by Maureen Lee
‘I’m Moira Donovan, and I’d love a coffee.’ Was it only minutes ago she couldn’t wait to get away?
It was nice to have a wedding completely devoid of tension; the young couple so obviously mad about each other, money no object – Matthew Doyle, step-father of the bride, was paying for everything – and the groom with a First Class degree and a Master’s degree in Applied Mathematics and already employed as a junior lecturer at Cambridge University.
Greta was upset that her daughter’s own First Class degree had been a complete waste of time. Moira was engaged to be married when the result came through.
‘Don’t be daft, Mum,’ Moira sang. ‘I’m still going to be a teacher, aren’t I?’
Ruby had worried that Sam, an otherwise commendable young man, might turn up for his wedding looking like an unwashed hippy, but as the weeks and months passed his appearance gradually improved. He discovered soap and water, socks, wore clean jeans, shaved off his moustache, had his hair trimmed to shoulder length, and remembered to comb it.
When Sam married Moira, flushed and beautiful in ivory lace, he looked a perfectly respectable member of society. Once again, Matthew was prevailed upon to give the bride away. ‘Two granddaughters down, one to go,’ Ruby murmured when the newly married pair came out of the church and posed for photographs. She wondered where Ellie was, what she was doing, why she didn’t get in touch. She could at least write, let everyone know she was all right so they wouldn’t worry.
Daisy certainly wasn’t all right, though she was pretending to be, smiling stoically at everyone in sight. She’d lost weight and the creamy yellow bridesmaid’s dress made her look pale. Like her mother, Daisy had always been a stoic, never showing her feelings when she was hurt. She was hurting now, Ruby could tell and wondered why. It might be because Clint hadn’t come with her, he was too busy with his job, or it might be that was merely an excuse and it was for quite another reason that Clint hadn’t come.
‘Oh, you children are a worry,’ she complained to Brendan who was doing his best to break free from her restraining hand and create havoc among the guests – Sam’s widowed mother looked a nervous soul. ‘In another twenty years, I could be standing here and it’s you getting married. Mind you, by then I’ll be going on for eighty and might not live that long.’
No one noticed Daisy creep out of the reception. She caught a bus to the house she still thought of as home and let herself in. It was the first time she’d been in the place alone and the familar objects looked different, almost threatening, without Gran or her mother there, or one of her cousins. It was hard to imagine a door wouldn’t open any minute and someone would yell, ‘Daisy!’ or some other name. When she went to put the kettle on, the kitchen clock ticked more loudly than she remembered, and it was scary how the stairs creaked on her way upstairs to the lavatory.
Later, the tea made, Daisy sat in Gran’s spot on the settee, switching the television on for company, but without the sound. Everyone seemed to have accepted her explanation for Clint’s absence from the wedding. He was busy at work, she’d told them. He’d written to Moira to apologise for not coming. Daisy was supposed to be seeing his mum and dad tomorrow. She hated letting people down, but had no intention of going; she wasn’t in the mood for Pixie Shaw and her probing questions.
It was exactly a week ago that Clint had gone to America. It was her decision, not his, that she didn’t go with him. He’d written the script for a film promoting an electronics company that made those new-fangled video recorders. The film had been shown in California where the light, amusing tone of the narration had been much admired by a man called Theo Gregory who prepared videos for circulation. He’d managed to track Clint down. So far, they’d only spoken on the phone.
‘Theo said my script wasn’t pedantic and boring like these things usually are,’ Clint told her excitedly. ‘He wants me to write trailers. Just think, Daise, I’ll have to watch the movies first! And Santa Barbara’s not far from Los Angeles – Hollywood, Daisy.’
‘That’s wonderful, Clint.’ At first, she was just as excited as he was. ‘When will we go?’
‘Soon. Don’t tell anyone yet. I’ve got to sign a contract.’ He looked sheepish. ‘I’ve never signed a contract before. It’s the sort of thing they do in America. The salary’s amazing, about four times what I get now. You won’t need to work, just paint.’
‘It sounds marvellous!’
Two days later, Jason Wright, who lived downstairs, came to ask if he could borrow some milk. Jason was a sculptor who welded old bits of metal together with remarkable results. Daisy had seen his work as he was inclined to leave his door wide open when he was welding because of the dreadful smell.
‘Just half a cup will do, Daisy,’ he said at the door. ‘I’m dying for some coffee and I can’t stand it black. Oh, is that your painting? Do you mind if I have a look?’
‘Come in.’ She never felt shy or uncomfortable with fellow artists who were only interested in her work, not her appearance. ‘Would you like some coffee now? You can have the milk as well. I’m just about to make a meal. My husband will be home in a minute.’ Clint and Jason had never met.
‘You’re a mate, Daisy.’ He came into the room and went over to the easel. He was a magnificently built young man, dark like a gypsy, with broad muscled arms and shoulders of which he was obviously proud as he always wore sleeveless T-shirts, even when it was cold. Today he was all in black, and his peeling leather trousers were tight on his bulging thighs. She admired the way the muscles rippled as he walked. One of these days, she might paint him.
‘This looks interesting,’ he said in front of the painting she’d only started a few days before. ‘What’s it going to be?’
‘A womb,’ she explained. ‘My home, the house where I was brought up, was like a womb. I can’t say I was all that happy there, but I felt dead safe, as if nothing could touch me. The outside world seemed very far away and it didn’t affect us. Things that happened, the tragedies and the wars, could have been happening on a different planet. Our house was warm and comfortable, full of people. It was the best place on earth to come home to, the only place.’ Somewhat inexplicably, Daisy felt close to tears.
‘Wow!’ Jason looked impressed. ‘Did you go to art school?’
‘No. I’m not being conceited or anything, but I paint for meself. It’s the way I see things and I don’t want to be taught any different.’
‘What do you do with your paintings when they’re finished?’
‘They’re over there.’ She pointed to the stack of canvases on top of the wardrobe.
‘Can I look at them too?’
‘Of course.’ Daisy went to get a chair.
‘I’ll get them down. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’
Jason was reaching up for the paintings when Clint came in. ‘Oh, here’s my husband. Clint, this is Jason from downstairs. He’s a sculptor.’
‘Hello,’ Clint muttered.
The two young men stared at each other across the room. For several seconds, there was a surprising silence and Daisy was trying to think of something to say to break it, when she noticed Jason was looking at her husband with undisguised admiration in his dark eyes. Her gaze swiftly turned to Clint, and a feeling of horror swept over her when she realised that, caught unawares, he was returning the look.
The two young men were attracted to each other. Her worst suspicions had been confirmed.
Jason left without the milk he’d come for. That night, Daisy didn’t talk about what had occurred. She didn’t ask Clint why he was so edgy, just made the tea, watched the news on television, then got on with her painting.
When the contract from Theo Gregory arrived, Clint signed it immediately, put it in an envelope, and said he’d post it in the morning. ‘If I’m to start work on the first of October, we need to see the landlord soon, give him a month’s notice on this place.’ He glanced around the tall, miserable room. ‘I can’t say I’ll be sorry to see the back of it.
It means we can’t go to Moira’s wedding. Do you mind?’
‘There’s no need to see the landlord,’ Daisy said in a quiet voice. ‘And I’ll be going to Moira’s wedding. I’m a bridesmaid and I can’t let her down.’ She paused. ‘But I’m not going to America with you, Clint. I’m staying here.’
‘What?’ He looked at her in astonishment. ‘What on earth do you mean, Daisy?’
‘What I said, that I’m not coming with you.’
‘But I need you, Daise,’ he said frantically. His face had gone pale and he looked sick. ‘I’ll not go if you don’t come. I’ll tear the contract up.’
‘Why do you need me? As a shield to hide behind, so people won’t know the truth?’ It struck her that he’d been extremely selfish. He’d taken advantage of her love, used it, expected her to live a life of lies, pretending a marriage that would never be real, where there would never be children.
‘A shield?’ By now, he was visibly shaking. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Daisy.’
‘Yes, you do, Clint. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m trying to say. I think you should go to America, find yourself, admit what you are.’
He shrank into the chair, seemed to grow smaller in front of her eyes. ‘What I am?’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ Daisy felt very wise and calm and sensible. ‘I’ll always be proud to call you my friend, but not my husband, Clint. It was wrong of you to marry me. Perhaps you thought I was so plain and unattractive that I’d never find a husband, that I’d be happy to make do with one who wouldn’t want to sleep with me, kiss me properly, do all the things a proper husband does.’
‘Oh, God!’ He dropped his head into his hands and neither spoke for a long time. The only sound was the traffic outside which never stopped, not even at night. Then Clint pushed himself to his feet and came and knelt beside Daisy’s chair, laid his head on her lap. ‘Daisy, you’re the loveliest girl I’ve ever known. I wanted to love you, I do love you.’
‘But not in the right way, Clint. Oh!’ She put her hand on his neck and stroked it. ‘I wish you could, because I love you more than anyone on earth’. Even now, she felt tempted to stay with him, but he had to learn to stand on his own two feet. In the long run, they’d be better off without each other.
‘I’m sorry, Daise.’ His voice was muffled. She could feel his breath on her skirt. ‘I’ve been terrified all me life that someone would find out. Someone did once,’ he paused and made a face. ‘They didn’t tell anyone. But me dad would have killed me, and I daren’t think what Mum would have said. It would have been torture at school. I tried not to admit it, even to meself. Even now I can’t say the word that describes what I am.’
‘There’s no need to say it, we both know. From now on, you must be proud of what you are, not ashamed.’ Daisy began to cry. ‘Be happy in America, Clint. I’ll be thinking of you all the time.’
Daisy cried again, sitting in Gran’s place on the settee, watching people do meaningless things on television, not making a sound. At the wedding earlier, she’d felt envious of Moira, so clearly head over heels in love with Sam and he with her.
‘Why don’t you go back to your womb?’ Clint had said, only days before he’d left. The painting had remained untouched since the night she’d forced him to admit the truth.
‘Go home? Oh, no, I couldn’t. I’d never be able to keep up the lies. Anyroad, it’s going back and I’d sooner go forward.’ Somehow. She’d asked him not tell anyone about America until Moira’s wedding was over. There’d have been too many questions otherwise.
‘You’ll come and see me, won’t you?’ he said anxiously. ‘Say at Christmas. The weather’s fantastic in California.’
‘I’ll try.’ Daisy knew she would probably never see him again.
‘Don’t forget, I’ll send money. You can’t afford to live in London on your own.’
‘Thank you, Clint.’
‘Oh, Daisy!’ He cupped her face in his hands – he’d touched her more in the last few weeks than in all the years that had gone before. It was as if he could be himself at last. ‘Don’t thank me. You’d still be back in your womb if it weren’t for me. I’ve messed up your life and I’m sorry.’
The key sounded in the door and Daisy went into the hall. Gran came in carrying a deceptively angelic Brendan who was fast asleep.
‘He’s out like a light,’ she whispered. ‘He must have run a hundred miles today. I don’t know why it is kids have to go mad at weddings. I remember your mam and Greta going beserk at a wedding we had here during the war.’
‘Here, let me take him.’ Daisy held out her arms.
‘Be careful, he weighs a ton.’
‘Is his bed made?’
‘I’ve no idea, but he’s not likely to notice if it isn’t. Just take his top clothes off. The little imp can sleep in his underwear.’ Gran looked at her keenly. ‘I didn’t notice you leave the reception. Have you been crying, love?’
‘There was just this sad film on the telly.’ If only she could tell Gran everything! A trouble shared is a trouble halved, so people said. But Daisy had the feeling she would only cry again – and this time she would never stop.
When Daisy came home on Christmas Eve, she brought with her a large painting which she stood on the mantelpiece. ‘This is for you. Gran.’
‘Thank you, love.’ Ruby was taken aback. ‘What is it?’ she asked politely.
‘Home.’
‘Home?’ The painting consisted of a large circle – not a very good circle at that – filled with splodges. ‘It’s lovely, Daisy. Thank you very much. I don’t suppose you’ll be staying long, not with having to get back to work.’
‘I’ve left the shop. Next week, I’m starting as an usherette in the Odeon in Leicester Square, so I’ve got seven whole days.’ It meant the manageress of the shoe shop had been left in the lurch, what with the winter sales starting directly after Christmas, but the woman hadn’t a polite bone in her body and didn’t deserve any better.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t go to America for Christmas, stay with Clint.’
‘Can’t afford it, Gran. Anyroad, he shares a flat with a pile of other people. He couldn’t have put me up.’ The lies had already begun.
‘That’s a shame, love. You’ve hardly been married five minutes and already you’re living apart.’
Daisy decided that after Christmas, as soon as the celebrations were over, she’d tell Gran and her mother the truth.
Matthew came later with presents for under the tree. Daisy had gone to bed. ‘I can see what she’s getting at,’ he said when he saw the painting.
‘Then explain it to me,’ Ruby demanded. ‘It makes no sense at all as far as I can see.’
He shook his head. ‘One of these days the penny will drop and you’ll understand.’ He glanced from the painting to Ruby, then back again. ‘You’re very lucky, all of you. I wish I were in Daisy’s painting, but there was never a chance of that and now it’s too late.’
Ruby hadn’t the faintest notion what he was talking about.
It was almost midnight when Moira and Sam arrived. Moira’s career as a teacher hadn’t got off the mark. She was three months pregnant and thrilled to bits. The baby was expected in June.
Nowadays, Pixie Shaw took it for granted she and her husband would be invited to Christmas dinner. Throughout the meal, Daisy was subjected to the third degree. ‘Clint hardly tells us anything in his letters,’ Pixie complained. She was annoyed Moira was having a baby and Daisy wasn’t. ‘And you got married so much earlier.’
‘It’s not a race, Pixie,’ Ruby said tartly. ‘Daisy and Clint will have children when it suits them, not you.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Heather echoed. There was no love lost between her and Pixie Shaw. ‘I wouldn’t dream of pressing Daisy to have a baby just so I can be a grandmother. It seems most unfair.’
For the first time ever, Ruby was glad when dinner was over. The meal had been full of tension. Next
year, she’d tell Pixie they’d been invited out, though the strained mood hadn’t only been Pixie’s fault; Daisy was clearly upset, Greta was sulking about something, and Matthew hardly spoke. Even Brendan didn’t help, he was aching to get back to his presents. She thanked the Lord that Moira and Sam were there, providing at least two happy faces.
Greta and Matthew must have had another row, which was all they seemed to do these days. Perhaps Greta had been spending too much money again. ‘She’ll have me bankrupt, so she will,’ Matthew had groaned only a few weeks ago. ‘She’s only gone and bought a gazebo for the garden – in the middle of winter too!’ Ruby had never dreamed her nice, agreeable daughter could be so thoughtlessly extravagant.
It was unreasonable to feel so cross when Moira and Sam decided to go for a walk, depriving the house of their cheerful company. She marched into the living room, determined to make everyone play a game and elicit a laugh or two, but Greta had already turned on the television and they sat like lumps for the rest of the afternoon watching The Sound of Music, a film Ruby had seen before and hadn’t liked – and liked even less the second time around.
It was a lousy Christmas. Ruby was glad when it was over and things returned to normal. But not for long, because Daisy revealed the reason why Clint had gone to America on his own and completely spoilt New Year.
Matthew rang one afternoon in March when a brisk, urgent wind was playing havoc with the house, rattling the windows and whistling through the cracks around the doors.
‘Ruby, something terrible’s happened.’ His voice shook.
‘Oh, yes?’ Ruby said coolly.
He mustn’t have noticed her frosty tone. ‘I got home from work early, about an hour ago. I was feeling dead rotten, I think I must be coming down with flu.’
‘Dearie me.’
‘I thought Greta was out – until I went upstairs and found me fucking wife in bed with another man. Oh, Rube!’ he said hoarsely. ‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve got to talk to someone. Can I come round?’