Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  ‘Why, thank you,’ she said. She was pleased not to be left on her own but unsure how to talk to boys. What were they interested in? If only Wallis and Lloyd were closer, she could have listened to them; it seemed Wallis had no trouble at all finding a topic.

  ‘Have your family lived here long?’ she asked Prosser. ‘What kind of farming do they do? Are you keen to work on a farm one day?’ She was boring herself, while listening to laughter from the direction of Wallis and Lloyd. What on earth were they laughing about?

  She was relieved when Prosser suggested they stroll across to join the others but baffled when she heard the subject of their conversation.

  Lloyd told them: ‘Miss Warfield and I are arguing over Ty Cobb and Nap Lajoie. She thinks Ty’s stats were cheated last season and that Nap should have won best batsman outright.’

  ‘I agree.’ Prosser said. ‘Did you hear about the St Louis game? There’s no question he got a perfect eight-for-eight.’

  Mary felt as if she had alighted in a country where they spoke a different language. It took her a while to realise they were talking about baseball, and she gawped at Wallis’s fluency with the terminology. How did she have the first clue?

  ‘I read about it in the newspapers,’ Wallis explained later. ‘All boys like baseball so I knew it would come in handy.’

  Lloyd and Prosser asked to take them rowing the following day and, without consulting Mary, Wallis agreed that they would meet at 2.30 p.m., just after luncheon. She had already worked out their alibi, and told the Miss Nolands that they were going berry-picking.

  ‘Let me give you some baskets,’ Miss Katherine beamed. ‘We’ll have cook make pie for supper.’

  On the way to the spot where they had agreed to meet the Tabbs, they picked a few handfuls of huckleberries, planning to find more on the way back.

  The boys were already waiting and helped them into a wooden rowboat. As Mary lay back in the stern, trailing her fingers in the water, she felt as though she had been transported into a new and glamorous world. It didn’t matter that Wallis was more confident; Mary could be the quiet one, simply laughing at the boys’ ham-fisted jokes. She was thrilled that she appeared to have her first-ever beau. Prosser was sweet and considerate and she liked watching the muscles of his arms as he pulled on the oars.

  It was the first of many meetings between the four over the long, lazy days of summer. The Miss Nolands never questioned Wallis’s excuses for their absences and seemed happy to encourage the friendship.

  One afternoon, while the four of them were picnicking, Wallis and Lloyd wandered off into the woods together. Prosser lay on his side, propped up on his elbow, gazing at Mary as she reclined on the grass.

  ‘You’re the purtiest girl I ever did see,’ he said. ‘I’m one lucky boy.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled.

  ‘I sure got the purtier of the two of you, no question about it,’ he said.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ she replied. ‘But Wallis is pretty too.’

  ‘Not like you.’ He leaned closer, his eyes all soft and melting. ‘Can I kiss you? Just a little kiss?’

  Mary sat bolt upright. ‘Absolutely not! You scoundrel! What kind of girl do you think I am?’

  He shrugged, shamefaced. ‘Your friend lets Lloyd kiss her all the time.’

  Mary coloured. ‘I don’t believe you. What a black lie!’

  As they walked back to camp after their dates, Wallis and Mary usually swapped stories about what the boys had said or done. It was on the tip of Mary’s tongue to tell Wallis what Prosser had reported. Surely she would be outraged that he had made up such a scandalous falsehood?

  But for some reason she didn’t mention it. Deep down, she suspected it might be true.

  Chapter 3

  Baltimore, autumn 1912

  IN THE FALL OF 1912, WALLIS AND MARY ARRIVED at Oldfields boarding school in Baltimore to begin the final two years of their education among fifty-six of Maryland’s finest daughters. They were delighted to find they were sharing a room, and that Miss Rosalie Noland, another sister from the family who ran the summer camp, would be their tutor. Wallis had developed a crush on the Nolands’ thirty-five-year old brother, Philip, and he had long since supplanted Lloyd Tabb in her affections, but Mary still corresponded with Prosser, in an exchange of letters that was sweetly innocent. He wrote to her about the harvest, or the welfare of the farm animals, and she replied telling him of a new hat she had purchased, or a romantic novel she had read.

  Wallis and Mary’s room had floral wallpaper, two iron-framed beds and a washstand with a Delft-pattern jug and ewer. On the door there was a sign printed with the school motto: ‘Gentleness and Courtesy are Expected at All Times’, and they soon realised this was posted on every door throughout the sprawling mid-nineteenth-century building, prompting some hilarity.

  ‘Allow me to gently pass you the cream for your coffee,’ Wallis joked at breakfast.

  ‘May I courteously offer you some butter?’ Mary riposted.

  Wallis’s quick sense of humour soon made her popular amongst the other girls. She was a talented mimic who could capture the Scottish burr of the headmistress, Nan McCulloch, to perfection: ‘No talking after lights out, girrrls. And no drrreaming about boys.’ She could do a decent English accent too. One of the girls, Eleanor Jessop, was from England. Her family were visiting Baltimore for a year because of her father’s business interests and she was attending the school as a day pupil rather than a boarder. Wallis listened carefully to her accent, asking her to repeat phrases such as ‘My father can’t row boats’, until she had mastered the unfamiliar vowel sounds.

  Sometimes, if Mary came upon Wallis chatting head to head or strolling in the grounds with another girl, she felt a quick stab of jealousy, but deep down she knew there was no need. Wallis would always wave her across to join them and make it clear that Mary was her best friend, her chosen one.

  ‘What’s it like to have sisters?’ Wallis asked one day.

  Mary considered. ‘They can be annoying. They borrow clothes and books without asking, and my older sister Buckie is patronising. But I guess they have their uses.’

  ‘Am I like a sister to you?’ Wallis asked. ‘Are you as close to me as you are to Buckie and Anne?’

  Mary shook her head firmly. ‘We’re much closer. I could never tell them half the things we talk about.’

  ‘We can be honorary sisters then,’ Wallis said, taking Mary’s hand. ‘Sisters who chose one another rather than ones we got stuck with because of the family we were born into. I like that idea. I don’t have enough relatives. There’s just Mom, Mr Rasin, Aunt Bessie, Uncle Sol and a few cousins – hardly any of us.’

  ‘Of course I’ll be your honorary sister.’ Mary beamed with pleasure. ‘I’d love to.’

  Wallis wasn’t a rebellious pupil. Her grades were perfectly good, the teachers liked her and she didn’t get scolded any more than the next girl. What separated her from the herd, Mary thought, was that she had more imagination. She was always thinking of new projects and had the gumption to make them happen. Wallis was the one who smuggled in some cod liver oil and saw to it that they both held their noses and swallowed a spoonful every morning because she had read a magazine article that said it could help you lose weight. (Not that Wallis needed it: she was slender as a rake while Mary had a tendency towards plumpness.) Wallis was the one who got hold of some household bleach and applied it to the freckles on Mary’s nose, causing it to become red and sore, then invented a ridiculous story involving a tennis racquet and a suddenly opening door to explain the disfigurement to Miss Noland. Wallis was the one who asked Eleanor Jessop to give them a list of places one might meet Prince Edward if one happened to be in England, just so that Mary might have a chance of bumping into her idol one day.

  ‘He’s studying at Oxford University,’ Eleanor told them, ‘and he plays in the polo club there. According to the newspapers he simply loves polo.’

  ‘There you are!’ Wall
is winked at Mary. ‘You just have to become an expert on polo, turn up at a game – are they called games? – and let him catch sight of your beauty. I do feel for poor Prosser, though. You’re going to give him his first lesson in heartache.’

  ‘Oh goodness, it’s not like that.’ Mary blushed. ‘We’re both too young for it to be serious.’

  ‘My mom always said you should take puppy love seriously. She told me: “If you step on a puppy’s tail, it hurts just as much as if you step on a dog’s.”’

  Mary couldn’t tell if Wallis was joking or not, but she began to feel bad that she might be leading Prosser on. She wrote to him trying tactfully to explain that she enjoyed his friendship but that was all. Unfortunately, she was caught by Miss McCulloch as she slipped out of school to mail her letter. Writing to boys was strictly forbidden and Miss McCulloch decided to raise the subject at their devotions the following morning.

  ‘You are all young women of good breeding. When you are wed one day, your husband will want to be assured that he is the one and only . . .’ She gazed around the room, her hawk eyes resting on one girl after another. ‘I suspect you do not appreciate the seriousness of corresponding with a young man who is not a relative. It is an act that could have the most profound repercussions, and should never be undertaken lightly.’ She paused for effect. ‘Now it has come to my attention that one Oldfields girl has been writing to a boy she met at summer camp. I ask you all, if there are any others engaged in a similarly foolish correspondence, to confess now so that we may repair the situation before it is too late.’

  Wallis was the first to raise her hand and, lent courage by her example, more followed, until all but two of the pupils had their hands in the air. Miss McCulloch’s face flushed and for a moment it seemed she might burst into tears, but she regained her composure.

  ‘I want to speak to each girl who raised her hand. In private. In my study.’

  They queued to go in, one by one, and emerged several minutes later with downcast eyes. After her turn, Wallis made a beeline for Mary and described her private conversation with the head.

  ‘She wanted to know to whom I have been writing,’ she grinned, ‘and you should have seen her face when I told her it was none other than the Miss Nolands’ brother. She muttered, “He should know better,” so I guess she will put a stop to it.’ She shrugged. ‘But I don’t care. He’s too old for me anyhow.’

  The scandalous disclosure that all but two of the pupils were writing to boys provided the subject for several weeks’ worth of entertaining chatter. Letters were passed around for comment and photographs shown in secret. Girls who had not been particular friends now had something in common. It rather livened up the winter of 1912–13 at Oldfields.

  When, on 4 April 1913, Miss Rosalie Noland came to their classroom during an English history lesson and asked Wallis to accompany her to Miss McCulloch’s office, Mary’s first thought was to wonder what her friend had done now. Which rule had she transgressed? She couldn’t think of anything in particular, but the school had so many rules it was hard to get through a day without breaking a few.

  Ten minutes later, Miss Noland returned and asked Mary to come with her.

  ‘What is it about?’ Mary whispered as they walked down the corridor.

  ‘Your friend needs you,’ Miss Noland replied, and her tone was gentle. That was odd.

  Mary followed her to the bedroom the girls shared, where she found Wallis shoving some clothes into a leather weekend bag and sobbing hard, her eyes red and her face shiny with tears.

  Mary ran to her, threw an arm round her, pulled her in for a hug. ‘My God, what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Mr Rasin d-died,’ Wallis stuttered. Her breath was ragged, her chest shuddering.

  ‘No!’

  ‘H-how can I have lost two fathers by the age of seventeen?’ Wallis wailed. ‘What is wrong with me?’

  She clung to Mary and wept with abandon, her skinny frame shaking, tears soaking the shoulder of Mary’s dress.

  Mary didn’t know what to say. Wallis must be terrified. Who would support her and her mother now? Without Mr Rasin paying the fees, would she even be able to continue her schooling? Mary felt a pain in her chest, a tightness as if the grief were hers too, and she hugged Wallis even harder.

  ‘I’ll be your friend for life,’ she promised. ‘Your honorary sister. Always and forever, until the very end of time.’

  Chapter 4

  Paris, 31 August 1997

  RACHEL GOT OUT OF THE TAXI AND LOOKED AT the throng of photographers with huge black cameras in their hands and extra ones slung around their jackets. She could hardly see the crashed car because the tunnel was only dimly illuminated by some strip lights set high on either side, and the flashbulbs created a flickering glare around the scene.

  ‘Are you sure it’s Diana?’ She almost had to shout to be heard over the noise.

  Alex seemed in a hurry to return to the scene. ‘I caught a glimpse of a blonde head. There’s a doctor tending her.’

  ‘Is she badly hurt?’

  ‘I don’t know. One of the photographers heard her speaking.’

  Rachel felt a wave of disgust. ‘Imagine what it must be like for her trapped in the middle of that.’ The men swarming round the car were like a SWAT team on a military assault, their cameras like weapons.

  Alex shook his head, pulling his hand from her grip. ‘I’m going to see if I can help. They might need a translator.’

  His French was fluent, so that made sense. More people were arriving every minute, making their way towards the wrecked car, jostling for a view. Where were the police? Someone should move them on.

  A burst of rage engulfed her and she marched up to the nearest photographers. ‘Laisse la tranquille!’ she yelled, standing in front of them.

  One shouted back at her in rapid French, clearly swearing, and lifted his camera to shoot over her head.

  ‘Arrête!’ She held up her palm. Poor Diana. Rachel was no monarchist; in the seventies she had been a punk, with the ‘God Save the Queen’ T-shirt and short bleached-blonde hair to prove it, but at the same time she couldn’t help being fascinated by the glamorous princess who had breathed life into the moribund monarchy. The royal wedding had been every little girl’s fairy tale come true.

  Unable to think of more phrases in French, she began to lambast the photographers in English. ‘She’s injured. This is obscene. Stop it!’

  She pushed past them, trying to block the intrusive lenses, and that was when she caught sight of Diana. She was in a strange position, kneeling in the well between the front and back seats, almost facing backwards. She must have spun round with the force of the collision. There was an oxygen mask covering her face but the hairstyle was undoubtedly hers. What was she thinking as she knelt there, so vulnerable?

  ‘You bastards!’ Rachel screamed at the pack. ‘Arrête!’

  She couldn’t see any of the other passengers or the driver, but got a fleeting impression of an arm, the back of a head, some legs that seemed at the wrong angle to the body, a dark glimmer that could only be blood. The front left side of the car was a twisted mass of buckled and torn metal. She turned away, not wanting to see more, sick from the smell of petrol and the sheer horror of it all. Sirens heralded the arrival of the first police cars and, looking towards the tunnel entrance, Rachel saw they were closing off the perimeter. An ambulance with lights flashing drove up the other side of the carriageway and screeched to a halt. She watched the crew leap out and push their way through the crowd. Some photographers seemed reluctant to stand aside and she screamed: ‘For God’s sake, move!’ A few bystanders joined her in remonstrating with them.

  Someone – the police, she imagined – switched on bright arc lights that illuminated the scene in an eerie glow. It was a grim, claustrophobic place, with a harsh row of rectangular concrete pillars separating the two carriageways. The walls were made of dimpled textured concrete, the ceiling blackened with decades of exhaust fumes.


  She could see Alex near the car and wondered if he was speaking to the princess. Perhaps it would be comforting for her to hear an English accent. He was used to dealing with celebrities in his job. Too many people tiptoed round in awe of their fame, but Alex gave honest opinions, and they seemed to appreciate it.

  The police were rounding up photographers, sending them to wait at the end of the tunnel. One man was arguing, reluctant to hand over his camera. Rachel walked back to their taxi, where the driver was behind the wheel once more. She hoped Alex would join her because she didn’t want the police to get the impression he was part of the press pack.

  At that moment, she saw him approaching, his expression grim. He opened the door and climbed in.

  ‘She’s still in the wreckage,’ he reported. ‘They’re cutting the roof off.’

  The taxi driver interrupted to ask, ‘Que se passe-t-il?’ and Alex translated for him.

  ‘Who else is in the car?’ Rachel asked. ‘Oh God, it’s not her sons, is it?’

  Alex squeezed her knee. ‘No, it’s Dodi Al-Fayed, a bodyguard and their driver. Dodi and the driver are dead.’

  During the summer, the papers had been full of the news that the Princess was dating Al-Fayed, son of the Egyptian owner of Harrods department store. Rachel was shocked to hear he was dead. She was about to ask Alex how he knew, but couldn’t face hearing any grisly details.

  Cars and motorbikes were starting to move out of the tunnel. A policeman came over and Alex got out to talk to him, leaving his door open. Rachel could hear the officer asking for their names, writing them in a notebook. Alex explained that they were on holiday but flying home the next day, and he gave the name and address of their hotel. The policeman asked if they would stop in at the Criminal Brigade headquarters on quai des Orfèvres before they left, insisting they must give statements even though they had not seen the crash itself.