Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  Her thoughts turned to Tara. She had all the chic of a city girl now, hair regularly trimmed, false eyelashes and impeccable make-up. They didn't see her often, just for a few days at Christmas, a week in the summer and odd weekends. There was nothing for her here now. Her mind was always on fashion, her conversation all about Josh, Angie, George and Queenie.

  At least that affair with Simon Wainwright hadn't affected her too deeply. She'd had other boyfriends, by all accounts, and often made Mabel and Amy laugh with stories about the lengths she went to to avoid them once they were cast off.

  Amy had been so anxious in the first few months after Tara left. London, and particularly the East End, was a dangerous place for a young girl, though George and Queenie assured her that Tara's life revolved around her work and, even when she did go out, she never gave them cause for anxiety.

  But it was hard to find herself no longer a mother. All those years of looking after children, and now she was obsolete. Of course there was the work at the farm, more than enough for anyone, but it wasn't the same as running after children. Sometimes, like today, she felt terribly alone.

  She walked on back through the woods towards the village. The rain was getting heavier and she could feel it creeping right down to her underwear. She knew she ought to go home, but she was loath to spend another afternoon cloistered with her mother.

  The High Street looked desolate in the rain. Aside from the brightly lit Co-op, the shops had a bleak, closed-up look about them. Rain gushed down the gutters, spilling out like a river across the road at one point. Even the windowboxes of the cottages up on the raised walkway had a bedraggled air.

  'Amy!' The shouted greeting made her look round. Gregory Masterton was coming round the corner, almost dragged along by Winston, his golden labrador. Greg was as wet as the dog, in a yellow oilskin, thinning hair plastered to his face. 'Fancy a cup of tea?' he called, his jolly red face breaking into a wide smile.

  Amy didn't think twice. 'I'd love one,' she called back, and ran across to meet him.

  They had become close friends since Paul's death. Greg was the one she poured things out to, with whom she shared her anxiety about Tara and even her irritation at her mother. Sometimes she felt that without him, she might have slid back into depression.

  'Hello, Winston.' Amy patted the wet dog, smiling at his exuberant expression. 'Did you drag your dad out in this?'

  'What's your excuse for wandering in the rain?' he asked as they walked up the High Street towards his house. 'Escaping the troll?'

  They always shared the joke about Mabel being a troll who lurked under the bridge waiting for unwary travellers. Mabel hadn't entirely lost her caustic tongue and sometimes she treated Greg like a young farmhand.

  'I suppose so.' Amy smiled. 'It's this rain. I want to do the garden, anything rather than be stuck in the house. Do you think it's ever going to stop?'

  'The weather forecast doesn't offer much hope.' Greg paused momentarily at his grey stone garden wall. Clumps of purple aubretia were showering over it, behind a lilac tree in full blossom. 'Look at that, Amy! Now you don't notice how beautiful purple, green and grey are together until it rains.'

  Amy looked a bit down in the dumps to him. He knew Mabel shoved a great deal of work on to her, but this seemed to be more than tiredness.

  'You're a very calming person.' Amy smiled properly for the first time that day. 'Maybe I need rain to see the best things about you, too.'

  Amy had loved Acacia House from the first time she took the children to see Greg. His home and practice were in a fine Georgian grey stone detached house that reminded her a little of both that old house Bill had shown her in Kent, and Paradise Row. A little neglected, perhaps, with its big wrought-iron gate practically rusting away and the old sash windows in need of a lick of paint, but it was so gracious.

  In the days before she knew Greg well, she used to try to guess what the rest of the house was like. She imagined a grand piano in the drawing room, velvet armchairs – everything precisely in its place like a showroom. But when she finally went in there, she found it was nothing like that. Not only was it very untidy, without a piano, but the furniture was all unmatching, bits and pieces passed down through several generations, and she found herself loving it even more for its warmth and lack of ostentation.

  'You'll have to ignore the mess, I wasn't expecting visitors.' Greg grinned as he opened the door.

  'You always say that.' Amy laughed. 'I know for a fact that your cleaning lady bends your ears about her troubles rather than doing any work. I suspect you like living in a muddle!'

  Black and white tiles covered the hall floor, as usual covered in Winston's muddy pawprints. To her right a door led through to a tiny study, the surgery and waiting room. To the left was a formal dining room he used more for meetings; at the back a big bright sitting room. The kitchen was tucked away behind the wide staircase.

  Winston jumped up at her the moment he was let off his lead, covering her raincoat with muddy smears.

  'Down, Winston,' Greg bellowed. 'Into the kitchen!'

  Amy followed him as he shooed the dog into the back and took down an old towel to dry him. Usually when she went into his kitchen she cast her eyes enviously over the modern units, the many cupboards, the view from the sink over the garden, but today she found herself watching Greg.

  He had taken off his oilskin as they came in. Now, dressed in a brown cardigan and tweed trousers, he bent down to rub the dog's coat. Winston allowed himself to be subjected to this for a couple of moments, then turned over on his back to have his belly tickled. The tender way Greg obliged brought on the oddest feeling inside her; it was almost jealousy! She turned away, taking her boots off in the hall, and wandered into his sitting room.

  It was the most cluttered room she'd ever seen. The walls were lined with books, a big desk under the window strewn with papers. More books were heaped on the floor; a big sagging Chesterfield was covered in a crotcheted blanket, because of its bald patches and Winston's habit of sleeping there. There were so many things to look at. Old clocks, a couple of model sailing ships, Toby jugs, a collection of pipes, pictures embroidered by his grandmother. It was like being in a museum of the Masterton family, things hoarded not because of their value but for sentimental reasons.

  She felt that Greg knew more about her than anyone else in the world. He had a knack of drawing out her innermost thoughts and often told her things about himself which led her to believe they were strangely similar.

  Professionally he was a very successful doctor, held in great respect by everyone. But on a personal level he had an innate shyness, and she suspected he was often very lonely.

  'Let me take your coat.' She was startled by his hand on her arm. She hadn't noticed him come out of the kitchen she was so deep in thought.

  'Amy!' he said reprovingly. 'You're soaked right through. How long have you been wandering about?'

  'An hour or two,' she said absent-mindedly, letting the coat slip off her shoulders.

  She felt his fingers touch her hair and run down her neck to her shoulders, and an unexpected tremor ran down her spine.

  'You're wetter than Winston,' he said, turning her towards him.

  Amy glanced at the hand on her shoulder and slowly raised her face to his. There was naked tenderness in those gentle brown eyes. His lips were slightly apart, his round ruddy face suddenly inexplicably dear.

  'Hold me,' she whispered.

  Silently he pulled her into his arms and drew her head down to his shoulder, one hand caressing her back. She could smell the wet dog, a faint whiff of antiseptic and damp wool, and could hear his heart hammering beneath his sweater.

  It was she who instigated the kiss. Lifting her head, she put one damp hand on his cheek and brought his head down to meet hers. She could hear the rain swishing down the gutter outside the window, and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. But his lips on hers were full of such sweetness and passion she felt herself moving in
to a void where nothing mattered but him.

  'Oh, Amy.' Greg sighed as they broke apart, their faces still close together, bodies pressed up against one another. 'If you only knew how many times I've longed to do this.'

  She wished she could admit something similar, but the truth was she'd never felt any pang of sexual desire for him until now. Yet, like a person dying of thirst given the first sip of water, she wanted more.

  Her whole body seemed to erupt into flames as he kissed her again. This time his tongue moved into her mouth, his breathing was heavier. She undulated her hips against him, unable to control the sensations rushing through her. The same pent-up longing was in him, too; she felt it in his quivering body, the touch of his hands and the heat of his lips.

  'You're so wet,' he whispered in her ear. 'Shall I get you a dry sweater?'

  Amy guessed he was scared by this sudden turn of events, however much he might have longed for it.

  'I want you, Greg,' she whispered against his neck. 'Take all my clothes off.'

  His lips came back on to hers and she felt a bolder surge running through him as his fingers found the zip of her skirt. It dropped to the floor at her feet, and his hands moved under her sweater, pulling the damp wool up and away over her head. He paused to look at her for a moment, as she stood in a white cotton petticoat, then his arms reached out for her, enveloping her in a fierce hug.

  They moved on to the settee. It was cramped but Amy was past caring. His hand slid up her leg and as his fingers touched the bare skin beyond her stocking top, she cried out and held him tighter still.

  Everything was frenzied – their kisses and the way they caressed each other. Too much haste to possess, too much hunger. As his fingers found their way into her Amy called out, arching her back and opening her legs wantonly.

  He couldn't get his trousers off; instead he just unzipped them then, pulling her round on the seat, he knelt on the floor before her and pushed himself inside her.

  It was short-lived, a few hard strokes as he held her buttocks rightly and called out her name, then suddenly he was withdrawing, leaving a sticky mess on her thigh. They were still locked in each other's arms, panting, when they heard a woman's voice calling out.

  'Cooeee, Dr Masterton, are you there?'

  Amy's eyes flew open in horror. The woman was clearly in the back garden, having wandered around the side of the house after getting no reply at the surgery door.

  'Damn.' Greg jumped up, tucking himself away. 'I forgot, I've got an appointment with Mrs Spear!'

  Amy jumped up too, aware that any minute the woman was likely to look through the window. Greg pulled down her petticoat, grabbed her damp sweater and skirt from the floor and ran with her into the hall. His eyes looked stricken.

  'Get dressed, I'll head her off round the front.'

  He ran back to the kitchen and she heard him open the window.

  'Just catching up on some paperwork,' he called out. 'I must have dozed off and didn't hear the bell. Come back round the front and I'll open the surgery door for you.' He was smoothing down his hair as he came back. 'I'm sorry about this.' He looked flustered. 'Would you mind slipping out the back way once she's in? You know what a gossip she is.'

  Winston thumped his tail against the kitchen cupboard as she put her raincoat and boots back on.

  'No, you've got to stay here,' she whispered, opening the back door just wide enough to slip through.

  She felt humiliated as she stole down the garden path. It was still pouring, more water splashed on to her from overhanging bushes and her sweater felt like a wet flannel beneath her coat. Her face was burning, her eyes swimming with tears. Sliding sideways through a hole in the fence, she reached the river and took the footpath back to the farm.

  What had she done? A long, warm friendship broken because of some crazed animal lust. How could she ever face him again?

  'What on earth's the matter with you tonight?' Mabel snapped at her. It was almost nine and they were watching television in the sitting room. Amy had got out a dress she was making for a neighbour, but it lay untouched on her lap. 'You've hardly said a word since you came in. Are you sickening for something?'

  'I think I've got a cold coming.' Amy got up and folded her work, leaving it on the chair. She was unbearably ashamed of herself, and afraid that if she stayed down with her mother she might just end up confessing. 'I think I'll have an early night.'

  As she walked out into the hall she saw that an envelope had been pushed through the door. She closed her eyes for a moment, wanting to pick it up, yet afraid. She could tell by the handwriting it was from Greg. His big, bold hand was unmistakable.

  Once in the bedroom, with the door firmly closed, she opened it.

  'My darling,' he wrote.

  'Whatever must you think of me? I loved you from the first day you came into my surgery with the children. For four years my love has grown stronger and stronger and then, just when it seemed you finally felt something too, I spoiled everything.

  I pictured seducing you in some romantic spot, loving you so tenderly you'd never leave me. But instead I acted like an animal. I can't believe I bundled you out of the back door. My only excuse was that I was afraid of you being caught in a compromising position. I wanted to hold you, tell you I loved you. To make love to you again with only your pleasure in mind. Instead I haven't even the nerve to face you and this letter will have to suffice until I know whether you are disgusted by me.

  If there is any hope please let me try again? Can I cook you a special meal, with wine and music? Tomorrow night at seven?

  You are everything in the world to me, Amy.

  Deeply ashamed, Greg'

  Amy felt a bubble of joy running through her veins as she read and re-read the letter.

  It was his sensitivity that affected her most. Not just his guilt about bundling her out, but his fears that he hadn't pleased her sexually.

  All at once she knew what had been niggling away at the back of her mind for weeks now. She wanted and needed love. Now she was being offered a second chance, a fulfilling, adult relationship built on understanding and deep friendship.

  'Oh, Greg.' She sighed, wishing she dared run up to Acacia House immediately. 'Of course I'll come.'

  Chapter 17

  July 1965

  'What's age got to do with it? She's got imagination and flair.' Josh sat back in his swivel chair and lit a King Edward cigar with a flourish.

  It was just after one on another hot summer day in early July. The windows were closed to keep out the noise and dust from the busy street outside. Only a small fan fluttering the papers on Josh's desk made the office bearable.

  'Don't be a fool, my boy! You can't upset manufacturers for a mere slip of a girl.' Solomon Bergman shook his head, his German accent more pronounced as it always was when his son's behaviour troubled him.

  They were total opposites. Solly was white-haired, small and stooped. After a lifetime of tailoring, nothing more than an expensive suit, a gold watch and a Daimler separated him from the hundreds of wizened Jewish men who had grown old long before prosperity reached them.

  Josh wasn't a giant at five feet ten, but he exuded power from every pore. Since his boutique had taken off he seemed to grow in stature and confidence daily. His suits were made to measure, his hair impeccably styled.

  They were in the office above the shop in Bethnal Green. In the two years since Tara had come to work for Josh, things had changed. Prosperity showed. It really was an office now, with a huge black ash desk and a real leather chair, carpet on the floor and dress rails relegated to a fully equipped stockroom downstairs. Swatches of fabric were piled in a filing tray, sketches of designs pinned to a board and samples of buttons and trimmings were mounted on cards.

  "There are plenty more manufacturers crying out for work.' Josh shrugged his shoulders, but beads of perspiration on his forehead showed he wasn't quite as calm as he tried to pretend.

  'But she doesn't cut the patterns profe
ssionally, does she?' Solly snorted. His eyes had been as big and mournful as his son's once, but now they were almost concealed by folds of wrinkled skin. 'Look at it from their point of view.' He waved his hands expansively. 'You take them brown paper stuck together with Sell-otape and call it a pattern. Then when they make a mistake, you blame them. Of course they don't like it! I can't understand why you're so struck on her. She's not that special.'

  Word had reached Solly some time ago that Josh had been upsetting old friends in the rag trade. Now he wanted to borrow an enormous sum of money to open three new branches, and this girl seemed to be at the bottom of it.

  'If you think Tara isn't special then you're the fool.' Josh smirked at his father. 'She's got ideas like no-one else. Every one of her drawings I've had made up has been a winner. She started drawing short skirts just after she came here. Now that bird Mary Quant's in all the papers with them. If I'd been brave enough to back her, maybe my name would be in the newspapers. Then there's the colours she puts together, the cut and the sheer sexiness of her ideas. She's exciting, Dad, and she's right for me.'

  'Listen, son.' Solly leaned forward across the desk. 'Calm down, sit back and work things out before you even think about expansion. You've had this shop less than three years. You've done good, trebling the turnover this year, but don't assume it will continue. Opening shops all over London won't necessarily make you a millionaire. It could go the other way. This shop was right for Bethnal Green, you struck lucky, that's all. Try the same formula in Kensington and you'll probably fall flat on your face because the rent will be ten times as high as here.'

  'Dad, Dad, Dad.' Josh shook his head wearily. 'You haven't noticed anything, have you? There's a revolution going on out there. This is 1965, young people want to live, not save their money. Girls want a different outfit every week, they want to show off, be outrageous, and according to Tara, who seems to have a nose for this, it's going to get a great deal wilder.'