The Moon At Midnight

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘We’re just going to have to find something else we can do, that’s all.’

  Mrs Chimes, after a cup or two of tea, not to mention a Rich Tea biscuit, left without buying anything, and Rusty shut up shop. She’d absolutely no need to clear the till, since it had nothing in it.

  It was only a few days later that, at Flavia’s insistence, she went to call on a supplier of yachting clothing. As she drove towards her destination Rusty knew that she had to come to terms with the fact that she’d opened Laurel Cottage Crafts far too hastily, and without enough thought.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering, Mum, really I don’t. It’s not as if you haven’t got enough bread – I mean Dad says you’ve everything most women want, and more, so why bother with a shop?’

  Rusty stopped her brand new dark red Morris convertible with a jab of her foot on the brake, making Flavia jerk forward on to the dashboard.

  ‘Mum!’

  Rusty turned furiously to her daughter.

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more about what I have got, or what I haven’t got – my bread, as you call it, I have earned with every fibre of my being.’ She stopped, thinking that sounded rather pompous, and after a second started again at a lower pitch. ‘I have helped your father build up his business. I have helped sell cars, advertise cars. I have held the hands of his staff. I cleaned for Waldo Astley, years ago, before you were born. There’s nothing I haven’t done to keep our ship afloat, but now is my time. It’s my time, to do with what I want. And I want a business, of my own. So.’ She started the car again. ‘So that’s what I’m doing, and whether or not it’s a flop, or will be a flop, I don’t know. All I know is that it’s my time, and I’m going to keep it that way.’

  She drove on to stunned silence from Flavia, most particularly since that was precisely how Flavia felt, but what she couldn’t understand was how come her mother, of all people, a woman so much older than Flavia, could feel exactly the same as a sixteen-year-old. It simply didn’t make sense.

  The supplier of nautical clothing was housed in a premises on the outskirts of Churchester. There was a small showroom, and behind it a much larger stockroom piled high with clothing of every kind. Having inspected the oilskins, the navy blue, cream and brown sailing pullovers, and various other items on display in the showroom, Rusty turned to Flavia.

  ‘Your idea, Flave – you tell me why we’re here, or rather tell him.’ She nodded towards a man approaching them from the stockroom beyond.

  ‘Good morning, ladies. I’m Ted Austin. Can I help you?’

  ‘Rusty and Flavia Sykes, and yes I think you can.’

  There was a small pause during which Rusty nodded to Flavia, meaning, You go ahead, since it was your idea that we came.

  ‘OK, so, Mr Austin.’ Flavia cleared her throat. ‘We – er, that is, Mrs Sykes here, and myself – I’m um Flavia Sykes – we are starting up a clothes shop in Bexham, and we would very much like to see some of your stock, with an eye to selling it in our Laurel Cottage Craft— catalogue.’

  Rusty’s eyes widened, just slightly. They had a catalogue? It was the first she’d heard of it, but now Flavia had mentioned it, it had to be said it seemed a more than sound idea.

  ‘I see. Well, follow me, please. We have much more stock than we are able to put out here, so please. Come backstage, as we like to call it, and let’s see if we can’t find something to satisfy all tastes.’

  They followed Mr Austin through to the stockroom where they once more perused the thickly knitted fisherman’s pullovers, the oilskins, and the other seafaring kit.

  ‘Do you have a changing room, Mr Austin?’

  He did. Flavia immediately disappeared into it, only to re-emerge a few minutes later wearing one of his pullovers and a pair of slacks, over which she had thrown an oilskin.

  ‘Looks to me as if you could win the Regatta dressed like that,’ Rusty admitted as Flavia made her laugh by walking up and down the stockroom, hips thrust forward in an exaggerated manner as if she was already on a catwalk. After a couple of turns she threw off the oilskin and, taking a belt from her own clothes, tied it decoratively round the waist of the pullover, turning it in an instant from a nautical look to something more stylish and modern.

  ‘But wait. . .’

  She went back into the changing room, and this time reappeared wearing only the oilskin over her much hitched up skirt.

  ‘Now don’t tell me that’s not dolly,’ she insisted to her audience of two.

  Rusty turned to Mr Austin.

  ‘She’s got hold of this word “dolly”. Everything’s dolly at the moment.’ She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. ‘I don’t know what to say. What do you think, Mr Austin?’

  Mr Austin stared at Flavia, tall, auburn-haired, stunning, the clothes making her look taller, and even more than stunning, like something out of a glossy magazine. But what was better was that she made the really very traditional clothes look modish, fashionable, new. At that moment an influx of store men coming back into the work-room from their lunch hour stopped as one person, staring in open admiration at the sight of a long-legged girl modelling what now looked like not a piece of fisherman’s clothing against stormy weather, but a highly desirable fashion accessory.

  One of the men whistled, long and low, and as he did so Rusty felt as if she’d been punched in the back by the sound. Flavia was being wolf whistled. Flavia being whistled at? Suddenly, more than at any moment either before or after, it seemed that Flavia was no longer Rusty’s daughter, but a glamour girl, a model, what you will, out there on the floor smiling serenely at the sound, no longer Rusty’s daughter but an object of masculine admiration filled with that strange power that adolescence brings. It was as if Rusty’d never known her, and at the same time as if she’d always known her. Why should she be so surprised? Flave, the Beauty of Bexham, had after all always been obsessed with her looks, but this was different. Rusty stared at her, trying hard to understand what the difference was exactly, and then, realising it, she turned away. This was different, because for the first time she realised Flavia was in charge of them.

  Mr Austin came up to Rusty’s shoulder.

  ‘I should get the clothes photographed like that, with Miss Sykes modelling them, Mrs Sykes, and put them in your catalogue straight away. We’ll be sure to sell hundreds of them, modelled by her, I’m sure of it. She makes them look . . .’ He paused, smiling, his eyes never moving from the sight in front of him. ‘She makes them look so – modish.’

  He beamed at Rusty who suddenly smiled at Flavia, who tossed her great mane of hair and went back to the changing room, triumphant.

  * * *

  Rusty was driving them back to Churchester, secretly thrilled with the events of the day while at pains not to show as much to Flavia.

  ‘I don’t know what your father will say, you modelling garments in a catalogue. Besides, it’s so expensive, printing costs and so on. And there’s still a paper shortage, someone said, still quite a paper shortage, although why I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘All old-fashioned nonsense.’ Flavia snorted lightly, staring ahead of her, also well pleased with the way things had turned out. ‘We’ll do the photographs on cards, like postcards, only a bit bigger, and then we’ll stick them in the shop window. You’ll see, before the year is out we’ll have shifted hundreds of them. Well, dozens anyway, Mum. We’re going to be successful, I know it.’

  Rusty frowned, still determined on pessimism, while her heart lifted at her daughter’s words. It was difficult for her to admit that Flavia was right, that it was a really good idea, that they might indeed sell a great many pullovers and oilskins, if Flavia modelled them as she had just done, and they had them photographed and placed on cards in the windows of Laurel Cottage.

  ‘Besides which, instead of just buying from Mr Austin, we should start getting people in the village to knit for us – you know, like poor old Mrs Chimes, and her family, and all those affected by the sale of the fishing licenc
e. We should start up a proper cottage industry, and then no one in Bexham will criticise us. Not even Dad. Think of that, Mum!’

  Rusty turned and looked at her daughter. She was talking everything up, of course, Rusty knew that, and yet she had to admit all her ideas were not just good, they were verging on the brilliant. They could get people like the Chimeses to start knitting, and they could get Flavia modelling the results, and then photograph her, and it would be good for the village.

  ‘I wonder if Mr Austin could make that oilskin material a bit thinner, less toughened? They’d mould into a more fashionable shape then, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Oh, I dare say, if we ask him, of course. He’ll do anything for us, you can see that. Anything.’ Flavia tossed her hair back, and taking off her shoes placed her feet carefully on the dashboard in front of her. She’d won her mother over. Better than that, she’d won the day. From now on in, she thought exultantly, if she played her cards right, she would probably never have to go back to school – she could model. She’d won the day, and she knew it, most especially because her mother was not saying anything, and when Rusty was quite quiet Flavia always knew she’d won. She was on her way. Next stop London, no doubt of it, and after that, well, anything could happen. She stared out of the car window at the dreary-looking people passing slowly by, none of whom, in her opinion, had really lived their lives. She wanted to really live, and now, at last, she knew she was going to.

  * * *

  Relaxing in his favourite window seat in the Three Tuns, and for want of anything else to read, Waldo picked up a discarded copy of the Churchester Chronicle, and flicked idly through it. It was a fine May morning and the estuary filled with the sights and sounds that were most dear to those who lived by it: seagulls perched on the sides of rowing boats, sailing boats upturned, their bottoms being loyally scraped, water lapping against the harbour walls, and with it all weather warm enough to have the window beside him open. As he browsed lazily through the newspaper Waldo found himself more interested in the conversations of the fishermen seated on the black iron capstans below the window, than in items about the Mayor opening a new shopping complex.

  As he listened to the gentle drift of their talk, which ranged from the weather to the tides, to their wives and, more importantly, the state of their lobster pots, Waldo found his eye travelling from them to the group of women further down the quays. Here stood a clutch of wives, their hairstyles as tightly coiffed as the nets their husbands used for fishing, their arms akimbo, their flowered aprons immaculate, and their attentions on a tall young girl wearing little more than a shortened oilskin, walking up and down beside the boats, a yachting cap set on her auburn hair, a stylish pair of wellington boots on her feet.

  ‘The only thing young Flavia Sykes’ll catch in that is a cold, you mark my words.’ Richards set down a midday drink beside Waldo and nodded towards Flavia.

  ‘Do I know her?’ Waldo stared at Richards, pretending ignorance.

  Richards sighed and shook his head. ‘Know her? I think you even changed her nappies once or twice, didn’t you?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Diapers in my country, Richards, not nappies. So what may I ask is young Flavia up to down there?’

  ‘Modelling for her mother’s shop, would you believe? She’s modelling some clothes that they’ve taken it into their heads they can sell.’ Richards sighed as Waldo smiled.

  ‘The way Flavia’s built I would think if she modelled dishcloths they would sell.’ Waldo nodded appreciatively back to the sight outside the windows.

  ‘Style, that’s what’s gone, know that, Mr Astley? Style. No style at all, these young people. I mean where the young Cécile Sorels, where the young Vivien Leighs, nowadays, tell me?’

  ‘Well, I think Cécile Sorel is no longer with us, but Miss Leigh certainly is, Richards.’

  ‘The young nowadays, I don’t know. They think hitching up their skirts to their knees will make them stylish. Lampshades are more stylish than what they’re all wearing.’

  Richards sniffed his disapproval, after which he retired to his own bar stool from where he liked to view the world with an increasing astonishment, verging on disdain. Waldo on the other hand went back to staring out of the window at the sight of Flavia modelling a fisherman’s mackintosh and sou’wester.

  ‘That,’ said a voice from behind him, ‘is one of the cutest sights I’ve seen for a very long time and anyone who says any different is a liar.’

  Waldo turned, and, seeing Judy, immediately stood up. ‘Isn’t it just?’

  They both laughed and turned back to the window, staring towards the harbourside as Flavia, with the photographer in close attendance, moved first this way and then that, her eyes blankly fixed on the horizon, her hand to her eyes, for all the world as if she was waiting for her ship to come in, rather than trying to sell mackintoshes for her mother’s gift shop.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ Judy sat down, removing her gloves and shaking her head, at her most amused. The sun was shining outside, Flavia was modelling for Rusty’s shop, her own daughter was getting better. There was very little reason not to feel relaxed that morning.

  ‘Gin and tonic?’ Waldo turned to her, still standing. Judy nodded.

  ‘How did you guess?’ she asked, still smiling.

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly because the sun’s shining. By the way, may I say, you’re looking very pretty in that suit.’

  Judy looked down at her excellently cut spring suit. ‘It’s actually a Utility Suit, would you believe?’

  ‘Well, it’s beautifully tailored – Digby Morton at his best.’

  ‘That’s what Walter always says.’ Judy laughed. ‘And not just beautifully tailored, but built to last. And just as well.’

  The expression in Waldo’s eyes was noncommittal, and he turned to go back to the bar. Judy watched his tall, slim figure for a second before turning back to the enjoyable sight at the harbour’s edge. She couldn’t help feeling nostalgic, remembering the day when Flavia was born, and now look at her – a beautiful, long-legged model. She lit a cigarette, and thought back to the war years. The things that had happened to her, like when she and Rusty had helped to deliver Max Eastcott, in the middle of one of the worst bombing raids; when, in the months before she was killed, their mutual friend Virginia had managed, to everyone’s astonishment, to coax Rusty into actually starting to look like a girl rather than a tomboy. When women of all ages were frequently to be seen crossing the village green on their way to Virginia’s hairdressing shop, carrying their towels, and their precious liquid soap, if they could find any.

  ‘Three dollars for your thoughts.’ Waldo placed their drinks on the table and sat down again.

  ‘That’s far too much for my thoughts, Waldo.’ Judy laughed. ‘I think three cents would be quite enough.’

  ‘So? What were they – these three cents thoughts?’

  Judy shrugged her shoulders, reluctant to seem nostalgic.

  ‘No, come on.’ Waldo pushed a sixpence across the table. ‘Thoughts now paid for.’

  ‘Well.’ Judy took the sixpence and turned it round in her fingers, staring at it, before continuing. ‘Well, if you really want to know I was just remembering when Max was born in the middle of a bombing raid, and all that kind of thing. You know, how Bexham was before your time. I was just remembering the war, all the things that happened. How Virginia who used to run the hairdressing shop – how she ran for the midwife when Max was arriving at the Eastcotts’ house, only to be killed, poor lovely girl. And then I was remembering all kinds of other things that – well, I was just generally becoming nostalgic, really.’ She sighed, and turned to look out of the window again. ‘We were all so close in those days, and now look at us. Tam has a stupid driving accident and everyone’s taken sides, and – well, we both know the rest.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I sometimes think that peace is much, much more difficult than war, and then I remember just how awful the war was, and I think what to
sh – everything’s difficult.’ She placed the sixpence back next to Waldo’s place. ‘Not even worth sixpence, my thoughts aren’t, Waldo, not even a penny, not even a ha’penny.’

  They continued to talk, seated in front of their drinks, the sunshine spreading over the harbour scene in front of the window, Judy’s cheeks becoming a little flushed, Waldo lighting a cigar, which caused the nearby table to stare in disapproval and Judy to sniff the air appreciatively.

  As they chatted on, their sandwiches arrived, which they duly ate while watching the photographer setting up at a different point in order to go on photographing Flavia, until Rusty arrived to supervise, and quite obviously directed the photographer to go back to his first vantage point. All of which made them both laugh, and commanded their conversation and attention in the most natural way, so that anyone coming upon them would have been able to appreciate that all they made was a perfectly charming couple. Two old friends can surely meet for a drink and talk, stare out into a well loved vista over the harbour to the other cottages, at the fishermen mending nets, at others seated in the old inn, turn and talk some more, order more drinks, without there being anything to suggest that there is any more to their meeting than just simple enjoyment?

  Waldo, after all, was a well-loved figure in Bexham, despite the fact that Judy’s in-laws were still rumoured to have distanced themselves from him for helping Tam, and even despite the fact that he had been generous to a fault towards all and sundry.

  Miraculously, Waldo had somehow managed to avoid being disliked for his philanthropy, probably because he was always at pains, publicly, to send himself up, calling himself ‘the Great Provider’, and generally going about making it plain that he knew that he had to be forgiven for being so patronising as to help those in need.

  But more than that, more than his ability to make fun of himself, to stimulate laughter whenever he appeared, at whatever gathering he graced, it was his great, constant and sustained love for a heroine of Bexham, his wife of a few days, Meggie Gore-Stewart, that had made him so beloved of her native harbourside village. The fact that he had never remarried, that since her death he was known never to have even taken out another woman, meant that he met with approval from the women, and respect from the men.