by Maggie Ford
It was all light-hearted. Mrs Stevenson having finished her morning chores and prepared lunch came and placed plates of egg and cucumber sandwiches, cake, fruit and coffee hot in its pot before making her exit for the day, after asking if there was anything else Mrs Hanford needed and receiving a negative shake of the head and a mumbled, ‘Thank you, Mrs Stevenson.’
Persuaded to show Fenella her wardrobe so that Fenella could make comments about what she should be wearing this coming winter, she felt more lively than she had for days. But Fenella always had this effect on her after a while of being there, bless her heart.
‘With Christmas less than three months away, Geraldine, you simply must prepare for it. I’ve still loads to do as well as buying presents for all and sundry. Mostly I’m ordering Harrods hampers to be sent, as you know. So convenient. But my own family is different – I’m buying Reginald one of those darling gold wrist-watches that have become all the rage. His pocket watch is so old-fashioned. And you and Anthony of course will have special presents, and naturally, mother and father, and for little Stephanie I’m choosing …’
That’s when it happened – all Fenella’s efforts wiped out in a word.
She knew Fenella had been talking so brightly, not because she was in any way shallow but because she felt that by remaining so there’d be no danger of unwittingly penetrating to the thick layer of grief lying just below the so-thin armour of normality. Then, this single unguarded moment. Even as she cut off abruptly, Geraldine, on the point of going to the occasional table where lunch had been laid, sank back into the armchair.
Without warning, huge gulping sobs welled up from deep inside her to choke in her throat, the name of Fenella’s daughter reminding her of how she’d been robbed of the joy of buying for her own daughter. There would be no buying of baby presents, no baby, no Caroline.
‘Oh, Fen!’
Her sister-in-law was leaning on her with her whole weight in a vain attempt to undo her last words as Geraldine crumpled into the armchair to double up in misery.
‘I’m so sorry, Gerry. I didn’t think,’ she kept saying, over and over.
It was ages before Geraldine could get out the words, ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ and force herself into recovering. But lunch had been spoiled and lay untouched; she sunk into her chair, Fenella on the padded arm, one arm around her shoulders, and her voice low and soft but insistent with restored confidence.
‘Darling, you must let go. I know what you must be going through, but you can’t go on like this.’
But what did Fenella know of the loss of a child? Maybe her mother did, having a son killed in the war in his youthful years. But what did Fenella understand of the inability to cast Caroline from her mind. She’d say it to herself over and over, hearing herself addressing the infant as though it lay in her arms. She knew she should not be doing it, that she would drive herself mad doing it, but she couldn’t stop. She had once spoken the name to Tony but he’d flown into a rage, told her she must try to forget, not keep harping on it, life had to go on. Easy for men. Men didn’t feel these things like women did, especially a grieving mother.
Tony’s parents hadn’t come. For all she saw or knew of them, he might not have had any family at all. But she lacked the will to criticise even as Tony spent energy alternately apologising for them, feebly defending them or being angry with them on her behalf. For all the good any of it did he might as well have said nothing at all, she not having the go in her enough to respond.
‘I know,’ she answered limply, not caring enough to control that occasional spasmodic sob left over from her outburst of tears. ‘I try, I really do. Tony gets impatient with me but somehow I can’t bring myself to remedy it. It’s like being held by an invisible rubber band that stops me going forward. I can’t help weaving little scenes around Caroline – what she would be doing now, what I’d be doing – preparing her morning bath, seeing the water wasn’t too hot, feeling her soft silky skin all slick with lather, lifting her out, drying her, dressing her, and her all clean and sweet-smelling ready for her ten a.m. feed. My milk has now dried up, but if I squeeze a nipple long enough there’s a sort of pearly drop of watery milk that oozes out, and the sight of it only makes me cry again to think it had been meant for her, to nourish her, my little Caroline. Instead—’
Fenella cut her short. ‘That’s what I’m getting at, Gerry dear, you mentioning her name and referring to her as though she were here. You mustn’t. Gerry, darling, I know this must sound callous, but you’ve done enough mourning. You gave her a lovely little burial even though the church hadn’t officially christened her. Stop trying to resurrect her. She’s buried in the ground. She must be buried in your mind too, covered, and time given to let the flowers grow over her. You’ll never forget her, but do you think that little baby can rest in peace while you are constantly bringing her back? My dear, be kind to her. You loved her all the while she was being made. Now let her rest.’
Geraldine had lifted her eyes to her sister-in-law, one thought in her mind that surprised her – she’d never thought of Fenella as being religious. Perhaps she was. Perhaps from that great house of hers not far from her parents’ home, she sometimes attended church on Sunday mornings. Fenella could be full of surprises at times.
‘Can you do that, my dear?’ Fenella was begging. ‘She really should be left to rest. Can you do that? For her sake.’
Geraldine’s stare, drying now, was still on her as she nodded. How simply she had put it. The last thing she wanted to do was to have Caroline’s peace of mind disturbed – no loving mother could do that to her child. For Caroline’s sake she must return to sanity.
‘I’ll try,’ she said in a small voice, and Fenella patted her shoulder and rose from the arm of the chair as though the problem had been solved satisfactorily.
‘Now then, darling, let’s find you a drop of brandy.’
‘There’s coffee in the pot.’
‘Brandy and coffee – perfect.’ Her observation was interrupted by the trilling of the doorbell. ‘I’ll go,’ she chirruped.
Left alone, Geraldine sat without being able to form one thought. She heard Fenella query, ‘Yes?’ then a man’s voice, a small hesitation, followed by Fenella calling, ‘There’s a Mr Alan Presley here, wants to see you, Gerry.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Sorry to intrude.’ Alan Presley stood in the centre of the lounge where Fenella had brought him in the same manner in which she might have brought in a stray cat, unsure of its genus, much less its pedigree.
He looked quite out of place yet it was only his clothes that made him seem so and as he turned his face towards Geraldine, firm and calm, she saw a natural dignity that appeared to give him height. It was a dignity she’d never noticed before and she experienced a surge of pride for him. In the right clothes he could fit in anywhere.
‘Didn’t mean to,’ he was saying. ‘I ought ter go.’
‘No, you’re not intruding, Alan.’ She glanced across at Fenella, who for once was silent, hovering to one side of the room, eyes switching between her and Alan as if to ask incredulously, ‘You know this man?’
‘Fenella, this is …’ Geraldine began and stopped. How should she introduce him? Who as? ‘Fenella,’ she began again, more firmly, ‘this is a family friend. Alan, this is Fenella Grading, my sister-in-law.’
He had turned to the other woman, gave her a small nod. ‘Very nice ter meet yer.’
Fenella returning the nod without speaking, Geraldine found herself cringing at Alan’s untutored accent. ‘Well,’ she said brightly, and realised this was the first time she had sounded anywhere near bright since Caroline died.
She turned away from the thought. ‘It is nice to see you, Alan. I think there’s still some coffee left. Would you like a cup?’ It sounded so trivial and she could see he was feeling awkward. She felt awkward too. A look flitted across Fenella’s eyes and she knew exactly what she was thinking.
Fenella made a move, coming forwar
d as if struck from behind. Her voice was overbright. ‘I’d best be off, darling. Things to do, you know. Sorry I have to go but I hope our little chat …’ she grew guarded and secretively confidential, ‘I hope it has been of some help, my dear. I expect I’ll see you on Wednesday. Now keep your chin up, Gerry darling, remember. I’ll see myself out.’
‘No.’ Geraldine followed her. ‘I’ll come to the door with you.’
With Fenella putting on her coat and bending to gaze critically at herself in the hall mirror so as to adjust her low-brimmed hat properly on her head, the now dry umbrella retrieved from its stand, Geraldine added rather foolishly, ‘I’m sorry about that. I was surprised to see him. He’s never come here before.’
It occurred to her that she must appear to be defending herself. And indeed that was just what she was doing, even a trace of guilt in her tone. She could hear it and so had Fenella, who touched her arm lightly.
‘Don’t worry about it, darling. He’s as you said, an old friend of the family. Well, I must be off. See you on Wednesday, okay?’
‘Yes,’ supplied Geraldine, wishing she could say something to vindicate herself from her sister-in-law’s obvious assumptions.
They were without doubt mild ones – many a wife enjoyed a bit on the side in these new, heady days of broad-mindedness, non-conformism, freedom and frivolity among the social set with the opening of a new decade. Plainly Fenella saw her as no different, might herself have had a dabble though she had never let on, wasn’t even indignant on her brother’s behalf, and quite definitely wasn’t showing any embarrassment.
Fenella leaned forward and dropped a kiss just short of her cheek. ‘See you later, darling, love to Anthony. I’ll hail a taxi in Piccadilly, still have a little more shopping to do!’ and was off.
Long legs twinkling down the three steps, at the bottom she paused to glance up at the still leaden sky, winced at the splatter of rain on her rouged cheeks and up went the brightly coloured umbrella like a flower popping open to greet the morning sun.
Geraldine stood watching her departing figure, slim, busy, leggy, her narrow Cuban heels going tap-tap-tap on the shining pavement, her brolly swaying mightily, her handbag and paper bags swinging from her arm. She waited for her to wave before turning the corner, but she didn’t.
Geraldine went back inside and closed the door. Returning to the lounge she found Alan still in the centre of the room where she had left him. He turned to look at her.
‘I shouldn’t of come. I saw straight away you was embarrassed. I saw the way she looked.’
Defiance suddenly flooded over Geraldine. ‘I don’t care how she looked. You’re a friend of mine and I choose who comes into my house and who don’t.’
‘It’s what sort of friend,’ he answered. ‘That’s what she was querying. I saw it the way she looked at me. And you, I embarrassed you.’
‘No you didn’t. I’m really glad to see you.’
She needed all the friends she could get at this time and Alan had proved himself one of them on the day he had taken her into that café for her to recover herself. So damn what Fenella read into his arrival. Fenella’s few words of wisdom had made her think a little. And now Alan’s presence was adding to all her sister-in-law had said to her – that the time must come, if it hadn’t yet come today, when she must learn to face the world again, that she was only destroying herself as well as impeding the release from the child she had lost. Now Alan had turned up and his presence was already adding to the healing process.
She went over to the armchair where she was wont to sit the day long and, hesitating, moved away to an upright chair. ‘Alan, come and sit down.’ She indicated the sofa. ‘Would you like a drink? Brandy? Whisky?’
He shook his head. ‘Too early for me.’
‘Coffee then? Or tea? It won’t take me a second to make it.’ Again she wondered at her enquiry. It was a chore even to stir to make a cup for herself, or even to pour herself anything stronger – probably her salvation from drinking herself into a stupor at times, this inability to bother. And now, suddenly, here she was offering to make tea.
Alan was shaking his head. ‘No, but thanks. I ain’t stayin’ long. I just come because yer mum told me ’ow low yer’ve bin. She’s worried for yer.’
Mum? Worried? Mum had come round here several times, but her attitude had always been distant as if the visit were a chore she’d rather have done without.
‘Takes blessed ages on that blinkin’ bus. I ’ate the noise and rush of the West End, never could abide it. No one gives yer a second glance even if they bump inter yer.’
The nearest Mum came to showing any affection lately was a peck on the cheek, and when Geraldine burst into one of her frequent weeping fits in front of her, longing to be cuddled, to be comforted, there was only a cold, hard hand patting hers and a toneless encouragement to keep her chin up.
Mum had gone through this in her time, but rather than soften her to the pain of others it had hardened her to their weaknesses; if she had held up under the loss of a child, then so could another – no allowances for the fact that everyone was different. Mum’s life had taught her to be hard, and equally as hard on herself. But how wonderful it would have been to have just one small cuddle to say she cared.
Alan was leaning forward, his brown eyes full of regard. ‘You orright, ole gel?’
It was a simple enquiry, loosely encompassing a world of probabilities as most simple enquiries do for want of something more specific, and could have sounded inane, but coming from him, she knew instantly what he meant. She nodded wordlessly and the next second he was leaning towards her, taking her hands in his and there was pressure and warmth in those hands.
‘I wish I could take away yer sufferin’, Gel. I wish I could take it all on meself so’s yer’d be free of it.’
She found her voice, heard the tears in her throat, tears that stemmed from having someone feel for her. ‘You wouldn’t want this sort of suffering.’
‘Any sort,’ he said, his voice low, ‘so long as it freed you.’ He let go of her hands suddenly and moved back a fraction, gazing down at the hands that had previously held hers. ‘P’raps I shouldn’t say this, but I’ve got to. I ain’t just bein’ kind to yer. I’ve been wantin’ ter come and see yer for a long time but thought it best not to. But yer Mum seems upset so I promised meself I’d come.’
‘It’s good of you,’ Geraldine managed, controlling her tears.
‘It ain’t good of me.’ His tone had become harsh. ‘If I came reluctant-like, then maybe it would be good of me – like charity. But I came because I wanted to. Because I had to. I don’t want ter lose touch wiv yer.’
‘And I don’t want to lose touch with you, Alan,’ she said, still fighting the tears his kind sympathy had provoked. ‘We’ll always be friends.’
He sat very upright now. ‘No, you don’t understand, Gel. It’s more than that, more than just bein’ kind. It’s … I’ve got ter say it. It’s …’
He seemed to collapse a little within himself, the rigidness melting and he was leaning forward again, his gaze grown intense. ‘I still love yer, Gel. I always will. That’s why I ain’t found meself anuvver gel since I packed up with me wife. I’m bein’ stupid, I know, and you’re ’appily married, and I wouldn’t want ter see yer any ovver way, but it don’t alter how I feel about yer.’
Geraldine was staring at him. Deep in her heart she knew he loved her but to have it come out like that shook her and she didn’t know what to say to him. Was there anything to say?
‘Well, I’ve said it,’ he went on as though she had spoken her thoughts aloud. ‘All I want ter say now is, I ’ate seeing yer so un’appy. If only I could do somethink ter make yer better, but there ain’t nothink no one can do. The only one what can do anythink is yerself, and that takes time. Maybe it’ll take forever though I just ’ope and pray it won’t be forever, that in time all this pain and emptiness yer goin’ through will go away. I know the memory won’t ever leave yer,
but just that in time it won’t hurt so much. And I feel sure it will go away, Gel. I know you. You’re made of strong stuff and yer will weather it. Just one fing – don’t let it change yer. Don’t become all crabbed up and ’ard-’earted against the world. I couldn’t bear ter see that lovely nature of yours get lost in a twisted, bitter way. Think about it, Gel, think what I’ve said, or tried ter say.’
She sat silent, and a warmth seemed to be flowing from him into her, yet they were not touching. All of a sudden, Alan gave a low, almost self-conscious chuckle. ‘I fink I’ve said enough, yer know. I didn’t really come ’ere fer that. I just come ter …’
He stopped, and got slowly to his feet, yet it was as though he had left the warmth to continue flowing into her as she looked up at him.
His voice had lightened. ‘I ’ad no idea what I was going ter say when I come ’ere. I never intended … Never mind, forget what I said. Look, I’ve got ter be on me way.’ He stepped a little nearer, gazing down at her. ‘Will yer be orright?’
Geraldine’s smile was tremulous. ‘I think so.’ Now she too got to her feet. Her voice had grown suddenly strong. ‘Yes, Alan, I think I will be all right.’
‘Good.’ He turned and made for the door, with her following.
It was two people who were mere friends once more as she said goodbye, thanked him for coming, told him that he’d done her a great deal of good by doing so, and watched him depart, striding through a steady downpour as though he couldn’t feel it. But in her heart as she watched him go, she knew she’d never be the same. A declaration had been made and although she hadn’t returned it, she had accepted it, taken it to her and would never view him in the same light again. Unexpectedly she felt strong again – a goal had been reached and surpassed.
Going back indoors, she glanced in the lounge at the armchair where she’d sit for hours on end, then continued on to the kitchen to make tea.
The look on Mum’s face as she opened her street door to see Geraldine there was a picture to behold.