by Maureen Lee
‘What sort of series?’ She was doing her best to relax. Surely Laura wasn’t likely to come to harm with an ex-nanny?
‘A crime thing. An American cop, a detective, joins the Metropolitan Police. There’s all sorts of resentment until he becomes accepted.’ He put his hand over hers. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I’ve a feeling this is it. By this time next year we’ll have that flat in Mayfair that I promised.’
‘But, Jack, it doesn’t sound your sort of thing,’ Josie said cautiously.
His lip curled. He leaned back in the chair and shook his head. There was a hard look on his face she’d never seen before. It made her feel very sad. ‘I don’t think anyone’s interested in my sort of thing, sweetheart. If Mattie likes my script, there’ll be a four-figure advance for seven episodes. I say, fuck plays, I’d sooner have the cash.’
Josie felt even sadder. If they had never met, he would be in New York, still full of ideals, writing plays that meant something. What would his old friends say if they knew the noble Jack Coltrane had sunk to writing for money?
Still, it would be more than welcome, the money. She felt guilty that she’d been so preoccupied with Laura that she wasn’t as excited as she should have been at his news which, now she thought about it, was dead marvellous. He looked a bit let down, she thought. He’d have expected her to be as thrilled as he was.
She put her hand over his and squeezed it warmly. ‘Congratulations, luv. Let’s buy some wine on the way home. We’ll drink to your success tonight.’
Josie was relieved to find her daughter sitting contentedly on Elsie Forrest’s floor, surrounded by her toys and scribbling furiously in a pad. She completely ignored their arrival.
Elsie, a small, neat woman with lovely silver hair, wore a navy blue pinafore dress and a white starched blouse and apron, almost a uniform. The basement flat was clean, probably cleaner than the Coltranes’, and Elsie was smiling radiantly. ‘That’s Mummy she’s drawing.’ She looked fondly at Laura. ‘I never thought I’d care for a baby again. I’m so happy.’
Jack gave Josie a challenging look. There! I told you it would be all right, it seemed to say.
‘Why don’t you leave her a little longer and have a nice dinner to celebrate?’ Elsie suggested. ‘She’ll fall asleep soon. She’s been too busy all afternoon to take a nap.’
They went to a small Italian restaurant in Soho with red gingham cloths and candles on the tables. The owner, Marco, was the brother of someone Jack had known in New York, and it was almost like old times when he introduced himself. Marco slapped him on the shoulder and shook his hand for a good five minutes.
‘Course I hearda Jack Coltrane. Frankie tolda me you come to London. You Mrs Coltrane? Sit down, sit down, here, nice, private corner.’ He produced a menu and waved his arms expansively. ‘Meal’s on the house for Frankie’s besta friend.’
Josie couldn’t remember having met anyone called Frankie, but in New York everyone regarded themselves as Jack’s best friend. The wine arrived, and with it some of the old magic. She knew it would never return completely, not after the hard look she’d seen on Jack’s face. Circumstances had changed him, as they had probably changed her. She had never been a happy, carefree person, not like Jack, she had too many painful memories. She was too introverted, she took everything too seriously, but over the last eighteen months she’d felt as if she was carrying the weight of the whole world on her shoulders.
… to Bingham Mews, Chelsea
1957–1960
1
They had moved less than a mile, to another cul-de-sac of tall terraced houses, but it was like moving to the other side of the world. The yellow brick residences were brand new, and the estate agent described them as ‘town’ houses, not terraced. There were twelve altogether, six each side, built on the site of an unused church off the Kings Road, Chelsea. They were mostly occupied by young couples like the Coltranes.
It was an area that reminded Josie a little bit of New York. She loved the boutiques with their outrageous clothes, and the coffee-bars and pubs where she frequently glimpsed faces she’d seen in films or on television.
The ground floor was a garage in which they kept the blue Austin Healey convertible. There was a small room at the back that Jack used as a study. The living-cum-dining room was on the first floor, with a window that took up the entire wall. Behind, overlooking a paved courtyard, was a kitchen, with matching units, a refrigerator, a Hoover twin-tub washing machine and an alcove with padded seats and a table, where they ate if they didn’t have guests. Three bedrooms and a bathroom were on the floor above.
Everyone in Bingham Mews was friendly. In summer, they held cocktail parties in the open, drifting in and out of each other’s houses in search of snacks and drinks – Jack was an expert at mixing cocktails. There was sometimes a drinks party on Sunday afternoons, and they invited each other in small groups to dinner, gravely discussing the Suez crisis, the enforced desegregation of schools in America, the revolution in Cuba led by a man called Fidel Castro.
Josie didn’t care that she was the only woman in the mews who did her own cleaning, but found it nerve-racking having to make meals for half a dozen dead posh people – her previous culinary experience extended no further than casseroles and shepherd’s pie from the cheapest mince. But she had no intention of letting down the working classes. She bought a ‘Good Housekeeping’ recipe book and learned how to make chicken marengo, turkey blanquette, venison and all sorts of gateaux and meringues, as well as discovering thirty different ways to use an orange.
Elsie Forrest, now their regular babysitter, usually came to help. Elsie was frequently ‘borrowed’ by other residents with children. She had moved to a much nicer flat in Fulham, and considered Jack entirely responsible for her change in fortune. ‘If he hadn’t trusted me with your darling Laura, I’d still be wasting away in Cypress Terrace.’
Josie had made a friend in Charlotte Ward-Pierce, a gaunt woman with large, sick eyes, who had two small children and lived next door but one. She came for coffee on Monday mornings, and Josie went to her on Fridays. Charlotte’s father was Lord Lieutenant of somewhere, and her husband, Neville, managed an Arabian bank. The two young women were grateful for each other’s company at the various social functions held in Bingham Mews.
Josie waited until all the carpets and curtains had been fitted, and every item of furniture bought, before inviting Lily Kavanagh to stay. It was December 1957, three and a half years since she’d last seen Lily, and although they corresponded regularly it felt more like a hundred.
Lily had wanted to come before, and couldn’t understand why Josie didn’t visit Liverpool. Josie had felt obliged to tell her the truth. ‘Because I don’t want you to see the dead awful place where we live.’ She had tried to make it sound bohemian. ‘Quite frankly, Lil, I’m too exhausted to travel. I’m supporting an artist, remember? I’m working full time.’
She had had to work another six months before Jack’s pilot script had been deemed suitable for production by the BBC and a series had been commissioned. With a sense of overwhelming relief, Josie handed in her notice. Laura quickly got used to being looked after by her mother, though she retained an especially close relationship with Jack.
Her little girl was a joy to be with. Laura had an impish sense of humour, and kept her mother entertained during the long hours Jack was downstairs in his study, at meetings, at script conferences or lunching with Mattie Garr.
After living in one room for almost two years, the new house felt incredibly spacious. For the first few weeks Josie used to go for walks, in and out of rooms, up and down stairs, hardly able to believe it was theirs.
They weren’t rich, not yet, but no expense had been spared when it came to furnishing their new home – a beige leather three-piece, a walnut table with six matching chairs, two of them carvers, a maple bedroom suite. Nearly everything came from Peter Jones in Sloane Square, one of the poshest shops in London.
What would Mam say if she could
see me now? Josie wondered as she ordered furniture costing hundreds of pounds. She found the change from being dead poor to seriously well off somewhat daunting. People came to measure for curtains and carpets, and she had swatches of material and samples of carpet to choose from.
Laura’s room was painted pink, and had a glossy white junior bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers. Josie stuck transfers on the walls, and bought a fairy castle nightlight to keep her little girl company in the dark.
It was lovely, splashing money around like there was no tomorrow, but it was accompanied by the scary knowledge that the more successful Jack became, the further apart they grew.
Jack Coltrane was now a name to be reckoned with at the BBC. A second series of DiMarco of the Met had been commissioned and would start in the new year. They’d bought his play, The Disciples, though Mattie Garr had insisted on numerous alterations, and it was due to be shown at Easter. Now there was talk of a completely new series, and Jack was spending a lot of time in discussions with Mattie before he wrote the pilot.
There was nothing Josie could put a finger on. They made love almost as often as they used to, with almost the old fervour. It was just a feeling in her bones that something was wrong. She would catch a far-away expression on his face, as if he were thinking, What the hell am I doing here? She’d had the same disturbing thought herself that first Christmas at Louisa’s. Despite everything, Josie suspected he would sooner be living in the apartment opposite an Italian cinema and an ice-cream parlour, working in a bar and writing plays with a message that no one wanted to hear. Having a wife and child had led to a lifestyle the old Jack would have despised.
On the day she was due to meet Lily at Euston station, Josie got dressed up to the nines in a green suede coat and matching high-heeled shoes she’d bought in the Kings Road. Underneath, she wore an orange polo-necked jumper and a slightly flared tweed skirt with orange flecks nestling in the green. She dressed Laura in her white hooded fur coat and tied her black hair in bunches with white ribbons.
‘Me take Blue Bunny,’ Laura said as they were leaving. It was a statement, not a question.
‘Mind you don’t lose him.’ Laura and Blue Bunny were inseparable. Josie had felt the same about Teddy.
‘Look for your Auntie Lily, luv,’ Josie said later when the Liverpool train drew in. ‘She’s small and plump with short curly hair. Oh, look! She’s grown it long again. She’s got a bun.’
Lily was walking towards them in a black fitted coat and long boots, smiling and waving. Outside the barrier, Josie waved frantically back, and Laura waved Blue Bunny’s paw. It was so lovely to see a familiar face that the long gap shrank rapidly, and it was as if she’d only seen Lily’s pert, pretty face yesterday. The two girls embraced warmly. Not to be outdone, Laura curled a fur-clad arm around her new aunt’s neck.
‘You suit a bun, Lil,’ Josie said. ‘It looks nice.’
Lily took a long, deep breath, and smiled rapturously. ‘Oh, it’s good to see you, Jose. You look dead smart. And you …’ She chucked Laura under the chin. ‘You’re beautiful, you are. Can I hold her?’
‘Bootiful,’ Laura agreed as she was passed from one set of arms to another. ‘Kiss Blue Bunny,’ she commanded, and Lily duly complied.
Josie took her friend’s arm. ‘You haven’t changed a bit, Lil.’
‘You’ve aged, Jose. You look older than twenty-three.’
It was quite like old times. ‘I’ve had a baby,’ Josie remarked tartly. ‘And things haven’t exactly been easy over the last few years.’
They arrived at Bingham Mews, and Lily had never seen such funny-shaped houses before. ‘Fancy living over the garage! Were the builders short of space? I bet these were dead cheap.’
Josie assured her they were three times the cost of a house in Liverpool, which Lily found hard to believe.
‘If you don’t believe me, there’s a famous model living opposite. Her name’s Maya, and she’s in all the posh magazines. There’s an actor next door, and there’s stockbrokers and bankers.’ She tossed her head. ‘And there’s us!’
They went up to the lounge. ‘Where’s that famous husband of yours?’ Lily enquired. ‘I’m dying to meet him.’
‘At lunch, which can go on for hours. He probably won’t be home till six.’ The lunch was usually accompanied by several bottles of wine, and Jack was likely to come home ever so slightly drunk.
She went to make tea, leaving Laura with a badly smitten Lily. Like father, like daughter, Josie thought ruefully. Laura, with her all-embracing smiles and beguiling ways, could charm the birds off the trees.
‘I don’t look all that much older.’ She regarded her reflection in the little mirror behind the kitchen door. There were no wrinkles – not that you’d expect them at twenty-three – but she didn’t look young. It was something to do with the expression in her blue eyes, as if she’d seen too much, known too much that she would have preferred not to. Perhaps it had been there since the day the bomb had fallen on the Prince Albert, and she’d never noticed before.
Trust Lily to point it out!
‘Tell me all the news,’ she demanded, returning to the living room with a tray of tea-things. Laura was dozing off on Lily’s knee.
‘I’ve told you everything there is to know in me letters. Oh, except this. I only heard it yesterday.’ Lily’s eyes gleamed and her voice rose to a squeak, a sure sign she was about to impart something of remarkable significance. ‘Your Auntie Ivy’s got married again. He’s a policeman, Alfred Lawrence, and really huge, about six feet six.’
Josie grimaced. ‘I hope he turns out a better bet than Vincent Adams.’ She didn’t want to talk about Aunt Ivy. ‘What’s the girl like your Robert’s engaged to? Is there any sign of your Daisy getting married? Is Imelda still as horrible? How’s your Ben? It must be awful, being married to someone no one likes.’ Josie snuggled into a leather armchair. ‘This is nice. I haven’t had a gossip in years.’
‘Imelda’s pregnant again, and she’s completely round the bend,’ Lily said flatly. ‘You should hear the way she nags Ben something rotten when they come to visit. Did I tell you they’re living in Manchester? Ben’s got a job there in a laboratory. Poor lad, he can’t do a thing right. Ma daren’t say a word in case Imelda won’t come again, and it’s Ben who’d suffer most. At least Sunday dinner at ours gives him a break – he goes for a drink with me da’. Anyroad, we’re all dead fond of Peter. He’s a super little boy, only a few months younger than this little one.’ She removed a lock of hair from Laura’s eyes. ‘Imelda doesn’t hesitate to have a go at him as well.’
Poor Peter. And poor Ben, so nice, so polite, so innocent, always anxious to do the right thing. It wasn’t fair that he should end up with someone like Imelda.
‘As for our Robert,’ Lily was saying, ‘Julia seems okay but, then, so did Imelda. Ma said she’ll give her judgement in another five years. And our Daisy shows no sign of getting married.’ Her voice fell, as if she might be overheard. ‘Frankly, Josie, I’m beginning to wonder if she’s a lesbian. She and that Eunice seem awfully close. They’re always off on holiday together, and neither has ever had a fella.’
‘She’s only twenty-seven.’ Josie laughed. ‘Your Daisy’s a career woman. She’s bent on being chief librarian of Liverpool. There’s plenty of time for her to get married.’
Lily sniffed. ‘It was you that asked. Actually, Jose, would you mind taking Laura? I’m desperate to go to the lavatory.’
Josie carried Laura up to her pink and white bedroom, then went down to the ground floor, through the little door at the bottom of the stairs which led to the garage. She rolled up the garage door for when Jack came home so he could drive straight in. When she returned, Lily was coming out of the bathroom, full of admiration for a change. ‘I’ve never seen a blue suite before, it looks dead pretty.’
‘I’m glad we’ve got something you like.’
‘Everywhere’s nice.’ Lily flushed. ‘The house is lovely.’ She sighed as
they returned to the lounge. ‘I’m jealous, that’s all. When I saw you waiting by the barrier with Laura, I wanted to kill you stone dead, I envied you so much. Our Ben wanted to marry you, and that chap you met at Haylands, Griff. Now you’re married to someone who had his picture in the Radio Times. He’s gorgeous, Josie. I took it to show the girls at work.’ Lily hunched her shoulders. ‘I want a husband and children so much I can’t think of anything else most of the time.’
‘Haven’t you met anyone you fancy, luv?’
‘Oh, loads,’ Lily said promptly. ‘The trouble is, they don’t fancy me. Remember Francie O’Leary? I would have married him like a shot.’ Her eyes grew frightened. ‘I’ll be twenty-four next April, Jose. I’m worried I’ll be left on the shelf.’ She sort of smiled. ‘I’m still a virgin, you know.’
Josie poured more tea. She said slowly, ‘If only you knew how much I envied you over the years. I would have given anything for a mam and dad, a family.’ She smiled. ‘I even envied your coat the first time we met in Blackler’s basement before the war. It was exactly the same as your ma’s, blue with a fur collar, though I wasn’t exactly crazy about your hat.’
‘I suppose the grass is always greener …’
‘On the other side of the fence.’
A car drove into the mews, and she recognised the harsh roar of the Austin Healey. The garage door was pulled down, and a few minutes later Jack came in to the room.
‘You’re fatter than I expected,’ Lily told him plainly when they were introduced. ‘You looked much thinner in your photo in the Radio Times.’
Josie glanced at her husband. Lily was right. She hadn’t noticed, but his once-lean cheeks were fuller, and he was becoming jowly. He looked well fed, a touch prosperous. When he removed the jacket of his expensive suit, the black trousers were tight around his waist. She had a moment of fear. He looked a stranger.
