pat’ll be able to tell if it’s the kind that requires a doctor, or the kind that needs putting to bed with wintergreen and eucalyptus. I’d probably just put the poor thing in a cot with a hot water-bottle and hope for the best.’ Mary tries to laugh, but it comes out like a strangled cough.
‘And can you visit whenever you like?’
‘I’m letting them settle. My sister only just got married and so this is all very new for her. I’ll go up at spring bank holiday, I expect.’
Mary swirls the dregs of tea round her cup and gulps the last of it down, tries to swallow the doubt along with it. Despite all the careful negotiations, all the wording gone over and over, the signatures, the promises – not a word! Pat, who was always so fastidious about keeping in touch, about thank you cards and gracious little notes to shopkeepers, has not replied to a single letter.
‘And tell me,’ Joan says darkly. ‘Most girls would have taken something. I know at least two who have. They get a bottle from the chemist and nothing’s said.’ She leans in closer. ‘Didn’t you think you might do that?’
‘Only at the very beginning. Not really.’
A pang of fear for the child strikes Mary again – like a wound in her chest, something primal that makes her want to run screaming from the table and go and find her daughter and snatch her back.
‘Well, I think you’re very brave.’ Joan pushes her plate of chips closer and gestures that Mary help herself. ‘Let’s cheer ourselves up before we get back to the grind, shall we?’
The monotony of working in a factory canteen doesn’t help – the scraping and chopping, the heat of the kitchen and the washing of pans, the mixing and stirring, the tedium of it all – it gives too much space for thinking. Mary tells herself she deserves it. What else had she expected? She has no qualifications, no talents, never passed the typing course, never did understand shorthand. Pat was right all along – she’ll come to no good.
She tries to do her tasks without her mind being present, her real self buried somewhere deep down, like a hibernating thing. But every now and then she thinks of Caroline and wonders what she is doing right now, this very minute and it makes her stop in peculiar places and have to breathe very slowly and deeply. Sometimes she even hears a voice inside her head reaffirming what she suspects already, that her life is going to be exactly like this for ever. This is all there is, a kind of never-ending sadness, broken only by moments of sheer terror.
She tries to pull herself together, tries to blame it on lack of vitamins and boredom. She makes an effort to vary her routine, maybe a cup of tea with Joan at lunch time, or a bit of supper. Sometimes she attempts to surprise herself by going to see a film on the way home from work. But mostly, she just goes back to the bedsit and writes her daily letter to Pat, has some tea, then gets ready for bed. She sits there unable to sleep, her blanket at her chin, her knees hugged
in to herself, gazing out at the night.
* * *
31st May, 1954
Dear Pat
I have been longing to hear from you and feel sure that you must be all settled down now. Could I have news? Anything you feel able to tell me. Of course I want to know about the wedding and how it all went, but more than anything, I want to hear of Caroline.
I know at the moment it’s impossible to see her and I’m sure you are quite right (again) when you say she needs to settle in, and of course I know she’s well loved and cared for. It’s just that I miss her in ways I can’t begin to put to paper. Didn’t you always tell me that words were never enough? Well, how right you were about so many things.
Nothing seems to matter so much as it did – I haven’t been dancing since I got to London and have no desire for it either. All the things I yearned for – the music and lights and laughter – well, they belong to another girl in another life.
Please excuse more now, Pat. I will say bye but will write again tomorrow. Give my love and a kiss to the babe.
Yours,
Mary
It’s a shock not to be able to shrug off the grief. Something so animal in Mary that she wakes up with her pillow damp from dreams of loss. She longs for this baby who has gone, who she’s chosen to give up. She’s giddy with it and no one seems to notice. Joan keeps inviting her to things, as if a night at a dance hall or a few drinks at the works social club will cheer Mary up.
‘You might surprise yourself,’ Joan says.
‘I doubt that.’
‘Come on. It’ll be fun. Quite a few of the chaps have been asking after you.’
But a chap isn’t what Mary needs, much as it surprises her to admit it. That part of her life is over. She sees something in other women that seems to have faded in her – something hot and quick that used to draw life to her, that used to make her feel alive. What’s the point of pretending to enjoy a dance?
Unbecoming Page 16