Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  Mother had a sister called Elizabeth; she sent her a card every Christmas and some years Elizabeth sent one back. Their mother and father were dead, which was why it was especially difficult for Hélène and her mother to go back to England, because where would they live?

  “Couldn’t we live with Elizabeth, just to begin with?” Hélène asked. But Mother shook her head. She and Elizabeth did not get on very well, she said. Elizabeth was older, and she had always resented her, because their daddy made a favorite of her. Once he had taken Violet to Paris, just the two of them, and they had had the most wonderful time, because Paris was the most beautiful city in the world, even more beautiful than London. When they returned, Elizabeth had been horrid, and sulked. She still lived in the house in Devon where they grew up, although she wasn’t married, and lived alone, and it was much too big for her. They couldn’t go back there, Mother said; Elizabeth wouldn’t want them, and it would make Mother too sad, remembering.

  “Elizabeth is jealous of me,” Mother said. “I married, and she ended up on the shelf.”

  Hélène sighed. She knew what that meant. It meant Elizabeth was an old maid, and that was a terrible fate, the worst thing that could happen to a woman. It meant men didn’t like you; it meant you were plain and dull, and had to spend the rest of your life stuck up on a shelf like an old jam jar. It made her very anxious sometimes, thinking about that. What if it happened to her?

  On the other hand, marriage didn’t seem too good either. Mrs. Calvert had married, and she looked sour and miserable. Mrs. Tanner had married, and her husband got drunk and beat her up. Mother had married, and when she talked about that, which she hardly ever did, it made her cry.

  Hélène wanted to know if she had been in love with Daddy, because that was the way it went, she knew that much. First you fell in love, and then the man asked you to marry him, and then he loved you and looked after you for always. Only sometimes it wasn’t like that, and she wanted to know why. Mother wouldn’t tell her. She just said it was wartime, and she had been very young, she had been a G.I. bride; then she changed the subject. She hadn’t worn a white dress or a veil—Hélène had discovered that. Because of the war again, Mother said. Hélène thought that might be the reason it had all gone wrong: Mother hadn’t done it the proper way; she’d worn a suit, not a special dress, and she’d gone to some office place, not a church. It couldn’t have been a very good beginning, Hélène thought. When she got married, she wouldn’t make that mistake.

  She often wanted to ask Mother more about getting married, and about Daddy, because she would have liked to know more about him. But it made Mother restless when she asked those questions, and tonight she looked tired, and a little bit on edge, as if she had something on her mind. So Hélène curled up on her lap, and asked her the questions she knew Mother liked. About the life Mother led when she was a little girl, and the house she lived in, and the dresses she wore, and the parties she went to, and how, when she was nineteen years old, she ran away from home to be an actress. Hélène had heard all the answers a hundred times before, but she still loved to hear them. Her mother would begin slowly at first, and she would have to coax the stories from her. Then, gradually, her violet eyes would light up, and two bright hectic spots of color would appear in her cheeks, and then she would talk quickly, all the words spilling over one another.

  White satin and fox furs, and champagne for breakfast, and a place called the Café Royal, which had nearly been bombed one night when Mother was there dancing. Parties that began in dressing rooms backstage, and went on all night. Men who wore dinner jackets, and sometimes tails. A clever man who wore a silk dressing gown, and played the piano and sang witty songs. Makeup by Leichner and Max Factor, which came in little greasy tubes with numbers on them—Mother had some still. Flowers. Mother always wore a rose pinned to her dress when she went out to supper. She had a lot of admirers, and her favorite dress, which she didn’t have anymore, was made of mauve silk that emphasized the color of her eyes. Cars—Daimler cars, with leather seats. And songs—lots of songs. Mother sang them to her sometimes, standing in the middle of the little room, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, the lamplight shining on her hair. Her favorite song was about lilacs.

  She sang it beautifully, in her high clear voice, and when she had finished, Hélène clapped, and Mother curtsied and laughed, and Hélène said: “What are lilacs, Mother?” And Mother said they were white flowers, or purple, and they smelled of springtime and England, and Major Calvert’s gardener grew them at the big house.

  Then she stopped suddenly, and she cried. She said it could be a very hard life, sometimes, being an actress. People didn’t take you seriously.

  Tonight, Mother didn’t sing, and she answered Hélène’s careful questions too quickly, as if she were worried about something. Money probably. So, after a little silence, Hélène pressed her mother’s hand, and reminded her. The surprise.

  “Ah, yes! The surprise…”

  Slowly, her mother stood up, and then she took Hélène’s hand and led her into the bedroom. In the middle of Mother’s bed was the brown cardboard box.

  Very carefully her mother undid the string around it, and lifted the lid. Hélène clasped her hands together in excitement, and watched.

  Very carefully, running her hands over the material, smoothing out the creases, her mother lifted out a dress. She held it against herself for a moment, and sighed. Then, very gently, she laid it out on the bed. Hélène stared at it. She could see the happiness on her mother’s face, and she didn’t dare say anything.

  The dress was made of some silky stuff. It was gray and white, with a smudgy sort of pattern on it that Hélène didn’t like. It had a big collar, and pads in the shoulders and a little belt of the same material that fastened around the waist. On the edge of the collar there was a small round black stain.

  They both gazed at the dress for a while in silence, and then, quickly, suddenly, her mother bent forward and touched the material. She smoothed back the collar.

  “You see, Hélène? Look! Bergdorf Goodman. On the label, right there. It’s a beautiful shop, Hélène. On Fifth Avenue. Very exclusive. Terribly expensive. This is pure silk—look. Feel. Isn’t that beautiful?” For a second she buried her head against the folds of the skirt.

  “Pure silk. I haven’t touched a silk dress—haven’t worn one for—” She broke off, and laughed nervously. “For a long time.”

  Hélène stared at the dress. She swallowed.

  “It’s got a mark on it, Mother, look, Right there—on the collar. It’s dirty! It’s not new…”

  Her mother swung around, and the violet eyes flared.

  “Of course it’s not new. Do you think I could afford to buy a dress like this? I couldn’t buy it—not on a year of Cassie Wyatt’s wages…” Her voice had risen. Then something made her change her tone. She met Hélène’s eyes, and her own dropped for a second, then looked up again, full of pleading.

  “It’s beautiful, Hélène. Can’t you see that? Oh, I know it’s plain, but beautiful things often are—you have to learn that. And it’s been worn, of course. There’s the mark—but that’s nothing. I can get that out, you’ll see. And it’s too big—look. Mrs. Calvert is taller than I am, so I’ll have to take it up. And she’s bigger in the hips—so, you see? I’ll take it in here, just a pinch, and what with that and the hem, there’ll be some material left over—just a bit. We can make Doll a new dress, I thought. A proper dress, for parties, and…”

  “That’s Mrs. Calvert’s dress?” Hélène stared at her mother. She watched as the color washed up over the pale cheeks. “She gave it to you? You mean it’s a hand-me-down—like the Tanners?”

  “Not at all like the Tanners.” Her mother’s mouth snapped into a hard line, and she stood up. Her hands were shaking. “It’s a dress, that’s all. A beautiful dress. It’s hardly been worn. Mrs. Calvert was throwing it out, and…”

  “Did Mrs. Calvert give it to you?” Something made her ask
the question again—she couldn’t stop herself. Her heart suddenly felt tight and hurtful, and somehow she knew, just knew, before her mother’s eyes fell, before she looked away, before she answered.

  “No.” She turned her back, and bent over and began to fold the dress up again. “As a matter of fact, she didn’t. Major Calvert did. It was going out, with a whole lot of other things, and he saw it, and he rescued it. For me. Because he thought I’d like it. Because he thought it would suit me. And it will.” She slammed the box lid shut. “You don’t understand. You’ve never seen good dresses. Wait till I wear it—then you’ll see…”

  Mother was angry. Hélène could feel it. She was angry and she was upset. It was like there was a horrible current of wind swirling round the room, and her mother was caught up in it—slamming things away, banging drawers, telling Hélène to hurry up now and fetch water and get into bed, she was only a little girl, not seven yet, and it was way past her bedtime…

  Silently Hélène washed and undressed and climbed into her narrow bed. Then Mother came over and sat down, and took her hand, and Hélène knew she was sorry, and they just stayed there, not speaking.

  Finally, Mother stood up. She backed away from the bed a little bit, and Hélène thought she was going to go out and close the door behind her, but she didn’t; she stayed.

  “Hélène…” she said at last. “You’re not asleep? You know it’s Sunday tomorrow?”

  Hélène yawned, and snuggled down farther under the thin scratchy sheets. Tomorrow was Sunday; yes, she knew that. Sundays, Mother did the washing, then they went walking together, down by the creek.

  “I…I have to go out, Hélène. Just for a bit. Not for long. In the afternoon.”

  Hélène sat up. “But we go walking in the afternoon!”

  Her mother sighed. “I know we do, darling. But not tomorrow—all right? Mother has to go out. She has to—to see a friend tomorrow.”

  Hélène stared, round-eyed. “A friend? Can’t I come? What friend? Is it someone I know?”

  “No. No.” Her mother made soothing noises. “And you can’t come tomorrow. Another time, maybe. If you’re a good girl. And we’ll go walking just as soon as Mother gets back—the way we always do. All right?”

  Hélène began to cry. She didn’t know why, and she couldn’t stop. All she knew was that suddenly everything was going wrong. First, there was the surprise, which wasn’t a nice surprise at all, but a horrid one. And now this. The tears welled up in her eyes and plopped down her face and onto the sheets.

  “Oh, Hélène…” Her mother crossed quickly to the little bed and put her arms around her tight. Too tight. Hélène’s face was pressed up against Mother’s thin shoulders, and she could feel Mother was tense, all stiff and wiry—just like she wanted to cry too.

  “My darling. Don’t cry. Don’t be silly now. You’re tired—that’s all. And you’re still a little girl, and—” Mother broke off. She pulled back suddenly, with a kind of desperate lurch. And her voice was all funny, not soft and calm the way it usually was, but thin and choked.

  “I’m thirty-one, Hélène. Thirty-one. That’s not old. It’s young. I’m still young. And…Mother needs friends, darling. Everyone does. You wouldn’t want Mother to be lonely—to have no friends—would you?”

  Hélène looked at her carefully. Her own tears had stopped as suddenly as they started. But Mother hadn’t noticed; she had turned her face away.

  “No,” she said at last, and Mother sighed.

  She bent and kissed Hélène on the forehead and settled her back down under the sheets. Then she turned out the lamp and moved to the door.

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Will you wear your new dress to meet your friend?”

  There was a little silence, then her mother gave a soft laugh.

  “I might do,” she said. “I might do.”

  She sounded almost gay. Then she shut the door.

  She did wear the new dress. She must have been up half the night sewing it, and cleaning it and pressing it, because when she tried it on, it fit and the stain had gone.

  She looked at herself carefully in the cracked old glass in the bedroom. Then she laughed, and clapped her hands, and twirled around.

  “You see? Darling? It looks pretty, doesn’t it? Just the way Mother said?”

  Hélène stuck out her lip and stared at her silently. Mother had washed her hair, too, so it shone in the sunlight, and she’d painted her face extra carefully. Her eyebrows were a bit more marked than usual, and her mouth was a scarlet cupid’s bow. Her mother stopped her twirl and came over and gave her a hug.

  “Now, don’t sulk, darling—don’t. It makes you look ugly. Mother won’t be long—she told you. And look—I tell you what—why don’t we dress you up too? In your special frock. And let Mother do your hair. Then we’ll both be fine ladies, and when Mother gets back, we’ll go walking, yes? Down by the creek in our pretty frocks, and we’ll hold hands, and sing a bit, and pretend we’re in Regents Park in London, and we’re going to listen to the band. Shall we do that? Shall we?”

  Hélène said nothing, but Mother hardly noticed. She seemed very excited, and flurried. She pushed and pulled Hélène into her best dress. It was a pretty dress, and normally Hélène liked it. Mother had made it, and done the smocking on the front, and made a little lacy collar from an old petticoat. She wore it when they went to the movie theater in Selma. But today it felt uncomfortable. Too tight and too hot and scratchy under the arms. She could feel herself sweating, and the trailer felt airless, as if there were going to be a storm.

  Little beads of sweat stood out on Mother’s forehead and along her upper lip.

  Mother brushed Hélène’s long fair hair till it shone too. Then she got out the curling tongs, and heated them up, and twisted the long fair locks into ringlets. Hélène could see she was trying to please her, and the more Mother tried, the hotter and stiffer she felt.

  Finally, Mother looked at her watch, and then she said, “And now—something very special. You shall have some too. Just this once.”

  Then she went and pulled out the little drawer in the cheap yellow chest by her bed, and rummaged around in the back, and drew out the box. The special box.

  It was plain white, with gold writing on it, and inside, in a little carved bed lined with yellowing white satin, was a bottle with a glass stopper. It was a very small bottle, and right down in the bottom of it there was a tiny bit of orangy-brown oily liquid. Very, very carefully Mother tipped up the bottle so some of the liquid went on the inside of the glass stopper, then she took the stopper out. She rubbed the stuff behind her ears, and on the pale blue veins on the insides of her wrists, and then she did the same to Hélène.

  Hélène wrinkled her nose.

  “It smells funny.”

  “It’s the most expensive scent in the world.” Her mother was staring at the bottle. “You remember? I told you. It’s called Joy, and it smells like springtime.” Suddenly her face went sad. “I’ve had that bottle seven years. And now it’s all gone.”

  Hélène thought she might throw the bottle away then, but she didn’t. She put the stopper back, put the bottle in its box, and placed it back in the drawer. She sighed.

  “Never let scent stand in the light, Hélène. It goes off. Remember that. And now…” She looked at her watch again, and gave a little gasp. “I must go. I’m late. You’ll be a good girl now, won’t you? Stay right by the trailer now, the way you always do. And remember the stickers on the clock. When the hands reach the stickers, Mother will be home…”

  She kissed Hélène, and hugged her very tight, and then she went. Hélène watched her. She walked down the steps and across the yard. When she was beyond the fence, she broke into a little run.

  Hélène went into the kitchen and stood by the icebox and looked at the clock. She frowned. The stickers had been moved. One was by the twelve, the way it always was. The other was by the six.

  She
stared at the clock uncertainly. Did that mean Mother would be home sooner than usual—or later? She tried to figure it out for a while, but it was hot and stuffy in the trailer, so in the end she gave up and went outside. She examined her garden. It looked horrid. All the flowers were shriveled up in the sun, and the rocks were in the wrong place. She gave them a little kick with her shoe. Rocks, not pebbles. Maybe, if she got some water from the pump, and put it on the flowers, they’d pick up again. Doubtfully, she fetched a bottle, filled it, and then, growing interested in her task, knelt down, and carefully poured the water. It was difficult. It all ran about in the dust and didn’t soak in where she wanted it to. The moss shifted, and the shriveled dandelions fell over.

  “What you doin’ that for? They’re dead.”

  Slowly Hélène lifted her head. It was one of the Tanners—Billy Tanner, she thought. She squinted up into the sun: yes, it was Billy Tanner all right. He was leaning on the little picket fence and watching her. She looked at him silently. He was very brown, and he had that ugly haircut all the Tanners had, a crew cut, Mother said it was called, so short that his scalp gleamed in the sun through the brown spikes. My, but he was ugly! He had no shirt on, and no shoes—but then the Tanners never wore shoes except to school—and he was wearing blue jeans cut off at the knees. They were so old they were almost white. She stared at him for a while, but she didn’t answer him. Maybe if she kept quiet he’d just go away. She poured some more water into the dust. Billy Tanner gave a quick squint up at the trailer, then opened the gate, and came right into the yard. He stopped a few feet away, and began to scuff at the dirt. His feet were filthy; there was red dust all the way up around the ankle.