Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  ‘I had no idea what the running costs of the house would prove to be, and how many repairs were needed. I’m afraid I’m on an economy drive,’ Susie had confessed. ‘I’m selling everything I can.’

  Since then, Rachel had sold three more batches of Susie’s family heirlooms and liked to think they had become friends of sorts. She was sure Susie would agree to her picking up more stock once she heard about the break-in. Mentally crossing her fingers, she dialled the number, pen poised over her Filofax.

  When Susie picked up the phone, Rachel asked whether they could make a date for her to look through more of the clothes.

  There was a pause. ‘I do want to . . .’ Susie paused. ‘But I’m not sure if I’m up to it. I’m a bit of a wreck this week.’

  Rachel heard a muffled sound down the phone and realised Susie was crying. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ Susie sobbed. ‘I can’t seem to pull myself together. The funeral’s on Saturday and I have to go, but it doesn’t seem real. How can Duch be gone? She was so full of life.’

  Rachel felt awkward. Susie seemed to have lost a friend and was assuming Rachel knew who she was talking about. ‘I’m sure it will take a while to get used to. Was she your age?’ She reckoned Susie was in her late thirties, similar to her.

  ‘A couple of years younger. And there are the two boys. It’s such a tragedy. I’m scared I’m going to make an awful fool of myself at the funeral because I simply can’t stop crying.’

  ‘That’s expected at funerals,’ Rachel soothed. ‘No one will mind.’

  ‘But it’s going to be on national television. The whole world will be watching. I’ll have to find a seat behind a pillar or something.’ She blew her nose hard.

  Rachel was stunned as realisation dawned. ‘Are you talking about Diana? You were friends with her?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I told you. We’ve known each other since childhood. She was like a sister to me.’

  Rachel hesitated, then told Susie that she had been in the Alma Tunnel the previous Saturday and had tried to fend off the photographers crowded round the car.

  ‘Oh my God! Did you speak to her? How did she look?’ Susie wanted all the details, and Rachel told her what little she could.

  ‘I spoke to her only a couple of weeks before,’ Susie said, her voice strained. ‘While she was on holiday in Greece.’ She burst into a fresh fit of crying. ‘She was happy at least. She’d had a wonderful summer.’

  ‘It’s just awful,’ Rachel agreed. ‘I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind and we never even met. It’s extraordinary the effect her death has had around the world. I’m sure some good must come of it.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that, but I’m afraid I don’t think the world is a just place.’

  They agreed that Susie would call Rachel about sorting more clothes for sale once the funeral was out of the way.

  Rachel hung up the phone and it rang almost immediately. Alex was on the line in buoyant mood.

  ‘You know it normally takes weeks of preparation before I can get a new project off the ground? Weeks of making up budgets, writing shooting scripts, attending endless meetings? Not this time. As soon as I went to Clive this morning and said, “You will not believe what happened to me at the weekend . . . and I have a hunch there’s more to this crash than meets the eye”, I got a commission straight away. He said the media has been bowled over by a tidal wave of Diana fever and there are only so many times the archive footage can be rerun.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, darling,’ Rachel said, trying to sound enthusiastic. It was good news for him, even though she remained dubious about the subject.

  ‘It means I’ll have to spend the rest of the week in London putting a team in place. I’ll come back on the last train tonight and leave early in the morning. You don’t mind, do you?’

  He sounded wired, like an over-stimulated child. ‘Of course not,’ Rachel said. ‘Congratulations! I’m sure you’ll make a great job of it.’

  Rachel submitted the paperwork for her insurance claim, just in case they would make an exception. She had the glass in the bathroom window replaced and security bars added so no thief would get in that way again, and even got quotes on installing CCTV, but they were prohibitively expensive; she would just have to make doubly sure the alarm was switched on every time she left the shop.

  There were a couple of dreary, hopeless auctions to attend, then she spent the rest of the week redecorating the shop window and interior with items brought from her flat. She even reluctantly put some of her own clothes up for sale, so there would be enough stock for her to open the shop on Saturday. It was usually her busiest day, although Diana’s funeral was bound to affect trade.

  On Thursday evening, Alex rang from London and urged her to come and see the flowers outside Kensington Palace. ‘It’s historic,’ he said. ‘Every day the sea of tributes is stretching further out from the back entrance and along two approach paths. The smell makes you reel.’

  ‘A good time to be a florist, then.’

  ‘Christ, yeah! I spoke to one in Victoria station who told me she’s had to order huge shipments from abroad because everyone arriving in London for the funeral is picking up a bouquet as they pass through.’

  ‘Have you talked to any of the Diana fans?’

  He chuckled. ‘I’ve got the crew doing vox pops outside Kensington and Buckingham palaces. Nothing original. They all say she was a beautiful person, it’s shocking that the Queen hasn’t spoken to the nation yet, and they can’t understand why the flag isn’t flying at half-mast over the palace. And they keep repeating that they can’t believe it.’

  ‘Who would have predicted this reaction? I knew her face sold magazines, but this is unprecedented.’

  Rachel felt incredibly sorry for Diana and the two boys who had lost their mother, but there was something about the avalanche of unleashed emotion that made her uncomfortable. It didn’t feel genuine. All the same, she agreed to join Alex on Friday evening. She could spend the day visiting charity shops in well-heeled areas like Hampstead, Kensington and Putney, where she had sometimes found bargains donated by wealthy locals. After that she’d meet Alex and pay her own respects to the woman whose last moments she had witnessed in the Alma Tunnel.

  Chapter 10

  Baltimore, December 1916

  WALLIS HAD PROMISED TO WRITE TO MARY FROM HER honeymoon in order to share the inside scoop on ‘marital relations’, a subject of which both girls had only the vaguest understanding. No letters arrived, though, until just before Christmas, by which time Wallis had taken up residence in her new house on the Pensacola military base.

  The sunshine is glorious for December, she wrote, and there are climbing roses and oleanders in full bloom.

  I have so many social engagements, my diary is bursting at the seams. All the officers’ wives want to introduce themselves and I am accepting every invitation. And why not?

  Our house is small but very homely and my only complaint is the grim brown furniture. I’m having it whitewashed and putting cheerful drapes in the windows and then it will be perfect. We have a maid and a cook, so there is little for me to do except shop and chat to my new friends – and you know me, that’s never a hardship! Married life is simply peachy.

  Mary felt a familiar prick of jealousy at the talk of new friends, but shrugged it off. Wallis made friends wherever she went; besides, Mary had Renée du Pont. She replied by return, describing the events of the Baltimore social season, the (wholly unremarkable) beaus she was seeing, and how much she missed Wallis. Nothing is the same without you, she wrote.

  There was a gap of several weeks before another letter arrived, and in this one Wallis invited Mary to visit. Perhaps we can find a dashing pilot for you, she chirruped. Mary thought that sounded wildly exciting. They set a date for a week in March 1917, and it couldn’t come soon enough for Mary. As she gazed out of the window on the
train heading south, she felt a welling of excitement. Perhaps her life was about to change just as Wallis’s had. Perhaps she too would find her great love.

  The Wallis who met her at Pensacola station looked thinner than Mary had ever seen her and talked nineteen to the dozen. There was a frenetic quality to the energy with which she pointed out landmarks, waving an arm towards the airbase, where a plane circled overhead like a bird of prey. She listed all the social engagements she had booked for the week of Mary’s stay, and began describing the characters they would meet.

  ‘George is always horsing around and playing practical jokes, while his wife Edna is a complete prude with no sense of humour. You wonder how that marriage works behind closed doors . . . And you need to watch Scott because he cheats at poker.’ She laughed. ‘If you’re going to be a cheater, try not to drop your cards.’

  Wallis’s bungalow had a veranda in front that opened onto a sunny living room, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms leading off it. Down some steps were the dining room and kitchen. It was compact but neat and functional.

  ‘It’s lovely!’ Mary cried. ‘A real home of your own. How does it feel to be married? Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘My goodness, I never have time to stop and think,’ Wallis said. ‘Life is so hectic. Let me call the maid to bring us a cool drink.’

  She seemed jumpy, and Mary wondered if it was because of the growing likelihood that America would enter the war in Europe. Would Win have to go and fight? She didn’t like to raise the subject, but it wasn’t long before Wallis did.

  ‘Win’s positively hankering to go to France. He thinks war is inevitable now that German submarines are sinking our ships willy-nilly. I don’t want him to go, of course, but the tales of our pilots in the Lafayette Escadrille are so exciting, don’t you think?’

  Mary had read about the daring feats of the American pilots who had volunteered to fly as part of France’s air corps: their mid-air fire fights and split-second escapes were riveting. ‘Don’t they have a high fatality rate?’ she asked.

  Wallis ignored the question. ‘Did you know they have pet lion cubs named Whiskey and Soda at their base? All the airmen I’ve met have a great sense of humour.’

  ‘But what would you do if he went?’ Mary persisted.

  Wallis smoothed a crease on her skirt. ‘If they won’t let me sneak along in his suitcase, I’ll just have to wait it out with the other wives. I’d be so proud of him.’

  Her tone did not convince Mary, and she was trying to think of a response when suddenly a loud gong sounded. Wallis jumped from her seat and ran to the window.

  ‘What in the heck is that?’ Mary asked.

  Wallis pulled a face. ‘It’s the crash gong. They sound it when someone has crashed. Oh Lord, I hope it’s not Win.’

  She rushed out onto the veranda and craned up the street. Mary joined her and saw that several other wives had emerged onto their verandas as well.

  ‘Do you know what’s happened?’ Wallis called to the woman next door.

  ‘Not yet. It takes a while. We’re not allowed to call the base in case they have to contact relatives.’ The woman peered at the sky, tight-lipped.

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ Wallis told Mary in an attempt at breeziness. ‘Worst comes to worst, I’ll be the base’s youngest widow. Only twenty years old!’

  ‘Oh, Wallie!’ Mary put an arm round her and gave her a squeeze. ‘Aren’t you under a lot of strain worrying about him?’

  ‘Not at all. He knows what he’s doing.’ The words sounded light-hearted but her expression told a different story.

  They went back indoors, but Mary could tell Wallis was still on edge until her neighbour popped her head round the door an hour later. ‘Just to let you know it was a cadet who crashed. He’s OK; plane’s a write-off. They shouldn’t let them up so early in training. Such a waste of money.’

  Win was in a lousy mood when he came back for dinner, slamming the door and barely acknowledging Mary’s presence. He walked straight through to the dining room and came back with a tumbler full of an amber-coloured drink.

  ‘That’s not . . .’ Wallis began, then bit back her words. Mary had never known her so timid.

  ‘It’s consommé,’ Win told her in a sarcastic tone. ‘Can’t I have a drink of consommé of an evening?’ He turned to Mary. ‘We pilots aren’t allowed to drink liquor when we’re flying the next day, so thank goodness I have a wife who checks up on me.’ He took a defiant swallow.

  Over dinner he kept topping up his glass with a liquid of the same hue and it soon became clear to Mary that it must be alcohol, because his words were slurred and his face flushed. His mood deteriorated, and no matter what topic of conversation Wallis raised, it seemed to irritate him.

  After the entrée, he drained his glass and glared at Mary. ‘Aren’t you glad you came to witness our marital harmony?’ he asked. ‘I suppose you two witches have been cackling away all afternoon as she told you our secrets.’ He imitated a cackle, with an ugly expression on his face.

  Wallis tried to make light of it. ‘Yes, dear, we’ve been stirring up potions in a witches’ cauldron . . .’ but her words were interrupted by Win hurling his empty glass into the corner of the dining room, where it shattered on the floor.

  ‘See if you can invent a spell to clear that up,’ he snapped. ‘I’m off to bed.’

  The maid hurried in with a brush and dustpan as Win stormed out.

  ‘He’s under a lot of pressure,’ Wallis said by way of explanation, and Mary thought it wisest not to comment.

  Poor Wallis, she thought. She’s married a drinker. She knew from listening to relatives’ gossip that no good would come of that.

  The next evening they dined at another couple’s house and Win was on best behaviour, but Mary noted that he poured himself a large ‘consommé’ as soon as they got home. On Saturday night at the San Carlos Hotel, he frequently disappeared outside to get some air and seemed a little unsteady on his feet when he returned. And at home, when he’d had a drink, he was rude to Wallis.

  ‘You’re losing your looks already,’ he told her one evening. ‘Is that a wrinkle I spy?’

  ‘It’s a laughter line,’ she said wryly. ‘Because life with you is such a barrel of laughs.’

  Another time he told her that she had a man’s hands. Mary knew Wallis was sensitive about her rather large, square hands, which she always tried to hide in photographs, and thought it was cruel of Win to point them out.

  She wished she could talk to Wallis about Win’s drinking and coax her to open up about her new life, but whenever she broached the subject, Wallis found a way to duck out of it.

  ‘Win might be temperamental,’ she said, ‘but he’s a dear. I do love him. I’m just sorry we haven’t been able to find a handsome pilot for you. But don’t worry; I’ll make it my mission.’

  On the last evening of her stay, as Wallis lay on the bed watching her pack, Mary asked her about marital relations. ‘Is it nice? Does it hurt the first time?’

  Wallis screwed up her nose. ‘When it’s your turn, try to stop them going south of the Mason–Dixon line. It’s messy and unpleasant.’

  Mary was surprised. ‘But don’t you want children? You’d be a great mother.’

  Wallis shuddered. ‘There’s plenty of time for that. I’m in no rush.’

  Mary was quiet on the way home. She didn’t open the novel she’d brought with her but gazed out of the window at the fields of yellow corn swaying in the breeze. Instead of feeling jealous that Wallis had been first to get a husband, she now felt desperately worried for her. How could she live with that awful man?

  Back in Baltimore, when her sister Anne asked her what Win was like, Mary replied, ‘He’s a louse.’

  Chapter 11

  Baltimore, April 1917

  MARY SHIVERED WITH ALARM WHEN HER FATHER told them over dinner on 6 April 1917 that America was at war with Germany. What would it mean for them all? Would her friends’ brothers have to go a
nd fight overseas? How about Win? She rushed upstairs to write to Wallis, asking if Win was being sent to France. If so, she suggested, Wallis should come for a prolonged stay in Baltimore so she didn’t get lonely.

  It was some weeks before a reply arrived, and Mary was surprised to see a Boston address on the envelope. She tore it open.

  Win is bitterly disappointed not to be shipped to France, Wallis wrote. Instead we are in Boston, where he has been asked to organise the air station.

  A suspicion entered Mary’s mind that Win’s superiors knew of his drinking and had decided not to trust him in battle. A desk job would keep him out of the way.

  Wallis continued:

  I am on my own during the days but entertain myself by taking a streetcar down to Middlesex Superior Court, where I have become addicted to a rather lurid murder trial. I sit in the public gallery weighing up the evidence and I must admit I will be furious if the jury do not find this poor man innocent. I strongly believe he’s been framed by his neighbour. At any rate, it’s an entertaining way to spend a summer!

  At the end of the letter, she mentioned that she would be visiting Baltimore for a couple of weeks in August. Mary looked forward to it, and was disappointed when Wallis told her they couldn’t spend much time together.

  I’m dated up, she apologised. It proved impossible to see everyone in such a short visit and instead I’m missing out on what I wanted most, which was plenty of time with you, dearest Mary. You’ll have to visit us in Boston!

  But no sooner had she returned to Boston than she wrote that Win was being transferred to San Diego and they were setting off on the long train journey across to the West Coast. It seemed she got further away with every move, both physically and emotionally. Mary was saddened by the news. She had other friends – plenty of them – but none with Wallis’s verve, or her wry humour.