Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  Chapter 13

  1963

  'I hate school. I want to leave now!'

  Tara faced her mother in the kitchen, eyes blazing. She was just sixteen, still in her school uniform, though she had done her best to disguise it by leaving off her tie and wearing a wide belt around her skirt.

  'If I have to stay here another year I'll end up as loopy as you and Gran!'

  Amy slapped Tara across the face.

  'Don't be so cruel,' she shouted. 'I've been trying to explain to you that if you get "A" levels you can go to Goldsmith's College in London. Leave school now and you'll never get in there.'

  'Who cares about college? I just want a job.'

  Amy turned away, sickened not only by Tara's stubborn and short-sighted view, but also by herself resorting to violence.

  'Go and get one, then,' she threw over her shoulder. 'Just don't blame me in a year or two when you regret it.'

  Tara ran upstairs. Once in her room she wasn't sure whether to do a gleeful dance, or continue to sulk. She'd worn her mother down and got her own way at last, but somehow the triumph felt a little hollow. But then Mum was good at making her feel like that!

  A job wasn't the real issue. What she really wanted was to move to London.

  She stood in front of her mirror and looked critically at herself. A ravishing natural beauty, that was how Mr Haig the English teacher described her. He'd raved about her glorious hair and her wide sensual mouth. He had been teaching them how to write a poem, improvising on the spur of the moment, but she knew he felt what he was saying, even if he did laugh about it.

  In the two years since Paul's death Tara had become a woman, and now the village didn't have enough to offer her. Aside from the odd dance at the village hall or the Young Farmers' Association, there was absolutely nothing to do – no youth club, no coffee bar. Even if she went into Bristol, the last bus back left soon after ten. She wasn't old enough to go in the pub and, anyway, even if she had been, she wanted a bit more excitement than sitting about with old men who talked about the days before the War and played shove ha'penny. Other girls from school were into riding in a serious way, taking part in gymkhanas, exercising their horses, but Tara wasn't that keen on riding and anyway, most of the girls were terrible snobs. Fashion magazines were her lifeline. She studied each designer's collections, she dreamed of clothes when everyone else mooned over actors and pop stars.

  London had preoccupied her mind for over a year now, since she had got over the embarrassment of Harry. Once she had been convinced she could never look him in the face again, but now she merely laughed about it. George and Queenie had been to visit twice during this time, and little snippets of information about Harry disturbed her. He still worked with George, but now he had moved into a flat of his own near the Angel and George was clearly afraid he was getting into bad company. But Harry no longer figured in her scheme of things. All she wanted was to find a job in the fashion industry, and that meant London.

  'They were all talking about this actor chap who's staying at Stanton Drew.' Mabel dumped the shopping on the kitchen table and sank down on to a chair as if she'd walked ten miles instead of just nipping up to the Co-op. 'Apparently he's been in a detective series on the television, but I've never heard of him.'

  Amy looked up from her ironing. 'What's his name?'

  'Wainwright.' Mabel took sugar and flour out of the bag and looked suspiciously at a bunch of bananas. 'Look at these, half of them are black. I should've been watching what Muriel was doing instead of listening to tittle-tattle.'

  Amy smiled weakly. She was still brooding about Tara and wishing she hadn't smacked her face, but her mother could be very funny sometimes. She pretended to have no interest in gossip, yet she always knew everything.

  Mabel looked round at her daughter.

  'You've been crying!'

  Amy shrugged her shoulders. 'Tara upset me. I told her she could get a job if that's what she wants.'

  'She wants to leave home,' Mabel said brusquely. 'And you can't stop her, Amy.'

  Amy was surprised by her mother's attitude; she had expected opposition.

  'I can't bear it,' she said. 'Why has she turned against me, Mother? She can hardly be bothered to speak to me these days.'

  'She hasn't turned against you. You didn't want to be with me, either, when you were her age,' Mabel said in a surprisingly gentle manner. 'I know I gave you good reason to want to be away from me, but I think you'll find that, even in the closest families, girls of her age want to get out.'

  'I wouldn't mind her leaving home to go to college,' Amy said. 'But she's being so foolhardy, refusing to take her "A" levels. At college they'll channel her into a proper career, but left to her own devices she'll just drift.'

  Mabel got up and slid the kettle on to the Aga. Tara was the best in school at art and her needlework had improved vastly in the last two years, but she was as impatient and obstinate as herself. In just the way Mabel had imagined herself sweeping into a studio and becoming a successful illustrator overnight, Tara believed she had enough talent to take the fashion industry by storm.

  'She doesn't understand that if she wants to become a dress designer she'll have to work up through the ranks,' Amy continued. 'She wouldn't last five minutes in a workshop. And don't tell me things have changed since I was a seamstress, Mother, because they haven't.'

  Mabel smiled. Amy was right. Tara would be put to work picking up pins, machining seams and pressing. Even Amy, whose needlework was exquisite, had never got a chance to put forward her own ideas.

  'The trouble with us,' Mabel said thoughtfully as she warmed the teapot, 'is we both want everything for Tara we never had. Perhaps we want her to achieve the things we never did.'

  Amy's fame as a dressmaker had spread since she made a wedding dress for the local headmaster's daughter. With a sixteen-feet train, every inch of it embroidered with tiny seed pearls, it had been the talk of the village for months afterwards. Now she mainly made evening dresses and bridal gowns, all rich with embroidery or beading, but even so she knew she couldn't expect to walk into one of the leading fashion houses and call herself a designer.

  'So what should we do?' Amy asked, knowing in her heart Mabel was right.

  'Don't argue with her.' Mabel shrugged her shoulders. 'If she has set her eyes on London, I suppose we'll just have to accept it. Suppose we said she could take a summer job in London and asked George and Queenie to put her up?'

  Amy's face brightened. A few weeks of having to kowtow to other women would probably bring Tara back to heel!

  'That's a brilliant idea,' she agreed. 'I bet Queenie could find her a place with one of the dress manufacturers. If we said she could go after doing her "O" levels, that might appease her enough to swot for the exams!'

  She put the ironing board away, piling the clothes on a chair ready to take upstairs, then sat down with her mother for a cup of tea. From upstairs the sound of Cilia Black's 'Anyone who had a heart' was booming out of Tara's record player – clearly she was wallowing in self-pity.

  'It's the dance on Saturday.' Amy smiled. 'If only she'd meet some local boy and fall for him.'

  'Pigs might fly,' Mabel said dourly. 'I never saw one lad around here when I was a girl that made my heart race. And look at you! A beautiful woman in your prime and your only admirer is a tubby doctor!'

  'He's a kind, generous man,' Amy said indignantly. Greg had become far more than just Amy's doctor in the past two years. It was his friendship and interest that sustained her when her mother's stubborn and crusty nature irritated her. Sometimes she went for walks with him and his dog Winston, and he often called in at the farm for tea. 'I don't know why you go on laughing about him, anyway. You're quick enough to pick his brains when you need some advice!'

  'He just hasn't got much...' Mabel broke off, unable to think of the right word.

  'Sex appeal.' Tara's voice from the door made them both look round.

  Both Mabel and Amy laughed. They ha
dn't known Tara was within earshot, but in fact her remark was true.

  'What would you know about such things?' Amy giggled, glad that Tara had at least stopped sulking.

  'Only what I've read in magazines,' Tara admitted. 'But I can't actually think of one person in the village with sex appeal!'

  'That's a relief,' Mabel said drily. 'We don't have to lock her up!'

  'What about this actor then?' Amy was anxious to smooth over any bad feeling to pave the way for a serious chat later. 'You'd better tell Tara about that.'

  Tara sat down and poured herself some tea. Like her grandmother she rarely apologised; merely joining them was supposed to indicate a slight change of heart.

  'Apparently he's a real dish,' Mabel said slyly. 'And drives a flashy car, but I don't want you riding your bike up to Stanton Drew to gawp at him.'

  'How old is he?' Tara asked.

  'About thirty-five, they said.'

  'I wouldn't even cross the road to see someone that old.' Tara put her nose in the air. 'You can borrow my bike though, Mum, he's nearer your age!'

  Amy was picking over some raspberries for jam on Saturday evening, when Tara stalked into the kitchen.

  'Well, how do I look?' She struck a pose like a mannequin in one corner of the kitchen, then turned on her heel to show the back of her outfit.

  'Very nice, dear,' Amy said.

  Tara had designed and made the outfit herself, an emerald green shantung sheath dress with bootlace straps, topped by a little bolero jacket. Her hair had been in rollers all day and now it was backcombed into a bouffant style, flicking up on her shoulders. Her eyes were heavily outlined in black.

  'Only nice?' she asked waspishly.

  'You've got a lot of make-up on, you don't need so much.'

  Tara had bought the material for her dress in a Bristol market and it was the sort that creased badly. The dress's seams were puckered, but Tara wouldn't listen to her mother's advice and put them right. Amy also privately thought the dress was too tight, but she wasn't going to raise objections at this late stage.

  'All the girls wear heavy make-up, it's the fashion,' Tara retorted.

  It was hard for Amy to see Tara looking so grownup. In her heart she knew there was no real danger at the village dance, but she remembered only too well the feelings Bill had aroused in her at sixteen.

  'Where's Gran? I wanted to see her before I left?'

  'Out in the dairy. Someone came to buy eggs and cheese, she's still with them.'

  'I'll say goodbye as I go past, then.' Tara bent to kiss her mother. 'Leave the back door unlocked. I might be late.'

  'This is my granddaughter, Tara.' Mabel's lined face lit up with pride as Tara walked into the dairy. 'She's off to the village dance.'

  Tara stopped dead in her tracks as the man turned to greet her. It had to be the actor everyone was talking about.

  He wasn't just handsome. He was devastatingly beautiful – butter-coloured blond hair worn just slightly longer than the local men's, deep brown eyes and the kind of rugged perfection she associated only with Martini advertisements.

  'This is Mr Wainwright' Gran beamed at Tara, as she slapped some butter between two pats, then wrapped it in greaseproof paper. 'He's not only an actor, but an artist, too. He's staying at a cottage over in Stanton Drew.'

  'Simon, please,' he said, shooting out a slender hand to shake Tara's. 'Mr Wainwright makes me sound middle-aged.'

  Tara forgot she had thought thirty-five was old. In his light grey slacks and checked open-necked shirt, casual elegance oozed out of Simon Wainwright. Even his voice was delicious, deep and resonant, the sort she'd only heard on the wireless.

  'It's nice to meet you,' Tara said awkwardly, desperately trying to think of something riveting to keep him here. He was at least six feet tall and his brown eyes held all the sex appeal she'd found lacking in the local men. 'Has Gran told you she paints, too?'

  'She has indeed.' His mouth curved into a smile that sent shivers of delight down her spine. 'She also told me you were very talented!'

  'I'm not really.' Tara blushed. She wasn't usually so modest, but then she'd never met someone famous before and she was wary of showing off till she knew him better.

  'I left it too late for the shops. In London there's always a shop open somewhere. Thank heavens I saw your sign, otherwise I'd be one starving artist!'

  Tara saw that her Gran had not only sold him eggs, cheese, butter and milk but had found him a loaf of her own homemade bread, a pot of marmalade and some bacon. She was always one for making the most of an opportunity.

  'Are your family with you?' Tara asked.

  His brown eyes had a wicked glint. 'I haven't one,' he said. 'Just down for a few days of rest before an audition. Where are you off to all dressed up?'

  'A dance in the village hall,' she said, blushing because it sounded so rustic. 'It's about the only thing to do around here.'

  'Perhaps I can drop you off?' He raised one perfect blond eyebrow questioningly. 'That is, of course, if you haven't got a partner coming to collect you?'

  'It's only a couple of hundred yards.' Gran stiffened as she saw the effect this handsome stranger was having on Tara.

  'But I'm going that way.' He smiled charmingly at Mabel and pulled a leather wallet from his inside pocket. 'Now, Mrs Randall, how much do I owe you?'

  His car was a silver 'E' type Jaguar and he barely had time to change gear before they arrived outside the village hall.

  'That's it there.' Tara pointed out the Old School House next to the churchyard gates. 'Hardly worth a lift.' She giggled.

  Simon smiled at her, pulled across the street and up the slope till they were right in front of the door.

  'Be-bop a lula' blasted out with more volume than musical talent and Mr Jakes on the door, in a funereal black suit, was waving his hands in protest.

  'Sounds promising.'

  She knew he was being sarcastic.

  'What are you doing tonight?' she asked.

  He made her feel so strange, all sort of prickly inside. There was something exotic about him, not just his beautiful clothes, the car or even his perfect profile. It was a glimpse of something racy, something dangerous and thrilling. She was reluctant to get out of his car.

  'Nothing,' he said. 'I might pop down to the local later. Sketch or read a book.'

  'Why don't you come in with me?' she asked breathlessly.

  He looked round at her, smiled and took one of her hands in his.

  'I don't think it's quite my scene,' he said softly, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it. 'Teddy boys in bootlace ties and bumper shoes, giggling virgins and a few farmers' wives to keep it all in line.'

  Tara laughed. 'You've missed out the spotty country boys in cavalry twill trousers.'

  'I bet you'll be the only beauty in there,' he said, fixing his brown eyes on her. 'All the boys will be queuing up to dance with you. An old man like me wouldn't get a look in.'

  He was flirting with her, but whether that meant he was angling at something more she couldn't be sure.

  'I've always preferred older men.' She fluttered her eyelashes. 'Go on, come!'

  'Maybe later,' he said, and got out of the car.

  For a moment she was baffled as to what he was doing, but to her amazement he opened the car door for her.

  It couldn't have been timed better if she had planned it. Shirley and Judith, two girls from her class, came around the corner just as he took her hand to help her out.

  'Au revoir, ma cherie,' he said, lifting her hand up to kiss it again.

  Shirley and Judith stood there, gawping.

  'Struth!' Shirley said as he roared off up the High Street. 'Who was that?'

  Tara smiled. Shirley and Judith were exactly what Simon meant by giggling virgins. They both wore cotton dresses with can-can petticoats, even though that fashion had gone out two years earlier, big plastic earrings and bright red lipstick with their hair backcombed like birds' nests.

  'W
ho was he?' Judith took a step towards Tara and the smell of L'Aimant was overpowering.

  'My dream man.' Tara smiled.

  Simon Wainwright smiled too as he drove off. Tara was just the kind of diversion he needed and he sensed she was a ripe plum, ready for picking. It was good to be out of London for a bit, not least because he could play the part of a celebrity and get the kind of adulation he rarely got in town. Aside from the one detective series his face wasn't known; most of his work had been for radio, where his talent for accents and different voices came into its own. But he was on his way up. Today he was driving a friend's car, but if he got a film offer soon he might be buying his own.

  Born in 1930 in genteel Cheltenham, his mother widowed just a few years later, he had been brought up in a house of women. A grandmother and two older sisters had pampered him, a select private school had prepared him to be a gentleman. Acting came naturally to him, but the breaks hadn't come as he expected and until quite recently he'd had to take a job as a cocktail waiter to keep himself while auditioning. But down here no-one need know that ...

  The dance was just like all the others. The band was too loud, with ear-splitting feedback. It played Buddy Holly, Adam Faith and Billy Fury songs, all with more enthusiasm than talent.

  Mrs Cuthbert and Mrs Jones, two formidable matrons from the choir, handled the refreshments and kept eagle eyes peeled for signs of illicit alcohol being added to the orange juice.

  The Scouts had decorated the hall and it seemed not one of them had an eye for art, let alone symmetry. Crepe-paper streamers had been tacked up and twisted round anything available. Chinese paper lanterns were pinned up at random, vast bunches of balloons hung in clusters. But the stage decoration made Tara smirk most of all. They had tried to create an image of a barn; with bales of straw, pitchforks and a couple of old stone cider flagons.

  Apart from the couples who were 'going steady', only girls were dancing. The boys propped up the walls, smoking heavily, their feet tapping to the music as they weighed up the talent, or got up the nerve to ask someone to dance.