by Maggie Ford
‘Haven’t seen you for two weeks, Cissy darling, but dying to. How about eight-thirty at the Golden Cockerel, Friday evening? If not, this is to say I’ll be leaving for Paris on the 20th August. That’s in a fortnight. Must see you before then, I shall be away for a while, more’s the pity. For us, that is. Paris for the autumn, and then Biarritz for the winter. Back to Paris for the spring. Won’t be back in England before next year, early summer – Paris too hot then. But I need to say goodbye to you, if nothing else. Love and kisses, if only on paper…Langley’
It came to her with a terrible jolt as she read it, that she had been just another plaything – an episode in his life which would probably be forgotten the moment he stepped on to the boat for France.
Stepping on to a boat bound for a foreign country…something she could only dream about, not even a dream based on fact. She had no idea what it must be like being on a proper passenger boat. She had been across the Thames by the Woolwich ferry many times – ten minutes or so standing shoulder to shoulder if you couldn’t get a seat – and on occasion she had been on one of those dirty, smelly, cavernous barges her father drove, and once on a cramped little oily tugboat. But a real ship, even one going only to France – that was well out of the reach of an ordinary working girl’s purse.
Maybe on her savings she could, Cissy thought for one wild moment, then sobered quickly. Savings were for more important things – that rainy day – while all he had to do was put his hand in his pocket; he had a bank account. She had never been inside a bank, much less have a bank account; the post office savings counter more her mark. He could toss a five-pound note across the counter of Harrods as carelessly as if it were half a crown. She had never even held a five-pound note, much less owned one.
She realised now how silly her hopes had been. How far from his way of life she was. And she had dared to assume she merely had to step across that chasm? There had never been any promise of a future with him, and yet…if only…oh, if only…
A feeling of desperation surged up in her. If she got in touch with him, at least…Wonderful hopes began to course again.
During the midday break at Cohens, she made an excuse to Daisy not to have lunch at her bench and hurried out into the sunshine. The Post Office had a telephone box outside it. Reaching it, she fished in her handbag and extracted Langley’s letter with his Belgravia telephone number embossed at the top. Giving the number to the operator, she waited with her heart pounding so loud she was sure the operator could hear it.
After a while, a man’s light voice enquired in her ear. ‘Yes?’
‘Langley. It’s Cissy.’
‘You got my note, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I’ll see you at eight-thirty, if that’s all right?’
‘Wonderful! I’ve a lot to tell you.’
‘What is it?’
‘When I see you. Must rush. ’Bye!’
Daisy looked peeved when she returned, her lunchtime almost over.
‘Where were you rushing off to like that?’
‘I had to change a pair of stockings before the shop closed for dinner. They had a snag in them.’
‘I didn’t see any stockings.’
‘They were in my bag, that’s why.’
The forelady’s sharp handclap stopped any further discussion, and Cissy hurried back to her bench for a long afternoon’s work, counting the hours until she could see Langley and find out what he had to tell her. It sounded very mysterious, very exciting. She could hardly wait. Thank God it was a Friday. She never saw Eddie on Fridays, supposedly washing her hair, still sticking rigidly to habit.
‘This going off to yer friend,’ Dad remarked as he came in from work that evening. ‘You just watch you don’t put that Daisy’s nose out of joint, leaving ’er in the lurch for yer new friends. A bit of loyalty wouldn’t ’urt. It’d be different if she ’ad a bloke.’
‘She’s not interested,’ Cissy said, coming into the kitchen having dropped her shoe bag with its dance dress behind the hall coat stand for retrieving on her way out. ‘She says she has plenty of time to find someone when she’s ready.’
‘Should be going out with a young man by now,’ Mum said, her round face mildly concerned. ‘Pretty gel like ’er, the boys should all be flocking around ’er. Look at May, f’rinstance. Fifteen, and already I’m ’aving trouble keeping the boys off ’er. And ’er off the boys, I might add. But that Daisy don’t even try to put ’erself out to get a young man. I can’t begin to wonder why she don’t.’
She wants to better herself, like me, Cissy sympathised covertly with Daisy as she drained her cup of tea. A boyfriend could put paid to all her hopes of singing on the stage. Not that Daisy, for all her earlier bravado, had done much about that. But she still might.
‘And another thing,’ Dad was going on, opening his Evening Standard for a quick pre-dinner glance. ‘’Ow’s Eddie feel about you going off ’alf across London to see friends? Too easy goin’, that lad. He ain’t goin’ off yer? It starts with yer goin’ yer separate ways. Don’t see no sign yet of that engagement ring ’e was supposed to buy yer.’
Cissy put her cup down sharply, irritated by all the interrogation.
‘It costs money, Dad. He’s saving hard. And we must have enough for the wedding and a place to live afterwards. Not much left for buying rings and things.’
That was true. But Mum, with that uncanny instinct mothers often have of getting closer to the truth than they imagine, still retained an expression of concern. She paused in mashing the potatoes in their pot to train her concern upon Cissy.
‘A man and a woman in love don’t let things like that get in the way of plans. What’s ’olding you two up? Like yer dad says, one of you ain’t gone cold on the other, ’ave you? Because if so, it won’t be fair on either of you. You won’t find better than Eddie for an ’usband. And he won’t find better than you for a wife, if I say so meself. Either way, one of you is going to ’ave a broken ’eart if anything goes wrong between you. I just pray it don’t.’
Cissy let her eyes fall away from her mother’s gaze. ‘Who says there’s anything wrong? Just because we’ve not yet bought a ring?’
It was with an effort that she brought her gaze back to her mother. ‘Look, Mum, I must go.’
There was still suspicion in her mother’s eyes. ‘Didn’t you tell Eddie you was washing your ’air tonight?’
‘I did. I will. When I come home.’
‘Not goin’ ter be late then?’ her father said drily.
‘Not all that late. I’ve got to go now.’
Outside at last, Cissy breathed a sigh and put all thoughts of family inquisitions, of Eddie, of love and marriage behind her, eager only to discover what Langley had to tell her that he wouldn’t say over the phone. Whatever it was, she intended not to be late back tonight, if only to prove something to her parents and maybe to Eddie, perhaps even to herself.
She found Langley waiting for her outside the nightclub. He was in his car, the engine running as if he’d anticipated the exact moment she would arrive. Cissy felt suddenly quite pampered; quite certain of herself. Eddie would never have yielded to anticipating a thing like that. He believed in two feet kept firmly on the ground, not counting chickens before they hatched, never leaping before looking. There was nothing like that with Langley so accurately judging her turning up on time – in a way it had a feel of romance about it.
On this warm evening with the glow of a fine sunset flooding the sky with gold, the Golden Cockerel’s electric sign oddly pale in the luminous light, Langley had the soft top of his car folded back. Just as they did in films, she thought. Yes, it was romantic.
He flashed her a smile as she came up to him. ‘Hop in!’
‘Aren’t we going inside?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Out here? What about?’
‘Cissy dear, get in the car and I’ll tell you as we drive.’
‘Dri
ve? Where are we going?’ she asked as she settled into her seat, but he didn’t answer, only smiled.
Turning the vehicle round, he headed west – into the sunset, Cissy mused deliciously, reminded of the finale of every Western two-reeler film she had seen.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked again after a while.
‘Chiswick.’
‘What’s at Chiswick?’
‘Peace and quiet.’
‘Peace and quiet?’ What had he in mind in the peace and quiet of darkness when it came down? She was feeling less certain now. ‘Why?’
‘We can talk without interruption.’
‘What about?’
‘Perhaps nothing. Or everything. It will depend on you, my dear.’ It was so enigmatically said that she fell silent the rest of the way.
The sun had gone completely as they drew up by the riverside walk at Chiswick. Dusk seemed to Cissy to be descending far too quickly.
The Thames flowed narrower here. Unpolluted by sewage from drains, oil from freighters and tramp steamers, or spillage from wharves, it still retained a lingering essence of the countryside through which it had meandered before reaching this spot. It was quiet too. No lights from office windows, and few from houses; no bridges to be seen, the busy Hammersmith Bridge hidden around the bend of the river to the east and the Chiswick one was around the other bend to the west.
The car engine switched off, Langley made no attempt to get out.
‘Is this where we’re staying?’ Cissy asked. She hadn’t known what to expect but had rather imagined there might have been a party going on at some moneyed residence.
‘It’s quiet here,’ he murmured. ‘We can talk.’
‘Talk about what?’
‘About us.’
‘What about us?’ She was beginning to feel irritated.
He turned to her. ‘You know I’m off to Paris in two weeks’ time?’
‘You told me in your letter.’
‘So, what does that mean to you?’
‘It means, I suppose, that I won’t be seeing you again.’ What she had expected, she didn’t know, but her heart felt as if it were down in her shoes. ‘We’ve come here so you can say goodbye, I suppose.’
‘I’ve brought you here, Cissy, to ask you to come with me.’
‘Come with you?’ It was hard to control the pounding of a heart that had suddenly leapt up from its downward trend. Unable to believe what she had heard, she stared at him through the gloom. ‘I can’t do that. I don’t have the same sort of money you have. Margate is more my line.’
There was no preventing the bitterness that crept into her tone. People like him didn’t know the half of it, the struggle to save fifty pounds over seven years. What if she did take out her bit of savings? How long would that last? And did she really want to face the baffled looks from those bright, well-heeled, young people when she declined, apparently unreasonably, to buy this or that; do the things they did, and then see the slowly spreading smirks on their faces as the truth dawned?
‘I just haven’t the money,’ she stated flatly. At least she could be honest with Langley. He wouldn’t smirk. He didn’t.
‘What if I provided?’ he asked, very quietly.
‘You?’ She looked up at him with angry pride. ‘If you think…’
‘I didn’t mean it to sound like charity. Cissy…’ He leaned towards her. ‘I want you to come with me. Now I have met you, I can’t contemplate going without you. I want you to come. I’ll spend anything on whatever you ask…anything to have you come with me.’
‘You mean, pay for me? Everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘That would make me a beggar, Langley.’
‘No it wouldn’t. You’re the girl I’ve fallen for – head over heels. I couldn’t bear the thought of not being with you. Please…Cissy darling, I’m not trying to be benevolent or charitable. I don’t care. It’s us, sharing what I have. That’s what it says in the marriage vows – all my worldly goods. You can’t be so proud as to refuse what I want in all heaven to do. Please say you will come, Cissy. Darling Cissy, say you will.’
She had never known him so lacking in self-confidence. Like a small boy pleading for someone to love him. She had never imagined him so vulnerable and wondered if he had been a lonely child. He had never spoken of brothers and sisters; had mentioned inheriting his parents’ property in time, so he probably was an only child. But what a sad and lonely life it must have been. Suddenly her heart poured out for him.
Giving herself no time to think clearly as to what she was saying, she blurted out: ‘Oh, yes, Langley, I will. I will.’
‘Oh, my lovely!’ His arms were about her, pulling her towards him. His lips were on hers. He’d kissed her before but never like this. She tasted the sweetness of his breath, even that emitting an essence of wellbeing; sort of scented – like pomade.
His mouth had opened against hers, not like the kisses you saw on the screen but something intimate that she’d never before experienced. His tongue was probing between her closed lips, parting them with strength. It sent shivers of excitement rippling through her and, though she thought this must be not quite the cleanest thing to do, she felt a need to part her own lips. And, oh, Lord, when she did, what a feeling it exploded inside her. Hardly was she aware that his hand was inside her blouse, kneading her breast.
‘Oh, oh, oh!’ She could hear her voice, smothered by the endless kiss. He was against her, his hand was no longer on her breast but between her thighs, pushing them apart; now inside her cami-knickers, touching bare flesh. Her senses sprang towards that touch, of their own accord, not asking permission…‘Oh, Langley!’ came a voice that sounded nothing like hers. ‘Oh, oh, Langley…’
Then quite unexpectedly, the voice cried, ‘No! stop it – please!’
Frightened, by him, by herself, by the strength of desire that had surged up inside her, something was prompting her to push him away in a blind panic. She was as out of breath as though she’d been running. Her hand came up and thrust at his face.
‘Langley – don’t!’
It must have been a painful thrust, for his head jerked back, his exploring hand pulled away. The world for her sprang sharply into focus, the dark edges of the car, his expression seen faintly in the gloom. There was a startled look on his face, one of surprise, anger.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
She was crying. She didn’t know when she had started crying, but she was, her head bent, tears dropping onto her hands as they hastily smoothed her skirt down.
Chapter Nine
With an air of contentment, Eddie drained the last of the tea in its thick china cup whose chipped rim had been shared by countless other customers during its lifetime.
Most of Mrs Turner’s cups were chipped, but her tea was good and strong and welcoming after a long day’s work. Gulped down with egg, bacon and sausage, or pie with chips or mash, doorsteps of fresh bread with a dollop of butter, or cheese or corned beef sandwiches cut thick, followed by a wedge of bread pudding or a large helping of apple pie and custard, there was nothing better in this world.
To everyone but Eddie she was Mrs Turner. To him, she was Auntie Lottie – his mother’s sister. A widow since 1916, his Uncle Jim having been killed on the Somme, she was a small thin woman who had hardly ever taken half a minute’s rest in all her life; to whom trotting was more important than walking, who believed in never doing one thing at a time, more likely to be seen with a mixing spoon in one hand and a paint brush in the other ready to touch up the odd crack or two in her ageing coffee shop.
The coffee shop was at the Blackwall end of Poplar High Street and did a thriving business despite the dereliction of the area. It too had a derelict look about it, but Eddie surmised that had she done it up all posh, most of her rough and ready customers would have been frightened off. Here they felt at home.
She came now to take the bill from one or two men sitting alongside Eddie, but passed h
im by with an almost imperceptible wink. Later she would probably give him an extra cup of tea, again on the house. If he really insisted upon paying, for the look of the thing, she’d give him a few pence more in his change than was due, despite his protests.
‘You shouldn’t do this, Auntie,’ he told her, keeping his voice down from other customers as he found his attempts to pay his bill on leaving refused yet again.
‘Oh, nonsense!’ Her gaunt face creased into an affectionate smile. ‘After what you do fer me, d’you think I’m goin’ ter take money off you? Bet I owe you more’n you could ever owe me, Eddie, me love – the work you’ve put in ’ere at times.’
‘No more’n I should do.’ He grinned back.
Being a widow at the mercy of others, so Eddie assumed, she needed a helping hand from time to time. Any moment he had spare, he felt it only right to help keep the place in shipshape order for her – a bit of painting here, a bit of mending there, and now and again some roof repairs. It wasn’t a lot, and how could he take money off her for it? It did him good to see her glad of help.
‘One day, my dear,’ she said to him a few months ago as he washed his hands free of paint with turps and Lifebuoy soap, ‘this will all be yours, when I’m gone.’
‘For God’s sake!’ he had burst out, unable to comprehend such a thing as her not being here, unable even to bring himself to say, You’ll live for ever, Auntie.
She had smiled, the edges of her thin lips gouging into her cheeks.
‘I ain’t as young as I was,’ she had said, patting him on the arm as he dried his hands on a towel. ‘Nor none too well, neither.’
‘You look all right ter me,’ was all he could manage, his lips compressed. And as far as he could see, she did. After all, she was only a couple of years older than his mother, who was forty-six, and that wasn’t old enough to be talking about being gone. Except that if he looked a little more closely, she had begun to seem somewhat shrunken. But it was only due to all the work she did. Never gave herself rest, her café dominating her life as any thriving business does its owner.
