The Sweetest Thing

by Susan Sallis

  Greta felt a whole person again. All the dreadful acrimony with Archie was over and though he constantly grumbled because she put off the date of the wedding, he was still around, still waiting. She liked that. Secretly she liked keeping him on a string – no sex without marriage and no marriage just yet. She did not tell him why. She was in control and that was that.

  But the crazy part of her, the romantic part of her, adored the idea of Connie looking for Maurice. She told the stage manager about it. The stage manager was called Lilian and lived with another woman. Greta had never understood such relationships but the theatrical world accepted all kinds of love and she was of the theatrical world. Lilian was very sympathetic but also cautious.

  ‘Why the hell did he pop off like that straight after the bloody wedding?’ she asked very directly. ‘Did he have another wife tucked away in Brighton?’ There it was again. Brighton. First Connie and now Lilian. ‘God, you poor devil, you must have felt like that ghastly Gracie Fields song.’

  Memories started to return. ‘I did. I told people he’d been sent to Rangoon. Don’t ask me why. It was awful. And actually, Lil, I think I loved him. Properly. Not just for the sex either. Properly.’

  ‘The bastard!’ Lilian said, spitting the word venomously. ‘I’d tell that daft friend of yours to forget it. Let him stay in Rangoon where he bloody belongs!’ She looked at Greta standing there, holding a portfolio almost as big as herself. ‘Christ, you’ve got talent – Roger thinks so too. Just be careful, girl.’

  Those few words of praise for Greta herself did wonders for her. And at the same time made her scared. If Roger – who never had a good word to say for any of them – actually thought she had talent, then she could go far. There would be no room for Maurice or any other upset he might cause her. And anyway, what with Arnie being so ill and the play, which was called Sink and Swim, everything was on hold until almost the end of February, when Connie sent a very short advertisement to the Brighton Gazette which said simply, ‘Will Maurice Heatherington please get in touch. Box number . . .’ Connie’s original message had run to twenty-five words but she saw William’s point. Keep it short and simple and intriguing.

  March and April went by and nothing came from Brighton. Arnie was out of hospital, the opening of S and S, as Roger bitterly called it, was in sight, Archie was less demanding and Greta suspected he was in temporary lodgings with another of his female clients. Connie’s time was getting closer and she thought they ought to put in another advertisement offering an incentive. She gave Greta another slip of paper and asked her to think about it and let her know and she would do the rest.

  Greta phoned Connie and went to see her the next Sunday. It was now May and the lilac trees were dripping blossom over the garden walls, though it was cold and rather damp. Connie answered the door herself. She was the size of a house.

  ‘Is there room for me?’ Greta teased, making a big thing of squeezing past Connie’s enormous tummy. ‘You weren’t like this with Frankie, were you?’

  ‘No, I certainly wasn’t. So it’s got to be our girl. May. And she’s going to be born in May. Only another two weeks, Greta! Get a new hat because you are in line for godmother this time.’

  Greta screamed with pleasure and got both her arms around Connie. Then the funniest thing happened. The baby – May – started giving funny little kicks and they transmitted themselves from Connie’s abdomen to Greta’s. Greta stood very still, mouth open, feeling what Connie was feeling.

  Connie said, ‘OK, Heatherington – enough’s enough!’

  Greta did not let her go immediately. She whispered, ‘Connie, the baby is kicking . . . she is still kicking. And it is May. And she’s going to be a champion swimmer.’

  Connie said feelingly, ‘Don’t I know it! Now let me breathe.’

  Greta moved away but her face was still alight. ‘That is the closest I’ll ever come to being pregnant. Oh Connie. Thank you.’ Suddenly she was in tears.

  Connie comforted her as best she could. She and Greta had become very close since Connie had first asked her permission to put the advertisement in the Brighton Gazette. Greta had been wide-eyed when she heard of Connie’s dream; she believed absolutely in signs and portents and dreams came very much into the category. Now, with eight or nine weeks since that cryptic little message had been published, Connie was feeling somehow responsible for those tears.

  ‘Darling Greta. Please don’t get upset. William has agreed to let Arnold take over the advertising thing and we’re going to go and see him – yes, now, darling. Well, I know he’s still resting but I rather think he is also in need of a bit of stimulation. Let’s get him interested in something really important.’

  Greta appreciated that. She appreciated Connie. She often referred sentimentally to their first meeting at Mrs Pentwyn’s horrible guest house. ‘D’you remember that dreadful vegetarian lot? I know you don’t want to think about that time, sweetie, but if you could just see parts of it as . . . amusing? . . . I think it also might become bearable. That’s what I do.’

  Connie had made an effort. ‘Yes, perhaps. Anyway that was when I met Maurice for the first time and I am determined it won’t be the last!’

  Greta was bewildered for a moment then said, ‘Oh, the photograph! You can hardly decipher him.’

  ‘Well, I know darned well it was him in my dream. So my subconscious must have deciphered him all right!’

  The four of them, Connie, William, Frankie and Greta, drove up to Barnt Green where Arnold was blissfully ensconced with Rosemary. He had a day bed in the window which overlooked the golf course, from where he was watching Marcus Challenger teaching Maria how to hold a club so that it did not fly out of her hands.

  ‘He hasn’t even got round to using a ball yet!’ he marvelled. ‘He must be in love with her. Otherwise he wouldn’t be out there in this wind being so patient and – and – kind!’

  ‘How are you, Arnold?’ William spoke first and waited while Arnold was kissed by Connie and Greta, before shaking his hand.

  Rosemary, joggling Frankie on her hip, got in first. ‘Terrible,’ she said, smiling all over her face. ‘Lying there all day demanding food and – and –’ he started to speak and she said loudly, ‘entertainment!’

  ‘She means the television of course.’ His eyes rolled in his head; he looked so happy Greta thought she might start crying again.

  They had coffee and cake and then William went to the village shop for six tins of soup for lunch. He had suggested fish and chips and Rosemary had shaken her head so that William could not see her and said, ‘It’s Sunday, darling. But the shop will be open till midday. How about some soup and rolls? See what they’ve got, William. In fact, I’ll come with you and we can choose between us.’

  Nobody offered suggestions. Everyone knew that fish and chips were not on Arnold’s menu. He said contentedly, ‘She usually gives me a dry biscuit and some of that ghastly cottage cheese.’

  ‘You look very well on it, Arnie,’ Greta said. Sometimes she felt her heart literally swelling with love for Arnie and wondered whether she should be marrying him instead of Archie. And then wondered whether it would swell for Maurice. When Connie had shown her the advert she thought it had then. But now, after so long and with so many things happening in her life, she was not quite so sure she wanted it to be like that. When your heart swelled it was so difficult to be sensible any longer.

  Settled with bowls of soup and hot rolls, William broached the subject, fully expecting back-up for his rejection. ‘I’ve told them that they cannot use the firm’s name, Arnold. We need to build in an incentive without being so specific. Not that I think it will work but it can’t do any harm.’ He read aloud, ‘“Will Maurice Heatherington Esquire please get in touch with blah blah blah when he will hear something to his advantage.” It’s Victorian and typically melodramatic – worthy of Greta and Connie, you have to admit – but we can’t have Jessup’s name there.’

  Arnold thought about it. ‘What do y
ou think, Greta?’ he said at last.

  ‘I don’t know any more. We’ve been at this for so long now.’

  ‘Six little weeks?’

  ‘More like nine or ten. And I still don’t know. You have done this in good faith and I am grateful – for your concern. But . . . Archie is the devil I know. Maurice might be the devil I don’t know.’

  ‘Listen, girl. Let’s just put our telephone number in. Mrs Flowers will be back from Australia in two weeks – she can take the calls, tape record them if they sound at all credible. You can listen and make up your mind then. What do you say?’

  ‘Oh Arnie . . . you’re so clever.’

  ‘You don’t have to sweet-talk me, Greta. You’ve got what you want.’

  ‘I’m not sweet-talking. I am really . . . touched. Everyone . . . sort of . . . cares.’

  Arnie took the slip of paper, changed it and then held on to it.

  ‘William. Let me take this on. You’re going to have a lot to cope with quite soon, by the look of things. And I . . . I’d like to get my hand in again.’

  Connie glanced at Greta and closed one eye. It was something she had picked up from the older woman. Sometimes it said everything.

  That night before they slept, Arnold said casually, ‘Rosie, I know you’re not keen on my friendship with Greta Heatherington but would you mind if I used your telephone number for that insertion?’

  She said resignedly, ‘You can’t let go, can you? You were the one who made her promise not to marry Archie Fielding until she’d given this search a go. And now you want to be the one to speak to Maurice Heatherington first.’

  ‘Darling, she’s like a child. Hopeless and helpless.’

  ‘No, she’s not. Not one bit. But you . . . you’re a megalomaniac.’

  ‘You don’t know what that means,’ he said, smiling into the velvet dark.

  ‘I do. I looked it up.’

  ‘Then you know it describes you perfectly. No fish and chips indeed.’

  ‘Where are you going to get fish and chips on a Sunday, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ he said sleepily. ‘Go to sleep, beautiful soon-to-be wife.’

  ‘Love you,’ she murmured.

  ‘Love you too.’

  The opening of Sink and Swim was a great success mainly because the small theatre was packed with family and friends. Arnold had booked the two front rows and spent a lot of time resurrecting friends and acquaintances to fill them. The rest of the company had done the same, except Roger. He swore he did not want anyone who knew him to see a gaggle of inept actors playing out something that was not amusing or meaningful, and the sooner it closed down the better for all concerned. ‘Waste of everyone’s time,’ he said, skulking along the back of the auditorium and eyeing the full house with incredulity.

  When the leading lady, Miranda, appeared having changed into an even tattier kimono and said to the audience, ‘I thought I would dress down for you, darlings,’ Arnold roared with laughter and led the clapping. Everyone followed suit, which gave Miranda time to do an impromptu parade, revealing cigarette burns and patches in the silk and escalating the appreciation to the limit. Roger put his head on the barrier and moaned, ‘Stop milking it, you stupid cow . . .’ But Miranda was by no means stupid and she had at last got a handle on the satire. She realized in an instant that Sink and Swim might well introduce a very special new genre. The rest of the cast followed suit. Greta, acting as dresser for everyone, was delighted with the reports that came through. ‘My God, they absolutely love it, Greet! Your stuff is going down a treat!’

  Afterwards, when they had a theatre supper in the pub next door, Miranda stood up and toasted Arnold. ‘I saw you clapping. I played that whole scene for you.’

  Rosemary groaned. ‘Here we go,’ she said to Connie in a low voice.

  ‘Oh Mummy. You don’t mind, not really. Do you?’

  ‘Not one bit. It means he’s getting better. It makes up for the fact that poor old Maurice is never going to be found, alive or dead. He wanted to produce him for Greta, like a rabbit out of a hat.’

  ‘Nothing so far?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Maria came in, twittering madly. It seemed that Marcus had parked his car in quite the wrong place and an ambulance had been unable to get through to respond to an emergency. ‘They’ve towed the car away somewhere and there will be a fine and perhaps a court appearance!’ Maria was near tears.

  Arnold reached up and took her hand. ‘We will take you home with us, dear friend and neighbour. Where is your intended now?’

  ‘He is outside being told off. Oh Arnold, you are so kind. I really don’t know how we would manage without you . . . but the gossip . . . just before our wedding.’

  ‘There will be twice as many pictures in the papers, dear girl. I wouldn’t be surprised if it hit the nationals. You’ll be so proud of those pictures later . . . so will Marcus. Fame is heady wine, Maria. Heady wine.’

  Rosemary said to Connie, ‘Here we go, yet again.’ She looked up at Maria. ‘He’s had too much wine actually, Maria, but he’s talking sense. Marcus won’t mind the publicity one bit. Go and get him and have something to eat and then we’ll leave. I want to get Arnold to bed fairly soon.’ And that really did bring the house down. And Rosemary, who at one time would have turned crimson from top to toe, simply looked at Arnold and said, ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I know you do, my love. I know.’

  That night May was born. Greta knew it was going to happen before Connie. She had griping pain right after the potted shrimps and ignored it but as the evening wore on it happened again and again and eventually she timed the pains and they became very regular. She moved her chair next to William’s.

  ‘Contractions every eight minutes,’ she gasped as one of them grabbed her right across her midriff.

  ‘How do you mean?’ William was letting himself enjoy the evening of careless euphoria.

  ‘I’m having birth contractions.’ Greta put her hand on his knee. He winced. ‘I’m having them for Connie. When I felt May kicking inside my own body I told Connie it was as near as I could come to being pregnant. But it wasn’t.’ She sucked in a huge breath and William closed his eyes as her fingers tried to prise off his kneecap. ‘Ask her . . . oh God . . . ask her how she is.’

  His eyes were watering. He turned to Connie on his other side.

  ‘Greta says she’s having your labour pains and we should go home.’

  Connie leaned forward and looked at Greta. Then she nodded. ‘I think we’d better.’

  She got the bed ready herself while William phoned the midwife. Greta sat in a chair next to the bed, holding her stomach and groaning now and then. Frankie’s babysitter shrugged her coat on in the hall and said to William, ‘She’s not in labour, you know. Not a single pain has she had. That old girl’s got indigestion and is putting it all into her head.’

  ‘Probably. See yourself out. Thanks very much.’ William replaced the receiver and sprinted up to Rosemary’s room. They had moved downstairs just two weeks ago for just such a contingency as this. Rosemary was to have had their room and kept an ear open for Frankie. ‘The best laid plans . . .’ William muttered as he took in the scene in the bedroom: Connie, large and unwieldy, flinging a rubber sheet over the mattress; Greta looking smaller than usual, clutching her abdomen and breathing in the exaggerated manner she had seen on television programmes.

  He took over the bed. ‘If you’re really up to it, put out the layette and that sterilized pack the midwife gave you and get into your nightie.’

  Connie looked surprised. ‘I didn’t think you would set much store by this proxy set-up.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  Greta breathed out on a tiny scream. ‘Thank you, William. Tell him, Connie.’

  Connie told him as she undressed, folded her clothes into a neat pile and donned the flowing nightdress with the button-through bodice. ‘It was some sort of transferral,’ she said matter-of-factly as
she slid into the fresh bed. ‘Towel, darling. Just underneath me.’ She stayed very still for a second then drew in her breath sharply. ‘Was that the door bell? I think it’s going to be quick.’ She closed her eyes and when she opened them they were no longer seeing what was around her; her whole concentration was inside her own body. She closed her eyes again and said, ‘Thank you, Greta. Don’t forget, this baby is half yours.’

  Greta looked surprised, then she stood up and went to the bed. ‘It’s gone from me, Connie. It’s yours now. God bless you, dearest girl.’

  Connie remembered very little of May’s arrival. It was quite different from Frankie’s. He had slid quietly and happily into the world, trusting his parents to do the right thing always. May came in three enormous bursts of energy, squinted suspiciously with her nothing-coloured eyes at the man and woman bending over her and yelled furiously. It was as well that they did not know then that it would be a year before they had a full night’s sleep.