by Maggie Ford
There followed an even worse fear. Did she harbour a secret fancy for Geoffrey Lett? It couldn’t be mutual, a man of his standing. Maybe he was taking advantage of a sweet-natured, gullible girl. But Mary was not a gullible girl. Sweet-natured, but not gullible. Had Geoffrey Lett taken her out since and she wasn’t telling?
The thought made him feel sick even as he and Mary walked arm in arm, talking with apparent ease. Here she was, commenting on women they passed: their clothes, their hats. She was giggling over snatches of conversation that floated by, remarking on the way the sun reflected off the river and how the river smelt so clean on a Sunday, so different to the rest of the week when it was busy with boats working and plying up and down. At this very minute she was saying how much she was enjoying being with him on a day like this. And all the time…
He smiled, patted her arm, looked down at her, knowing she had no inkling of the debate going on inside him. And when he finally took her home, after they’d wandered along Oxford Street and Regent Street and through Piccadilly Circus gazing into the lighted windows of all the large, expensive stores, she let him kiss her goodnight. But still he couldn’t help thinking that she had probably been kissed by Geoffrey Lett, too. If she played her cards right with Geoffrey Lett, he thought bitterly as he kissed her, she could have all those things he could never give her.
The thoughts followed him home to plague him as he tried to sleep that night. And all Monday when he should have been concentrating on his work, they refused to go away. They wouldn’t disperse until he’d had it out with her. But it wasn’t easy to find the courage…
“Don’t dawdle about it, man. Get that silver placed, now.”
William came to himself and hurried to obey, but his station head waiter wasn’t finished with him.
“Good God, man! You’re like a wet weekend. That table there. It’s half naked. It needs four settings and you’ve not even started on it. What’s the matter with you, sonny? The customers’ll be in any second. Well, get a move on!”
William began to dash about, instantly alert to all that needed doing, Mary thrust from his mind. He wouldn’t be seeing her until Thursday. It was hard on the pocket trying to take a girl out every night and no girl cared to be incessantly walked along streets by way of entertainment. Though it didn’t seem to worry Mary. Was it that she got her excitement from one better off than he?
For the next few hours he became the capable commis, serving the six covers on his station, bearing away the remains of meals. Ashtrays were emptied frequently, fresh ones supplied, extra cutlery brought as required, unwanted wine glasses conveyed away, crumbs appropriately cleared, tables relaid as customers left; silver flashing, fresh napkins were magically and skilfully folded, again clean ashtrays brought, wine glasses and cruets given a hasty last-minute glint. And all the time his mind was elsewhere.
He would tackle Mary about Geoffrey Lett on Thursday. It had to be brought into the open, if only to stem this heaviness that had settled in his chest.
“What’s this?”
The question hissing in his ear, William looked up from brushing cigar ash from a vacated chair waiting to be occupied by the next customer’s bottom on this busy Monday lunchtime. His station head waiter was holding aloft a gleaming goblet.
“There’s a fingermark on this one!” he continued to hiss. “Get rid of it. Bring another. And jump to it then!”
William leapt to obey, all thoughts of Mary blasted from his mind for the moment.
* * *
James Lett lingered far longer than any would have expected. But now, after months of choking, fighting for breath, features contorted by the pain he had been required to endure, he went peacefully as a clear dawn arose after an April night of gusting wind and pelting rain. In the dim glow of a single bedside lamp, he seemed one minute to be breathing under the medically induced sleep Doctor Griffith had supplied. The next, without anyone being aware of the exact moment of death, he slipped mercifully away under the gaze of his wife, who had been with him the whole night, as she had every single night these many months until she looked as frail and drained as the dead face on the pillow which she continued to watch with a dry stare of disbelief.
“I think he’s gone,” she said simply.
Her two daughters, standing at the foot of the bed, burst into tears simultaneously, their gulps muffled by the closed curtains at the double windows. Her son, Henry, got up and very gently lifted the folded-back edge of the bedsheet to cover the face of his father, aware of the small gesture of protest his mother gave before letting her hand fall back on to her lap.
“It should be done,” he whispered, almost as if the dead man could still hear him, but a ripple of guilt ran through him that his father bore an expression of tranquillity none of them had seen on this face in all these months; that it was near sacrilege to cover up this new peace on the stilled face after the twisted, pain-racked features that they had all become used to, though not inured to.
With the guilt came vague anger that his brother had not thought it important to be here on this night of all nights; anger that instantly faded as he remembered Geoffrey would not have been able to get home from Paris in time, even though the telegram they had sent would have reached him within half an hour of being sent. If only men could travel at the same speed as those electric messages.
Geoffrey had gone there for the weekend – to see a friend, he had said. He had left on Friday evening, would be back tonight, Sunday. True, no one could have envisaged Father going so suddenly after months of expecting it, yet it had to be this weekend of all weekends that Geoffrey had chosen to be away. With an unkind twist of anger against his brother, Henry wondered if Geoffrey would be as cut up about his father’s death as he was, or stricken by guilt at being absent at the time of death. But such uncharitable thoughts were better brushed aside.
The dear face covered, he helped his mother to her feet. “We must send for Dr Griffith,” he whispered and saw her nod in agreement. But almost immediately she sat herself down on a chair by the wall.
“I would prefer to stay here with your father a while longer, my dear, if you don’t mind. He would not wish to be abandoned so soon. I will stay until he is well on his way. To wish him a safe journey.”
Each word she spoke was emphasised by a small slow nod of her head as though she really did imagine her husband travelling some sort of lonely path, glancing reluctantly back but knowing he must continue; as if he would see her there waving him off much as she had waved him off when he set out for London in the limousine on Mondays and Fridays in the old days.
Henry nodded understandingly. She needed to be left alone with her husband, as she said, to see him on his way. She needed to be alone with her thoughts, her tears shed in private. That was Mother’s way. Later she would emerge, head up, eyes dry, back straight, Victorian values intact.
With quiet unhurriedness, he ushered his two tearful sisters from the room. They were this century’s children and felt no need to make any secret of grief.
* * *
For Mary it had been the most unbelievable thing. Having hardly come near her since last autumn when he’d taken her to the Masonic do and then the theatre, even presenting her with a proper dress for the former occasion – which he’d said she could keep and which now reposed in a drawer at home, probably never to be brought out again – Geoffrey had appeared to have forgotten her.
Christmas and New Year had come and gone, and with everyone so busy, it was understandable. But just as she had begun to resign herself to the fact that she had merely been a passing thing with Geoffrey Lett, best forgotten – and what did he want with the likes of her in any case when he had so many girls of his own sort to choose from? – he had come up to her in the office last month and casually asked if she’d ever seen the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race.
Of course she had, last year, with William, but without quite knowing why, she’d shaken her head. And when he had offered to take her, it came to her
that the last thing she wanted would be to upset Geoffrey’s obviously well-meant offer by saying no. She had said yes, please, and his response, a bit alarmingly, had been to lean briefly over her to brush her hair with his lips and murmur, “Then I would be delighted to take you.”
It was just as well everyone in the office had gone home. She had been just about to go too, the office dark and silent, though most probably he wouldn’t have done it had anyone been there.
William had been obliged to work that Saturday – he often worked late on Saturdays, one of the busiest days of the week – and Mary had never found the courage to tell him of Geoffrey taking her to see the Boat Race. Instead she’d told herself over and over that there was no real need to, and as time went on the idea of Geoffrey asking her out again faded. She had squealed with excitement and jumped up and down as the race had drawn to a close and was sure she had so shown him up that he’d been glad to be done with her. As for her, despite enjoying the competition itself, she hadn’t particularly felt at ease, a fish out of water among all those posh people. Geoffrey had remained gallant, however, had thanked her for her company and by way of thanks had taken her to a theatre in the afternoon. But it had merely been a way of disguising his disappointment in her, she was certain, and there had been no point stirring up trouble with William by telling him about anything, not even the fact that Geoffrey had kissed her – quite an ardent kiss really – before putting her in a taxi to take her home.
Then had come this astounding offer.
“Mary,” he’d begun, again catching her as she was about to go home. Only the office manager was lingering behind, his office door closed though she had seen the man through the frosted glass engaged on the telephone, his back to her.
“I’m off to Paris this weekend,” Geoffrey continued. “Was going with a friend to visit a mutual acquaintance of ours. We’ve bought the aeroplane tickets but now he can’t go and I’m left with a spare air ticket.”
“Air ticket?” She was already ahead of him, even as she dared not let herself believe that this could be an offer to go with him. Surely he wasn’t expecting her to say yes?
“Daily air service between here and Paris was resumed last week,” he explained. “It’s an ideal opportunity to visit my friend. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been abroad or up in an aeroplane, have you, Mary?”
It was an offer. It had to be. There came a sudden racing of her heart that he was giving her an opportunity that might never come her way again. Her voice had sounded small and weak.
“No, I haven’t,” she said and she saw him smile.
“What would you say if I asked you to go with me?”
“With you,” she repeated idiotically. “To Paris?” When he nodded the only words she could find to say were, “I’ve got nothing to wear.”
Her head had seethed with doubts. How would a place like Paris receive a girl like her? But his smile had broadened. “I’ll buy all you need in Paris.”
Her statement had been taken as a yes, but scepticism had plagued her right up to the time of leaving, that alone preventing her from saying anything to William. The whole idea seemed outrageous and improbable, even if she could have brought herself to hurt him – supposedly her beau - like that. She kept asking herself what girl would pass up such an invitation, kept telling herself that it didn’t mean anything – she and Geoffrey came from different worlds, and all he was probably doing was getting a bit of pleasure in showing a girl from a poor background how the other half lived.
Trying to ignore a niggling guilt at having to make excuses to William for her absence, short though it would be, she said little to him, only that she was having to accompany her aunt on a visit to an old friend as she was not used to travelling as far as Southend on her own. “We’ll have to stay overnight,” she told him, “and come back on Sunday evening.” After all, she had to be back at work on the Monday.
It was hard not to cringe at the lie, especially as William’s expression was all-trusting as he said dolefully, “I know how you feel, love. Your trouble is you’re too good-hearted. I’ll miss you this weekend, but it’ll soon pass.” And again she had squirmed under the burden of her lie, actually wishing for a brief moment that she could wheedle her way out of this trip to Paris. But she had promised – and it was only one weekend, after all, and there might never be another chance. So she took heart and smiled at William.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” she said, and for the moment, that seemed to vindicate everything.
* * *
It was like a dream seeing England drop away as the aeroplane rose from the airfield with its sprinkling of flat, white buildings, the sight of a tablecloth of small fields below them strange to her eyes and presenting such an alarming drop that she clung to Geoffrey, who held her hand comfortingly.
The roar of the enclosed, single-engine aeroplane with its dozen or so passengers had been frightening at first, and she had been certain something was wrong with it, but before long she became accustomed to it, and the height too – a couple of thousand feet, Geoffrey told her grandly, though he wasn’t really sure, himself.
Soon she was staring through the tiny window at the dully glittering ribbon of the English Channel, the boats resembling kiddies’ toys. The undulating white coastline of France – looking like a huge map – filled her with wonder, with its vast fields, its tiny clusters of villages and towns. Paris finally came into sight and there were yet another scary few moments as the ground raced up to meet them, her stomach going over as they landed, the engine cutting off to leave her ears buzzing but the rest of her full of relief that they had come safely through this amazing ordeal.
Leaving the airfield, borne by taxi into the city itself, she gazed totally enraptured at the unfamiliar, busy Paris thoroughfares on this glorious sunny Saturday afternoon, incredulous that she, the owner of a brand new passport, had left rain behind in England only a few hours ago.
There was just one disappointing edge to it all: how wonderful it would have been to tell everyone back home about having winged across those vast miles in a couple of hours in an aeroplane; something few like her had ever done or ever would do. Yet she had to keep it a secret, especially from William. It almost turned the trip sour, but she shrugged it off bravely.
Alighting from the cab with Geoffrey’s help, it was an intimidating experience entering the bright, carpeted foyer to be taken up to the room he had booked for her next to his, a lad carrying the two small bags for them.
Like her, Geoffrey had little with him. On his advice she had packed only a dress, a toothbrush, make-up, brush and comb and a nightie, he having said that all other toiletries would be supplied by the hotel, including towels. She didn’t possess a dressing-gown, her outdoor coat sufficing in an emergency, though he’d said her room was an en suite one which, she found, meant having its own toilet and bathroom. Her home had no inside toilet, let alone a bathroom.
As they stood while the porter turned the key to her bedroom door, Geoffrey whispered to her that he’d changed his mind about seeing his friend. Looking at him and seeing him smiling, she let her gaze drop quickly. She was no fool. There never had been any friend. But far from feeling angry, she was flattered. Geoffrey Lett singling her out from all the girls he must know to accompany him here to Paris? It was flattering. But if he thought to get something out of it with her, he’d be disappointed, although a kiss or two wouldn’t hurt…
The porter opened the door with a flourish and she found Geoffrey assisting her inside. The sight that met her took her breath and all other thoughts away but those regarding what she was seeing. “Golly! This all mine? I feel like a princess.”
Geoffrey was tipping the porter who nodded and departed, closing the door behind him.
“You are a princess,” Geoffrey murmured as she darted about the room which he’d said was only modest but which looked to her the most magnificent one she had ever seen.
“Come here, Mary.” The tone of his voice,
gentle but faintly masterful, brought to a halt her excited tour of the room and, questioningly, she went to him, to find herself surprised by his arms closing around her, drawing her to him. His face was bending over hers, his lips pressed down on her own before she had time to think.
It was as though an electric spark had plunged through her. For a moment she tensed. But she had expected this, hadn’t she? Had been fully aware of why he had wanted to bring her here – not as a favour to him as that first time had been, nor as a gesture of goodwill, but for the same reason any man would ask a girl to share a weekend with him. She had consented with her eyes wide open and not even the rosy prospect of a trip to Paris could cloud her complicity.
The kiss had begun pulsing a strange excitement through her body, sweeping away the awe of being attractive to him, and, laying aside girlish pretensions, she willingly returned the kiss.
It was obvious what would happen. On the rose-flowered quilt she lay beneath him as he feverishly divested her of her skirt, her blouse. All the time his voice whispered in her ear that she was beautiful, that he loved her, had loved her from the first time he’d seen her, was unable to get her out of his mind, that he’d lived in torment of rejection, that he was utterly ecstatic that she felt the same about him as he did about her.
And she did. In those moments of climax, she did feel the same with a fierce pleasure that consumed and alarmed her in its unexpectedness. Never before having experienced such sensations, she even knew a moment of panic that it might cause her some unknown harm. But as he threw himself away from her to lie breathing heavily next to her, she stared up at the ornate ceiling, the feel of him still with her, and she knew all was well.
But then, gradually, misgivings began to creep into her head at what she had done, what she had allowed him to do. For her it had been the first time ever. For him… Mary felt her flesh chill. Not the first time for him?
