Young May Moon

by Sheila Newberry

  You asked if I have seen Terence. So far, our paths haven’t crossed. We weren’t pals, you know, like you and Bea – more like rivals! What about you and Henry? Fancy you meeting up with Danny after all those years! Has Paddy been in touch?

  Good luck with the job hunting! Why don’t you take a holiday first? How about Spain? Have you heard from Mum?

  Tutorial coming up – much love from Pom x

  She looked pensively out of the window. Far below, tiny figures in black, some with mortar boards on their heads, hurried by. ‘So this is life in a stately pile,’ Pomona said aloud. She slotted her letter into an envelope, sealed it, and wrote May’s address on the front. She’d post it later. Reluctantly she gathered up her books, and ventured outside her room into the echoing long corridor.

  ‘Two letters for you, and the electricity bill for me,’ Henry informed May.

  She flipped the eggs over in the frying pan. ‘There – you haven’t laid the table yet, and breakfast is just coming up! Two letters – one from Pom, I hope. Who sent the other, I wonder?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, I haven’t got X-ray eyes. Thanks, that looks good. Eggs without frizzled edges, just right for dipping my fried bread in.’

  May read her letters when she drank her tea; Pom’s first. ‘Oh dear, I think she’s realized that she’s no longer top of the class, as she was at school, and that she has to work harder than she ever has before.’

  ‘She can do it,’ Henry observed, wiping his plate clean with the last slice of bread and butter. ‘Well, open the mystery letter, then!’

  May did so, but didn’t immediately enlighten him as to the content. She read the single sheet of notepaper twice, then poured more tea before she satisfied his curiosity. ‘If you must know, the letter is from Danny’s brother, Paddy. I told you about him, didn’t I?’

  ‘You didn’t, but Bea dropped a few hints. A former boyfriend, I gather?’ His tone was light, and he smiled at her.

  ‘I suppose you could call it young love. It didn’t last, of course. I was only sixteen. I actually was Young May Moon then.’

  ‘I wish I had met you then,’ he said softly. ‘By the time I did, you were no longer the Punch and Judy lady, but had given it all up for shorthand and typing.’

  ‘Didn’t you, Henry, ever have a youthful infatuation like mine?’

  ‘I have to admit, I did not. I was rather a solitary scholar at Cambridge. That doesn’t mean I didn’t … well … hope to meet the right girl in time. When I did I was too unsure of myself to do anything about it.’

  ‘Are you talking about me, Henry? I liked and respected you from the moment we met, but you seemed so much older, and often aloof….’

  ‘I’m only five years your senior,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Henry, I’m very fond of you – I’ve got to know you so much better since I came here – but you must be patient still.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what he says?’ he asked diffidently.

  ‘Paddy? He tells me he is separated from his wife, that he has a little girl named Cluny, that he has never forgotten me. He doesn’t ask if we can meet, or even if I will reply to his letter; he just says that he was glad to have known a girl like me. That’s all, Henry.’

  ‘Nevertheless, will you reply to his letter?’

  ‘I don’t know, I really don’t. He’s still married, after all. Don’t look so … stricken, Henry. Let’s just enjoy getting to know each other properly, eh? Today, I have my first job interview! It was a good idea of yours to place an advertisement in the Standard and a pleasant surprise when I received such a prompt reply! I’ll meet you afterwards at lunchtime, outside the bank, as we arranged.’

  Twenty-Four

  BLOOMSBURY. THE LITTLE May knew about the area came from occasional articles in the press about the colony of artists and writers who’d lived there at the turn of the century. They were known as the Bloomsbury group and were freethinkers. Denzil’s father, she recalled, had been a painter of nudes; she smiled at the thought of her blushes at the mention of this. When Denzil married, and his new wife embarked on the restoration of the old manor house, his mother soon decided to leave. There were rumours that she had remarried, but she never returned to Kettle Row.

  Mary’s prospective employer was a potter of some repute, who had signed her letter with her first name, Tatiana. She certainly didn’t live in a garret, but in a mews house with an attached studio. The surviving members of the Bloomsbury group, now middle-aged or elderly but still unconventional, mostly lived, it seemed, in rural isolation and decorated old houses with colourful murals.

  May skirted a large, leafy plant in a pot and a bottle of milk on the doorstep. A newspaper protruded from the letter box. Her appointment was for 11 a.m.; was Tatiana a late riser?

  Even as she hesitated before giving a second pull of the bell, the studio door opened and a petite lady, less than five feet tall, emerged. She wore a creased, faded blue smock with smears of clay and paint, The hand she held out in greeting was bony and blue-veined, but her grip was strong.

  ‘I do apologize, I lost count of the minutes ticking by. You must call me Tatiana; my other name, which you may have deduced is Russian, is unpronounceable, so I’m often told. And you are May, which is easy to say. Let’s go in to the house and we will talk and take a glass of tea.’

  The drawing room was so crowded with ornaments of varying sizes that May had to wend her way between tables and cabinets to sit in an upright chair with an embroidered tapestry seat.

  The tea kettle on the spirit stove on a low table was brought to the boil and tea, without milk or sugar but with a slice of lemon, was indeed served in glass cups held in elegant metalwork containers with handles.

  ‘My parents brought these with them, not much else, when they left Russia during the revolution. I was already here, studying in London, living with my godmother. She inspired me to become an artist; this house and studio I inherited from her. Like Olga, I didn’t marry. Your good health!’ Tatiana raised her glass.

  Bemused, May looked at her over the rim of her glass. Tatiana, she surmised, was probably in her early forties. With those high cheekbones, almost almond-shaped dark eyes under arched eyebrows, the sleek, improbably black hair severely restrained by a wide band, no-one would take her for an Englishwoman.

  ‘You like what you see?’ Tatiana asked in amusement. ‘Well, so do I; despite your name I think you are also an exotic flower.’ This was said without irony.

  ‘I am half-Spanish, yes. Would you like to see my references? Certificates?’

  ‘If you wish. Your personality is of more interest to me than your qualifications. This is not just a secretarial job which I offer; I need someone who will look after the business matters, but also assist me generally.’

  ‘In the pottery, do you mean?’

  ‘Your interests include the artistic, I believe?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Did her expertise with puppets count? May wondered.

  ‘Then I believe we shall suit each other very well. More tea? Then I shall show you my work, and explain everything,’ Tatiana said.

  There was colour everywhere in the long studio. Shelves of pots and bowls gleamed with gold and silver and jewel colours, like ruby and sapphire. Some of the designs were oriental, others had a religious theme; a section was devoted to ethereal, fairy-tale picture plates.

  ‘You see what it is I strive to do?’ Tatiana asked, as May paused by the last section.

  ‘Oh yes,’ May whispered in awe.

  ‘You know that this is lustreware?’ May nodded. ‘It is a very old art form, which has its origins in Persia and Moorish Spain in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and spread to Italy in the fifteenth century. It was introduced into Europe by the Dutch traders who brought it from the Orient. I expect you are aware that Spain still produces much lustreware?’

  ‘I’ve never been to my mother’s country,’ May admitted, ‘but I can remember a lovely bowl which she kept on her dressing-table
. My sister and I were not allowed to touch it. I – I don’t know what happened to it, after she left, when I was twelve.’

  ‘We will not discuss our past history today, I think. You would like to know more of the process involved in the making of lustre? To put it simply, I use the original reduction-firing method. Clay is combined with silver and copper salts and then the design is painted on the surface of a plain glazed pot. It is fired again but without oxygen this time and the fine layer of colour mingles with the glaze. Like the rainbow produced by oil spilled on water, you have this iridescence.’ She gestured expressively with her hands.

  ‘Are there many other lustreware makers in this country?’

  ‘We have grown in number since the Arts and Crafts Movement, but it remains a specialist process. You would like to be involved? I don’t mean with the manufacture of my pieces, but with the cataloguing, the exhibitions from time to time, and the selling to my clients?’

  ‘I would like that very much indeed.’

  ‘Well, let’s go back in the house and discuss the formalities, and shake hands.’ said Tatiana.

  ‘This is very good news: your first interview, and a successful outcome,’ Henry said warmly. They were sitting in a small café round the corner from the bank. He had ordered coffee and a sandwich for himself, and a Bath bun and a glass of lemonade for May, at her request. She was too excited to want more. ‘I’ll make us a special dinner tonight,’ she promised. ‘Cottage pie, your favourite.’

  ‘Just one thing: won’t you stay on with me at Wimbledon? It seems to me we have a mutually agreeable arrangement.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking – why not? But you must let me pay my share of expenses.’

  ‘When you receive your first pay envelope, I’ll hold out my hand!’

  ‘Oh, I do like you, Henry!’

  ‘Good. Then that’s settled.’

  Bea was stretched out on the sofa in the hotel bedroom, with her head in Danny’s lap, while he idly stroked her hair. ‘Your roots need a touch of peroxide,’ he said.

  ‘Would you prefer me as I was – plain, mousy Jane?’ she joked.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense. You are you – and I love you as you are.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ she demanded.

  ‘Of course I do. And don’t argue that I’m too young to know my own mind; age doesn’t come into it. If our ages were reversed, would that make any difference? Of course it wouldn’t. My brother was married and a father at my age.’

  ‘But Danny, that didn’t last, did it?’

  ‘They weren’t right for each other, but you couldn’t tell him that when he was nineteen. And he wouldn’t be without little Cluny. How do you feel about me? That’s what I need to know.’

  ‘Right now, I don’t want to say goodnight, I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘It might take me all night to do that. I’ve been struggling with my feelings ever since we met. It’s my upbringing, I suppose, even though my parents are never judgemental.’ She sat up, swung her feet to the ground. ‘I love you Danny.’

  ‘I won’t let you down,’ he promised solemnly. ‘Ever.’

  Their letters crossed in the post. Bea wrote to her best friend:

  Dear May,

  I’m not sure you will approve, but you could say that I have thrown caution to the winds! Danny and I are now a couple. Yes, we have anticipated marriage, and are blissfully happy, but we will tie the knot when we are ready … You can confide in Henry, though I guess he may be shocked, but I would rather tell our parents myself after they have met Danny, which should be soon, after Selina’s baby arrives and we all get together for the baptism!

  Hope the job-hunting proves successful. Our new show is going well – I must admit I am jealous when the leading man gets the girl in the final scene, and it ain’t me! We may even get to a London stage, you never know.

  Much love from Bea.

  Henry regarded May across the breakfast table. ‘Any message for me?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ He grinned, to show he didn’t mind too much.

  ‘Bea and Danny, well.…’

  ‘They are engaged?’ he suggested.

  ‘Not exactly.’ May floundered.

  ‘Ah …’ he said. He folded the newspaper. ‘Well, you don’t want to be late on your first day. We’ll leave the dishes to soak. I’ll get the car – you powder your nose.’

  ‘Oh, I thought we were catching the train.’

  ‘Not today, I shall deliver you to the door.’

  ‘Thanks, Henry.’

  He turned at the door, ‘I suppose you think I am seething with disapproval? The fact is, I wish it could be like that for us. See you in ten minutes!’

  She thought about what Henry had said as she combed her hair and checked the contents of her bag. She didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps, but she was aware that the passionate side of her nature, long suppressed, was ripe for release. But was Henry the one to help her shed her inhibitions? She came to a decision: she would reply to Paddy’s letter; she’d do it this evening after work.

  Dear Paddy

  It was a nice surprise to hear from you after all this time. What a lot of changes in both our lives. I recognized Danny immediately despite the years between, I wonder if it would be like that if you and I were ever to meet again? We have a lot of catching up to do! Mr Punch and Co. are tucked away inside the old trunk, and I haven’t been back to West Wick for more than ten years. As for flamenco, I gave that up, too.

  I am about to start a new job as Assistant and Secretary to a Russian potter who makes the most beautiful lustreware. I am fortunate to have somewhere nice to stay here in Raynes Park, with a friend, Henry, from Kettle Row. His sister Bea is in the same theatre company as Danny, Pom is at Cambridge, but she hasn’t swum the Channel yet!

  Please remember me to your parents, I have never forgotten how kind they were to two young girls on their own. I am sorry your marriage didn’t work out, but glad you have your daughter with you. She must be very special to Brigid and Brendan. I am afraid Pom and I rarely hear from our mother, Carmen, who is still in Spain.

  I hope we can meet up again, in the future.

  Yours, Young May Moon.

  ‘Paddy,’ Brigid reminded him as he sat there, letter in hand, thinking about his first love, ‘Cluny is waiting for you to take her to school.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum. I didn’t expect to hear from May, although of course I hoped I would. But was I right to contact her at all?’

  ‘Dear boy, you acted on impulse. It’s not always a bad thing, you know. Your divorce is going through; it’s good to remember happier times. May’s not married?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. But she’s living with Danny’s girlfriend’s brother Henry. That’s how she and Danny met again, through Bea.’

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, and hurry up, Cluny hates to be late for school.’

  Twenty-Five

  POMONA WAS HOME for the Christmas vacation. She was thinking: home is where May is, so it’s Raynes Park now. We’ll join the Wrights in Kettle Row on Christmas Day, but it won’t be the same as it was in the old days, with Min and Grandpa, and earlier than that, Jim and Carmen … and Mr Punch.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Terence,’ she informed Henry as he assembled their suitcases in the hall on the morning of Christmas Eve, prior to driving to Suffolk. ‘We haven’t met since we both went to Cambridge; he’s probably forgotten I exist.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think that’s possible,’ Henry said mildly. Pom had breezed in on the previous Saturday, leaving her sister to pay for the taxi she had taken from the station, and surprised him with a hug and a warm kiss on the lips. ‘That’s for being so nice to May and now me,’ she said.

  ‘My pleasure.’ The cheeky little girl was now an attractive young woman.

  ‘I wish you’d kept your motorbike and I could ride pillion! I was
so-o jealous of May, because she had that privilege.’

  Henry grinned. ‘You would have been far too distracting, I think. We’d have probably ended up in a ditch. Anyway, I can picture you tearing round the countryside on a bike yourself, one day – as modern girls do.’

  Now, she took the opportunity to put a pertinent question to him while May was in their bedroom, tidying up before they left. ‘When are you going to make an honest woman of my sister, Henry?’

  He was genuinely shocked. ‘There’s nothing going on between us, Pomona, I assure you.’

  ‘Though you wish there was?’ she dared to ask.

  He was spared the need to answer when May appeared with a final bag.

  ‘Take care with that – fragile! It’s a present for your parents.’

  The telephone rang as they were about to leave. Henry was already loading the car, so Pomona, who was bringing up the rear, called, ‘I’ll answer it!’ When she didn’t reappear for several minutes May went to find out why she was delayed.

  Pomona replaced the receiver, her cheeks flushed with excitement. ‘That was Mum, ringing from Spain, believe it or not! She wished us both a happy Christmas.’

  ‘Did she sound all right?’ May enquired anxiously.

  ‘Well, yes and no … she said to come and visit her in the spring, if we can before civil war breaks out—’

  ‘Civil war? Oh dear! Is she safe where she is?’

  ‘She says so. Perhaps if we did go, we could persuade her to return to England with us?’

  Henry was honking the horn. They looked at each other. ‘Don’t let’s talk about it now.’ May closed the front door firmly behind them.

  The Wrights were accustomed to having their festive dinner in the evening. After attending midnight mass on Christmas Eve and hurrying back in a flurry of snowflakes to the rectory as the bells rang out the joyous peal for Christmas Day, they needed a few hours’ sleep before they trooped off to church for the morning service. The visitors were excused this.