The Sweetest Thing

by Susan Sallis

  ‘So many little girls have played with it in this house,’ she marvelled. ‘And now . . . ours!’ She put the doll carefully on to the rocking horse and sang, ‘May, May, it’s a sunshiny day, won’t you please come out to play!’

  William chuckled as he entered into the game. ‘I’m not sure about May, however,’ he said in his solicitor’s voice. ‘She looks crazy – that smile and those round eyes. May is not a name for a crazy doll, surely?’

  ‘It’s the name of our baby! What else can we choose when she will be born in May?’ She looked again at the linen face. ‘The doll . . . well, you’re right. It could be Tabitha. Does that sound crazy enough?’

  He stared at her, amazed that she was so certain they were having a girl that she had already named her. Then he picked her up bodily and swung her around the nursery. She laughed. William kept doing this sort of thing and it made her feel like a schoolgirl again. She held him to her fiercely until he carried her to the bed. She dismissed the thought of the potatoes boiling themselves dry down in the kitchen. It was so good to lose the terrible weight of loss and guilt and waste that she had been carrying since last August. She was having his baby; she was resurrecting his home; she was making him happy. Nothing could spoil this. Ever.

  Mrs Heatherington came two or three times to Number Five for William to reassure her that her decision to drop proceedings against Archie had been wise. She too fell for the old house and what she called its ‘crooks and nannies’.

  ‘I know just how you are feeling, Connie, my dearest. I think we have a special relationship. I have felt your feelings ever since we met.’

  Thinking this was the beginning of a reminiscence centred around Blue Seas or Mrs Pentwyn, Connie wondered why William was taking so long in the kitchen. ‘Really?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘Really,’ came back Mrs Heatherington firmly. ‘And you have felt it too. I watched your face when I showed you my wedding snap. Don’t deny it.’ Connie smiled slightly and did not deny it. ‘You see? And I know that you are hesitant to call me Greta.’ She leaned forward. ‘It would make me so happy if you would call me Greta. It’s not just that it goes with Gainsborough. It’s that . . . it would make us friends.’

  Connie, with her new-found sensitivity, looked at the made-up face now so close to hers and saw vulnerability. She nodded, accepting the so-called transference between the two of them, though she was far from convinced by the ‘evidence’.

  ‘All right, Greta,’ she said. ‘Let’s be friends.’

  William came in wheeling the new trolley laden with tea things. Mrs Heatherington clasped her hands delightedly and told him that he must call her Greta just as Connie did. And then she confided that Archie Fielding had found her a job at a casino in the city and she was having ‘a little fling’ with him to show she had forgiven him.

  ‘It won’t last,’ she said realistically, opening her locket to show Connie Archie’s picture. ‘We tried it before. He actually told me the other night that that was when he sold some of my jewellery and stuff. What was mine was his. I said to him the boot is now on the other foot and what is his is now mine. But of course it was mine in the first place so we’re still not even.’

  William laughed but said, ‘Careful there . . . don’t let yourself be upset all over again.’

  ‘I don’t intend to!’ she came back briskly. ‘So long as he still wants to sleep with me I’ve got the upper hand. And when he finds someone else, he’ll be out of the flat like a greyhound when the trap goes up.’

  Connie found herself revising all her previous notions about Mrs Heatherington. She had never met anyone quite like this ageing chorus girl – because that was what she had been. Mrs Heatherington did away with inhibitions. It gave Connie the effrontery to ask her who on earth was Archie.

  William, still laughing, said, ‘Greta’s manager, sweetheart. You know, the man she was suing for misappropriation.’

  ‘We’re old enemies. Or old friends. What’s the difference?’ Mrs Heatherington lifted her teacup too quickly and tea slopped on to her frilly blouse. Connie mopped at her and she said sentimentally, ‘You’re a darling, Connie. A few corners to be rounded.’ She opened her mouth to say more, then closed it. Then opened it again. ‘We’re two of a kind, Connie. Two of a kind. Too generous, too much conscience, too . . .’ She raised her cup and repeated, ‘Generous.’

  Connie looked at her. William was smiling at what he saw as Mrs Heatherington’s outrageous insinuations. Connie caught her eye as she put her glass on the table and was not reassured when one heavily mascaraed lid closed in a wink.

  That night she went to bed early and let herself remember why Egg Pardoe had thrown himself into the sea that terrible day. When William joined her she did not pretend to be asleep. She clung to him as if devils were after her.

  He whispered, ‘Darling, our little May is due in four weeks. Is it safe?’

  She nodded desperately and they made love and she thought everything was all right.

  ‘Did Greta upset you in any way, Connie?’ He was anxious, smoothing back her hair and kissing her eyes.

  ‘She makes everything sound – in some ways – almost meaningless. But no, of course she didn’t upset me.’

  ‘She lived with a lot of men during the war, darling. Comforts for the troops – you know how they joke about it now.’ He nibbled her earlobe. ‘Trouble is she can’t stop it.’ He chuckled and her ear tickled. ‘When that snow was about she spent nearly a week with Arnold. They’re old friends. He knew her husband.’

  She was intrigued and diverted. Mr Jessup . . . one of Mrs Heatherington’s boyfriends? It really was funny. She chuckled.

  ‘I’m not sure whether knowing her husband has anything to do with anything! Probably the shortest marriage ever. Was it even twenty-four hours?’

  ‘Probably not. But she has always called herself Greta Heatherington. And she’s got her marriage certificate. She practically brandished it at me when I took on her case.’ He sighed. ‘We know so little about people.’

  Connie felt guilt wash up from her stomach again. She swallowed. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I have a feeling that Greta is still in love with the disreputable Maurice Heatherington.’

  Connie turned her face into William’s neck and he said quickly, ‘You’re not crying, are you?’

  ‘Not really. You’re such a . . . such a romantic, William. I was seeing Mrs . . . Greta . . . as hard. Perhaps I mean tough. And you have shown me something else. I wonder whether she still loves him. And whether he really is alive and living in somewhere like Rangoon.’

  ‘I repeat, Mrs Mather, we never know people.’

  She laughed and kissed his neck and inhaled the scent of him. Then half asleep she said, ‘Where is Rangoon?’

  And he murmured back, ‘I’m not sure. But somewhere else.’

  Two weeks later, Connie gave birth to a boy. It was planned to take place in the big double bed, suitably protected with an orange rubber sheet covered with brown paper and then a cosy towelling sheet over the lot. It duly happened there after a long day of inexplicable discomfort and then six hours of proper labour when Connie did everything she had been told to do at her relaxation classes and then released the helping hands of the student midwife, put her feet firmly on the crouching shoulders of the middle-aged, unmarried midwife, grabbed the rails of the bedhead and went to work. She heard Miss Green say grimly to her student, ‘She means business . . . Here’s the head . . . Tell her to ease up else the baby will shoot through the window . . . Bound to be a boy if he’s in this much of a hurry.’

  It was a boy. They called him Francis after Connie’s father but almost immediately he was known as Frank, then Frankie.

  After a couple of weeks she put Frank into his pram for the first outing. William fastened a knitted helmet over his sandy hair. Rosemary held a tiny flailing fist and fitted a mitten over it. Connie stood holding the handle of the pram, consciously registering this moment in the hall of Number Fi
ve, thinking that she had done something right for once. William was glowing with pride and happiness. Her mother had bought a new hat for this occasion and had excused the extravagance by saying, ‘I know I’ve got plenty of hats but nothing quite suitable for a grandmother.’ And the baby had been born happy, squinting round at them now and then as if checking that he really had arrived in the right place, then closing his eyes, content that he had. He did it now. William was saying something about the weather being quite chilly for May, and the baby opened his eyes wide as if in agreement then let the heavy folds of flesh settle again. Whether he had managed to open them wide, whether it was the strange underwater light of the hall, Connie had no idea. But her precious moment of thankfulness had gone. Frank’s eyes, which had been a dirty grey colour, were transformed for that second’s revelation. They were intensely blue.

  Rosemary Vickers was Frank’s godmother, Arnold Jessup the godfather and Greta Heatherington volunteered herself as ‘stand-in’.

  ‘I’ll have to be something,’ she told Rosemary, who exuded disapproval. ‘I was practically at Frank’s conception.’

  Rosemary did not like Greta Heatherington on several counts. She could see that Connie got on excellently with her now, but at the outset, during that disastrous holiday, she had been a thorn in Connie’s side and had not helped the situation at all. But even without that, she was so flagrantly common she grated on Rosemary unbearably. And there was something else. She could accept that the woman had had several men friends – the war had a great deal to answer for – but that now, even now, she appeared to be able to crook her little finger and they would come running was, well, incredible. Connie had told her something that had shocked her. Really shocked her. Arnold Jessup was well known for being as straight as a die and he had been good to Connie and it was only right that he should be asked as godfather to baby Francis. Surely, surely, he of all people could not be summoned – yes, summoned – by someone as flagrantly promiscuous – yes, promiscuous – as Greta Heatherington or Gainsborough or whatever she called herself? Perhaps she had got it wrong because Connie had giggled uncontrollably when she told her mother about the snow and Archie Fielding letting Greta down . . . Yes, she must have got it wrong because as she had understood it, there was nothing remotely humorous about it. Even so, whatever had happened during the snow, Greta Heatherington was still very familiar with Arnold. But then she was familiar with everyone. She managed to dislodge Rosemary’s new hat by kissing her enthusiastically before and after the christening.

  Arnold had said, ‘Oh, don’t adjust it, Mrs Vickers. It looks marvellous anyhow but somehow rakish at the back of your head like that.’ He saw her flush and hastened on, ‘You look like Connie when she came for her interview back in fifty-eight. Like a schoolgirl. A very nice, well-brought-up schoolgirl.’

  Rosemary went from pink to purple in two seconds flat. Greta Heatherington hugged her a little more carefully and said, ‘Arnold never makes insincere compliments, Rosie.’

  And Rosemary said faintly, ‘Was that a compliment?’

  ‘I know,’ Greta said sympathetically. ‘He’s sincere but not really good at it.’

  She felt better when they got back to the house and she could start handing round tea and sandwiches. The vicar said, ‘I cannot believe you are the grandmother, Mrs Vickers! You must have been a child bride.’

  ‘I suppose . . . well, yes. My husband had not wanted to get married until after the war and he was very worried when Connie came along. How thankful I am.’

  You could say things like that to a vicar and this one was special; William had mentioned that he had been among the First of the Few. She imagined him hearing God’s call while he was in the cockpit of his Spitfire trying to kill other people. She said quickly, ‘Of course I was lucky enough to be financially secure. I could look after Connie properly. It might have been dreadful if I hadn’t had private means.’

  ‘Rather.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘I went into the Church for that very reason. A house provided and security for life. I never married so my stipend is adequate.’ He saw her face change and smiled. ‘It’s the love of money that is the root of evil, Mrs Vickers. I take it that like me you are simply thankful for what you have.’

  She was feeling so mixed-up she hardly knew how she felt. She said, ‘Well . . . yes, I suppose I am. But there are other things. I have to admit that now that Connie is so happily settled, I shall have to think what I can do with my life.’

  ‘You need to be needed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There will be a new role to fill. The position is very much vacant for a grandmother.’ He smiled at her as he delivered this tactful reminder that she was the only grandparent baby Francis had.

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘That will be marvellous. But I think I will do some voluntary work. I have put my name down for hospital driving.’

  The vicar looked pleased. ‘You will meet people – on a one-to-one basis. That is good.’

  She nodded doubtfully. She had already taken one elderly woman to Worcester for treatment. The woman had talked all the way there and all the way back and Rosemary had had great difficulty in concentrating. She realized that the kind of driving she normally did was very local.

  ‘And of course,’ the vicar looked straight into her eyes, ‘the church can never get enough help.’

  She said defensively, ‘I’ve always delivered the magazines and shared a certain amount of pastoral work with . . .’ She heard herself making excuses and smiled suddenly. ‘I know what you mean. Yes. I can certainly help out more than I do.’ Her newly trained ear picked up a small wail from upstairs and her smile widened. ‘Time for my grandmother role, I think.’

  The vicar watched her leave the room unobtrusively and thought what a waste it was that she had never remarried and then, hard on the heels of that thought, what a wonderful vicar’s wife she would make. Many of his parishioners thought he was a confirmed bachelor but he had never taken vows of celibacy. He worked out Rosemary Vickers’s age and decided she was probably about five years older than he was. When it was time to go he asked her for a lift as far as the vicarage and was surprisingly regretful when she told him she was staying overnight at Number Five. Arnold Jessup offered a seat in his car. He had to squash in the back with two other neighbours; Mrs Heatherington sat in the front.

  Rosemary sat with Connie in the nursery while she fed Frank. She had wanted to go on with the clearing up downstairs but William had asked her to let him finish it off while she had an hour with Connie. He smiled at her. ‘You can follow after me and wash up the bits I’ve missed – I know you will, so don’t shake your head like that!’ He sobered. ‘I think it would be nice for the two of you to have a quiet time together. It’s been a very hectic day.’

  She thought what a lovely man he was. Connie was lucky. And so was she. She went upstairs to ‘her’ room, which was the main bedroom overlooking the tree-lined street. Connie and William had made an enormous room for themselves in the day nursery next door to Frank. She slid out of the pencil skirt belonging to her suit and put on a cotton one and immediately felt more relaxed. She really must stop disliking Greta Heatherington so much; the sight of her cuddling – yes, cuddling was the word – right up to Arnold Jessup in his old Riley had been positively sickening. And that poor young vicar, she couldn’t remember his name for the moment, had been thrust into the back with the Brookways, who were both overweight and smelled of their dog.

  She changed her best blouse and made herself think of something else. The vicar – what on earth was his name? – must be the same age as William if he had flown Spitfires during the Battle of Britain. He had seemed older somehow. He was nice, but not half so nice as William. He seemed to think that the Church was a job, not a calling. Funny that, dear William had a job but he made it seem like a calling. He must feel that way too because otherwise how could he be nice to someone like Mrs Heatherington? She rinsed her face and hands at the fitted basin and w
ent upstairs to join Connie.

  The day nursery was full of the late July sun; she went through it to the night nursery, smiling at the sight of William’s rocking horse liberally festooned with cast-off clothing. By contrast the smaller room was almost dark and Connie had switched on one of the bars of the electric fire. She sat by it, blouse unbuttoned, feeding Frank. It created a glow around the two of them and Rosemary smiled sentimentally. ‘Mother and child bathed – contained – in golden light. I wish I could paint.’

  Connie smiled too. ‘You do. You started painting the dining room after the wedding – don’t you remember?’

  Rosemary laughed but said, ‘I haven’t finished it yet. I’d never have started it if I’d realized what a gigantic job it was.’

  ‘Oh Mummy. Sometimes I think of you there on your own and I shiver.’

  ‘On my own? You must be joking, Connie. Maria comes in every blessed morning – drives me mad sometimes. I mean, I don’t mind listening to her symptoms but they’re the same ones all the time! Last week I told her I’d got trouble with my spine just to join in the conversation!’

  ‘You did make it up?’

  ‘Of course! If there was anything wrong with me, d’you think I’d tell Maria?’

  ‘What about me – would you tell me? Promise me, Mummy. Promise me now and here that you would tell me.’

  ‘It’s here and now actually, darling. But of course I would tell you.’ Rosemary settled herself in the opposite chair and sighed with satisfaction. ‘It’s so wonderful to see Frank having his supper.’

  ‘Pudding coming up!’ Connie swapped sides expertly, used a swab, covered herself. ‘He’s over two months and the health visitor would like me to start on the strained solids but he seems perfectly satisfied with things as they are.’

  ‘What about you though? You’ve lost weight, love. William thinks you get tired too easily.’