Paper Doll

by Janet Woods

  ‘And I’ll clear the table and help you wash up,’ and her voice was thick with tears. ‘Your new abode is comfortable.’

  ‘I like it now it’s clean and tidy, and it’s nice to have some space around me. Although it was kind of Arthur Feltham to offer me accommodation while I was in London, it was rather small for two of us. My house in Bournemouth has attracted a decent tenant, by the way.’

  ‘Oh good . . . Did you manage to find somewhere to set your train set up here?’

  ‘Not yet; I’ll leave it boxed for now.’

  ‘What a pity. I was hoping we’d be able to play with it. I imagine Daddy will be asleep when you take the coffee in.’

  ‘Does he sleep much during the day?’

  ‘He drifts off. He says he’s getting old.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Sixty. My mother was ten years younger than him. He seems to have slowed down considerably over the past year, which is why he’s retired a little earlier than he intended too.’

  ‘Perhaps you should persuade him to see his doctor and get a check-up.’

  Alarm filled her. ‘Do you think there’s something wrong with him then?’

  ‘I don’t think anything of the sort. I’m just suggesting that a precautionary check-up wouldn’t hurt a man of his age – any age come to that.’ He took the dirty plates from her and set them on the draining board.

  ‘My father can be awfully stubborn at times,’ she said when he turned back.

  ‘I’ve noticed.’

  Her eyes sought his. ‘You’d tell me if you thought he was ill, wouldn’t you, Martin?’

  His eyelids flickered. ‘I’m not his doctor . . . besides which there’s a small question of privacy.’ He took her hands in his. ‘No medical practitioner worth his salt would break confidentiality between himself and his patient.’

  She nodded. ‘I understand that, but you’re no longer a doctor, you’re a factory manager.’

  ‘And as such I’m unable to offer an opinion on anyone’s health.’

  ‘Unable, or unwilling?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be ethical.’

  ‘No . . . it wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous . . . I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m a bit worried about him.’ Removing her hands she abruptly changed the subject. ‘Latham Miller has asked me to marry him. I haven’t told my father yet.’

  He stared at her, a nerve twitching in his jaw. Stiffly, he said, ‘I suppose that’s only to be expected. Congratulations.’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d accepted him.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘He’d be able to keep you in luxury.’

  ‘Yes . . . I suppose he would; is that why you said it was to be expected?’ and she couldn’t keep the coldness from her voice. She gazed to where her father had made himself comfortable in an armchair by the fire. ‘I don’t think Daddy likes him.’

  ‘You’re Benjamin’s only daughter. He would find it hard to give you away to another man, especially a business rival. But he’d come round because he’d want you to be happy.’

  ‘Latham isn’t a rival. As far as I can see, all he’s done is make an offer for the business. Daddy turned it down and that’s that.’

  ‘It’s possible that he’ll change his mind . . . in time.’

  She doubted it. ‘Have you ever considered marrying?’

  ‘I was engaged once.’

  ‘What happened? And before you tell me to mind my own business . . . what happened?’

  ‘I went away to war.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she wait for you? I would have.’ Laughter trickled from her when he grinned. ‘What I meant was that if I’d been put in the position of waiting for my fiancé to return, I would have. In fact, I did. I waited for Dickie.’

  ‘Susan waited for me, too.’

  Her curiosity got the better of her. ‘And . . .?’

  ‘I released her from the engagement.’

  She could hear the pain in his voice, and remembered he’d spent time in a hospital. Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Did you love her very much?’

  The kettle had begun to boil and the lid was rattling. ‘She was a nice girl, uncomplicated, and marriage was expected of us. She deserved better than the man who came back from the war. It was the right thing to do, and she’s married to somebody else and is happy.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the end of the nose, saying gently, ‘Don’t cry over me, Julia, dear.’

  ‘You should have married your nice uncomplicated girl. She could have looked after you. Can I hug you?’

  He shook his head.

  She did anyway. Taking a step towards him she slid her arms around him and looked up at him, smiling. ‘What will you do now, Lee-Trafford?’

  ‘What you’re expecting me to do . . .’ His mouth closed over hers in the softest of kisses that carried her into the clouds. The tip of his tongue parted her lips and gently flicked and probed. She moved against his hard body and for a moment they exchanged the close intimacy of their embrace.

  There came a moment when his whole body stiffened. He removed her arms, placed her away from him and gazed at her. ‘Did you love the man you waited for . . . the one who never returned?’

  It was like being doused with cold water. There wasn’t much space between them, just a heartbeat or two, but it might as well have been a mile, a stony one littered with barriers. Those barriers clearly told her to keep her distance. What would happen if she crossed them again, kept crossing them?

  She knew now that she hadn’t crossed them, he hadn’t allowed her to. But she’d already made a fool of herself. She gave a light laugh and shrugged him off. ‘You’re as prickly as a hedgehog.’

  ‘I don’t need your motherly hugs, Julia.’

  She’d already been bloodied by her father – now this. She hit back. ‘Ah . . . yes, you do, Lee-Trafford, you always have. Every boy has the need of a mother to hold him close and comfort him.’

  ‘Not me . . . not my mother.’

  ‘Especially you and yours. You repel affection as though it’s a disease, and avoiding it is the manly thing to do. That way you can’t be infected by it. What are you scared of, emotional closeness? You’ve cried before over your father . . . why can’t you cry for the loss of your mother?’

  ‘I’m still trying to find out. Until I do I must cope the best way I can. Please don’t trample on my toes, Julia. I don’t want to hurt you.’

  His answer was unexpected, and it was all the more poignant because he’d given her just a glimpse of himself.

  A lump gathered in her throat. ‘Damn you then; it was only a hug, not a threat . . . until you changed it into one.’ On the stove behind him the kettle lid had taken on a furious clackety-clack. Gruffly she said, ‘You’d better make the coffee before you run out of steam. I’ll go and check on Clarence and Billy Boy.’

  Her feeble joke attracted an equally feeble laugh as she turned and walked away.

  After his guests had gone, Martin brought the kittens through and fed them. They were as lively as fleas, jumping out from behind the chairs and wrestling with each other, causing him an amusing half-hour before they tired and settled themselves in his lap to knead at his thighs.

  He gazed into the firelight, gently stroking them and enjoying the peace of his solitary state.

  His conversation with Julia had been enlightening. Not the words themselves, but her instinct to close in on his weakness. He had felt threatened by her hug, and not because of his mother, but because any closeness with Julia brought the inevitable reaction. But he had kissed her – and he wanted her – and it was too late because Latham Miller had put his claim on her.

  Even so, his mother did come into his mind now, and he allowed her to stay there. He’d never once considered that she might have a side to the story that he hadn’t heard. He’d just accepted his father’s account of things, and the occasional reinforcement of them. Sharing confidences hadn’t come easy to the ma
n, but Martin had always been sure of his affection – or had it been possession?

  Moving the kittens to the other armchair he went into his bedroom and fetched a box from the top shelf of the wardrobe.

  The box housed family records such as birth and death certificates, the deeds to the house in Bournemouth and, right at the bottom, an envelope containing a photograph. It was a studio photograph of his father and mother taken thirty years before.

  His mother was seated with a baby in her arms. She was gazing down at him with an affectionate smile on her face. The baby gazed back at her with a contented secure expression, as though he knew he was loved. A small hand reached out from the shawl and was extended towards her face, as though he wanted to caress her. More fool him! His father stood behind, his hand on her shoulder staring at the camera. He looked rather stern.

  Flipping the photograph over Martin read the inscription, written in his mother’s handwriting. He’d not known the photograph existed until after his father had died.

  My dearest Martin’s christening day. June 12th 1892.

  He stared at it for a long time. His mother was wasp-waisted, due no doubt to her rigid corset. She wore a flowing dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves, high collared and trimmed with lace, and a wide hat decorated with flowers. She looked quite beautiful with her dark hair framing her face. He wished he could see her eyes, but they were looking into his and shaded by her eyelids, and he was too young to recall that moment of connection with her.

  He knew he wasn’t being, had never been, fair to his mother. She didn’t look like a woman who’d abandon her child easily. Her father said he’d done the right thing by her under the circumstances – that men could. But was it right to deprive a woman of her son – and that son of his mother?

  ‘My dearest Martin,’ he whispered.

  He began to wonder – was she still alive?

  Reaching out he picked up the telephone receiver and held it against his ear, swiftly replacing it in the rest again. He didn’t want to do anything he might come to regret. He must think about it first.

  Somewhere inside him a small voice told him he’d more likely come to regret it if he didn’t make an effort, and that perhaps he was being too cautious. Julia had been right. He had cried for the loss of his father but he couldn’t remember ever crying over his mother, because she hadn’t been allowed to exist.

  Picking up the receiver again he gave the operator the number of his father’s lawyer, and while he waited to be connected he thought; if his mother couldn’t be found, then at least he had tried.

  Eight

  It was April, and soft showers chased across the Surrey countryside, silvering the spring foliage.

  Dear Sir,

  I’m writing this letter becus you awt to no that your daughter Miss Julia Howerd did the wrong thing over New Year.

  Ellen gazed towards the window where her mistress stood in a cloud of dense cigarette smoke, gazing out. ‘Have I got to do this, Miss?’

  ‘If you want that bonus I promised you . . . and if you want to keep your job.’

  Sighing, Ellen licked the lead at the end of the pencil. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Goodness, you ignorant little fool. Just say that Miss Howard was under the influence of drink and drugs and you saw her on the bed with three naked men . . . You saw it yourself, so you know it’s not lies. Tell him she’s now the subject of gossip.’

  ‘I don’t know how to spell all them words.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how you spell them. Just do it!’

  Miss Howerd drunk and took some dope, then she went to bed with three naked men. Everbody is talking about it, and I see’d it with my own eyes. Shameful, it were.

  ‘How shall I sign it, Miss?’

  ‘Anonymous.’

  Anoneemuss.

  ‘Now, put it in the envelope and write Mr Howard on it.’

  When Ellen did as she was told Irene smiled and handed her a pound. It was a sum Ellen hadn’t been able to turn down, since she could send it to her mother to help support her young brothers.

  ‘There you are, you’ll be able to buy that nice hat you wanted. Remember, this is our little secret.’

  ‘Yes, Miss . . . Thank you, Miss.’

  ‘And Ellen . . . if this gets out, especially to my mother, I’ll know where to look for you and your life will suddenly become hell on earth.’

  Nearly in tears, Ellen mumbled, ‘I won’t say anything, I promise.’

  ‘As long as that’s understood.’ Irene swept the letter into her bag. ‘Take my hat and coat down to the hall, then go and tell the chauffeur I’m ready for him to take me to the station.’

  Ellen did as she was told, hating Irene Curruthers for making her do such a mean thing. How could she do this to that nice Miss Howard, who was supposed to be her friend? And she couldn’t tell anyone because the letter was in her handwriting, and they wouldn’t believe she hadn’t written it. Guilt beset her, and she hoped she could lie well enough to escape the eagle eye of Lady Curruthers when she questioned her about what her daughter had been up to.

  Irene had no such qualms as she looked in on her parents, who were in the morning room. ‘I’m off then.’

  Her father barely glanced at her over his paper. He managed a grunt then went back to his reading.

  Her mother was chattier. ‘I don’t know why you have to rush off to London as soon as your father and I get here.’

  ‘Oh, really, Mummy . . . it’s been two weeks already, and I told you, I want to go to Aileen’s coming-of-age party at the Savoy before I go to Monte Carlo in May.’

  ‘If you see Charles, tell him to work hard this term. And Irene . . . do try and find yourself a nice man and settle down.’

  ‘Yes, Mother. I’ll certainly keep trying.’ She was meeting Latham in May and intended to get him back. Her glance fell on her younger brother. ‘What’s the creep doing here, why isn’t he at school?’ Nicholas looked like their father, rather short, with a long, hooked nose and big ears. He was sixteen, and had spots.

  ‘I told you . . . oh, why don’t you ever listen to me? Nicholas is recovering from measles. We decided to bring him home for the rest of the term, where the country air will be beneficial. I’d prefer it if you didn’t call him names, Irene. He’s sensitive.’

  ‘So am I, but you didn’t make such a fuss over me as you do over him. I hope I don’t catch his stinking measles. That would be the last straw.’

  ‘You’ve already had it, dear . . . at boarding school.’

  ‘In that case you can give me a hug, Nicky boy.’

  Nicholas complied, his head resting against her breast. There was a sneaky movement as he turned his head slightly and his hot breath fanned over her nipple.

  ‘You dirty dog,’ she whispered in his ear, and he giggled.

  The train left on time, though Irene was forced to share a compartment with a man who got on at the last minute and couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. He was quite handsome, in a dark-eyed, swarthy sort of way. His hair was slicked back with oil.

  What was first class coming to, she thought, and wished that the train had a corridor. Oh well, if she couldn’t get rid of him she might as well make the most of him, and she hadn’t played this game for a long time.

  Crossing her legs to give him an elegant expanse of silk stockings to consider, Irene smiled at him, then pulled her fur around her shoulders and turned to gaze out of the window. There she saw only his reflection in the mirror, and grinned when he surreptitiously adjusted his crotch.

  There was something exciting about the man’s bold stare so she turned and stared back at him, an enquiry in her eyes. ‘Did you want something?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I’m James. Didn’t we meet at a New Year party?’

  ‘I would have remembered if we had. I’m Lola. Have you ever had an encounter with a stranger in a train?’

  He laughed. ‘Not yet . . . How much do you charge?’

  How absolutely pr
iceless; he thought she was a whore! Wait until she told Charles; he’d laugh himself silly.

  ‘You don’t understand, James. You’re the tart and I’m the customer. How much do you charge?’

  ‘A pound,’ he said, then stuttered when she took out her purse and dropped the money into his palm. ‘I say, I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I did,’ she said.

  When they arrived in London Irene left a dishevelled James behind adjusting his garments, though she’d been tempted to take his trousers with her. She took a cab to Earls Court. There was a ragged-looking lad begging on the corner.

  She handed him the letter Ellen had written and pointed. ‘See the entrance door to that building; there should be a porter inside. Hand him the letter. When you come back I’ll give you sixpence.’

  ‘What if there ain’t no porter?’

  ‘Just throw it on the floor inside.’

  ‘And what if there is a porter and he wants ter know who it’s from?’

  Irene lost patience and took him by the ear, her nails digging into the lobe. ‘Tell him to mind his own business. Look . . . Do you want to earn sixpence or not?’

  ‘Aw right, Miss. Ow . . . let me go; that hurts.’

  When she released him the boy scuttled off. He was back within a few seconds. ‘Well?’ she said.

  He grinned. ‘Nobody was there ’cepting a young man, not much bigger than me. He looked like a performing monkey in his uniform.

  ‘What do you want, boy? sez he, looking down his nose like I was a bad smell. I handed him the letter. Less of your bleedin’ lip and take this, my man, sez I, all grand like.’ He held out his hand. ‘That will be sixpence, please Miss, and if you or your friends need any more jobs doing, Jake is your man.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Dropping a coin into his palm, Irene smiled as she walked away.

  Later that afternoon Julia placed the post on to the table next to her father’s chair and gazed at the book in his lap.

  ‘Scaramouche by Rafael Sabatini. Is it good?’

  ‘Excellent. I can’t put it down.’

  ‘Latham is taking me out tonight so I’m off to get a bath.’