by Andrea Blake
Jennifer licked her lips, and then her mother caught sight of the clock and said they must both get a move on because Neal was coming to collect them at half-past seven.
They left their bedroom doors open while they were dressing and talked across the landing.
“A very odd young man called Mr. Hugo did my hair,” Louise said, with a laugh. “I expect his real name is Bert or Sid. He has blond hair—quite obviously dyed and permed—and he uses that instant sun-tan stuff. The effect is most peculiar. But he seems to be a very good hairdresser. All the stylists are men. The girls only do the shampoos and hand out the rollers.”
“Come and tell me if I’ve overdone this eyeshadow,” Jennifer called.
Her stepfather had permitted her to use lipstick, but once, when she had experimented with eye makeup, he had raised the roof. Today, in her lunch hour, she had bought shadow and mascara and a new vivid coral lipstick.
“I like it. It brings out those little gold flecks on your irises,” Louise said approvingly, when she had studied the effect for a moment. “Oh, that sounds like Neal arriving. I’ll run down and let him in. You’re nearly ready, aren’t you?”
“I’ve just got to put on my nylons. I won’t be two minutes,” Jennifer promised.
But when she put on her stockings and stepped into her new coral shoes, she delayed for a moment to take a final look at herself in the long wardrobe mirror.
She was wearing the Italian sweater which her mother had bought in London, and had managed to find a hip-hugging Twist skirt in a fine wool material exactly the colour of the sweater. With the gold-flecked turquoise shadow on her eyelids, and her new clothes, she knew that she, too, looked a different girl. But would Neal notice an improvement? Would the party bring an end to his continued coolness towards her?
Now that she had a new and absorbing job, and now that her mother was becoming gay and lighthearted again, everything should have been perfect. The one flaw was her rift with Neal, and she had an instinctive feeling that it would be useless for her to attempt to repair the breach. The first move must come from him.
“Hello, Jennifer. You look very nice,” he said, when she joined them in the hall.
But it was a conventional compliment, she knew. His glance had been so brief that he could not have noticed any detail of her appearance.
The door of the Fletchers’ house was opened by a tall thin girl with red hair tied back in a pony-tail and a sprinkling of freckles across her cheekbones.
“Hello ... do come in. I’m Alison.”
Her voice was soft and rather deep, a surprising contrast to her gamine appearance. She was wearing a shaggy blue mohair sweater, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and very tight black trousers and ballet pumps.
Her father appeared and took charge of Neal while Alison led Louise and Jennifer upstairs.
“This is Maggie’s room,” she said, taking them into a large bedroom at the back of the house. She grinned suddenly. “Maggie is the only person who has any curtains at the moment. All our London curtains are useless for the windows here, so until she makes some new ones, the rest of us have to fumble into bed in the dark.”
The others were in the sitting-room when she took them downstairs again.
“Unfortunately Peter wasn’t able to get away this weekend,” Miss Fletcher told them, when she had introduced the thirteen-year-old twins, Christopher and Christina.
The children—usually called Chris and Tina—were an attractive pair. They too had dark red hair, freckled faces and ear-to-ear grins.
Presently the Fletchers’ cousins arrived. Their name was Ranworth, and their son, Nigel, looked about twenty. His sister, Katie, was a year or two younger.
After some general conversation, the Fletchers took Louise and their cousins to see the old coach house at the bottom of the garden which was going to be Miss Fletcher’s studio. Jennifer found herself on one side of the room with the younger Ranworths and the twins, while Neal and Alison talked to each other on the other side.
During supper—a cold buffet most attractively set out in the dining-room—Neal was again at the other end of the room, and Jennifer had no intention of manoeuvring into a position where he would be forced to pay some attention to her. She was careful not to look in his direction, but, intensely conscious of his presence, she scarcely tasted the food she was eating, and it was an effort to maintain a cheerful expression.
Katie had brought some of her collection of ‘pop’ records with her and, after supper, she put them on the radiogram. Fortunately the Fletchers’ sitting-room was large enough for the older members of the party to talk at one end, while their juniors danced at the other.
“Do you twist, Jennifer?” Nigel asked. Before she; could answer, he had caught her hands and drawn her out to the dancing space with him.
She had seen the dance on television and had no difficulty in mastering the simple movements. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Neal and Alison coming in with a fresh supply of coffee and soft drinks, and immediately she was overcome with self-consciousness.
She was thankful when the record came to an end, and alarmed when another twist disc followed it. But this time Nigel danced with his sister.
Then, to Jennifer’s surprise, she saw Neal asking Alison to dance with him. Somehow she had imagined that he would regard twisting as a pastime strictly for teenagers.
Amazingly, he did it extremely well, and Alison, too, was an expert. Watching them smiling at each other as they gave an uninhibited exhibition of the more advanced variations of the dance, Jennifer suddenly felt so miserable that she longed to be alone in the privacy of her room.
“Oh, that was way out. You’re terrific, Mr. Parker,” Alison told him breathlessly, when the music stopped.
“Do you mean terrific ... for my age?” he enquired teasingly.
Alison laughed, and they walked off to help themselves to drinks.
At ten o’clock the twins were packed off to bed. After the children had said goodnight, Colonel Fletcher suggested that his elder daughter should sing, and Alison smilingly assented.
Jennifer had already noticed an instrument case in a corner of the room, and now Alison took out a guitar and perched on the arm of the sofa beside Colonel Fletcher.
After strumming an introduction, she began to sing Moon River in a rich velvety contralto.
The song was one of Jennifer’s favourites, and she had never heard it sung so beautifully. But she could not help glancing across at Neal. Like everyone else, he was watching Alison. And it seemed to Jennifer that there was a gentleness in his expression which she had never seen there before.
“I did enjoy this evening,” Louise said happily, when they were driving home shortly before midnight. “I hear Miss Fletcher has persuaded you to sit to her, Neal.”
“I made a bargain with her,” he said. “You saw all those little painted clay animals about the place? Apparently they are a form of doodling with her. She can make them in a few minutes, and the ones which have been fired are those which particularly appealed to the twins. I asked her if she would do a couple of dozen for Jennifer’s new department. She seemed rather amazed at the suggestion, but I think they could go very well. What’s your opinion, Jennifer?”
“Yes, I thought they were most attractive,” Jennifer agreed. But were the clay grotesques the real reason why Neal had agreed to model for Miss Fletcher? she wondered bleakly. Or was it that he was interested in Alison and hoped that some of his sittings would coincide with her weekends at home?
On their doorstep, Louise asked Neal if he would care to have Sunday lunch with them.
“Thank you, I would. Goodnight, Louise.” Taking her by surprise, he suddenly bent and kissed her cheek. Then with a casual “Goodnight” to Jennifer, he turned and went back to the car.
After lunch, the next day, Neal helped them to wash up the dishes and then suggested a run into the country.
“We may as well enjoy the last of the fine weather. It
can’t go on much longer,” he said.
“I don’t think I will come. I’m not used to late nights and, to be honest, I feel more like taking a j nap,” Louise said ruefully. “But I’m sure Jenny would love to go, wouldn’t you, pet?”
Before Jennifer could think of a feasible excuse, Neal said, “All right, you go up and have a rest. We shan’t be out more than an hour or so.”
In the car, Jennifer said, “If you drop me off at the park, I can meet you again on your way back.”
Without looking at her, he said, “I thought we were going into the country?”
“You suggested it for Mummy’s benefit. I’m sure you don’t really want me with you,” she answered, in a small stiff voice.
Neal pulled the car in to the kerb and switched off the engine. “Would you prefer to spend the afternoon by yourself?” he enquired, in an expressionless tone.
She felt her cheeks growing hot and turned her head away. “Not particularly,” she muttered.
He turned her face towards him, his fingers under her chin.
“You’ll have to do better than that. Do you want to come with me or don’t you? A plain yes or no, please.”
She found it difficult to meet his shrewd dark eyes, and the touch of his fingers sent a strange tremor through her.
Abandoning her pride, she said huskily, “Yes.”
If he had smiled or shown the smallest hint of derision, she would have scrambled out of the car. But his face was completely inscrutable as he turned the ignition key and set the car in motion.
They had left Midchester behind them and had turned off the ring road into a quiet country lane when he said, “Have you any Scots blood in you, Jennifer?”
“Not as far as I know. Why do you ask?”
“You have a Celt’s stiff-necked pride,” he said dryly.
“You’re not what I would call a meek person yourself,” she retorted, but without any sting in her tone.
“No, we’re well matched,” he agreed. “Do you know where this lane leads? I was hoping we might find somewhere to stretch our legs.”
“There’s a wood about a mile ahead which isn’t fenced in.”
A few minutes later he swung the car on to the grass verge, and they both climbed out.
“It was very kind of you to give Mummy that lovely fridge. She’s always wanted one,” Jennifer said, when they had been walking for some time.
“It was the least I could do when she refused to let me pay my way while I was staying with you. She’s a very nice person,” he said quietly. Then, on a note of raillery, “That’s why I feel there’s hope for you, young Jenny. They say that one can judge a girl by looking at her mother, you know.”
Jennifer smiled faintly, but her expression was serious as she said, “I’ll never be as good a person as Mummy. She married Wilfred for my sake. I’m too selfish to sacrifice myself like that. Of course she didn’t know how badly it was going to turn out, but she could never have been in love with him.”
“Is that what you want from life ... the world well lost for love?” he asked.
“Doesn’t everyone—at least, every woman?”
“But not men, you think?”
“I don’t know. Some men, perhaps. My father loved Mummy—but he loved racing, too. If he had had to make a choice ... who knows...?” she finished, with a shrug.
“Did she ever ask him to give up racing?” Neal asked, sitting down on a log and taking out his cigarettes.
“Oh, no! She hated it, but she knew it was in his blood. She never said a word against it. But Daddy must have known how she felt.”
“Yes, I can imagine she often went through hell,” Neal agreed thoughtfully. “But I wonder if she would have been happier if he had packed it in? I don’t think it’s a proof of love to sacrifice any part of one’s individuality.”
“Perhaps not—but I expect when you marry you will take it for granted that your wife should give up most of her individuality,” Jennifer remarked dryly. “Men always do.”
“Usually it isn’t possible for a woman to be a wife and mother, and to have a career as well,” Neal said reasonably. “Personally, I think there are very few women to whom a career is vitally important.”
“What about someone like Alison Fletcher who has an outstanding gift? Do you think it would be right for her to give up singing and spend her time cooking and minding babies?”
“No, I agree it would be a pity for a voice like hers to be wasted. Perhaps she’ll marry someone who’s prepared to share her with a career. I admit I take the old-fashioned view that a wife should be a wife and nothing else. But not everyone is so conservative.” He looked at her, his eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re a fervent advocate of equal rights for women, are you, Jennifer? I might have guessed you would be.”
“Not at all. I have no special talents so I have nothing to lose. I was just looking at it from the point of view of girls who have,” she answered mildly.
So he was not seriously interested in Alison, she thought, with a curious sense of relief. At least, it did not sound as if he was from what he had said.
“You’re not a confirmed bachelor, then?” she asked.
“Good heavens, no!” Neal looked startled. “What on earth made you think I might be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Because you’re still unmarried, I suppose. Most men settle down quite young nowadays.”
“Thirty-one is getting on in life, I agree,” he said, with irony. “But I feel there’s still some hope for me. Come on: I think we’d better be getting back now. It’s getting chilly.”
When they were nearly back to the road, Jennifer braced herself, and said, “Neal ... I want to apologise for what I said to you that day about Mr. Fellows.”
“Forget it,” he said briefly.
“I can’t forget it until you accept my apology. I had no reason to jump to such a hateful conclusion about you. I’m very sorry, Neal.”
He did not answer for a moment. Then he smiled and said, “Very well, I formally accept your apology, Miss Alvery.”
This time it was Jennifer who held out her hand, but instead of shaking it, he slipped his fingers round her wrist and dropped the lightest and briefest of kisses on her knuckles.
Ten days later the first four display rooms were ready for use. The original plan had been for six rooms, but now two had been given to Jennifer for her ‘occasional’ department. Four more rooms were going to be erected on the first floor after Christmas.
On early closing day, Jennifer spent the afternoon arranging and re-arranging her section. Many of the things she had ordered had not yet arrived, but she had sufficient stock to make quite an attractive display.
About five o’clock she came back from the ground floor washroom where she had been arranging a vase of flowers to find Neal inspecting her handiwork.
“Very nice,” he said approvingly. “Where did you get hold of that picture?”—indicating a striking oil painting of the square outside the store which hung on the dark blackberry-coloured wall at the back of the section.
“Oh, that comes from the Art School, and so do the two brass rubbings,” she explained. “The prints I’ve ordered haven’t arrived yet, and it occurred to me that some of the local art students might have some things they would like to sell. I spoke to the Principal and he was very enthusiastic. Of course most of them prefer to keep their best work—and we can only show really good stuff—but I believe people will like the idea of buying something original. Anyway, we’ll soon find out.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea. You’ve made a very good job of the whole thing. You said the other day you had no special talents, but an eye for good design is a talent, you know.”
His praise made her glow. “Unfortunately good designs don’t always sell as well as bad ones. I know what I like ... but will our customers like it?” she answered doubtfully.
“I think they will,” he said confidently. “Public taste is improving all the time. We have
to go slowly in the other departments because there is still a strong demand for certain lines which, personally, I wouldn’t have at any price. But in this section I think we can afford to chance our arm a little—at least for the time being. Have you finished here now?”
Jennifer nodded. “I can hardly wait for opening time tomorrow. There’s an advertisement appearing in the News tonight, isn’t there? I wonder if many people will come and have a look. It would be marvellous if I sold something on the very first day.”
“I expect you will. People are beginning to think about Christmas presents now. Are you in a hurry to get home, or would you like to come and have a cup of tea at the flat?” Neal suggested.
“I’d love to—I’ll just get my coat.” Jennifer hurried away to the little cubby-hole of an office from which she would be able to keep an eye on her department while getting on with her paperwork.
Summer time ended the night before, and it was dark when they went into the street. There was a sharp east wind blowing. After the prolonged mellow autumn, winter had set in.
The first thing Jennifer said when she walked into the sitting-room of Neal’s flat was: “How tidy it is.”
“What did you expect? Piles of dirty socks and beer bottles everywhere?”
“No, nothing as bad as that ... but a certain amount of clutter, I suppose.”
“I’m not the helpless type,” he said, taking her coat. “A woman comes in to clean three times a week. The rest I do myself.”
Jennifer followed him into the small but well equipped kitchen. “Where did you live before you came to Midchester?” she asked.
“I shared a flat with my partner until he got married eight months ago. Our lease came to an end recently, so I’ve given the place up. There was no point in keeping it on when I’m only in London once a week. Like some toast?”
“Yes, please. So this is your furniture, is it?” she asked, moving back to the doorway between the two rooms and studying the sitting-room more closely.
“Yes, what there is of it.”
There was not much furniture, she realised—one long six-seater sofa at right angles to the hearthrug, a low dark green marble coffee table, one red leather armchair and a twenty-one-inch television set. “There’s no shortage of books,” she remarked. The built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace were packed with several hundred volumes ranging from recent best-selling novels to a set of Lingua-phone textbooks.