Anna ended the silence. ‘Well, I’m still waiting. Why did you come? I’m surprised they let you travel alone ‒ without telling me you were coming.’
‘Sister Berthe was supposed to telephone the office ‒’ Suddenly Nicole choked on the word. ‘The number you gave. She’s a little absent-minded. I didn’t remind her. I suppose I was afraid you’d say I wasn’t to come. I wanted you to hear it from me.’
Anna seated herself in one of the armchairs; she leaned back as if she were prepared to do a lot of listening, or a lot of talking. Nicole remained perched on the edge of hers. She licked her suddenly dry lips. Her mother had always been a remote figure to her, for all that they had shared rooms during all the summer vacations they had spent together. Until this moment the relationship had been of a mother to a child, the one who gave instructions rather than confidences. But Nicole knew that subtly she had passed over a line with Anna. Not yet an adult, but no longer a child; the relationship would and must alter.
‘It’s about a job,’ Nicole said abruptly.
‘What sort of a job?’
‘Well, that’s it. It’s the sort of job that you … well. I thought it was very like what you were doing, and since it’s in Wall Street, I thought we … well, that part of it doesn’t make much difference now.’
‘Yes …?’ The dark-red nails began to tap on the arm of the chair.
‘It’s with a very big Wall Street law firm ‒ one of the vice-presidents had a daughter who had been to St Columba’s. He likes the kind of girl they turn out. The job had been arranged six months ago, but the girl who was going broke an arm last week, and now she can’t take the job. They need someone ‒ someone with good shorthand and typing. I’d only be a very junior secretary in the beginning, but the man said there’s plenty of opportunity. Mother Mary Helena asked me if I wanted to try. Sixteen tomorrow … they always remember how old a girl is. And she must wonder how you manage to pay the fees … the books, the clothes, the music. In fact she mentioned that to me. “It might be a good chance for you, Nicole, to start with a famous and highly reputable firm. And it would relieve your mother of quite a financial burden.” You see, they do think of money. They know the school’s expensive. They can’t help that. But they’re not unaware that some people find it rather hard going to get up the money ‒ especially in these times. Almost everyone in that school comes from a well-to-do family, but there are a few, just a few, who don’t. I think the nuns are aware of it, and try to help.’
‘They should mind their own business. When the fees aren’t paid is the time to start worrying.’
Nicole flushed. ‘I don’t think that’s fair. Mother Mary Helena was only …’
Anna gestured. ‘Let’s forget about what Mother Mary Helena thinks. What I think is this. That you’ll forget all about a job. You’re only sixteen, and you’re not going to throw away whatever’s been done for you ‒ well, let me be fair, too ‒ what you’ve managed to do yourself ‒ just to rush at the first thing that offers.’
‘I have to go to work some time.’
‘Not yet.’ Anna looked down meditatively at her hands, very beautiful hands Nicole was suddenly aware. Then her eyes came back sharply to her daughter’s face. ‘Nicole, would you like to go to college?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There’s nothing to understand. It’s very simple.’
‘Oh, yes there is something to understand. There’s money. You know ‒ tuition, board, books, clothes. There are millions of people looking for jobs. It isn’t likely I’ll pick up a job waiting on table to help out.’
‘Who said anything about waiting on table? Forget about a job. Do you want to go to college?’
‘I’d love it. But you haven’t answered my question. Money. The question of money.’
A gleam of interest and humour flickered in Anna’s eyes. ‘Well, at last I begin to hear something. At last you want to know something about money. Perhaps you have grown up in this last year. I’ve been waiting for it; and thinking sometimes it would never happen. I thought you might always be like your father. He was so charming, your father. And part of his charm was that he never thought about money. Money was a language he didn’t understand, like … well, let’s say like Russian. Of course he’d never had to think about it when he was growing up. That was half the trouble. The rest was just a sweet, wilful determination not to think about it. If one didn’t think about it, it would take care of itself. Perhaps that’s what made him, at times, a very good salesman of very expensive cars. He always assumed that whomever he talked to had never thought about money either. All they were interested in was the very finest car in the world. Money was no object. It was surprising how many people he sold cars to, and how well we lived off his commissions. He never saved, naturally. That wouldn’t be in his nature. And since he didn’t let me handle the money, I had no chance to. He was one of those true-blue Englishmen. He knew how to wear a well-cut suit, and he had the right tie. He went to Harrow. Did you know that? You never asked. He even had a year at Oxford. Didn’t last longer than that. He wasn’t the academic type, and he liked games and girls too much. They asked him not to come back. Not expelled, you understand. “Sent down” they call it. Just told he was wasting everyone’s time. A born drifter, Stephen was and very, very sweet. Your father was a gentleman, Nicole. I shouldn’t really have minded that he didn’t have a head for money. One money-grubber in the family is enough.’
Anna glanced around the room before she spoke again. ‘You don’t like this place, do you, Nicole? Or the way I look. I don’t blame you for that. That’s what I’ve tried to put into you ‒ a sense of what’s class, and what isn’t. But it doesn’t do to be too much of a snob, you know. You’re just the faintest bit snobbish about the source of money, where it comes from. Stephen was too. He didn’t like where his father’s money came from. But look a little harder at where the fathers of the girls you go to school with got their money. In about half the cases you’d find it wasn’t old money. They haven’t had it around for a few generations, which is usually what makes money smell sweet ‒’ She frowned tightly as Nicole broke in.
‘Is this lecture getting us anywhere, Mother? Mrs Burnley isn’t “old money”. Nor Officer O’Neil. They both knew where you earned your money. I didn’t. And I didn’t like it.’
Anna shrugged. ‘I’m sorry you had it come to you like that. I should have moved away from there some time ago. I suppose I thought you’d stay a kid for a while longer. I got careless. I was going to put the whole idea of college to you at Easter, and if you’d wanted college, I’d have moved somewhere else. The trouble was always explaining how I could manage the fees and all the rest for the school on a trumped-up job as a receptionist. I cried poor-mouth a bit to Mother Mary Helena. There was a slight reduction of fees. I’m careful with my money, Nicole. I’m not like your father. I take a bargain where I find it. If you’d said “yes” to college at Easter, I would have found somewhere else before your last year at school. That part of Brooklyn isn’t for girls who go to Radcliffe or Vassar.’
‘But you don’t live there, do you? Mrs Burnley told me you’re only there Sundays now.’
A coldness closed on Anna’s face again. ‘So Mrs Burnley started talking, did she? I’ve always tried to prevent that happening ‒ I’ve always tried to be there whenever you were.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Well, so you know. I had to have some address for the school, and for a long time I used to trail off to Brooklyn every morning just so that it looked all right. I’m getting older now. I don’t care for the subway ride at five in the morning. And not in evening dress, either.’ Her tone was deliberately crisp. ‘For the last four years I’ve hardly used the Brooklyn apartment at all. Who can sleep during the day in a place where the kids are always crying, and the women slinging insults at each other up and down the stairs? It was coming to an end, in any case. I would have had to tell you. Perhaps I was waiting until you asked. Yes, perhaps I was just waiting until you woke
up ‒ and asked. I knew if once you asked, you’d be ready, almost, for the answer.’
‘Perhaps I’m ready.’
‘You’ll just have to be.’ Anna fingered the lamé of her dress. ‘I won’t even ask you to guess how much this cost. It cost plenty. The place where I spend my nights costs quite a packet each month, too. It’s only a one-room efficiency, but it’s on Central Park West, and the cab ride from here is not too long. I couldn’t pay for that, Nicole ‒ not the apartment and the dress and the other things I have to have in this job ‒ and pay your school fees as well ‒ on what I earn here. Hell, pianists are a dime a dozen. There’s a depression on. They’ll work for eating money, these days.’
‘Where does it come from ‒ the money?’
‘The name of this place is Lucky Nolan’s, Nicole. Remember it. Lucky Nolan actually exists. He’s a man. Quite a man. Oh, a little bit rough, but still quite a man. I’ve known him almost ten years. Eight years ago you went to St Columba’s. He saw the point about not leaving you alone at nights with just Mrs Burnley to look in on you. He’s particular about things like that ‒ and he knows the best costs money. He provided the money. It’s as simple as that.’
‘And you …?’
‘Find it hard to say? I’m his girlfriend ‒ his mistress ‒ whatever you want to call it. You see now why I kept on that Brooklyn address. Central Park West would have puzzled Mother Mary Helena. They’re not such fools, those nuns. She might not have kept you.’
‘This … this Lucky Nolan …?’
Anna’s eyes grew angry. ‘Don’t say it like that, Nicole. You are a snob, you know. Lucky’s a very decent guy. Not a gentleman, of course. Not like your father. But he’s decent, and generous. He likes me. He’s stuck by me all these years. And I’ve stuck by him. I’m not ashamed of it. He’s paid up cheerfully for everything you’ve needed. He’s that sort of guy. He’s got a big family himself. Five kids. And he knows that kids cost plenty. A real family man, he is. Every Sunday he spends all day with them. After Mass he drives them all out into the country. Takes the whole of Christmas off to spend with them. And four days at Easter. He takes them to some big place in the Catskills for a month in the summer. That’s when we ‒ you and I, Nicole ‒ go up to Maine. Yes, a good family man, Lucky is. That’s why he’s been so good to you.’
‘Good …’ Nicole thought she would choke on the word. ‘Good! What about his wife? Does she think he’s a good family man?’
Anna’s answer came swiftly. ‘Nicole, I never ask. I just never ask. Lucky has manners, of his own kind. He’s never discussed his wife. He never talks about any shortcomings. She may be an angel, for all I know. She may know about me ‒ or she may not. Perhaps she prefers not to ask questions ‒ just like me. There’s no question of a divorce. I’ve never asked it, or expected it. I told you Lucky was a family man. He’d never give up his family. I’d be the one to go. I prefer to stay. I’ve no intention of causing trouble in his life. I once did have a receptionist’s job. The money was far less than I earn here, and there was no Lucky to pay all the extras.’
‘And you’re going to put me through college on his money?’
Anna nodded, her gaze hardening at Nicole’s tone. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m not going, then.’
‘I rather expected you to take that attitude, Nicole. The trouble with you, you know, is that you’re soft. I’ve sheltered you, and kept things from you all your life. That was how you seemed to want it. I’ve never encountered anyone who asked so few questions. If it weren’t for your marks at school, I might even think you were a bit dumb. What you’re dumb about, or afraid about, is reality. So far, nothing’s ever hit you very hard, but after you’ve had a few knocks, you may learn to grab and hang on to anything that comes your way. I suppose you’re more like your father than I thought. He was like you, squeamish about anything he thought was not quite playing the game.’
‘Supposing I do go to college? ‒ where does that get me? I still have to get a job in the end. If I’m as soft as you say, perhaps it’s already time I toughened up.’
‘Toughen up, by all means. The sooner the better. But do it in the right place. If you use your head and develop a little charm, you’ll get invitations for the vacations. Then you’ll know how confidence is acquired. I think you’ll develop the feeling of being the equal of anyone ‒ money or not ‒ and that’s pretty important if you’re on view as a prospective daughter-in-law.’
Nicole dismissed this with a flick of her head. ‘That’s rubbish. If I ever do meet what you think is the right sort of man, and he falls in love with me, he’ll marry me no matter what.’
‘You think I don’t know what I’m talking about, Nicole? Your view on this is quite as good as mine, since all you know about me is that I have a friend called Lucky Nolan, who will never marry me. You know something? ‒ I do know what I’m talking about.’ She gave a slight, rather grim laugh. ‘That’s one subject I do know quite a lot about. You’ve had a few shocks tonight, so one more won’t hurt you too much, but it might make you see sense. Somehow I never thought I’d tell you about this. I never wanted to. It didn’t seem any of your business. I didn’t think I’d need to just to convince you about college and all the rest of it. But you’re a stubborn, and in some ways, a rather ignorant little girl. Let me enlighten you.’
Nicole shifted uneasily. Suddenly she wished she had not come. She was learning too much. St Columba’s seemed a haven which she should not have left. She remembered what Anna had said about having sheltered her. She felt a shiver of apprehension run through her. Was there always hurt concealed in truth and hard reality? Nicole didn’t want to be hurt.
Anna was speaking. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘Perhaps all stories should start that way, but I wish it was even farther away, and I could forget about it. Even now when I think of it, it seems utterly fantastic that it could have happened. If I’d been older and more experienced, a bit more calculating, I might have thought I had somehow caused it to happen. But it wasn’t that way. I was nineteen, and a real innocent, even if I was earning my own living, which wasn’t very usual in those days ‒ not unless you were someone’s servant, or worked in a factory. I had never been either of those things ‒ not in the true sense.’
Her tone became lower. ‘I suppose it’s better if I go back to the real beginning. You’ve never asked about that, either. What do you know about your grandparents? ‒ nothing except that they were Russians who left Russia in 1907, stayed for two years in Paris, where your grandmother died, and then my father and I were in London for about two years when he died also. That’s all you know because that’s all you’ve ever asked. Your English grandparents ‒ well, I couldn’t tell you about them, since I never met them. Do you want to hear about Russia, Nicole ‒ or do you think I’m going to produce some sweaty peasant saga which you’ll be ashamed of?’
The girl in front of her squirmed, and said nothing.
‘Well, I suppose my father was a servant in one sense, but a superior one, as things went in those days. He’d been born in St Petersburg, the son of a violin maker, and he studied piano at the Conservatoire. I suppose his father had hopes of him being a really great pianist, or even a composer, but he wasn’t either of those things. Just a gentle, quiet man, with no real ambition except to get through life as best he could without hurting anyone. He married a young student at the Conservatoire, and both of them seemed delighted to be taken into the family of Prince Michael Ovrensky, as music teachers. My father also doubled as a French master and my mother helped the English governess. Living in that way with a great Russian family wasn’t at all like being a servant. They were part of the family, and so was I when I was born. Except that we ate and slept in our own rooms, we seemed no different to them. Yes, they had finer clothes, and grander presents at Easter and Christmas, but it didn’t really matter. It never occurred to me, growing up, to feel jealous. I suppose we might have seemed like poor relations, but we were relations ‒ n
ot servants. The Princess Tatiana Fedorovna took as much care about my health as she did of her own daughters’. She nursed my mother when she was ill. I shared the English governess with all the children, rode their ponies, went skating with them, went to their houses in Moscow and St Petersburg, went on holidays to the Black Sea. They were all very pious of course. The Princess used to pray for my mother to become pregnant again, because she knew she longed for another child, and if there had been another child, it would have been part of the family.
‘Prince Michael’s principal estate, Beryozovaya Polyana, bordered on Count Leo Tolstoy’s. The families used to exchange visits, and Prince Michael was very much influenced by Tolstoy. He was a happy madman, Prince Michael. He had about as much sense of money as a rabbit, and Russians as a whole never had been renowned for their money sense. He loved to gamble. It seemed a harmless pastime to him. The society in St Petersburg was a little fast, and gambling was a national mania. He had already freed his serfs, which cost him an enormous sum of money. He didn’t seem to be aware of this part of it. Then one day he woke up to find he’d not only given away most of his fortune, but Tatiana Fedorovna’s dowry as well. Gambled or given away, it hardly mattered. He was very deeply in debt, and he had to close up the St Petersburg and Moscow houses, sell two estates, and half of the Beryozovaya Polyana estate. What would be left was barely enough to live on ‒ for that family, at any rate. Since the children were almost grown, one of the economies was that they could easily do without the English governess and the music teachers. There was, by then, so little for my father and mother to do except to act as chaperones for the girls. I had been born at Beryozovaya Polyana. It was like announcing the end of the world to me when I was told we had to leave. I was losing my brothers and sisters, my uncles and aunts. I was losing my whole world.
The Lynmara Legacy Page 3