Wives & Mothers

by Jeanne Whitmee

  *

  ‘Hey, watch it. You nearly hit that cyclist.’ Tom glowered. ‘Look, Ellie, you’re just not concentrating. Better call it a day. This old crate may be on her last legs but I don’t want to write her off just yet.’

  ‘Sorry, Tom.’ Elaine drew the car into the kerb and stopped. She’d carried the letter to her father around in her pocket for days, finally posting it yesterday. But ever since the moment she dropped it into the postbox her thoughts had been in turmoil. Should she have told her mother what she’d done? Would he reply? Maybe the letter would cause him trouble. She didn’t wish that for him. More and more she felt that she shouldn’t have written at all. Patrick had encouraged her, but on reflection, maybe he had merely welcomed a diverson that would take her mind off his departure.

  She turned to Tom. ‘Look, I’ve got something on my mind, Tom. I shouldn’t really have come out with you today.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ He let his breath out in a relieved sigh and grinned at her. ‘Okay — out you get. I’ll take over now. It’s beginning to get dark anyway.’ They changed places and as he took the driving seat he glanced at her pensive face. ‘Is it Patrick?’

  ‘No.’ She looked at him. There was no fooling Tom. He was quite sensitive underneath all that devil-may-care brashness. ‘Yes, I suppose it is, partly.’

  ‘Look, kid, we all wanted to warn you when we saw how keen you were getting. Patrick’s restless. He always has been and I reckon he always will be. He does think a lot of you — in his way. But Patrick is like Red. He’s got itchy feet.’

  Elaine swallowed hard. It was horrible, having people sorry for you. ‘But your father settled down,’ she argued. ‘Look at him now.’

  He laughed. ‘Call that settling down? Anyway it took him long enough. Sometimes I think he only did it for us — for Zoe, Patrick and me. And because Grandad left him the house and the business.’

  ‘So you don’t think Patrick ever will — even if he has a family too?’

  ‘Let’s face it, love, a wife and family would be like a millstone round Patrick’s neck.’ Tom slipped an arm around her shoulders. ‘Look, Ellie, you’re just a kid. You don’t want to hang around till you’re old on the off-chance he might change, do you? You’ve got your life ahead of you, love. There’s a great big beautiful world out there. Go and grab yourself a piece of it.’

  She nodded, sniffing back the tears. Tom and she had become good friends over the past months. He was like the brother she had never had. What he said made good sense, yet it sounded so heart-breakingly final. She just couldn’t accept that it was over between them. She thought of her father. If things had been different, if he’d still been around, he would have told her what to do. He’d have understood. It was no use asking her mother. She’d just get all pink in the face and warn her that no man was worth it. She’d heard her say things like that before. She’d wait till their weekend together, she told herself desperately. No one, not even Alison, knew about that. It would be her last chance to prove to Patrick just how much he loved and needed her.

  ‘Come on, love. Don’t look so despondent. We’ll try again tomorrow.’ Tom was looking at her.

  ‘What? Oh, driving? Yes, all right, Tom. We’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll concentrate better then, I promise.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ He gave her shoulder a final squeeze and started the car again, edging it into the traffic.

  ‘It’s the fashion show this evening,’ Elaine said, dragging her thoughts back to the present. ‘I said I’d help behind the scenes. It’s time I was getting back anyway.’

  ‘That Morgan of yours has started moving some of his gear in,’ Tom said conversationally as he drove.

  Elaine gave a little shrug. ‘Don’t call him my Morgan. He’s Mum’s if he’s anybody’s.’

  He glanced at her curiously. ‘Is she fond of him? I mean — you know, in that way?’

  Again Elaine shrugged. ‘I don’t know. And what’s more I don’t want to know.’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t fancy him as a new dad then?’

  ‘God forbid.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry too much on that score,’ Tom steered the car into Prince Regent Street. ‘He’s as queer as the proverbial clockwork, but surely you realised that?’

  Elaine turned to stare at him, her mouth dropping open. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure as I can be. He’s not one of your flamboyantly obvious types, but the signs are there all the same.’

  Elaine was silent. Morgan. Odd, it had never occurred to her before. She wondered if her mother knew? And if not, what would her reaction be when she found out?’

  *

  It was almost five o’clock and growing dark by the time Harry found Prince Regent Street. He’d never been to Cambridge before and all the people he asked for directions seemed to be strangers.

  He spotted the shop from the other side of the street. Small and exclusive; very different from the shabby little drapery store where Grace had worked when they first moved to Stanmore. It seemed to be half closing day and Harry stepped into the doorway of a chemist’s shop opposite, using the cover the shadow gave him to observe for a moment.

  In the window of ‘Style ‘N’ Grace’ was a low table with a large Chinese vase of chrysanthemums on it. A brightly coloured scarf was draped from the mouth of the vase and across the table to trail on to the grey carpet. It looked very effective, as though the colour from the flowers were spilling over. In the opposite corner of the window an elegant black chiffon evening dress was displayed, its finely pleated skirt romantically fanned out. It had a single diagonal diamante shoulder strap and looked very expensive. It was the kind of dress Stella had worn in the days before she had started to put on weight.

  Suddenly the shop door opened and Harry leaned back out of sight as a woman came out, her arms full of garments. He stepped forward slightly to get a better view. Was it — could it really be Grace? There was a street lamp outside the shop and it illuminated her like a spotlight as she opened the tailgate of a blue estate car parked at the kerb. Her glossy dark hair was cut in a short fashionable style and her face was expertly made up; the fine dark eyes accentuated with shadow and mascara. Slim as ever, she wore a classically cut black suit with a crimson scarf at the neck. The skirt was fashionably short, revealing shapely legs in sheer black stockings and high-heeled shoes.

  He watched, riveted, as she loaded the garments into the car. It was Grace — and yet it wasn’t. At least not the Grace he had married. This woman was a stranger and he felt hesitant and suddenly unsure of himself. But he had come a long way and if he was going to speak to her he must pluck up his courage and do it now.

  He moved forward out of the doorway, but as he did so a young man followed Grace out of the shop, carrying another armful of clothes. He was tall and good-looking and, Harry guessed, younger than Grace by some ten years. But as she turned to smile up at him it was immediately clear to Harry that there was a closeness — perhaps even an intimacy — between them. The young man said something and Grace laughed up into his face. Her eyes sparkled as they once had for him and Harry knew a moment of sharp and unexpected pain.

  *

  The letter had come by the first post, shortly after Harry had left to catch the London train. The feminine writing and the Cambridge postmark had taunted Stella all morning as it lay there on the hall table. When Harry hadn’t returned by half-past four her patience ran out. She dialled the number of the Sylvester Agency and asked the girl who answered if Harry had been in. She was told he had left at eleven-thirty.

  Angrily she paced the room. Where was he? What could have kept him till now? For the hundredth time she walked into the hall and picked up the envelope, turning it over in her hands. Had he already written to Grace to ask for a divorce without telling her? Could this be her reply? The same questions and speculations had haunted her all day and now she could bear the uncertainty no longer. It concerned her too, so why shouldn’t she open th
e letter and find out? It wasn’t her fault that Harry was so late after all.

  Making up her mind, she took the letter into the dining room and ripped it open eagerly. Sitting down at the table she spread the letter out before her and began to read, her eyes widening as they took in the words. He had lied. Harry had lied to her. He’d never actually lost touch with his daughter at all, and now here she was, writing him a chatty letter and asking to see him again. If she hadn’t opened this letter he might never have mentioned it. Perhaps he had started seeing his wife and child again secretly. He might even be planning to go back to them — arranging it all at this very minute. She glanced at the clock. It was now almost six o’clock. Seven and a half hours since he left the agency. Her heart quickened with a sudden stifling panic. Perhaps he wasn’t coming back at all. Perhaps he had already left her.

  She went upstairs and stood looking at herself in the bedroom mirror. She still wore the crumpled slacks and sweater she’d put on this morning. She was a mess. Even she could see it now. She’d begun to put on weight with her pregnancy, and after the hysterectomy the weight-gain had accelerated. The doctor had said it was something to do with her hormones. He had advised her about healthy dieting and given her some tablets but they made her feel sick so she stopped taking them. As for dieting — food was her only comfort. She’d already lost so much that made life bearable.

  Going to a drawer she took out the album she’d kept ever since her singing career had begun. All her publicity pictures and her press cuttings were in it. Stella Rainbow on a world cruise. The lovely Stella Rainbow enjoying a joke at a first night party. And one of Harry and her, looking radiantly happy as they toasted each other. The caption under that one read: ‘Broadway Starlight Shines on Stella.’ She looked so slender and glamorous. Could they really have been taken such a short time ago? Tears of self-pity trickled down her cheeks as she threw the album into a corner and lowered her head despairingly on to folded arms. All that hard work — all that promise — just to end up like this; washed up at thirty, looking like a fat old woman. Living with a man who wasn’t even hers. Anger and resentment began to burn inside her. Had she slaved just to earn money for Harry to send to his wife and daughter? Had he been keeping in touch with them behind her back? And now that he’d had the best out of her, did he intend to throw her over and go back to them? It was so unfair — so bloody unfair. How could he betray her like this? She looked up at her tearstained reflection in the mirror and suddenly she felt afraid. ‘I don’t want to be alone,’ she said aloud to the dowdy woman staring tearfully back at her through the glass. ‘I couldn’t bear it if he left me now.’ It’s up to you, a voice seemed to answer inside her head It’s up to you Stella. So get off your backside and do something about it.

  Elaine was ready to go. Her mother and Morgan had taken the first load of stock round to the hall where the fashion show was taking place. When they returned for the second load she would accompany them, squeezed reluctantly between the two of them on the bench seat in front. She stood at her bedroom window with her coat on, looking down into the street, waiting for the car to return. In the doorway of the chemist’s shop opposite she suddenly spotted a man standing in the shadows. He wore a light-coloured raincoat with the collar turned up. She frowned. There was something vaguely familiar about him. She rubbed the patch of mist her breath had made on the glass and knelt on the window seat to get a better look. Who was he? What was he doing, lurking there in the doorway? The shops were all closed and there were few people about. Was he up to no good? She was still watching when he suddenly stepped out onto the pavement into the full light of the street lamp. She pressed her face against the window, but at that moment a bus passed, obscuring him from her view. It stopped at the bus stop opposite to let down passengers. By the time it had driven off he was gone.

  *

  The fashion show had been a great success. All the tickets had been sold and the hall was packed to capacity. Grace had hired a professional actress to compere for them; a sophisticated blonde with a beautiful voice who, although not exactly well known, had brought a touch of glamour and class to the occasion. Most of the models were professional too, though Grace had invited some of her customers — mainly those with fuller figures — to model the larger sizes. Without exception, they had all agreed, flattered and pleased at being chosen. Among these was Lilian Davies, Morgan’s greatest fan. Grace felt that having Lilian in the show was a coup. It mean that all her friends would come and she numbered among them some of the town’s most influential and well-heeled women.

  Morgan had arranged the lighting and music as well as the decor and the evening had gone off exceptionally well, exceeding all Grace’s expectations. After the main part of the show was over she mingled with the audience as they sipped wine and nibbled canapes. She was delighted to see that several of the London buyers to whom she had sent invitations had come, and they all enthused over Morgan’s designs, promising to get in touch with her over the next few days.

  Eyes sparkling and flushed with her success, she was just about to go in search of Morgan himself when she felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Lilian Davies standing at her elbow, a small, elegant blue-rinsed lady in tow.

  ‘Grace, I’d like to introduce you to Mrs Mary Kingston. She enjoyed the show so much and would like to meet you.’

  Grace took the soft hand the woman offered her. ‘How do you do? I’m so glad you liked the show.’

  ‘Oh, I did. I have to confess that I’m not a customer of yours, my dear, but I certainly shall be in future. Up until now I’ve always gone up to London for all my things — or had them made. But it gets a little more tiring with each passing year, and now that I see what we have here in our own town...’ She smiled, her bright eyes darting round the room. ‘Mr Owen — the young man who designs the knitwear — is he a relation of yours?’

  Grace smiled back. ‘No, just someone I’m proud to have discovered. He’s so talented.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll go a long way,’ Mary Kingston agreed. She peered around her. ‘I’d love to meet him too if he’s about anywhere.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s rather shy.’ Grace led her towards the rows of specially hired gilt chairs, now vacated. ‘But if you’d like to have a seat for a few minutes? People are beginning to drift away. I might persuade him to come out now that it’s less crowded. Let me get you another glass of wine and some of the smoked salmon sandwiches.’

  Mary Kingston simpered. ‘Thank you, I think I will. I admit I have a weakness for smoked salmon and those little sandwiches were delicious.’

  It was fifteen minutes later when Grace returned with Morgan and a reluctant Elaine. She found Mary Kingston still waiting quite happily, the plate that had been full of miniature sandwiches now empty on the chair beside her, along with her empty wine glass.

  ‘This is Morgan Owen, Mrs Kingston,’ she said smilingly. ‘And this is my daughter, Elaine.’

  The elderly woman looked Elaine up and down with razor-sharp blue eyes that beamed approval. ‘What a pretty girl. How do you do, my dear?’ She turned her attention to Morgan. ‘And this is the talented designer I’ve been hearing so much about. Do tell me — do you really knit the prototypes yourself?’ She simpered at Morgan, paying him effusive compliments about his work and asking him all kinds of questions about his background. Standing back, Grace privately thought some of them a little impertinent, but the woman looked like being a good customer, so she kept the smile firmly glued to her face. Finally Mrs Kingston stood up.

  ‘My son is collecting me,’ she said. ‘He’s probably waiting outside at this very moment, thinking I’ve got lost or eloped or something.’ She smiled coyly at Morgan. ‘Chance would be a fine thing at my age, eh?’ She looked at Grace, her simpering smile suddenly replaced by a determined stare. ‘Mrs Wendover, may I come and see you next week? I’ve a little business proposition I’d like to discuss with you.’

  Grace tried not to look surprised. ‘Yes, of course y
ou may. Come and see the shop too. I’m always there. Maybe if you came close to closing time, then we wouldn’t be disturbed.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Mrs Kingston raised her arm to wave to a tall young man standing at the back of the now almost empty hall. ‘There’s Paul, my son. Come and meet him.’ She glanced round for Elaine. ‘I’m sure you and he would get on like a house on fire, my dear.’ Reaching out, she grasped Elaine’s arm firmly, her small soft hand amazingly strong. ‘Come and be introduced. I’m always telling him he should meet more young women.’

  Paul Kingston was tall and willowy. He had blue eyes like his mother. But where hers were sharp and perceptive, his were wary and guarded. Although he was only in his early thirties his brown hair was already receding and he wore a small military moustache that sat somewhat incongruously above his slightly weak mouth. ‘This is Ellen Wendover, Paul,’ Mrs Kingston said.

  ‘Elaine, actually.’ Elaine offered her hand to the young man who touched it briefly with his fingertips, looking acutely uncomfortable.

  ‘My son is assistant headmaster at St Jasper’s boys’ school,’ Mrs Kingston said. ‘My late husband, Paul’s father, was a don at the University, but Paul didn’t quite aspire to that, did you, darling?’ The young man blushed and Elaine felt sorry for him. Why didn’t he stand up to the old battle-axe? She might look small and frail but she obviously had a will of iron. She smiled at Paul sympathetically.

  ‘Is your school in Cambridge?’

  He looked slightly startled. ‘Yes — er, no. It’s in a village on the outskirts. It’s a private school.’

  ‘Do you live in?

  ‘No. I live at home — with Mother.’