One of the Family

by Maggie Ford

  “My God, man! I don’t want that now. Take the thing away.”

  “I do beg your pardon, madam,” William said a little too tersely. After all, the broken end of fish hadn’t touched the table, merely hung over the rim of the plate, if dangerously close to the cloth. Quickly he leaned forward, and with a deft touch of the serving fork and spoon, in a split second had tipped the offending piece of fish neatly back to the centre of the plate.

  The woman’s voice rose to a shriek.

  “What do you think you are doing? Do you expect me to eat this now it has been manhandled by you, you silly man? Fetch me your head waiter.”

  William straightened. “I’m very sorry, madam.”

  It didn’t come out as it should have. It was terse. He could hear it himself. He was letting his private feelings show, something unforgivable in any waiter. He was expected to be cheerful and willing without being too servile, but somehow sharpness had crept into his reply, and all that kept going through his head was: Stupid woman, making such a bloody fuss about a piece of broken fish. A bit of money, they think themselves God’s own neighbours.

  He caught himself retorting, “There’s nothing wrong with it, madam.” Unforgivable.

  “Nothing…? Nothing…” The middle-aged, lightly made-up cheeks began to flare under their dusting of face powder. “How dare you – a mere employee of this establishment – address me in that way? Never have I been spoken to so rudely in all my life, and from a waiter! I wish to see the maitre d’hôtel. Immediately. I wish to see Mr Henderson. Or Mr Lett, if he is about.”

  Fortunately, so William thought as his heart pounded rapidly enough to make him feel somewhat sick, neither Lett brother was about. Even so, rudeness to a customer, especially such an important customer as Mrs Alfred Lambert, would not go without punishment, even dismissal. He dared not think about it.

  Mr Henderson was already at his side, his hands clasped in readiness to humble himself before his valued customer and apologise profusely, taking the blame upon himself for allowing one of his staff to make her ill at ease and, perhaps, spoil her whole day. But first he snarled at William from the comer of his mouth, none other but William hearing or seeing, “Get out! Now!”

  * * *

  William stood in the small office off the kitchen while Henderson, the maitre d’hôtel, confronted him with a cold blue stare, having already prepared his dressing-down.

  “What the bloody hell did you think you was doing?” A voice vastly different to the well-spoken accent he presented to his customers. “I want no explanations,” he continued as William attempted to speak. “And I don’t intend to give you no prior warning. Your station head waiter was watching the bloody mess you was getting yourself into this evening. We can’t have it. Not from no one. And certainly not from someone he’s been trying to train up. Well, you took advantage and I want no excuses. You’re out, Goodridge. Out on your bloody ear. This place ain’t going to lose it’s good name over one damned stupid waiter. You can draw what’s owing to you. It’s a shame. You was shaping up good and all. But uncalled-for rudeness we won’t tolerate.”

  William felt desperation flowing over him, worse even than that he’d felt while waiting for his telling-off. All along he had guessed his conduct would call for no less than dismissal, but now it was coming about, he saw all his ambitions lying in ruins – those which Mary had not already ground into the dirt, and he still couldn’t believe that news, let alone this.

  “I’m very very sorry, Mr Henderson.” Was he reduced to begging the man? “It won’t happen again. I’ve got a deep private worry—”

  “I don’t care about your bloody deep private worry,” interrupted Henderson. “This is a job, Goodridge, what calls for acting. Like actors on a stage. The show must go on. What would happen to the audience if an actor showed he was grieving or something? It’s his job to keep his audience’s interest in the play or whatever, not stand there airing his bloody personal feelings and grudges and worries. You’ve upset a valued customer and I won’t have it. I don’t care what you’re upset about. How do I know it won’t happen again, the next time you feel a bit put out?”

  “I swear it won’t happen again.” It hit him hard, this having to plead, worse as Henderson gave an acid chuckle.

  “I ain’t going to give it a chance to. I’m sorry, Goodridge, this was too serious to let go of. I’m dismissing you.”

  There was no point arguing. Besides, he had his pride. He was aware of faces watching him from the kitchen as he made his departure, and was sure that among them was the head chef with his grinning features. He would not look back to see. He heard the rear door close after him to keep out the March wind as he walked away. Without warning he was a man without a job, one more added to the lengthening dole queues, and without even a reference; a man betrayed by the girl he thought had loved him; a man full of grief at what she had done – if it was true – and, if it was true, hating her, the world, and himself.

  * * *

  It was true. Mary had married one of the Lett brothers. Geoffrey Lett. The man had pursued her, courted her, flattered her until he had turned her head and then had married her. Will didn’t need to be told all this. Silence from Mary was all he needed. If only she’d had the courtesy to write to him, he would perhaps have forgiven her. But not a word. He could understand her falling in love with someone other than him. It happened. Some of the anger – it had not even really been anger, he told himself – had diminished, though it wasn’t easy not to feel pain. If only she had written and explained. Surely she must have known she owed him that.

  * * *

  It was proving so difficult trying to write this letter, as though each stroke of the pen was being imbedded into her own flesh.

  She sat by her bureau in the flat Geoffrey had got her. It was so quiet here, overlooking the trees in the park, the street below hardly trodden by feet and only the occasional motor car passing by. It was a beautifully furnished flat – a pied-a-terre, Geoffrey had called it, because he said that they would eventually find themselves a lovely house, and meantime this would be their love nest.

  But Geoffrey wasn’t here at the moment. He was at his mother’s home in Essex – perhaps telling her about their marriage, Mary hoped, letting her down lightly because he’d said she wouldn’t be too pleased about not being told beforehand and would feel left out. So now, while she was on her own, was the time to write to William to try to explain the suddenness of her actions.

  It wasn’t my fault, she had written. I was taken by surprise as much as anyone. Moments later, because the words struck her as so hackneyed, she had torn it up and started afresh.

  The second attempt was no better. Now she sat before another clean sheet, staring down at it, her mind seething with words to say yet blank to all those she ought to be saying.

  She hadn’t told Geoffrey she was writing to William. She’d mentioned that she ought to but he had advised against it.

  “You’ll only be rubbing salt into the wound,” he’d said. “That’s if there’s any wound to rub salt into.”

  At the time it had echoed her own opinion that she and William had hardly been what people might call going steady, even though they been going out together for quite some time. They hadn’t even become engaged, and if she was truthful she had never felt anywhere near engaged. William was a lovely person, gentle and kind; the girl he eventually married would have a husband in a million, but if the love she felt for him had been the same as that which she now felt for Geoffrey, she would have waited. There had been a spark at one time, but with talk of marriage always being put off, that spark hadn’t really developed into a flame. Yet she had loved William in a way, and probably, if Geoffrey hadn’t come along…

  Mary quickly bent her head over the new sheet of paper and began rapidly to pen more words, but then studied what she’d written and with an explosive breath of irritation snatched up the expensive blue bond to screw it into a stiff ball and drop it among the rest
of the spoiled paper in the little wickerwork waste-paper basket at her feet.

  “Oh, William. What do I say to you?” she asked of yet another fresh sheet. “How do I explain all this and not hurt you? I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She was going to have to tell him sometime. She owed him that. But how do you vindicate a step that can only cause pain to another? And how many excuses are enough to take away the pain of rejection? Yet not writing or confronting him, wasn’t that worse? How must he be feeling right now, not hearing from her, or worse, hearing it all from someone else?

  Gripping the fountain pen hard, she withdrew another clean sheet of paper from its shelf and bent her head to apply herself to the task in hand, this time with more determination.

  Dear William…

  The pen seemed to stop as of its own accord. The words she had been about to write now sounded so trite that Mary flung the pen down in fury. On impact, a shiny blob of rich blue-black ink leaked from the nib like a thick exclamation mark straight across the word “Dear”.

  “I can’t!” she cried aloud to the quiet flat. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Anything she said would only make matters worse. It all happened so quickly. How would that help to assauge hurt pride, sense of loss, of losing the girl you love to another man, being defeated by him? I was so carried away by all that happened to me. How charming it would be to read such a statement.

  But she had been carried away, or had let herself be carried away, dazzled by the marvels she had been shown, dazzled by Geoffrey’s attentions – and then, just as she’d been laid low, realising herself pregnant, he’d come to her rescue, had married her, gallant and loving, and she had desired him. And now, all full of remorse towards the man she had betrayed, what words could soften that blow she was surely delivering to William’s stomach?

  Geoffrey had said that what was done was done and nothing could undo it. But he wasn’t the one who had to tell the man whose back she had stabbed about her new-found love. Any apology could only be an insult.

  Sadly she gave up trying. Perhaps tomorrow she’d find the words.

  * * *

  William sat at home that third day with no motivation to go looking for work, under his mother’s feet as she went about her housework. She had told him it was no good mooning about. She had liked Mary but on reflection had always felt a little sneaky concern regarding her.

  “Too ambitious, that one,” she said. “I always felt she’d finally go flitting off to new pastures. You just ’ave ter put it all behind you, love. Pull yerself together and look for work. There must be something out there for you.”

  It all went over his head, or rather he closed his mind to it, for he had no stomach for his mother’s truths about Mary. He sank his nose deeper into the News Chronicle which his father had forgotten to take with him to work and made no reply. His mother didn’t even notice.

  “It’s not as if you ain’t got a trade, love.” Busy sweeping the parlour lino ready for mopping, she tapped his feet with the broom and he lifted them up so she could manoevre it beneath them. “I do wish you’d get out from under my feet. I know you was dismissed for being rude to a customer, but I expect the stuck-up old bitch deserved it. They think they’ve every right, but waiters are people too. You don’t ’ave to ’ave a reference for every blessed restaurant. It weren’t as if you was dishonest. Some place will take you on. And your dad’s making enquiries at his firm as well, so don’t lose heart, son. Something’ll turn up soon. Though it won’t if you don’t go looking. It ain’t going to leap into your lap on its own.”

  William just let her chatter on. Whether it turned up or not, he had no heart to stir himself looking. But what did turn up he wasn’t at all prepared for. Around lunchtime the following day there came a knock at the door.

  “Probably the insurance man,” said his mother. “Go and answer it for me, love, while I go and get me purse.”

  He took his time about putting aside the crossword he’d been doing in yesterday’s News Chronicle, his father having remembered to take this morning’s with him, and eventually his mother tutted impatiently and went to the door herself. She came back, her expression concerned, behind her a figure whom William could not discern in the darkness of the windowless passage.

  “Will, love, it’s… it’s your boss.”

  Will looked from her to the shadowy shape. “My boss?”

  “One of ’em.”

  The figure detached itself from the gloom of the passage and William drew in a sharp breath. “Mr Lett.”

  Henry Lett stepped forward. He held his trilby in his hand, and it gave him such a humble appearance that William’s first thoughts flew to Mary. For Henry Lett to come here, it could only be bad news. His heart began to race sickeningly at Henry Lett’s opening words.

  “William, I hope you don’t mind this intrusion.”

  He wasn’t listening. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing is wrong, William.” Unlike all others at Letts, he called all his lesser employees by their first name. “Except that I haven’t been at the restaurant for a few days, so I had no idea you had been dismissed.”

  Nothing about Mary, at least nothing grievous. Relief was like a flood of warmth through his veins. His mind more rational, he supposed the man had probably taken pity on him and intended giving him a reference after all. Henry Lett was a fair-minded man in all things. Though why the need to come in person? Guilt? Well he could stick his guilt where it hurt most. As William felt at this moment, dismissed out of hand, his pride wounded, he wouldn’t lower himself to doff a cap and take Letts’ reference if it was handed him on a gold platter. He would get by without it, thank you very much!

  “I was dismayed to hear what happened,” Henry Lett was saying. “I’ve had my eye on you, William, as worthy of promotion in time.”

  Well, he was too late. William’s lips tightened as he stared out the man. His mother was begging Mr Lett to sit himself down, and asking would he like a cup of tea, in response to which invitation their guest expressed his thanks but said he would have to be on his way as soon as he had finished talking to her son. Looking disappointed, she left them alone, their visitor coming straight to the point.

  “To make it brief, William, I’m here to apologise for the way in which you were dismissed. You’re a good worker, always cheerful and willing, and I know you are spoken well of by many of our customers. It must have been something very important for you lose sight of yourself the other evening. Although” – a wry twitch stretched the right corner of his broad lips – “I happen to know of that particular lady. Bit of a battle-axe – and a bit of a snob – who doesn’t realise that my father knew of her beginnings…” Catching himself verging on tittle-tattling, his lips straightened then softened again. “You have my sympathy, William.” Now he became completely sombre.

  “I’ve come here firstly to say that I want to offer you your position back, as I highly value your work. And also, since I imagine the reason for your conduct must have been quite serious, to ask if there is any way in which I can help.”

  William was flabbergasted; could only shake his head violently. He had no desire to display his private woes to the world, least of all Mr Lett. But the man could not leave, having seen the bleakness that lay in the gesture.

  “May I hazard a guess?” he asked, and, without waiting for a response, continued, “I believe you were walking out with a certain young lady, Mary Owen.” Again he did not pause for a reply. “I take it you heard about she and my brother, and that the subsequent shock would have been behind your quite uncharacteristic attitude the other day. Did she give you no warning, by letter perhaps?”

  William shook his head glumly, glad his mother wasn’t in the room to witness this tearing down of his resolve.

  Henry Lett’s expression had become full of concern, though in some odd way it did not seem to be entirely directed at Will as he went on speaking.

  “It was a shock. To
me, to all of us. My mother is devastated. He said nothing of what he was about to do. And I… My dear man, I know how you are feeling. I’m ashamed to say that you and my brother weren’t the only ones to feel a particular attraction towards Mary Owen. Though knowing that you and she… Had it been me, I wouldn’t have taken her from you, William. Had it been me, I’d have hoped that in time you and she might have decided you were not destined for each other after all, leaving the way clear for the honourable attentions of another. I’m afraid my brother had no such qualms. He and she were already—”

  “He had no damned right!” William broke in, making no effort to curb the outburst. “I’m sorry, Mr Lett, I have to say it. He had no damned right. Mary was my girl. He knew that. He must have known. She would have told him.”

  But would she? He fell silent, knowing that she obviously hadn’t, and his bitterness deepened.

  The silence between the two men was beginning to stretch to breaking point. It was William who broke it, his heart now truly on his sleeve, his misery complete for having given tongue to it.

  “It doesn’t matter whether she told him or not. They’re married now. I can only wish her happiness, that’s all. I can see how a girl’s head can be turned by a good-looking, well-off chap like him. If it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else rich, I expect. But I never thought she was that kind of girl, to go after money. It just shows how wrong you can be.” This last he said with deep acrimony.

  He saw Henry chew at his lip, as though arriving at a painful decision. “Please, don’t blame her. I think she would have gone back to you if it hadn’t been for… William, I think you deserve to be told the truth. The truth is, Mary had to get married.”

  “Had?” The word did not entirely penetrate.

  “Surely you know what I’m saying.” It appeared difficult for Henry to form the words, as if he were being forced to eat a handful of salt.