Only One Woman

by Christina Jones

  I honestly didn’t deserve my family!

  When I got back home again, Vix was pacing up and down the living room.

  ‘Yep – your mum and dad have filled me in. And just when did you intend to tell me?’ She nodded angrily at the case and bag. ‘Bloody hell, Stella! We’ve been best friends since infants school! We’ve shared everything! Were you really just going to bugger off and not say a word?’

  ‘No, course not. I was going to come round to see you tonight and... look, let’s go up to my bedroom – we can talk there.’

  We did. We sprawled on my bed as we always did, and I told her everything. Even about work – and about Scott having suggested to Renza about going to Jersey first – and well, everything.

  ‘God, I wish I’d never persuaded you to go to St B’s dance that night…’ Vix shook her head. ‘I wish you’d never met him.’

  ‘I don’t. I’m loving every minute of it.’

  Vix glared at me. ‘He’s changed you.’

  ‘No he hasn’t.’

  ‘He has. You used to be nice and gentle and kind and honest – and well, trustworthy. Now you’ve become totally selfish – no, listen to me. You’d never have dreamed of doing half the things you’ve done since you met him. Bunking off work, lying to your mum and dad, being devious, discharging yourself from hospital, behaving like a proper little madam.’

  She was probably right. I knew I’d become bolder, more confident, happier – and yes, far more daring – since meeting Scott. Selfish, yes, that too, probably. There was no way I intended to justify it though. Not to Vix. Not to anyone.

  ‘And I told you that after Mike and Bernice and if I didn’t die having the operation then I’d go mad and have an adventure. Enjoy living. Life.’ I sighed. ‘I love him. Madly, insanely, desperately. I just want to be with him. Now. And I’ll do whatever it takes.’

  ‘And the future? When he’s gone and you don’t have a job and no one believes a word you say anymore?’

  ‘Jesus – it’s not going to be that bad! Anyway, I don’t think about the future. No point in worrying about things that may never happen – I’ll deal with them when I have to. Right now I’ll just enjoy the present. And the present is pretty fab.’

  ‘Oh, I give up. You’re mad,’ Vix grinned at me. ‘I’ve told you that before. And whatever romantic hearts and flowers nonsense you’ve got in your head, we both know this is all going to end in tears – and I’ve said that before, too. But I’ll give you one thing – I didn’t expect it to last this long – and you’re getting a holiday in Jersey – and yes, Scott is definitely a cheating, two-timing scum-bag – but also the sexiest bloke I’ve ever set eyes on – well, apart from Zak and my Jeff, of course – and I’m maybe just the teeniest bit jealous.’

  I laughed. ‘I’ll send you a postcard. But promise me one thing – you won’t breathe a word about work to anyone. Especially not to Debbie and Sally – don’t tell them where I am. Or mum and dad. They know where I’m going of course, but I don’t want them to know that I’ve just walked out.’

  ‘They’ll find out soon enough, but, ok, my lips are sealed. At a price, of course.’ Vix giggled. ‘Oh, Stella – I’m going to miss you – and I really hope you know what you’re doing.’

  That made two of us.

  Stella’s Diary

  May 17th 1969 – going to Jersey, part 1

  The ship, The Sarnia (I loved that because it sounded like Narnia!), was absolutely enormous! I don’t know what I was expecting – but it certainly wasn’t the massive three-storey monster that filled the Weymouth dock as far as the eye could see.

  Shuffling through the vast dimly-lit quay-side customs shed lined with long trestle tables prior to boarding, in line with hundreds of others, and having my tickets and papers and luggage – thank goodness for the lovely Samsonite case! – inspected, I felt a mixture of very excited and not a little scared. I’d never been on a boat other than the Isle of Wight ferry before, and I’d certainly never travelled away from home on my own. However, as I climbed the gangplank (trying not to think of how deep the water was under me or how much the whole thing wobbled) I knew that for Scott I would have flown to the moon without wings.

  Mum and Dad and the dogs had taken me to Harbury Green railway station in the car, bought platform tickets and waved me off on my adventure. Mum had given me two paperback books and a pound note “for essentials”, and dad handed me a tinfoil packet of sandwiches: ‘Pink salmon and salad, Stell. At least then when you’re seasick it’ll look pretty.’

  The rail journey had been lovely: once we’d left Reading it was all pastures new, and I’d settled into my window seat drinking in the early morning scenery, and we’d arrived at Weymouth ahead of time.

  And now I was really on my way.

  I hadn’t booked a seat on the ship or anything, so along with everyone else I just wandered up and down the staircases, trying to remember the deck numbers and where all the doors led, exploring. I was very grateful I’d worn my Levis and pale pink T-shirt for travelling – climbing those staircases in my short dresses would have probably given some of the more elderly passengers a heart-attack!

  When The Sarnia’s engines started, deep down beneath my feet, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Everything vibrated and roared. The deck appeared to be moving before the ship was. It was all very disorientating. At dead-on 11 o’clock, there was an ear-splitting blast of the ship’s siren, a change in the engine noise, a further throbbing lurch of the floor, a big cheer all around me, and The Sarnia set sail for Jersey. I tried not to jump up and down with excitement. I was on my way to see Scott again! After so many long, lonely weeks! Before the day was over, I was actually going to be with him again!

  It took me ages to get used to the noise and vibrations from the depths of the ship. And walking straight was a bit of a problem. And it was very, very hot. I started to feel queasy, so lugging my case and tote bag, I headed for the upper deck. It was very crowded with everyone sitting on their suitcases and I wriggled my way through to a gap on the left-hand side of the deck where I could lean back against something solid but have a good view of the sea.

  The sea! It stretched forever. There was nothing to see except the blue sky and this dark green rolling, churning ocean. The movement of the ship and the motion of the sea didn’t help my slight feeling of nausea and I sat back on my case and took some deep breaths. I only had to endure 152 miles of sea, I told myself. I’d looked up the distances in the library: it was 220 miles from Harbury Green to Jersey and I’d already done 68 of those by the time I boarded the ship. And every rather giddying minute was a step closer to Scott.

  I closed my eyes. Then, because everything was going round, I opened them very quickly.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a middle-aged sandy-haired man next to me, leaned over. ‘Could you keep an eye on my children while I go and get some drinks, please?’

  ‘Err,’ I’d noticed the four rather unruly red-haired children running up and down the deck, screaming and laughing and getting in people’s way. ‘Um – yes, ok…’

  I really hoped they wouldn’t keep climbing on the rails. I wasn’t going to dive in and save them if they fell over.

  ‘Thank you,’ the sandy man said. ‘They’re a bit overexcited. Oh, can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘Lemonade would be lovely.’ My mouth was really dry but I didn’t think my stomach would be able to cope with anything more exotic. I started to scrabble in my bag for my purse.

  ‘No, no – my treat – you deserve it for keeping an eye on that lot! I won’t be long.’

  He wasn’t. Mercifully all his out-of-control brood were still alive.

  He handed me a glass of lemonade and dished some out to his children, then sank down beside me again. ‘Thank you. My wife left me. Ran off with the insurance man. Didn’t take the kids. It’s the devil’s own job trying to keep them under control. I hoped the holiday in Jersey would be a good thing – I hadn’t really reckoned on the voyage. Loo
k, you’re very pretty. Are you single?’

  ‘What?’ I spluttered into my lemonade.

  ‘Single? You’re not married or engaged or anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then if I paid you £500 would you marry me and look after my kids?’

  I stared at him and laughed – because it had to be a joke. It wasn’t. He was deadly serious.

  ‘Oh, my God.’ I struggled to my feet and handed him my half-drunk lemonade. ‘No way on earth. Leave me alone. Go away.’

  ‘I’ve got a good job. You’d never be short of money or anything. Just think about it.’

  ‘No! You’re weird. Sorry…’

  I grabbed my luggage and staggered off as fast as I could on the rolling deck, round the other side of the ship, as far away from my would-be suitor and his kids as it was possible to get.

  Settling down between two elderly couples, neither of whom looked as if they were in the white-slave-trade, I could almost see the funny side. Almost. I sighed and looked at my watch. How much longer of this rolling, churning, nothing-to-see-but-the-sea, was there going to be? How much longer before Scott and I were together again? I groaned. Hours. We were due to dock in Jersey at 7 p.m. It wasn’t even 3.

  I thought about the two books Mum had given me at the station: Daphne du Maurier’s Frenchman’s Creek and Edna O’Brien’s August Is a Wicked Month – but I’d really wanted to hang on to them to read in Jersey and anyway, trying to read while the ship was rising and falling would probably make my queasiness a million times worse. I sighed and settled back and watched the sea.

  ‘Land ahoy!’

  I jumped and opened my eyes. I must have dozed off in the sunshine. Heck – I felt sick… one of the elderly couples beside me was pointing towards a just-visible rocky outcrop in the distance.

  I blinked. ‘Is that…? Are we here…?’

  They nodded excitedly.

  Wow! I scrambled to my feet, asked them if they’d mind keeping an eye on my luggage, and staggered down two flights of stairs to the Ladies. We were nearly there! I had to go to the loo and re-do my hair and my make-up.

  I closed the cubicle door and wished I hadn’t. With no windows and no air, the roaring and lurching and stifling heat was even worse than before. Never had a loo-visit and face-repair been done so quickly!

  By the time I emerged, The Sarnia was slowing down, and people were on the move, heading up the stairs towards the deck for disembarking. I wriggled my way through, headed back upstairs and found my luggage.

  ‘We’re early,’ I said happily to one of the elderly ladies. ‘I thought we didn’t get to Jersey until 7.’

  ‘We don’t,’ she said. ‘This is Guernsey. We’re here for an hour.’

  Stella’s Diary

  May 17th 1969 – going to Jersey, part 2

  The Sarnia stayed docked in St Peter Port in Guernsey for hours! Well, maybe a little over an hour – but it was driving me insane with impatience. I leaned over the side and watched the people coming and going. Oh, hurry up! How long did it take to get on and off a boat for heaven’s sake?!

  Admittedly, what I could see of St Peter Port looked very pretty under the wall-to-wall blue sky and hot afternoon sun: all ancient granite buildings and narrow streets leading away from the quayside – but it wasn’t Jersey!

  Eventually we chugged off again, rocking and rolling, and almost immediately I could smell the heat from the ship’s engines. I sank back on to my suitcase, watched the churning waves as we ploughed away from Guernsey, and wondered how anyone could ever find a cruise enjoyable.

  But eventually, miraculously, Jersey was in sight!

  I stood up, leaning over the rails, no longer feeling sick, just staring as Scott’s island took shape. I could see rocks and flower-sprigged cliffs and little white sandy bays… and then, as The Sarnia slowed towards St Helier, the imposing sight of Fort Regent high up on its granite hill, towering into the sky. He’d told me that when I saw Fort Regent I was there. I practically jumped up and down with excited anticipation. I’d made it! I was in Jersey! Almost…

  Of course, even once it had manoeuvred and docked, actually getting off The Sarnia took absolutely ages. It was past 8 o’clock when I wobbled unsteadily towards dry land. And also, of course, I knew Scott wasn’t going to be there to meet me. Narnia’s Children would be playing at Lords. Dan, Scott’s step-father, was going to collect me.

  ‘How will he recognise me?’ I’d asked Scott on the phone.

  He’d laughed. ‘He’s seen a photo.’

  Oh... I knew Scott had some photos of me. I had no idea he’d shown them to anyone. ‘Oh, lord… which one…?’

  ‘The one in the white dress.’

  The white dress I’d worn to The Café des Artistes the night Scott told me he loved me! The photo had been quite revealing…

  I’d gulped. ‘Oh, help…’

  ‘He said, thanks to that, he’d be able to recognise you easily,’ Scott had laughed again. ‘Just walk off the ship, follow the herd, he’ll be parked somewhere on the left and will make himself known, trust me. See you soon, Twinkle.’

  So, armed with my case and tote bag and shoulder bag and not a little intimidated, I staggered in amidst the mass of humanity, hoping that Dan would be there to meet me, for my first taste of Jersey.

  It was exhilarating – the air was warm, the evening sky was clear, deep blue, and the sun still shone. I only wished I didn’t feel quite so exhausted, wobbly, slightly sick, and rather hot and scruffy and travel-worn, peering hopefully for someone who looked as if they might recognise me. I felt Dan wasn’t going to see me at my best.

  ‘Stella! Stella! Over here!’

  I’d shuffled, in line, almost to the end of the quay. I glanced up and saw this wiry, sun-tanned man in jeans and faded T-shirt, with a mass of fair-streaked hair, waving at me from behind the railings.

  I stopped. ‘Er – Dan? Are you Dan?’

  He nodded. ‘Get yourself over here. I’ve got the car.’

  Getting myself “over there” was far more difficult than I’d anticipated due to the crowds of people and the fact that the ground was still dipping and swaying under my feet and I felt pretty groggy. However I eventually managed it.

  Dan, laughing at my lack of co-ordination, skilfully managed to get me and my luggage into his car and we whirled away from St Helier’s quayside in a small dust storm.

  ‘You’re wasting your time with Scott,’ he grinned across at me as we waited for the harbour-side traffic to move at a junction. ‘My opinion of course – but you do know he’s engaged, don’t you?’

  Wow! That was some introduction! Don’t beat about the bush, Dan, I thought.

  ‘Yes. I do. I know all about Renza.’

  ‘Really? Have you met her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, neither have I. I think he’s invited her out here but she couldn’t make it and we got you instead.’

  Wham, again!

  I took a deep breath. ‘He told me Renza couldn’t be here, yes…’

  ‘So are you a girlfriend or what? Scott said friend and I know you run the group’s fan club, so what’s the score?’

  ‘Exactly that.’

  Dan laughed. ‘Yeah – maybe… anyway, he seems very keen to have you out here,’ he looked across at me, ‘and I can see why… just don’t expect any sort of happy ever after with him.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said shortly, thinking this wasn’t exactly the sort of welcome I’d expected.

  ‘Oh, don’t look like that. I always say what I think. It’s probably never what anyone wants to hear, but no point in gilding the lily, is there? Now – hang on – I need to get back to work. Time’s money.’

  I already knew that Dan ran various businesses, that he was highly skilled and qualified in some sort of engineering capacity, and now knew that I didn’t actually like him very much.

  I studied him as he drove like a demon. He was younger than I’d imagined, talked quickly with a biting sense o
f humour and had very shrewd intelligent eyes. I was more than slightly intimidated now, and carefully answered each of his probing questions in monosyllables.

  ‘Hang on again,’ he shot at me. ‘I’m going to whizz across here.’

  I hung as he whizzed, and the urban surroundings of St Helier disappeared as the car purred up a gorgeous long hill called Le Mont Felard.

  I knew that the Jersey road names were all in French, and was enchanted by the tall granite walls, all dripping with brightly coloured flowers as we span upwards at some sort of breakneck speed.

  Scott had told me how low the Jersey speed limits were compared to the mainland but this didn’t seem to bother Dan. Maybe, I thought as we roared into a mass of glorious narrow, high-banked lanes, he couldn’t wait to get rid of me. He must have thought I was pretty dumb anyway as I simply couldn’t say more than a couple of words in reply to his non-stop questions.

  Now the high-banked twisty lanes we tore along were hardly wide enough for bicycles, but the speed didn’t drop. I assumed Dan knew these roads really well. I hoped so. I caught glimpses of stone cottages, and farmland and miles of glorious countryside through the towering trees that formed deep green arches above us. We slowed slightly at a place called Carrefour Selous – it had a small garage on one side and what looked like a shop on the other – but before I could actually take it in Dan had pressed his foot to the floor and we’d torn away again.

  Then suddenly, we slowed properly as we rounded a bend. I saw the name of the lane, half-hidden by long grass and flowers – Les Chanolles des Six Rues – and thought how amazing the island was – exactly like being abroad – then minutes later Dan drove into a wide shingle drive, with stones spraying everywhere.

  ‘This is it.’ He looked at me. ‘I’ll get your stuff out of the boot. Eva’s around somewhere – I’ve got to be somewhere else. Nice to meet you. Goodbye.’