The Choice

by Valerie Mendes

  As Eleanor closes the door behind them, she feels a rush of pride at how she has handled the sale – and also a pang of envy. How happy the couple look. She wonders whether she will ever find someone special to share her life.

  Reaching home that afternoon, Eleanor catches sight of herself in the hall mirror. It’s a shock. She looks frayed and shabby. She can’t bear wearing her old black clothes any longer. Every morning when she pulls them on, she’s reminded of darling Daddy’s funeral, the heartache of missing him. What’s the point of making her life even harder?

  At her desk, Eleanor goes through her accounts, counting the pennies. Next morning, she cashes a cheque at the bank and drives to Oxford. She buys a lightweight spring coat, two smart suits to wear in the shop, shoes with a small heel, fresh underwear, and a small but glamorous hat. She buys some makeup at the chemist and as a final treat the hairdresser shapes her long curls into a smooth bob.

  Even Anne is impressed. “You look enchanting in that blue suit. It brings out the colour of your eyes.”

  On his return to Woodstock, Eleanor tells Jonny about the lucrative American sale. He gives her a delighted hug, and slips an extra guinea into her hand.

  “A well-deserved bonus. The first of many, I’m sure. Always knew you could do it, Eleanor. You’re a gem.” His eyes flicker with admiration. “It’s such a relief to see you wearing colours again… And I love the new hair!”

  Eleanor blushes with pleasure. She enjoys the clasp of Jonny’s fingers – and she’s startled by the sudden beating of her tired heart. Jonny’s praise reminds her of Walter’s: “That’s my girl!” She realises how starved she has felt without his approval.

  On Wednesday afternoons, Eleanor continues to meet Kathleen. Under the watery sunshine and high clouds of early spring they walk in Blenheim, or drink tea at Fishery Cottage. Kathleen and Sean are now formally engaged, and are planning an engagement party and their future. Delighted, Eleanor discovers Kathleen’s happiness fills her own sad heart with quiet joy.

  On Saturday afternoons, Eleanor takes Anne out in the Morris to remind her there’s still a thriving world beyond her front door. They eat luncheon in Burford or Oxford, making valiant attempts to talk. Eleanor tries to persuade Anne to see a film or a play, visit an art gallery or a museum, even to walk across the University Parks.

  But Anne shakes her head. “It’s much too soon for me to go gadding about.”

  In contrast to Eleanor’s frenzied activity, Anne remains trapped in depression and lethargy. She sleeps all morning, appears for luncheon looking pale and listless, shambles around the house in the afternoons, stabs half-heartedly at some ancient needlework and continues her séances with Sylvia Dunkley three evenings a week. She never talks about them, and refuses to wear anything but black.

  “I look hideous and I’m sick of it, but I must continue to show respect for my husband. Queen Mary will wear mourning for nine months.”

  Walter’s clothes and possessions remain exactly as they’ve always been. Eleanor doesn’t have the heart to move them.

  Sunday is the worst day of the week. Eleanor and Anne go to church out of habit. Anne says she no longer believes in a God who has abandoned her, but she doesn’t want anyone to know she has lost her faith.

  Gradually their neighbours stop looking at them with pity and begin to treat them with a new respect. The Drummonds are obviously fighting adversity with determination, quietly and without fuss. They demand admiration – and receive it.

  In the middle of March, on an exceptionally mild Sunday afternoon that reminds them spring is on its way, Eleanor, Anne and Vera carry buckets of water, dusters and polish to the bottom of the garden. They clean the Bullnose Morris, inside and out.

  “There you are,” Anne says two hours later, kicking at the bags of rubbish. “Over to you, dear daughter of mine. This car is no longer your father’s, even if I still am.”

  On many heart-breaking nights, Eleanor hears her mother sobbing in her room. She wants to offer comfort, but knows she won’t be able to without breaking down herself.

  During the dark winter evenings Eleanor longs for the comfort and order of her textbooks, but a vital thread has snapped. She’s no longer sure where she’s at. Without a tutor to guide her, her studies lack urgency and timetable. Often, she lifts her eyes from reading only to realise she has no idea what that particular page has been about. She had become enmeshed in another vivid memory of her father: his voice, the turn of his head, the haunting image of a particular painting.

  The pain of missing him grows even sharper. One evening as she leaves Jonny’s shop, a man walks by smoking the tobacco Walter loved. Eleanor stands on the pavement, breathing in its scent, unable to move, wishing with every fibre of her being she could see her father again. Whoever said time is a great healer?

  One morning when Anne’s at the hairdresser, Eleanor remembers the tiny key in Walter’s studio, in that red leather purse. She marches around the house, trying the key in every lock. It fits none of them. Does it belong to The Hideaway? She becomes increasingly impatient to see it, wondering how many secrets it might reveal.

  Her father’s the first person she thinks about when she wakes – and the last as her head hits the pillow. In her dreams she hears over and again the desperation of his last request: “Find Moira for me… Tell her I’m sorry.”

  Yes, darling Daddy, yes. I promise I’ll find her if it’s the last thing I do.

  But sorry for what?

  Reaching a Decision

  Woodstock, 1936

  In the middle of March, Eleanor meets Robert Clark at The Bear Hotel. It has been two months since she last saw him, but it could be a lifetime. Eleanor feels as if she’s a changed person, yet Robert, with his slicked-down hair, bow tie and air of moneyed cheerfulness, looks and sounds exactly the same.

  He’s full of university prattle.

  “Do you remember Talia Mulholland?” he asks over luncheon.

  Eleanor nods, recalling a pretty second-year Somerville undergraduate to whom she’d spoken several times.

  “Well!” Robert takes a swig of champagne. “She was discovered in bed with her boyfriend in Christ Church. He’s been rusticated for a term. She’s been sent down permanently. She was told to clear her room in Somerville immediately and go home. Everybody protested, but it was a waste of breath.”

  Eleanor frowns. “That’s monstrous, Bob. Talia’s entire academic life has been ruined because she dared to love somebody, while her boyfriend’s allowed to bounce back as if nothing has happened. Talk about double standards!”

  “That’s exactly what we all think. But there’s no reasoning with the university. They bray on about ‘setting an example’ and there’s no budging them.”

  ***

  After luncheon, Eleanor and Robert walk in Blenheim. Oblivious to the glories of the lake, the fragile clusters of daffodils, and the miraculous formations of flying geese, Robert chatters on like a river in full spate. After ten minutes, Eleanor stops listening. She feels as detached and alien from him as she has ever felt from anybody.

  “By the way,” Robert says as they walk through the Triumphal Arch, “will you join our dawn celebrations on the first of May? A group of us will leave Christ Church at five-thirty to listen to the choristers on Magdalen Tower. They sing so divinely and it’s such a marvellous way to welcome the spring.”

  Eleanor’s overwhelmed by a vivid memory. She’s standing with her father on Magdalen Bridge. The clear dawn sky is brightening. Holding hands, they listen to the heavenly voices soaring through the air.

  “Indeed it is. I used to go with my father.” Tears sting her eyes. She knows she’ll never be able to attend that special dawn morning again. “I’ll probably have chores to do. Could I let you know?”

  “Of course… Drop me a line.”

  “I will. Goodbye, Bob.
Thank you for luncheon. Good luck with your exams.”

  Trying to hide her relief at seeing Robert go, Eleanor waves as he climbs into his car. She turns back to the house, realising with a jolt she has reached a decision.

  In the hall, she takes a small cluster of daffodils from its vase, drying their stems on her handkerchief. Before Anne or Vera can realise that she’s back, she shuts the front door quietly, and runs to St Mary Magdalene.

  Several other people are in the spring graveyard, tidying its flowers, staring into space, or hugging each other for comfort. Eleanor kneels at her father’s grave, removing a bunch of dead narcissi. She pushes the fresh daffodils into the pewter jar. Their tangy scent breathes back at her.

  “I’ve just had a horrid luncheon,” she whispers. “Robert Clark… Remember him? Last term, I thought he was such a jolly companion. Nothing ever gets him down, he always made me laugh. Now I think he’s an insufferable bore.

  “But Robert has helped me make up my mind. I know how pleased you were when I got a place at Somerville. But that was then, and this is now… I can’t go back. I can’t face more examinations, more judgements on my abilities, my moral strength… Last year, it was so exciting: the work, the challenge. Proving to you I could do it. But I’ve run out of energy. The thrill has faded.

  “If I go back to Somerville, all my friends will be a year ahead of me. Even if I do get in again, I’ll have to repeat my first term’s work. I can’t face the thought. And what if the examiners turn me down? I couldn’t bear the humiliation. I want to do something fresh and new.

  “Miss Darbishire asked me to think long and carefully. I don’t want to take advantage of her patience… But if I don’t go back to Somerville, she won’t miss me, will she? Whereas if I leave Woodstock for Oxford, Mummy will go to pieces.”

  Eleanor straightens her back. She takes a deep breath of the cool afternoon air. It smells fresh and clean.

  “And you wouldn’t want that, Daddy, would you? Nobody else is going to look after your wife now, except me.”

  Blackmail

  Woodstock, 1936

  The following Tuesday afternoon is exceptionally busy. Now that Eleanor has decided not to return to Somerville – much to Anne’s vociferous relief – she stops worrying about her academic career, enjoys her free evenings, and flings herself wholeheartedly into working with Jonny.

  Over the past few months, their relationship has changed. Jonny no longer checks everything she does. He often asks what she thinks about a piece of furniture, valuing her opinion. And he shares any problems about an unpaid account or a difficult customer. They’ve become a working partnership. Eleanor feels at ease with Jonny, and looks forward to his company.

  That particular Tuesday, Jonny’s at an auction in London. Mrs Giffen patters down with Eleanor’s cup of tea at half-past four, leaving her to price a set of Welsh tableware. Eleanor’s standing at the back of the shop when its bell jangles. She turns to see Rosie Perkins shutting the door.

  Glad to see somebody she knows, Eleanor walks swiftly towards her father’s friend.

  “Mrs Perkins! How lovely to see you again… It seems a long time since—”

  “Indeed.” Rosie shakes hands but her eyes are frosty. “You’re very well turned out, I must say!” She looks Eleanor up and down, taking in her smart business suit, her shining shoes. “I’d heard you were working here… You’re obviously enjoying it.”

  “I am, very much.” There’s an uncomfortable pause. “Can I show you anything?”

  “No, indeed! I haven’t come to buy.” Rosie glances at the shop door, at the stairs leading to the basement, and then up to Jonny’s flat. “My business is strictly personal. Could we go somewhere private?”

  Eleanor frowns. “I can’t leave the shop unattended. Why don’t you come for a drink with Mummy and me at six o’clock?”

  Rosie gives a snort of mirthless laughter. “I don’t think your mother would be too happy to hear what I have to say.”

  “Oh?” Eleanor’s heart freezes with dread. “Then would you mind waiting until we close? I could meet you outside the shop at half-past five.”

  They stand on a street corner as the lights are turned off in other shops, owners locking their doors and making for home. Dark clouds thud across the sky; the air fills with spatters of rain.

  Eleanor turns up her coat collar. “So, Mrs Perkins, how can I help?”

  “I’ll come straight to the point, Miss Drummond.” Rosie’s voice is quiet but determined. “Your dear father… I miss him a great deal. Walter and I were exceedingly fond of each other.”

  “I’m aware of that, Mrs Perkins. You spoke most movingly at his funeral.”

  “I don’t think you understand.” Rosie flutters a nervous hand to the curls peeping beneath her hat. “Walter and I were more than friends, Miss Drummond. We loved each other deeply. We’d been having an affair.”

  Eleanor clenches her fists, furious that she hadn’t understood the passion lurking behind the woman’s eulogy. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My husband walked out on me three years ago, disappeared to Australia. He sends me money when he remembers, but it’s never enough. I have a little boy. Children eat mountains of food. They need shoes, toys, clothes. My Mark, he’s five years old. He was very fond of his Uncle Walter. Your father was an exceedingly generous man.”

  Eleanor fights back her astonishment and fury. “But he’s not with us. I’m sorry—”

  “No, Miss Drummond, you can’t just apologise and leave it at that. Walter helped me financially. I’d be most grateful if you could make sure his help continues.”

  Eleanor gapes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me, Miss Drummond.”

  “Yes, I did.” She tries to catch her breath. “And I’ve no intention of giving you a penny. It’s not only that I won’t, I can’t. Why do you think I’m working for Mr Giffen? I enjoy it, but I have to make a living.”

  “Very well, then.” Rosie hunches her shoulders. “If you can’t help, I’ll take my problem to your mother. I’m sure you wouldn’t want knowledge of my affair with your father to reach her ears, would you, now?”

  Eleanor imagines how her mother will feel, faced with Walter’s mistress in distress.

  “I most certainly would not!”

  “That’s what I thought.” Rosie flicks rain off her shoulders. Her curls look bedraggled, but her eyes shine with triumph.

  Anger burns in Eleanor’s heart; her mind fizzes with shock. The last thing she wants is to carry on talking about her father in the wet street.

  “What exactly do you want, Mrs Perkins?”

  “I need a lump sum,” comes the prompt reply. “Enough to put in the bank, earn interest, give Mark the education he deserves. He’s a bright lad. I’m ambitious for him. Shall we say three hundred guineas?”

  Eleanor feels dizzy with anger. “That’s utterly ridiculous! I don’t have anything like that kind of money.” The words stick in her throat. “I’m not under any obligation to you whatsoever… I don’t even know if you’re telling the truth—”

  Rosie throws back her head. “I can give you some intimate physical details about your father—”

  “I don’t want to hear them.”

  “No, you probably don’t! My darling Walter was hungry for my love. And I was only too delighted to give it. If your mother had looked after her husband better, he wouldn’t have needed to find devotion elsewhere.”

  Anger bubbles through Eleanor’s body. She wants to smack Rosie’s softly rounded cheek. “This is nothing but filthy blackmail. Go home, Mrs Perkins. Find yourself another protector. Leave me and my mother alone.”

  “Very well then. But don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

  Rosie turns abruptly on her heel and walks away.

  Eleanor
stands rooted to the spot, watching the comely figure in high heels and tight-fitting coat trot across the road. She imagines the conversation Rosie might have with Anne. Bitterly, she realises just how dangerous the wretched woman could be.

  Dodging a disreputable car, she dashes after Rosie and taps her shoulder.

  Rosie turns to look at her. “Thought better of getting rid of me, have you?” Tears glitter on her cheeks. “I wondered how long it would take you to see sense.”

  “I’ll give you twenty-five guineas.” Eleanor forces the words out. “Come to the shop on Thursday afternoon.”

  She waits for a moment, half expecting Rosie to tell her it’s not enough. When the woman remains silent, Eleanor seizes the upper hand.

  “And if you ever come back for more, or drop the merest hint of this to my mother, I’ll tell her about you. I’ll also make sure the whole of Woodstock knows what a rotten little blackmailer you are.”

  Eleanor races home, up to her room, tearing off her new hat and coat, now damp with rain, and throwing them into a corner. She sits on her bed, flinging off her shoes, furious that she’d given in. Everything she has earned at Jonny’s and more will now have to be paid to that… that…

  And yet, her father must have loved the woman. How could he betray his family like that? Rosie isn’t even beautiful or intelligent. What on earth had they talked about? How had her father found time to spend with her?