‘If Madame would allow me . . .’
Evelyne chewed her lip as Miss Freda worked quickly and deftly, her nimble fingers fluttering around Evelyne’s head. Down came the coiled braids, flick, flick, they were undone: a silver-handled brush was retrieved from the drawer of the dressing-table. Miss Freda, her mouth full of hairgrips, tossed and wound the hair into an ornate bun, low on the nape of Evelyne’s neck. She then studied Evelyne in the mirror, her head cocked to one side, then the other, and satisfied, she opened up a large hatbox. The tissue rustled and she held up a white cloche hat with a small spray of embroidered white daises along one side of the brim. As Miss Freda held the hat to the side of Evelyne’s face, the doorbell rang and a very elegantly dressed couple entered.
‘Freda, my dear, I am quite desperate. I have to go to the races, and you know that darling little rose-flowered hat we had from Paris, well, Poochie here has eaten it.’
Evelyne peeked out as the woman held out a fluffy dog with an awful turned-up nose and popping eyes. Miss Freda almost curtsied and ushered the couple into another cubicle. She still held the daisy hat in her hand. ‘Oh, that is a little darling, Freda, do let me try it.’
Miss Freda popped back into Evelyne’s cubicle and drew the curtains, and whispered, ‘She is much too old to wear this, but if it is not suitable for you, Madam, well . . . ’ Freda had a delightful tinkling laugh. As she spoke she placed the hat gently onto Evelyne’s head, tilted the daises a little lower, stood back and beamed. Evelyne stared at her reflection. She turned to right and left as Freda held a small silver mirror behind her so she could get the full effect.
‘I shall leave you to make your decision, Madame, but believe me, you look stunning.’
As Freda slipped out between the curtains, she put the price tag face down on the dressing-table.
Evelyne turned the price tag over. One pound fifteen shillings. It was far too much, she simply couldn’t. One pound was almost half a week’s earnings for the girls at the brick factory. She sighed, wondered if she could keep her hair in this lovely knot – that would mean saving a little on the hairdresser, at least three-and-six. She stared, perplexed, at her reflection, she adored the hat, but the price . . . it really was too much.
Miss Freda passed to and fro, discussing the weather with her clients. Evelyne heard the yap-yap of the dog, the ping of the doorbell and then swish of her curtains. Evelyne turned to Miss Freda, and swallowed.
‘I’ll take the hat, thank you.’
Miss Freda beamed and gently lifted the hat from Evelyne’s head as though it were precious crystal, and laid it in the box. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Evelyne lift the mirror, studying her new hairstyle, her fingers tracing the coils.
‘It is a very simple hairstyle, no? I can show you in two minutes how to do it. The hairdressers here have no idea, all they do is snip, snip, everyone’s head looks the same, or they frizz, frizz with the perms.’
Freda turned the small ‘open’ notice on the door to ‘closed’, and clapped her hands in delight as she moved towards Evelyne.
‘Come, we have some coffee, some croissants, unless you are in a hurry? Come, darling, then I show you, it is very simple.’
Miss Freda’s back room was piled ceiling-high with hatboxes. On a small work-table were laid out roses and ribbons and nets indifferent shades. Evelyne sat watching the bird-like woman as she chattered away and made up a hat right in front of her eyes.
‘I come from Vienna, but I tell everyone I am French, I sell only Paris creations. As you can see this is a long way from France, no?’
From a small drawer she took a box of labels and waved them at Evelyne.
‘I print them specially, but I don’t think it is a lie because my hats are copies from French magazines, only the price is French.’
She covered her face like a small child as she twittered with laughter, then still talking fast she began sewing and serving coffee all at the same time. It tasted different from the coffee she had been served at David’s house, stronger, thicker and sweeter with no milk.
Miss Freda taught Evelyne how to do her hair, then she brought out a small velvet box filled with tiny jars and fluffy powder puffs. She showed Evelyne how to whiten her hands, instructed her to cream them every night until they were soft. Then she tipped Evelyne’s chin up, stared into her face, and searched through her box, bringing out a tiny pot. She opened the lid carefully and, with the tip of her little finger, dabbed a ver y soft, pale-pink over Evelyne’s lips . . . she sat back and clucked and nodded, then, ‘Oh, là là.’
Apparently quite unconcerned about the shop being closed, Miss Freda insisted on plucking Evelyne’s eyebrows, careful not to make them too arched as was the fashion, just, in her words, ‘tidying them up a little’. After every move she sat back, her tiny head bobbing up and down like a bird, constantly repeating, ‘Oh, là là . . . ’ She even painted Evelyne’s square-cut finger nails with clear polish. Then she carefully packed the daisy hat and tied the box with ribbon.
‘For you, darling, I will charge fifteen shillings.’
Evelyne tried to argue, without much enthusiasm, as even fifteen shillings for a hat that did not really come from Paris, France, was terribly expensive.
‘Will you come and see me again? I would like it, I don’t have many friends, you see, I came over many years ago as a lady’s maid.’
She whispered as if afraid someone would overhear.
‘First I was in Liverpool, then we travelled to Wales and I was just so unhappy that I left and . . . voilà , here I am, chérie . . . so you must go, but come and see me again.’
Miss Freda locked up her shop, bolting the door, and sat studying her accounts. She looked at her face in the mirror, how she hated to bow and scrape with her ‘oh, là là’s . . .’ she sighed. If she didn’t get more business there would be no shop, and she would have to go back to being a waitress, but never the other thing. She would never do that, and looking at herself she knew that not many men would want her now anyway. She put one of her specials on her frizzy head, lifted her chin and decided she was not that bad, not that old, thirty-eight wasn’t old at all . . . then she sat at her sewing machine, surrounded by net and roses.
The boarders looked up briefly, but went back to slurping their soup. Mrs Pugh did notice the difference, and remarked to her reflection in the spotless hall mirror that the rest was obviously doing wonders for the girl. Catching sight of a spot of dust she flicked it with her finger.
‘Something most definitely is . . .’
As she came out of the dining room, Evelyne passed Mrs Pugh in the hall.
‘Are you not having pudding, Miss Jones? It’s semolina with jam.’
Evelyne smiled and said she was too full, then went up the stairs to her room. Mrs Pugh stared after her, pursing her lips. The girl had done her hair differently, that was what it was. She hoped it didn’t mean she had any funny ideas, any fancy men . . . then she marched back into the dining room.
‘It’s semolina, with strawberry jam,’ she announced.
The two elderly boarders were fast asleep at the table.
Evelyne had a dress rehearsal in her rented room. First she practised her new hairstyle, then she sat for over an hour in just her camisole and bloomers with the hat on. She watched herself smiling . . . she had never been so preoccupied with her face or her body and she wasn’t as sure about her appearance as Miss Freda was, but she certainly did look quite nice.
The following morning, Evelyne was dressed and ready when Mrs Pugh called to her that there was a car waiting for her, and she slowly descended the stairs from her rented room as Mrs Pugh stared, open-mouthed. She was dumbstruck, the girl moving slowly, slightly unsteadily down the stairs couldn’t be Miss Jones . . . but there she was, looking as if she had stepped straight off the front of a French fashion magazine. Mrs Pugh looked up into the girl’s face as she passed in a cloud of sweet perfume, immaculate from head to toe. ‘My God,’ she thought, ‘
the girl must have a fancy man, and a rich one at that.’ Well, any funny business and she’d pack the girl’s bags, she couldn’t afford any gossip, not just as she’d got her two regulars installed, and for life, judging by their ages.
The hired car had been Hugh’s idea. He’d told her, ‘Don’t go up in a ruddy horse-drawn carriage, they’re old-fashioned. Hire yourself one of the new-fangled motors with a uniformed driver’. It had cost her one pound ten shillings, and she had the car for eight hours. Now as she stepped out of Mrs Pugh’s front door she knew it was right. The chauffeur moved smartly to open the door, and even gave her a tiny bow.
Mrs Pugh almost pulled her net curtain down from the window, she was so eager to see everything that was going on. All the nets along the road flicked. Mrs Pugh could see her nosy neighbours, and tutted to herself, they were always at their windows, she couldn’t understand why. That she was doing exactly the same thing never even occurred to her. The car moved slowly off and Evelyne sat back, savouring the smell of the leather upholstery and her perfume. So far so good. They drove slowly along the kerb as the chauffeur searched for the right house. Evelyne was so tense she sat forward on the edge of her seat. She knew exactly which house, it was printed indelibly on her mind, but she was taken slightly aback. The house didn’t look as grand as she remembered. The brass didn’t gleam as bright as hers back in the village.
She pressed back against the leather as the chauffeur walked up the path, rang the bell and waited. Her heart was beating rapidly and her lips felt dry. She licked them and tasted her rose-coloured lipstick. Her heart lurched as the door opened and Mrs Darwin stood framed in the doorway. She was nodding and speaking to the chauffeur. The years hadn’t been kind to her either, she was much fatter and more flushed than Evelyne remembered her. Her chins wobbled as she nodded her head up and down, and she looked past the chauffeur towards the car. She was trying to see inside, and Evelyne pressed even further back against the seat.
The chauffeur gave Evelyne no hint of what had been said as he walked back to the car and opened the passenger door.
‘The housekeeper said for you to go straight in, Miss.’
Evelyne was grateful for the chauffeur’s firm, white-gloved grip on her elbow. She walked slowly to the door. It had been left ajar, but Mrs Darwin had vanished from sight. There was no sign of Minnie either. The comforting grip on her arm withdrew as the chauffeur returned to the car. She was alone, and instead of being full of confidence she could feel her body trembling.
Mrs Darwin stood at the bottom of the stairs. She gave a small bob and gestured for Evelyne to enter the drawing room. The smell of the house – the strange mixture of polish and medical spirits – sent a shudder through Evelyne, and she was again the gawky girl who had come here with Doris Evans. Mrs Darwin didn’t recognize her.
‘It’s me, Mrs Darwin, it’s Evelyne, don’t you remember me?’
The big woman squinted, stared at her, and then her jaw dropped and she slapped her hands to her fat cheeks in total amazement. She went to give Evelyne a hug, then stopped, flustered. She flapped her apron, stared, turned away and stared again, and then her huge face crumpled into a strange, half-laughing cry.
‘Lord above, oh God Almighty, gel, if you don’t look like visiting royalty, then . . . can I kiss you?’
It was all right suddenly, and Evelyne bent right down and felt the plump, wet lips kiss her cheek.
Mrs Darwin ushered her into the drawing room. From below stairs came a terrible clatter, and Evelyne turned.
‘Is Minnie here?’
Mrs Darwin shook her head and laughed. Minnie now had three little ones and lived over in Carlisle Road. She turned and thudded out, yelling at the top of her voice to someone called Muriel.
Evelyne stared around the room. It was just the same, but smaller, not so overpowering. There was even a bowl of roses exactly as there had always been, except that they were dead, the petals fallen around the bowl. She went to the bookcase and looked at the titles; she had read all these books in the years since she had last been here, while Doris was alive.
Mrs Darwin came back in, carrying a tray with cake and biscuits.
‘Will you be moving in, Miss Evelyne? Only, we don’t know what to do, like? Not since he passed on.’
Evelyne, turned afraid.
‘What did you say?’
Mrs Darwin busied herself laying out the teacups.
‘The Doctor, miss, terrible it was, him a doctor and to be so poorly, couldn’t do a thing for himself at the end, you know, shocking. We had to make up a bed down here for him, I mean, I couldn’t carry him up and down them stairs, even though he was all skin and bone.’
Evelyne had to sit down, for a terrible moment she had thought it could possibly be David.
‘When did he pass on?’
‘Oh, it must be a year or more . . . now, I’ll just get that ruddy girl downstairs to bring up the tea. Shocking time you know, now, can’t get a good girl. Mind you, we’ve not been paid our wages, not a penny for months now, I was getting to me wit’s end, I was. I really was.’
When she had gone out, Evelyne looked at the tea tray. The biscuits were stale, soft, and a slice had been cut off the cake where it had gone mouldy. She heard the basement door slam and went to the window. She could see Mrs Darwin hurrying down the road, wrapping her shawl around her fat shoulders. Evelyne jumped as a thin, dreadfully scruffy girl stood in the doorway and sniffed.
‘I’ve mashed the tea. Mrs Darwin says she won’t be long.’
She hovered, watched as Evelyne poured the tea.
‘You bein’ here, does that mean we’ll have our wages?’
Evelyne stirred sugar into her cup.
‘I don’t know – Muriel, isn’t it? I’ll obviously have a lot of things to arrange.’
‘I’ll be downstairs if you want me, the bell don’t work so you’ll have to holler.’
Evelyne wanted to ask about David, but she couldn’t get the words out. She began to wander from room to room. The house smelt musty, dank, and there was a thick film of dust on everything. Ghosts of the past crept with her as she quietly looked into each of the ground-floor rooms. Then she mounted the stairs. They creaked, and even the banister was dusty. On all the walls were dark, empty spaces where pictures had been. The house had been stripped of every valuable ornament and there was an air of desolation to the place.
She went into the silent room she had shared with Doris. Nothing had changed but the mounting dust. She closed the door and went on to the bathroom, the memories flooding through her. Then she was standing on the landing looking towards David’s room. She remembered his half-naked body, bending over to untie his boots, remembered his silky hair. There was even now a faint smell of lavender . . .
Downstairs, David walked into the hall with Mrs Darwin. She took his arm, whispered.
‘Her name’s Evelyne.’
David nodded, looked up the stairs. He rested his arm on the banister rail and shouted.
‘Evelyne . . . Evelyne, come down!’
Evelyne dropped her comb and ran to the top of the stairs. She stood staring down at him, he hadn’t changed, he looked just the same if not even more handsome . . . and he was smiling up at her.
David thought she was lovely, just lovely. Turning to Mrs Darwin he gave a slight shake of his head, and she looked sadly up at Evelyne. Then David leapt up the stairs two at a time.
‘Evelyne . . . Evelyne, how are you?’ Catching her in his arms he swung her up in the air. Close to she could see that he had grown a small moustache and he was much thinner, but his hair, oh, his lovely, silky blond hair was just the same.
‘You remembered me? Oh, David, you remembered me?’
Taking her hand he bowed and led her down the stairs.
‘And who could forget such a beautiful gel? Come along, I refuse to let you out of my grasp . . . my hat, Mrs Darwin.’
Mrs Darwin held out his brown bowler.
‘Sir, don’t you th
ink you should tell her . . .’
‘Now, Mrs Darwin, not another word.’
‘It’s little Evelyne, Doris’ girl from the valley.’
David tossed his bowler in the air, ducked, and it landed right on his head. He gestured with both hands like an acrobat.
‘Can I take her away from you for a while, you great, fat, horrible woman, eh? I want to show this creature off . . . come along, dear heart, your chariot awaits.’
Bursting with happiness, Evelyne was ushered outside while Mrs Darwin blinked back her tears. For a moment David’s face changed as he looked at Mrs Darwin, hard.
‘Not a word.’
Her fat face wobbled as she nodded. ‘She danced with Lloyd George at the Warners’ ball, sir, when Miss Doris was here.’
David snapped, his face looked pinched.
‘Yes, yes, you said, we won’t be long.’
Evelyne stood on the steps as David danced down them two at a time, took off his bowler hat and bowed low, opening the door of his sports car, bright red with snazzy upholstery. After helping her in, he tucked a rug round her knees just the way he used to, then he leant over her, his face so close she gasped.
‘You smell like a fresh mountain flower, and so you should, I mean you are the girl who danced with Lloyd George, no wonder, m’dear, it’ll be the Prince of Wales next.’
David shouted to her as they careered round corners, they would have a celebration, this was a wonderful surprise. She laughed, and the sound of her laughter shocked her, it was so infrequent, the sound triggered the release of all the tensions and she didn’t want it to stop.
As they drove through the city centre, David tooted the horn and waved and called out to many people driving past. He seemed to know everyone. He appeared elated, as happy as Evelyne. They headed out towards the country.
The Legacy (1987) Page 12