by Parks, Adele
Lawrence was a gentleman. He’d pulled apart. Eventually, not too suddenly. Obviously reluctantly. And he’d apologised. Sarah knew he was apologising for the impossible position he’d placed her in, but she got the feeling that he wasn’t absolutely sorry about the kiss. The kiss had not tasted of regret. There was no re-enactment of the scene that Sarah had witnessed in Sir Peter Pondson-Callow’s study between Lydia and Edgar Trent. Lawrence had not tugged at her undergarments, or clasped his mouth on her nipples. Although she wanted him to.
She did.
She knew she shouldn’t. But she did. The confusing mix of contradictory emotions was almost enough to make her want to stay hidden in this room for ever. She could not face what she had done; she could not decide what to do next. And yet the morning sun illuminated the pretty floral curtains in a way that made her want to fling them open, throw the window wide, inhale the sweet fragrance of the freshly mowed lawns and hear the birds singing. She wanted to run downstairs and eat her breakfast with relish. She thought perhaps she’d taste the food again. For so long now she hadn’t much cared what she ate – eggs were all the same as porridge or kippers – but now she thought she fancied grapefruit and toast. She anticipated the citrus sharpness that would contrast with the sweet preserve.
She wondered what to wear. She hadn’t anticipated staying and hadn’t packed an overnight bag. When Lawrence had suggested she stay, the maids had found her a nightdress and toiletries but all she had to wear was yesterday’s dress. She wished she had something a little prettier. An audacious and unreasonable thought crossed her mind: she could sneak into Lydia’s room and borrow one of her innumerable dresses. No one would notice, not if she picked something Lydia hadn’t worn for a while. That wouldn’t be difficult; Lydia had so many frocks, she was able to rotate her garments at leisure. It wasn’t exactly wrong, Sarah tried to tell herself. If Lydia were here, she would certainly allow her to borrow a dress; she’d often done so before. Although, admittedly, in the past Sarah had never been motivated by a desire to look lovely so she could seduce Lydia’s husband. It was probably erroneous, yet a delicious and rare sense of mischief flooded through Sarah’s body. Lydia had left her clothes and left her husband; she didn’t want them any more. It would be silly to waste them. She swung her legs out of bed and, still barefooted, sneaked out of the room and along the corridor. For the first time in many years, Sarah felt glad to be alive.
53
LYDIA WOKE FROM her groggy, interrupted sleep to the noise of the birds singing in the garden. They sounded like screeching sirens. She’d slept badly. The skin underneath her eyes stung. She’d cried quietly most of the night. Her stomach felt hollow and she knew she ought to go and find something to eat. If she didn’t, she’d probably have another awful bout of morning sickness. Yet she could not get out of bed. The very thought was too much for her.
She was at last in tune with her generation. Despair crept through every vessel in her body. Grief-stricken and struggling, she wondered what it was all about. It was a world where people no longer were forced to rise to the challenge of patriotism or faith, nor indeed did they have to fall for it. Theirs was a life that lurched from wild jazz parties and exciting love affairs to mass unemployment and abandoned women, a land where no one rose for anything at all, not even breakfast. Lydia felt uninspired and futile.
She could hear the dogs barking and scampering around the house, unaware of the human pain, their claws clicking on the flagstones, eyes and noses wet. She missed his cat’s peaceful indolence. The household waited. Each wrapped in the labyrinth of their own drama.
When the door to her room squeaked open, she wanted to hide under the covers. She expected Dickenson, which would have been bad enough; it was Sarah, which was significantly worse.
Sarah stumbled. ‘Lydia, what are you doing here?’
‘I live here.’ As Lydia said it, she felt like a fraud. She did not live here; well, at least she almost hadn’t. Did she mean to come back?
‘I thought you’d left.’
‘I see.’ Lawrence had clearly told her everything; Lydia could imagine the scene. Intense and charged. Culminating in an illicit kiss. She wondered when and how she would tell her friend that she’d seen her kissing her husband. Perhaps she’d leave it to Sarah to broach the subject. She wondered how much she cared.
‘Did you change your mind?’ Sarah came into the room and sat on Lydia’s bed. She’d done as much so many times before since their girlhoods that it didn’t seem peculiar.
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘He did. Oh God, Sarah, he’s left me.’ Lydia gave in to another burst of tears; even though part of her had sworn that she’d never turn to Sarah for succor again, she was not able to resist. She had scant options and was in dire need of some comfort. Sarah crawled closer to her friend and took her in her arms. She held Lydia as Lydia quaked and gulped. ‘What am I to do?’ she sobbed.
Sarah sighed wearily. Once again she felt the colour drain out of her life; fleeting opportunities collapsed and she was forced to pack away her own needs. She’d only allowed herself to hope momentarily. She could stem the flow. She was obliged to. She thought of Lawrence’s dark, thoughtful eyes, which never lost their kind expression of involved interest, and she knew she had to turn away from them. She was surprised to realise that because she’d suffered much, additional pain was at once unbearable and frothy. ‘You must stay here with Lawrence,’ she said.
Lydia, who was so much more used to saying what she actually thought nowadays, cried, ‘But I don’t want to.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘And he won’t want me to.’
‘He hasn’t seen the letter. He doesn’t know anything. I kept it from him.’
Lydia didn’t understand. She’d seen them kiss. She’d assumed it was a consequence of Lawrence’s emotional state after reading the letter that said she was leaving him, pregnant with another man’s child, in love with another man. She’d thought the kiss must have been motivated by revenge, or anger, or jealousy. If not that, then what? She wanted to ask Sarah but could not bring herself to.
She thought back to the advice Sarah had given her when she’d first stated her intention of leaving Lawrence. Sarah had suggested that Lydia could continue to see Edgar; she’d pointed out that people carried on illicit affairs all the time. She had been unequivocal that the important thing was to protect the family name, to avoid a scandal. Was it possible that Sarah and Lawrence were having an affair? Had been having one for some time now? Lydia was so distraught she couldn’t think straight. It was possible, but for all that, it didn’t seem probable. If they were having an affair, why would Sarah encourage her to stay? She wasn’t married. She stood to gain so much if Lydia left.
Perhaps the kiss hadn’t been anything significant; a drunken mistake. Heat of the moment. Yet Lydia had seen it. It had looked significant. The kiss had made her ache with jealousy. Not that she was jealous about Lawrence’s affections, but it had reminded her of stolen kisses she’d enjoyed with Edgar.
‘The baby,’ she muttered.
‘Exactly, you have your baby to consider.’ Sarah pulled away from Lydia and swung her legs off the bed so that her back was turned. ‘You need a home. The baby needs a father. You must stay.’
‘But it wouldn’t be fair on Lawrence bringing up another man’s child.’ Over the past two weeks Lydia had staunchly argued as much, on a number of occasions, to her friends; this time she sounded less adamant. Sarah heard the hesitancy in her voice and knew that Lydia was reconsidering her position. She closed her eyes, trying to trap in the tears.
‘Not fair, no, but the best of a bad job,’ she replied. ‘He’ll be a good father. I’ve seen him with my children while they stayed here this summer. Besides, he might be the father.’
‘I’m certain he’s not,’ said Lydia meekly. She hadn’t made love with her husband for months.
‘Nothing is certain. Not marriage or parenthood. The good won’t be rewarded and
the bad won’t be punished. You can lament the fact or you can use it, but it is what it is,’ said Sarah sharply. ‘You have to stay, because there is nowhere else for you to go. Edgar Trent doesn’t want you.’
Sarah stood up but still wouldn’t turn to her friend. Lydia guessed she must be embarrassed or ashamed about kissing Lawrence. There was no need. A silly mistake, no doubt. Certainly nothing significant, because if it was, Sarah would not be arguing so staunchly for Lydia to stay. Lydia decided the decent thing was to forget all about the silly kiss; it was better never to mention it to either Sarah or Lawrence. There was enough confusion.
The two women sighed in unison.
‘You should get up, Lydia. Have something to eat and get on with being the Countess of Clarendale.’
AUTUMN
54
AVA LOVED AUTUMN. The summer had been too long, hot and disruptive. She didn’t just mean the temperature and the strikes that had made the headlines; she meant all the disorder and upset her friends had endured. But now the crisp, sharp days had finally usurped the troublesome, indolent ones. Ava enjoyed the sense of productivity that accompanied autumn. Somehow – because the towns were fogged and the countryside misty, mornings were dim and dusk arrived quickly, then lingered for a long time – people were conscious that a lot had to be achieved in the few hours they had. There was a sense that people hurried to wherever it was they were going. Scarves protected as boots stamped out the paths of workers scuttling to and from factories, hospitals, schools and offices. Ava was among them. Ava had an office to go to every day of the week.
Her father had made a surprise offer for her to take control of a number of his smaller concerns. He’d made it quite clear that depending on her progress, she ought to expect speedy promotion. One day, if she proved able and willing, she would be in charge of his entire empire. Ava did not doubt she was both. It was what she had been waiting for. She’d secretly anticipated as much for ever, but since both her twenty-first birthday and her twenty-fifth had come and gone without an offer of regular employment, she certainly hadn’t dared to ever count on it. Having direction and focus was a relief.
Her mother was outraged. She’d said that all chances of matrimony were ruined if Ava took up full-time employment, but Sir Peter Pondson-Callow had been unwavering. Ava would work. She’d put her phenomenal brain to use. ‘No doubt she’ll make us all very rich,’ he’d said, then offered his daughter a cigar.
Ava’s first thoughts were about diversification. She wondered whether they could get into electronics; it was a booming industry. But first she needed to set their house in order. She had long since studied examples of model employers such as Bournville and Cadbury, and now set about introducing social reforms into her father’s factories; she believed they would improve productivity and worker loyalty. She wanted to increase the women’s wages by twenty-six per cent to bring them in line with the men’s. When Sir Peter spluttered his outrage at parting with such substantial amounts of cash, Ava suggested a compromise. ‘How about a ten per cent increase in wages and then we offer bonuses instead.’
‘What sort of bonuses?’ he asked warily.
‘Boots.’
‘Boots?’
‘For their families. We make boots but a number of our employees’ children go to school barefoot. We should give them shoes and boots.’
‘The little buggers constantly grow.’
‘Then they can return the shoes when they grow out of them. We can pass them down to the younger children. I think we should give them eggs and milk too.’
‘Eggs? Milk?’
‘Do you know how many days you lost to sickness and strikes last year?’
‘Too many.’
‘Exactly. Milk is threepence a pint and eggs a shilling a dozen at retail. You could buy in bulk for a fraction, then distribute on a Friday. A treat for the weekend. They need the nutrition. It’s desperate. The properly poor wait until the market stalls close down and then they forage. It isn’t dignified. It isn’t right.’
‘How do you know how much eggs cost?’ Sir Peter asked, surprised but impressed.
‘I know a great many things, Father. For example, I know that only one third of the working-class volunteers were considered fit enough to fight the damned war, they were so malnourished.’
‘Lucky them.’
‘Well, at least until conscription started.’
‘Desperation, you mean,’ sighed Sir Peter. He had never seen the glory in war, although he’d made more than a bob or two from it.
‘Since they did all fight, I think we ought to do more to change things.’
‘So single-handedly you’re going to make it the land fit for heroes they were promised, are you?’
‘I’m going to try,’ said Ava grimly, ignoring the amused scepticism in her father’s tone. She did not tell her father about plans to distribute condoms to the workers, male and female alike. But she did mention the introduction of a Christmas savings scheme, and she allowed the workers to understand that she’d hire an open-topped charabanc in the summer, so they could have a day trip to Brighton. All expenses paid. Productivity went up by nineteen per cent in the first month of her employment.
Ava often wondered what had prompted her father’s change of mind on the subject of her employment. Whoever or whatever it was, she was extremely grateful. She had never felt so alive and useful as she did when she sat in front of the clock-in cards, ledgers and order books.
It was almost with reluctance that she left the office, even though it was past eight and she needed to go home and change. She only relinquished her position at the desk because she’d promised the girls that they’d meet up for cocktails at nine. Beatrice wanted to update them on Georgina Vestry’s progress as a debutante, and both Sarah and Lydia were in dire need of a jolly night out.
Lydia had not thrived since the summer. She had resigned herself to her fate as Countess of Clarendale, but she did not give the impression she appreciated it, let alone relished it. She was lacklustre, rather like a garment that had been left out in the sun for too long and been bleached; she’d lost all her colour and vitality. She did not giggle or dance; she spoke calmly in measured tones, rarely bothering to pass an opinion on anything or even indulge in gossip. It became difficult to discern what pleased her and what didn’t. If indeed anything pleased her. She’d get used to things, Ava told herself. She’d done the right thing. It was clear Lydia missed the sergeant major, but that would pass, in time. Indeed, Ava had rather expected the desire to wane by now.
Still, at least Lydia’s morbid dowdiness was understandable, but Sarah was no better and her gloomy attitude really did perplex Ava. Sarah had always been the sort to keep her chin up. There was no doubt that she’d silently endured much. Then, during the summer, Ava had thought she was showing signs of finally casting off her perpetual grief: she’d started to take an interest in clothes and her appearance, she’d started to read newspapers again, and had twice suggested excursions for their entire gang. It had all come to an abrupt and inexplicable stop; it was frustrating to see her dim again.
Ava believed that when people were down in the dumps, the only answer was to fly high in the sky, so they met in the Silver Cat, a new nightclub that was being widely reviewed and generally raved about. Whilst she had become a professional working woman, Ava certainly didn’t want to be dull, and she felt it was almost her duty to investigate the new hot spot. She wished she’d picked more effervescent chums to accompany her, though. Freddie or Doug would have offered to dance, paid for the drinks and, most importantly, smiled.
Ava never thought she’d find herself in a position where Beatrice seemed the most jolly and interesting among her group. Bea seemed to be oblivious to the moody silences and waxed lyrical about Georgina’s dress for the Queen Charlotte’s debutante ball, the Vestry girl’s coming-out date.
‘So she’s picked white chiffon, over a gold slip which in due course will be turned into another dress.’
/> ‘Very practical,’ commented Sarah.
Whilst this was indeed true, Ava thought they were all perhaps missing the point of a debut ballgown. Surely the important thing was whether it shimmered, flowed, enhanced and captivated.
‘I’ve had a rather dreary day practising the walk and curtsey for when she is presented at court.’ Bea professed a sense of tedium that Ava doubted. It was clear that Bea enjoyed her new role enormously and was gaining considerable vicarious pleasure from preparing Miss Vestry for court. She looked alert and tested. It clearly suited her being around youth and vitality; there hadn’t been enough of that in Bea’s life, and it seemed that it was to some degree catching. Bea detailed Georgina’s other plans. She spoke with authority. ‘Sir Henry Vestry has taken a box at Covent Garden. Did I mention that? Well, it’s essential that debs see a little life, and the opera and ballet set the tone. Don’t you agree? It’s so important to give them the sort of occasion that is correctly dazzling and luxurious.’
‘They’ll all be starry-eyed,’ commented Sarah.
‘Exactly.’ It seemed that Beatrice had gained the respect of the young woman; Ava didn’t doubt that it wouldn’t be long before Georgina Vestry turned to Bea for romantic advice. Oh, the irony.
‘Did you use a tablecloth as a veil for the practice?’ Ava asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I remember doing that!’ Ava had walked around her drawing room with Lydia, both trailing tablecloths from their heads. Walk. Stop. Curtsey. Rise. How they’d giggled. ‘Do you remember, Lydia? We thought the whole aspect was such a riot.’
Lydia smiled wanly but didn’t enter into the conversation beyond commenting, ‘It seems a very long time ago.’
Ava sighed. She didn’t subscribe to wallowing and was beginning to find Lydia’s broken heart a bore. Bea picked up the mantle, showing a newly developed maturity and tact, or simply perhaps she wanted the conversation to come back round to her again. ‘Georgina is a charming girl, and very pretty. I am sure she’ll make a good season, but graceful she isn’t. All she has to do is curtsey without getting entangled and then move off.’