LEAH FLEMING
Mothers and Daughters
Dedication
For Elf and Lyz who found each other.
Epigraph
Somewhere out between ideas of right doing
and wrong doing, there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.
Jalalud’din Rumi
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Crete
Part I: Scholarship Girls
Chapter One: Grimbleton, Lancashire, June 1953
Chapter Two: The Big Day
Chapter Three: Rosa
Chapter Four: Neville
Chapter Five: Joy
Chapter Six: Esme
Chapter Seven: Secrets In The Sideboard
Chapter Eight: Connie
Chapter Nine: Rosa
Chapter Ten: Miss Mercury
Chapter Eleven: Neville
Part II: Gymslips And Blue Jeans
Chapter Twelve: A Right Royal Wedding
Chapter Thirteen: The Summer Of Rock’n’ Roll, 1963
Chapter Fourteen: Summer Holiday
Chapter Fifteen: Colours Of Love
Chapter Sixteen: The War Baby Blues
Chapter Seventeen: Twenty Three November 1963
Chapter Eighteen: A Truce
Chapter Nineteen: A Cracker Of A Christmas
Chapter Twenty: Exile
Chapter Twenty One: Lullabye
Part III: Wives And Other Lovers
Chapter Twenty Two: Dr Valium
Chapter Twenty Three: The Tupperware Queen
Chapter Twenty Four: Rosa
Chapter Twenty Five: Oh, What A Night!
Part IV: Mothers And Daughters
Chapter Twenty Six: December 1968
Chapter Twenty Seven: By The Wine-Dark Sea, July 1969
Chapter Twenty Eight: Zoe, 1970
Chapter Twenty Nine: The Cancer Eye, 2005
Chapter Thirty: Anastasia
Preview
Prologue
One: August 1913
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By The Same Author:
Copyright
About the Publisher
Crete
2007
She sits under the crisscross shade of the apricot trees, hidden from view by an arch of fucshia bougainvillaea, beside a pool rippling like blue silk, glancing at her watch. Is it time yet?
She’s not one for too much sun even though she’s half Cretan. There are enough life-lines etched on her face without adding more. She is content to soak in the colours around her, the brown earth, the white villa walls, the olive trees in blossom, the white jasmine under an ink-blue sky. She can hear the chink of sheep bells in the distance where the mountains rise up above the hilltop village. The fish van calls out on its Tuesday round. The cicadas are screeching.
She never tires of the colours of Crete: blues and whites, and the sandy ochre of the monasteries nearby. When she thinks of her English life, she sees millstone grit and slate grey, the shrub green of bay and yew, burning autumn shades in the garden and a paler sun.
She’s not ready to go home yet. There is one more thing she must do.
She is miles too early for the plane’s arrival, pausing to watch the charter flights from Britain sink down from the gap in Soudha Bay onto the Akrotiri landing strip in a cloud of red dust. For once, she’s dressed up: a bright turquoise sundress and gold sandals, what’s left of her hair hennaed, clipped up with combs, her shades holding back the straggles, her legs waxed and nails polished.
The new arrivals stagger off the plane and into the heat of the afternoon, and pile into a bus to the entrance and the long wait for baggage. She knows the routine by heart, watching the departing lobster skins in skimpy tops queuing patiently. Wait till they return to the chill of Manchester in the night, she smiles, bags full of olive oil, raki and leather shoes.
How many times has she stood here waiting for friends? Will she come? Will she recognise her?
She smiles at the holiday reps with their clipboards at the ready and the car-hire locals, with their misspelled surnames written on cardboard. It is a place for expectant first-timers, blown away by the heat and the dust, for old hands, ex-pats home from the old country with their cases full of cheeses, Marmite, smoked salmon, curry spices, DVDs and home-made marmalade.
Did their emails cross?
Sit down, relax, she tells herself. She’ll be ages yet, so get a paper, a coffee, anything to take your mind off what is to come.
How can I relax when I’ve been waiting for this day all my life …?
She sits on a bench trying not to shake. Will they recognise each other from the snapshots; a middle-aged woman, an ageing hippy, with sun-bleached hair, freckles, a necklace of turquoise stones clunking over her flat chest?
Breathe in deep. Remember your yoga, focus on the present, not what might yet be. How long it has taken to come to this meeting point. How do I even start to explain?
She sinks back with a sigh. To answer she must go back to the beginning, right back, back to the 1950s. She will want to know it all.
PART I
SCHOLARSHIP GIRLS
1
Grimbleton, Lancashire, June 1953
‘Be careful with that box, Levi,’ yelled Susan Winstanley as he guided the precious cargo through the tiled entrance of the Waverley Guesthouse. ‘To the left into the residents’ lounge …’ the petite woman ordered as her brother-in-law squeezed his way through the door.
‘No,’ shouted Ana, his other sister-in-law. ‘To the right … into the dining room. It will be safer in there.’
Joy and Connie, their respective daughters, looked on with excitement as their uncle Levi lifted the box that was to be the talk of Division Street.
‘Take no notice of her. We can get more people in the lounge,’ countered Su.
‘Will you two make your minds up? I’m standing here like your black servant. Do us a favour, one way or t’other, but my arms are aching. Which way is it to be?’
Ana shrugged. ‘Poof! Suit yourself, don’t blame me if half the street trample over your new carpets. Better close the curtains or they’ll see it through the window.’
Connie wanted everyone in the street to know this good fortune. They would be the first in Division Street to own a proper television set in time for the Coronation in three days’ time.
‘Put it down there … no … over there.’ Susan was pointing. For such a little woman she could be bossy. ‘We need a table to raise it to eye level.’
‘If you put it there, the sun will shine on the screen,’ Ana argued. She may only be a nurse but even she could see it was in the wrong place. ‘Then no one see nothing,’ she added in a Lancashire accent broken by guttural Greek vowels. How different the two of them were, thought seven-year-old Connie: Mama so tall and wide, with red hair scraped back into a thick bun, her fierce green eyes missing nothing. Susan, dark with flashing brown eyes and a tiny body.
‘But there’s no socket to plug it in there,’ Su argued back.
Levi was up and down like a yo-yo at their command, a big barrel on two legs, who huffed and puffed a lot but was always there to do jobs for them in his old home.
‘Just shut up and let the dog see the rabbit. If we pull out the sofa from the wall, there’s a spare socket behind there, as I recall, and it’s out of the window light.’ He pushed the sofa forward and Connie scrambled into the space to retrieve a crumpled hanky, two mouldy sweets and a broken pipe.
The carpet square didn’t reach that far back and the wooden floor was full of fluff on the skirting board where no one had bothere
d to dust.
That set Su in a panic. ‘When did these corners last get a fright? We shall have to bottom this all out right now. Joy! Go and fetch the mop and brush. I don’t want the neighbours to think we keep a dirty house.’
The furniture was shunted one way and another and then back. How could one small box create such havoc? They all set to with a vengeance to spruce up the room.
Levi tried to slope off to his van but Su collared him at the front door.
‘Not so fast, my good man … There’s a bit more shifting yet.’
‘Hurry up or Ivy will send out a search party and there’ll be all hell to pay.’
Everyone knew Ivy didn’t like him helping out in the family home. She never called round because of the ‘B.F.O.’, the Big Fall-Out, that, to Connie’s dismay, nobody ever talked about. She and Levi had lived in Waverley House themselves before the bust-up. Connie didn’t know why she never invited them round now to play with Neville to watch Muffin the Mule.
Eventually the object of future worship was placed with great reverence on the pie-crust table: a twelve-inch screen Pye set with walnut-effect cabinet and cathode ray tube, the workings of which Mr Pickles had tried to explain to a bewildered Connie and Joy in Junior Science Club. The piano was demoted to the cold dining room.
Connie and Joy had done loads of stuff on the Coronation itself in school: the history of the Crown Jewels, the ceremony and the royal family. Connie’s class had made crowns, orbs and sceptres out of cardboard and gold cigarette papers, sweet wrappers and milk-bottle tops. Joy, who was in the class above, was making scrapbooks about the royal family, cutting out every picture she could find about the Queen.
Then there was the pageant in King’s Park on Sunday afternoon and the Lemody Liptrot Little Lovelies, to which Connie and Joy belonged, were appearing in the finale as flag bearers. Their best friend, Rosa Santini, was doing a solo. She was coming to watch TV with them on Coronation Day, along with her mum, Maria, and Sylvio, her new husband, and little Salvi and Serafina.
There were flags and bunting right down Division Street, pictures of the Queen in every window, and posters showing the Golden Coach. Best of all they were having their very own street party. If only it would stay fine, Connie sighed. Everything depended on the weather and, being near the hills, they got more than their fair share of the wet stuff.
Still, nothing could spoil the fun and the thrill of seeing it all on telly. Sometimes their house felt like Grimbleton Station at the start of Wakes Week holiday, always comings and goings, suitcases in the hall, visitors up and down stairs. They had permanent guests like Dr Friedmann, who worked in the General Hospital, as did Mama. There was Miss Pinkerton, who visited her nieces for weeks on end, and then regular travellers and salesmen, who popped in on their rounds. The washing machine in the scullery out back was always on the go and Auntie Su had to have help with the ironing. Then there were the state visits from Grandma Esme, who’d retired to a bungalow up Sutter’s Fold. She liked to descend without warning just to check everything was shipshape – the Waverley would always really be her house.
They were going to pack in as many visitors as they could to watch events unfold from palace to cathedral and procession. It was going to be just as good as going there and, Granny Esme said, even better ’cos they’d get to go inside.
‘But you’ve got to behave. The Queen may not see you, but she’s watching, just the same. Remember our motto: “Family First and Foremost” … No slacking in the back row.’
Connie loved her granny Esme. She never called round without bringing them something in her brown crocodile handbag: coloured pencils, foreign stamps for their album, Spangles in a tube. She sometimes helped in the kitchen when she could and was kind to Susan and Ana.
Connie wasn’t quite sure how they were all related and no one ever explained why they all lived together. Auntie Su came from Burma with little Joy, and Mama came from Athens with her. There were loads of aunties who weren’t proper aunties but her mama’s special friends. Again it was something to do with the B.F.O. and the fact their daddies had died in the war. Whatever the case, the Winstanleys were an important family.
They were the first to have a proper washing machine and two cars, a business in town – Winstanley Health and Herbs, the family herbal stall in the Market Hall – and now a guesthouse with a television.
Connie had to share a room with Mama, and Joy with Auntie Susan, but when they were older they were promised two of the attic bedrooms for themselves. For the moment every room had to be let out. Dr Friedmann had a bedsitting room upstairs with a dressing room he used as a study. Miss Pinkerton had to have the room nearest to the bathroom on a account of her ‘delicate condition’, which no one would explain whenever Connie asked.
Breakfast and evening meals were eaten in the dining room and the lounge was a smoky fug where guests could sit and read the papers. The family lived in the back living room and kitchen. Connie would have loved the TV in there but it was much too important to get chip fat and grease all over it, Mama said.
Now it sat with a crocheted lace tablecloth over it to keep the dust off. Then the man from the shop came to fix the aerial and half the street stood outside to watch him attach it to the chimney as he pointed it towards Winter Hill near Bolton to get the best signal. Connie couldn’t imagine how invisible waves could make a picture.
Uncle Levi had got one ages ago so he could watch Bolton Wanderers and Blackpool slog it out in the Cup Final. He was cheering for Stanley Matthews to get his medal as Bolton were rivals of the local team, the Grasshoppers, where her Auntie Lee’s husband was coach.
Connie kept watching the sky anxiously in case the rain might spoil their day. It was going to be so exciting. Auntie Su had made them both special seersucker cotton dresses to wear in red, white and blue stripes. Mama had bought them striped ribbons for their bunches. There were special serviettes and paper hats, balloons and the crowns they’d made at school for their parties.
Then it rained and Joy cried as the pageant in the park was cancelled, and Rosa wouldn’t speak to anyone, her big brown eyes filled with tears of frustration. Why did it rain so much round here? The television kept juddering so the aerial man was called back to fix it, but nothing could stop the thrill of hearing that Mount Everest had been conquered by Hillary and Tensing on the BBC News on Coronation morning, and it was raining in London too, which was only fair.
Soon their visitors started piling in: old Mrs Pickvance, and Mr Beddows from next door, who was a bit deaf; Granny Esme, who arrived in a taxi; Auntie Lee and her husband, who ran Longsight Travel in town, the Bertorelli’s crammed in with all the kids, sitting on the floor, staring in awe at all the soldiers and carriages and people waving flags. Kings and queens in robes from all over the world parading their finery.
‘Mark my words,’ said Granny. ‘Such splendour … the sun may have set on our empire but no one does it better than us.’
They had to stand up every time the National Anthem was played, but after three times everyone agreed they’d done it enough respect.
The screen was so small but the sound was clear; the fanfares rang out, the bells, the cheering crowds. Connie sat transfixed, but Joy kept pinching her for more space so she pulled her bunches and Joy squealed. Connie got a clip from her mama. ‘We are in church now, so behave …’
They passed round a red, white and blue plate with red, white and blue sandwiches on it, well nearly: red tomatoes and tongue, white bread, and pickled cabbage, which was about as blue as they could get.
They’d made Coronation biscuits shaped like crowns with silver balls for jewels and cake. There were potato crisps, and port and lemons for the ladies, Mackeson’s Stout for the men, and Vimto for the kids. They sat glued to the box, feeding their food to their mouths, afraid to miss a second of the spectacle. Auntie Su cried when the Queen made her vows. ‘She’s always been fiercely patriotic,’ Mama smiled, then whispered, ‘Look at her, she thinks she’
s more British than the Queen herself.’ They saw little Prince Charles in his silk outfit, with his granny. He was so well behaved.
No one saw Neville creep through the door and plonk himself down beside them. Cousin Neville was Levi’s son. He lived round the corner, off Green Lane, and was an ‘only one’ so liked to boss them around. They all went to the same primary school but he was in Joy’s class.
‘Budge up,’ he whispered, sitting on Connie’s skirt.
‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘Your telly gone wonky?’
‘Nah … they’re at it again, Mum and Dad, argy-bargy all morning long. Dad’s gone to the British Legion for a pint. It’s not much fun being an only one.’
Connie didn’t consider that Cousin Neville had it hard. She never got a minute to be on her own. There was always someone in the room or in the kitchen. Oh, to have a room to herself, like Neville, and time to read her Enid Blytons in peace without someone shouting, ‘Connie, love, can you just …?’ She had to share everything with Joy as if they were sisters, not second cousins.
‘Sit still and shut up,’ she ordered him, and for once Neville did as he was told.
After the service and the procession were over, and it was still raining in London but drying off in Grimbleton, they began to set the tables up with white cloths and more paper plates and balloons, while Jackie Dodd’s father organised a game of French cricket in the street, odds against the evens. The Winstanleys were number twenty-two so they tagged along on the even team, trying to make the ball hit the legs of the person holding the bat.
Then they sat down to more sandwiches, sausage rolls, buns with coloured icing and rubber jelly with hundreds and thousands on top. The boys were flicking it on their spoons, shouting, ‘Ice cream and jelly … a punch on the belly! A whole lot of fun and punch up yer bum!’
Mothers and Daughters Page 1