‘All much the same as usual,’ she said. ‘Johnny still hasn’t given up hope of finding you.’
‘Oh dear,’ Isobel sighed. ‘Hasn’t he?’
‘No, and I’m seeing him again Sunday. We’re supposed to be going round places over Paddington way. He’s very determined, you know, and the longer it goes on, the worse it is lying to him.’
‘I know. I do see that. I’m so sorry, Daisy. I don’t want you to have to lie for me. But if he were to go to Mr Edward –’
‘He’d lose his job,’ Daisy concluded for her. This was the only thing that kept her mouth shut on the issue. It cut her to the quick to see him carrying doggedly on with his fruitless search. ‘One day soon he’ll come to Camberwell. Not that he’ll be knocking on front doors, so he won’t find you, but it’ll be even worse for me, knowing you’re only streets away.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know why you keep coming to see me, I’m nothing but a burden to you.’
‘Oh rubbish. Just stop talking like that. We been through this before, and you know what the answer is – you’re my pal and I love you. Now, I really better go. I’ll be late back.’
Isobel went with her to the street door.
‘I’ll do something to repay you, Daisy, I promise.’
‘Just you take care of yourself, that’s all I ask.’
Daisy waved goodbye, and worried about her all the way back to Trent Street. The promise she simply dismissed.
But on Saturday when she got back from work, there was a letter waiting for her. Recognising Isobel’s writing, she flew to the lavatory and locked herself in. It was the only way to be sure of some privacy. She ripped open the envelope and drew out a single sheet.
My dear Daisy,
I have been thinking long and hard about you and how much you have done for me and have decided that I cannot allow you to go on telling lies on my behalf. So I have written to Mr Miller telling him something of my situation. He will not want to continue searching for me when he knows what I am. I also told him that I saw you for the first time on Wednesday and that you don’t know where I live.
I hope this will help both you and Mr Miller.
With all my love,
Your friend,
Isobel.
For a long time, Daisy sat staring at this, reading and rereading it, trying to take in all its implications. At first she could feel nothing but astonishment that Isobel should have taken such a decisive step. Once she had come to terms with that, she was overwhelmed with relief. The secret had been taken away from her. It was like a great weight rolling off her shoulders. Then she wondered just what difference it would make to her friendship with Johnny, and realised that he must even now be reeling from receiving a letter from Isobel. Without further thought, she shoved her own letter into her pocket, unbolted the door and hurried out of the house and down to number fifty-eight, where Johnny lived.
The lad who opened the door grinned when he saw her on the step.
‘Well, here’s a nice surprise! What can I do for you, darling?’
Daisy told him that she wasn’t his darling and that she wanted to see Johnny. The lad winked and went off to fetch him, leaving her standing at the open door. It would be all up and down the street in no time that she had gone running after one of the men, but she did not care. Some things were more important than staying on the right side of the Packards’ gossip. Right now, Johnny needed a friend.
But when the messenger came back he was shaking his head.
‘Sorry, love, he said he ain’t seeing no one. Seemed a bit upset, he did. You two had a spat, have you? Why don’t you come out with me tonight? I’ll give you a good time.’
‘Oh get stuffed!’ Daisy told him, and marched off up the street fighting back tears of rejection.
It was a long, long Saturday night. Daisy’s new roommate, Gertie, went out, as did most of the other girls, and Daisy was left wondering what effect Isobel’s letter was having on Johnny, whether he would turn up tomorrow morning now that he no longer had to search for Isobel, indeed whether he would want to see her at all now that they had no common purpose. If only fate had never sent Isobel to Packards. If she had not come to share her room, everything would have been different. Or so it seemed to Daisy.
She slept very little and woke early and unrefreshed. Gertie was still snoring softly in the other bed. Daisy got dressed quietly and crept downstairs. The kitchen was deserted, as everyone got up late on a Sunday, and as the girls were not allowed to touch the tea or make themselves toast without permission, she went out again, unbolted the front door and let herself out of the house. All was quiet in Trent Street. The milkman had already done his round and filled the two quart cans on the top of the steps leading down to the basement, and now nothing seemed to be stirring except the sparrows chirping in the plane trees. Daisy stood for a while, breathing in the fresh morning air and wondering just what to do, when a movement further down the road caught her eye. Someone came out of one of the other houses and sat down on the steps. With a great leap of the heart, Daisy knew just who it was. She ran down the street.
At the area railings to number fifty-eight, she stopped, not quite sure what to say. Johnny glanced up. He looked tired and haggard, and he had not shaved. A lump formed in Daisy’s throat.
‘Hello,’ she said, and her voice came out as a croak.
Johnny held out a hand to her. Daisy took it and sat down beside him. Johnny’s fingers gripped hers tightly.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You know.’
‘Yes,’ Daisy said, wondering exactly what Isobel had told him.
‘How could she do it, Daisy? How could she? A lovely girl like that!’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You saw her, didn’t you? How was she? What did she say?’
‘She – she seemed very well. She – er – she never liked it at Packards, you know.’
‘I know, I know. She was too good for Packards. I could have taken her away from Packards. I would have married her if she’d’ve had me. To go and do this, to go and live with some – some bastard for his money. How could she do it?’
‘I – er – I’m not sure just what she’s told you,’ Daisy said.
Johnny fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled letter. ‘Here,’ he said.
Daisy unfolded it.
Dear Mr Miller,
It has come to my notice that you have taken it upon yourself to discover where I am living. I would ask that you cease doing this. I am currently residing with a gentleman of means and have no intention of changing my situation in the foreseeable future, so I do not wish to be sought out by you or anyone else from Packards. I met with Miss Phipps on Wednesday in order to acquaint her with my circumstances. She does not know my address, so I would beg that you do not inconvenience her with requests to reveal it.
Yours faithfully,
I. Brand.
Daisy stumbled a little over the formal language, but the gist of it was clear enough. No wonder he was so bitter. It was a particularly cold letter.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Oh Johnny, I am sorry –’
‘You saw her Wednesday, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘I – I didn’t know what to say to you. I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it –’
‘Happy! Bloody hell, Daisy! But how did she contact you? Where did you meet her?’
Daisy had to think fast. If only Isobel had given her the odd clue beforehand, she thought, she could have had her story straight.
‘She – she wrote to me, and we met at a tea shop, after work. I – I didn’t like to say anything to you till I’d seen her, and anyway she told me not to, and then after – well, like I said, it was difficult to know what to say –’
‘Who is this bastard she’s living with? What did she say about him?’
‘Not – not much. He doesn’t actually live with her. He – er – visits. He’s very rich, she says.’
‘Old bloke, is
he?’
‘No – er – not very.’
Johnny groaned. ‘So he’s young and rich. Got bloody everything, and now he’s got her. I only hope he appreciates her. Is he good to her, did she say?’
Daisy hesitated, then decided that one more lie was necessary.
‘Yes.’
Johnny put his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands.
‘She never said where she was living? Where he’s got her set up?’
At least she was ready for this one.
‘No. She doesn’t want anyone to know. Not you, and not even me. She wants – she wants to make a new start, away from Packards.’
‘A new start! As a – a –’
Daisy could see him mentally surveying all the terms that could describe Isobel’s present state. He settled on the least offensive.
‘– kept woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is she happy? Does she like it?’
‘She doesn’t want to leave.’
That was the truth, after a fashion.
‘So that’s it, then. The end.’
Daisy put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Johnny.’
For a while he was silent. Then he said, ‘Do you know, when I first got that letter, and I saw who it was from, I thought – well, I thought this was my big chance, you know? That she wanted my help, that I could do something for her. And then I read it, and I just couldn’t believe it. Not from her. She was always so – I thought it couldn’t be true. But then I saw that she’d told you as well, and now from what you say, I’ve got to believe it.’
‘It is true, Johnny. I wish there was something I could say, but there isn’t.’
He put his hand over hers.
‘You’re a good pal, Daisy. You must be upset as well.’
‘Yes.’
They sat side by side on the cold stone step, close, but with the closeness of friends, not lovers. She wanted desperately to lean her head against his shoulder, but knew that it was not the moment. Ahead of them stretched an empty day.
‘Well –’ Johnny began.
Daisy jumped in to prevent his leaving. ‘How about us going out somewhere? Now that –’ She broke off, realising how tactless she was being.
‘Now that we don’t have to search for her, you mean? I’m sorry, Daisy, but I’m not what you might call cheerful company at the moment.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I understand. And it’d do you good. No use moping about here all day, now is it? You’ll only go and get yourself drunk or something.’
‘Did that last night,’ Johnny admitted. ‘Stupid thing to do. Feel like death warmed up this morning.’
‘You don’t look much better.’
‘Thanks.’
‘All the more reason to come out. We could go somewhere we’ve never been. Hampstead Heath. Everyone says as how Hampstead Heath is lovely, and I’ve never been there. Come on. Say you will.’ She held her breath, convinced that if he backed down now, that would be the end.
He hesitated, then agreed. ‘All right. I expect you’re right. No point hanging round here. I’ll go and smarten myself up and I’ll come and call for you about ten. That suit you?’
Few things would have suited her better. Daisy scampered back to number twenty-four with wings on her feet.
It was not the jolliest day out Daisy had ever spent. Johnny tried his best not to lapse into gloomy silence, but when he wasn’t being quiet, he couldn’t help going over the whole business of Isobel several times. Daisy let him talk it out.
When they returned to Trent Street, he walked her up to the door of number twenty-four.
‘It’s not been much of a day for you,’ he said.
‘Oh rubbish,’ Daisy said, though she had despaired several times of his ever thinking of her as anything other than Isobel’s friend.
‘No, I’ve done nothing but go on and on to you. Most girls would’ve walked off. I – er – well, thanks. It was a good idea.’
Daisy shrugged. ‘’S all right.’
‘No, you were right to make me go out, and I did nothing but bore you. I’ll make it up to you. How about – how about a trip to the music hall? How’d you like that?’
All at once the world was full of wonderful possibilities. Daisy turned a glowing face to him.
‘Oh yes! That’d be lovely.’
35
THE LITTLE PARISH church of St Peter’s, Mayfield, Northamptonshire, was full to the doors. Separated by the central aisle, the bride’s and the groom’s families discreetly eyed each other. The Forbes side represented the backbone of the English gentry. For centuries they had lived on their own modest estates, passed the land on in good order from father to eldest son, furnished younger sons to man the army, the navy and the established Church and married off their daughters to men just like themselves. They regarded the Packard side with thinly veiled distrust. Times were hard indeed when one of their young women had to marry into Trade. Trade at its most lofty, to be sure. The Packards to a man and woman were more richly and fashionably dressed by far than the barons, squires and clergymen and their ladies of the Forbes clan, but who were they? When it came down to it, they were nothing but shopkeepers. The Amberleys were acceptable. They were the right sort of people and the groom did bear their name, but that did little to take away from the fact that these upstarts had pushed themselves right into the heart of English society. The old order was changing, and the Forbeses did not like it.
On her side of the church, Winifred was very pleased. Edward had done well, better than she had expected, given his prickly attitude. He looked very handsome, sitting in the front pew with Perry. The Forbes girl was lucky to get him. When Edward inherited Tatwell Court, Sylvia would be mistress of a house three times the size of Mayfield Hall, her parents’ home. On top of this, Winifred was happily aware that her own outfit outshone that of the mother of the bride, that her daughter, when she walked down the aisle behind Sylvia, would look much prettier than the rest of the bridesmaids, who were all Forbes sisters and cousins, and that she would have organised the whole event in a much more lavish and fashionable manner. If she could just be certain that Amelie would soon be making as suitable a match, she would be completely contented with her lot.
In front of her, Perry was already bored with the whole affair. The Forbeses struck him as the very worst type of the stuffy old school, the wedding breakfast promised to be tedious in the extreme and worst of all, Edward did not seem to be at all inclined to be grateful for all the trouble he had gone to playing groomsman. In fact, he had refused point-blank to go to the party Perry had organised.
‘But it’s all arranged – food, champagne, girls. You should see the girls, Edward! Real high-class stuff, actresses, not common tarts. You’ll have the time of your life. Got to have your last fling before you put on the chains, now haven’t you? Get in a bit of practice for the wedding night, eh?’
‘I don’t need you to organise that for me,’ Edward had told him.
So Perry invited some of his friends instead and a very good time was had by all, but it had made his precarious finances even worse than they were before, with as little prospect as ever of a loan from Edward. He was going to have to get himself an invitation to a country house as far away from London as possible and lie low for a bit. In fact, if things didn’t improve fairly soon, he was going to have to seriously look about for a rich girl and get married himself. Perhaps an American girl. They were all dripping with money. He suddenly sat up straighter. That was it. He would get Amelie to write him a letter of introduction to those friends of hers that she stayed with in Chicago, borrow the fare from someone and try his luck in the States.
There was a stir at the back of the church. The organist, who had been playing a selection from Bach, sounded the first chords of the ‘Bridal March’. The congregation rose. Edward and Perry stepped forward. Sylvia walked up the aisle on her father’s arm dressed in white satin and swansdown with a full-length veil
and long train, followed by six bridesmaids of various sizes wearing pink silk and organdie and carrying posies of hothouse rosebuds. As she reached the front of the church, Sylvia gave Edward a small smile. The Rector stood, holding his prayer book.
‘Dearly beloved –’
Edward took his bride’s hand from Sir Alfred with a sense of triumph. He had been accepted on his own terms by Society. The boys who had taunted him at school had been vanquished. He was marrying just the sort of girl they would aspire to, and in doing so, he was getting closer to achieving what he wanted.
He went through the form of the service, his mind detached from the solemn words that rolled round him. He did not need to be told why God had ordained marriage, for he had his own reasons. He spoke the vows in a clear and firm voice, not quite meeting Sylvia’s eyes, a feat more easily achieved because of the veil clouding her face. During the prayers his mind began seriously to wander, and doubts crept in. After the wedding, they were to honeymoon for three weeks in Switzerland, stopping en route for a few days in Paris. Three weeks of Sylvia’s exclusive company. Three weeks away from Isobel and the intoxicating absolute power he held over her. On the night that Perry had arranged his bachelor party, Edward had taken Isobel to the store. It was a treat he had been promising himself for a long time, and now seemed just the occasion to fulfil it. She stood by his side as he unlocked one of the side doors, almost whimpering with fear.
‘Oh please don’t – not here – what if someone should find us?’
It was that element of risk that appealed to him, taking the pleasure to a new and delicious height. The night watchmen would be patrolling the store. He would have to avoid and outwit them. By the light of a camping lamp, they passed through the ground-floor departments. Edward kept his arm round Isobel’s waist. He could feel her shaking with the terror of discovery. In the main lobby he hesitated, looking up at the moonlight flooding through the great dome. The store was a beautiful and mysterious place at night. The lifts with their bronze fretted doors beckoned him. He considered for a minute or so the prospect of taking her while riding up and down in a lift, but though the thought of it roused him almost unbearably, that was taking risk to foolhardy proportions. Besides, he had an even more exciting plan. He guided her up the stairs, prolonging the pleasure of anticipation by touring round each of the floors. New settings tempted him at every turn – the fitting rooms in Ladies’ Gowns, the restaurant, his sister’s cursed sportswear department, the piles of oriental carpets. He resisted each one of them, using them only to tease Isobel. The threat of having to do it in her old department particularly upset her, very nearly deflecting him from his object, but he rejected it. Another time, perhaps. He had something better in mind.
Packards Page 36
