‘No, we won’t be living there,’ Matthew told her, avoiding her eye. ‘I’ve closed it up until I’ve –’ he grinned and hugged Marion, ‘until we’ve decided what to do about it. Perhaps we’ll sell it. For the moment, we’ve found a flat above the bank in Ebenezer Street. Right opposite the Drews unfortunately, but they’ll have to get used to seeing us every day.’
A party atmosphere developed as ruffled feathers were soothed by laughter. Nelda decided it was time Richard was in bed and as usual it was Leonard who bathed and settled the child. Time hadn’t altered her determination to have as little as possible to do with her son although she had been unable to prevent a deep love for him growing stronger with every day that passed.
The food was hardly what a newly wed couple would expect, but the fish and chip shop supplied a tasty if unusual wedding breakfast and with a few friends invited to swell the numbers, the wedding day ended on a happy note.
Walking back to the caravan in Julia’s garden, Patricia was filled with a sense of relief that made her want to dance. Light-hearted in a way that couldn’t be explained by the unaccustomed port she had consumed. It was similar to how she had felt on learning that her father was to remarry. That had freed her from the guilt she had carried since the death of her mother. This marriage showed her that whatever Vanessa’s death had done to Matthew, he was now over it and on the way to a happy future. It was only later she began to wonder seriously, what sort of husband Matthew would make for her youngest sister. Would he stop thinking about Vanessa, or would Marion be expected to share the burden of his grief?
* * *
Marion was experienced with men only up to a point. She thought she knew most of what she needed to know about her ‘first night’. For her wedding night she thought it wise to be hesitant, a little nervous, as though heavy petting was not something of which she had any knowledge. She didn’t want him lying awake wondering where she had learnt her skills! Yes, she would be shy, and allow him to coax her into their first lovemaking. The thought was exciting and she was impatient to leave her father’s house and begin her married life in the small flat above the bank.
Her nightdress was already on the bed, hidden by a spare blanket. She had spent hours choosing the gown which, the shop assistant assured her, was diaphanous and alluring. She didn’t want the surprise spoilt by Matthew seeing it before she wore it.
The flat was cold and unlived in, having been empty for several months. Their few belongings looked unfamiliar. The rooms looked sparse and unwelcoming. It had all been such a rush. She began to regret their secret wedding. It could have been much more fun.
It was past midnight, into the time where hushed whispers seemed more appropriate than laughter or even normal conversation.
Breathlessly, Marion slipped on the nightgown and sprayed herself with perfume. ‘Scent is all you really need to wear,’ Joanne had laughingly told her. With what she hoped was convincing modesty, she undressed behind the bedroom door while Matthew was in the bathroom. They passed in the passage way as he headed for the bedroom and shared a brief kiss. Returning from the bathroom she stood in the doorway, illuminated by the street lights and waited, heart racing madly, for Matthew to invite her into his bed.
‘Come on, my beautiful witch of the night, you’ll get chilled standing there tantalizing me.’
She slid in beside him and he kissed her. Then he turned on his side away from her and went to sleep.
She lay there, trying not to breath, waiting for his arms to open, for him to turn and embrace her and tell her she was beautiful, but he didn’t move. Was he waiting for her to do something? She tentatively touched him and he shrugged away from her hand, moving his body a fraction further from hers. A tear slipped from her eyes onto the new, sweet-scented pillow case, embroidered with hearts entwined.
She had been so intoxicated by thoughts of this moment. No holding back. This would be a culmination of all the times she wanted to say yes but had said a regretful no. This night had promised ecstasy; a reward for all the times she had held back from the final momentous surrender.
The night was unutterably lonely. A double bed with two single occupants. Perhaps, she thought, as she saw dawn soften the edges of the window panes, perhaps tomorrow, when the excitement had eased.
* * *
Unable to go to the Drew’s house to tell Roland about the marriage of Marion and Matthew, Patricia met him as he came out of school. He was rushing out as if anxious to put distance between himself and the building. A tall, almost gangly man in a neat sports coat and grey trousers, a trilby perched precariously on his fair head, a mac thrown carelessly across his shoulder.
‘Are you going somewhere important? Or just running away from confinement like an impatient child smelling freedom?’
‘I always run as I get to the gate, I think you’re right, it’s the smell of freedom,’ He smiled at her. ‘Were you just passing or was there a reason for meeting me? Either way, I’m glad to see you.’
She told him about the wedding and he watched her, looking for signs of distress but she seemed unworried at the prospect of the man she had almost married setting up home with her sister.
They walked together through the streets that one minute were filled with shouting children and the next as silent as a Sunday; those same children dashing indoors for food and radio’s Children’s Hour.
‘You aren’t upset?’ he asked.
‘Life isn’t a road moving out in front of you without turnings. There are choices to make and I decided a long time ago that my choice in marrying Matthew was a wrong turning. I was lucky I was able to turn back.’
‘I think I’ve passed a few corners I should have taken,’ he said wryly. ‘There’s one to consider right now. I have the chance of another small exhibition. Nothing very grand, just another art shop, but in Cardiff this time. I wonder if I should take it, if people I’ve sold to will lend their paintings, that is. I don’t have enough to display without Vanessa’s portrait and Julia’s and the one I did of a shepherd. I really need to do several more.’
‘When is it?’
‘Next March.’
‘Plenty of time. Tell them yes. And Roland, why don’t you think about leaving teaching and really giving it a try?’
‘I’d love to. But what would I do if I failed?’
‘What would you do if you succeeded?’
‘I’ll talk to Julia, see what she thinks, I trust her judgement completely. I’ll admit the idea has been hovering at the edges of my mind, tempting, and yet it’s something I’ve been afraid to consider.’
‘There’s a turning off the straight and narrow road if ever there was one! A choice which might never come again. I’ve passed too many not to hope you’ll take yours while it’s there.’
* * *
Roland was disturbed by news of Marion and Matthew’s wedding. He wondered how his mother would react, and feared a breakdown, but none came. She seemed to accept Matthew’s marriage without changing her opinion that he would continue to love her daughter.
‘He’s lonely and Marion will be a comfort to him,’ she told Roland, when he asked how she felt. ‘Our dear Vanessa will never come back and I know he can’t spend his life alone.’
‘You think he’s married Marion not loving her?’
‘How can he love another? He’d never be unfaithful to Vanessa.’
It was the wrong time, he knew that, but still he asked: ‘Mam, would you mind if I borrowed the portrait of Vanessa? I have the chance of another exhibition, in Cardiff this time and it might bring me more commissions.’
‘Haven’t you played with that idea for long enough?’
‘Idea? What idea?’
‘Pretending to be an artist, dear. We all know it was Vanessa who was the talented one, you’ll never be anything but a teacher. Lucky you are to have such a safe job. And helping others, showing them how, bringing out their best work, well, it’s an honourable profession. So stay where you’re safe. Playing a
round with such time consuming hobbies could lose you your job.’
‘Art isn’t a hobby. It’s what I want to do with my life.’ He spoke calmly but inside he was churning with frustration at her blindness.
‘Portraiture is an exceptional skill. I don’t wish to be unkind, Roland, but we aren’t all meant for great things, and I believe you are a good teacher.’
‘Thank you for the crumbs,’ he said with a sigh. ‘So you think I’m passably good at what I do?’
‘Of course. So long as you don’t allow dreams to distract you and make you lose interest. Teaching is a sensible and safe career.’
‘Then you’ll be disappointed to hear that I’m leaving at the end of this year. Next September, I’ll be finishing at school and giving every available moment to becoming a successful artist.’ He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t really made up his mind, but as he thought of Patricia’s words he saw her face and saw her in colour. Blues and touches of gold. He knew he would paint her and make it his best work. ‘Yes, I’m coming to a crossroads and I’m going to change direction. My mind is made up and nothing will change it.’
‘Oh, Roland,’ his mother sighed. ‘Don’t talk like a spoilt child.’
‘I was never that, Mam. Never that.’
* * *
1947 was a year of disasters. In January, a strike of road haulage workers caused the wastage of tons of meat intended for the nation’s tables. The army had to bring food supplies to customers, and the result was that meat ration was cut once again. It seemed to the exhausted women that the shortages and effects of the war would never end.
February brought chaos of a different kind, with snow blocking roads, isolating small towns and villages and causing power cuts and severe shortages of food. Even the rations were not always available. Candles were brought back to add their once acceptable flickering light to rooms where people huddled and prayed for release from the penetrating cold.
In March, floods added to the difficulties and caused serious losses of food as animals and stores succumbed. Snow melted, then fell again, continuing to disrupt the arteries of the country.
After the disastrous winter, Christian Dior’s ‘New Look’ was welcomed like a breath of sanity by the women who had lived with deprivation for so long. His new style defied the shortages and gave the women rounded shoulders and tiny waists. The hourglass figure was back.
The fact that clothing was still strictly rationed didn’t stop Elizabeth. She was good with a needle and she had Nelda to help. Together the three women worked at altering their skimped utility clothes to mimic the dictates of Christian Dior. They lengthened skirts by adding generously gathered layers of different material, separating the different colours with colourful ribbons or piping cut from discarded garments. Skirts were made from trousers by those slim enough to fit them – to the frustration of many fathers – and dresses were cut below the waist to create a top with a peplum, to be worn over them. It was great fun and Patricia decided that the time had come to do more than change her clothes. She was going to change her life style too.
The main reason she wanted to change her attitude to fashion was Roland. She was spending hours each week on the typewriter, making a neat copy of his war reminiscences and arranging places for fitting in his drawings. She was also cataloguing his work so he would have precise details of where everything could be found. She hoped that when the exhibition took place she would go with him.
She still worked at the flower shop and although this was not entirely satisfactory until something else turned up she would stay.
The Youth Club also continued to fill several evenings as, with Nelda, she planned and prepared for the various classes they ran, and organised the dances, and outings the young people continued to expect.
‘It’s the Youth Club you like best, isn’t it?’ Julia asked one day when she looked into the caravan to see Patricia busily counting booking forms for the July coach trip to visit another Youth Club in Aberaeron.
‘I like working with young people and it’s great working alongside Nelda. I forget sometimes she’s my step-mother and think of her as a friend.’
Patricia and Roland did much of Julia’s gardening for her and Patricia found the less practical clothes she now wore a nuisance, but she persevered. Julia hadn’t told them why she refrained from doing anything energetic, but the fact was she quickly became breathless if she exerted herself. She had little energy these days to search for the parlour premises she dreamed of.
* * *
Marion also found the new fashion to her liking; it emphasised her trim waist and her full bust. She tried every way she could to tempt Matthew to make love to her but nothing she did made any difference. She wondered when things would start going right with her marriage. She and Matthew shared their meals and slept in the same bed, but apart from a goodnight kiss and a showing of affection when they were with others, they were hardly even friends.
When she talked to others, she gave the impression of living a blissfully happy life. When Joanne asked why she was not yet pregnant, she replied.
‘Romantic beyond he is. And so passionate. I can’t imagine why I haven’t had a baby yet. But I doubt if it’ll be long.’ Smiling, exaggerating how successful her marriage was, she waited with lessening hope for it to begin.
The flat was small and poky and as soon as she had given the place a cursory clean up, she had nothing else to do all day. She would take a leisurely bath and dress in her smartest clothes – less flamboyant now in the hope of pleasing Matthew with her respectable, married woman, look – and walk through Ebenezer Street looking at the shops and hoping to meet someone with whom to share a snack and a cup of coffee.
Twice she met Jacky Davies and told him in answer to his questions how happy she was being Mrs Matthew Morris. He was often seen driving through the town testing motorbikes or cars. He would stop when she waved and they would chatter for a while before he continued with his work. She liked Jacky and the day brightened when he had half an hour to spend in a café.
The day when she knew she had to stop pretending and tell someone about Matthew’s neglect of her began when she went to the cottage for the first time. Knowing that Matthew owned the cottage made her wonder if something could be done to find them a better place to live.
Patricia still had a key. During the war years, she had checked the place regularly and had kept it clean. Patricia gave the key to her with apologies for keeping it for so long.
‘Sorry, Marion. I forgot I had it. Since Matthew came home I haven’t been there. I presumed he would take care of it from then on. The key should be here in my handbag.’ She fumbled among the combs, nail files, face powder and lipsticks, bus tickets and stale sweets, and handed the key to her sister.
It was a Sunday morning and Matthew was collecting milk from the farms. Patricia was meeting Roland later to discuss the portait of her he wanted to do, and about which he was procrastinating like a nervous child. Marion decided it was a good time to look at the cottage.
‘Will you come with me?’ she asked and Patricia glanced at the clock and agreed.
‘I won’t have too long. Roland is coming at two.’
‘We’ll be back before then. I only want a look. It belongs to me, yet I haven’t been there since Joanne and I did a spot of squatting,’ Marion explained, ‘I’ll tell Matthew about that. One day.’
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to go with Matthew?’
‘Matthew won’t even talk about it. I think perhaps it still worries him, Vanessa going there and killing herself.’
‘And it doesn’t worry you?’
‘I wouldn’t like to live there. It was all right for a while, with Joanne keeping me company, but not forever. But it’s crazy leaving it empty. I think Matthew should sell it and buy us a proper home. Or at least rent it out.’
‘I agree. Someone living in it, overlaying it with their own lives, will drive away the horrors. It’s really a very attractive place. The garden would h
ave been lovely.’
‘D’you know, Patricia, I’d almost forgotten that you were going to live there. I’m sorry.’
‘My ghosts were exorcized long ago. Come on, let’s go.’
Marion was nervous. She had heard several descriptions of how the body was found, and now, as she opened the door and stepped in, she half expected to see it. They entered from the back door and the kitchen seemed unfriendly and cold. There was an unpleasant smell which Patricia recognised at once as dead flowers. She looked around and saw some, discarded in the sink and wondered how long they had lain there.
‘It’s no good,’ Marion shuddered. ‘I’ve seen enough to know I could never live here.’
‘We might as well look at the rest while we’re here.’ Patricia led the way and Marion followed like a nervous shadow as they trooped from room to room. As they were leaving, clumping down the bare wooden stairs, Patricia stared into the living room and pointed. ‘Look at that!’ On the mantelpiece, beside a picture of Matthew and Vanessa together, was a vase of fresh flowers.
* * *
When Marion told Matthew she had been to the cottage he was unreasonably annoyed.
‘I wish you wouldn’t interfere,’ he surprised her by saying. ‘The cottage isn’t a place for you to take inquisitive visitors.’
‘I’m your wife. Patricia’s my sister, the woman you almost married! Hardly inquisitive visitors.’
‘What else were you both if not inquisitive visitors?’
‘I presumed that as your wife, it belongs partly to me and I wanted to see if it was possible to live there instead of this tiny flat.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘I agree. It’s dark, gloomy and smells of damp. I think we should sell it.’
‘One day perhaps. I haven’t decided yet. I might live there one day.’
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