I Made a Mistake

by Jane Corry

  By now, Mum had persuaded Dad to allow me to go to discos with my friends. I was seventeen then. But they were so noisy and full of confident girls who danced with their arms raised above their heads. When the quiet music came on – the signal for boys to come up and ask for a ‘slow’ dance – no one ever came near me. So I’d just go home early and sew instead.

  Then two really big things happened, both of which changed my life in their own way. The first was that I got a new job in the hat section of a department store nearer home. The staff were older than the last lot in the boutique, and much nicer. It feels rather awful to admit it, but looking back on it, that might have been the happiest time of my life. After a while, they asked if I could do a bit of modelling at shows for regular customers. Apparently I had ‘just the right kind of face’, as the department manager put it.

  Even in my wildest dreams, I’d never thought of being a model! That sort of thing happened to other girls – pretty ones. I was just ordinary-looking, wasn’t I, with mousy-coloured hair and freckles. At least, that’s what I’d been brought up to think. On the other hand, Twiggy had been living proof that a working-class girl could get on to the front cover of Vogue. Of course, I couldn’t do the same. But wearing hats on a catwalk would be so exciting, wouldn’t it? They might also cover part of my face so people wouldn’t see I was nervous.

  Once again, my parents weren’t keen. ‘Modelling isn’t the kind of thing that a nice girl does,’ said my mother. But she changed her mind when I told her about the store discount I could pass on to them. It’s easy to think they were mercenary, but you’ve got to imagine what it had been like for them to have been brought up in the war years. Money was tight. Rationing went on until 1954. Every penny counted. Not like now, when many people ‘max out’ their credit cards.

  You might be wondering, Poppy, why I’m telling you so much about my early life. But it’s important for both of us. Trust me.

  The second big thing was that I finally got my first boyfriend.

  I met Jock through the choir at our local church in Hackney. It was a Saturday, and we’d all been asked to sing at a wedding. Got paid 2s 6d each, we did! ‘Blimey,’ said one of my friends, elbowing me in the ribs. ‘He’s new, isn’t he? Bit of a looker, don’t you think?’

  Yes he was, even though I could only see his back. But I liked his dark glossy hair which came down to his collar. He was also tall – at least six foot! Then we started to sing the hymn ‘Love Divine’, and from the minute he opened his mouth, I was lost. I’d never heard such a deep, powerful voice. When he sang ‘All loves excelling’, I got shivers of excitement running down my spine!

  Then when the service had finished and we all filed out, he caught my eye and actually gave me a wink! Of course, he was just being friendly.

  ‘I heard that his parents moved down from Scotland a few years ago and that he came with them,’ whispered one of my friends.

  Yet Jock’s warm, friendly accent was as strong as if he had just crossed the border, as I found out when we all met up in the choirmaster’s little office to get paid. Of course there was no reason why he would give me a second glance. There were lots of other girls in the choir who were much better lookers with bigger busts and prettier faces. So I couldn’t believe it when Jock and I found ourselves walking back along the high street together.

  ‘I turn off here,’ I said when we got to my road.

  He seemed disappointed. ‘Fancy a drink next Saturday night?’

  I’d never been asked out on a date before, let alone gone into a pub.

  ‘I’ll have to ask my dad,’ I said, feeling myself go red. It was the truth. I couldn’t go out without permission. Jock would think that was so childish! He’d be bound to lose interest now.

  But he surprised me. ‘Tell you what,’ he offered. ‘Ask me round for a cuppa and I’ll ask your dad myself.’

  I can’t tell you how nervous I was! From the stuff you read nowadays, it’s easy to think that the late sixties and early seventies were all sex and drugs. But that was just for a small group of people. There were still lots of repressed teenagers with strict, old-fashioned parents who were scared of the way the world was changing. Sometimes I think it’s why there are so many rebellious grannies around now. We’re fighting for what we should have fought for back then.

  ‘I’ve invited a friend from the choir back here,’ I said that evening.

  ‘What?’ said Mum. We weren’t the kind of family who had guests.

  ‘He only wants a cup of tea,’ I said quickly. ‘You don’t have to make him a proper meal.’

  ‘He?’ said Dad sharply.

  ‘Jock sings in the church choir. He works in your factory too. His surname is Page.’

  My dad’s eyes narrowed. ‘That young man with the Scottish accent?’

  I nodded.

  ‘He’s OK,’ said my dad slowly. ‘All right. He can come round if you want.’

  So he did. Mum even asked him to stay on for a bite to eat. ‘It’s not much,’ she said. ‘Just bangers and mash.’

  ‘That’s my favourite,’ Jock had declared, and my mother beamed at him. ‘By the way, would you mind if I took your wee Betty out for a drink up in the West End next Saturday?’

  My mother raised her eyebrows. ‘Very fancy.’ Then she looked at my dad questioningly.

  ‘Only if you get her back here by ten p.m.,’ he said.

  ‘Not a minute later,’ promised Jock.

  Can you imagine, Poppy, what Melissa would say if we imposed a curfew like that!

  I shook all week with nerves at the thought of my first proper date. Supposing I ran out of things to say? What should I wear? What if I didn’t know what to order and he suddenly thought I was too young for him? (He was twenty!) Maybe he’d see sense and cancel me. All week, I expected the phone to ring and for him to make some excuse. When that didn’t happen, I convinced myself he’d stand me up.

  But instead he arrived dead on time.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he said, as if he really meant it and wasn’t just being polite. ‘What a pretty dress.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said nervously, smoothing down the blue-and-pink Viyella fabric. ‘Actually, I made it myself.’

  ‘Did you now? I like a woman with style and talent.’

  Woman? The word sounded so strange to me. I’d always thought of myself as a girl. As for the style and talent bit, I thought he was having me on. A flash of panic struck me. What if he was just a ‘charmer’? I wasn’t exactly sure what a charmer was but I remembered hearing it on the radio in a way that suggested it wasn’t a good thing for a man to be.

  But Jock was a perfect gentleman. He insisted on buying my Tube ticket and found me the only empty seat in the carriage, which was stuffed full of people going out for the evening. He already knew London ‘like the back of my hand’ and took me to a pub in Argyll Street, near Oxford Circus. ‘I like it here,’ he told me. ‘It’s not rough but it’s got atmosphere.’ He ordered me a second glass of sherry without asking. We didn’t run out of things to say. Far from it, in fact. He asked me about my work and friends. Then he told me about himself and how he’d missed Scotland at first but really liked it down here now. He was also saving up to rent a flat of his own. How grown up!

  On the way home, he actually put his arm around me. Every single bone in my body was on fire. When we reached the corner of my road, he stopped under the lamppost. ‘You’re very special, Betty. Do you know that?’

  My heart stopped as his face drew closer. Then his lips closed in on mine. I’d read about snogging in magazines and about how magical your first kiss is, but honestly I had always thought that it sounded rather disgusting with tongues touching. It felt a bit odd when Jock’s lips came down on mine. Not weird odd. Just different odd. But I was sure I’d get used to it.

  ‘You’re beautiful, Betty,’ he told me. ‘When can I see you again?’

  We went out every Saturday night for the next year. He began to call me his ‘wee hen’
, which I found rather strange at first until he explained it was a Scotsman’s way of ‘addressing his lady’. Then it made me feel special. On my eighteenth birthday, he took me to the local Berni Inn! I’d often walked past it and admired the smart couples going in and out with their flash cars. Never had I thought I’d go into it myself.

  ‘Don’t mind if I order for us both, do you?’ he asked.

  Thank goodness! I wouldn’t have known what to choose. We had steak (I’d never had it before!) and chips, followed by apple crumble.

  As I dug my spoon in, I felt it hit something hard. I didn’t like to say anything in case it was part of the dessert. Then I gasped. It was a beautiful small diamond ring. When I wiped off the custard, it sparkled in the candlelight.

  Jock got down on his knees. Everyone in the restaurant was looking.

  ‘Betty,’ he said. ‘Will you do me the honour of being my wife?’

  I could feel my heart pounding. What should I say?

  ‘I don’t know if my dad will let me,’ I whispered.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he replied. ‘I’ve already got his permission.’

  When I said yes, everyone around us clapped like we were on stage. Part of me was on cloud nine. I was going to get married! Of course I’d done the right thing in accepting. Yet at the same time, something didn’t feel quite right – though I couldn’t have said what, exactly.

  ‘You’ll have to wait until you’re twenty to get married,’ said my father when we returned home that night with the diamond sitting proudly on my left hand.

  ‘And no hanky panky until then,’ my mother added in front of my new fiancé. I’d blushed like a beetroot.

  ‘Two years is a long time to wait, sir,’ said Jock smartly.

  Just what I’d been thinking. But I wouldn’t dare say so.

  My dad’s eyes went hard. ‘My daughter’s still young. Marriage is for life. If you can’t be bothered to hang around, that’s your decision.’

  I wanted to cry. ‘Please, Dad,’ I said.

  But Jock placed a hand on my arm. ‘It’s all right, Betty. Your father’s right.’ Then he took his hand away and reached out to shake my dad’s. ‘You have my word. Love is worth waiting for. And meanwhile, I promise to treat your daughter with the respect she deserves.’

  My parents believed him.

  And so did I.

  3

  Poppy

  Matthew Gordon is here? I can’t believe it, and yet there he is, standing right in front of me.

  What do I say? Shock makes the inside of my mouth go dry and sponges up all the words that might otherwise have come out. I can smell the curiosity in the air. Everyone is looking at us. As I’ve just said, it’s not because they recognize him, since the younger ones probably wouldn’t even have heard of him. That TV drama which had afforded him a short burst of fame had been years ago, when I’d been in my twenties. Since then, he hadn’t appeared in anything major, as far as I knew. The acting profession can be like that. Loves you one minute; turns its back on you the next.

  No. People are staring because Matthew has all the presence of a Hollywood star. That assured, easy stance and penetrating stare can make you feel like the most important person in the world. As I know all too well. The spotlight is also on him as a new face in a room where nearly everyone is acquainted with everyone else in this industry. And unless I’m careful, people will want to know exactly why this distinguished-looking man has headed straight for me and – more importantly – why I am standing here like a complete goof, unable to talk. In fact, why am I? He is the one who should be nervous about meeting me again.

  ‘Hi,’ I squeak, finally finding my voice. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘Actually …’ he starts to say, but before he can finish, Jennifer rushes up, followed by Doris.

  ‘I loved you in Peter’s Paradise,’ she gushes. ‘I used to cut your face out of the Radio Times and stick it on my bedroom wall. I wept buckets when my mother tore it down and your forehead got ripped. I looked everywhere for you after that.’

  ‘Me too,’ Doris says breathlessly. ‘I wanted you for my toy boy! All the checkout girls had the hots for you. Where did you go? Hollywood?’

  Matthew laughs. He used to have several versions but I remember this one. It’s a laugh designed to conceal embarrassment. That had been part of his charm. When I first saw Matthew, I thought he was far too good-looking and confident to talk to me. But when we got to know each other better, I discovered how touchingly vulnerable he was underneath. At least it seemed touching, back then.

  ‘Actually, I did audition for some roles in LA,’ he says, ‘but I didn’t want to leave the UK.’ He glances at me. ‘My wife was keen to stay over here and family has to come first.’

  ‘Ah,’ coos Doris. ‘That’s so nice. But what have you been doing?’

  I want to take her to one side and gently explain that she can’t ask these kind of questions. But Matthew doesn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he likes being recognized again. ‘This and that,’ he says airily. ‘A few small roles here and there. A bit of teaching too at drama school. These young actors need all the help they can get nowadays.’

  He manages to sound almost philanthropic. I remember now how adroit he was at being nice to others while at the same time putting himself in a good light. I also recall how he would encourage me to do something for ‘my’ benefit when it was really for his. So why, when I know what this man is like, am I feeling so ridiculously jittery?

  ‘How good of you,’ gulps Jennifer, brushing against him, no doubt in the hope of catching some of his magic stardust. ‘I’m always saying that diction simply isn’t what it was!’

  Matthew puts his head to one side as if considering this. ‘That is sometimes true.’

  ‘I heard,’ adds Jennifer eagerly, as if encouraged by his partial agreement, ‘that you’re looking for a vicar role! I must say that I can see you as that dishy priest if they remade something like The Thorn Birds! SO sexy!’

  I want to sink into the ground in embarrassment but Matthew appears flattered. ‘That’s very kind. Actually, you heard wrong. I’m not really the vicar type.’

  You can say that again.

  ‘So why are you here?’ demands Doris, who usually comes straight to the point where men are concerned.

  Matthew fiddles with his open collar for a second and then stuffs his hands in his pockets. Both are acting techniques for delaying replies on stage and in real life, as I’m well aware. ‘A casting director friend suggested I came along to network. In fact, I’m thinking of becoming an agent myself.’ He pats my bare shoulder. (I’m wearing an emerald-green halter-neck top, tucked into my borrowed trousers. The colour, or so I was once told, goes well with my hair.) My skin burns at the touch. ‘And who do I find here? My old friend Poppy.’

  ‘You know each other?’ gasps Jennifer. ‘What a small world. There’s me, who used to go to bed under your picture every night, and now I’m an extra myself with an agent who actually knew Matthew Gordon back in the day. How incredible is that?’

  They’re all looking at me. I have to say something. ‘You’re right,’ I blurt out. ‘It is a small world. Great to see you, Matthew. Sorry I can’t stay longer to chat but I’ve just got to ring my kids.’

  For a minute, I enjoy the brief moment of surprise on his face. Yes, that’s right, Matthew Gordon. I have a family of my own now. I survived without you.

  ‘Did you know that Poppy has found me a role in a really great advert?’ I hear Doris telling Matthew.

  ‘That reminds me. I need you to sign the contract for that,’ I say. ‘It’s quite urgent.’

  ‘I could pop round to your place if you like,’ she offers.

  Doris lives near me and we shop at the same local deli. Although we know each other’s address, neither of us has been to the other’s house. Despite working from home, I don’t usually invite clients round. I want to keep the two separate. It’s more professional and besides, it wouldn’
t be fair on the family. Luckily, nearly all my work is done online or on the phone. Signed contracts are scanned and emailed through. But Doris is old school and can’t do it that way, so we usually meet in public places like coffee shops. This is an exception because of the urgency.

  ‘Monday morning, first thing?’ I suggest.

  ‘Perfect.’

  Then, desperate to get away from Matthew, who’s still hanging around, I start to thread my way through the crowds towards reception.

  I’m in need of a phone charger so that I can ring home and sort out the latest domestic upset. But I also need some headspace to get over the shock. Matthew Gordon doesn’t belong here. I had packed him firmly away in a box labelled To Be Forgotten. Sometimes over the years, I’d wondered uneasily if we might bump into each other at some point. Maybe on set when I went along to support my clients. But we never have. Until now.

  ‘Would you like a drink, madam?’ asks a passing waiter. Without thinking of my drive home, I take a glass of bubbly and swig it down, followed ten or so minutes later by another. I need something after the shock.

  It takes time for the young things on reception to find me a charger that fits my three-year-old phone but eventually one of the girls comes up trumps. She produces it with a triumphant flourish – as if she’s just discovered it in the archives – and offers to plug it in so I can speak immediately. ‘Everyone all right?’ I ask when Betty answers. Clearly, she must have finished her meditation session now, or perhaps my daughters have interrupted her.

  ‘Fine, dear,’ she trills. ‘I’ve found Melissa’s leotard and mended it. We’ve also been playing this really clever game called Articulate. So good for the brain, you know!’

  I can’t help feeling a bit hurt. The last time I suggested Snakes and Ladders to the girls, my older daughter declared she wasn’t a ‘kid any more’. But they don’t have any problems playing games with Betty. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Is Stuart back?’

  ‘Not yet. He had to take an emergency, poor man.’