by Annie Murray
From that morning on, we were inseparable.
My life changed when I got to know her. We were besotted with each other in the way young girls can be. Both of us had been lonely and needed someone to talk to. We loved each other’s company. At home there was only William, and sometimes Angus from next door. Marjorie Mantel and Celia Oakley were pale substitutes for such a friend. I felt butterflies of excitement in my stomach at the thought of seeing Olivia. She was above all things lovable, and for that you could forgive her a great deal.
As well as being in the same class she lived less than half a mile away from us. We’d sit in her huge bedroom on Park Hill, its bay windows letting in sheets of sunlight, happy for hours, talking and laughing together. Often I don’t think we even knew why we were laughing. It was just pleasure in being together.
I loved that room. It was such a pretty, girlish place, stuffed full of things: a flowery chair on which dolls and teddies and other animals snuggled together, their glass eyes or button replacements peering out between each other’s furry limbs, a grand doll’s house on a table, her shelf stuffed with books and her cupboard and drawers full of pretty, feminine clothes. We weren’t allowed pets at home, but they even let Olivia keep her two budgerigars in her room, and they flapped around and rang their little bell in a cage near the window.
‘Don’t they keep you awake?’ I asked her.
‘No, silly. I cover them up and they go to sleep on their perches.’ Even this made us laugh.
Best of all, though, was Olivia’s little dressing table with its dainty drawers, its embroidered mats on the top and its bright, slanting looking-glass. The ones in our house looked as if someone had gone over them with sandpaper and they made your face look squiffy. The top of the dressing table was covered with all her pretty things, her silver-plated brush and comb, her jewellery box from which tumbled a muddle of hairslides and combs, necklaces, rings, and a little woven basket with a few of Elizabeth Kemp’s discarded lipsticks and powder compacts. She had perfume and ribbons, she had cushions on the bed and pretty prints on the walls of flower fairies and some chubby children playing with a spaniel pup.
My own room was comfortable enough, but very plain. Candlewick bedspread, my old doll and my favourite teddy, Bosey. A small table, books . . . And usually the only other rooms I saw were William’s, which was very dull, and Angus’s, with his model aeroplanes everywhere and the smell of adhesive. Olivia’s room seemed a place of enchantment.
And she made me feel like a girl.
‘Come on, Katie,’ she’d say. ‘Let’s make ourselves up.’ She’d daub my face with rouge and powder, pencil in wobbly lines along my eyebrows and smooth on lipstick with a flourish. Then I’d do her, once she’d taught me how. My mother never wore make-up, except the odd dab of powder which she applied as a kind of nervous habit like some people smoked cigarettes.
Then we’d sit squeezed side by side on the silky-seated stool in front of Olivia’s toilet mirror, our faces close together, admiring the effects we’d created. At other times we did clown faces. Or Livy would just paint her lips thickly with scarlet, and pout and roll her eyes at the glass until we were both laughing so much we couldn’t paint anything straight.
We played the piano together. We helped each other with our prep from school. Although she was usually top of the class I was sometimes able to help her, especially with arithmetic, which boosted my confidence no end because William was always held up as the one with the brains.
And most importantly, I could tell Livy anything.
‘You’re so lucky having a brother,’ she said to me wistfully one day.
‘No I’m not. I hate him.’
‘You don’t.’
‘All right. Not hate. But he’s such a smug boots. He’s always got to have done something marvellous all the time. He has to be best. And he’s smug to Angus too, and Angus is really good at some things and much kinder than William.’
‘Well I think it’s nice. Much better than being the only one all the time, like me.’
But I felt that being on your own would be quite all right if you had parents like Olivia’s: a beautiful, sweet mother like Elizabeth Kemp with her soft, blond looks, and Alec Kemp. The amazing, glorious Alec Kemp. He was the most exciting man I had ever met. For the first time in my life he and Olivia made me feel pretty. Since I met the Kemps I felt I had become a different person: more appreciated and contented than I had been since I was a very small child.
Chapter 2
I remember the shiny perfection of that day.
The Onion Fair – and with Olivia and Alec Kemp! We sat in the back of his Bentley, every line of it sleek and gleaming, singing, ‘We’re going to the fair, the fair, the fair,’ to the tune of ‘The cat’s got the measles . . .’
‘I want to go on everything!’ Olivia cried, bouncing excitedly in her seat as we swept towards the centre of Birmingham.
‘Oh, I expect we can arrange that,’ Alec said easily from the driver’s seat. The two of us shivered and giggled with delight.
Olivia was wearing a very pretty dress in cream broderie anglaise, a matching strip of the material holding back her wild hair. My dress was of course much plainer and more ‘serviceable’ as Mummy would say, in blue and white gingham. But I did have a beautiful tortoiseshell slide to fasten my hair, which Livy had given me. She was forever giving me things.
She peered out of the window. ‘Are we going past the factory, Daddy?’
‘No,’ Alec Kemp replied, steering the huge, smooth-running car along the cobbled streets. He had a deep voice and was proud of his Birmingham accent. ‘No need today. We’re going out for some fun, aren’t we, girls?’
I stared at the back of his neck, the dark brown hair cut in a precise line above his white collar and beautifully tailored suit. It was a surprisingly sober suit for his tastes, in grey worsted. He seemed so much bigger than my father, who always had a stooped look as if other people’s problems were actually fixed heavy on his shoulders. Alec Kemp stood very tall and he was jaunty, engaging, with large brown eyes and a vivacious face.
People turned to stare at us as the Bentley eased to a standstill at the edge of the Serpentine ground in Perry Barr. The two of us must have looked very small sitting on the plush back seats, peering out eagerly, our feet not touching the floor. Most people came to the fairground by bus or tram, but we were arriving with Councillor Kemp.
‘Will people recognize him?’ I whispered.
‘Of course.’
Of course. Pictures in the Mail and Gazette, always immaculately dressed in expensive suits with suave, black hats, or clad in vivid Prince of Wales checks. He would smile genially from the photographs, his image of himself carefully presented.
‘Will you have your picture in the papers today?’ I couldn’t resist asking him.
‘We’ll have to see,’ he said. ‘I could have my photograph taken with my daughter and her lovely friend perhaps?’
I squirmed with pleasure. Alec Kemp had a way of making you feel like a princess in gold slippers, even if you knew you really looked more like one of the pumpkins.
The fairground was already packed and milling with people. As we walked from the car we could hear shouting and screams of laughter from some of the rides, the throb of hot engines driving the roundabouts and a band playing. Everywhere we looked was a blur of curved, coloured movement: merry-go-rounds turning and the twirl of dancing skirts and lights flashing on the machines and sideshows. And smells: a delicious mixture of potatoes baking, fried onions, cigarettes and sweat and the sharp whiff of blue smoke from the engines overlaid by sweetness of candyfloss.
‘Don’t get lost now, girls,’ Alec said. ‘I’d have one heck of a job finding you again in this throng.’ With his pipe jutting from the side of his mouth he took our hands and I felt the smallness of my hand in his huge palm. I was almost bursting with pride. As we walked along he smiled and raised his hat to people, took his pipe out of his mouth, loosing us each
time and then reaching for our hands again. The smell of his tobacco smoke wafted down to us. I looked up at the tall, athletic figure beside me. I saw women of all ages blushing as he smiled and spoke to them.
One young woman approached him, smiled coyly and said, ‘Aft’noon, Mr Kemp.’ And Alec replied, ‘Good day, Violet.’ She walked away giggling with her friend, casting backward glances over her shoulder.
‘How does she know you?’ Olivia asked.
‘She’s from the works,’ he told her.
Alec Kemp was one of Birmingham’s darlings. Born and educated in the city, he had won his way to grammar school and become a self-made man without ever leaving the place. He had taken over his father’s mediocre firm and used it to prove himself. Kemp’s was squeezed into a plot of land behind Birch Street, near the heart of Birmingham, round which were crushed streets of grimy dwellings, and tiny workshops and chimneys pouring out black smoke into the already speckled air. But Alec’s reward for economic prowess had been to move from the terrace in Sparkhill where he grew up, to one of the huge, ornate houses gracing the streets of middle-class Moseley. And this was considered quite fitting for a young, successful man so obviously destined to become one of the city’s aldermen, and particularly one who had taken the condition of the city’s housing so much to heart. He had already completed a successful campaign to demolish one of the decaying blocks of Victorian slums in the Birch Street area and build innovatory flats to house the occupants. His campaign slogan was ‘Prosperity and Responsibility’.
And it’s Livy and me who are with him, I thought. No one else. I felt more presentable than usual, wearing that frock instead of the cut-down pair of William’s shorts that Mummy so often dressed me in. If only I didn’t have to wear my ugly specs . . .
Alec treated us to everything that afternoon. ‘Here, you’d love a go on this,’ and ‘Come on girls, I remember this one from when I was a kid.’ He lengthened his stride towards the biggest merry-go-round with the horses gliding up and down so high above us, its banner reading ‘Rides for Young and Old’.
‘I wish Daddy was like your father,’ I said excitedly to Olivia. ‘He’d never spend money on things like this.’
Olivia grinned mischievously. ‘He’s all work, work, work. That’s no fun, is it?’
My father was forever working, busy with his patients or in the study. Reading, writing: Christian ethics, papers on improving the health of the nation. His work as a doctor and his Christian Socialist principles didn’t leave him much time for leisure. Quite unlike this glamorous, thrilling, all-providing Father Christmas who was Olivia’s father. No wonder Elizabeth Kemp adored him so. How could you not envy her, being married to such a man? Largesse flowed from his fingers, pouring out over the whole city.
The horses slowed suddenly, people climbing down before they had stopped, and it was our turn. We rode together on one of the painted horses, knees gripping the cool smooth flanks. I sat behind, my arms tight round Olivia’s waist, and her hands gripped the twisted metal pole. We laughed and screamed to the loud music. ‘I’m flying!’ I shrieked, and Olivia just giggled and giggled.
He took us on the helter-skelter and the Big Bens, the steam yachts which swung up until they were at right angles to the ground, leaving your stomach behind as they came down again with everyone screaming. We laughed our way helplessly along the shuddering cake walk. He bought us hot potatoes, balloons, furry stickfuls of candyfloss.
‘It’s like eating knitting,’ I said cheekily, and Alec lunged for it, teasing me. ‘All right. If you’re going to be fussy, I’ll have it!’
But Olivia stopped suddenly, taking in the sight of one of the traction engines which pulled the trailers, right in front of us. It was a brilliant emerald green, the sunlight catching its polished brass funnel.
‘I’ve got to go on one of those!’ she cried and, candyfloss still in hand, she dashed across the dry ground, wisps of her hair and her cream skirt flying behind her. I followed, letting go of Alec Kemp’s hand, scared for a moment by her impulsiveness. Only days ago I’d watched her climb the parapet of a little bridge over the River Cole, scrambling up, shouting triumphant, then falling. She was unhurt but wet and scared. But she could make you frightened for her. Sometimes I wished I could tie her down. I felt staid and solid beside her.
‘That’s not a ride, Olivia!’ Alec shouted. He strode after us. ‘Come back. You’ll get lost.’
But she was already standing next to the majestic machine. She had to have what she wanted. By the time he reached her she was already climbing up into it. We could hear its throb, the power of it. She was chatting to the men working the engine, who smiled back, captivated but bemused, caps on heads and their hands black with grease.
‘We’ve told her we can’t move it, sir.’ One of them climbed down to speak to Alec Kemp, who raised his hat to him. ‘Not now, in this crowd.’
‘That’s quite all right. She shouldn’t be up there,’ Alec replied. I saw him slip coins into the man’s hand. ‘Thank you.’
That was the one cross moment. I had seen the panic in his face as Olivia dived into the crowd. Now he gripped her so hard that she yelped. When he let go there was a pink, suffusing mark on her arm.
‘You must never go off like that again, you silly girl. D’you hear?’ I could hear the anger like needles in his voice. ‘Now stay close to me all the time or you’ll get into trouble.’
Olivia stared at the ground, lower lip thrust out. I could tell she was near tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a little high voice. ‘But it was so exciting.’
‘Never mind, princess.’ Alec recovered quickly and swung her up into his arms for a moment. ‘Daddy doesn’t want to be cross. Come on. Let’s go and find something else you can have a go on.’
The photograph was taken after one of our merry-go-round rides. A young fellow with sticking-out teeth and a badly fitting suit approached us with his camera. ‘Councillor Kemp, I’m from the Gazette. Could I trouble you for a picture?’
‘Of course. It’s no trouble, is it girls?’ He smiled amiably. Courtesy to everyone, he maintained, was the trick. He was a great one for presenting the right image. ‘Would you like the girls in as well?’
‘That’ll be a treat,’ the young man said, squinting into his lens. ‘Stand nice and close together now.’
We were both still alight with the thrill of it, standing warm together, arms wrapped round each other’s back, utterly friends and absolutely happy.
The picture made the evening edition.
* * *
OLIVIA
They moved the piano forward in the drawing room, left music open on it and a vase of huge chrysanths on the top, which spread a heavy scent through the room.
‘Don’t make me,’ I begged Mummy. ‘Please. I don’t want to, I can’t.’
‘Oh, Olivia.’ Mummy knelt down beside me immediately. Her face was white. She implored me with her eyes. She had to make me, had to, for him. ‘Daddy’s so proud of you. Do it for him, please, my darling. You must do things for Daddy to make him happy.’
She put her arms round me. She was so thin and pale. I could smell her cologne. ‘Please Olivia, my pretty darling. You’re so clever.’
She cupped my face in her hands, stared into my eyes and she was frightened, I knew. She stroked my hair as if I were a pony. I had no choice. I was only ten and they expected me to play in front of all those people: councillors, aldermen, even MPs like Neville Chamberlain.
‘We’ll ask Kate to come along and keep you company,’ Mummy said.
It was 1931, the summer leading up to the formation of the National Government. They were all smug and expectant, of course, much talk of the eclipse of Socialism, Ramsay MacDonald having fluffed it. Waiting like vampires to do their duty for King and Country.
Daddy held a party, which meant giving orders for a marquee, terracotta pots with cascades of geraniums and busy Lizzies spilling from them like blood, lanterns strung between pos
ts in the garden for when dusk came, and days of frenzied preparation of food. Mummy was pretty and charming but she was a draper’s daughter. She had a little green book called How to Entertain, and kept it by her bed like a Gideon Bible. The responsibility made her eyes bulge. It took away her sleep.
I went to talk to Lady and King, my budgerigars. They were in my bedroom. I was allowed them there as long as I kept them clean. Lady was an unpromising-looking creature, pale sulphur colour with a smudge of green down one wing. King, though, looked perfectly splendid. A green-patterned bird, he lived up to his name, mottled with black and majestic. But they were such mute birds. They made sounds but they didn’t speak. I wanted them to talk to me.
Sometimes I got angry with them. ‘Say something. Speak, will you? Say, “Pretty Livy.” Don’t just sit there looking stupid like that!’
They’d chatter together sometimes, harsh, shocking outbursts of noise like dried beans falling on lino, but usually when I wasn’t in the room. I’d listen from outside, hearing them gossiping, confiding things between them or fighting over the seed. They fluttered around in a frenzy, pattering their droppings down on the floor of the cage for me to clear up. When I went in they’d go silent suddenly, as if I was interrupting something.
It was like that that morning. As I climbed the soft, red stair carpet, I could hear them chirruping from the other end of the corridor. I tiptoed, my feet making no sound. I stepped over the raised, creaky board on the dark landing, knowing exactly where it was. I even held my breath when I reached the long strip of light by my bedroom door. They were hopping round the circular cage, chatting like an old couple reminiscing. Cosy, it was. I stood at the door listening, feeling angry. One of them rang the little bell I’d hung in there for them. They hopped and fanned with their wings.
Slowly and silently I slid into the room. They didn’t see me at first. When my shape and movement came to their attention they stopped. They sat quite still, watching me warily, like they always did.
