As usual everyone was doing their own thing. From the basement came the mingled sounds and aromas of Zoe’s cookery — helped by Red she was making an Indian meal. From the floor above came Tom’s music. He had recently been converted to the new ‘soul’ music and as she mounted the stairs Elaine heard the husky voice of Otis Redding singing ‘Loving You Too Long.’ When she reached the top floor and opened Patrick’s door she found him painting.
‘Happy Christmas.’ She took the flat parcel wrapped in red and gold paper out of her shoulder bag and held it out to him.
He unwrapped it eagerly. ‘Hey, what is it?’
It was Bob Dylan’s latest LP. As he stared down at it, she said, ‘You don’t like it?’
‘It’s not that. Tom gave me the same one. Sorry, sweetheart.’
‘It’s all right. The record shop girl said you could change it.’ She was ridiculously disappointed. To her horror she felt her lower lip tremble. Patrick saw it.
‘Hey, don’t be upset. It doesn’t matter, honestly. Come and look at your present.’ He crossed the room to where his easel was covered with a cloth. With a flourish he whisked it off. Elaine gasped, her disappointment forgotten. On the easel was a large full-length oil painting of her.
‘Oh, Patrick,’ she breathed. ‘It’s lovely, but how...?’
‘From the sketch I did — and from memory.’ He crossed the room and pulled her close. ‘I should have plenty of that, shouldn’t I?’ She wound her arms around his neck and the way she clung to him was tinged with a desperation that made him vaguely uneasy. He held her away from him to look into her eyes.
‘What is it?’
She bit her lip. ‘Patrick — will you help me? There’s something I want to do.’
‘Of course, if I can. Tell me about it.’
They sat down together on the bed. ‘I had a card from my father. He’s in England — Bournemouth. I want to find him.’
Patrick frowned. ‘I don’t quite see how I can help with that.’
‘I don’t know how to find out where he is.’
‘He didn’t put his address on the card?’
‘No.’
‘Well, do you think he might be on the phone?’
Her face brightened. ‘Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?’ ‘The directories for all the different towns are in the library. They should be open again next week.’
‘Suppose he hasn’t been there long enough to be listed?’
‘Ring directory enquiries — though that might be difficult as you don’t have the address.’
‘It’s a start. Thanks.’
He took her hand. ‘Elaine, why do you want to do this? Is anything wrong?’
She shook her head. ‘No — I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. Suddenly everything seems to be changing.’ Turning to him she threw her arms impulsively around his neck. ‘Oh, Patrick, I’m so glad I’ve got you. I love you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I wish you didn’t have to go back to London.’
He held her close but his eyes were troubled. He hadn’t told her yet that he was due to leave for Paris in the early spring — or that he was hoping to study there for two years.
*
Harry stood on the clifftop, looking out over a grey, choppy sea. ‘What a way to spend Christmas morning,’ he muttered to himself as he looked down at the deserted beach below. Stella had been asleep when he left the house. Asleep after another of her restless nights.
At first it had seemed to him a good idea to bring her to Bournemouth. Here in the peace and quiet she could rest and recover. Losing the baby had been a terrible blow for her — for them both.
It had been just after the charity show at the Palladium. She’d been just five months pregnant, and following her collapse and miscarriage she had been very ill indeed. For several days it had been touch and go. Finally the gynaecologist had decided that a hysterectomy was the only way to save her. Stella would make a complete recovery, Harry was told, but she would never have a child. Apparently there had been some kind of abnormality; it was amazing that she had conceived at all.
When she had first discovered that she was pregnant, Stella had been shocked. But as the weeks passed the idea had slowly begun to appeal to her. For his part, Harry had been delighted. He had never quite got over losing Elaine. He thought of her often, wondering how she was, what she looked like and how she had grown up. Once, quite recently, passing a group of teenage girls on the street, it had struck him that one of them could well be his daughter. It was quite possible that they could pass each other in the street now without recognising each other. The thought had haunted him for days.
The child Stella carried had seemed like a second chance for him. His child — a new beginning. Together they made plans. They talked seriously about their future in a way they never had before.
With the advent of pop groups and the new wave in music, Stella’s popularity had begun to fade. They had returned to the States where she still had a strong following from the musicals she had appeared in there. There had been recording contracts and she’d appeared on chat shows, gone on an exhausting concert tour. An Australian tour had followed and finally they had come home to do a short series for BBC TV. It had seemed promising, but it hadn’t done too well in the ratings and the planned follow-up was abandoned.
Having foreseen the decline of her career well ahead, Harry had made sure that the money she earned was invested wisely. It brought them a good income, and there were still healthy royalties from her records. He worked out that she could comfortably retire. The past years had been punishingly hard and she deserved it. As for him, he could always put in the odd film session or do a bit of accompanist work. He hated the thought that he was living on her earnings.
At first Stella had gone along with it. She was exhausted from the overseas tours. Then came her pregnancy which seemed to set the seal on her retirement. There were just a few last bookings to honour before they retired to Bournemouth to await the baby’s birth. Harry could hardly wait.
They had been lucky enought to meet some people who were going abroad for a year and were willing to let their house. It was snug and comfortably furnished, in a quiet road close to the Eastcliff. By the time the owners returned Stella would have decided whether she liked the place enough to look for a house of their own.
For his part, Harry loved the place. The relaxing sea air suited him. He felt well and at home there. Walking alone on the cliffs in the early mornings he remembered the year Grace and he had come for the summer season. They’d been happy then — reunited and looking forward to the birth of their first child. And when Elaine had been born... He smiled reminiscently as he stared out to the misty horizon. That summer everything had seemed so full of promise. They’d been setting out together, the three of them, making a new start — their past troubles forgotten. They’d had so much love for each other, or so he had thought then.
The loss of Stella’s baby and her subsequent illness had upset him far more than he would ever have admitted. His grief was spiked with anger and resentment. Why was he destined to have the things he loved snatched so cruelly from him? What had he done to deserve such rejection — such denial? All he had ever asked for was love, a home and family. Things other men took for granted. Now even Stella seemed to have turned against him. The doctor had said it was normal — that it would take time. She was suffering from a hormonal imbalance, it was explained; she’d been under a strain and the shock of losing the baby, plus a major operation... They made him feel so selfish, so weak and inadequate. Their eyes seemed to reproach him in the same way that Grace’s once had.
He shivered a little and turned up his coat collar as a drop of rain splashed off his cheek. The weather had been so warm when they first arrived; day after day of glorious sunshine. ‘Halcyon days,’ he said aloud to himself. Now it was cold. What a good thing they hadn’t been able to see what the future held.
For in spite of the peace and quiet and fresh sea ai
r, Stella couldn’t settle. She missed the travelling, the excitement, the adulation. She felt useless and unwanted. And after her illness she resented the bad luck that had steered her away from her chosen course. For the first time in her life she began to worry about the future and security. She badgered Harry constantly about marriage.
‘Why can’t you ask Grace for a divorce?’ she asked repeatedly. ‘Surely after all this time she’d agree.’
Harry looked doubtful. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘How can you possibly know if you don’t ask her? Why are you so reluctant to try?’ Stella asked accusingly. ‘Is it that you don’t want to marry me? Have I lost my attraction for you now that I can’t make money any more? Or is it that I’m not a proper woman any more? Is that what’s turning you off?’
He ignored the barbed remarks, wearily trying to assure her that he loved her as much as ever. But his passivity only seemed to anger her more.
‘For God’s sake, why don’t you say it? I’m just a has-been, aren’t I?’ she demanded shrilly. I don’t have a career any more. I can’t have a child for you — can’t do anything. I’m not even your real wife. I’m nothing — nobody.’
She had refused from the first to take the medication the doctor prescribed for her. She couldn’t sleep and took little interest in her appearance. The once voluptuous figure had begun to thicken and her lustrous black hair was limp and dry. When he woke in the mornings Harry never knew what to expect. She was either silent and self-pitying, or waspish and demanding. Harry could do nothing right. If he stayed in he was fussing and getting on her nerves. If he went out he was neglecting her — couldn’t bear to be in the same house with her.
‘I hate it here,’ she said one day. ‘And there’s only one reason why you wanted to come, don’t think I don’t know that. It’s where you were happy once, isn’t it? Happy with her — with your wife and child.’
Harry sighed. ‘You and I could be happy here too if only you’d give the place a chance.’
‘You complained enough about her, but at least she was able to give you a child, wasn’t she?’ Her mouth twisted. ‘At least she was woman enough for that.’
‘Stella, Stella, for God’s sake stop torturing yourself. You’re destroying everything we ever had. I fell in love with you. I still love you. Can’t you be satisfied with that? Having children wasn’t what we set out to do, was it? The baby was an accident.’
‘An accident? Is that how you see it? Our child. You’d have asked her for a divorce if it had lived though, wouldn’t you? You’d have done it to give our child a name. But you won’t do it for me.’ Harry moaned softly. He’d heard the same argument day and night ever since he’d brought her home from the hospital. What did he have to do to convince her for God’s sake? ‘All right, I’ll write and ask her,’ he said resignedly.
For a moment triumph lit her dark eyes, then they narrowed suspiciously. ‘You know her address?’
‘Yes. She and Elaine live in Cambridge. Grace has a business there.’
‘How do you know that?’
Harry’s shoulders slumped defeatedly. ‘You forget — I was sending maintenance for Elaine until quite recently.’
‘I thought that was done through the solicitor.’
Harry raked his fingers through his hair exasperatedly. ‘For God’s sake, Stella. I have to know their address.’
She stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘In case of emergencies. In case anything happened — to Elaine. She is my daughter.’
‘There’s no need to rub it in. What else did you send?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Presents? Letters? You write letters — to your daughter — and to Grace.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Then how do you know she has a business?’
‘The address: it’s a shop — a dress shop.’
She sat down, suddenly quiet. ‘You must think about them. Don’t you wish you could see them? Do you wish you could turn the clock back, Harry? That you could be here in this nice little house with Grace and Elaine? That’s what you’d really like, isn’t it?’
‘Be quiet, Stella! For Christ’s sake, be quiet.’ Harry was on his feet. ‘Look, I understand that you’re not yourself — that all you’ve been through has taken its toll. I’ve tried hard to be patient, but enough’s enough. Do you think I haven’t suffered too?’ Seeing the tears well up in her eyes, he was instantly sorry for his outburst. He sat down beside her and took her hands in his. ‘Look, we’ll go away somewhere — Paris maybe. Just for a few days — just the two of us. How’s that?’
But she shook her head. ‘I want to work again, Harry,’ she said softly. ‘All I want is to work again. It’s the only thing that’ll make me feel like a real person.’ She raised the dark tortured eyes to his. ‘And I want to be your wife, Harry. Oh, Harry, please.’
‘All right. I’ll write and ask Grace for a divorce,’ he promised. ‘And I’ll go up to Town in the New Year and see what I can do about getting us some bookings. But only if you’ll promise to take your tablets and try hard to get fit again. You’re not going to be up to working until you’re well again.’
*
Elaine’s attempts to find her father’s telephone number both from the directory and from directory enquiries drew blanks. What she didn’t know was that the number of the owner of the house Harry was renting was ex-directory and Harry had seen no reason to reverse the situation. It was only when she was going through her box of cherished cards late one night that she found Gerry Sylvester’s card, now yellow and dog-eared at the bottom of the box. She turned it over thoughtfully in her hand. Mr Sylvester had retired, she knew that. But the agency was still in business. At least, it had been that time she tried to ring Gerry. It was possible that Harry was still a client. It was certainly worth a try.
She rang the following morning from the Carnes’ house when Zoe and Red were out, holding tightly to Patrick’s hand, her heart thudding in her chest as she listened to the phone ringing out at the other end of the line.
‘Good morning, Sylvester Agency. Can I help you?’ The woman’s voice was clipped and businesslike.’
Elaine swallowed hard. Her tongue seemed to have stuck to the roof of her mouth. ‘Hello. I — er — can you tell me if Mr Harry Wendover is still a client of yours?’
‘Who’s enquiring please?’
‘I’m — er, it’s a personal matter.’
‘I’m sorry, but we’re not allowed to give out private information about our clientele over the telephone.’
Patrick leaned closer. ‘That means he is,’ he whispered encouragingly. ‘Go on. Don’t give up.’
‘As a matter of fact, I’m his daughter,’ Elaine said.
‘If you’re his daughter you must surely know whether or not he is on our books?’ the voice said suspiciously.
‘I — we haven’t seen him for some years,’ Elaine said. ‘He and my mother parted some years ago. But now it’s desperately important - urgent — that I get in touch with him. For family reasons.’ She was even ready to lie now — invent some family crisis in order to trace him. She couldn’t get this far and then fail. She couldn’t.
‘Just one moment, please.’
Elaine squeezed Patrick’s hand tightly and held her breath. It seemed an eternity before the woman spoke again.
‘I’ve just had a word with Mr Rose,’ she said. ‘We do have a Mr Harry Wendover on our books. His address is Fern Lodge, Manorfield Road, Eastcliff, Bournemouth.’
‘Thank you.’ Elaine scribbled the address on the scrap of paper Patrick pushed towards her. ‘And the telephone number?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t give you that. It’s ex-directory.’ There was a click and the line went dead. Elaine hung up and turned to look at Patrick with shining eyes. ‘I got his address.’
He smiled. ‘I know.’
‘The phone number if ex-directory though.’ She paused, chewing her lip. ‘So what shall I do now?’
‘Write, I suppose.’
‘I wish I could go down there — surprise him.’
Patrick looked doubtful. ‘Don’t you think it might be more of a shock after all these years? Better prepare him first with a letter.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘There’s Stella too — if he’s still with her. I don’t want to make any trouble.’
Patrick picked up her hand and tucked it through his arm. ‘Come upstairs. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
In the studio bedroom at the top of the house Patrick closed the door and turned the key in the lock. Elaine giggled.
‘Patrick! At this time of the morning?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t want anyone barging in, that’s all.’ He sat down beside her on the edge of the bed and the look in his eyes sent a sudden chill running down her spine.
‘Patrick, what is it?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Not exactly. It’s just that I’ve got some news.’
She frowned. ‘I’m not going to like it, am I?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ He took her hand and looked down at it, stroking the fingers one by one. ‘Elaine — you know I told you I was going to Paris?’
‘Yes. After you’ve done your time at the Slade.’
‘It’s been brought forward. I don’t feel I’m getting as much out of studying in London as I’d hoped. So I’m going to Paris in the spring.’
‘This spring?’
‘Yes. In March.’
‘After Easter.’
He looked into her eyes. ‘No, darling, before Easter. As soon as next term finishes.’
She felt her heart turn cold as she digested this piece of news. ‘But what about me?’ she asked in a small hurt voice. ‘I’ll have to wait till the summer holidays to see you.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘I won’t be coming home in the summer, love. I’ll have to work, you see, to pay my way. And I want to learn the language fluently too.’
‘Are you saying that we won’t see each other again — not for the whole two years?’ Tears began to well up in her eyes and he pulled her close.
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