The Lily-White Boys

by Anthea Fraser

  Sid, on the other hand, was delighted when they started calling him ‘Pop’ and taking him along to matches when Shillingham played at home. At least, Doris reflected now, his presence kept them out of trouble; they’d been involved in brawls at the ground more than once. Football was all they could talk about, and Sid was as bad when he was with them. It got on her nerves sometimes.

  ‘They’ll probably go straight to work now,’ he added, looking at the clock on the wall.

  ‘They can’t, can they? Their ladders are still out the back.’

  ‘Well then, since they’ll have to look in anyway, it mightn’t hurt to fry ’em a rasher or two, eh, love? They’ll need something inside them to start the day.’

  Doris threw him one of her looks and, picking up the Hoover, pointedly left the room.

  Randall Tovey’s was arguably the best known fashion store in Broadshire. Founded by Monica’s grandfather during the First World War, it had started life as a small dress shop in Duke Street catering for the fashion-conscious middle classes. Tovey himself had been a quiet, unassuming man, and while proud of his brainchild and its success, he was content with the small niche it occupied and had no plans to expand it.

  His son, however, was of a different mould. Innovative and ambitious, his acute business brain saw possibilities which Randall had never dreamed of. At first his father tried to put brakes on his schemes, alarmed at the apparent risks Humphrey was taking. But gradually, as the plans took effect and the small shop began to flourish as never before, he relaxed and gave the boy his head.

  He never regretted it. Under Humphrey’s direction they moved to new premises in East Parade, Shillingham’s premier shopping area, at the same time dropping the cheaper lines to which, by way of insurance, Randall had clung, and stocking designer clothes from Paris and Rome as well as the better British houses.

  The store was Humphrey’s life, and one of his great disappointments was that he had no sons to follow him. He tended to judge all females by his wife, whom he adored but who had no business sense whatever. None the less, her slim figure and unerring sense of fashion were in themselves good advertisements, and, having assumed his daughters would also be mere showcases, he was disconcerted rather than otherwise when Monica announced her intention of joining the firm.

  Nor was it a passing fancy. He’d been first touched and then astounded by her determination to prove herself, studying fashion design and buying techniques with passionate intensity, taking business management courses and giving up her evenings to night-school while Eloise danced and flirted her way through her teens.

  Humphrey’d been aware, though, that no amount of dedication would make up for that instinctive eye for style which was an essential requirement, and when his daughter displayed this in full measure, his relief was profound. Monica had as many new ideas to put before him as he’d had for his own father. At her instigation they diversified into luxury lingerie, then model hats, shoes, belts and handbags, so that an entire outfit might be purchased at the same time. The fame and prestige of the store grew steadily, achieving an eminence undreamed of by its founder, and by the time of Humphrey’s own death the previous year it had become one of the leading fashion stores in the country.

  Nor did it suffer the indignity of having its name abbreviated; the complacent remark, ‘I bought it at Randall Tovey’s,’ was as much an indication of the buyer’s standing as that of the store.

  An integral part of the firm was Miss Hermione Tulip. Now in her seventies, she was a familiar figure with her well-cut silver hair and heavily applied make-up. Tall, thin, extremely elegant and unvaryingly dressed in black, she had an unerring eye for personal style, and there were many who refused to buy an outfit without her approval.

  That morning she was, as always, awaiting Monica’s arrival in the central foyer of the store. This was both the heart of the building and the prospective buyer’s first glimpse of it, and much thought had been given to its ambience. Logs burned throughout the winter in its fireplace, and now a massive vase of lilacs screened the grate. And here, perhaps most important of all, was Miss Tulip’s desk, so that she was on hand to offer a personal welcome to each caller.

  ‘The Duchess’s secretary telephoned,’ she reported now, handing Monica her mail. ‘Lady Henrietta’s wedding date has been fixed, and Her Grace would like a few outfits sent to Beckworth House to chose from.’

  ‘Well, you know her size, Tulie,’ Monica said absently, flicking through the envelopes. ‘May I leave it to you?’

  ‘Of course. And though nothing was mentioned for Her Ladyship, I thought we might send up the de Franzi wedding gown, too. It would suit her admirably.’

  ‘By all means.’

  It was 9.20, ten minutes before the doors opened to the public, and from the tea-room behind the ivy-twined columns came the smell of freshly ground coffee. Anticipating her own cup, Monica walked up the wide, shallow staircase to her office.

  Abbie Marlow was seated at the kitchen table, chin in hand, watching her mother tossing the salad for their lunch. She’d been excused school this week in order to revise for her O-levels and had wandered down from her room in search of sustenance.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Claudia asked, setting the large wooden bowl on the table.

  Abbie pulled a face. ‘Boring. After next month, I’ll never open another history book as long as I live! I hope you’re impressed by my willpower,’ she added, pulling the bowl towards her and ladling salad on to her plate. ‘For two pins I’d ditch the lot and go out and play tennis.’

  ‘I’m most impressed, but it will be worth it in the long run.’

  ‘But I need an incentive now,’ Abbie said, ‘a reward for all the slogging.’ She brightened. ‘How about the cinema this evening – something to look forward to?’

  ‘Oh, darling, I can’t; we’re going to the Teals’ for dinner. I thought I told you.’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, never mind, I’ll phone Mandy.’ She licked some vinaigrette off her finger. ‘Don’t you ever feel awkward, spending so much time with the Teals?’

  ‘Awkward?’ Claudia repeated blankly.

  ‘Well, she was engaged to Daddy once, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Good heavens, that was years ago – before I even met him.’

  ‘All the same, I know I wouldn’t like to be always hobnobbing with my husband’s ex.’

  ‘But that’s not how I think of Eloise. She’s my friend as much as Daddy’s.’

  Abbie shrugged, conceding the point. ‘Any news of Theo?’ she asked casually.

  Her mother hid a smile. ‘Not lately.’

  ‘I wonder if they’ll be having a garden party again this summer. If they do, wangle me an invite, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can; but he’s a sophisticated young man, darling. You’d be better with someone nearer your own age.’

  ‘Meaning he won’t notice me any more than he did last year?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Oh well, I can dream, can’t I?’ She put down her knife and fork. ‘Back to the grindstone. Thanks for lunch.’ And she was gone.

  But Claudia sat for several minutes, turning the pepper mill in her fingers. She’d almost forgotten Harry was once engaged to Eloise. Did he ever have regrets? Or did she? It was a thought that hadn’t occurred to her in twenty years, and she found it disturbing.

  CHAPTER 2

  During her busy day Monica had forgotten about the broken-down van, and was surprised on arriving home to find it still outside the house. She perforce drew up behind it and got out of the car, frowning. From its appearance, no one had been near it all day. She jotted down its registration number, and as soon as she entered the house, phoned the police station at the top of the hill.

  ‘Sergeant Penrose? It’s Miss Tovey. Do you know anything about a van that’s broken down outside our house? ... It arrived in the middle of the night. The driver tried to restart it, failed, and walked off I assumed he’d gone to a garage for help .
.. Yes, it’s most annoying, especially since we’re going out this evening and I need to park in front of the house. As it is, I’ve had to take next door’s space ... Yes, I made a note of it.’ She read out the registration number, nodding as he repeated it back to her. ‘That’s right. Would you? Thank you so much.’

  She replaced the phone and put her head round the drawing-room door. Her mother was relaxing on the sofa with her feet up.

  ‘Hello, darling. Had a good day?’

  ‘A busy one. Hasn’t anyone been to see about that van?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Margaret remarked on it when she brought me back from bridge. It’s a disgrace to the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Well, I’ve phoned Sergeant Penrose, so I hope he’ll take care of it. I’m going up for a bath. Shan’t be long.’

  Officially, an abandoned vehicle was a matter for the local council, which Penrose bet Miss Tovey knew quite well. However, since she was a senior magistrate and personally inconvenienced, he didn’t mind looking into it. He’d not much on at the moment, anyway; North Park was a wealthy, law-abiding suburb, and while a posting there was regarded as a cushy number, the main drawback was boredom. He therefore began by checking the police national computer, and moments later had ascertained there were no reports either of the van being stolen or any interest having been expressed in it.

  The last registered owner was named as Gary White, 24 Trafalgar Street. Not the most salubrious part of town, Penrose reflected. Well, he’d go and look at the van, at least; it was a nice evening for a stroll. But that, for the moment, was as far as he could go. Magistrate or not, it was too soon to go chasing after the owner. He was probably planning to come back for it after work.

  ‘I’m going to check on an abandoned vehicle,’ he told his colleague. And by the time he got back it would be the end of his shift and he could go home.

  Monica saw Penrose arrive from her bedroom window as she was dressing for the dinner-party. He circled the van a couple of times, tapping the tyres, checking the numberplates and examining the bodywork. He also peered through the dirty rear window, and studied the rack on the roof. Then, after making some notes in his pocket-book, he turned and walked back up the hill. At least, she thought, she’d registered a complaint and with luck the van would be gone by the time they returned tonight.

  She bent forward, looking critically at her reflection in the glass and hoping the outfit she’d chosen would be suitable. Eloise held different levels of dinner-party, ranging from family (plus George) to what Monica dubbed the Pulling-Out-All-Stops occasions. These were usually designed to impress either customers or suppliers of Justin’s wine business, or fellow members of the Arts Appreciation Society which she and the Marlows supported so ardently.

  And the trouble was, Monica thought, giving her hair a final pat, one was never advised in advance what type of company to expect. She’d tried asking, but as Eloise was deliberately vague, she no longer bothered. In any event, the food was always excellent; even for the smaller occasions a firm of caterers was employed, who took over the kitchen for the evening and left everything spotlessly tidy afterwards.

  Picking up her handbag, Monica went downstairs to collect her mother.

  ‘You’re not going out again, George?’ Ethel Latimer looked peevishly up at her son as he bent to kiss her cheek.

  ‘Mother dear, I’ve not been out for weeks!’

  ‘Just all day and every day,’ she said with a sniff.

  ‘Well, of course I go to work, but I spend the evenings with you. And Betsy will be here to keep you company.’ Long-suffering Betsy, who had become almost one of the family.

  ‘Betsy doesn’t read to me like you do.’

  ‘But she plays cards and does the crossword, doesn’t she? Anyway, Tuesday’s your favourite television evening.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to see that woman,’ Ethel said, unmollified.

  George held on to his patience. ‘If you mean Monica, yes, she’ll be there.’

  ‘I know you’re both waiting for me to die, so you can marry. I’m surprised you haven’t put something in my tea before this.’

  ‘Mother, please don’t be ridiculous. Nobody wants you to die. Now, have a pleasant evening. I’ll look in to say good night when I get back.’

  And before she could make any more complaints, he walked quickly from the room. Was he a good son, he wondered, to consider her as much as he did, or simply a weak-willed fool for allowing her to ruin his life? He was forty-eight, damn it, surely he was entitled to some life of his own? But he’d promised Father to take care of her – he couldn’t just abandon her.

  In the early days, any girl he’d been fond enough of to bring home had wilted under his mother’s relentless disapproval and disappeared from the scene. Once, when he’d dared to become engaged, she had had a heart attack. Even now, he wondered how she’d engineered it. Still, it had the desired effect and the engagement was called off.

  After that, George admitted defeat and buried himself in his work, rising steadily through the bank to a position of considerable authority. In his work environment at least he was highly thought of, his decisions respected and his opinions sought. It was a Jekyll and Hyde existence, but his career afforded some compensation for what his personal life lacked, and the years had passed reasonably contentedly. Then, four years ago, he’d met Monica.

  How did the old song go? But it’s when he thinks he’s past love, Oh it’s then he meets his last love, And he loves her as he’s never loved before. Well, that was how it had been – still was. And Monica, unlike her young predecessors, was not in the least intimidated by his mother. Though unfailingly polite, she played the old lady at her own game, and he discerned in his mother a grudging though well-disguised respect.

  At the time they met, Mrs Latimer had been going through one of her actual rather than imagined bouts of ill health, and the doctor was doubtful of her chances of recovery. It had not seemed unreasonable to ask Monica to postpone their wedding plans, which would be sure to upset the old lady.

  But with what George couldn’t help regarding as typical perversity, Ethel Latimer made a complete recovery and resumed her tyrannical control over her son’s home life.

  Monica had been incredibly understanding. ‘We’re not teenagers, George,’ she’d said. ‘We’ve waited this long, a year or two more won’t make any difference.’ But the ‘year or two’ showed signs of stretching indefinitely. When Humphrey Tovey had died, George wondered briefly if the two old ladies might be company for each other, thus freeing their offspring to marry. But that hope was stillborn when they took an instant and mutual dislike to each other. Understandably, perhaps, since Maude Tovey, though not many years younger, was still an attractive and fashionable woman with a wide circle of friends. Ethel seemed decades older, with her inward-looking, sour view of life.

  So he and Monica continued their long-drawn-out engagement, managing discreet weekends away now and then and generally seeing as much of each other as their busy lives allowed. Occasionally, and to his shame, George found himself resenting her patience, suspecting it meant she was not as anxious as he to marry. If that were so, he thought he understood why: he had suspected almost from the time he met her that Monica was in love with her brother-in-law.

  What he was not sure of was whether she recognized the fact.

  There were ten at the dinner-party. Harry and Claudia Marlow were there, George, of course, and both the Teal boys, together with Jeremy’s live-in girlfriend. Monica was not impressed by the latter, whom she’d met before. A tall, willowy blonde, she had a permanently bored expression which marred her lovely face, and was given to draping herself against the furniture to display her admittedly perfect figure. Her name was Primrose, which Monica conceded was no fault of her own.

  Come to that, Monica wished she could be fonder of her nephews. Outwardly they were a credit to their parents – tall, good-looking, well-groomed and with perfect manners; the sort of young men, in fact,
who postured self-consciously in sportswear advertisements, accompanied by appropriately dressed females and golden retrievers. But behind their ready smiles and smooth faces, she had no idea what they were thinking. Even more uncomfortably, she didn’t quite trust them.

  Summoned, perhaps, by her musings, Theo came over and took the seat next to hers. ‘A very elegant dress, Aunt, if I may say so. From the Spring Collections?’

  She looked at him sharply but his face, as always, was bland. ‘Just a little thing I ran up.’

  He laughed. ‘I must say it’s gratifying to have such glamorous relations. Mother looks a picture, doesn’t she?’

  Monica acknowledged that she did. Her sister not only possessed the family dress sense in full measure, she had the knack of investing any garment she wore with her own stamp, just as her large, horn-rimmed spectacles had over the years become a personal fashion accessory. Taller and fairer than Monica, she wore her silver-blonde hair in a sleek, chin-length bob which perfectly complimented her oval face and round grey eyes. Tonight the green chiffon dress she wore, swathed over narrow hips, needed only the simplest gold chain by way of adornment.

  Yes, they were a good-looking family, Monica thought complacently. It was no wonder Justin preferred to entertain customers at home. Yet, even with the backing of her catering team, there were times when Eloise was not prepared to play hostess. Monica tried not to doubt the veracity of the migraines which frequently laid her low when less interesting guests were due. On such occasions Justin had no course but to resort to restaurants, and not infrequently invited herself to be his hostess. Her fluency in French and Italian, painstakingly perfected to ease her way at the Collections, was a particular asset with his continental suppliers.

  Monica watched her sister chatting animatedly with Harry Marlow. She really didn’t see why she should feel embarrassed when they were together, since obviously neither they nor their spouses did. Their former engagement was, after all, ancient history, and both marriages seemed happy enough.