by Maggie Ford
* * *
What had been seen as post-war prosperity was collapsing rapidly due to a wordwide restriction of trade and an explosion in prices. Dole queues were beginning to consist not only of the unemployed war disabled but of those who had been in work, but who had been dismissed as employers themselves began to feel the hard times. Will Goodridge began to consider his own job, which until lately he’d thought of as secure.
A humble commis de rang still, it now seemed people like him were two a penny. If he didn’t please the maitre d’ he could be out this very day and someone more competent in his place – it was that easy to get staff, men willing to jump into any job to save their families from the struggle of living on eighteen shillings a week dole money bestowed on them for twenty-six weeks only. If he did get the push, then what would happen to his hopes of asking Mary to marry him?
There had been a moment of panic two months ago, with the business suddenly taking a plunge after James Lett died, that he’d be dismissed. But it had just as suddenly recovered. Even so, William still felt vulnerable. In the midst of the fervour that the two Lett brothers, especially Henry, had displayed in their effort to return the restaurant to as near as it had been, if not better, he felt increasing pressure that, should he not meet the standard the new young owners had set, he’d indeed be out on his ear. But working even longer, harder hours, he was seeing even less of Mary, often having to be content with once a week, instead of twice as in the days when things had been a little easier.
Another concern was that lately she no longer seemed excited by the places he took her to, though he did his best to vary their outings together. In June they had been to see King George’s official opening of the new Southwark Bridge. That should have been a novel enough outing, but apparently Mary hadn’t thought so. They’d had to make an effort to see anything at all with people’s heads in front of them blocking the view of His Majesty’s entourage and crowds converging on the narrow limits of the new bridge. And though she didn’t complain, the jollity in the air didn’t seem to transfer itself to her.
Later that month His Majesty opened the Northern Ireland Parliament, but as they weren’t there to see that, it didn’t matter. But on the sixth of July came the official opening of the new King George V dock. Again William took her and on that occasion they had been lucky enough to glimpse the king shaking hands with workmen there.
“Queen Mary looks so small,” Mary had remarked in surprise. “I’d have thought she was much bigger than that. The king doesn’t look all that big either. I thought royalty would be taller. You expect it, don’t you?”
“It’s his beard, I suppose,” William said. “It gives him a much larger, distinguished look.” He was pleased to have been able to give her this treat, to see something of the splendid ceremony, if only the top half of His Majesty’s head. She would never have seen the king but for him, and knowing that had done him a power of good. If only she had shown a bit more excitement. If he hadn’t known her, he’d have said she’d been bored.
He thought of it now, abstractedly, as deftly and smoothly he served vegetables to Mr Douglas Fairbanks and Miss Mary Pickford, now Fairbanks’s wife, and saw him lean towards her in an adoring manner. Both were unaware that their proximity to the waiter was almost stopping his breathing, even less aware that it was not who they were but what they did – gazing into each other’s eyes – that conjured up thoughts that if Will’s own Mary did not seem to gaze into his eyes very much, in truth she did love him.
He had come to learn that she could be naturally distant at times. Maybe on the day of the official opening of the King George V docks she’d been suffering from “that time of the month”, though he wouldn’t know for certain, so far not having had any intimate sort of relations with her even though they would kiss and he cuddle her until his whole being cried for more. He admired her strength of will, respected her for it, for at times she too must have craved for just a little more from him. After all, they had been going out together for nearly eighteen months now. All that time. Odd to think of it. Yet she could still hold herself back from any approach to making love. Yes, quite a girl was his Mary. How hurt she would be to know her good name had been besmirched by that toad Samson.
In all these months he had mentioned nothing of what Chef had said to him on that cold, blustery day in early March when he had trespassed into the man’s kitchen to avoid going the longer way round to the outside toilet. It was an accusation no decent person would pass on to the girl in question, much less Mary who prided herself on staying unsullied until her wedding, as she had blushingly told him on a couple of occasions.
Slowly he had put it out of his mind, and if from time to time it still came to nag at him, he’d shrug it off. Mary was neither Geoffrey Lett’s type nor class. She could have been – was as good as any duchess or debutante, could have knocked spots off any one of them. But he and Mary were ordinary people. Real debutantes and duchesses were way above them, so it didn’t matter.
Eight
“What a dreadful thing.” Mary’s face puckered as William put away the News Chronicle dated twenty-fifth August after reading the account of the disaster with her. “Those poor people. How many was it?”
“Forty-four.”
“Out of forty-nine. Just five of them survived. Oh, it’s dreadful!”
“But if the airship had come down over the town instead of over the Humber it could have been far worse.”
“It’s still too many all in one go.” She was thinking of Geoffrey at that moment, who had talked about sailing in an airship.
“I’d like to try an airship,” he had said. “See what it’s like to glide along a thousand feet over the sea. They say there’s no sound when you’re in one, not like aeroplanes. One day they’ll be used all the time. Take you with me, eh?” He had cuddled her to him. “Maybe next year.”
Speaking in terms of the future had made it seem so certain that he intended to share that future with her, for all he had not yet mentioned marriage to her, a fact which often set her wondering that she was becoming more his mistress than his intended. She didn’t want that – didn’t want this subterfuge, these secret rendezvous every now and again that were often too few and far between with he making love to her and she enjoying every second knowing that Will still saw her as unsullied, his girl.
So far she’d managed to keep the truth from him although the feeling of guilt hadn’t got any less, and she dreaded the time when she would have to tell him. There were times, thinking of Will, that she wished the affair would die and she would never have to let on; others when all she wanted was to have Geoffrey ask her to marry him and the secrecy all be over. Yet somehow she knew that question would never arise. She was Geoffrey’s mistress, whether she liked it or not. Men like him did not ask girls like her to marry them.
What did she think she was doing, allowing herself to be at the beck and call of someone like Geoffrey Lett, all stewed up when he didn’t seem to need her and becoming all pent up when he did? She was a fool, a silly little fool. Knowing it, she shrank into Will’s arms in a moment of despair.
“I do love you, Will. Couldn’t we just get married?”
He gazed down at her with a small sorrowful frown, the newspaper in one hand forgotten. “I wish we could. But what on? I’m saving like crazy but it’s not enough. I want to be able to offer you a proper marriage, but we couldn’t live decently on what I earn. There’ll only be the one wage coming in – you’ll have to give up your job when you’re married. It wouldn’t be right, nor will they let you carry on office work as a married woman. And the way things are at the moment, I could be out of a job at any time. It’s happening all over. We just couldn’t manage.”
“Other people do.”
“Yes, hand to mouth. I don’t want that for you, Mary. Let’s wait a bit longer, till next year. Perhaps by then all this job uncertainty will blow over.”
She had no argument, he seemed so adamant, but meanwhile the c
onstant temptation offered by the wealthy Geoffrey Lett hovered, and she, silly fool, found herself quite unable to resist it, and hated herself for it.
These tears in her eyes, she told herself fiercely, were for the poor men who had perished in the R38 which had broken in two over the Humber and come down in flames. The whole nation had wept a little. But some of her tears, Mary hated to admit, were for herself, the mess she was getting into by letting herself be used by a man who was her employer.
Will’s arm grew tighter about her, comforting away the misinterpreted emotion. “They weren’t passengers on that airship. They were all technicians and crew. It was a test flight only.”
“They still died, didn’t they?” she said hotly and pulled angrily away from him, leaving him to apologise for his heartlessness.
* * *
Geoffrey had gone with his own friends to the South of France – fortunate Geoffrey. He hadn’t invited her along: she wasn’t good enough for his friends, Mary surmised and, shrugging off a feeling of inadequacy and insult, had turned to Will in the knowledge that her life lay with him, a solid future.
August Bank Holiday had seen her and Will going by charabanc to Southend despite the weather, huddling together under a raincoat in the open vehicle but, like everyone else, in high spirits. Will had used a little of his hard-earned savings to take her. He was doing his best.
“I know I’m supposed to be saving up for us to get married,” he’d said. “But we do need the odd day or two off now and again.” Pity it had rained.
Nevertheless, it had been a good day sitting under the promenade shelters on the Marine Parade side of the pier, which they had agreed was too exposed to walk along, watching holiday-makers scurry by and poking fun at the few hardy souls braving the wet to put their toes in the briny once the tide came back to cover the miles of Southend mud. Will’s money had run to a plate of fish and chips eaten sitting at a table in a cafe, a cup of tea and an ice-cream, he saying it was time they ate in style. He had even made his cash stretch to a ticket inside the Kursall and they had taken a turn on one of the merry-go-rounds and the roller-coaster until Mary felt her fish and chips were in danger of coming up, that and the worsening rain putting paid to it all. But it had been fun, a small protest against a constant slim pocket.
To date she had enjoyed two other bits of excitement, both quite by accident and not costing a penny.
Firstly, one lunchtime, she and Will had been off at the same time and were having a wander towards Trafalgar Square to sit and watch the pigeons. They had found a huge crowd of protesters there, yelling and carrying on, demanding the release of nine councillors, newspapers having carried the scandal of their arrest for defying a court order to levy a rate on the people of Poplar who, though poor, already paid more than the average Londoner. It had been absorbing watching the police trying to soothe the crowd at the same time as arresting the noisiest and more truculent of the trouble-makers.
The second event had occurred two days after Geoffrey returned home. Again a crowd had formed, this one far pleasanter and only down the road in Piccadilly. Traffic had been held up as hundreds greeted the arrival of Charlie Chaplin at the Ritz. She and Will managed to creep out from work, along with several not directly in their immediate superior’s eye, for a hasty gallop down the road – this once-in-a-lifetime spectacle not to be missed if it could be helped – and a hasty gallop back to work after a glimpse of the famous face without its battered bowler and the famous flashing smile without its comical moustache.
She and Will came together on the perimeter of the crowd. Trying to crane her neck over a sea of trilby hats, she squealed as Will lifted her with his hands around her waist so that she could see better. But Chaplin was prominent enough, having got up on the seat of his open-topped motor car to doff his hat and wave it at his public. Elegantly dressed in a grey suit, wavy hair immaculately groomed, the small trim figure was obviously delighted to see so many come to welcome him, appeared almost surprised by it.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Mary was shrieking. “Ow… William, your hands are hurting my waist.”
As excited as she, he let her back down to the ground gratefully, eager himself to get a better glimpse of the great man. Beside him, Mary was jumping up and down, cheering and waving a handkerchief she’d produced from the short sleeve of her dress. “Mr Chaplin! Oo-ooh! Charlie!”
She had become so overwrought that William’s attention was taken from what was going on over the heads of the crowd.
“Isn’t it just absolutely wonderful?” she was squealing. “Don’t you think he’s so awfully marvellous?”
The words she was using suddenly struck him as false – “awfully”, “wonderful”, “marvellous” – gushing words he had never heard her utter before. Not at all like the Mary he knew. He smiled, mystified by these new turns of phrase, this new Mary.
“He’s only one man,” he understated deliberately, his own excitement forgotten, but she wasn’t listening.
“Charlie!” Her voice was carried away by the calling all around them. “Oh, Will, did you see? He looked at me. I think he saw me. Oh, darling, how divine! I’m sure he looked at me.”
An odd, dull sensation of despondency had come to settle in William’s breast. It wasn’t just the mannerisms she was using, it was the way she was beginning to dress, the hems creeping up above her calves lately to reveal a little too much leg – fine for the overtly fashionable rich, but on her it didn’t seem proper. And there was the way she was starting to act; almost as if she was aping them, those females on whom he waited, their conversation filling the restaurant with the self-same false, vastly overdone exclamations, where she had always had a mind of her own. Why? He was happy enough with her as she had been. He’d even told her that, but she’d laughed at him, asking why she shouldn’t try to keep up with the new fashion of shorter skirts. He had wanted to tell her it didn’t become her, but held back, not wanting to sound offensive. But he couldn’t help wondering about this need to change.
“Fancy seeing him in the flesh,” Mary was saying breathlessly as the great comic, with a final wave to the crowd, finally alighted from his motor to be ushered into the hotel. This was the Mary Owen whom Will knew, rather than one of the flighty young things she had been emulating only moments before. “I expect that’s why we’ve had a rash of Charlie Chaplin films lately.”
They had. Reruns of old films – The Vagabond, The Immigrant and Easy Street, all of which Will had taken her to see, since they didn’t cost too much.
It was hard for Mary to come down to earth after all the excitement.
“To think,” she continued to sigh, clinging to William’s arm as the crowd started to disperse, though quite a few stalwarts still lingered on in hopes of another glimpse of their hero, perhaps from one of the hotel balconies. “To think – me seeing Charlie Chaplin in the flesh. I still can’t believe it.”
As she spoke, something made her look to her left, some force or other. The eyes that had taken her attention from the spectacle of Charlie Chaplin in the flesh, she saw now, belonged to Geoffrey. He was standing a little removed from the main throng, apparently watching her.
Instantly Mary’s happiness fell away from her. Silent now, she gazed back, his eyes holding hers for a moment before he turned abruptly and moved off towards Letts.
“I don’t think we ought to loiter about any more,” Mary whispered, pulling at Will’s arm. “We ought to be going back. Been away too long.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he agreed. “There’s little else to see and we should both have been at our places.”
Together they hurried down the side street towards the restaurant, leaving behind a still sizeable, hopeful crowd. In the distance a cheer went up, indicating that the film star had graciously come out on to his balcony. Too late to turn back now. And she no longer had heart for it anyway.
In the quietness outside Letts she parted company with Will, he saying, “See you Sunday,” and she nodding a
bsently, only half hearing him.
Of Geoffrey there was no sign.
* * *
“Seen much of him while I’ve been away?” Geoffrey whispered, the rest of the office having made for home, grateful that tomorrow, Saturday, was only a half-day, the rest of the weekend theirs.
He had hovered in a passage out of sight for some while until nearly all the office had gone, hoping Mary might not be in too much hurry to be first to leave. He couldn’t know that she was deliberately lingering, certain that, after their exchange of glances, he would seek her out when the others had gone.
Until then he had made himself scarce, poring over the catering accounts with Samson; checking the stores – to Chef’s suppressed annoyance, for there had been no need for checks; making the same nuisance of himself with his maitre d’; prolonging conversation with the lunch guests he recognised and who were mostly happy to chat with him and enjoy his fine repertoire of pithy jokes. All that in an effort to keep away from Mary’s workplace.
Now he had come into the empty office to pose his question.
She moved awkwardly past him, going for her hat on its hook behind the door. “Who?” she asked inadequately. She knew who.
“That Goodridge chap you keep company with.”
Gathering her hat from the peg, Mary gave a little smile with more embarrassment than warmth in it.
“Does he yet know about us?” he went on.
She hadn’t put on her hat, was standing between him and the door, not moving, not looking at him. “I haven’t told him.”
“Is that because you feel something for him, or because you don’t think I’m serious?”
“A bit of both, I suppose.”
It sounded like defiance, a challenge. He needed to take up the gauntlet, know where he stood.
“Do you want to call it a day – you and I?”
