by Maureen Lee
‘Will is my new assistant,’ Kath said. ‘Of course, you two know each other, don’t you? I first met your mam,’ she said to William, ‘at Maggie’s mother’s funeral.’
William shook hands politely with the newcomer. He remembered her well from over the years. She was a cracker like her aunt, and, he recalled, had an extremely pretty daughter called Holly. He accepted with alacrity when she invited him to tea on Sunday. London was turning out to be a pretty wonderful place.
He returned to the tall, shabby house in Islington that he was renting along with four other students whom he’d been with at university; two boys and two girls. He’d been the first to arrive yesterday and had taken the first-floor front room after touring the house and deciding it was the best. The room below was bigger, but it was by the front door and the occupier might feel obliged to answer every knock.
After unpacking a few more things and hanging them in the wardrobe that could have accommodated at least half a dozen adults, he lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and wondered how many other young men would look forward with such heady anticipation to the idea of tidying up an office. Tomorrow he would buy some jeans and T-shirts – his parents had never approved of either – and he vowed never to iron a shirt again.
The weather was glorious that summer, continually warm and sunny, only raining during the night, when it refreshed the earth and plants and didn’t inconvenience anybody. William realised that until he’d come to live in London, he’d only been half alive. At university, he’d mixed with the earnest hard workers, studied a lot, drank little, and only bothered with girls who felt the same. Mind you, he had lost his virginity a long time ago. Studying hard didn’t stop a chap from having sex.
Having three sisters, he got on well with girls and didn’t feel embarrassed as many of his friends did who’d had no experience of the opposite sex. In the pubs, clubs and dark coffee shops where he spent most of his evenings, he met new girls every night. They were usually the sort who were familiar with politics and what was happening in the world. Discussions raged well into the night. They argued about the war in Vietnam, the race riots in the Deep South of the United States, the terrible, dreadful, unbelievable tragedy of the assassinations of Jack Kennedy and Martin Luther King, and then, only a few weeks ago, the killing of Robert Kennedy after he’d won an important primary on his way to becoming the second Kennedy to be president of that strange country where heroes died and bad people thrived – the Mafia being only one example.
His favourite girl, though, was Maggie Kaminski’s daughter, Holly. At twenty, she was such a delicate little thing, an incredibly pretty blonde with the most astonishing blue eyes. She was so very different to the other girls William associated with, who regarded themselves as beatniks and wore slacks and shapeless sweaters and occasionally hobnail boots. They used either no make-up or far too much so that their faces were dead white and their eyes looked like cockroaches. Sometimes their lips were painted black.
In contrast, Holly wore soft, feminine clothes and her face was discreetly made up. Her soft, breathy voice reminded him a little of Marilyn Monroe, who most men he knew were madly in love with. Holly had had a crush on him – it was impossible not to have noticed – for as long as he could remember. She was a receptionist in a beauty salon in Bond Street, whereas the other girls he knew lived on the dole or served in bars and were constantly looking for good causes to march for and bad issues to march against.
He hadn’t yet asked her out. He had the feeling, with Holly, that asking for a date was almost akin to a proposal of marriage. She would take it very seriously, not casually like the other girls, and in view of her relationship to his employer – she was Kath’s great-niece – he didn’t want to blot his copybook by ditching her if he discovered they weren’t made for each other.
The problem was solved one Sunday when Holly’s dad, a charismatic individual with an important job in a Polish bank, produced a pair of tickets for There’s a Girl in My Soup starring Donald Sinden, which was on at the Globe Theatre in the West End on Wednesday. He suggested William take Holly to see it. At this, Grace, the other daughter, looked amused. She was as different from Holly as chalk from cheese. Dark-haired like her mother, darker blue eyes, argumentative, wilful, quite rude – at least he thought so, the way she made fun of his opinions and told him to his face that he was full of hot air. Out of the hearing of her parents, she made liberal use of four-letter words.
The show was really good. William enjoyed it, particularly the way Holly kept her hand tucked in his throughout the performance. He was a little perturbed when they came out and she assumed they would take a taxi back to where she lived in Coriander Close in Finchley. He had only a few pounds in his pocket and was terrified he wouldn’t have enough for the fare. Holly had requested a Tom Collins in both intervals, and the drinks had cost a bomb. He had to concede it was hot in the theatre, though lemonade had been enough for him. The cost of the taxi virtually cleaned him out, and he used his last few shillings to get back to Islington on the tube. If he couldn’t borrow money in the morning, he’d have to walk to the House of Commons.
By the time William eventually laid his head on the pillow, he had quite gone off Holly Kaminski. The other girls he knew would never have done that to a fellow. They wouldn’t have expected a taxi or, if they’d wanted one, would have paid for it themselves. And it was boring talking to Holly, who hadn’t a clue what was going on in the world. He would have liked to discuss the end of the Prague Spring in Czechoslovakia and the overthrow of Alexander Dubček, who had wanted to turn his country into a democracy. But Holly had never heard of Czechoslovakia or Alexander Dubček and preferred to talk about things like the latest shoes and The Sound of Music, a film she’d seen five times and which William wouldn’t have wanted to see had he lived to be a hundred.
He groaned into the pillow, having remembered that the following night, Thursday, he had promised to take Holly to a disco in Covent Garden, and for lunch in Hampstead on Sunday, followed by a walk on the Heath. It meant he’d have to withdraw two or three times as much cash as he normally did. Even if he really fancied her for a girlfriend, he couldn’t afford her.
Next day, he forgot about Holly while he continued with the tidying of Kath’s office. Some of the newspapers were more than twenty years old. They were mainly left-wing: the Daily Mirror, the Daily Herald, the Daily Worker. The headlines fascinated him: Rationing Ends – AT LAST! Britain Occupies Suez Canal. Death of a President. Wars started, wars ended, trains and planes crashed, there were floods and fires, countries had famines and people died in their millions, rarely from natural causes. He cut out everything to do with politics and put them in box files.
William became lost in the history of his country and the world until he realised it was time to go home and change for the disco tonight. He had an almost waist-high heap of newspapers to throw away when he came in on Monday. He would be glad when the weekend was over and his life would be Holly-free and his money his own again. It hadn’t taken long for him to realise that she wasn’t made for him after all.
Maggie smiled benignly through the window as Holly linked William’s arm and they made their way to the station. They were going to a disco in a pub somewhere.
‘She’s been mad about him from when she was about ten,’ she said to Jack, who was watching the news on television. ‘Since he’s come to live in London, I could tell he was longing to ask her out. I’m glad you got those theatre tickets. It’s really brought them together.’
‘Seemed a bit mean to me,’ Jack said. It had been Maggie’s idea for him to give William the tickets as a way of getting him and Holly to go out together. ‘He was put in a position where he couldn’t very well refuse.’
‘But he looked pleased when he saw them, not at all put out or anything. They’re going out again on Sunday. Oh Jack, wouldn’t it be wonderful if they got married? Between us, the Kaminskis and the Grants, we could have a really big wedding.’ Maggie rubbed h
er hands together gleefully. Nell would come to the wedding, and she and Iris might become friends again.
‘Don’t get all worked up about it,’ Jack warned. ‘It might not happen.’
‘On the other hand, it might.’
She saw his lips tighten just a little and recognised the sign. She was getting on his nerves. ‘You always have to have the last word,’ he’d said once.
It had happened gradually over the years, loving each other less and less until one day they wouldn’t love each other at all. She’d had a long conversation about it with Nell over the phone. ‘Maybe you’re just getting used to each other,’ Nell had suggested. ‘Maybe you love each other just as much, but in a different way. It’s just not so passionate any more.’
Maggie hoped that Nell was right; she usually was. She didn’t want to not love Jack any more. She had dramatic visions of him dying, watching his eyes close for the final time, knowing that he would never open them again, never speak, not even breathe. She was surprised when it brought tears to her own eyes.
Maybe she still loved him just as much as ever. She hoped he wouldn’t have to die before she found out for sure.
‘I think I’ll give Nell a ring,’ she said now. ‘She’ll be really thrilled to know that our Holly and William Grant might get married.’
She decided to call Nell from the bedroom, where there was a telephone and she could sit comfortably on the bed instead of the hard seat in the hall. Before sitting, she opened the window and breathed in the cool evening air, then dialled Nell’s number in Waterloo.
Five minutes later, she came downstairs, her face ashen. ‘Can we please go to Liverpool in the car tomorrow, Jack?’
He must have noticed the trembling urgency in her voice. He turned down the television and looked dismayed. ‘Oh darling, you know I can’t. There’s this chap coming from the States and I’ve promised to look after him for the day. I did tell you.’
‘Of course you did, but I’d forgotten.’ It would be unreasonable to expect him to back out at the last minute.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Maggie? You’ve gone terribly pale.’
‘Nell has just told me the most awful thing . . .’
‘Sit down,’ he urged. He got up and pulled her to an armchair, where she sat and he dropped on to his knees beside her. ‘What awful thing, darling?’
She was so outraged, so disbelieving, that she could hardly speak. ‘According to Nell, William isn’t Iris’s child, but hers, and his father is an O’Neill. It can only be our Ryan – she never said anything, but I could always tell she was really keen on him. She only told me now because I said that Holly and William were getting serious about each other and there was a possibility they’d get married. But they can’t, because they’re related to each other; blood relatives, I think it’s called.’
‘And why must you go to Liverpool tomorrow, Maggie?’ He stroked her face. ‘Don’t you know enough already?’
‘I need to speak to Iris about it, face to face, make sure that what Nell said is true. And I’d like to talk to Nell again; properly, this time. Before, she was so upset I could hardly understand what she was saying.’
‘They must have kept the truth from William,’ Jack said thoughtfully.
‘Oh lord,’ Maggie sobbed. ‘What a terrible mess. And you know, Jack, I had always thought Nell was a virgin until she married Red, yet she’d actually had a baby! And before I’d had Holly, too.’
Maggie was a reasonably good driver, but she baulked at the idea of driving her new red Mini all the way to Liverpool by herself. She was considering going by train, and was pleased when Grace, who had passed her driving test with flying colours a year ago, offered to take her on condition her father allowed her the day off work – she worked as a clerk in his bank. He graciously gave his permission.
‘That’s really nice of you, love,’ her mother said gratefully. ‘But I’d appreciate it if you kept to forty miles an hour.’
‘Don’t be daft, Mum,’ Grace snorted. ‘It’d take all day. I promise not to go more than sixty. Anyway, what’s the reason for going to Liverpool all of a sudden?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’ Well, she might. It all depended what the truth was. It wasn’t like Nell to exaggerate or tell lies, but the idea of William being her son was so improbable. ‘I have to speak to Nell first, then Iris Grant, William’s mother,’ she told her daughter.
‘Why not telephone?’
‘It’s something that has to be done face to face. I’ve rung Nell and told her to expect me about midday.’ Iris was expecting her later in the afternoon.
‘It sounds incredibly mysterious.’
Maggie sighed. ‘It’s more tragic than mysterious, love.’
It was a perfect day for driving; not too bright and not too hot. They didn’t talk much. For all her outward confidence, Grace was rather nervous of driving so far, and on a motorway too. Maggie was immersed in trying to work out what had happened twenty-one years ago – no, it would be nearly twenty-two since William was conceived. She recalled that Iris had been ill when she was pregnant, blood pressure or something, and had gone to live in Wales for peace and quiet – and Nell had gone with her! Well, that fitted in with what Nell claimed had happened; that it was she who’d had the baby, not Iris.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ she whispered.
‘What, Mum?’
‘Nothing, I’m just remembering things, that’s all.’ Not only was she desperate for an explanation, by the time they reached the motorway services at Keele, she was just as desperate for a cup of tea. They stopped for half an hour in the restaurant so Grace could rest her legs, which were aching badly.
‘This is the furthest I’ve ever driven a car,’ she told her mother.
‘You are a brick, love. That’s what your dad used to call you, his “little brick”.’ She really was a wonderful daughter: reliable, helpful, the sort of person you would trust with your life. Whereas Holly . . . She recalled her sister-in-law’s warning that Holly was being spoiled, and Maggie saying back something like ‘A child can’t be given too much love, Rosie.’
Well, that wasn’t true, Maggie realised now, too many years later. Maybe her brain was clearer today, because she wouldn’t normally have acknowledged, not even to herself, that Holly had grown up vain and empty-headed, concerned with no one but herself. That morning, she hadn’t even noticed her mother was upset and had spent half an hour in front of the mirror making up her face before going to work.
Neither woman spoke for the remainder of the journey, not until they came off the M6 on to the East Lancashire Road and Maggie studied the map and instructed Grace how to get to Waterloo.
Music was throbbing out of the open windows of Nell’s house, Irish music, the sort that Maggie loved but wasn’t in the mood for right now. Nell must have been looking out for her, because she opened the front door and Maggie and her daughter went in. Grace made a beeline for the source of the music in a room upstairs. She still got on well with Nell’s lads.
‘Let’s sit out here,’ Nell said to Maggie. They went into the kitchen, which was badly in need of decoration. She closed the door and put the kettle on.
‘Doesn’t anyone ever complain about the noise?’ Maggie asked.
‘They did at first, but they seem to have got used to it. Some people come and sit on the wall outside just to listen.’
‘Who’s that playing now?’
‘Quinn and Kev. They’re quite good. They’re off to London tomorrow to play at a club there. Red and Eamon are on their way to Ireland.’
‘Hmm.’ Maggie stared at her friend, wondering how to begin. She was acutely aware that while both women were forty-three, Nell appeared much younger than herself, despite the expensive creams that Maggie smoothed on to her face night and morning, the facials and the face packs, the stylish haircuts. Nell’s skin, bare of make-up, was beautifully clear, her brown hair casually cut and terribly smart. She wore a plain red sweater and black slacks th
at looked very elegant, no doubt unintentionally. In her flowered sundress and frilly bolero, Maggie felt overdressed and over-made-up.
Nell suddenly said, quite sharply, ‘Don’t look at me like that, Maggie, as if you’re sitting in judgement. I have done absolutely nothing wrong.’
Maggie spluttered, taken aback. ‘My daughter is madly in love with William Grant. Whose fault is that?’
‘Hardly mine. The last time I saw him, he was only a few hours old.’
It sounded so terribly sad. ‘I’m sorry, but why didn’t you tell me you’d had a child, a son?’ She felt deeply hurt. ‘I thought we were supposed to be friends.’
‘We are friends, but it was none of your business. Just like what happened between you and Chris Conway was none of mine.’
Chris Conway was so far from Maggie’s mind at the moment that she couldn’t even remember who he was. ‘Does our Ryan know about William?’ she asked. ‘I’ll have a bone to pick with him next time I see him.’ She might even go to Lydiate and do it today.
‘That’s just like you, Maggie,’ Nell said scornfully, ‘to go barging in when you don’t know the truth about anything. Do you think that’d be fair on Rosie? Anyroad, your Ryan has nothing to do with it. William is your father’s son.’
‘My father!’ Maggie put her hands over her ears, as if the music had suddenly become too loud or she didn’t want to hear the truth. ‘You mean me dad?’ she whispered. ‘Are you saying me dad raped you?’
‘I’m saying no such thing. Your dad was drunk. It wasn’t all that long since your mam had died and he was still mourning her.’ Nell’s lips actually curled into a slight, sad smile. ‘He thought it was her, your mam, he was making love to, he said the most loving things in me ear.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘Afterwards, I bet he never remembered a thing about it – or thought it’d been a dream. He never mentioned it, anyroad.’
‘You should’ve stopped him,’ Maggie cried.
‘I wanted to, honest, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I’d drunk vodka, you see; someone spiked the punch. Tom told me some people have an intolerance to alcohol. They have a sort of fit – the first time it happened was in the army. Remember?’ She spoke matter-of-factly; not hesitantly or in the least bit embarrassed. ‘I know it sounds daft, but I didn’t mind what was happening. I mean, I didn’t feel as if I was being raped.’