by Maureen Lee
A beaming Ernest opened the door of Clematis Cottage. ‘Sorry we’re late.’ Sarah pushed Tiffany and Jack inside out of the cold and set Alastair on the floor. He immediately staggered into the parlour to be met by a scream of welcome from Anna. ‘I’ve brought some mince pies. I made them myself,’ she said proudly. ‘I’ve discovered I’m frightfully good at making pastry and it’s such fun rolling it out.’ She didn’t wish him Merry Christmas as she’d brought the children round the morning before to show him and Anna their presents.
‘Take yourself into the parlour, luv, that’s where most people are. What would you and the kids like to drink? Here, let me take your coats.’
‘White wine for me: orange juice or something for the children. Oh, but do let me see to things, Ernie. I’m sure you must have loads to do. Is someone helping in the kitchen?’
‘Rachel and Judy are out there. Me, I’m taking it easy while trying to keep an eye on Anna. She’s already had too much wine and the party’s hardly started.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on her too.’ Anna’s predilection for wine was well known throughout the square and sternly discouraged.
Kathleen was standing in the corner of the heavily garlanded, over-decorated room half listening to Fred Astaire singing ‘They Can’t Take That Away From Me’ and, yet again, Anna tell about the film she’d once made. She wondered how many times poor Ernie had heard it. Today, she was telling the story to the young American couple who’d taken over Hamilton Lodge for a year.
‘Y’don’t say,’ Pete Scheider drawled when Anna finished with a great deal of rolling of eyes and waving of hands. ‘You’ve certainly led an adventurous life, ma’am.’ He was terribly polite and called all the women ‘ma’am’, apart from his wife, Hetty, whom he addressed as ‘honey’.
Hetty said, ‘People in Liverpool are so-oh interesting!’
‘Aren’t we?’ Anna preened herself, although she’d been born in Hungary and had only lived in Liverpool a small fraction of her long life.
Kathleen sighed and wished Victoria was there – she wasn’t the only one. Sarah and Rachel had just wished the same. Only Victoria had known how upset she’d been when Steve had gone rushing off to Huddersfield because his wife had had a heart attack. She would have loved to tell Victoria how well everything had turned out. Jean had recovered, for one thing. Having come so near to death, she’d left the hospital with a far more philosophical attitude to life than when she’d gone in, apparently resigned to the fact that Steve had found someone else. So resigned that she’d actually agreed to a divorce and had sent them a card at Christmas!
A few weeks before, Annie, Steve’s youngest daughter, had telephoned and she and Kathleen had had quite a pleasant chat.
‘I thought you couldn’t possibly be quite as bad as our Brenda made out when you let Dad come all the way to see Mam in hospital,’ Annie had said. Kathleen wondered if she would still have rung had she known how deeply she’d resented it. ‘There’s some women who wouldn’t have stood for it. Mam can be a pain. It’s not all that surprising that our dad did a bunk.’
Then Maggie had written a nice, friendly letter, and Sheila had sent a Christmas card. There were suggestions from both sides that they all meet up at some time in the future. So far, there’d been no word from Brenda, but she might come round one day. All Kathleen could do was wait and see.
She sighed again, blissfully this time. Steve had got a job as a porter at the hospital where she worked so their hours were more compatible. They still had the occasional flaming row – she was beginning to wonder if they enjoyed them.
Steve came up. ‘You look like the cat that ate the cream.’
‘I feel as if I’ve just eaten an entire pint. I was just thinking how happy I am.’
‘You can’t be happier than me.’
‘I can.’
‘You can’t.’ He grinned. ‘Shall we go home and have a fight about it?’
‘Would either of you like a fill-up?’ Frank Williams paused beside them, a bottle of white wine in one hand and red in the other.
‘Red, please.’ Kathleen held out her glass.
‘Mine’s whisky and soda. Don’t worry, Frank. I’ll go in the kitchen and help meself in a minute.’
‘It’s all right, Steve,’ Frank said heartily. ‘I’ll do it for you.’
‘He’s trying awfully hard,’ Steve whispered when Frank left with his glass.
‘He needs to.’ Kathleen’s voice was steely. ‘He nearly drove Rachel to kill herself. I wish you’d been at that barbecue: the things she said! The man’s a monster.’
I really shouldn’t have let all that stuff spill out at the barbecue, let everyone hear, Rachel thought when Frank came into the kitchen with Steve’s glass. He was trying his utmost to rehabilitate himself. The fact was, although it sounded childish, it was him who’d started it by saying to Sarah that it wasn’t safe to leave Tiffany with her. Rachel couldn’t help herself. It was as if a dam had burst its banks and the words – the truth – had come pouring forth.
From that night on, everything had changed and would never be the same again. Rachel didn’t want things to be the same. She hadn’t been prepared to continue with Frank’s notion of what an ideal marriage should be: the man at the head of the family, a submissive wife who never did anything that might show her to be smarter than her husband. These days, she was her own woman. James and Kirsty were astounded when they discovered their mother could do The Times crossword.
‘I never realized you were so clever, Mum,’ Kirsty said admiringly.
‘She’s been hiding her light under a bushel all these years,’ commented James.
Both seemed to comprehend that she’d been living a lie in order to please their father – and it hadn’t been just since Alice had died, but throughout their entire married life. Next October, she was starting at Liverpool University as a mature student and studying for a degree in Women’s Literature. She didn’t need Frank any more. Oh, she felt sorry enough for him, spoke to him civilly, made his meals and washed his clothes, listened sympathetically while he flailed himself for not collecting Alice from school but, to all intents and purposes, their marriage was over.
‘What’s that song?’ she asked Judy Moon who was in the kitchen with her. They’d finished sorting out the food – everyone had brought a contribution – and had remained gossiping about this and that. Judy and Rachel had become good friends.
‘“The Way You Look Tonight,”’ Judy said promptly. ‘It’s from a film called Swing Time starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and directed by George Stevens. That’s Fred singing. Jerome Kern wrote the music. It came out in nineteen thirty-six.’
‘Wow!’ Rachel looked at her, impressed.
‘My mum and dad were obsessed with films. I think I’ve told you before. Us kids are walking encyclopaedias.’
‘Perhaps we could start a quiz team, call ourselves The Victoria Squares, get Ernie to join. He seems to know a lot about politics and the war.’
‘That’s not a bad idea.’ Judy cocked her head. ‘Gosh, that music’s romantic. I find it a bit disturbing.’ Now Fred Astaire was singing ‘Night and Day.’
‘Disturbing? In what way?’
Judy shrugged and wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure. Something happened last night: my son and his wife had a party and Harry turned up with a woman young enough to be his daughter.’ She laughed. ‘Actually, it’s rather funny. Sue’s divorced and has two teenaged sons, both tearaways by the sound of it. Harry was so hard on our two and was totally opposed to divorce. It will be interesting to see how things turn out if it gets serious.’
‘Are you jealous?’ Rachel asked curiously.
‘Not at all!’ Judy cried. ‘Harry and Sue are welcome to each other.’ She clasped her hands together and pressed them against her breast. For a moment, she looked quite lost. ‘I’m not sure what it is I feel.’
‘Look, we’d better go in the other room or people will think us very rude. They can get
their own food from now on and Frank’s seeing to the drinks.’
It was standing room only in the parlour. Judy positioned herself behind Anna’s chair where an animated discussion about films was taking place. Anna claimed that nowadays there was too much blood and gore and the American chap, Pete, said it merely reflected the world today. He called them ‘movies’ as her father sometimes had.
It was the sort of conversation that she would have normally enjoyed, but she had other things on her mind. It had come as quite a shock when Harry had arrived at last night’s party with Sue. Although they were separated, there’d been no suggestion of divorce and she had assumed that they would always remain man and wife. It had been extremely disconcerting to see him with someone else.
Since moving to Victoria Square, she’d made quite a nice life for herself, working mornings for the estate agent who had taken over the Moons’ photographers – answering the phone, mainly, and doing the filing. She was learning to play the guitar, had taken up oil painting, met up regularly with her family and had got into the habit of going to the cinema with Rachel on Saturday afternoons. Until last night, everything had been going swimmingly, but now she felt that something was missing: a man. It hadn’t crossed her mind before, but all of a sudden it chilled her to think that she might never again be kissed on the lips or held in a pair of strong arms, that candlelit dinners were a thing of the past, and anything else faintly romantic …
Well, she wasn’t going to go looking for a man: she wasn’t that sort of woman. She’d leave it to fate, but she cursed Harry for disturbing the smooth rhythm of her happy and contented existence.
‘Darling,’ Anna said in a low voice to Tiffany, ‘see that bottle on the window sill, would you mind fetching it over and filling up my glass? Ernie’s busy and we don’t want to bother him, do we?’ The film discussion was over and a few people had drifted into the kitchen for more food.
Tiffany looked at Anna doubtfully. ‘Ernie said you’d already had enough wine. I’d better ask him first.’ She trotted away.
Anna swore. ‘Damn!’
‘What’s the matter?’ Kathleen asked.
‘Ernie’s got his spies everywhere: he’s even employing children. I was just trying to sneak another glass of wine, but Tiffany’s gone to ask his permission.’
‘You know it interferes with your medication,’ Kathleen said severely. ‘He’s only looking after your best interests.’
Anna sniffed indignantly. ‘I think I’m the one to do that, not my tyrant of a husband.’
‘He does it because he loves you, Anna.’
‘I know.’ Anna smiled a touch sadly. ‘How awful if I drank myself to death and no one cared.’
‘We all need someone to care, Anna.’ She glanced at Steve who was deep in conversation with Frank Williams – he felt sorry for the chap. Anna’s eyes sought out Ernie who had just entered the room and the look of love on her old, wrinkled face made Kathleen want to weep.
‘I won’t drink any more today,’ Anna said, ‘not if it upsets Ernie.’
‘When is the baby due?’ Sarah asked an enormously pregnant Debbie Moran.
‘In less than a month: the twentieth of January. I’m dreading it,’ Debbie confessed. ‘I’ll scream my head off, I know I will.’
‘It doesn’t hurt much,’ Sarah said comfortingly, although she’d gone through excruciating agony with Alastair who’d weighed over ten pounds.
‘My mum had a terrible time with all five of us, loads of stitches. I wish she wouldn’t keep on about it.’ Debbie shuddered. ‘She thinks I’m mad, wanting a water birth.’
‘I’ve often thought I wouldn’t have minded water births with my three. They say they’re very relaxing.’
‘I hope so.’ Debbie looked doubtful.
‘I’m going to be there, holding her hand.’ Gareth joined them. He put his arm affectionately around his wife.
Sarah remembered how close he’d seemed to Victoria and wondered if they’d really had an affair? If so, he’d got over it very quickly as he obviously loved Debbie very much.
Hetty and Pete Scheider were the first to leave. ‘We’ve got another party later,’ Pete said. He shook hands with Ernest and kissed Anna on the cheek. ‘Don’t forget, all of you are invited to dinner a week from today.’ He smiled at the assembled guests. ‘I’d just like to say, folks, that Hetty and I consider ourselves very lucky to be living in Victoria Square. We were warned the Brits were very cold, but we couldn’t have met a warmer, friendlier crowd of people. You’ve all made us very welcome and it’s like belonging to one big happy family. We’re not looking forward to going back to the States in six months.’
Hetty smiled. ‘I go along with that.’
‘Steve and I had better be going. We’re meeting friends for a drink in town,’ Kathleen announced not much later, and Judy Moon said she should leave too. She was going to tea at her sister’s, she said a trifle gloomily.
‘It’s about time we made a move.’ Rachel returned from washing the dishes, leaving Ernest without a single thing to do. ‘We’ve got Kirsty and James’s party tonight. I’ve told them not to make too much noise.’
‘Marie’s ringing from Donegal at around seven. I’d like to get Alastair and Jack asleep before then.’ Sarah clapped her hands. ‘Come along, darlings, time to go.’
‘Can I speak to Danny?’ Tiffany asked eagerly.
‘Of course you can, Tiff.’
Gareth said Debbie urgently needed to lie down. ‘She usually has a bit of a sleep in the afternoons, but she missed today.’
Clematis Cottage felt strangely empty and unnaturally quiet when everyone had gone. Anna looked quite desolate. ‘What shall we do tonight, Ernie?’ she asked. She seemed terribly downcast.
‘Watch telly, luv. Is there a video you’d like to see?’
‘No. I feel like doing something incredibly exciting: going to a grand ball, for instance, or strolling along the Champs-Elysées and eating in that restaurant we loved – you know, the one with the aquarium.’
‘I remember, luv.’ If only, if only, Ernest thought sadly. ‘I expected you’d be too tired to do anything but watch telly.’
‘Darling, I feel very much alive and full of beans.’
She didn’t look it. Her mind and spirit might be very much alive, but her body was letting her down. Despite her words, her eyes were blinking with tiredness. ‘Why don’t you have a little nap?’ he suggested. ‘If you still feel like it when you wake up, I’ll ring around a few restaurants and see if there’s a table just for two.’
‘Oh, Ernie, what a marvellous idea.’ She closed her eyes and was asleep within minutes. These days she was sleeping more and more and eating less and less. He’d be surprised if she woke up in time for dinner.
He went into the kitchen, helped himself to a glass of whisky and some of the leftover party food and took them into the spare bedroom that Anna insisted on calling the study. He switched on the computer and began to play Battleships, but quickly got bored, so transferred to the parlour to be with Anna and remember times gone by – something he seemed to be doing more and more these days.
Gareth was seated before his computer reading for the hundredth time the last email that Victoria had sent him. It was dated 10 September. She was loving New York, but missed him. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say things like that,’ she had written, ‘but it’s the truth. I doubt if the day will ever come when I won’t think of you – and miss you badly.’
His desk was in the bedroom where they’d slept together: Debbie had preferred the front bedroom that had belonged to Victoria’s Gran. She was fast asleep in there right now, a white cot beside the bed ready for when their baby came. The baby would sleep with them until they moved back to Hamilton Lodge in six months when it would have a room to itself and Gareth could have his office back. They were moving much sooner than expected.
Debbie had been a brick. She’d settled without complaint in the old house on the corner, had enjoyed picking the o
ld-fashioned patterned wallpaper that suited the old-fashioned rooms, the frilly duvets and curtains, and colourful glass lamps. The other day, she’d actually confessed she’d miss it when they went home. ‘It’s so cosy and snug here. It’s got personality, not like Hamilton Lodge.’
‘We’ll give it personality,’ Gareth promised. ‘Turn it into a home instead of a show house.’
He got up from the desk, stretched, and went over to the window from where Victoria had looked out on to the square. It was like a scene from a fairy-tale: the ice-covered roofs, the white grass, the sparkling Christmas trees and, in the middle of all this magic, Victoria’s tree, brightly lit, the colours chasing each other around and around, but never quite catching up. He turned away. He couldn’t bear to look another minute.
Victoria was dead. The day after she’d sent her last email, the World Trade Center where she worked had been attacked by terrorists and had collapsed in a great heap of rubble. Victoria was just one of the thousands of innocent people who had died. Gareth had watched the scene on television over and over again, horrified, trying not to imagine how she had felt when the terrible tragedy happened. He’d always nursed the faint hope that one day they would be together or, at the very least, that they would meet again. Although he was doing his best to commit himself wholeheartedly to Debbie, still the hope had remained.
A few days after the catastrophe in New York, Victoria’s friend, Carrie, had telephoned him at work. ‘I need to see you,’ she’d said, and he’d told her she could come to the house any time.
‘I need to see you alone,’ Carrie had insisted.
They’d met later that day in a pub close to where he worked. He assumed she wanted to talk about Victoria, but it wasn’t just that.