The House By Princes Park

by Maureen Lee

  She found it all very moving. Daisy and Clint looked so unworldly. They didn’t know much about anything and she wondered how they would cope in a big city on their own. One of their artist friends had arranged for them to live in a cheap bedsit in a place called Hackney. As a sort of honeymoon, they were spending their first two nights in a hotel by Piccadilly Circus.

  Snow had started to fall by the time the short service was over, and everyone returned to the house for the buffet meal that Pixie had insisted on helping to prepare, giving her the opportunity to remark that everything reminded her of her grandma’s house before the war.

  The newly married couple only stayed a short while. After barely an hour, Daisy appeared in the living room, still in her wedding dress, with her best coat on top, and wearing a woolly hat and gloves to match. The lipstick had worn off and she hadn’t bothered to renew it. Clint stood awkwardly behind with a suitcase.

  ‘We’re off now, Gran. The taxi’s waiting.’

  ‘Already, love?’

  ‘The train takes four hours and we’ve got to find the hotel. The underground looks very complicated.’

  ‘Have you said goodbye to your mother?’

  ‘Yes, Gran. She’s in the bedroom.’

  ‘Have a lovely time now.’ Her heart ached unbearably as she kissed them both. They were scarcely more than children. ‘Don’t forget, Matthew’s arranged for all your things to be delivered on Monday. Make sure you’re in or you won’t have any bedding to sleep on.’ The bedding, wedding presents, Daisy’s painting gear, clothes, all the other things necessary for a place that contained nothing except furniture, had been packed in a crate to be collected early Monday morning by one of Medallion’s lorries.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gran. We’ll be there.’

  ‘’Bye, love. Bye, Clint. Look after her now.’

  The guests crowded into the hall and watched the sturdy young woman and the slender young man go through the snow and climb into a taxi.

  Ruby looked around for Heather, but she was nowhere to be seen. She found her in the bedroom, face down on the bed, sobbing her heart out. ‘Oh, love!’ She sat on the edge of the bed and laid her head against Heather’s dark hair. ‘I know how you feel. I feel the same myself.’

  ‘She looked so young, Mam,’ Heather wept. ‘And she’s not a bit hard, like some people. You can tell from her eyes. She’s always been so good. Daisy’s never given me a moment of trouble. Oh, I know she was useless at school, but at least she tried.’

  ‘She’ll be all right, love. She’s probably tougher than we think.’

  ‘You know, Mam, I could kill Ellie. She knew when the wedding would be. Daisy asked her to be bridesmaid and was dead upset when she didn’t even send a card.’

  ‘She didn’t send a card for Christmas either.’

  The door opened. ‘So, this is where you are!’ Greta cried. ‘I thought you might have decided to go to London with Daisy.’

  ‘Heather’s a bit upset,’ Ruby explained.

  ‘I’m not surprised. I’ll cry buckets when my two get married. Mind you, for all I know, Ellie’s already married. She might even have another child.’ Greta smiled. ‘It doesn’t upset me any more. I’ve too much to do. I’m going to Grenoble skiing next week with the girls.’

  Not only had Greta learnt to ski, she’d learnt to drive and play bridge. The ‘girls’ were a group of fortyish women with nothing else to do with their time except play cards, attend coffee mornings, and hold dinner parties. Ruby considered them an idle, useless lot.

  She’d changed a lot had Greta since she married Matthew, not just her personality, but also her looks. She was becoming prettier as she grew older. Gone were the childish, frilly clothes she’d always been so fond of. Now she wore chic, expensive outfits that clung to her shapely figure, and her hair was expertly cared for by one of the best hairdressers in Liverpool. Regular visits to a beauty parlour had taught her the most flattering way to apply make-up, so that she was always impeccably and beautifully turned out. Today, she wore an oatmeal tweed suit over a green silk blouse that matched the feathered hat she’d taken off when she got in.

  ‘Would you like a nice, stiff whisky, Heather?’ Greta asked.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  But Ruby insisted it would do her good. ‘Fetch one for me while you’re at it. Then I’d better see to the guests.’

  Daisy and Clint sat opposite each other on the London train. Clint had found a newspaper and was doing the crossword.

  ‘Two across, four letters, O.T. prophet.’ He groaned. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Old Testament. Does Esau fit?’

  ‘Isn’t Esau a donkey?’

  ‘No, that’s Eeyore.’ Daisy giggled.

  ‘I’ll leave it for now. Here’s a ten-letter one, three down. Author of The Forsyte Saga.’ He frowned. ‘I should know that. I’ve got an A level in English.’

  ‘Galsworthy,’ Daisy said promptly.

  He looked at her curiously. ‘For someone who has such a hard job reading, you’re pretty smart, Daise.’

  Daisy went pink. ‘It was on television. I remember things.’ She could also remember the names of all the actors and the parts they’d played, as well as every detail of the plot.

  ‘European capital, seven letters, second letter’s “i”.’

  ‘Vienna?’

  ‘Eighteen down, a hermit.’

  ‘Recluse?’

  ‘Right. I’m impressed, Daise.’

  ‘You’ve married a genius, Clint Shaw.’

  ‘Seems like it.’ His face closed up. He threw down the pen and turned to look out of the window. It was dark, and the snow was throwing itself against the glass. Lights could be seen twinkling in the towns and villages the train passed through on its way to London. The outlines of the buildings were blurred, merging into the black sky.

  Today was a day she’d been looking forward to for most of her life, Daisy thought as she watched the lights flash by but, lately, it had become a day to dread. She felt confident she wasn’t the only young woman in the world who’d been courting for five whole years yet was still a virgin. There must be others, even if they were rare. Even so, Daisy had a feeling there was something terribly wrong.

  It would have been nice to discuss her worries with her mother or Gran but, not only would it have been embarrasing, she couldn’t expect them to be shocked that she and Clint hadn’t made love. They’d probably approve. And if she’d expressed the fear that she wasn’t even prepared to admit to herself, they would have tried to dissuade her from marrying him. They would never understand that she was prepared to take Clint for better or for worse because she loved him so completely.

  She wasn’t quite as innocent as people thought. It was three years since she’d gone to tea at Paula’s and met Mary Casey, then at art school. Mary had been impressed with her painting and they’d become great friends. Through Mary, she’d got to know other young people who were artists of some kind and admired her work. Daisy and Clint quickly became one of the crowd. They went to parties where things went on and things were said that would have horrified her family, where joints were passed around – she’d taken a puff on more than one occasion, but it always made her sick. Daisy probably knew more about life than her mother and Gran put together.

  Gran had booked the hotel by Piccadilly Circus. It was her wedding present. Naturally, she’d asked for a double bed.

  The bed looked very large and a bit ominous – Daisy pretended to ignore it as she busily unpacked the clothes and put them away. ‘Oh, look!’ she cried. ‘There’s a kettle and tea things. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Clint was in an armchair, watching her. She was surprised he hadn’t switched the television on.

  ‘Let’s look for a restaurant when we’ve finished. I’m starving. It’s only half-past eight. There might be one in Soho, it’s no distance away.’

  She was setting out the cups, pouring milk from the tiny containers, when Clint said, �
��I need you, Daise. I can’t tell you how much.’ His eyes were very bright, as if he was about to cry.

  ‘There’s no need to tell me. I know.’ She longed to take him in her arms, but the first move must come from him.

  They held hands while they wandered around Soho, where every other building appeared to be a restaurant serving food from all over the world. They had spaghetti bolognaise and a glass of red wine in a trattoria and, after another wander around, returned to the hotel.

  Daisy’s trousseau consisted of a single nightie; white cotton with puffed sleeves and embroidery on the yoke. She took it into the bathroom, cleaned her teeth, washed her face, combed her hair, wishing it had a shape and wasn’t just a halo of red fuzz. Then she put the nightie on.

  The mirror revealed a most unglamorous bride, modestly attired, shapeless hair, face shining like a beacon and covered in freckles. Still, that was how she was.

  Clint was sitting up in bed, clad in tartan pyjamas and watching television. Daisy’s heart thumped madly as she lifted the covers and got in beside him. ‘What’s on?’ she enquired.

  ‘An old James Cagney movie, Angels With Dirty Faces.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve seen it.’

  ‘It’s only just started.’

  ‘Would you like some tea? Or there’s coffee for a change.’

  ‘Coffee would be fine.’

  Had it not been their wedding night, Daisy would have quite enjoyed sitting companionably up in bed with Clint, drinking coffee and watching a film. As it was, she couldn’t concentrate. What would happen when the film finished?

  When ‘The End’ came on the screen, Clint got out of bed, switched the television off, got back in again, kissed her cheek, slid under the clothes, and said, ‘Goodnight, Daise.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  And that was that.

  Daisy had done her best to make the room in Hackney look cosy, spreading their things around so it looked lived in. It was a vast, high-ceilinged room, and the dusty curtains on the tall windows had clearly been made for somewhere else as they were at least a foot too short. None of the ancient furniture matched and the top hinge was missing off one of the wardrobe doors so it had to be held when it was opened in case it fell off. A long time ago, the floor had been painted chocolate brown. Now most of the paint had worn away, and the minuscule rug may once have had a pattern, but if so it was no longer obvious.

  She’d actually felt relieved to find there were twin beds. It was easier to sleep, not having Clint lying next to her, worrying what was wrong, suspecting what was wrong, but not being prepared to face it. The same thoughts haunted her all day long, but at least she could sleep.

  Clint had an interview already arranged when they came to London and was now working for a company that made short promotional films. He wrote the scripts which boasted how successful a firm had been selling their goods abroad, describing how washing machines were put together, or how glass was blown. It was another step on the way towards him becoming a Hollywood director.

  Daisy would have liked to be an usherette again, particularly in a West End cinema, but it would have meant they’d hardly see each other. She was a salesgirl in a little, exclusive shoe shop off Oxford Street.

  ‘I really wanted someone a bit smarter,’ the manageress said rudely at the interview, ‘But I suppose you’ll just have to do. The job’s been vacant for ages. I just can’t get anyone.’

  It didn’t seem possible for shoes to cost so much when there was so little of them. The heels were thin as cigarettes and the tops merely a few straps – Auntie Greta would love them. One day, when the manageress had gone to lunch, Daisy tried on a pair and immediately fell over.

  She quite liked her job. At least she didn’t have to read anything and although some of the women customers were ruder than the manageress, others were very nice. A few faces she recognised from television and it was lovely writing home to say she’d sold a pair of shoes to a well-known actress.

  A couple of times a week, after they’d eaten, they went to the cinema. Clint enjoyed seeing films the minute they came out – it was usually weeks, sometimes months, before they were shown in Liverpool. Most nights they stayed in and watched television – Uncle Matt had given them a coloured portable for a wedding present – or Daisy painted at the easel she’d set up in front of the window, while Clint worked on his latest script. He had changed since coming to London, was more outgoing, obviously happier living there. Perhaps he was even happy being married.

  One night when he came home, he told her he’d been asked out for a drink by one of the chaps from work. ‘But I said, no, my wife was expecting me home.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded,’ she exclaimed. ‘You must go if you’re asked again.’

  His face fell. ‘I thought you’d be worried if I was late.’

  ‘You could have rung the phone downstairs in the hall. I can hear it from here.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  He seemed upset she didn’t mind if he deserted her for a few hours, arrived home late. She realised he needed to be needed, to belong. He referred to her as ‘my wife’ whenever he had the opportunity; in shops, at the pictures, on the buses or the tube, as if he wanted to stress he was part of a couple.

  The awkwardness of the first few nights was long over and they were the best and closest of friends – as they had always been, but now possibly closer. She loved him, he needed her. They shared the same opinions on most things, but enjoyed the arguments when they didn’t.

  Life would have been perfect, almost was, except for that one thing, which neither of them ever mentioned.

  After two months in London, they went back to Liverpool for the weekend to find everything exactly the same as when they’d left.

  But it will always be the same, Daisy thought. Nothing ever changes. People come and people go, but Gran will always be here, bossing everyone around, loving them. She had missed her gran more than anyone during the time in London.

  On Sunday afternoon, they went to dinner with Clint’s parents. During the meal, Pixie gave her a painful nudge. ‘I thought you’d come because you had something nice to tell me!’

  It took a few seconds for the penny to drop. Pixie had thought she might be pregnant. Daisy waited for Clint to supply an answer. When he didn’t, she said seriously, ‘We thought it was time we came to see everyone, that’s all.’

  They didn’t stay long. They had a train to catch and the journey took longer on Sundays. Neither spoke on the way back to Gran’s. Daisy was thinking about babies. She’d always wanted at least two. For the very first time, she felt angry with Clint, walking silently at her side. What was he thinking? Did he expect her to forget the idea of having babies? One of these days she’d have things out with him, but it was awfully difficult. She loved him so much and didn’t want him to be hurt.

  Moira had just sat the final paper for her English Literature degree. She put down her pen and, along with every other student in the room, uttered an audible sigh of relief. The invigilator began to collect the papers. She’d done well in all the exams, her thesis on Mary Shelley had been thoroughly researched, and she was confident she’d get a First. In October, she was starting a teacher training course. Once she’d qualified, she’d stay with Gran, teach in Liverpool for a year, then apply for a post further afield. It might be nice to work in London near Daisy, or go abroad. For Moira, the future stretched tidily ahead. She was looking forward to it.

  As she shuffled out of the room, her thoughts turned to the summer ahead. She’d rest for a few days, then look for temporary work as a waitress during the holiday, as she’d done last year. The suitcase in her room was already packed. All she had to do was collect it and catch the train from Norwich to Liverpool. Her years at university were over and she couldn’t wait to get away.

  She turned a corner, lost in thought, and collided head on with a figure coming in the opposite direction. ‘Look where you’re going!’ a male voice said indignantly. ‘Now there’
s papers everywhere.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Moira returned from the future to the present. She knelt and began to gather up the scattered papers. ‘This wouldn’t have happened if you’d used a paper clip or kept them in a folder.’

  ‘Perhaps I should be apologising to you,’ the man growled as he knelt on the ground beside her.

  ‘Don’t be childish. I hope these pages are numbered or it’ll take ages to sort them out.’

  ‘I’ll try not to think about you while I’m doing it.’

  Moira got to her feet. ‘Oh, pick them up yourself. You’re very rude. I was only trying to help.’

  The man stood at the same time and they glared at each other. Moira had had few boyfriends over the last three years – they would only have interfered with her studies – and this was the type she avoided like the plague. A few years older than herself, he had long, untidy hair, a Zapata moustache, and wore a flowered Indian shirt, cotton trousers, an earring, and plaited sandals on his otherwise bare – and dirty – feet. She’d never seen him before, which wasn’t surprising, as the incomprehensible symbols and columns of figures on the fallen papers indicated he was a science student. Moira willingly conceded that she was useless at anything to do with science.

  In view of his disgusting appearance, his earrings, and the fact he was clearly a bad-tempered individual, she wondered why their eyes held for such a very long time – it seemed like for ever – and why her heart was beating extremely fast and why her knees suddenly felt weak. It may have been because, despite everything, he was devastatingly attractive.

  The man’s eyes were glued on hers and he didn’t seem to care that the remainder of his papers were being trampled on or blown to the wind. ‘Sorry about before,’ he said eventually in an odd, choked voice. ‘I’ve just sat my final paper and I don’t think I did all that well. We bumped into each other at the worst possible time.’ He gulped. ‘My name’s Sam Quigley. Would you like a coffee?’