by Maureen Lee
Otherwise, a bored Josie sat in the parlour, reading, teaching herself to knit, staring at the view. But she was fed up with the sight of only sea, ships and sand – only a few hardy souls took to the beach in winter. She longed for company, noise, traffic, a wireless, and would have offered to do the shopping and the cooking if it hadn’t meant treading on Phoebe’s toes. It was actually a treat when Louisa ran out of cigarettes, and she had to walk as far as the shops, where she usually bought a newspaper to look for another job, so far without success. Marian and Hilary often telephoned, wanting to know how their mother was, but Louisa flatly refused to speak to her daughters and it was left to Josie to explain stiffly that she was fine. Louisa only came to the phone in the hall if it was an agent or her friend, Thumbelina, from New York, when she would chatter away for ages. Every month, Thumbelina would send a pile of American newspapers, which Louisa eagerly read from cover to cover.
‘That’s a dead funny name to give someone,’ Josie said.
‘I call her Thumbelina because she’s so tiny,’ Lousia explained with a fond smile. ‘Only four feet ten. Her real name is Albertine. She’s had six husbands, each one richer than the one before. I expect any day to hear she’s about to marry Mr Seven, who is bound to be a multi-multi-millionaire.’
Tuesday evening and all day Saturday, Josie had off. With a feeling of exhilaration, she caught the train to Exchange station to meet Lily. Mid-week, they went to the pictures. On Saturdays they went shopping, then to the Kavanaghs’ for tea and to get changed for a dance at the Locarno or the Grafton. But tea would have to stop soon because it was December, and Ben was due home any day. Mrs Kavanagh didn’t want him upset.
When she got back, Louisa would ply her with questions. ‘Did you meet any nice young men? What picture did you see? Did you go to George Henry Lee’s? Y’know, I used to buy a lot of my clothes there once.’
And Josie would answer every question, even down to a physical description of Richard Widmark, whom she’d just seen in Night and the City, and display every item of her shopping for Louisa to examine, usually critically. ‘I used to buy Helena Rubinstein cosmetics. The lipsticks came in big gold cases, not piddling little Bakelite tubes like that.’
‘If you double me wages, I’ll buy Helena Rubinstein, too.’
At Louisa’s suggestion, she brought Lily to see her. At first Lily was plainly terrified of the forceful old woman, who immediately began to pry into her private life, but softened when told she had flirtatious eyes. ‘I bet you have scores of young men after you,’ Louisa said slyly.
‘Well, quite a few,’ Lily conceded, although there wasn’t a single man on the horizon at the moment.
‘And I bet you give them a good run for their money.’
‘Oh, I do,’ Lily concurred.
‘Don’t run too fast, though.’ Louisa nodded wisely. ‘You must pause and let them catch you once in a while.’
‘Oh, I do,’ Lily said again.
‘What the hell was she on about, Jose?’ Lily asked when Josie walked her to the station. ‘All that talk about sex. It’s peculiar coming from an old woman. Is she round the bend?’
‘Possibly,’ Josie said.
‘Do you think I’ve got flirtatious eyes?’
‘Possibly.’
On Christmas Day, Josie woke up with a heavy heart and a sense of gloom, knowing the day was going to be thuddingly boring – like Sundays, only worse. The weather didn’t help. The sky was the colour of wet slates, threatening rain, the river brown and murky. She went early to Mass. On the way back the skies opened and she got soaked, despite her heavy mack and umbrella. Once home, she changed her clothes, hung the mack in the bathroom and lit the parlour fire. Louisa was still in bed, and the cold, dark house felt very still and quiet. All that could be heard was the sound of the rain against the windows.
What am I doing here?
Josie had an hysterical urge to scream. After Christmas, she’d seriously start looking for something else. She quickly went round the house, turning on every light – in the hall, on the landing, in the parlour – before going in to the kitchen to make tea. Phoebe had left a chicken, already stuffed and roasted, in the meat safe, and a pudding she’d made herself. All Josie had to do was prepare the potatoes and the Brussels sprouts, and make the gravy and custard.
She thought about the Kavanaghs, and how different their day would be. Marigold, her husband, Jonathan, and their three children were coming to dinner, as well as Daisy and her friend, Eunice. Robert was travelling up from London. Ben was already home. Stanley would probably telephone from Germany – Freya, his wife, was expecting their first baby. She visualised the ritual exchange of presents after breakfast, and remembered Lily’s present to her was in her room, but couldn’t be bothered to go upstairs and open it.
The telephone rang. It was Hilary, wanting to wish her mother a merry Christmas. ‘She’s still in bed. I’ll wake her.’
There was no answer when Josie knocked. She went in. Louisa was lying face down under the clothes. ‘Hilary’s on the phone. She wants to speak to you.’
Still no answer. With a feeling of alarm, Josie shook the still figure. ‘Fuck off,’ Louisa snarled without moving. ‘Tell Hilary I’m spending the day in bed.’
‘But it’s Christmas Day, you can’t.’
‘I know full well what day it is, and I’ll do anything I want. Tell my idiot daughter to go screw herself.’
‘She’s still a bit sleepy,’ Josie told Hilary. ‘Perhaps you could call later, this afternoon.’ Her gloom deepened. She wasn’t in the mood to cope with Louisa in one of her fouler moods. With a sigh, she returned to the room. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I told you to fuck off.’ Louisa hadn’t moved. All that could be seen was the top of her black hair under the clothes.
‘I’ve no intention of, of doing what you say. Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘No! Why don’t you go to your friends in Childwall? Have dinner there, pull your crackers, drink your sherry, open your presents. Have a lovely time.’
‘I can’t,’ Josie said flatly. ‘I’m not welcome there today.’
At last Louisa raised her head. Her old face was full of creases from the pillow. Her eyes looked suspiciously red, as if she’d been crying. ‘Why not?’
‘Because me old boyfriend’s there – Ben. He’s home from university, and they’re worried I’ll upset him.’ Josie knew this trite piece of information would be of interest, and she was right. She didn’t offer assistance as Louisa struggled to a sitting position, knowing it would be churlishly rejected.
‘Is he the one you slept with?’ she asked eagerly.
‘I’ve never said I’ve slept with anyone, have I?’
‘No, but you have. I can see it in your eyes. You’re a woman, not a girl. Oh, please, Josie,’ she implored, her dark eyes glowing, ‘tell me about it. These days I live through other people. I’m starved of sex, starved of romance. I’m a parasite. I feed off other people to stay alive.’
‘All right,’ Josie said brusquely, ‘but not until you’re up, dressed and in the parlour with a cup of coffee.’
Louisa thought the episode with Griff desperately romantic. ‘And he actually pretended to be homosexual!’
‘No, he just gave the impression. After all, he’s an actor.’
‘I slept with a homo once. He was okay, I managed to teach him a few things. Have you ever done it with a woman? Now, that’s really interesting.’
‘No. There are times, Louisa, when I suspect you only say things to shock.’
‘My dear, I have never told you anything even faintly shocking.’ She laughed coarsely. ‘I was regarded as a nymphomaniac in my day. I could tell you things to make your blood run cold.’ She glanced out of the window, and said in a voice full of envy and longing, ‘I wonder where that liner’s off to?’
Josie watched the large, brightly lit ship sailing past. She would have given anything to be on it herself, on her way to somewher
e dead exciting, instead of pandering to a selfish, bad-tempered old woman on Christmas Day.
‘I spent Christmas on a ship once.’ Louisa sighed. ‘We had a party that lasted three whole days. I slept with three stewards and the purser.’
‘Is that all you ever thought of – sex?’
‘Yes,’ Louisa said flatly. ‘I still do. It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered to me.’
‘What about love?’ Josie asked curiously. ‘Didn’t you ever fall for the men you had this never-ending sex with?’
‘Occasionally, but love gets in the way. Love brings jealousy in its wake, and things quickly get nasty.’ She groaned, and wrapped her arms around her sagging breasts, hugging herself. ‘I still miss it, the sex. I ache for it. My body’s grown old, but my mind hasn’t. I’m still a young girl inside my head.’
Josie turned away, embarrassed. Once again, she thought about the Kavanaghs’ bright, cheerful house. ‘I’ll go and peel the potatoes,’ she said dully.
‘Get some wine from the cellar,’ Louisa called. ‘Fetch two bottles. I think I shall get intoxicated today.’
‘I was about to take a sleeping tablet this morning when you came in,’ Louisa said over dinner. ‘I thought of all the Christmases that had gone before, the gay times we had, the games we used to play, the flirtations, the silly presents we gave each other. I couldn’t abide the thought of another Christmas in this house – so fucking dull. The best thing was to sleep through it. You know,’ she said brightly, ‘I once spent Christmas with Virginia Woolf.’
‘Did you really?’ Josie had never heard of Virginia Woolf. She wondered if Louisa ever had the faintest regard for anyone’s feelings but her own. Had she not thought that taking a sleeping tablet would make her companion’s day even more depressing than it already was?
Louisa was on her fourth glass of wine. Her cheeks were flushed. Josie collected the plates, took them to the kitchen and made custard for the pudding that was steaming on the stove. She took the bowls into the parlour, and said, ‘If only I could drive, we could have gone to the Adelphi for dinner, or some posh hotel in Southport. We could even go shopping now and then.’
‘I’m not prepared to be driven about like an invalid.’ Louisa’s cheeks flushed a deeper red.
‘In that case, I’m handing in a month’s notice.’ She’d get an ordinary job, find a bedsit, even if she was only left with a few bob a week. ‘Frankly, Louisa,’ she said in a shaky voice, ‘I’m bored out of me skull. You’re not the only one who finds this house dull. As for Christmas, this is the worst I’ve ever known. It’s so bloody miserable, I could scream.’
‘Oh.’ There was a long silence, broken by the shrill ring of the telephone. Marian this time, asking for her mother.
‘Tell her Merry Christmas,’ Louisa snapped. ‘Say I’m too ill to talk.’
‘That would be cruel. There’s nothing wrong with you. She’s just coming,’ Josie said into the receiver. She watched Louisa make deliberately heavy weather of limping towards the hall.
That night, Louisa said shortly, ‘I’ll pay for you to take driving lessons. Whether I’ll come out with you, we’ll just have to see. If you’re bored, take more time off. I like to hear about the dances and the films. And bring Lily round more. I like her.’ For the very first time since Josie had known her, there was the suggestion of a quiver in the harsh, gruff voice. ‘You’re my connection to life, Josie. I don’t want you to leave.’
Josie felt uneasy at the end of December when she found her wages had gone up from ten pounds a month to fifteen. ‘When I gave me notice in, I wasn’t trying to blackmail you,’ she said hesitantly. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’ Louisa snarled. ‘And if I’d thought you were blackmailing me, you’d have been out the door like a shot.’
2
Josie passed her driving test just after her eighteenth birthday. The same night, with a mixture of pride and nervousness, she drove all the way to Childwall in the little black Austin Seven, as it was apparently called, to tell the Kavanaghs.
They were duly impressed. Lily decided to take driving lessons herself. ‘I’ll save up and buy meself a car. Something more modern than that. It looks like an antique.’
‘I thought I’d get a bit of practice in. Louisa said I can use it whenever I like. And she’s condescended to go shopping. I’m taking her to Southport on Friday.’
It took several hours to get Louisa ready to go shopping. Her clothes were in her old bedroom, and Josie’s legs ached from running up and downstairs, fetching things for her to choose from – lovely, expensive outfits, silk-lined, hand-stitched, intricately embroidered – all terribly old-fashioned, but it didn’t matter when they were going shopping and she could buy more up-to-date things. There was a search upstairs for stockings, a suspender belt, underwear, jewellery. ‘There’s a three-strand pearl necklace and earrings in the little dressing-table drawer,’ Louisa called. ‘And don’t forget face powder and lipstick. And scent. Oh, and shoes.’
‘You look dead beautiful,’ Josie said admiringly when Louisa emerged from her room – she’d insisted on dressing herself. She wore a navy blue silk suit patterned with large white orchids, white court shoes and a white toque. Despite her age and her infirmities, she looked extremely smart. She must have been outstanding in her day.
‘Don’t patronise me. I look ghastly. These shoes are too big, and I need a safety pin in the skirt. I tried, but I can’t fasten it.’ She frowned peevishly; she loathed asking for help.
Phoebe, who was also taking part in the exercise, fastened the pin. She and Josie trailed behind, making faces at each other as Louisa made her own slow, determined way out of the back door into the balmy sunshine of a late May day. They watched, longing to offer a hand, as she struggled into the passenger seat of the small black car. Phoebe picked up her shoes when they fell off.
‘I don’t envy you today, Josie,’ she whispered.
Josie drove cautiously, never exceeding twenty miles an hour, all the way to Southport, ignoring the queue of impatient traffic that gathered behind. She managed to park in Lord Street, a wide, elegant thoroughfare with a tree-lined central reservation, full of exclusive and outrageously expensive shops. Louisa, who had been very quiet during the journey, deigned to take her hand when she alighted from the car.
She stood on the pavement, supported by her stick, and took several deep breaths, her dark, brilliant eyes raking the shop fronts, the pedestrians, the passing traffic. ‘Why haven’t I done this before?’ she said in a dazed voice. ‘So near, yet so far. I should have come years ago. Suddenly, the world feels so much bigger. We must go to dinner one night. And the movies, the theatre.’ She put her arm in Josie’s, crying, ‘How pleased I am you came to work for me. Come, my dear, we’ll do some shopping.’
Over the next few hours, Louisa went quite mad with her cheque-book. She bought a striking scarlet dressing-gown and slippers to match, two glamorous nighties, a yellow linen costume, an amber pendant on a fine, gold chain, two pairs of narrow-fitting shoes – she put on a pair straight away – a straw picture hat, kid gloves, a lizard handbag and two colourful scarves.
‘There’s stacks of gloves and scarves upstairs,’ Josie protested, ‘and at least a dozen handbags.’
‘Oh, yes, but these are new,’ Louisa said with childish glee, ‘and a woman can’t have too many handbags. Oh, isn’t this—what is it you say in Liverpool? Isn’t this the gear?’
‘Don’t overtax yourself, Louisa.’
‘And don’t you nag. I feel like Sleeping Beauty, just awoken from a very long sleep.’ She chuckled. ‘Except with me the years have taken their toll. By the way, this is for you.’ She pushed the box with the amber pendant into Josie’s hand.
Josie tried to push it back. ‘I didn’t expect a present.’ But Louisa was implacable. ‘I bought it with you in mind. You said how pretty it was. I wouldn’t be seen dead in such an anaemic piece of jewellery.’
‘Ta, Louisa. But you mustn’t do this sort of thing again.’
‘I shall do whatever I like with my money, dear,’ Louisa said loftily.
They paused for coffee in a charming, glass-roofed arcade of tiny shops. Halfway through a cheese scone, Louisa said, ‘There was a quaint little bookshop around here where I used to order books from the States. I flirted quite madly with the owner, Mr Bernstein, but he probably retired years ago. I wonder if the shop’s still in business? I’d like to order that book they’re making such a fuss about back home, Catcher in the Rye.’
The shop was three blocks away, according to the waitress, too far for Louisa to walk. They returned to the car, stowed the shopping in the boot and Josie drove the three blocks.
There was no need to order Catcher in the Rye. The attractive young man behind the counter of the long, narrow shop said it had been published in this country, and they had several copies in stock. Louisa was writing a cheque when an astonished voice cried, ‘Miss Chalcott! Miss Louisa Chalcott?’
A small, extremely elderly man was coming towards them, arms clasped dramatically across his chest. The lack of hair on his pink head was made up for by a lustrous silver beard.
‘Mr Bernstein!’ Louisa said emotionally. ‘Why, how lovely to see you.’
Mr Bernstein snapped his fingers. ‘Ronald, fetch a chair for Miss Chalcott.’ He beamed. ‘This beautiful lady is a famous poet. Sit down, sit down, Miss Chalcott. Would you like a sherry?’
Josie might as well not have existed during the fulsome and mutually flattering conversation that ensued. She retreated to the counter, where Ronald whispered, ‘Who’s Louisa Chalcott? I’ve never heard of her.’
His favourite authors were Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. ‘I was put off poetry at school,’ he confessed. ‘I never want to hear ‘The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck’ again.’
