The Princess spent over an hour going quietly from child to child, escorted by a group of nervous officials, helpers and, of course, Maxie Frizzell.
The children had been lovingly dressed for the occasion, and nobody cried or wet his pants during the visit. It must be admitted that some of the mothers standing quietly in the background, holding those children unable to walk, let the tears course down their faces as they watched. They knew that the Princess’s visit would benefit the school immensely, and they appreciated what Olga and Maxie had done for their children. They had often said to each other that Olga need not have come to their rescue. She didn’t have a retarded child – her own boy was so brilliant that the whole world had heard about Tollemarche, just because it was his home town; yet she never spoke about him, never rubbed it in.
After all the cars were gone, the children dismissed for the day, an exhausted Olga sat on the veranda steps to rest for a minute in the mild sunshine, while she waited for Boyd to come and collect her. She would go home and lie on her bed for a while, after which she and Boyd would attend the ball given for the Princess.
She leaned her head against the balustrade and closed her eyes, remembering the last ball she had attended, the Edwardian Ball to which Hank had taken Isobel. She could bear to think of Hank now.
For a long time, she had felt so furious with him that it was as well he was separated from her. She had blamed him for all her woes, hated him for not saying goodbye, for never writing to her. Then, as she became more involved in Henny’s school and had seen that there was another Tollemarche, one of suffering, of always having to face doctors’ bills, of tenacious love of children, of love for marriage partners, a Tollemarche that did not care a hang for social success – it was too busy trying to stay alive – she had begun to see herself for what she was, a grasping, selfish woman. This had made her angrier still, and she had plunged still deeper into the work she had undertaken, working off her self-hatred in her fight for recognition of the needs of the very helpless.
Boyd came silently up the path and stopped half-way to view the picture that his wife made as she dozed in the sun, her hands folded in her lap, her face tranquil.
“My! She looks more like her mother every day,” he thought; and he was happy – he liked his mother-in-law. Here, waiting for him on the steps, there seemed to be again the country girl he had married, a girl who seemed to have made a very special niche for herself in the hearts of the people of Tollemarche.
“Hiya, Olga,” he called cheerfully, “got news for you.”
Olga’s eyes popped open.
He was waving a letter, and he came up the veranda steps and sat down beside her. “It’s from Hank.”
The letter was addressed to both of them and invited them in friendly terms to attend his wedding to Isobel Dawson in a month’s time. A formal invitation from Isobel’s aunt was enclosed.
Olga put the letter carefully down in her lap. She remembered the tiny, fair-haired girl at the Edwardian Ball, and asked Boyd cautiously: “Wotcha think of it?”
“I think it’s great,” replied Boyd firmly, having spent half the morning, while trying to deal with his work, in thinking out what attitude he should take. “She is older than he is, but she’s got something he needs. She must have, seeing it’s lasted this long.”
Olga fingered the letter uneasily. She said in a low voice: “Y’know, Boyd, I know now I never gave that kid a square deal” – she hesitated, as though she found it difficult to drag out of herself what she had to say – “and, y’know, I often feel sorry about it. I coulda done a lot better.” She picked up the engraved wedding invitation and turned it over. “I guess he turned to her just because she showed an interest in him – like I never did.” Her voice, her weary, drooping eyelids, indicated a quiet, bitter sadness. “Mebbe she’s just kinda kind. Wotcha think?”
Boyd patted her hand uneasily. “Well, he hasn’t done so badly,” he comforted her. “And, y’ know, it’s my belief she’s not doing so badly regarding a mother-in-law.”
“Waal, I wish Hank would feel like that,” she replied with a small sigh, “but I guess he never will.”
“Aw, I don’t know,” said her husband, as he hunted through his pockets for a cigarette in a manner very reminiscent of his son. “You be real patient with this Isobel of his – like Grandma Stych was with you – and, you’ll see, he’ll come round.”
A slow smile spread over Olga’s face. “Yeah, I never thoughta that – she was always patient with me. I never thought of it before. You’re so right – I’ll try.”
A new idea occurred to her, and she said: “It was sure funny this morning, watching Donna Frizzell as I was talking to the Princess. It made me realize that I’d sorta arrived socially – that Princess didn’t make no point about me being Ukrainian or anything like that – she was just kinda nice to me, and so was everyone else.”
Boyd put his arm round her. “You’ve done really well, honey, and I’m proud of you – and what about a mink coat for the wedding?”
“Oo, my!” she exclaimed. “That would sure be nice.” She paused, and then said: “Provided there’s enough in the bank to buy Isobel and Hank something real handsome as well.”
“There is,” said Boyd dryly. “Believe me, there is.”
By the Same Author
Alien There is None
Most Precious Employee
Twopence to Cross the Mersey
Liverpool Miss (Minerva’s Stepchild)
By the Waters of Liverpool
Three Women of Liverpool
Copyright
© Helen Forrester 1985
First published in Great Britain 1985
This edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7198 0759 6 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0760 2 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0761 9 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 2156 8 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Helen Forrester to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
The Latchkey Kid Page 24