Wives & Mothers

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  In her room above the boutique in Prince Regent Street, Elaine unwrapped the flat square parcel and squealed with delight.

  ‘Oooh, the latest Beatles. Thanks, Alison.’ She turned to put it on the turntable of her record player, closing her eyes in delight as the opening bars of ‘Yesterday’ filled the room.

  Alison grinned. ‘I thought you’d like it. What else did you get for your birthday?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ Elaine crossed the room to her wardrobe and took out the red dress her mother had given her. Alison gasped.

  ‘Wow! A mini. It’s fab. Go on, put it on and let’s have a look at you.’

  ‘Mum got it last week when she went up to London buying for the shop,’ Elaine said, struggling out of her jeans and tee-shirt. ‘It was from Carnaby Street and I’ve got tights and shoes to go with it — and some Mary Quant make-up. Wait till you see.’

  Alison threw herself down on the bed, watching as her friend twirled for her approval. ‘You are lucky, being so skinny. A proper little Twiggy, aren’t you? I wish my mum was a with it career woman like yours. Mum’s so boring. She’s never even heard of Billy J Kramer, and she thinks the Springfields is a place in Holland where they grow tulips.’

  They collapsed into giggles, falling about like puppies. ‘I don’t believe you,’ Elaine said. ‘Anyway, your mum is a lovely cook.’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose I can’t have everything.’ Alison reached for Elaine’s hairbrush and began absent-mindedly to brush her hair. It was long and fair, reaching almost to her waist, and fashionably poker straight. Elaine watched her enviously for a moment.

  ‘I wish my hair was straight like yours. I hate the way mine curls. I asked Mum if I could have it straightened so that I could grow it long, but she almost flipped her lid.’

  ‘I don’t blame her.’ Alison pulled the brush through her friend’s bubbly curls, watching them spring back crisply into place. ‘It’s so pretty. You’d spoil it.’

  The two had been friends ever since Elaine had started at St Elmo’s school for girls the September after she and her mother had moved to Cambridge five and a half years ago. They were the same age and although Alison was as plump as Elaine was slim, they had a lot in common.

  Alison lay back against the pillow, hands clasped behind her head as she gazed up at the ceiling. ‘Just think,’ she said, ‘only a few more days at school — then the holidays — then we’ll be students instead of grotty little schoolgirls.’

  In the coming term they were both to start a domestic science course at a local further education college. Elaine had tentatively suggested that she might try art, but her mother had talked her out of it. Elaine had given in without a fight, knowing that, in truth, she had little talent for either. She viewed the coming course with less enthusiasm than her friend.

  ‘We’re not likely to meet any decent boys at domestic science, are we?’ she said pulling a face.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Look at all the TV chefs there are. Some of them are quite dishy. Cooking for men has a new image these days. Besides, there’ll be all the other students there. They do art and designs, business studies — lots of other courses.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I’d kept up with my music,’ Elaine said with a sigh.

  Alison sat up. ‘That reminds me, have you heard from your dad lately.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Elaine got up and went to her dressing table drawer. ‘As usual I hid it from Mum. Here it is.’ She handed the card, complete with its envelope bearing the American stamp to Alison. ‘There was a long letter too, but that’s private.’ she said.

  ‘Why do you keep all his letters and cards secret? What would your mum do if she knew?’

  Elaine shrugged. ‘Nothing, I suppose. I just don’t want her to be hurt.’

  Aliston looked at the pretty card with its bouquet of luscious roses and sighed. ‘What’s he doing these days? Something madly exciting, I bet. Not like my dad, beavering away in a boring old bank from nine till five every day.’

  ‘He and Stella are rehearsing for another Broadway show,’ Elaine said. ‘I could go over and spend the holidays with him. He’s always asking me.’

  ‘Wow — New York. It’d be just like on the pictures. Don’t you want to go? Just think, you’d probably meet all the stars. I saw a photograph of Stella Rainbow in a magazine when she came over last year to do that telly series. There was this article all about her. It said she had an American father but was born here, in London. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? And getting to be ever so famous. Fancy knowing her. If it was me, I’d want to tell everyone.’

  ‘Not if she’d run away with your father, you wouldn’t. And if you ever dare to breathe a word to anyone, Alison, I’ll never speak to you again.’

  ‘Okay, keep your hair on. You know I wouldn’t anyway.’

  ‘No, I know — sorry.’ Elaine got up and walked across to stare out of the window. ‘Stella’s all right, I suppose, but Mum wouldn’t like me going. Oh, she’d probably let me and pretend she didn’t mind, but I know she’d feel hurt.’

  ‘Why should she though?’ Alison rolled on to her stomach. ‘I mean, it all happened a long time ago, didn’t it? You’re seventeen now. Soon you’ll have your own life to think about. I think you should go and visit your dad.’

  ‘Why?’ Elaine began to feel uneasy.

  ‘Well, you haven’t seen him for ages, have you? You were just a little kid when he went away. You must want to see each other.’

  Elaine turned away. ‘Of course — but — well — he stopped asking me a while ago. I always said no, you see, so I expect he’s just given up.’

  ‘You needn’t let that stop you. You could just write and say you were coming, just turn up.’

  Elaine looked round at her. ‘Oh, yes? And what would I do for money?’

  ‘I dunno — rob a bank?’ They giggled again and to Elaine’s relief Alison’s attention was diverted as the record came to an end. She jumped up and turned it over.

  ‘Wait till you hear the B side,’ she said. ‘I think it’s fab.’

  Alison was the only friend Elaine had confided in about her father and Stella Rainbow, but she hadn’t been able to resist embroidering the situation a little to make it more romantic. Without actually saying so she had allowed Alison to think she knew Stella and, swearing the other girl to secrecy, had told about the long, affectionate letters she received almost weekly from her father — telling her how much he missed her, imploring her to cross the Atlantic by jet at his expense to stay with him and his glamorous lover.

  In actual fact there had been no letters. On each birthday and at Christmas ever since he had left, Harry had sent Elaine a card. They always bore an American stamp but were postmarked from different states. He never enclosed any other communication or an address, so she had no way of knowing where to write back — or even if her father was still with Stella. He always signed the card in the same way: ‘To Elaine with love from Daddy’. And her mother was perfectly aware that she had received them. They were all hidden carefully away in an old chocolate box at the back of her handkerchief drawer. Sometimes, when she was lonely or fed up, she would take it out and empty the contents on to the bed, looking at each fragile memento of her father with nostalgia and longing; his cards, the one blurred snapshot she had of him, and Gerry Sylvester’s card, that Harry had given her on the night he left. Once she had plucked up the courage the telephone the London office, meaning to ask for her father’s address, only to be told that Mr Sylvester had retired and gone to live in Worthing. Sometimes she would close her eyes and try to remember the sound of her father’s voice. She wished she’d been nicer to him that last time they’d met. Could that be the reason he never wrote to her or asked to see her?

  Although she still missed him, she never told her mother. She and Grace never mentioned his name. Sometimes she wondered if her mother missed him too, but somehow the tacit agreement that had grown up between them not to speak of him prevented her from asking.

&nbs
p; *

  Grace had changed a great deal since they had moved to Cambridge. She had had her dark hair cut in a sleek geometric style that complemented her classic features, giving her a striking look that made people turn in the street to look at her. She wore more fashionable clothes too, items that she discovered on her buying trips to fashion houses: shorter skirts; slim-fitting dresses that made her figure the envy of all her regular customers. She used more make-up too, accentuating her fine dark eyes with shadow and mascara. Yet Margaret Bennet’s example had taught her not to fall into the trap of dressing younger than her thirty-six years.

  ‘Style ‘n’ Grace’ was doing well. Margaret now left the running of the shop entirely to her. Grace knew her own customers and catered for them. Her days were busy and her evenings were fully occupied in catching up with the housework in the flat and spending time with Elaine. There was little time for social life. Once a month Margaret would come for the day on a Sunday in the new Mini car she had acquired, and they would go through the books together. Occasionally Bryan came too and took them all out for lunch. Grace was content with the arrangement. Her days were full and satisfying. She had learned to live without Harry.

  Once they had adjusted to their new life, she and Elaine had become closer. The child worked hard at school though she was not gifted academically. She was reasonably good at art and English and her domestic science teacher praised her neatness and her creative skill at needlework and cookery. On the whole Grace wasn’t expecting too much in the way of exam successes and she thought that all things considered, domestic science would be the best course for her daughter to follow. It would prepare her for a career in many fields from which she could choose later. Grace also felt that it would prepare her for marriage, for deep down, although she never asked herself why, Grace half hoped that her daughter would meet a suitable young man and marry early. She wanted her to be safe and secure — and loved. All the things that she herself had missed out on.

  The college Elaine and her friend Alison would attend in the autumn was within walking distance and their daily routine would be virtually unaltered. But Grace wasn’t naive enough to think that nothing would change now that Elaine was leaving school. Over the past year she had watched her daughter blossom almost overnight, it seemed, from a pretty schoolgirl into a lovely young woman. Soon boys would begin to play a major part in her life and Grace was unsure of how to handle that situation. So far she’d been busy with homework and exams, and Grace had found things that they could do together in their leisure time. There was the odd visit to the theatre or cinema — jaunts around Cambridge and visits to neighbouring towns. Till now Elaine had been content but Grace knew that before long her daughter would want to try her wings and the prospect worried her a little. All the young people she saw nowadays seemed so much more sophisticated that she had been at their age; so much more adventurous — frighteningly so.

  Elaine had known the facts of life since she was twelve, of course. They taught them at school nowadays, so Grace had been spared the embarrassment of having to explain them. She went cold inside at the thought of discussing sex with her daughter. It had been difficult enough explaining to her about her periods. That had been four years ago but Grace still flinched at the memory of the way Elaine had listened politely to her embarrassed stumblings, and then disarmed her totally by saying: ‘Thank you, but I know all about that, Mummy. We did it in biology last term.’

  Harry’s name was never spoken. Sometimes Grace wished they could talk about him. She half wished that Elaine would ask her what really happened to break up the marriage, although quite how she would explain it, she didn’t know. Somehow she felt that if she could find the words it would absolve her of the blame. But his name had been taboo for so long now that she wouldn’t have known where to start. Although she knew that Elaine received Christmas and birthday cards it was never mentioned, and Elaine never offered to show them to her.

  Last year Stella Rainbow had returned briefly to the West End stage in a musical show. During the visit she had done a short series on television, but as Grace had no set in the flat she hadn’t seen it. She had read in the popular press though that Stella was enjoying a considerable success. The articles were accompanied by photographs and Grace saw, with an echo of the old hurt, that she was beautiful. Her golden skin and stunning figure made her a photographer’s delight and the critics were full of praise for her voice. One had even acclaimed her as the new Ella Fitzgerald. If what one read in the gossip columns were true, it seemed that she wasn’t short of admirers either.

  Grace had no way of knowing whether Harry was still working with her, or if they were still together. His name never featured in any of the articles. Maybe she had used and then dropped him. Maybe it would serve him right if she had, Grace told herself bitterly. Though in moments of soul-searching honesty she admitted to herself that none of it would have happened if she had been a different kind of woman. The moments were rare and usually came in the small hours when she couldn’t sleep. It was then Grace acknowledged despairingly to herself that she still loved Harry — loved him and hated him — hated herself too and everything that had happened in her life to make her the way she was.

  *

  ‘Oh, come on, Elaine. It’ll be a fab party. You must come.’

  Elaine sighed. ‘You know what Mum is. She doesn’t like me being out late on my own.’

  Alison raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ellie. Exams are over. It’s time to enjoy yourself. You’re seventeen, not seven. She can’t keep you in cotton wool for the rest of your life. I’ve asked you so many times to parties at the Carnes’ I’ve lost count. Look, tell you what, I’ll ask her shall I?’

  ‘You can try.’

  Alison took Elaine by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘You do want to come, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, the thing is, I don’t suppose I’ll know anyone there.’

  Alison growled with exasperation. ‘You’ll know me, stupid. And Patrick and Tom are my cousins. Aunt Zoe will let us stay the night if we ask her. Then the time won’t matter. Oh, come on. You’re only chicken because you never go anywhere. You’ll turn into a recluse if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Well, all right then, try. But don’t blame me if she says no. I did warn you.’

  But to Elaine’s surprise, Grace didn’t say no. Alison could be extremely persuasive when she chose. She explained that it was to be a family party at her aunt’s house in Milton Road. Her uncle was giving one of his marionette shows in the loft over the old stable at the end of the garden. It all sounded quite respectable and Grace saw no reason at all why Elaine shouldn’t go, especially as she’d been invited to spend the night. Margaret had telephoned to ask if she could come down on Saturday evening and stay over. If Elaine was going to be out, Margaret could have her room so it would all fit in rather well.

  As it happened Grace knew Alison’s uncle, Shaun Carne, or Red as everyone called him. She had bought one or two things from his antique shop at the other end of Prince Regent Street — things he had sold her cheaply because they were damaged. There was a pretty little secretaire he hadn’t been able to sell because one of the back legs had been damaged; a Victorian spoon-back chair, which she and Elaine had re-upholstered in rose velvet; and a piece of Dresden-style porcelain that was chipped at the back, but which gave her window displays that extra touch of class and elegance. He had a rather abrupt manner, but humour twinkled in the bright blue eyes and he seemed to be well liked and respected by the other traders in the street.

  *

  At forty-nine Red Carne looked scarcely older than his two sons. With his tall lean frame and his air of twitchy restlessness, he exuded a youthful energy that most men had lost by the time they turned forty. It was true that his direct, candid blue stare and forthright way of speaking were not to everyone’s taste, but those who knew him well realised that although he was no soft touch, he was a good friend, and respected him for it.
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  Red had done many things since, as a boy of fifteen, he had left his native village in County Cork to run off and join the Merchant Navy. Since giving up the sea he had had a wide variety of jobs. He had humped coal, worked in factories, emptied dustbins; anything, in fact, that would earn him a crust and allow him time and money for painting classes. For painting was the joy of Red’s life.

  He met his wife, Zoe, at the Leicester art college where he attended evening classes. Small and slightly built, with her long fair har worn in a thick braid, she had a pre-Raphaelite air about her that had completely captivated Red from the moment he saw her. She was also a talented sculptress. They were married just a month after their first meeting, with scarcely a penny between them, and their first child, Patrick, was born less than a year later. When Zoe’s father died, leaving her his antique shop and house in Cambridge, Red had just walked out of his job with a rather shady estate agent and Zoe was expecting their second child. It couldn’t have come at a more fortuitous time.

  He had loved the rambling three-storey Victorian house from the moment he saw it, and had taken to the antique business like the proverbial duck to water. Determined to make a success of the business, he had studied as much as he could about antiques from books and by talking to other dealers. What he didn’t know he successfully bluffed his way through until he did. Over the years he had become quite an expert and earned the respect of his colleagues in the trade. He was a well-known personality at sales, where he had an instinctive feel for a piece that was ‘right’ and was frequently invited to lecture on his favourite subject, which was Victorian painting.

  The loft above the old stable at the end of the garden at Mill House was full of things that Zoe’s father had been unable to sell over the years. It had been while they were clearing this out that Red found the box of marionettes. They were very old, their strings broken and their costumes faded and nibbled by mice, but with Zoe’s help he had restrung them and made them new costumes. Taking the marionettes apart, he had discovered how they were constructed and made more to complement the collection. He taught himself to manipulate the little dolls and he and Zoe spent winter evenings composing plays built around the various characters. Finally Red had hit on the idea of turning the loft into a puppet theatre. He furnished it with all the junk he had been about to throw away and began giving shows for his children and their friends. These had become so popular that he had found himself performing one almost every week, and soon adults as well as children were climbing the wooden stairway to what was now called the Barn Theatre to sit on every kind of seat imaginable, from tarnished gilt chairs to floor cushions, forgetting the world outside as the enchantment of the marionette plays unfolded. Over the years it had become a family team effort with Zoe and the two boys supplying the voices, Zoe helping with the manipulation, Tom standing by to hand the correct marionette to the puppeteers, and Patrick in charge of lighting and incidental music.