Peggy never questioned the stroke of fate that dictated that she would be destined to look after her brother and his two daughters. In those days, many people, particularly women, shouldered such duties without complaint. Unmarried daughters often stayed at home to look after parents, seeming to accept that this might mean they would have no chance of making their own home with somebody else. The idea that all of us should have the chance of freedom and a life of our own choosing had not yet taken hold and it did not occur to Peggy, even if she did sometimes reflect on what might have been had Liza not died.
There were few disagreements between Harold and Peggy. “One thing I’d like to make clear, Harold,” Peggy said shortly after her return to Glasgow. “I run the house, and that means that what I say goes. Do you understand that, Harold? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
He was still grieving for Liza and was in no state to argue. And even if he had been, he would not have been inclined to do so. It suited him perfectly that his sister should make these decisions, as he had always yielded that role to Liza. Peggy would simply continue what had gone before.
“You wear the trousers, Peg,” Harold said. “My job is to put food on the table. That’s all.”
“Good,” said Peggy. “That suits me very well.”
It was Peggy who ruled that the twins should be dressed in matching clothes. “People love that,” she said. “They love to see two little children looking identical.”
“Do they?” asked Harold. He wondered whether this might not stifle individuality – he was not convinced, when he came to think about it, whether he would care to have been dressed in exactly the same way as his brother. But he did not argue, and became used to the presence on the washing line behind their house of small outfits, always in twos.
It was Peggy, too, who decided that Claire should be told that she was slightly older than her sister. “People need to know these things,” she said. “They like to know where they stand.”
Harold enquired whether it might not be preferable for them to think of themselves as being exactly the same age. “That way, Claire won’t be able to lord it over her sister, you know. They’d be equal-ranking, so to speak.”
Peggy gave this view short shrift. “You’re wrong, Harold,” she said peremptorily. “You’re quite wrong on that.”
She did not explain further, and Harold did not press the matter. But if Peggy had imagined that telling Claire she was the older sister would not have an effect – and a lasting one at that – then she was the one who was quite wrong. From an early age, Claire asserted her authority. “I’m older than you are,” she would say to settle some argument over any of the little things that children argue about – the ownership of a toy, the right to have more of whatever it was that was in short supply, the right to decide what the next game would be.
Dotty seemed to accept this, even if she might argue weakly against her sister’s claim. “You’re not all that much older,” she would say, but without much conviction that this made any difference. “Two minutes is not a long time, Claire.”
“It’s enough,” retorted Claire. “Two minutes is two minutes.”
But such disagreements between the sisters were uncommon. They were twins, but they were also the firmest of friends, used to each other’s company, and conscious of the fact that they each viewed the world in much the same way. They had other friends, of course, but these friendships were relatively unimportant and, anyway, always depended on the approval of the other sister. If one said of some new acquaintance, “I don’t like her all that much,” then the other would rapidly agree. “No, you’re right,” she might say. “I’ve gone off her, I think.”
When they were seven they developed a secret language. This was more than a passing matter, and over the years it developed an extensive vocabulary, along with an elaborate grammar. The words were vaguely Slavic sounding, as there were many v sounds and a large number of the words ended in -ich. One of their teachers, overhearing them in the playground, remarked to a colleague, “Those Clarke twins were speaking Serbo-Croat, you know. Maybe that aunt of theirs is Serbian – who would have thought?”
They were happy, although Dotty had about her a slightly melancholic air. She dreamed a lot of her mother, whom she said she could remember – just.
“You can’t,” said Claire. “Mummy died when we were very little. Tiny.”
“But I do,” said Dotty. “Because how could I know in my dreams that it’s Mummy unless I remembered her a bit? How could I?”
“You’re just making her up,” Claire replied. “People make up people they don’t really know. They think what they might have been like, and then they decide that’s how it really was.”
“I remember her,” Dotty maintained. “She was beautiful. And she was very kind.”
Claire at least was prepared to concede that. “Of course she was beautiful. And yes, I think she was kind too.”
The twins left school at the age of sixteen and enrolled to train as nurses. They applied to be posted to the same hospital, and were given adjoining rooms in the nurses’ home. The matron under whom they trained, Matron Russell, looked on them with favour. “Those Clarke girls are hard workers,” she said. “They never give any trouble and their work is first class – really first class.”
She invited them for tea one day in Matron’s Room – a forbidding place to which student nurses were usually only bidden for a dressing down. They went with some trepidation, but were soon put at ease by Matron, who had bought an iced cake to share with them.
“If the truth be told,” Matron Russell said, “I have rather a sweet tooth.”
She asked after their father, whom she had met when he had been visiting Liza in hospital. When she disclosed this, Dotty asked, timidly, as if fearful of the answer, “Did you know our mother, Matron?”
Matron Russell nodded. “Yes, I met her. I was a ward sister in those days and I nursed your mother. I remember her well.” She paused. “She was a brave woman.”
There was silence. Dotty was holding a small piece of iced cake in her right hand when Matron Russell said this. She involuntarily let a fragment of icing fall to the floor.
“Yes,” said Matron Russell. “She was a brave woman. Not everybody’s brave, you know. It takes something special to be brave when you know things are not going to end well.”
Matron Russell was looking at the small piece of icing on the floor. Dotty reached forward and picked it up, popping it into her mouth.
Matron Russell frowned. “Nurse,” she said, “we do not eat from the floor, do we?”
Dotty blushed, and Matron Russell smiled, before adding, “Although I’m pleased that you consider my floor clean enough to eat from.”
After they had completed their training, Claire was offered a nursing post in Inverness. She had not applied for this, but had been recommended by Matron Russell, who was friendly with another matron there. Dotty handed her the letter one Saturday when they were having breakfast at home with Harold and Peggy.
“We don’t know anybody in Inverness, do we?” she asked, examining the postmark.
Claire slit it open with her table knife, leaving a small line of butter across the flap. “Not a soul,” she said.
She read the letter silently, and then looked up at her sister. “I’ve been offered a job up there. Look.” She handed the letter to her sister.
Dotty frowned. “Will you take it? The pay’s much higher.”
Claire looked out of the window. Harold and Peggy were watching her. Peggy threw Dotty a concerned glance.
“But what about you?” asked Claire at last. “What do you think?”
Harold and Peggy turned to stare expectantly at Dotty.
“Don’t mind about me,” said Dotty. “You’re the oldest. You decide.”
Claire took the letter back from Dotty, folding it carefully and replacing it in its envelope. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Inverness is a long way away.”
&
nbsp; “An awful long way away,” said Harold quickly.
“It’s different up there,” observed Peggy.
“So you’re not going to go?” asked Dotty.
Claire shook her head. “Why go to Inverness?” she asked.
Three weeks later, again on a Saturday, the day off that the twins usually spent at home, a young man with slicked-down hair called at the house. He was the son of somebody with whom Harold had served in the army, and his father had given him the address in order to call upon Harold when he was in Glasgow.
Introductions were made, and Harold announced to the girls, ‘This is Freddie. His father and I served together.” He smiled at the young man. “You look just like your dad, you know. Only his hair was always untidy.”
Freddie laughed. “Still is.”
Peggy made Freddie a cup of tea and served it with a buttered scone. Freddie drank the tea and ate the scone, which he praised as being delicious. He watched Claire as he spoke, as if addressing all his remarks to her. Dotty saw this. She looked into her teacup.
Freddie called again the next day. He had lost a pocketbook, he claimed, and wondered whether he had left it there. Dotty saw this for the excuse it was.
‘We would have seen it if you had left it,” she said. “It isn’t here.”
“I’ll search for it,” said Claire quickly, looking discouragingly at her sister.
Before he left, Freddie had invited Claire to accompany him to the cinema.
“He’s courting you,” Dotty said to her sister that evening.
“I know,” said Claire. “But he’s ever so charming, isn’t he?”
Dotty did not reply. She could see what was going to happen. It had a dreadful inevitability to it. Claire would marry Freddie and she would be left living with their father and aunt. She would have to look after them as they became older. She would never get away – never. And this was all because Claire was older than she was. She thought that gave her the right to have more of a life than her younger sister.
A few weeks later, Claire said to Dotty that Freddie had introduced her to a friend of his. “He’s called William,” she said. “He comes from Gourock. He’s a butcher. He works in his father’s shop. They make meat pies.”
“And?”
“And Freddie wonders if you’d like to meet William.”
Dotty was silent. Then she said, “Do you think I should? As my older sister, that is? Do you think I should?”
“Yes,” said Claire. “You must.”
They went to a tea-dance at a local hotel. William was very neat, and he was an accomplished dancer. He taught Dotty a new dance that he said was all the rage “in America and places”. At the end of the evening he asked her whether they could meet again the following weekend. She agreed that they could.
“You see,” said Claire. ‘I told you that you’d like him.”
Dotty said nothing. She had nothing against William, but she had nothing much for him either. She was in love with Freddie. She had fallen in love with him the moment she had seen him – that first day when he had come round at the suggestion of his father. She wanted nothing more than to be in his company. She imagined what it would be like to be in his arms, and blushed at the shamelessness of her thoughts.
Freddie asked Claire to marry him, and she agreed. A week or two later, William proposed. It was at the end of a number at the local palais de dance and Dotty was drinking a glass of water at the time. She spilled the water, and he laughed. “Does that mean yes?” he asked.
Dotty did not give him a direct answer. She wanted to discuss his proposal with her sister. In fact, she had decided to confess to Claire her feelings for Freddie. She would tell her everything, including the impure thoughts, and then she would offer to go away – to Inverness, perhaps, because there had been nursing jobs advertised there recently and she felt she could get one of those.
“I need to speak to you,” she said to Claire. “I need to speak somewhere quiet.”
They went into the parlour that Peggy kept for visitors. It smelled of floor polish. There were copies of The People’s Friend on a small mahogany table.
Her courage failed her. She did not speak about Freddie, but told her sister about William’s proposal.
“You must say yes,” said Claire.
“But I’m not sure …”
Claire shook her head. “Listen, Dotty, William is a good man. He has really good prospects. I’m telling you: accept him – you may never get another offer as good as that.”
Dotty still hesitated.
“I’m telling you as your older sister,” Claire said. “Have I ever given you bad advice? Ever?”
Dotty shook her head. “I wonder what Mummy would think,” she asked.
“She would be happy,” said Claire. “She would be happy for both of us.”
Dotty gave William his answer. They were congratulated by Claire and Freddie, who suggested a double wedding.
“You save a lot that way,” said Freddie. “And people like it, you know. They love a double wedding.”
Preparations were made. Peggy baked tray after tray of tea cakes. Freddie decorated the local church hall, where the reception was to be held. On the day, the two grooms stood up at the head of the church, awaiting their brides. Claire and Dotty came in together, with Harold in between them. His eyes were moist with tears.
They took their places – under their veils, looking neither to left or right – and the minister began.
They were identical twins, and because of this the minister inadvertently married Claire to William and Dotty to Freddie. He noticed his mistake only after the ceremony had finished, and he drew the two couples aside to explain that they would have to go through everything again.
Claire looked at Dotty, and there then passed one of those unspoken moments of communication that only twins experience. Words came at last. “Actually …” began Claire, and Dotty immediately said, “Yes, I’ve loved him all along – ever since …” She did not finish. Claire now said, “And I love William. I didn’t want to tell you, but I spoke to him about it.”
Dotty was not prepared for this. “You did? And what did he say?”
“He said he felt the same.” She paused. “And I think Freddie feels the same about you.”
Dotty could scarcely conceal her joy. “He does? Really?”
Claire nodded. She turned to the minister. She was the elder sister, and she acted decisively. “No need to do anything,” she said. “We’re happy with things the way they are.”
They lived contented lives, for the most part. Dotty had twins herself – two boys – both of whom went to live in Australia. She wrote to them, Be sure to live your own lives, boys. One day you might know what I mean, but in the meantime make that a rule for yourselves.
One of the boys wrote back, You’re right, Ma. Too right.
Iron Jelloids
WHAT THE ADVERTISING AGENCY SAID TO THE THOMAS Middleby Talent Company was quite clear. We act, they wrote, for a well-known iron tonic manufacturer. Their product, Iron Jelloids, will no doubt be known to you (although we are not suggesting, of course, that you yourselves are in need of a tonic of this nature!)
This caused smiles at the Talent Company, where the proprietor, Thomas Middleby, did, in fact, occasionally take Iron Jelloids at the behest of his wife. “She swears by them,” he said. “She tells me you can never have enough iron. Never.”
We are preparing, the agency continued, a newspaper advertisement that will be placed in the national and local press over the forthcoming winter. For this we need two models, one female, and one male. These are not to be glamorous people: the woman should be of presentable appearance, the sort with whom female teachers and young (but respectable) married women may readily identify. There are more specific requirements for the male model: he must be shorter than the woman and rather inadequate in his appearance. He should, in essence, be one who looks as if he could benefit from the general enhancement that our client’s prod
uct undoubtedly supplies. We trust that you will be able to provide persons for our photographic session in a fortnight’s time. We shall furnish costumes, which will be those of a tram inspector and a conductress. Please bear in mind that we are not seeking to engage Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy!
“Well,” said Thomas Middleby, “there’s no doubt about what they’re looking for.”
His assistant smiled. “Merlin?” he asked.
Thomas nodded. “You read my mind.”
His assistant consulted a red ledger on the table in front of him. “I hardly need to look,” he said. “When did Merlin last get a booking? Can you even remember?”
“He did something for the Public Health people,” said Thomas. “That advertisement on the dangers of an inadequate diet in childhood. Remember?”
The assistant rolled his eyes. “They said he was perfect. They said that the advertisement worked. They had a lot of people writing in and asking whether daily malt would help their children not to look like Merlin when they grew up. It was a big success.”
Thomas agreed. He had sometimes described Merlin as the runt of their litter – a man so perfectly unprepossessing that he could enter a room with a fanfare and still not be noticed. There was a need for such models, of course – not everybody wanted film-star looks and a bearing to match; but, at the same time, not everyone wanted somebody quite as mousey as Merlin. That was why Merlin had few bookings, and it was probably also the reason why he refused to acknowledge that he would never get very far in his modelling career. “Mousey people often just fail to get it,” said Thomas. “Everybody else understands, but they don’t. It goes with being mousey, perhaps. You don’t realise just how … how insignificant you really are.”
They sent a telegram to Merlin. National agency planning major campaign. Stop. Report to office soonest. Stop. Middleby Talent.
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