by Maggie Ford
It had been a fairy-tale few days. There had been hardly time to dwell on the consequences of her letter to Eddie, slipped through his letterbox in the early morning light last Saturday, or her letter to her parents left propped up on the kitchen mantelpiece. It seemed so far away now, their world; seemed years away – another life.
She had stolen out of the house around four-thirty that particular morning with little but what she had stood up in: a couple of nightdresses, a change of dress, a second pair of stockings, toothbrush, and a few items of make-up, all packed into the small attaché case from the top shelf of her wardrobe. She also had her birth certificate – Langley had said she would need it to get a passport. Feeling her way about the room she shared with May, dark but for the street lamp down the road, she had prayed not to bumble into something and wake up her sister. Her prayers had been answered – May had slumbered on, undisturbed.
Mum and Dad hadn’t stirred either. Cissy knew the routine: Mum up just after five, getting Dad a cup of tea and then doing sandwiches; Dad coming down ten minutes later either to a quick breakfast or else skipping it to have it later in some café near the docks.
But when Cissy had crept out with dawn coming up, looking back for the last time into the gloom of the home she had known since a child, the action produced an unexpectedly empty feeling inside her, all had been quiet but for Dad’s faint snoring from upstairs. That in itself heightened the feeling of emptiness and had made her almost want to run back into the house, creep back to bed and forget this madness.
Resolutely, she had closed the door, watching against letting the wood, prone to swelling in the early morning dampness, scrape noisily against the doorjamb. Resolutely, she hoisted her tiny case and her handbag to a firmer grip and turned her face towards the new morning and, hopefully, a different life…if Langley’s offer was still on.
The first trams started running just after five, the first tube train about the same time. She had reached Liverpool Street Station as the first workmen’s train was emptying out, and had to go with the surge making for the underground Circle Line.
Coming up to street level at Victoria she had made her way to the address on Langley’s letter, seeming to walk for ages in the early light of what promised to be a fine day – a good luck sign she had surmised – scrutinising the fine houses set back behind their high ornate railings.
She couldn’t remember exactly how she had found it, only able to recall walking up a gravel drive towards the large Georgian-type front door with white portals. Langley’s shiny car was sitting in the middle of the drive with the air of a huge sleeping dog; expecting a butler to answer her ring on the electric bell push, she found Langley himself, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, clad in a blue silk dressing gown, opening the door to her.
She remembered more vividly his half-hearted welcome and her own embarrassment. She could still feel the sinking sensation seeing his narrow face registering dismay, as it had appeared for that instant. Then he had brightened, became genuinely pleased to see her, and had pulled her into the hall and given her a huge hug, declaring his pleasure that she had decided to come to Paris after all. She knew then that what had looked like dismay had been surprise – nothing more – from a man just awakened from sleep.
He had laughed out loud when she told him she’d brought nothing with her. She hadn’t dared tell him that what she owned was too cheap to air. She had, of course, taken out her rainy-day savings on the Friday intending to buy at least a couple of good dresses and maybe a nice hat. She had thought better about affording undies and things that, unseen, could take their chances. But he would not hear a word about using her own money. After coming fully awake and making her a quick breakfast of egg and bacon, he had dragged her out that morning to Kensington High Street, buying her a lovely coat with a huge fox fur collar, a pair of soft leather shoes with Cuban heels and decorated straps, and an exquisite shiny pink straw cloche hat with a deeper pink silk band. ‘The rest we’ll get in Paris,’ he’d said as if it had been arranged months ago. Then he’d taken her off to buy the Channel steamer ticket, all before she had hardly caught her breath.
That evening they had gone to the theatre and afterwards had supper at a glittering restaurant. She remembered second thoughts seeping through her as they returned to his house, her stomach going over and over that all this would have to be paid that night. Not that she’d been terrified of what was expected of her as he conducted her inside, but that this would be her first time ever being made love to. Even Eddie had only ever kissed her, she dying to have him at least fumble inside her blouse. Though he often trembled and seemed on the verge of doing so, he never took that liberty, while she, for all her yearning, hadn’t dared to encourage him lest it cement their relationship that little bit too much and entrap her.
In Langley’s house she had steeled herself for the unknown; not only that but what he would think of her being so free with herself? But she needn’t have worried. Almost as though enjoying playing the gallant gentleman, he had shown her to her room, pecked her goodnight on the cheek, and then retired. In fact, what she remembered most was a sense of deflation as she stood with her back against the closed door, wondering how she could so lack allure that a peck on the cheek had been all she had got.
Her disappointment had finally been dispelled by the room itself. In all her life she’d never seen such a room. Those of the boarding house on holiday at Margate or Ramsgate with her family were often large, but cavernous and sparsely furnished with deal cupboard, dressing table, chair and a sagging iron bedstead with sheets and blankets barely covered by a quilt that had seen more washing than was good for it.
The room Langley had given her had been pure luxury, cream satin everywhere, with drapes and cushions, a delicate cream wardrobe and a dressing table with mirrors. The room had been hers for the next few days until this morning when they had left early – she with even more beautiful clothes and a leather travelling case to put them in. Langley had spared no expense. Had asked nothing of her in return. At least, so far. But eventually he must. Though at the moment it didn’t matter.
Sitting in this deckchair, Dover’s cliffs being engulfed by a warm sea mist even before they could sink behind the green-white wake of the cross-Channel steamer, she felt content, dreamy, the life she’d known hardly real now. Ahead lay France – Paris. Altogether another world.
Her eyelids felt pleasantly heavy. Above the steady thump of engines, exhilarated chatter and bursts of laughter came and went in waves. Faint tinkling piano music floated from a small piano bar…‘When day is done and shadows fall I dream of you…’
Lethargic, her eyes only half open, she drew in deep breaths of an assortment of not unpleasant smells and identified each as it came to her; the fresh salt-sea tang; the warm wafting of engine oil; and the acrid soot-bound smell of smoke that had strung itself out from the ship’s funnel to hang suspended behind them like a long grey wavering rope across the sea. The cliffs of Dover had quite disappeared.
Floating in her own sea of languor, Cissy closed her eyes and opened them again with a start to the sound of Langley’s voice in her ear.
‘Come on, lazybones. Some company you are! We’re all going to the piano bar for drinks. We’ll be docking soon.’
‘Soon?’ She sat bolt upright. The sun deck, still sunny, was less crowded, and the sun now invaded every part of the deck which had hitherto had shadow in one corner. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Best part of the crossing.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘You looked so content, asleep. Effie said you looked more like a rag doll. Miles said you looked stunning. I said you looked ravishing – snoring away.’
‘Was I snoring?’
Langley let out a laugh. ‘I’m joking! Come on now, up with you.’
Her hand firmly in his she followed. ‘I wasn’t snoring, was I?’ she begged. A fleeting memory of the last sound she’d heard in a silent house, Dad snoring, appa
lled her.
‘No, of course not,’ Langley said.
The piano bar was crowded. The whole group were already there, being jostled about, sipping cocktails and champagne. Cissy had a champagne cocktail bought by Langley after a struggle through a pack of bodies getting last-minute drinks. He had a brandy.
Sipping her drink, Cissy felt wonderful. Four couples. Eight people having a whale of a time – and she was one of them.
With a clanging of bells and roar of engines, the ship’s stewards began marshalling passengers towards gangways where the doors would shortly open. Last drinks quickly knocked back and guzzled down, then a mad race to find a porter to handle the baggage, a handsome tip at the ready. Giggling and calling to each other over the jostle as the doors swung back, they spilled out into French sunshine, down the slope of the gangway onto French tarmac.
Cissy stood surrounded by a mound of eight people’s baggage, watching Dickie Verhoeven hand a generous tip to their porter who raised a forefinger to his cap in casual nonchalance before examining the size of the tip, then with a satisfied grin departed.
Faith Silk and Effie were sorting out hat boxes and vanity cases, while Pamela Carstairs seemed mesmerised by the opal brooch she was wearing on the loose neck of her white, low-cut cotton dress. Miles and Ginger Bratts were in close discussion over train tickets while Langley went in search of a couple of taxis to take them and their considerable accessories to a hotel for the night before travelling on to Paris by train the following morning.
No one seemed to be taking notice of her. For a moment Cissy felt utterly out of it, ignored. For a moment she was again the Cockney girl whom Langley had first introduced to his circle of fine friends, summed up and dismissed as something quaint. Her only consolation was that Margo Fox-Prinshaw hadn’t come, hanging onto Langley’s arm, as she would have had she been here, as if she had every right. And perhaps she had. After all, she was Langley’s sort. Was she, Cissy Farmer, Langley’s sort? Not really. Would she ever be? Had she been brought along only because she was someone different to the rest of them?
She allowed her gaze to wander away, a small hollow pounding inside her chest, then her eyes swung back with an almost abject sense of gratitude as Langley’s hand touched her arm. He was back. He had sought her out.
‘Good God, Cissy! Still half asleep. Come on, darling, I’ve found a couple of cabs. A bit decrepit. Lord knows how we’re going to get all of us and our stuff into them. We’ll manage if you four girls can squeeze into one with me and Miles. Ginger and Dickie can go in the other one with the luggage.’
Part of a group again, Cissy sat squashed between the cab door and the three girls. She didn’t mind being on the end, and participated in their high-pitched laughter at the flailing arms of a gabbling cabby who seemed at a loss as to how to pack six bodies into his vehicle until given the promise of a huge gratuity.
It now had all the promise of becoming a lot of fun. In her new summer frock, the pretty hat she was wearing, with her fine leather travelling case being bundled with the rest into the second taxi, it was so different to the life she’d left behind. Even the air smelled different: the bitter aroma of freshly ground coffee; the sweet smell of hand-made confectionery and sticky pastries; and something else, something elusive, not exactly perfume – flowers perhaps. There was even a different smell to the taxi, leather rather than London grime, as it rattled its way along the wide promenade flanking the docks, turning off into progressively narrowing cobbled side streets before finally emerging in a substantial promenade with hotels of varying sizes.
‘That one!’ Langley shouted to the driver, pointing at a hotel further down the street; blue-washed with open pink shutters and pots of red geraniums dangling from white-painted balconies. But at the sight of it, a faint wave of apprehension took hold of Cissy.
‘Are we booking rooms for each of us?’ she asked amid the almost deafening chatter inside the cab. Silence decended like a curtain. Three pairs of female eyes of varying hues turned themselves upon her. Miles gave a giggle.
‘I haven’t the faintest!’ Effie finally said rather sharply, and turned back to resume the interrupted conversation.
Cissy sat quiet, confused and mortified. She should have laughed, but she didn’t. In time she would learn to parry this caustic wit – that was what it was basically – except that it hurt her, so new was she to it. They used it to each other, but she was not yet acclimatised.
The men, of course, were as different as chalk to cheese, pandering to their partners’ whims and fancies. Langley did too, but he did it without fawn or favour. Miles, now Miles was a positive groveller, especially where Faith was concerned, and Dickie for all his military affectation, seemed to lose three inches in height when Pamela spoke sharply. Effie of course could demolish any man. Unpretty as she was, there was a certain regality about her that made heads turn, and Cissy had noticed that her partner for this trip was ready to have rings run around him, blushing wildly to his ginger roots every time she touched his hand or leaned confidentially towards him.
The taxi driver was taking his time making it to the hotel Langley had pointed out, getting stuck behind cabs onloading at other hotels. While his fare huffed and puffed at the delay, Cissy thought of Langley. Out of the four, he was the best, and Cissy felt proud. Effie was probably jealous. No doubt that was why she had snapped at her. But Langley was hers. He treated her like royalty – his princess as he still called her. She found herself thinking that she wouldn’t mind a bit now if he got her into bed and even began to hope he would.
Then in the very midst of anticipation, Eddie’s face leapt into her head, leaving her totally unprepared for the pang that accompanied it. He had never once compromised her as she was sure Langley would sooner or later. With the pang came a rush of conscience. How was Eddie faring? How had he taken her letter? What a silly question. He’d have taken it badly, but what could she do about it now? Nothing.
Pushing conscience away, she lifted her eyes to see Langley looking at her from his seat. His face broke into an understanding smile and as he rose to get out, she saw his eyes flick towards the unsuspecting Effie and back again to her in a mutual conspiracy of ridicule.
Cissy nearly laughed out loud, tension dispersed. The taxi jerked to an erratic halt and those inside made ready to explode out onto the pavement, she with them, Eddie forgotten.
*
‘If only we knew where she was. How she is.’ Doris sighed as she went about her morning chores like some automaton, trying to hold back her silly tears. She’d been holding them back ever since Cissy’s note had been found propped against the clock on the kitchen mantelpiece.
‘If only we knew…’
‘I don’t want ter know.’ Charlie’s tone was hard. ‘And if I did, I wouldn’t trouble meself ter contact ’er.’
He gave a rumbling cough to disguise the void sitting like a lump of iron inside him and which his tone was in danger of betraying. Part of him wanted to go looking for her, if he knew where to start. The other part – the part she had injured last Saturday morning when she had sneaked off like a low-down thief, not even a goodbye or any sort of explanation or forwarding address – argued that she wasn’t worth looking for when she’d walked out as she had. That was the bitterest part, the disowning part.
‘All I’ve done fer ’er…’ What he wanted to say was all she meant to him, but he didn’t ‘.…nd that’s ’ow she be’aves. I tell you this Doris, ole gel, I don’t care where she is, but she can bloody well stay there.’
‘You can’t say that about our own daughter.’
He wasn’t listening, railing on to justify himself. ‘Fallen in love with someone else? My bloody foot! I’ll give ’er fall in love.’
‘I only pray she’s all right. P’raps she’ll come back after a while and tell us she’s all right. I won’t never be able to rest until she do come back. We ought really to’ve told the police, but you said…’
‘She went of ’er own fre
e will,’ he cut in savagely. ‘I told you, they’ll only tell you that themselves, there’s nothing they can do.’
‘But what if something awful’s ’appened to ’er?’
‘God knows what Eddie must be feeling right now, poor bugger. All she was to ’im. All ’e was to ’er. That’s what I can’t forgive. ’Er ’urting ’im. She won’t get none better than Eddie, ’ooever this thing is she supposed to ’ave fallen in love with. Fallen in love? I’ll give ’im fallen in love if I ever catch ’im. Salt of the earth, Eddie. And this is what she does to ’im. What ’e must be feeling.’
It was the oldest cliche in the world that trouble never comes singly. Cissy’s letter still lay in the breast pocket of the old coat Eddie went to work in. Not that he had much heart in work.
It had been read and reread, scrutinised, analysed, for whatever tiniest clue that might hold the reason for her leaving, other than the one she had given: that she had found someone else. There had been no forewarning, no apparent cause as far as he could see, nothing.
He had been determined to comb London to find her. Then the day after Cissy’s departure, just as he was about to go looking God knows where for her, had come the second blow – a telegram telling his mother that her sister Lottie had been taken ill.
Aunt Lottie had been taken into the London Hospital where she still lay. She had collapsed with terrible pains while serving her customers. They had called an ambulance which had taken her straight to the hospital. An examination had revealed that she had…. his mother had whispered the word cancer as five hundred years ago they might have whispered plague.
Dreadful news that it was, his mother grief-stricken for her sister, it fell to Eddie, instead of going in futile search of Cissy, to spend much of that weekend instead at the hospital with his mother and father. How could he ask them to dwell upon his own problems when theirs and Aunt Lottie’s were far more crucial?
Tests revealed a hopeless situation, a growth left too long before being found. There had been a lengthy exploratory operation which the surgeon had closed up again as inoperable. Too late. A matter of weeks – two, maybe three – he came grave-faced to announce to the patient’s only sister. Nothing could be done now. It was in God’s hands. He was very, very sorry.
