by Jane Bailey
And you can sleep in your pyjamas tonight; we’re out of danger. Boom! And the screaming, and the rocking, and the water coming in; the strange blue light and the shock and the queuing, and the grown-ups getting it wrong, getting it wrong: packing us into boats and tipping us out into the great, swirling cheat of the sea.
Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Pity my simplicity,
Suffer me to come to Thee.
Yes, Ralph was wonderful. He stroked my hair and told me it would be over soon. He tried to distract me with stories of our future together. ‘I’m going to make you the happiest woman alive, Dora Powell. You wait and see.’ He told me nothing could ever stop him loving me – not even the reek of vomit – and he put his great strong arms around me, like the sailor who rescued me, and I knew I was safe.
Years later, people would ask me why I hadn’t seen the signs. The truth is, I just didn’t. I suppose you don’t see what you’re not looking for, and more importantly, as Patsy often said, we women have a tendency to see one piece of a man we like and then fill in all the rest with what we’d like to see.
When I arrived back at Les Amandiers, I thought it would be difficult to explain why I’d left in such a hurry. But nobody gave me a hard time. Everyone seemed thrilled to see me, and especially Claudine, who literally danced around the kitchen in excitement. Within a few hours, it was as if I’d never been away.
The very first afternoon after we got back, Ralph took me out in the car to visit a neighbouring farm that had been bought up by some Parisians. ‘They’re turning it into a holiday home. And this is our big chance!’
It was a hot day, and the farmhouse we visited looked bleached out by the sun. The stone path outside the door warmed the soles of our feet through our shoes. The new owners were friendly and invited us in for a goûter of runny cheese and bread and some of the famous local wine. They were trying hard, Ralph reckoned later, to cast off their Parisian reserve and adopt the typical Provençal bonhomie. I attempted to follow the conversation but got lost after a few smiles and references to me, which included the word fiancée, to my unexpected delight. It wasn’t until much later that we were taken around the back of the house to view something. It turned out that the ‘big chance’ took the shape of a huge metal vat, still – we were reassured – in perfect working order.
Everything Claudine had promised about October came true. It was mellow and warm, and the streets of the nearby villages were splattered with the blood of crushed grapes that had fallen off carts. Every donkey and mule for miles around seemed to converge on the streets, pulling carts overloaded with wobbly grapes. The local fruit was dark and musky, and the smell, when the pavements were littered with its flesh and juice, was so sickly sweet that you had to hold your breath at times. The area became peopled with fruit pickers. There were the old hands, short locals whose diminutive stature seemed to have adapted itself to the height of the vines and whose limbs were just as brown and gnarled. Then there were the students who came down from Paris and Lyon for the grape harvest before returning to their studies. There was money to be made for people who relied on seasonal work. It didn’t pay well, but for those prepared to work long hours, it was well worth the travel. Ralph was quick to offer some of these temporary workers lodgings, at no charge if they were happy to pick some of his own grapes for a pittance. Most workers did better elsewhere, but word soon got around amongst the students that Les Amandiers was a bit bohemian and that there was good food and music every night.
That was how we came to have a house full of people, and how we came to like it. Of course, there was a lot more cooking to do, but Ralph was generous with his housekeeping allowance, which now seemed to include support from his father as well as Aunty Bee. His aim, of course, was to get the grape vat working properly and turn the vineyards into a useful income. His enthusiasm was infectious. Even Denis and Sylvain were caught up in it, helped along by having been promised equal shares in the profits after they’d taken the wine to a local co-operative. Patsy, I think, was more sceptical. I usually had her unedited views via Claudine. ‘Ralph hops from one idea to the next, doesn’t he?’ she said once, while we were washing up alone in the kitchen. ‘Last week it was writing a book, this week it’s winemaking, next week it will be fly fishing in the Camargue.’ She’d say these things like a gossipy old lady, and it was hard sometimes to remember that she was only eight.
The evenings were drawing in slowly, and despite the warm weather, it was cooling down quickly after the evening meal. It wouldn’t be long before we would have to retreat into the house until the spring, but in the meantime a spot of dancing helped to keep us warm as the stars came out. We danced and danced. Tighe and some friends came back for the grape harvest, and the mixture of Irish and Provençal music was electric. It was almost impossible to keep still. One student grape picker whirled me round so fast that my feet left the ground for a long time. I was dizzy and laughing as he lowered me gently to the ground, and I felt glad to be back. This was home now. I had finally moved on.
Around about this time, I received a large envelope from England containing a note from Jenny (asking when the wedding was going to be, and could she be a bridesmaid) and three or four letters from my mother. Our Mam wrote to me every week in college. She never said anything much, just kept in touch with a few lines of her careful handwriting. I usually wrote back. Jenny’s package reminded me that I hadn’t yet had the courage to tell my parents that I’d left college.
Mam’s first letter wished me luck for the beginning of term and reminded me to eat plenty of vegetables. The following letters showed an increasing level of anxiety at not having heard from me. I wrote immediately, explaining what had happened. I had to give them my address, so there was no point in trying to deceive them. I emphasized how well placed Ralph was financially, and I hoped they would be happy for me.
The letter I received ten days later was the longest she ever wrote. I still have it.
Dear Dora,
Your father and I were very upset indeed to hear that you have given up your College course. We can’t understand why you didn’t tell us earlier, so that we could have talked things through.
Of course it is wonderful news that you are engaged to be married but you are not married yet and you have made a very important decision based on thin air. Education is freedom, Dora, as you know. I hope at least he has given you a ring and a date.
There’s no use beating about the bush. Your father is really upset and also he has not been well. You were his pride and joy going off to Coll as you know. Maybe the College people would consider letting you re-sit your second year next year. You did so well last year too. It’s important to have a qualification under your belt. You never know. Could you come home and visit? The sooner the better. We’d like to meet your young man.
Lots of love,
Mam xxx
I wrote back and said I would try to visit soon but that it all depended on Ralph’s ‘business affairs’. I knew I was making excuses for him, but I brushed the thought aside. There had to be a justification for what I’d done, and any idea that I’d made a mistake was unthinkable. Most of all, I needed to console them. I thought if they could still be proud of me, it would make everything all right.
I didn’t show Ralph the letter, but I explained that my parents wanted to meet him, and he said that would be lovely – maybe at Christmas. I felt vindicated. I wasn’t sure they would be impressed by him. His manner might irritate Our Dad. I would have to give him some tips in advance. But one thing was certain: they’d see straight away that he was from a wealthy family and that their worries for my future were unfounded.
Ralph and I shared his room. It wasn’t what I wanted, really. I would have preferred to have my own room to retreat into from time to time, although I was happy to sleep with him. That may not sound much now, but back then . . . well, nice girls waited. Anyway, I was reluctant to give up my room before we
were married.
‘I know Tighe needs somewhere, but can I have my own room back later?’
‘Of course, but it’s not just Tighe. We’ve got the students to think about, haven’t we? Or is that precisely what you are thinking about?’
There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice suddenly, which startled me. ‘How do you mean?’
He faced me by the side of the bed and smiled benignly, and then whispered, deliberately, ‘Frédéric?’
I was almost relieved by his change in tone, but utterly confused. ‘Who’s Frédéric?’ As soon as I said it, I guessed he was the student who had danced with me.
I didn’t see it coming. I can’t remember seeing anything. In fact, I don’t think I would have believed it had happened at all if I hadn’t found myself suddenly on the floor looking at the hem of the patterned bedcover and feeling sore about the jaw. The feeling of soreness increased rapidly until it was very painful. When I put my hand to my mouth, it was wet with blood.
39
ARTHUR
I took her into town and hired a television. It wasn’t the one she wanted but the one we could afford. I took her to the cinema and to the theatre, although she complained about how uncomfortable the seats were. I promised her dinner parties after she’d had the baby, and we picked up brochures about holidays in the south of France. I also set up a bank account for her in her own name and gave her a monthly allowance. This was entirely pragmatic, as I could no longer let her have free rein over our joint account, which was now so often overdrawn that I was frittering away our savings in order to top it up. Pippa was delighted with the new bank account, having not realized that she would have to limit her spending. There was no overdraft facility, and cheques would simply bounce when she overspent.
I suggested we spend a weekend in London. We could stay with my parents, who were longing to see us again, and Pippa could look up her old friends. I knew Pippa needed a change of scene, but I just hoped she would behave herself.
We arrived on a Friday evening in mid-October. My parent’s semi-detached house had the last embers of sun on its eaves and looked mellow and welcoming. My parents had pushed the boat out. I could see, when they opened the front door, that Mum had had her hair permed and Dad was wearing a new jacket and tie. In the front room sat brand-new cushions, and there was a framed picture of me and Pippa on the mantelpiece.
‘Welcome to our humble abode,’ said Dad, grinning.
‘Ah, new cushions!’ I said.
‘Sit down! Sit down! Make yourselves at home!’
And then Pippa, who had a fixed, closed-lipped smile on her face, bent down to the sofa seat and gave it a gentle, almost imperceptible, brush with her hand before sitting on it. I tried to pretend to myself that my mother hadn’t seen it. I sat down quickly in the hope of masking it. I talked loudly about the garden, about the photograph, about the journey. I tried not to see my mother’s face collapse and then rally brightly into a wide smile.
‘Now, we have a choice of tea or coffee or Ovaltine. What can I get you? Pippa?’
‘What sort of tea?’
Mum chewed her bottom lip. She had thought of everything, but she hadn’t bargained on different types of tea. ‘Just . . . ordinary. Or . . . we have coffee.’
‘Coffee, then, please.’
Mum almost genuflected as she took this order. I followed her out into the kitchen. ‘I’ll have Ovaltine with you and Dad. And Mum . . . make the coffee strong. And no milk. Let her add it herself.’ I knew Pippa would make some comment about it if it was weak, and I couldn’t bear to think of her face if she were presented with a coffee with the milk already added. But even as I said these things, I was conscious that my mother thought I was being pretentious. I gave her a big squeeze from behind. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘She can be a bit . . .’ All she needed was some reassurance, but I couldn’t say the word. I couldn’t find one that was fair to both of them.
We sat and talked over our hot drinks, and my parents held the conversation valiantly, despite Pippa’s general unwillingness to make any effort to be civil. She clearly saw my parents as something to be borne, having married me. We came as a job lot, and she would just have to put up with them, but she had no intention of trying to get to know them or enjoying any aspect of their company.
‘Well, Pippa, you look blooming!’
‘Not for much longer, I suspect,’ said Pippa, barely concealing her disgust at the coffee.
‘Have a ginger biscuit – they’re home-made.’
‘Yes – eating for two, you know,’ said Dad, winking.
Pippa sighed.
‘Well, I will.’ I grabbed a couple and dunked them provocatively in my Ovaltine. Pippa looked at me askance, and I gave her what I hoped was a challenging look. ‘Yummy!’
‘Show Pippa those clothes you made, Elsie,’ said Dad. ‘She’s knitted some cracking little clothes for the baby. She was up all night finishing them.’
‘Oh, shush, Bill. I was not!’ Mum shuffled over to the corner of the room and produced a knitting bag. Out of it she pulled little knitted garments in white and green, and spread them on Pippa’s lap. ‘Those are bootees, and there’s a little all-in-one—’
‘Like Churchill wears!’ said Dad.
‘Yes, like Churchill wears – only smaller!’
Pippa picked up a bootee and examined it. ‘Green. Hmm. Well, he will be well decked out.’
‘Or she.’
‘He or she . . .’ She waved a hand, as if uninterested in the child she was carrying.
‘What are you hoping for? Do you have any names lined up?’
‘Oh God! If anyone else asks me that question again . . .’
‘Pippa’s really tired,’ I said.
They insisted on putting us in their own bedroom. There was a new bedcover on their double bed, not one I’d ever seen before. And on each bedside table was a little jar with a late red rose in it from the garden. Mum had even folded a towel on each pillow. On Pippa’s pillow was a present wrapped in mauve paper.
Suddenly I heard the oddest noise coming from Pippa. I turned to look at her and she was sobbing, great snorting wails. I sat beside her and put my arm around her.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!’
‘It’s okay.’ I stroked her hair in amazement.
‘Your poor mother! Your poor, poor mother. She lost her son!’
When I look back now, I think it is this moment I try hardest to recall. A single time when Pippa showed her vulnerability and perhaps some real contrition.
‘I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry about Philip!’ She let herself go completely and wiped her nose on her arm. I kissed her head and waited for her sobs to die down.
When her breathing became normal again, she unwrapped the present on her pillow. It was a bed-shawl, handmade by my mother in pink crochet.
‘Oh Lord. How utterly ghastly.’
With the first contractions, Pippa insisted on going into hospital by taxi. There we were told that she was not yet in labour and that we were to go home again. She was furious.
The baby eventually arrived – on the third visit to hospital – at the beginning of January 1953. We named her (or rather, Pippa named her) Felicity, because she made us both so happy. That was the theory, anyway. In fact, Pippa refused to speak to me when I was at last allowed in to see her. She sulked for hours because of what she had been ‘put through’ by me. When she eventually did speak, it was to refuse the baby at her breast. ‘She’s just biting me. Take her away!’ The nurse assured her that babies couldn’t bite, but she was adamant. ‘I can’t do it! Isn’t there a wet-nurse or something?’ The nurse gave me a wry look and offered me the baby to hold.
Felicity. What can I say? She was perfect. Dark, downy hair, tiny nose as soft as marshmallow, and dark blue eyes gazing into mine, seemingly fascinated with me. I fell in love with her. She didn’t sulk or moan, just gazed appreciatively, and through the cotton swaddling I felt the warmth and the helplessness of her tin
y body. My throat engorged and my eyes filled up and spilt over. I’m going to look after you, little one, I thought. I will move mountains to make you happy and keep you safe.
The nurse said briskly that it was all right: a lot of men cried like babies with their first child. I felt foolish, but still elated. Felicity changed everything.
Well . . . Pippa and motherhood. The first few weeks she went into a tailspin of self-pity and moroseness. I couldn’t blame her. I know she had been through a lot. I can’t imagine what women go through in childbirth, and I was certain she wouldn’t have chosen to become a mother just yet if it hadn’t been for my dissolute behaviour before we were married. Now I had to look after her. She was vulnerable, and I had a wife and a child to take care of. They were my responsibility, and responsibility was something I took very seriously.
If I had taken my responsibilities more seriously once before in my life, my brother would still be alive. I should never have left him. I know I meant well, but I should’ve thought! Don’t leave him alone for one minute. Stick by him. You take care of your brother. That’s what they’d said. Those were the last words of my mother when she waved us off. Take care of Philip. Don’t leave him on his own. And I did. Ah, you say, but you gave him your own life jacket. Yes, but then I went back to get his for myself. It wasn’t a real sacrifice. I just thought I’d be quicker than him, and that he’d get lost if he went, and that we might both be drowned if we went back together. I know I thought I was making a sacrifice, but in the end I was the one who was saved. How can I ever live with that? I can’t look my mother in the eye and say his name. Those giant, opaque waves. To think he was tipped out into them; it must’ve been terrifying. Dora told me what it was like. He was only six. Six. Imagine – I often imagine – falling from that height in the dark, people screaming all around; imagine hitting the cold water like a hard surface; imagine the cold slap and the sense of betrayal; imagine being delivered into the safety of a lifeboat by strong arms, only to be tricked into peril; imagine wondering where your big brother is; imagine being lost in the waves, those heaving, monstrous waves, wondering why your brother has forsaken you.