Chapter Three
When Marline, who later became Tommy, was born I could hear the nurses exclaiming and I thought the baby was deformed in some way, but later, when they put her in my arms, I saw what had caused the surprise. The baby was coloured. She was a dear little thing, but I handed her back to the nurse and said, ‘You have made a terrible mistake. This couldn’t possibly be my child, all dark like this. She’s beautiful, but she isn’t mine.’
The nurses insisted that she was. There were three of them now, all standing round my bed, and a tall thin sister was advancing towards us as if expecting trouble. They showed me the identity bracelet she wore on her wrist and they insisted that I held the little thing and, as I held her and looked down at her darkness, I felt a bitter rapture because in spite of her colour I knew she was mine.
I had been shutting my mind to something for months, something I couldn’t face. It happened soon after Stephen and I parted, when I went to a party given by unknown people in an unknown house not far away from where I was living. I went there with this wild Australian girl I have mentioned before, and drank too much or mixed my drinks unwisely and felt sick and unhappy. It was a horrible party, with people lying around the floor, a few dancing like zombies, and queer women wearing evening dress and heavy make up who turned out to be men. There was one woman naked to the waist slumped over a chair with a syringe hanging from her arm.
I was talking to a young negro wearing a crimson velvet jacket. He smelt of dusty velvet and sweat, but he was gentle and kind and, before I became drunk, we had danced a strange dance together. Later on he was telling me all his problems and he seemed to have a great many. We left the party together and I couldn’t have been as drunk as I thought because I managed to walk down five flights of stairs without falling. It was wonderful to be in the quiet square with the sleeping cars humped outside the houses like sleeping animals, elephants perhaps, one could almost hear them breathing. The young negro put his arm round me and we walked to the dirty house where I lived and went upstairs together and into my cold room. I remember he kindly put money in the meter and lit the gas fire and I think I made us some instant coffee and we huddled on the divan talking about our problems and there may have been some lovemaking which I can’t recall, but I do remember waking in the darkness and finding this negro there and the strong smell of dusty velvet. The next time I woke he wasn’t there any more. I never saw him again, although I believe he came round looking for me after I’d moved.
The nurses thought I might reject my dark baby and kept standing within earshot saying things like ‘Have you seen Bella’s baby? She’s the prettiest in the ward.’ Then to me, ‘Have you noticed her lovely cheek bones and the shape of her little face?’ A German nurse who was studying English and nursing at the same time used to call her little Marline or Marlinchen and when the man came round to register the babies’ births she somehow became Marline although I didn’t care for the name much and later changed it to Tommy, which suited her very well.
Actually she wasn’t very dark, just a nice golden colour like ginger snaps, but her lips were rather pronounced and her hair was dark and woolly. Otherwise she was very like some of the South American children who ran in and out of the basement flats of the houses where I had lived. Sometimes ill-bred women remarked about her in buses and shops. They always started with something like, ‘What a pretty child! Is she yours?’ and, when I said, ‘Yes,’ they’d smile spitefully and say something like, ‘Pity about the hair. She could almost pass for white if it wasn’t for the hair.’
One actually remarked, ‘It’s lucky she didn’t inherit that mark on your face. A scar, is it?’ I remembered these remarks because they hurt me, but most people loved Tommy and quite rightly thought her beautiful. The nurses need not have worried that I might reject her because, after the first shock, I adored her and wouldn’t have had her any different although I couldn’t help worrying a little about her future.
Tommy and I both wore new clothes the Sunday we went to lunch with the Forbeses, casual clothes, but new. I had the feeling that it was a momentous day in our lives, that the Forbeses would have a great influence on our future and help in some magical way. We were a little late when we arrived at their Richmond house because it was further away from the station than I remembered. When we did reach it and I was dealing with Tommy’s folding pram, she saw the carved bear in the front courtyard and insisted on riding on its back with her skinny legs in their scarlet tights sticking out either side and such a look of joy on her face. That is how the Forbeses first saw her when they came to the hall window, and if they were surprised to see that she was coloured, they never showed it.
We went into the house and it was very much as I’d imagined it would be, rather bare and beautiful, the furniture mostly heavy antiques and the walls white. I was surprised to see the large and valuable paintings hanging on the walls. Then I remembered Bernard Forbes was a picture dealer and restorer and had a gallery somewhere in the West End, indeed there was a workshop in the semi-basement where a young man called Peter did framing and in a large studio at the back of the house picture restoring went on and perhaps a little faking too.
There was a great feeling of love and happiness in the house, and a feeling of goodness too. The food was good and pure, a delicious white creamy soup, homemade bread, various cold meats and vegetables, a salad sprinkled with nuts, several different cheeses and a pudding made with honey, real honey-in-the-comb honey, and fruit. There was wine to drink, red and white, and, although I know little about wine, I could tell it was something special, better than any that had come my way before.
As I’d thought, Gertrude was of German origin but Bernard was English. Both were tall and very handsome, Gertrude really beautiful with a kind of radiance about her. Tommy, usually a shy child, took to them immediately and they were sweet and gentle with her, carefully listening to what she tried to say. After luncheon, she took Gertrude by the hand and they went out into the courtyard to feed the lion with some scraps of bread – which the birds ate as soon as their backs were turned. To the Forbeses Tommy was always Marlinchen and I found myself calling her by that name too.
Although Bernard was inclined to be a reserved and formal man, I found him quite easy to talk to. We had antiques in common and he knew a lot about the history of the district, including Twickenham. He told me about the famous and interesting people who had lived there and how it used to be before it became so built over. He lent me books on subjects I’d hardly been interested in before, botany, for instance, and architecture. He seemed to enjoy stretching my rather ignorant mind. Even on my first visit he lent me so many books that we had to be driven home in his car. There was even a book for Marlinchen, a Victorian pull-out with animal illustrations, very delicate and unsuitable for a small child, but he insisted that she wouldn’t harm it and, as usual, he was right.
Before we left, Gertrude showed me over the house, which was very large and on four floors. Some of the rooms were used for storing paintings; but even then they had four bedrooms, a dining-room, drawing-room, a study for Bernard, two bathrooms, the studio and a big kitchen with natural wood cupboards and a long refectory table with the old greyhound, Petra, asleep under it. There were many herbs in jars beside hanging strings of onions and garlic, and there were other hanging vegetables, mushrooms and things I didn’t recognize. Two slightly intimidating cookers stood side by side and there was a huge deep freeze and a scarlet refrigerator. From the windows I could see the long garden, formal near the house, then almost wild, with many large trees and bushes melting into the winter mist. On a little lawn of its own there was a swing gently moving in the soft west wind as if some child were already sitting there.
I cried, ‘Oh! What a lovely swing, how a child would love it,’ but there were no children and I felt my usually pale cheeks burning red at my thoughtlessness.
Gertrude turned to me eagerly: ‘Yes, that’s what I’ve always thought and I’ve kept it there for fi
fteen, no, sixteen years waiting for a child and now, by some miracle, there may be one. It is not quite certain, but almost.’ And, although I didn’t know Gertrude well and I don’t touch people often, I flung my arms round her and we stayed embraced like that for minutes while the swing moved in the wind.
Chapter Four
Mary Meadows was pleased with the way I managed the shop, so beside my salary and free accommodation she gave me a small percentage on everything I sold and I was able to put money aside. This gave me a feeling of security and pride and it was as if the shop really were mine without the bother of searching for new stock. Mary saw to that side of the business. The customers were friendly too, sometimes so friendly it was difficult to get them out of the shop. The dealers were more business-like and friendly in a different way. Sometimes I went to one of the local pubs and had a drink or cold lunch with them, but not often because it was difficult to leave the shop except between one and two o’clock.
Miss Murray became a customer and would arrive wearing a cape to disguise her back. In spite of her nervous manner, she was a kind woman and quite often directed people to the shop. ‘People who don’t mind the odd crack or scratch, dear. They’ll buy anything if they think it’s old.’ She would dart round the shop picking on this or that. ‘The damask on this walnut chair is in shreds, as if a cat had clawed it. You’ll never sell it. Not one of these Ralph Wood figures is perfect. Elijah has a thumb missing. Did you know?’ All the same, she generally ended up buying something and I was always pleased to see her, particularly now she had accepted my scar. People did become used to it in time.
Bernard Forbes spoke about my scar in an almost brutal way. He would ask questions about it and, when he knew me better, he snatched my hand away from my left cheek when we were talking together. He took photographs of the side of my face that wasn’t perfect with my hair all drawn away. He said the disfigurement was so slight it was morbid of me to care so much; but then he hadn’t seen it as it used to be. Often when I awoke in the morning I’d run my fingers over my face to assure myself that it really had improved; but at times of stress I’d forget the improvement and to me it would be as bad as it had ever been and I would shield my face with my hand or hair or anything to hide it.
The Forbeses often came to the shop on Saturday afternoon, just before it closed. Sometimes, if a customer came in, Bernard would pretend it was his shop and go to great trouble to sell some small object – an Edwardian glass shade, or a paperweight with a view of the Isle of Wight inside it, or a steel carving-knife and fork. ‘This knife will just melt through your joint, madam,’ he’d say with great conviction. ‘You’ll never suffer from tough meat again,’ and he would see the customer to the door and gravely bow as they left. The customers always bought from him. It was as if he hypnotized them. Gertrude would sit smiling and watching what went on. She often had Marlinchen on her knee and they would be playing with some small thing she had bought for her. There she sat, pregnant for the first time at thirty-six, glowing with health and looking more beautiful than ever. Mary called her the German Venus and the two of them combined were ‘The German Giants’. Although Bernard had no German blood, he had rather a German temperament, bossy and organizing, but maybe I needed organizing. Gertrude would tell him to leave me alone, but he would say, ‘I’m helping her, don’t you see? She needs to have more faith in herself, poor little scrap.’
I had not seen my mother since a few months after the accident, when I was moving around from one dreary Bays-water flat to another, pregnant. She didn’t even know she was the grandmother of a beautiful brown baby with a mop of woolly hair. I didn’t want my mother near my Tommy, casting shadows and killing love. But Bernard thought differently; he even felt sorry for her and I wished I hadn’t mentioned her. Even Gertrude, who usually stood up for me against her husband’s teasing interference, felt sorry for my mother: ‘Just write her a little letter telling her how you are. No need to mention Marlinchen if you’d rather not, but later on she must know. Just write the little letter and put her mind at rest. Think how worried she must be, poor woman.’
Eventually they wore me down and, fortified by a glass of red wine, I telephoned my mother, half expecting a strange voice to answer. But it was my mother’s voice I heard. ‘Bella, Bella,’ she said in a frozen voice, then quite sharply, ‘well, what do you want? You aren’t in trouble, are you?’ I assured her that I wasn’t, that I was happier than I had ever been and had a lovely job. ‘Then why did you telephone if everything is going so well,’ she snapped, adding more kindly, ‘I did look for you after you left Stephen, I really did. I went to one dirty house after another, Stephen and I both looked, but for some reason he suddenly lost interest – another girl, I suppose. But if you weren’t in trouble, why did you hide?’
‘There were reasons,’ I said, ‘but I can’t go into them now. Do you think we ought to meet, mother, or leave things as they are?’
‘No, of course we’ll meet. What kind of a mother do you think I am? I’d prefer it if you came to me, really; you see I have a surprise for you. When could you come?’
I felt sure I wouldn’t like the surprise and it would weigh on my mind until I knew what it was, so I arranged to go the following day, Monday, the day the shop was supposed to be closed – so for once I’d really close it.
On Monday morning, after a worried night, I ran across the Green with Tommy, not even stopping to feed the hungry seagulls, usually a morning ritual. I pushed a protesting Tommy into the nursery and hurried home to prepare myself to meet my mother. I washed my hair and trimmed it with very sharp scissors and it fell all black and shining round my face. I examined my scar, which after two operations and several years appeared to be growing less and less noticeable, and I put on the new clothes I’d worn the first time I’d visited the Forbeses, reassuring myself by looking at the label marked size twelve and not the hated size fourteen. The heaviness around my hips and thighs had melted away and mother wouldn’t be able to tease me about my fat bottom any more. My whole appearance had improved since she last saw me, so there was little she could pick on.
It was a long journey to Kilburn by bus and train and with a longish walk downhill at the other end. It was an eventful three or four years since I’d walked that way and stood on my mother’s doorstep; but now I was a visitor without a key, ringing the tarnished brass bell. The door was no longer blistered and brown but newly painted white. The yellow and green stained glass still remained, though, and brought back memories of my childhood. I’d thought it rather beautiful when I was very young but then I came to despise it. Now I was quite pleased to see it had survived.
I was still studying the stained glass when mother opened the door and I could see she was as nervous as I was and unsure whether to give me a kiss or not, so I gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Then we took an uneasy look at each other and I saw that my mother had changed. Her hair had been tinted to its original black and was cut in a rather severe style that suited her. Her clothes had improved too. She no longer looked the ageing games mistress with shaggy eyebrows and feet in heavy shoes. Indeed, she was wearing high-heeled court shoes and the sheerest of nylons, and her face, though haggard, was almost beautiful in spite of the heavy chin. I said, ‘Mother, how handsome you look!’
She seemed pleased, but a little embarrassed. ‘I’m glad you think so, Bella,’ she said and we sat down stiffly on the cretonne-covered chairs. The chairs were all decorated in red roses and the carpet was a light silver-grey. She must have noticed my surprise. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘things have changed since you left to live your own life. For one thing, I let your room and that brought in a little extra money, and then your father died in Canada and left me a few thousand pounds, which will go to you eventually. It has been a great help. I’ve given up the games, you know. I became very tired of the girls. I’m not overfond of children and blowing that whistle and standing about in all weathers was too much for a woman of my age. I’m forty-eight, you must rememb
er. Then there was the gym and those great, sweating girls scrambling over the horses and swinging from the trapeze like a lot of young gorillas. Now I’ve finished all that and work part-time in a travel agency in the High Road. My French comes in useful and I like the work and there are a few bonuses attached. Cheap travel and that sort of thing.’
Above my head I heard the slip, slip of slippered feet on lino, then the unmistakeable sound of a lavatory being flushed. ‘Mother, who’s that walking about upstairs and pulling plugs?’ I cried and jumped up from my chair. For a moment I’d thought it must be my father up there, then remembered that he was dead so sat down again and waited for my mother to speak.
‘I’ve already told you that I let your room to a gentleman, Mr Crimony – you remember him, don’t you? The coal-merchant. You worked for him at one time, then threw the job back in his face. All the same, he’s always been very friendly towards me, helpful too. Then his wife died and he found that gloomy old flat in Maida Vale very difficult to manage. He seemed very lonely, so I let him have your room. You don’t object, do you?’
‘Of course I don’t object. How could I?’ I said crossly; then asked if they had meals together, hoping they didn’t. Mother said almost humbly, ‘In the evening we do and sometimes at breakfast, but of course we are both out in the middle of the day, He specially stayed at home this morning because he wanted to see you, so be nice to him, won’t you?’ She stood up and ran her fingers through her hair, glanced at her reflection in the mirror over the mantelshelf and tripped on her high heels towards the kitchen. ‘Stay where you are, dear, I’ll only be a minute,’ she said cheerfully as she left the room. She wasn’t at all like the mother I remembered.
I sat alone on the bright covered chair looking up at the ceiling and listening to the soft sound of someone walking in slippers. It changed to the sound of heavy shoes, then steady footsteps coming down the stairs and Mr Crimony came through the door. He looked brighter and cleaner than I remembered but he still wore the same old-fashioned stiff winged collar and to me he seemed to smell of coal dust. To my horror he came close and, bending over me, kissed me on the forehead. Then he patted one of my hands familiarly. ‘Well, Bella, it’s good to see you again,’ he said in his deep greasy voice. ‘What a pretty girl you have grown into! And that scar I heard so much about, it’s hardly noticeable, particularly when you are sitting with your back to the light as you are at this moment. But you can’t always keep your back to the light, can you?’ he tittered.
The Juniper Tree Page 3