by Lulu Taylor
‘How is the play going?’
‘All right.’ She can see that he’s in a quandary. He doesn’t want to stay but he also doesn’t want to leave her alone with the children. And he’s not going to say anything about her desire to get to know them.
You shit. The sudden violent words startle her. The rush of fury that engulfs her is not a feeling she usually associates with Dan, but here it is: boiling anger at the way he is treating her. I gave you these children. You wouldn’t have them except for me. I won’t be pushed aside. I won’t be ignored.
But as usual, she knows that control will be the only way to get what she wants. She mustn’t be angry. She must be charming and sweet and make sure he has no idea of the dreams and desires she nurtures.
‘Go back to work,’ she says sweetly. ‘I’m fine here. Listen, there’s Olivia now.’
So everything’s fine now, isn’t it?
Or is it?
You’d better get used to me, Dan. Because I’m not going anywhere.
Chapter Twenty-Two
1959
The heat of Cairo is wonderful after the bitter chill of England and the endless freezing draughts in Renniston Hall. Julia feels herself relax in the warmth, and loses herself in the sights and sounds of the city. Her mother takes her shopping, and they go past one of the oldest souks in Cairo. Through arches of golden stone, she catches glimpses of shining metal, colour and fabric. The smells are spicy, rich and dense. One stall holder has hung metal lanterns up the high walls of the souk, some burning with lights inside their hammered copper or brass fretwork. Another stall sends plumes of fragrant incense into the air, and another is heaped with bright patchworks: rugs, blankets and decorative pieces. There’s no end to the noise and colour and sheer mountains of things for sale. No one sells just one of anything; everything is piled in abundance, from baskets to hookah pipes, from carved figures to inlaid furniture. And then there is the food – this is the most exciting of all. At home, food is ceaselessly bland: all grey, washed-out green and turgid brown or beige. There hasn’t been much of it either, never enough to feel full with, even if you could stomach more boiled cabbage or stewed mutton. Here, there are great baskets heaped with spices of amazing colours: rust red, magenta pink, bright yellow and orange. Enticing scents fill the air, and the sight of tables laden with vividly coloured fruit and vegetables is almost overwhelming. There is so much: sacks of onions, crates of bananas and oranges and lemons. Her mouth waters to see it all.
They walk down a narrow alley with chairs and tables squeezed on either side, the doors and windows of cafes open behind them. Men sit at the tiny brass tables and the air is full of the aroma of coffee. Julia sees a waiter carrying a plate of sweetmeats – pink, yellow and green confections – and she feels quite faint with desire to taste sugar melting over her tongue.
‘Ugh, these crowds. Filthy,’ mutters her mother, striding at a pace down the alley with Julia following afterwards as quickly as she can. She notices how eyes follow her mother in her smart white dress and high heels, her neat calves and ankles perfectly visible. There is a white scarf wrapped around her head and she wears a pair of cat’s-eye sunglasses and looks, Julia thinks, incredibly glamorous, like a film star. There are mutterings as they pass, but Julia understands not a word. She only hopes they are being nice, but perhaps they are not. Lately she is entirely confused about the relationships between men and women. Once, it had been so clear. You went through life waiting to meet the one, the man destined to be your husband. Then there was a romantic courtship, a marriage and grown-up life began, with children in due course, somehow, but all with the proviso that you were suitably worshipped by the handsome man whose heart you held in the palm of your hand.
Was that what it was like for Mummy and Daddy?
She thinks of her parents and their perfectly calm, quite sedate relationship in which her father’s work is always of the utmost importance. His frequent absences are only to be expected when he is so high up in the army, and it is right that they follow wherever he leads – although in Julia’s case it has taken her all the way back to England and boarding school.
‘Mummy . . .’ She pants after her mother, who can walk awfully fast these days.
‘Yes, what is it? Come along, Julia, don’t dawdle. We’ll be late for Mrs Alexander and we must get through all the arrangements for the Christmas party.’
Julia tries to speed up, wondering why her sensible sandals don’t go anywhere near as fast as Mummy’s high heels. ‘Do I have to go back to Renniston? Can’t I stay here with you for a bit? I’m sure it wouldn’t matter if I missed a few weeks.’
‘Don’t be silly, Julia, of course you can’t. You can’t dip in and out of your education, you know that. I understand that winter is miserable at school – games are harder and the cold is rather awful – but it will get better.’ Her mother throws her a smile over her shoulder, her eyes invisible behind the dark lenses of her glasses. ‘Honestly it will.’
Julia says nothing but puffs on behind her mother, thinking that it won’t get better, not for a while yet.
‘Mummy?’
‘What is it?’ Her mother sounds exasperated, bored with it all.
‘Can you ask the school when the swimming pool will be finished? Can you telephone them or something?’
‘What?’ Her mother laughs in disbelief. ‘The swimming pool? What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I’m just so . . . so keen to swim again and I’d love to know when it will be done. The builders have been there forever and it’s not finished yet.’
‘Be patient, Julia. Of course I’m not going to make a very expensive telephone call to the school just for that. They’ll think I’ve gone barmy for one thing. And besides . . .’ Her mother strides on, determined to get to Mrs Alexander as fast as possible. Julia wishes she could stop to examine the fascinating stalls they are passing but there’s nothing for it but to race on. ‘You don’t even like swimming.’
At Mrs Alexander’s house, cooled by whirring fans, she can catch her breath and have a little peace while her mother and Mrs Alexander discuss Christmas parties. It seems so odd to celebrate Christmas in this hot, foreign land where there aren’t any churches – at least, not the kind she is used to – but she’s sure that there will be all the usual things to eat, including Christmas pudding. She can’t imagine wanting it in this heat, all rich and claggy and filling. A strawberry sherbet would be much nicer.
A servant brings her a cool glass of lemonade and she wanders out into the garden to drink it, sitting down by a tinkling fountain to watch it play. She dips her fingertips into the water and paddles it, seeing tiny fish swimming about below the surface.
Here, at least, she can forget the thing that rules her life back at school. Alice was delighted to have a real partner in crime once Julia had been out on the excursion with her. She was jubilant on their return to the school and couldn’t understand Julia’s muted reaction at all. She teased her about it the next day, when they were out on the lacrosse field, chasing the ball for miles and miles. Whenever it disappeared up the field, they found a quiet place to talk and wait for it to make its way back again.
Alice hit the ground with the handle of her stick as if trying to dig up a divot. ‘Come on, Julia, you spoilsport. Didn’t you enjoy it? Don’t you think it’s a blast – boys, whiskey and music and all that? It’s just like being grown-up!’
‘I didn’t enjoy it one bit,’ Julia retorted, pulling at the leather strings of the net on the end of her stick. ‘I don’t want to go again, and neither should you. It’s dangerous. What were you and Roy doing when I went outside with Donnie?’
Alice laughed. ‘What were you doing outside with Donnie while I was inside, eh? Get up to a bit of hanky-panky yourselves, did you? Any smooching?’
Julia remembered Donnie’s disgust at the way she and Alice were behaving. He didn’t even seem to accept that it was all Alice’s idea and nothing to do with her.
�
�Did you know Roy’s married?’ she demanded.
Alice shrugged. ‘I suppose he might have mentioned it. But there’s no way his wife will find out, she’s back in Ireland.’
‘Well . . .’ Julia was flabbergasted by her insouciance. ‘Don’t you care? Don’t you think it’s wrong? You . . . you let him kiss you!’
‘Oh Julia, you baby, what does it matter? I’m not going to marry him myself, am I? He’s just a builder!’ Alice looked up the field, then lifted her stick and started to run off. ‘Come on, they’re on their way! Aren’t we supposed to be defending or something?’
But I can’t believe she doesn’t care. I just can’t believe it.
By the end of term, Alice’s mood had changed a little. She lost some of her ebullience and did not suggest a trip out to the caravan after Friday evening chapel for over a fortnight. Julia was glad. It was colder and darker than ever as the year drew to its close. Soon term would be over and she would be taken to the airport to catch a plane for Egypt all on her own, and she was nervous at the prospect. It would be her first time alone but her parents thought that she was old enough and responsible enough now. Nevertheless, she was aware of the downward swoop in Alice’s spirits. It was a pattern she was familiar with: a period of high spirits and devil-may-care energy, followed by a mood of lethargy and gloomy pessimism. It was just how Alice was. Usually she tried to cajole her friend out of her low spirits, but not this time. If it meant Alice was not in the mood for naughtiness, then it was all to the good. The builders might finish the pool and be gone before her mischievous side returned, although they were working on the gymnasium, the pool still a large dirty hole in the ground.
The only, tiny regret she had was that there was no way she was going to see Donnie. His image frequently played across her mind, and she whiled away many chapel services and duller lessons thinking about him and the feeling of her hand held in his. Roy, she thought, was repellent – so hairy and huge and manly, like a real grown-up. But Donnie was a romantic-looking boy, a rebel, a bit like James Dean with his hair long at the front and an air of dissatisfaction at the way things were, a longing for how they might be different. When they read Romeo and Juliet in English lessons, she imagined Romeo as looking like Donnie, and when she made herself into Juliet, she was covered in chills of excitement. The play became fascinating to her, because it came so terribly alive when she pictured them in the roles, Donnie talking to her as Romeo did to Juliet. She even read it in bed to herself. Her copy was tucked away in her suitcase back at the house. Reading it brought her closer to Donnie, even though she knew nothing of him except what she had learned that evening in the caravan.
She sips her lemonade in the hot Cairo afternoon, runs her fingers through the cool water, and wonders if he ever thinks of her, and if she will see him again. Much as she wants Roy gone and the danger past, she can’t help hoping that Donnie will still be there when she gets back.
But it’s hopeless. Nothing can happen. And besides, he doesn’t like me. Not one little bit.
The Christmas holidays are over in a flash, and it seems like no time before Julia is returning home to cold, dark England, the sights and smells and light of Egypt still in her mind. She wonders how she will get through the next few cold, bleak months without being in utter misery the whole time. Not only that, her mother has said that the trip to Cairo for Christmas cannot be repeated until the summer. She will be spending all the rest of the holidays at school, or with one or other of the teachers, whoever can be persuaded to offer her houseroom. It’s a bleak prospect.
The night before term begins is the usual noisy affair, with cars pulling up in front of the school, parents wandering around looking bewildered, the Headmistress on show, girls rushing everywhere, shouting and laughing and squealing with the excitement of seeing each other again. Trunks are piled up against the walls, there are mountains of sports equipment and shoes and bags. The housemistresses stalk about, being polite and oily to the parents, and shooting ghastly looks at overexcited girls in the hopes of calming them down. Julia retires to her bed, her things unpacked and her trunk left outside to be stored away in a box room until it’s next needed.
Goodness knows when that will be. At least the others know they’ll be leaving again at half-term. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, stuck in this horrible place.
She reads a book while she waits for Alice to appear. It is not until supper is about to be served – a late and light affair of eggs boiled until they’re bullets and some slices of toast – that Alice arrives, her mother and stepfather on either side of her looking cross and tired.
Julia sees them walk past the dormitory, and Alice glances in for long enough to catch her eye and turn her own to heaven in an expression of utter weariness. Sliding off the bed, Julia hurries over to the door and listens.
‘We’re so late,’ she hears Alice’s mother say. ‘I’m sorry. Alice got terribly car sick. We had to stop at least half a dozen times. I hope she’s not coming down with something.’
‘Matron will keep an eye on her,’ Miss Allen replies. ‘How are you now, Alice?’
‘Much better, thank you, Miss Allen.’
‘Good. Will you want some supper? Perhaps an egg or two will do you good.’
‘Oh . . . no thank you, Miss Allen, I’d rather go to bed if that’s all right. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.’
Julia hears murmured goodbyes and muted kisses, and then Alice’s mother and stepfather make their way back downstairs to exchange a few words with the Headmistress and be on their way. She tiptoes quickly back to her bed and picks up her book, just in time. Miss Allen appears with Alice a moment later.
‘Ah, Julia. It’s suppertime, didn’t you hear the bell? Off you go. Alice is going to bed early. You can swap all your holiday news in the morning. Right now she needs her sleep.’
Alice doesn’t look at all well, now that Julia can see her properly. Her face is grey and haggard, and there’s a slumped look about her shoulders.
‘Yes, Miss Allen,’ she says, getting off the bed. ‘See you later, Alice.’
‘Yes,’ Alice says and sighs.
Oh dear, Julia thinks, as she makes her way down to supper. She’s no better at all. If anything, she seems worse than before. What an awful term this is going to be.
And just to make matters worse, she noticed on the way in that the building site at the side of the school looks just as it did when they left. The pool isn’t finished. The builders are still here.
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Three
There is plenty of mirth around the table, and lots of wine too. Olivia has already stacked six empties outside and there are several more bottles on the go. It’s been so long since she’s spent time with Dan’s Cambridge crowd, she’s forgotten how they all drink like fishes. But now she remembers the irritation she used to feel when they came round to the flat after a night out, and she knew it would be drinking and debating till dawn. More often than not, she would bow out, leaving them to it, retiring to bed with her earplugs, knowing that Dan would come crawling in at some point and join her. The only uncertainty would be who she would find on the sofa in the morning.
But she likes the feel almost of a family celebration this evening, the sense of reunion. There is Jimmy, Dan’s best friend from Cambridge, once a slim Young Turk and now a well-padded publishing executive, grown rounded on too many lunches, and his wife Katy, an editor in the same publishing house that Jimmy helps to run. Each has a failed marriage behind them – Jimmy married soon out of Cambridge to Claire, another of their circle, but she has been erased and Katy has taken her place. Olivia knows that Jimmy and Katy met at work and had a wild affair while they were both still married, which culminated in the two divorces and remarriage, and now there are stepchildren on both sides. Katy has fitted in so very well and gets on so easily with everyone that it is sometimes hard to remember that there ever was a Claire, or that Katy was not one of the original crowd. But
in fact, Claire was around for years and Olivia liked her and invited her to her hen party. Not long after that, Jimmy’s affair was discovered and Claire wasn’t even at the wedding. She wonders suddenly why they’ve never been in touch, and resolves to contact her one of these days, if it’s not too awkward.
Then there’s Stevie, a Yorkshireman who says very little but drinks with an almost studied determination, and listens hard. He’ll suddenly butt in with a joke or retort that reduces them all to helpless laughter, or he’ll command complete silence to tell an extraordinary story before lapsing back into taciturnity. If Olivia knows him, he’ll drink red wine until he’s sunk two bottles, and then ask Dan to bring out the whiskey. It’s a dangerous mixture and Olivia thinks that it signals pretty clearly that Stevie is a doctor, as doctors are almost invariably the hardest drinkers she meets. Stevie’s solo tonight – his girlfriend is at home looking after their children.
Here with her husband is Alyssa Grant; she is Italian, with long dark hair and eyes that droop a little at the edges, giving her a permanently melancholy expression. She is not quite of the inner circle of Dan’s friends but always welcomed because she is from a distinguished family and has become a noted textile designer. Her husband Dave is a pleasant man with a lantern-jaw he conceals with a covering of stubble, who likes nothing better than talking at length about the complicated property deals he is continually on the brink of pulling off.
Last of all, sitting across from them, her eyes alight and her face beaming with pleasure at the reunion, is Francesca.
‘It’s pretty bloody rich, Francesca,’ says Stevie suddenly, a slight slur in his voice, ‘that you invite us to your house, which has to be one of the biggest I’ve ever seen, and even though you’ve got about a hundred and fifty bedrooms, you can’t put us up for the night!’
