Personally, I wouldn’t put much money on their relationship surviving.
Of course, you might answer, that’s how fairy tales are. And yet, are the trials Princess Aurora would face when she wakes up in Happy-Ever-After Land any different from those Mary may find? If, by chance, she does meet her prince? After all, war—especially one as vicious as that which Mary lived through—inflicts dreadful changes, leaving indelible marks on one’s soul.
Well, we shall see . . .
16
The hardest thing about Mary’s new life was the amount of time she had to think. So far during her twenty-nine years, every day that she could remember had been packed with things to “do” for other people. There had always been a task, a duty to fulfill for someone else. Now there was no one to please but herself. Her time was her own and it was endless.
She’d also realized that she’d lived her entire life surrounded by other people. Used to the common parts of every home she had lived in, Mary found the hours alone in her one cramped room unbearably lonely. Thoughts of those she had lost—her parents, her fiancé and the young girl whom she’d loved like her own daughter—assailed her as she sat in front of the mean flame of the gas fire. Others might think it grand to no longer be woken by a bell or a sharp knocking at the door, but for Mary, the lack of being “needed” was an unpleasant revelation.
She had no problem with money—her fifteen years in the Lisle households had provided her with a solid nest egg that could easily keep her going for the next five years. In fact, she could afford to live in far more comfortable surroundings than she was at present.
Mary found herself most afternoons sitting in Kensington Gardens, watching the familiar faces of the nursemaids caring for their charges. They hadn’t talked to her then and they didn’t talk to her now. She belonged to no one and no one belonged to her. She watched people walking past her, on their way to Somewhere Else.
In her darkest moments, Mary believed there wasn’t a soul who cared whether she lived or died. She was irrelevant, replaceable and unnecessary. Even to Anna, whom she’d poured so much love into—she knew the child would adapt and move on. That was the spirit of youth.
To pass the time, Mary whiled the lonely evening hours away by making herself a whole new wardrobe. She purchased a Singer sewing machine and, by the light of the dim gas lamp, sat at the small table by the window which overlooked Colet Gardens. When she was sewing, her mind was numb, and the creation of something from nothing comforted her. As she sewed, her right arm weary from turning the wheel of the machine, she’d pause and look down at the life outside. Often, she’d see a man leaning against a lamppost directly beneath her. The man looked young—no older than she was—and he’d stand there for hours, staring into the distance.
Mary began to wait for him to appear, usually around six o’clock in the evening, and watched him as he stood by the lamppost, unaware he was being observed. Occasionally, dawn would be breaking before he’d disappear.
His presence comforted Mary. He seemed as lonely as she did.
“Poor pet,” she’d whisper to herself as she toasted a crumpet on the gas fire. “He’s touched in the head, the lamb.”
The nights drew in and winter approached, yet still the young man appeared by the lamppost. As Mary put on the warm layers of clothes she had made for herself, the man below seemed to pay no heed to the lowering temperature.
One night in November, as Mary arrived home late from having tea with Nancy, she passed him. Stopping, she turned around and studied him. He was a tall man, with fine features—an aquiline nose, a proud chin, his skin pale under the lamplight. He was gaunt to the point of emaciation, but Mary could see that, filled out, he’d be a handsome chap. She carried on up the steps and turned the key in the lock of her front door. Entering her room, she walked immediately to the window and pondered how he could stay still for so long in the bitter cold. Shivering, then lighting the gas fire and wrapping a shawl tightly around her shoulders, Mary had an idea.
• • •
A week later, she walked down the steps of her boardinghouse and went up to the young man, standing in his usual spot.
“Here, take it. ’Twill keep you warm as you hold that lamppost up.” Mary proffered the bundle in her arms and waited for a response. For a long time, the young man didn’t acknowledge her, or what she was offering to him. Just as she had decided to turn away, realizing he was obviously beyond help, he moved his head toward her, looked down at what she held and gave a weak smile.
“ ’Tis a coat, made of wool. To keep you warm while you stand here,” she prompted.
“F-F-For me?” It was as if he was not used to speaking. His voice was hoarse and forced.
“Yes,” she reiterated. “I live up there,” Mary pointed to the lighted room above them, “and I’ve been watching you. I don’t want you to die of pneumonia on my doorstep,” she added, “so I made it for you.”
He looked down at the bundle, then back at her in astonishment. “Y-You made this, f-for me?”
“Yes. Now, will you be taking it from me? ’Tis heavy and I’d be glad if you did.”
“B-But . . . I have n-no money with me. I can’t pay you.”
“It’s a present. While I’m tucked up cozy in there, it upsets my eyes to see you shivering down here. Look at it like I’m doing myself a favor. Take it,” she urged.
“I . . . it’s awfully k-kind of you, miss—?”
“Mary. My name is Mary.”
He took the coat from her and, with a pair of shaking hands, tried it on.
“It f-fits p-perfectly! How d-did you . . . ?”
“Well now, I did have you standing there every night to look at while I made it.”
“It’s . . . the b-best present I’ve ever b-been g-given.”
Mary noticed that, although the man stuttered, he spoke in a clipped English accent, like Lawrence Lisle.
“So now, at least I can sleep easier in my bed knowing you’ll be warm. Good night, sir.”
“G-Good night, M-Mary. And—” the look in his eyes as he gazed at her was one of such gratitude, Mary felt the tears spring into her own—“th-thank you.”
“Think nothing of it,” she replied and hurried up the steps to her front door.
• • •
A couple of weeks later, just as Mary was on the point of deciding that her only escape from loneliness was to return to Ireland and live her life as an old maid with Sean’s family, she met Nancy for tea in Piccadilly.
“Blimey! You look smart!” Nancy commented as they ordered tea and buttered toast. “Where did you get your new coat? I’ve seen it in the magazines, but it costs a bloomin’ fortune. Have you come into the money or what?”
“I saw it in the magazines too, so I just copied it from the picture.”
“You made it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I know you’ve always been handy with the needle, but that looks like the real thing!” Nancy said admiringly. “Can you make one for me?”
“I’m sure I could, if you tell me what color you’d be wanting it in.”
“How about scarlet? Would it suit my complexion?” She patted her blond curls.
“I think that’d suit you well,” Mary agreed. “I’d have to charge you for the material, mind.”
“Of course. And your time. So how much?”
Mary thought. “Well now, I’d say it would be ten shillings for the material, and then a few bob for the making of it . . .”
“Done!” Nancy clapped her hands together. “Sam’s taking me out next Thursday. And I think he’s going to propose. Can it be made by then?”
“A week . . .” Mary thought about it. “I don’t see why not.”
“Oh, Mary, thank you! You are a star, girl, you really are.”
• • •
The Red Coat, as Mary would always remember it, marked a turning point in her life. Nancy showed it off to her friends and soon they were all clamoring at Mary’s
door to ask if she could make one for them too. Even Sheila, the girl who lived in the next house along and worked in one of the smart department stores near Piccadilly, had commented on Mary’s coat in the street, and asked her to make one. Sheila came up one evening for a fitting and the two girls chatted over a cup of tea afterward.
“You should set up as a proper dressmaker, Mary. You have real talent.”
“Thank you, but I’d say is it right to make a business of something that you enjoy?”
“Of course it is! I have lots of friends who’d be willing to pay for you to make them the latest styles. We all know what they charge in the shops.”
“Yes.” Mary was leaning out of the window, looking down at the young man standing under the lamppost, snug in his black wool coat. “Do you know who he is?”
Sheila came to the window and looked down.
“My landlord told me his girl used to live here before the war, when she was training to be a nurse at St. Thomas’s hospital. She was trampled on by a terrified horse at the Somme and died. And he came back with shell shock, poor love.” Sheila sighed. “Out of the two of them, I think I’d be her. At least she doesn’t have to suffer anymore. Not like him; reliving the horror day after day.”
“Does he have a home?”
“Apparently his family is very well-to-do. He lives with his godmother, just up the road in Kensington. She took him in when his parents refused to. Poor chap, what kind of future can he look forward to?”
“I really don’t know.” Mary sighed, feeling guilty and churlish for ever feeling sorry for herself in the past few weeks. “It must somehow comfort him, being here. And in this life, we must take our comfort wherever we find it.”
• • •
Mary had been at Colet Gardens for almost three and a half months. Her days were now taken up with customers, sewing the coats, blouses, skirts and dresses they were ordering. She was considering taking on an assistant, and moving to a larger set of rooms so one could be dedicated to her work. Even though she was busy, with less time to think, her pen often itched to start a letter to her darling Anna. To tell her how she’d been forced to leave her, that she loved her more than anything and thought of her every day. But she knew, for Anna’s sake, it was best she kept silent.
Time no longer hung in Mary’s hands like an empty void; but her heart, lacking someone to pour her love into, was numb and closed. Yet whenever she was in danger of becoming self-pitying, all she had to do was look below her at the poor young man standing by the lamppost.
As Christmas approached and her customers demanded their clothes be ready beforehand, Mary had no time to wonder how she’d feel spending it without Anna. Nancy had invited Mary over to spend Christmas day at Cadogan House.
“It’ll be the last one there for all of us,” Nancy had said. “We’re all on a month’s notice—got to leave in January after the house has been closed up. I’m sure that snotty cow would have had us out on the streets before Christmas if she could, but luckily there was things to do.”
“Has she left for Bangkok?” inquired Mary.
“Yes, last month. And did we throw a party in the kitchen! Anyway, me and Sam have got ourselves fine jobs working as housekeeper and butler in Belgravia. The day I step out of that kitchen, I won’t be looking back. It’s that poor little girl I feel sorry for. She’s been expecting to come home for Christmas. It does make you wonder how people can be so cruel, doesn’t it, Mary? And men so blind as to fall for it,” Nancy added.
• • •
Mary stayed up the whole night before Christmas Eve to make sure her customers received their clothes on time. At four the following afternoon, all her orders collected, she sank exhausted into the armchair by the fire. She was awoken by a soft knocking on her door.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, Sheila, from next door. You’ve got a visitor.”
Mary roused herself from her chair and walked over to let her in. And could hardly believe her eyes when she saw who was standing next to Sheila, looking pale and anxious.
“Mary!” Anna threw herself into Mary’s arms, hugging her so tightly the breath almost left her.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Anna, what are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“You know her then?” Sheila smiled. “Found her like a waif and stray, sitting on your doorstep.”
“Oh yes, I know her. She’s my Anna, aren’t you, pet?” Mary’s eyes were full of tears as she looked down at Anna’s beloved face.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Seems like your Christmas present has just arrived, Mary.”
“To be sure, it has.”
Mary smiled, then shut the door, walked Anna over to the chair and sat her down. “Now, tell me exactly what you’re doing here. I thought you were meant to be at school?”
“I w-was . . . I am. But”—Anna’s face set a determined line—“I’ve run away and I’m n-never, ever g-going back.”
“Now, now, Anna, pet, don’t be saying such silliness. Surely you don’t mean it?”
“I do, I mean every w-word. And if you try and make me I shall simply r-run away again. Th-the headmistress is hateful, the g-girls are hateful! They make me r-run around playing something called lacrosse, which is b-bad for my knees and more hateful th-than anything! Oh, Mary!” Anna buried her head in her hands. “I’ve b-been so miserable. I was l-living for the Christmas hols, and seeing you and everyone else at C-Cadogan House, and then the headmistress called me into her office and t-told me I wouldn’t be going home. That Aunt had gone to B-Bangkok with Uncle and the house had b-been closed up. Mary, please don’t make me go b-back to that terrible place, p-please.”
At that, Anna’s last reserves left her and she burst into tears.
Mary settled the child on her knees, and Anna leaned herself against her chest, pouring out her dreadful stories of loneliness, abandonment and misery.
When she was calmer, Mary spoke to her softly. “Anna, we must let the headmistress know as soon as possible that you’re safe. She’ll be having half the country’s police force out by now, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I only r-ran away this morning,” Anna pouted, “and Mrs. G-Grix, the headmistress, has gone away to stay with her sister in J-Jersey for Christmas. She left me with Matron, who drinks so much g-gin she sees two of me, rather than none of me.”
Mary couldn’t help but smile at Anna’s turn of phrase. “Well now, we must at least contact Matron, then. We don’t want to be causing anyone a worry, do we now? However we might feel, Anna, it just isn’t right.”
“As long as you p-promise not to say where I am. They might c-come to get me and I am not g-going back. I’d rather die.”
Mary knew the child was completely exhausted and there was no arguing with her tonight. “I will only say you have turned up at Cadogan House safe and sound, and that we will be in contact with her after Christmas. How about that?”
This seemed to pacify Anna, who nodded, albeit reluctantly.
“Now then, you look to me as though you could do with a bath. It’d be not quite what you’re used to in Cadogan House, but at least you’ll be clean, pet.”
Mary led Anna to the communal bathroom down the corridor and filled the tub. As she scrubbed the child, Mary asked how she’d managed to find her way to London and then on to her in Colet Gardens.
“It was easy,” Anna replied. “I knew where the station was because we’d been on a day trip to London once b-before to see St. Paul’s C-Cathedral. So I sneaked out of the school and walked. Then I g-got on a train, which took me to a big station called Waterloo. I caught a bus to Sloane Square and walked the rest of the way to Cadogan House, then Mrs. Carruthers put me in a taxi to bring me to you.”
“But, Anna, you’d been told that the house had been closed up. What were you going to do if no one was there?” Mary helped Anna out of the bath and wrapped her in a towel.
“I hadn’t really thought that f-far,” Anna admitted. “I knew the la
tch on the kitchen window was b-broken, so I could easily have opened it and climbed through. But Mrs. Carruthers was there and t-told me where you lived.”
Mary looked at Anna in admiration, despite her anxiety about what she had done. The little girl who had left her four months ago had grown up. And shown the kind of initiative and backbone Mary hadn’t known she possessed.
“Now then,” Mary said as she led Anna back down the corridor to her room. “I’m going to tuck you up in bed then I’m going to go downstairs to ask if I may borrow my landlord’s telephone. I’ll speak to Mrs. Carruthers at Cadogan House and tell her she must call Matron at the school immediately to say that you’re safe and sound.” Mary saw Anna’s anxious face. “And no, we won’t tell her you are here with me. Besides,” Mary comforted herself as much as Anna, “We’ll be going there tomorrow for Christmas lunch.”
Anna’s face brightened considerably. “Really? How l-lovely. I’ve missed everyone very much.”
Mary watched as Anna’s head sank against the pillows and her eyelids began to droop.
“You sleep, pet, and we’ll wake up to Christmas in the morning.”
17
Back at Cadogan House, small gifts for Anna had been hastily collected by the servants. When the two of them arrived the following morning, Anna was greeted with affection and excitement by the six remaining members of staff. Mrs. Carruthers, as was her custom on Christmas Day, cooked lunch for them all. After Anna had opened the gifts, they sat down in the kitchen to enjoy a goose with all the trimmings. At the end of the lunch, Nancy stood up and proudly showed off a sparkling gemstone on the fourth finger of her left hand. “I’d like to announce that Sam and me, well, we’ve decided to tie the knot.”
The news was cause for a toast. Sam was dispatched downstairs to the cellar to procure a bottle of port with which to make it.
The Girl on the Cliff Page 15