Only One Woman

by Christina Jones

  ‘Yes please. Tomorrow,’ I said sleepily. ‘Can you just leave them on the bed?’

  Mum straightened her glasses and nodded. ‘Um – there’s one you might want to open…’

  ‘No, it’s ok. I’ll do them all tomorrow.’

  Mum smiled gently at me. ‘It’s got a Jersey stamp on it…’

  My hands were shaking as I opened the envelope. The writing was sloping and spiky, in black ink. The card was an Alpine scene – all brilliant blue skies, glistening snow and glossy fir trees.

  I fumbled with the card. I could hardly breathe…

  “To Stella – Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year – with love, Scott x”.

  And then, on left hand side of the card….

  “My dear Twinkle, I’m sending this to wish you a happy Xmas and because I hope you’re out of hospital now and feeling much better. If you’re reading this then you’re still alive! And I told you you wouldn’t die, didn’t I? I’ve thought about you a lot. I’ve hoped that the operation wasn’t too painful. I know you didn’t give me your address but the name of the road was on the sign outside and I noted your house number – and of course I knew it was in Harbury Green – if I fail as a musician I might get a new job as a detective! I’ve put our Leighton Buzzard address on here and the telephone number. I know you’re not on the phone – but there’s a phone box at the end of your road – I saw it! We’ll be back in England straight after New Year, so if you’d like to get in touch with me, I’d love to hear from you. Take care of yourself and get well soon. Love, Scott xxx”

  I read it and re-read it. My grin was from ear-to-ear and I hugged the card.

  Mum carried on smiling, stood up and pulled the curtains open. ‘Your face says it all, Stell. I’m saying nothing… and – just to make you even happier… look…’

  Outside, in the faint orange glow of the street light, against the deep blackness of the winter sky, huge fat goose-feather snowflakes were tumbling and dancing.

  Renza’s Diary

  December 25th 1968

  Christmas day. I shouldn’t be here, I should be with Scott. I know I’ve had time to get used to the idea of not being with him but deep down I’ve been hoping something would turn up and we’d spend Christmas together after all. The disappointment is crippling. I know it’s self-torment, but I can’t stop imagining what it would be like to spend Christmas Eve with him.

  I’ve been imagining the farm house in Jersey, a huge decorated tree in the sitting room, with gifts around its base and every room decorated and filled with the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon, with big open fireplaces where we could snuggle under blankets on the hearth and watch the fire dying before curling up in bed, excited about spending Christmas day together, as part of Eva’s family. Christmas afternoon the band would arrive and we’d give gifts and play silly games and sing songs and just have fun.

  Or perhaps Narnia’s Children would be gigging in St Helier Christmas Eve with all the rich and trendy people specially invited and, as if by magic, I’d have something really far out and amazing to wear and all the girls would be wrung out with envy at the sight of me with Scott – two of the ‘beautiful’ people – as they watched our every move at the lavish after gig party. I’d enjoy seeing them watch the ring on my finger flashing as the crystal chandeliers caught its diamonds when we announced our surprise, but ‘official’ engagement. Fans would be crying –wishing it were them – and Scott would scoop me up in his arms and drive me home along one of the coast roads, stopping off at one of the many beautiful bays he’s told me about, where we’d run barefoot in the waves, hand in hand, kissing under the moonlight and, and… well that’s just it. And what? I need my head read, dreaming such nonsense. I’m losing the plot. He’s in Jersey up to goodness knows what – and with whom I wonder – and I’m here, about to go downstairs and help prepare our Christmas dinner, miserable, lonely and fed-up.

  Oh Scott, if only you’d be more reliable, and your mum too. Always promising and rarely delivering. Marjorie Proops would advise me to forget you and find someone else should I ever write a letter to her agony column. She’d most probably be right. But I can’t. I can’t forget you. You’re an excruciating pain deep within my soul that nothing will cure. Something’s got to give. I can’t stay here. It’s not fair.

  I’d better go down and start the dinner before Mum gives me grief.

  Downstairs the sitting room floor’s covered in wrapping paper, cardboard boxes and toys where the kids have ripped their presents open in a frenzy of excitement. Lucy is pedalling up and down on a tricycle, Crispin is bashing hell out of a drum kit – whoever gave it to him is on my death list – and Jasper is kicking a ball around the room. I’m just waiting for Mum to come in and find him. Let’s hope he doesn’t break anything beforehand. No one is taking any notice of my cries to stop. Sophia and Simon are kneeling beside the coffee table making an Airfix model, the smell of the glue is overwhelming. I’ll have to open the windows – Airfix glue and Simon are not a good mix, God only knows what he might end up doing.

  Mum and Dad are in the kitchen drinking sherry with someone who has dropped in for drinks, I can hear voices, but I’m not interested in who it is. As soon as I’m needed to peel spuds and veg someone will shout. I’ll head back to my room until then. I have a small tape recording of some songs Narnia’s Children has recorded and I think I’ll play it on the reel-to-reel for a while. Scott at least kept his promise to send me them.

  I can hear Scott’s voice so clearly, it is just like being with him, as he sings some of the songs he’s written with Zak. These are the songs I remember getting demo recordings and the sheet music for when we went to Tin Pan Alley – a lifetime ago. I really miss being with him and the band, it was so exciting and so different to my life here. I miss talking about books and movies and going for walks and just, well, everything. He’s my only real friend, let alone the love of my life. I wish I knew what I really am to him. When I’m with him I totally believe all he says, I can feel his love for me, but as soon as we’re apart, well, it all disintegrates into uncertainty, suspicion and anxiety. I know he says not to read anything into his irregular, sparse letters, and infrequent phone calls, and he keeps apologising for promising to see me and, when it all falls through, he’s mortified and gutted, he says. But it’s all right for him, he’s got a life, an exciting life. What have I got? A houseful of lunatics, a few trips out with the Wives’ Club, or a trip to the shops in Dusseldorf with Heidi. Not quite the same.

  Shopping with her is a nightmare sometimes. She loves to try several sizes on when clothes shopping and she’ll mix up the tops and bottoms of suits, for example, as she isn’t a standard size top and bottom, so nothing fits; swopping sizes she can get a perfect fit. I’m always on the verge of a nervous breakdown in case she gets caught.

  Heidi can be mean too. She loves sending me in to shops to try my German out, telling me I have to speak the language and not to expect everyone to speak English. Trouble is she’ll tell me the word for something, shoes for instance, and when I go in and ask for what I think are shoes, the shop assistant nearly has a seizure because Heidi has given me a rude word to say. She’ll wander off in hysterics laughing.

  Mum always takes one of the kids shopping to the local farmer’s market because the first time she went on her own, shopping for potatoes and strawberries, she came back with about a ton of spuds and an ironing board! Her German isn’t as good as the little ones.

  ‘Renza, I thought you were supposed to be peeling the spuds, get down here now.’ Mum’s on the war-path, I knew she would be at some point. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas unless she lost it with me at least once. The guests must’ve gone.

  ‘Coming. I came down before but you had company.’ I shouted back, racing down the stairs.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ she said. She and Dad had their coats on. ‘We’ll be back in about an hour, we’ve been invited for drinks with the Brigadier and his wife. I’ve prepared most of the veg – just
do the carrots and spuds – the turkey is in the oven, put the spuds in to boil for a while before adding them to the roast.’ They headed towards the front door, ‘Oh, and stop the kids making that racket, the neighbours will be complaining, and don’t forget to tidy up the mess they’ve made.’ The front door slammed.

  ‘Happy Christmas to you too.’ I shouted just as one of the kids turned the radio up. Bing Crosby was singing ‘White Christmas’ for the millionth time. Not quite the Christmas I’ve been dreaming about, thanks very much Scott.

  He didn’t even send a Christmas card – I wonder if he’s even thinking of me.

  Renza’s Diary

  December 27th 1968

  The post sergeant called in this morning with a Christmas card from Scott which had come before Christmas apparently, but for some reason no one had given it to my Dad. My heart jumped as I read his lovely words, and I felt bad for all my horrid suspicious thoughts. My resentment towards him evaporated instantly. He’d put his new telephone number at the top and said he couldn’t afford to call me, but perhaps when I’d some spare cash I’d call him. He wished me happy New Year and hoped the family was well and that we would see each other soon. Life was as hectic as ever and he was feeling shattered. He said he loved me and drew a huge heart with four kisses.

  After lunch I told Mum I needed to get some things from the Apotheke – chemist – in the village as an excuse to go to the post room to use the phone. I needed to hear Scott’s voice.

  ‘Do you want anything from the Apotheke, I’ve got to get some things?’ I asked her, hoping she wouldn’t ask what.

  ‘Can’t it wait until we go to NAAFI?’

  ‘No, I’ve got to get some ‘you-know-what’ and it can’t wait.’ I lied. ‘Do you need anything?’

  ‘No, but don’t take all day, we’re going to the Lovetts for drinks later on, you’ll have to get the kids their tea.’

  I shot out the door and ran almost all the way to the base, hoping the post room was open and I could use the phone.

  One of Dad’s colleagues, Bob James, was on the phone when I arrived, and I waited outside whilst he finished his call, but I overheard his conversation. He was arranging to go home on the Dover ferry either the 5th or 6th of January for a very quick visit, back on or about the 9th, and when he’d finished, I smiled sweetly at him, my heart racing, terrified at what I was about to ask. Sometimes I amaze myself. I don’t know where I get the nerve, but sometimes I just go for it.

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you’ll be going back to England in a few days. I wondered if you might find room for me, I need a lift to the ferry and back here again around the same time as you? I’d pay my share of the petrol.’ Keith Moon was back inside my brain. What the hell was I doing?

  ‘Of course, Renza, I’ve got to confirm the sailing date and time, and my return date, but yes, of course, I’ve told you before you’re welcome to cadge a lift any time.’ He smiled and added, ‘I’ll give Katie the details and you can sort it all out with her, just pop over to her tomorrow lunch-time, I should know for sure by then.’ Katie was his wife, they both lived in the street next to ours.

  ‘Oh thanks so much, you’re a life saver,’ I said, wondering how the hell I’d tell Mum and Dad, but first I had to ask Scott if it was all right to come at such short notice. I hoped they weren’t away gigging. Plans often changed so fast, I knew.

  Joss answered the phone. ‘Hi Renza, Happy Crimble and all that jazz, how’s it hanging?’

  ‘Yes good, same to you thanks.’

  ‘Scott’s in the bath, shall I get him?’

  ‘Oh, no, better not, this call is costing the earth as it is, can you give him a message please?’ The phone was eating up coins like some sort of hungry beast.

  ‘Of course, but he’ll be pissed he’s missed you.’

  ‘Tell him I’m home on either the 5th or 6th of January – if you’re not gigging, you’re not are you? If it’s convenient that is, I can come and stay a couple of days, but I’ll need a lift from Victoria, I can’t pay the fare to Leighton Buzzard. Do you think it’s all right, for me to come, then?’ The line wasn’t clear and I had to shout.

  ‘Yeah we’re here then, I’ll tell him, just ring to let us know the time and he’ll be there, or one of us will be. Hang out by the taxi rank, because they’ve put parking meters everywhere and it’ll be a flying pick up.’ Joss shouted back. ‘It’ll be cool seeing you.’

  ‘Thanks Joss, I’ll ring back as soon as I know which day and the time the boat train arrives at Victoria. Can someone ring me and leave a message with the post sergeant here if things change, so I don’t come over for nothing? Though I can visit my uncle I suppose, if it’s not all right. Just don’t tell the post bloke any details or names. I’ll know who it’s from.’

  No point wasting money on the ferry and train if they had to take off somewhere at short notice. We said goodbye. I rang my uncle and asked if it was all right to say I was coming to stay with him. He said anytime, and I ran to the Apotheke and purchased some supplies, then legged it home as fast as I could.

  Renza Diary

  December 28th 1968

  Dad hit the roof when I told him I’d got a lift back to England for a few days staying with my uncle. He was cross I’d sprung it on him, but I said I’d not planned it. I told him I wanted to see one of my school friends who’d written and told me she was going to live in France, and wanted to say goodbye to me, and my uncle said I could stay for a few days. Dad was cross I’d called my uncle before asking him but never questioned me having a close friend. I brazened it out, I’ve no idea how. Mum had a migraine so missed most of the row, which the kids enjoyed no end.

  I’d seen Katie earlier that afternoon and she’d confirmed the 6th and the overnight sailing times, and I’d raced to the post room to call Scott who was out apparently. Mo took the call this time. I asked where Scott was but he said he’d gone shopping, Stephan dropped in with some money for food earlier. I suppose it was true. I was disappointed I’d missed him again, but at least the band is expecting me.

  ‘See you soon Renza, I’m – we’re – all looking forward to seeing you, have a safe trip and don’t worry you won’t be stranded, I’ll come for you if I have to.’ Mo laughed, knowing I’d get anxious if I thought I’d been forgotten. ‘I’ll remind Scott, he’s always singing ‘Gotta See Jane,’ and now he can see Renza instead.’

  My heart skipped, Scott has been singing one of my favourite songs by R. Dean Taylor. I hummed it for hours afterwards.

  Mum and Dad gave me the cool treatment for the next couple of days, but I didn’t care. I was going to see Scott and everything was going to be fantastic.

  Stella’s Diary

  January 6th 1969

  Scott and I met in Oxford today.

  It was bitterly cold and the remaining Christmas snow had frozen solid. I didn’t notice the cold. I didn’t notice anything except him. He met me from the early-afternoon Harbury Green train at Oxford railway station and was wearing a black coat over his sweater and jeans. I was in my fun fur, a pink velvet smock dress and – by necessity – the baggy black Biba trousers tucked into my long pink boots.

  We didn’t speak and we didn’t touch. We simply looked and looked and then smiled at each other. We were surrounded by noise and bustle, but no one else in the world existed.

  I thought we were exactly like a 1960s version of Brief Encounter.

  However, there was a bit more to fill in…

  I’d written to Scott, at the Leighton Buzzard address, on Christmas Day. After several attempts, I’d made the letter light-hearted, funny, not at all personal – just in case Renza opened his mail or was reading over his shoulder – and thanked him for the Christmas card, hoped the French gigs had gone well, and told him all about the hospital and that I’d discharged myself from the Cottage – and I drew little cartoons in the margins to illustrate each paragraph. I finished up with a mention of interviewing Narnia’s Children for one of the teenage magazi
nes – which made it sound, if anyone else should read it, that it was more or less a business letter.

  Mum posted it for me on the day after Boxing Day.

  Both she and Vix had said much the same things about it: you’re doing exactly what Bernice did to you and Mike… he’s got a fiancée… you can’t even think about splitting them up – you’re not that sort of girl… he’s in a group, he must have girls everywhere… you’re going to get very hurt… he probably only wants you to do the interviews for the group’s publicity, anyway… don’t go getting any daft ideas, Stell…

  Of course I knew they were right. And I knew – even if there was the slightest chance of it – that I’d never, ever be “the other woman” in his life. Even before Mike two-timed me with Bernice, I’d always thought girls who went after someone else’s bloke were the lowest of the low… but I couldn’t forget him… and there was always the interview… so it surely wouldn’t hurt to keep in touch, would it? Just from a distance… it would be something, and something was better than nothing…

  We could be just friends.

  On the day Mum posted the letter to Scott, I started my 10 days of intensive heat treatment. The Cottage sent an ambulance to collect me each morning at 8.30. The driver was a cheerful lady called Pearl who knew my Nans, and because I was the only patient she let me sit up front with her. We bowled along Harbury Green’s frozen roads and Pearl chattered away while I just dreamed about Scott until we reached the hospital.

  Mercifully, I didn’t see any of the nurses, the matron or the almoner – simply the physiotherapist who operated the rather innovative heat machine. And she didn’t speak much, so I spent the daily hour I was stretched out, practically naked and supine, while this massive wheel, filled with criss-crossed wires and a million red-hot filaments, circled slowly over and round my middle, wondering if I’d ever see Scott again.