Choral Society

by Prue Leith

  Like the time, she must have been nine or ten, when she nicked all the toffees hanging on the Christmas tree at the second (or was it the third?) foster home and ate them with the other children in the cupboard under the stairs. Those toffees had been meant for us, hadn’t they? And it was only a day early, on Christmas Eve, that’s all. The other children had thought she was a hero. A glimmer of a smile crossed Rebecca’s blotchy face as she remembered their excited approval.

  Anyway, she knew, and had known then, that the reason they’d sent her away was nothing to do with stealing sweets. It was because that pervert Clive was always putting her on his lap with his hand under her bum or on her thigh, and his wife didn’t like it, that was the real reason.

  To be honest, she, Rebecca, had liked it. It had been nice and warm tucked into his chest and he’d kiss the top of her head, and stroke her arms, up and down, up and down. It had felt really good. Letting him stroke bits of her that somehow she knew he shouldn’t – though no one had ever said so – seemed fair enough.

  A few homes and two schools later she had been thrown out of Appledorn Secondary Modern for selling joints. She used to get them from one of the boys in the care home, a sultry Elvis lookalike called Ian. He’d got them from the handyman. Ian had given her a fifty per cent discount, or sometimes even let her have the stuff for free, depending on how far she’d let him go in the gardener’s hut beyond the soccer pitch. She was fourteen, he was a dead good-looking sixteen and they both enjoyed it, so it was hardly prostitution or anything.

  But Rebecca, thinking back, had to admit she was heading down a slippery slope at that time. She was doing badly at school, and not ‘fitting in’ at home – stupid phrase, no one fits in in a care home, you just try to make a niche for yourself as best you can.

  Her next school was OK though. There was this great dance and drama teacher, Miss Oxendale, who got her all fired up about acting and dancing. She said Rebecca was really talented, should concentrate, and blah blah blah, the usual stuff. But Rebecca believed it because she could tell that Miss Oxendale believed it herself and was not just giving her the routine praise that most of the teachers parroted all the time to everyone.

  So the next year she was playing Juliet in the school production. And dancing in the modern dance group – they danced really sexy stuff to jazz and blues and rock. Maybe, thought Rebecca, that was the best time of her life.

  Miss Oxendale had been small and skinny and generally dressed in neat grey or navy, always with stockings and high heels. She must have been forty or so. One day when the dance class was humping heavy wooden platforms to form a stage at one end of the hall, she’d called Rebecca to her. She was sitting, her shiny shoes neatly together, in a chair in the front row.

  ‘Sit down, dear,’ she’d said in her old-fashioned way, politely indicating the seat next to her. Rebecca sat, immediately defensive and anxious.

  Miss Oxendale must have sensed it, because she’d smiled and said, ‘Rebecca, you look as though you are expecting a ticking off! Are you?’

  ‘No, Miss,’ Rebecca lied. ‘Well, yes, maybe. I’m always being told off.’

  ‘Well, what I’m about to say could be construed as a telling off, or it could be construed as a friendly discussion. That will depend more on you than on me.’

  Rebecca did not get this, but waited for the inevitable, racking her brains for what she’d done.

  ‘Rebecca, I think you are a lot brighter than you think, and a lot more talented, but you disguise it very well.’

  This didn’t make sense. So Rebecca sat there, waiting for more.

  ‘Because you don’t think people take you seriously,’ Miss O went on, ‘you make sure you are never serious. For example, you are a very good dancer, and we’d still see that if you wore tights and leotards like everyone else. But you wear the shortest of hot-pants, the skimpiest of tank tops. Do you think that’s because you don’t think your dancing is good enough? That you’d better expose legs and belly to distract us from poor dancing?’

  Rebecca didn’t answer at first because she didn’t believe it was a discussion, she figured it was a bollocking. But the teacher asked her again what she thought.

  ‘I dunno, I just want to dress as I like.’

  ‘But you know we all dress to make an impression on other people. I wear trousers and sweaters at home. But at school I wear these businesslike suits because I mean to be businesslike in my work. I wear high heels because I want to look smart, not dowdy. I want people to think I am a serious teacher but not a stodgy one. Do you understand that?’

  Rebecca nodded. ‘So,’ continued Miss Oxendale, ‘let’s try and analyse the image you are trying to portray. What’s the message you want to give?’

  Rebecca could not answer that.

  ‘OK,’ said Miss O, ‘do you want to be a good actress or a serious dancer?’

  Rebecca knew the answer to that one all right. ‘Yes, yes, of course, I want to be both, and I want to be the best, but

  ‘Would you admit that ambition – to be the best – to your friends? Even to your school friends?’

  ‘Of course not. No, no. They think I’m just a laugh. Which I am, I guess.’

  ‘Let’s try from the other end. Think of an actress you admire, who you think is serious about her profession.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy, Vanessa Redgrave.’

  ‘Describe the way she dresses.’

  ‘Well, if she’s out at a premiere or something, she wears movie-star clothes, you know, ball gowns and slinky dresses with low necks and jewellery and long gloves. But mostly she doesn’t bother how she looks. I’ve seen pictures of her at rehearsal and she just wears jeans and pullovers. But she’s beautiful anyway, without make-up or anything.’

  ‘So are you, Rebecca. And you could be a successful actress too. But you have to believe it yourself. And I don’t think you do. All this heavy make-up, false eyelashes, eyeliner, tarty clothes …’

  ‘We aren’t allowed make-up!’

  ‘Not at school, no, but come on, Rebecca! I’ve seen you in the town, at the cinema. All that make-up and provocative clothes, they are just a safety net. It’s easier if people think you are empty-headed and frivolous, because then you can’t fail. But to succeed you need to commit to it, admit to yourself and to other people that you are serious, that you have more ambition than to be the local good-time girl.’

  Rebecca remembered that she had started to protest, but Miss Oxendale had stood up and put her hand on Rebecca’s shoulder.

  ‘Think about it a bit.’ She’d started to walk away and then turned. ‘Oh, and by the way, you have lovely young skin. Putting all that slap on it makes you look forty.’

  That hit home. Rebecca certainly didn’t want to look like an old bag. From then on, she had thought about the impression she wanted to make. Her clothes and make-up, though never conventional, did get classier.

  The memory of Miss Oxendale hurt. What had happened to her? Why hadn’t she kept in touch with the woman? She’d got Rebecca into drama school. She’d even helped get her a scholarship. But, thought Rebecca, of course I let her down.

  She had flunked out of RADA. Or, rather, she’d taken no notice of Miss O’s advice when she was offered an ingenue part in a film. Rebecca could already see her name in lights, her picture in the movie mags, speculation about her boyfriends in the gossip columns, the first of a lifetime of big movie parts. She couldn’t wait. But Miss O had advised staying at drama school, finishing the course, learning something more than how to pout prettily.

  She’d been right of course. The movie bombed. Rebecca had done a few bit-parts and commercials after that, then waitressed like all the other wannabes.

  And then, Rebecca thought, I just went back to doing what I do best: wiggling my bum and fluttering my eyelashes.

  She had stopped crying by the time the train reached Plymouth, and she decided to go through to the dining car for some lunch.

  She ordered half a bottle of Chardonna
y, and instantly started to feel better. She told herself she would not be made miserable by those two. If they didn’t like the way she behaved, then, tough. She could not become all moral and Victorian, and if they wouldn’t speak to her, fine, she’d live.

  Rebecca picked up her mobile, wondering who she could call. It would be good to go to the cinema or out to dinner or somewhere tonight – it would stop her moping at home. And, she thought, since she now had three unexpected days free, she shouldn’t waste them. The problem was, her two best women friends were not speaking to her, and anyway they were in Cornwall and so were Orlando and Nelson.

  But Rebecca was now determined not to be alone, and by the time she arrived at Paddington, she had booked a cinema ticket at the Curzon. There were generally some interesting people hanging around the bar there. Then she’d go to the Groucho Club, where she’d be sure to find someone she knew to chat to, even if it was only the staff. She’d have a lie-in tomorrow, then go to the gym. In the evening she’d reward herself by joining the Tango on Sundays class. Best of all, she’d have her first go at botox. Her Pilates coach had told her about a botox clinic run by two dentists (or ex-dentists since giving botox treatments had proved even more profitable than dentistry). Rebecca reckoned they would have steady hands and be good at getting the right amount of stuff into your wrinkles so you didn’t come out looking like a plaster cast. The more she thought about it the more she liked the idea. A once-every-four-months treatment had got to be more effective, she thought, and maybe even cheaper, than all those astronomically expensive anti-wrinkle creams she kept buying. She’d made her appointment for Monday, after which she would ring Bill – it was good to stay close and friendly – propose a drink and see if he noticed anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  For Lucy, walking down to the harbour after her last workshop had become a habit. She liked to be there when the town’s few remaining fishing boats came in, and two or three times a week she would buy fish off the quayside or food from the village store and cook supper while Joshua finished up in the studio.

  Of course she dutifully ate at least twice a week with the course participants at Pencarrick. She enjoyed these dinners, and if he finished early Joshua might come too.

  But Joshua was working to a punishing schedule on Peasant Soups. He had only agreed a contract for the book at the end of July, and he had to take fifty photographs before the end of August if the book was to be in the shops for November and the all-important Christmas period.

  This meant talking to Lucy about the look she wanted for each soup, planning the set-ups, hiring the props, arranging the shots, buying the ingredients, cooking, styling and taking the shots. He was averaging two soups a day, including Saturdays. He had hired two assistants, one for the cooking and clearing, one for the set-up and actual shoot.

  Lucy marvelled at just how much organisation and hard work this entailed. She had never done a glossy, picture-rich cookbook before and had always regarded the photographer’s role as nothing compared to the writer’s. But she was beginning to understand that pictures sold a book quite as much, if not more, than recipes and writing.

  When Josh was done they often spent the evening at his house on the quayside. They never watched television and seldom went to a restaurant. If it was raining or cool they would sit in the kitchen and eat at the table. Afterwards, umbrella in hand, he would walk her slowly back to Pencarrick.

  On balmy evenings they might sit at the wide open windows of the studio and watch the setting sun change the sea’s colours and the sky momentarily brighten with streaks of orange.

  Josh would put the open wine bottle beside her in a bucket of ice, and place a couple of beers at his feet – he liked some local pale ale that Lucy thought anaemic – and a tray of tapas from the local wine bar (or salami or cheese and bread with good olive oil to dip it in) on a stool between them. They’d eat and drink slowly, maybe for a couple of hours, allowing the sound of the waves on the breakwater to iron out the tensions of the day. They’d gossip about Pencarrick, and swap the day’s news like old friends.

  But mostly they would talk about books, art, politics. Not very often about the domestic issues of children or family. Maybe, thought Lucy, because Josh has never married and his parents live in Portugal.

  But one day, after she had had a rather bruising round with Grace (Lucy wanted the children to come to Pencarrick before school started, but Grace said that Johnny had maths coaching), Lucy found herself saying, ‘Do you know, Josh, I’m not sure I really love my daughter. I adore my grandchildren, but I seem to have lost Grace somewhere along the way.’

  Joshua stretched his arm across the space between them to touch her elbow. ‘I doubt it very much.’ He turned to see her face properly. ‘You wouldn’t look so concerned if you didn’t love her.’

  ‘Maybe what I mean is she doesn’t love me.’ Lucy gave a little laugh, embarrassed to have said something so personal and possibly true.

  ‘Children weave in and out of closeness with their parents depending on their need. When they’re homesick at school they cling like limpets; when they are happy they don’t give Mum or Dad a thought. Except of course if they need pocket money, or new trainers or something.’

  ‘True,’ said Lucy, ‘and when they have their own children, their attention shifts off Mama altogether.’

  ‘Poor Lucy. That must make widowhood so hard. The so-called Third Age is tough for most people, but for women like you it must feel very bleak.’

  ‘Women like me?’

  ‘Yes, women who have been the lynchpin to whom everyone turns for answers. It must feel as if no one needs you any more.’

  Lucy was impressed that Josh understood so well. ‘And it’s not just the children and husband,’ she said, ‘it’s everyone around the family, like the kids’ school teachers or the guy who mows the lawn. No one needs you any more.’

  They both digested this, then Joshua asked, ‘Are you still very unhappy?’

  ‘No,’ she said, and as she said it she knew she was speaking the truth. ‘Since I’ve been here I have cheered up a lot.’

  Lucy hesitated. She wanted to tell Josh that he had been largely responsible for this, that without him she might well have given up and gone back to London, that he had shown her the charm, as well as the glories, of Cornwall. But a residual taboo about being too ‘forward’ inhibited her.

  Yet some thanks were due, and she said, ‘You know Josh, you’ve really helped me. And the best thing is that it has not felt like help at all. You’ve been wonderful.’

  ‘No more wonderful than you have been for me, Lucy.’

  Lucy, never easy with compliments and embarrassed by this one, ignored the remark and plunged on with her thank you speech. ‘And then it’s just so good to have an escape from Pencarrick – which I love of course, but there is only so much foodie talk that I can bear.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m glad. I like having you here.’ He stood up and closed the big studio windows. ‘Shall we go downstairs?’ he said. ‘It’s getting cold, and it’s comfier in the sitting room.’

  As they put dishes and glasses from their supper on a tray, Joshua said, ‘This has been the best summer I can remember.’ Then he looked up from stacking the empty tapas dishes and, his voice suddenly serious, went on, ‘I’ve loved working with you, Lucy. I’ve never met anyone like you. But I confess that angling for the job of photographer was a bit of a cover story.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Oh dear. She told herself he couldn’t possibly mean what she thought he might. She felt her heart give a little lurch.

  He followed her to the little studio sink. ‘I wanted to see more of the wonderful Lucy, cookery doyenne and—’

  ‘Oh, don’t call me that, Josh, I hate it! Sounds so pompous and ancient!’

  She had just put the tray down by the studio sink when he reached out to catch her wrist and prevent her starting to wash up.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he said. ‘And doyenne
doesn’t sound pompous. It sounds wise and knowledgeable and sensible. All of which you are.’ He did not let go of her but pulled her gently away from the sink, and then he leant forward to take her other wrist.

  The cool of his fingers and the unfamiliar, long-forgotten feeling in her gut made it hard to concentrate.

  ‘Lucy, you are one hell of a woman.’

  She was up against his chest now, her face fractionally below his. She could smell his aftershave, clean and sharp.

  ‘I am?’ she said, but she was only just hanging on to the normality of conversation. Her face felt flushed and her throat tight. He’s going to kiss me, she thought. And I really don’t want that.

  She tried to disengage her hands, but he tightened his grip.

  Lucy’s mind remained determinedly detached, even while her heart beat faster. He doesn’t feel like David, she thought. He’s heavier and shorter. David was bony, especially near the end. I cannot believe I’m going to let another man kiss me.

  He did kiss her then, not passionately or deeply, but almost experimentally, with his eyes open. A dry, gentle kiss. Then he stood back and looked at her.

  Oh, hell, thought Lucy, I think I have failed the test. And I want to go on seeing him too. If I reject him he’ll be offended and will disappear.

  Feeling oddly as though it was not her that was doing this, Lucy slipped her hands from his and brought her arms up around his neck.

  She let her eyes close and allowed his arms to wrap around her, his body close against hers. When David had hugged her she felt his chest and his thighs as much as his stomach. With Josh, it was mostly tummy.

  But it’s not so bad, she thought. Not at all like David, but it’s OK. It’s actually rather nice. Go with the flow, that’s what I’ll do.

  Joshua hugged her tighter and tried to kiss her again, this time with more fervour. But his glasses crashed into hers and knocked them askew.