by Erica James
‘Hey, back up there and give me a chance to get a word in edgeways,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Look, I can’t talk for long, but I’m back in London now.’
‘You are, why? What’s happened?’ But in a flash she saw it all and her hopes soared. This was it, then, this was what she’d been waiting for: he’d told his wife that he didn’t love her any more and that he wanted a divorce. Naturally, after a bombshell like that, they would have cut short their holiday. Her mouth suddenly dry with the shock of it all, she inhaled deeply. It was happening, just as Curt had said it would! Hadn’t he said that she just had to be patient and trust him?
‘I need to see you,’ he said, his voice serious.
‘I need to see you, too,’ she said, forcing her own voice to match his, warning herself that this was no time for jubilation; his marriage was ending, which meant serious repercussions would inevitably follow. ‘I’ve missed you so much. When do you want to get together? And where?’
‘Can you come to London tomorrow?’
She was about to ask what time, when she remembered she’d agreed to be at Woodside all day tomorrow. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ she said, ‘I’m working.’
There was a pause from Curt. ‘I thought it was only voluntary stuff you were doing? You can get out of that, can’t you? The old folk probably won’t even notice you’re not there.’
Lizzie’s pride surfaced. It wasn’t that insignificant, what she was doing. And some people might miss her.
‘Sorry,’ his voice crackled, ‘I’m losing you. Hang on, I’ll cross the road to get a better signal … Is that better? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear. So what about tomorrow, can you meet me?’
‘Why don’t I get the train when I’ve finished work tomorrow afternoon and we can have dinner together?’
‘A great idea, but the evening’s no good for me, I have to be at home. Let’s have lunch the day after if that works better for you.’ Cycling the rest of the way home, Lizzie felt like singing at the top of her voice. She could not be happier.
Tess was in the kitchen getting supper ready when Lizzie walked in humming to herself.
‘Hiya, Mum,’ she said, tossing her rucksack onto a chair, a reminder of when she and Luke had been children just home from school. ‘What’s cooking?’
‘Lasagne. You sound very jolly.’
‘I am.’
‘Good day, then?’
Lizzie smiled. ‘The best yet. Where’s Dad and Freddie?’
‘In the shed. I was told it would be men’s stuff going on out there and I wasn’t to disturb them.’
Lizzie laughed and went over to the cupboard for a glass. She ran the tap, then drank thirstily. Tess was glad to see her daughter was looking and sounding more like her usual self, but a small, unworthy part of her resented the light-hearted manner in which Lizzie was behaving, when in her wake lay a trail of devastation.
Still stinging from Lorna’s awful behaviour yesterday afternoon, Tess had had to endure a phone call from Ingrid at lunchtime today, effectively cross-examining her on how Freddie had come to fall out of the pushchair. It didn’t matter how many times Tess reiterated how sorry she was that she had forgotten to strap Freddie in and that it was just one of those terrible little accidents, she could not shake off the feeling that not only would Ingrid never forgive her, but she was as good as accusing Tess of wilful neglect.
‘Shall we have supper outside in the garden?’ asked Lizzie. ‘I’ll lay the table.’
‘If that’s what you’d like,’ Tess said absently.
When Lizzie had sorted out the table on the patio, she came back into the kitchen. ‘You okay, Mum?’ she asked. ‘You seem a bit down.’
‘I’m fine,’ she lied.
‘Are you sure? You’re not still upset by what Lorna said, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ she said lightly, unable to bring herself to admit that she had been dreadfully hurt by Lorna’s comments. Hurt, too, that she had lost her closest friend in such a horrible way. ‘I’m just a bit tired,’ she said, ‘it’s all the running around after Freddie.’
‘Well, I want you to know that I really am sorry for the way things have turned out between you and Lorna. It’s not right that she’s having a go at you over my decision to end things with Simon. If she wants to have a go at anyone, it should be me. It was cowardly what she did yesterday.’
Tess looked at her daughter in grateful surprise. But also with some guilt for the less than supportive thoughts she had been having towards her. Lizzie, she told herself, could not be held accountable for the extent of Lorna’s bitchy pettiness; that was all down to Lorna. ‘You’re wrong,’ Tess said, ‘Lorna shouldn’t need to have a go at anyone. She simply needs to accept that what’s done is done and to stop behaving like a child.’
Lizzie crossed the kitchen and hugged her. ‘You’re the best, Mum,’ she said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
Wherever this softer and more sympathetic side of her daughter had come from, Tess welcomed it. No, that wasn’t quite fair. Lizzie had always had a softer side to her; she just didn’t always show it at the right moment. ‘What’s brought all this on, then?’ Tess asked. ‘What’s put you in such a good mood?’
‘It’s Curt,’ Lizzie said with a smile that brightened her face, ‘he’s asked me to have lunch with him in London the day after tomorrow.’
‘I thought you said he was away on holiday?’
‘He’s come back early.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He didn’t have time, but I think it’s pretty obvious why: he’s talked things over with his wife and there didn’t seem much point in going through with the rest of the holiday after that. I just hope it didn’t get too awful for him; it couldn’t have been easy what he had to do.’
Keeping to herself that it couldn’t have been easy for Curt’s wife, Tess said, ‘So when do your father and I get to meet Curt?’
‘Soon, Mum. Very soon. And I know you’re going to just love him.’
Chapter Seventeen
Lizzie cycled to Woodside again the next morning.
Yesterday anger at the way Lorna had treated Mum had powered her legs; today cheerful optimism, and the knowledge that she would be seeing Curt in just over twenty-four hours, was the source of her energy. Had Curt not been in such a hurry yesterday, and had the mobile connection been better, she would have loved to have chatted with him for longer, if only to reassure him that she would do everything she could to make the difficult time ahead as stress-free as possible.
She wasn’t without sympathy for Natasha, Curt’s wife; after all, having finished with Simon, Lizzie knew first-hand how tough it was to accept that a relationship was over. But when it was over, it was necessary for one party to find the courage to cut the tie; it was the only way.
‘You’re looking very chipper this morning,’ Mr Sheridan greeted Lizzie in the large sitting room at Woodside. Jennifer had asked her to spend some time with him. ‘I think he’s a bit down in the dumps this morning,’ she’d said, ‘I know I always feel that way after a birthday. If you could think of something to cheer him up I’d be grateful.’
‘Well, since you mention it, Mr Sheridan,’ Lizzie said brightly, noting that he did indeed look glum, ‘I do feel rather chipper. Very chipper, in fact.’
‘Good for you, there’s nothing that cheers the heart of an old man more than a pretty popsy with a smile on her face.’
‘Popsy?’ she repeated with a laugh. ‘That’s a new one on me; I’ve never been called that before.’
‘I suppose a word like that isn’t allowed these days, is it?’ he said, his fantastically bushy eyebrows drawn together in a deep frown. ‘Disrespectful to women and all that PC nonsense.’
‘I’ve been called worse things,’
she said, ‘so please don’t let it bother you. Do you fancy a game of Scrabble?’
He shook his head. ‘Can’t stand the game. If I’m honest, I’m a rotten speller.’
‘Me too. How about a game of cards?’
Again he shook his head. ‘Not really in the mood.’
‘A jigsaw?’
Now he chuckled gruffly. ‘Good Lord, it’s come to something when I’m asked by a pretty girl if I’d like to do a jigsaw. Time was when I would have—’
‘When you would have had your ears boxed by your mother for being so bold!’
They both turned to see Mrs Dallimore in her wheelchair peering round from behind a wing-back chair a few yards away in the bay window overlooking the garden.
‘Good morning Mrs Dallimore,’ said Lizzie, ‘I didn’t see you there. Can I get you anything?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Would you like to join us?’ asked Mr Sheridan.
‘If it will stop you embarrassing the poor girl, then I see it as nothing less than my duty.’
Mr Sheridan pulled a face and lowered his voice. ‘She’s a tartar when she wants to be, isn’t she?’
‘I presume I was meant to hear that,’ Mrs Dallimore responded sharply as Lizzie went over to manoeuvre her wheelchair to join them.
‘I was checking to make sure there’s nothing wrong with your hearing,’ Mr Sheridan said with a wink at Lizzie. ‘I can’t bear having to repeat myself.’
‘How very considerate of you.’
‘That’s me. And putting your hearing to one side, I was about to ask Lizzie why she’s looking so pleased with herself.’
Mrs Dallimore tutted. ‘It wouldn’t occur to you to mind your own business, then?’
‘No more than it would yours, I’ll be bound.’
Listening to their bickering, and seeing how Mr Sheridan had perked up, Lizzie was tempted to slip away and leave them to it, content in the knowledge that she could tell Jennifer that she had done exactly what she’d been asked to do. But no sooner had she turned to go than Mr Sheridan stopped her.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said. ‘No leaving without telling us what’s put such a spring in your step.’
‘Ignore him, Lizzie,’ Mrs Dallimore said, ‘don’t give in to his bullying.’
‘Bullying be blowed! It’s called taking an interest.’
‘It’s called poking your nose in, I think you’ll find.’
‘Saints preserve us and save me from censorious women!’
Lizzie laughed, and such was her good mood she was more than happy to share the cause of it. ‘If you must know,’ she said, ‘I’m going to see my boyfriend in London tomorrow. We haven’t seen each other for ages.’
‘A boyfriend?’ said Mr Sheridan. ‘Well, and there was me thinking if I played my cards right I might be in with a chance with you. So what’s this chap got that I haven’t, eh?’
‘She wouldn’t know where to start on such an exhaustive list of deficiencies,’ said Mrs Dallimore with a shake of her head. ‘There again, being made aware of ones deficiencies is no bad thing, so maybe you should tell him, Lizzie.’
At this Mr Sheridan let out an explosive laugh, which seemed to catch him unawares and set off a rattling coughing fit that had his face become an alarming shade of red and his eyes to bulge. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth and when he’d managed to get his breathing back under control – and Lizzie was sure he was all right – she fetched him a glass of water. But when she’d returned, he’d gone.
‘He suddenly remembered it was time for his appointment over at the medical wing,’ Mrs Dallimore said.
‘There’s nothing seriously wrong with him, is there?’ asked Lizzie anxiously.
‘Not that I know of, but mercifully he isn’t the sort to share his every medical detail with all and sundry. Oh, look,’ she said, her attention caught by something outside, ‘there’s that young man who’s recently started doing the gardening here.’ She gave Lizzie a sidelong glance. ‘I heard you wrestled him to the ground yesterday.’
Lizzie watched Jed pushing a wheelbarrow across the lawn, his head bobbing in time with whatever music it was he was listening to through a pair of headphones. ‘If I had wrestled with him he wouldn’t be well enough to strut around like a prancing peacock,’ she said coolly.
‘He strikes me as a little unconventional,’ said Mrs Dallimore thoughtfully, ‘but not what I would call a peacock.’ Then: ‘Tell me about this boyfriend of yours. What’s his name and is he very handsome?’
Amused that Mrs Dallimore had no compunction in questioning her about Curt, but Mr Sheridan had been accused of nosiness when he had, Lizzie sat down next to her. The honest answer was that Curt wasn’t what you’d call obviously handsome; the balance of his face was off-centre, his nose was slightly crooked having been broken when he was a teenager, and his chin protruded with a forcefulness that reflected his eagerness to get hold of life and wring from it all that he wanted. For Lizzie, his attractiveness lay in the dynamism of his energetic personality. ‘He’s good-looking in an unconventional way,’ she said in answer to the question.
‘And does this lucky boy have a name?’
The thought of Curt hearing himself described as a boy made Lizzie smile. ‘His name’s Curt and he’s forty-two, so far from being a boy.’
‘An older, more experienced man … well, that has its attraction, doesn’t it? And what does Curt do?’
‘You sound like my parents writing out a potential son-in-law application form,’ Lizzie said. ‘He works at the radio station where I used to; he was my boss.’ Then, reluctant to go into any more detail about Curt, particularly his marital status – the old lady might not approve of that – Lizzie changed the subject and asked Mrs Dallimore to continue with her story of her life on board the Belle Etoile.
Chapter Eighteen
April 1939, SS Belle Etoile
Of course, this wasn’t the first time Clarissa had crossed the Atlantic. She had made the journey with her parents from France to New York when she was five years old, but her memories of the trip were scant and muddled. This time she would remember everything about her time on board the Belle Etoile; not a single detail would she forget.
With only one day left until they arrived in England, Clarissa was conscious that she was going to miss the company of her new friends, especially Effie, who was so much fun to be around and was always rounding them up to play some game or other.
This morning it was deck quoits, and after Clarissa and Effie had soundly beaten Ellis and Artie, much to Ellis’s annoyance, Clarissa was now teasing him for being a poor loser and sulking.
‘Ignore him, Clarissa,’ Effie said, ‘he’s full of spit and vinegar and so used to getting his own way, he can’t abide giving ground to anybody else. Isn’t that so, my darling?’
‘I guess that makes us two of a kind.’ He scowled at Effie and tightened the woollen scarf around his neck. ‘I need a drink,’ he said, staring out at the sea. ‘All this sea air is making me thirsty.’
Effie drew her pretty, well-defined brows together and pouted. ‘You’re always thirsty.’
Ignoring her, he pushed his hair back from his forehead, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his cream flannel trousers, then sauntered off without another word.
They watched him walk away. ‘What’s wrong with him today?’ Effie asked Artie. ‘Why’s he such a misery? He’s no right spoiling our fun!’
‘He received a cable this morning, but wouldn’t say what it was. All I know is that after he’d read it his mood altered.’
‘Was it from his parents?’
Artie nodded. ‘I believe so.’
‘I suppose they’re on at him again about not staying in Europe for too long.’ Effie turned to Clarissa. ‘His mother’s a vile woman who wants to marry him off
to an equally vile creature of her choosing, the daughter of one of her vile friends. I’ve a good mind to marry him myself just so he can be free of his mother’s clutches.’
‘That’s a little drastic, don’t you think?’ Artie said.
‘If that’s what it takes to make him happy,’ she replied with a shrug. ‘And he does love me, doesn’t he?’
‘But do you love him?’ asked Clarissa.
‘Of course I do. We’re all madly in love with Ellis. Even you, and you’ve only known him a couple of days. Isn’t that true?’
The blood rushed to Clarissa’s face, making her blush. Flustered, she said, ‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly, I only—’
Artie came to her rescue. ‘But she’s not crazy enough to want to marry him on a whim,’ he said lightly.
Effie disregarded his comment and held onto her hair that was being blown about by the wind. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go find Ellis and get to the bottom of what’s troubling him and then we’ll go for lunch.’
Clarissa looked at her watch. ‘I’d better not,’ she said. ‘I promised Marjorie I’d have lunch with her.’
‘Oh, really? But I don’t want to lose you for a single second today, not when it’s our last full day together. Artie, make Clarissa change her mind.’
‘It’s my experience that only a fool attempts to change a woman’s mind,’ Artie said with a small smile.
‘In that case, let’s kidnap her! How does that sound, Clarissa? What ransom shall we ask for you?’
‘As fun as that sounds, I fear Marjorie probably wouldn’t offer you a dime in exchange for me.’
‘Then if she’s so mean, why have lunch with her?’
‘Because she’s a well-brought-up girl who doesn’t want to offend or appear impolite,’ Artie suggested.
