'But I have a right to know what happened. It was my pictures you had to get back, remember!'
'There's ugliness all around us, darling.' He caught hold of her hands. 'You've got so much talent, you're so beautiful – I don't want you to be contaminated by people with ugly minds and dirty thoughts.'
She let him hold her again, she couldn't resist him when he spoke like that, with that tender expression in his eyes.
'Roses are beautiful, too,' she said, looking up into his face. 'They grow best in shit, Harry, and they have thorns. I might just be a little tougher than you think.'
Chapter 28
Christmas 1969
'Her place is with her family at Christmas,' Mabel snapped, 'not gallivanting round a gambling club. You should have put your foot down!'
'When are you going to realise you can't dominate everyone?' Amy tried to keep calm. It was eight o'clock on Christmas Eve, Greg would be arriving within the hour, and the last thing she wanted was another row.
Mabel was stuffing the turkey, rosy in the heat, wrapped in a big white apron. Bunches of holly tied with red ribbon turned slowly in the heat above their heads, the tree was lit up in the sitting room, gaily wrapped presents beneath it, and the whole house smelled of mulled wine, mince pies and pine needles. Everything was the same as it was every Christmas, but this year Tara wouldn't be there.
Amy lifted the tray of mince pies out of the oven, kicked the door shut with her knee and took them over to the table.
'Is it so extraordinary she wants to be with the man she loves?' She flicked back her hair from her hot face. 'I wouldn't call it gallivanting, either. From what I understand they're both exhausted!'
Amy was as disappointed as her mother, but she understood the pressure on both Tara and Harry. For weeks now they'd both been frantically busy and hardly seen one another. Besides, Queenie and George would give them a far more rapturous welcome than Mabel would!
'It's all right for you!' Mabel broke off from her task, put her sausage meat covered hands on her hips and glared indignantly at her daughter. 'You'll be spooning with Greg and I'll be left alone.'
'Don't be so ridiculous.' Amy banged the mince pies down on to the cooling tray in anger. 'We've got Ena and Herbert coming for lunch tomorrow and, as you well, know Greg is on call so he might not get here at all.'
'It won't be the same without Tara,' Mabel said stubbornly. 'Besides, both she and Harry could rest just as well here as in London.'
'It's a long drive,' Amy reminded her. 'Anyway, the club will probably be open till three or four.'
'Gambling on Christmas Eve!' Mabel snorted with disapproval. 'Taking food from children's mouths, encouraging men to drink when they should be home with their wives!'
'You are the most cantankerous, selfish old woman I've ever met!' Amy shouted. 'Has it occurred to you the real reason she's not coming home might be because she can't bear your nasty digs all the time?'
'The girl's a fool if she can't stand the truth.' Mabel's eyes flashed. 'She should marry Josh, he's rich, well educated, and Jewish men don't cheat on their wives. They've got so much in common, far more than she has with that piece of riff-raff!'
'In my eyes Harry has proved himself,' Amy said defiantly. 'How dare you call him riff-raff!'
'He'll let her down, I tell you,' Mabel insisted. 'He's a gambler, they always do.'
'Why do you always bring up that ridiculous argument?' Amy snapped back at her. 'Harry might own a gambling club, but it doesn't mean he gambles his own money away. Anyway, Greg will be here soon. Go and change ready for church.'
'I'm not coming.' Mabel's voice took on a plaintive note. 'I know what Gregory Masterton wants, you think it's you don't you?'
Amy gritted her teeth and left the room.
'It's not you he wants,' Mabel shrieked after her. 'It's this farm.'
Upstairs Amy slapped cold water on her face and resisted the temptation to scream aloud. 'Sometimes I hate you, Mother,' she whispered, taking deep breaths to calm herself. 'You'd try the patience of a saint!'
She peeled off her everyday clothes down to her white petticoat, looking at herself in the mirror. Next year she would be forty. She might still be as slim as the day she married Bill, but she could see tiny lines round her eyes and a slackness on her jawline. Tonight's anger wasn't only about Tara and Harry, it was about her mother controlling her. She had to make a stand soon, otherwise she'd end up like Mabel, a frustrated and bitter woman.
Looking down at her sapphire and diamond ring, she sighed. Surely no couple of their ages had ever had such a long engagement?
Mabel used Greg when it suited her. She saw him as another unpaid worker, a source of advice, an ear to bend when she chose. But the moment Greg mentioned setting the day, she bristled and made things impossible.
They were trapped. If they went to live in his house, Mabel would let things slide again. If Greg moved in here he would be insulted, treated with suspicion and derided if he made any suggestions. But they couldn't go on snatching odd moments together like a couple of teenagers.
All day Amy had had a feeling of foreboding. Was it because she felt herself being pushed to the edge by her mother? Or was it anxiety about Tara? There was nothing concrete to be worried about. Despite Mother's fierce words about Harry before he opened the club, she had mellowed enough to invite him down with Tara on several occasions in the last eighteen months. Happiness and love shone out of them and there wasn't one person who wasn't charmed by both Harry and the aura that surrounded them.
But recently Tara's letters and many phone calls had had a wistful air to them. She seemed to be alone a great deal, yet reticent to talk about that, or Harry's business.
The Top Cat Club, and Harry, had become well-known. Personalities from the stage, screen and sporting world were always being photographed at the club and he had been on television several times himself.
But was Harry being sucked into the seamier side of clubland, as they'd feared? Was he really earning enough legitimately to pay for that brand new Mercedes? His hand-stitched jackets, shoes specially made in Curzon Street, monogrammed silk shirts and gold Rolex watch – were they all from the profits of drinks and gambling or was he involved in something more?
Protection rackets, drugs, prostitution, even gun-running passed through her mind. Could a man who'd tasted the high life ever settle down to a normal family life?
'Come with us, Mother?' Amy pleaded one last time as she stood in the kitchen ready to leave for church with Greg. They had smoothed over the early fight, but Mabel was still being awkward.
'No.' Mabel pursed her lips, looking at Greg's new camel overcoat disapprovingly. 'I've got things to do. Besides, he looks like a used-car salesman.'
'Mother!' Amy admonished her. 'It's a lovely coat, and anyway, what's that got to do with the midnight service?'
'Peace and goodwill to all men!' Greg said, laughter in his voice. 'Come on, Amy, or we'll be late. I'll see you tomorrow, Mabel. I won't wear the coat!'
Mother was forgotten in the beauty of the service.
Candles beneath each of the windows cast a flickering yellow light on to the congregation; the air was rich with the perfume of pine and flowers. Amy knew every single one of the people there. Farmers, shopkeepers, girls from the bank and hairdresser's. Old people clutching their walking sticks, too bent to kneel; young couples who rarely came to church.
Her hand found Greg's during 'Oh, Come all ye Faithful', and a tear of happiness trickled down her cheek as his fingers entwined hers. She turned her head slightly so she could look at him, and another tear slipped out.
His pale brown eyes saw all the injustice, the hurt and pain in people's lives, and in his own way he did his best to alleviate it. Those square, practical hands could bring a baby into the world, stitch up a wound, calm a fractious child. He cared for every one of his patients, not just their health but their dreams and aspirations, too.
'Time to go!' Greg's voice startled her; she'd
been so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn't noticed people were leaving. 'You look miles away.'
'I was thinking about you.'
They shook hands with the vicar, wished a merry Christmas to dozens of people and made their way down towards the gate.
Greg stopped her, turning her towards him. The night sky was studded with stars, a frost in the air turning their breath to smoke. Old graves shone white against the dark grass, the huge yew tree was lit up by the light from the church porch, and all around them people called out to one another as they made their way home.
'Promise me you'll marry me soon?' he said, as if sensing she wouldn't go back on a promise made here by the church. 'I can't wait any longer.'
Amy tried to speak, the same tired old excuses surging around in her head.
He put his finger to her lips and stopped them. 'I need you, Amy,' he said softly. 'I want you in my bed, night after night. I want to start the day with you beside me, to share everything I have. We can't go on snatching odd moments, it cheapens what we feel for one another.'
'I know.' Amy sighed. 'I come home from your house glowing because it's been so wonderful, then Mother makes one of her sharp comments and I could kill her.'
'Well, it's crossed my mind to hire an assassin more than once.' Greg chuckled.
His humour decided her. He never complained about Mabel, he always saw things from others' view. It was time.
'Well?' He raised one eyebrow, his hand coming up to stroke her cold cheek.
'Yes, Greg. As soon as you can get the banns read.'
He kissed her.
She heard people chuckling, she felt the wind in the trees, the frost creeping across the grass, and knew that by lunch-time tomorrow this would be discussed in every house in the village. But all that mattered was his warm lips on hers, and the joy in both their hearts.
'Oh, Greg, I can't.' She pulled at his hand as he led her up the High Street towards his house, rather than left to the farm. 'Mother will be waiting!'
'You've got to stay with me tonight.' His eyes implored her. 'Mabel's gone to bed, the turkey's in the slow oven. She won't even know you haven't been there if you get back before she gets up.'
'But what if –'
Greg cut her short. 'She's not ninety, she can look after herself. You know as well as I do she sleeps like a log.'
Amy grinned impishly. 'You've succeeded in tempting me. You'd better make it worth my while staying.'
Acacia House looked festive. Greg had left the lantern on above the front door and it shone down on a red-ribboned holly wreath. Their feet scrunched on the gravel drive and Winston barked out a welcome from inside.
'I'm going to make love to you till you scream for mercy,' he whispered, bending his head to nuzzle at her neck. 'The neighbours will hear you shouting and think I'm treating a cow in labour in my surgery.'
'Is that what I sound like?' she asked as they went in. Winston came bounding up, all drooling tongue and wagging tail, demanding to be petted.
'No, you make beautiful sexy moans that make me feel like a god,' Greg pushed the dog away with one leg. 'Back to your basket Winston!'
Greg unfastened Amy's coat and slid his hands in to cup her small breasts. 'Oh, Amy, this is all I could think of while we were in church, imagining your nipples beneath my fingers and sliding my hands up your thighs.'
'Fancy thinking such things in God's house,' she reproved him, moving away towards the sitting room. 'You ought to be drummed out of the parish!'
'I think it's a shame women stopped wearing stockings.' Greg hung up their coats on the hall stand, then followed her. 'Nothing could beat that feeling of sliding your hand up sheer nylon, then suddenly finding soft flesh.'
Amy picked up the poker and prodded the fire back to life.
'You're a very surprising man,' she said, glancing back over her shoulder at him. He was getting some glasses out of the cabinet for drinks. 'I wouldn't have put you down as a sensual type.'
'I think most people are, with the right partner.' He added tonic to the gin, then went towards the kitchen to get ice. 'I didn't get so many erotic thoughts till you came along. You set me off,' he called back.
Amy smiled and sat down, holding out her hands to the blaze. Winston was creeping into the room, head down because he sensed he wasn't welcome. Amy smiled, she knew that if she caught his eye he'd bound across. She could hear Greg banging an ice tray on the table in the kitchen and knew he would come back with a plate of something nice to nibble on, too. This domesticity in a man was something she still found strange, in fact she found it hard not to wait hand and foot on everyone, she'd done it for so long.
'I wonder if Harry makes snacks for Tara?' she called out.
Greg came in with a tray of sandwiches and mince pies. 'Sorry, Winston.' He ordered him out and kicked the door shut behind him. 'There's a time for dogs, but this isn't one of them.'
He put the tray down on a coffee table, added some ice to her drink, put on a Frank Sinatra record, then sat down beside her.
'Still dwelling on them?' he asked. Amy had told him something of the row before they left for church.
She nodded and smiled, faintly embarrassed that she wasn't only thinking of him.
'Want my real opinion?' he asked.
'Yes, please.'
'You can't let Tara go. It isn't about whether Harry is right or wrong, it's about you being unable to set her free. You've never stopped blaming yourself for the unhappiness your children had in London. Somehow you think if you can keep Tara close to your side she'll never be unhappy again.'
Amy stared in surprise. It was rare for Greg to voice an opinion about Tara or Mabel, though when he did he was usually right.
'You can't make people happy by locking them away from harm.' Greg smiled, taking her hand in his. 'They have to experience grief to appreciate joy. The two things go hand in hand, I'm afraid. Do you think we could be so happy together if we hadn't both had bad experiences in the past?'
There had been many people to tell her about Greg's past. He hadn't had much luck with women. He'd been left virtually at the altar by one, another girl he was sweet on had been killed in a road accident. There had been girls at university and medical school, but each one of them had left him for tougher, more assertive men.
'You are a nice man.' She turned round to him and stroked his face. 'You understand so much.'
'We must get married.' His pale brown eyes held hers. 'We belong together, Amy. Maybe we can even have a baby, before it's too late.'
Joy welled up inside her. 'You really want a child?' she whispered.
It was all so perfect. He was offering her the one thing she wanted above all else, a chance to be a mother again.
'I never wanted anything more,' he said, his lips trembling, coming closer to meet hers.
'I love you, Greg,' she murmured as his lips covered hers. 'This time I'll be strong with Mother.'
Slowly he undressed her, kissing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts as her clothes fell to the floor. 'You're such a beautiful woman,' he said as he moved cushions on to the rug for her to lie on. 'I hope our baby looks like you.'
Greg's lovemaking evoked all those emotions she'd had at seventeen, but now it was sweeter still because there was no anxiety or shame. His fingers were gentle. Love and tenderness guided him, rattier than experience, and his sensual delight at stroking and licking at her turned sex to a feast of erotic pleasure. His half-closed eyes were dreamy as his tongue slid up and down on her fanny, he murmured sweet words, pushing his fingers hard into her till she was writhing in ecstasy.
The music, the fire and the soft lights all added to the moment. She was on fire, every nerve-ending jangling and demanding that he bring her to a climax, yet holding back because she wanted this bliss to last forever. He rolled her on to her side and entered her from behind, one hand holding her breast, the other stroking her fanny, whispering words that heightened the sensations still further.
'I'm coming,'
she cried out, holding his hand against her. 'Oh, Greg, I love you!'
Mabel heard a car pass the farm then pull up further down the road, but it meant nothing more than a couple of youngsters stopping for a spot of petting before going home. She peered through the darkness to her clock on her bedside table. It was nearly two.
'I can't think what Amy wants to go home with him for,' she grumbled to herself. 'Shouldn't think he knows what it's for.'
In fact she was lying awake because she was ashamed of herself. She wished she hadn't said those sharp things to Amy, and in her heart she welcomed Greg as a son-in-law. If only she could admit to Amy that her bad moods and barbed remarks were brought on by fear – fear of being left alone again.
A sharp sound made her prick up her ears. A heavy boot against a stone?
Her bedroom overlooked the road and that sound had come from someone stepping into the little lane up the side of the house.
It was too late for Amy to come home now, and besides, Greg was far too much of a gentleman not to escort her. Had it been an odd drunk lurching home she would have heard the feet going on past. But there was nothing!
She could hear wind in the elms, the faint tapping sound of a loose piece of corrugated iron on the barn roof, and an owl down by the river. But whoever kicked that stone was now standing still outside. She got out of bed and looked out of the window. The fire station light was on as it always was, casting a beam as far as the bridge, but there was no-one there.
There was enough light through the window to see herself in the dressing-table mirror. 'You look like Mother,' she said to herself indignantly. She didn't like old age. To see herself in the ruffle-necked nightdress, hair thin and white, her face lined, made her smart with anger. It seemed such a short while ago that her skin was smooth and glowing, that her hair tumbled over her shoulders and her body made men turn their heads.
She heard another sound. This time it came from the yard, a scuffle of boot on cobble. Silently she padded across the room, out on to the landing and into Paul's old room next door.
She came in here a great deal when Amy was out, to touch his model planes, to look at his pictures and arrange his soldiers. Harry always slept in here when he came with Tara, but she'd never told him how right it felt to see him in there.
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