by Parks, Adele
‘Have you ever used contraception?’
‘No.’ Lydia was mystified. She was here to learn how to get pregnant. Not once in her eight years of marriage had she ever used contraception. Why would she?
‘There are women who do, early on in their marriages, and it damages them in the long term.’
‘Oh.’ Lydia had heard this before. When she’d repeated it to Ava, Ava had laughed riotously and talked about the guff that men spouted in an attempt to terrify women. She’d commented that it was criminal, and then added that she only wished contraception had such long-term effects, as it would save her a lot of time and effort. Lydia had been too stunned and shy to ask exactly what Ava had meant by this.
Lydia had received several pieces of dubious advice during her desperate pursuit to conceive a baby, and had sat through many chastising lectures too. One doctor advised her to drink a pint of Guinness every day, as he was adamant that she lacked iron. For a year she’d waded through the thick, creamy beer every morning at breakfast, even though she wasn’t keen on the burned, sharp, almost lactic flavour, and it often caused her to have a headache for the remainder of the morning. She only gave up the habit when another doctor advised her that the drink was making her less feminine and thus reducing her chances of conceiving. She’d been told that wearing high-heeled shoes had thrown her uterus into displacement; for several months she was unfashionable, bordering on the dowdy, and had only returned to heels when Ava had once again sprinkled her wisdom by commenting, ‘Good God, woman, you’re a fright. Lawrence isn’t going to want to make love to you if you insist on dressing like a farm labourer. Then you’ll never get pregnant.’ Lydia thought she might have a point: heels were so much more flattering for the ankles and calves.
She nervously fingered the lace hem of her skirt, which sat a smidgen below her knee. She wondered whether she might get ticked off for that too. She’d once been told that short skirts were responsible for her infertility. Admittedly, that choice piece of idiocy hadn’t come from a doctor; it was a great-aunt of Lawrence’s who’d insisted that draughts ‘up there’ led to problems.
‘Do you exercise?’ Dr Folstad asked gruffly.
‘I dance,’ Lydia admitted carefully.
‘Dancing. Hmm.’ His tone was condemning.
‘I ski in season, and play tennis and golf too in the spring and summer,’ she added defensively, in case dancing was to be disapproved of on moral grounds, as well it might; one never knew what doctors despised.
‘For sure. As all you young ladies do.’
Patronised and alarmed, Lydia asked, ‘Is it wrong?’
‘Not necessarily. Some doctors say excessive exercise in women is a problem. Others say it isn’t.’
‘What do you say?’ asked Sarah. Her concern over the enormous fee this doctor was charging had shocked her out of her normal reserve.
Dr Folstad leaned forward and turned on the desk lamp. It had been a dull day. The sky, originally the colour of the hem of a wedding dress, had now darkened to something more akin to a groom’s topcoat. It had drizzled non-stop since Boxing Day. The inclement weather was hard to ignore; it had a devastating effect on the perkiness of hats and hearts. The light from the lamp helped ease the gloom marginally, but Sarah wished someone would offer them a cup of tea; she was sure Lydia would benefit. Irritation at the lack of hospitality emboldened her further. ‘Do you have a view?’
The doctor held Sarah’s gaze, not offended, rather amused by her challenge. ‘I think moderate exercise is to be recommended, as is the moderate consumption of alcohol. Drink milk but make sure it’s pasteurised. Eat plenty of eggs and leafy greens.’ Lydia nodded enthusiastically at every syllable that dropped from his mouth, as though he was spitting pearls. ‘Try not to get too stressed, Mrs Chatfield. Stress is an enemy in all health issues.’
‘Lady.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Lady Chatfield.’ Lydia blushed, immediately wishing she hadn’t corrected him. What did it matter if this foreigner failed to address her properly? Few Englishmen truly understood how to address whom, whom to address how.
‘Lady Chatfield,’ he repeated carefully; was he laughing? ‘And you could try some new positions during sexual intercourse.’
Lydia sensed Sarah shudder at her side. It was good of Sarah to attend this appointment, as sex and all the associated, wasn’t a subject she’d ever felt comfortable discussing, even before she became a widow. Before, she had found it embarrassing; now, no doubt, it was both embarrassing and painful. Lydia had married a year after Sarah, and she remembered trying to talk to her friend about what to expect on her honeymoon. Sarah had told her to pack Hartmann’s Hygienic Towelettes and lots of spare pairs of knickers, and not to worry if she didn’t immediately get the hang of it. Still, blushes aside, if positions could help, then Lydia had to know more.
‘Any you’d recommend especially?’ she asked, taking care to keep her eyes trained on the green leather desk.
‘I have a leaflet. Produced in Oslo but written in English.’ He didn’t need to be any more specific; both the women already understood that the leaflet would no doubt be considered obscene in British terms. Whilst having children was deemed patriotic, any discussion as to how this might come about was still judged as perverse. Folstad stood up and rooted in a cabinet drawer; while he had his back to them the women shared a quick glance. They were unsure whether to be excited for Lydia, hopeful or panicked. Lydia wanted to giggle. Nervous.
‘Here we are.’ He handed her a very thin five inch by three inch sheet of paper. It was the same thin texture as her confirmation Bible and she wondered whether this was significant; she read so much into everything nowadays. The print was tiny and difficult to read. There were no pictures.
Blushing again, Lydia folded the piece of paper in half and then into quarters, and carefully stowed it in a buttoned pocket inside her bag. ‘Do you think it might be worthwhile my husband coming to visit you?’ she asked tentatively.
‘I can’t imagine there’s any point in that,’ replied Dr Folstad. ‘What possible help would it be? No doubt your husband is a busy man, and invariably the problem lies with the woman, you know.’
‘I see.’
‘Vitamins are essential. And cod liver oil. Do be sure that the receptionist has your correct address. I send bills out on a Tuesday. Any questions?’ The doctor’s moustache stayed still for a moment.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
Just one. Why? Why not? But she knew he couldn’t answer that.
8
OUT ON THE pavement it was miserably cold. The streets were teeming with people rushing to find shelter from the drizzle that had started while they were visiting the doctor; umbrellas popped up like shiny black mushrooms, but neither Lydia nor Sarah had one with them. The bitter January air scratched the women’s faces; helplessly they watched as a gust picked up a brown paper bag and carried it bouncing along the street. A small child gambolled after it, laughing; a nanny ran after the child, scolding. Lydia and Sarah wondered what to say to one another. The doctor’s hopelessness and blame sat heavily on the pavement with them, more solid and real than the longed-for Silver Cross baby carriage with a plump heir inside. Lydia rallied first. She was more familiar with this situation than Sarah; she’d been found culpable often enough.
‘Well, I’m stranded somewhere between painful outrage and a genuine interest in the leaflet,’ she commented, forcing a bright smile to her face. She threaded her arm through her friend’s.
‘Should we find a tea house? Warm us up?’ Sarah suggested. Warm us up was new-speak for cheer us up. No one admitted to needing to be cheered – it seemed unpatriotic – but everyone felt it. Gloomy Januarys were the worst.
‘Yes, tea.’ It would solve little, but both women needed to believe in this, the great British myth that everything would at least be better after a hot cuppa. ‘Let’s go to Maison Lyons at Marble Arch. It’s so very glam. Look, there’s a cab.’
&nb
sp; As hoped, the familiar white and gold façade did something to lift the spirits of the two friends. Lydia pushed open the door and both women tumbled into the welcome glare of the large, bustling food hall. They excitedly drank in the intoxicating sight of the fancies on offer. Fat pink joints of ham hung temptingly from hooks, alluring jewelled cakes, light pastries and delicate hand-made chocolates were displayed in glass counters, crates of exotic, colourful fruits that had been shipped to London from all over the Empire were stacked around them, as well as slabs of smelly ripe cheeses and displays of impressive wines and champagnes. The women breathed in the luxury and allowed themselves to let drop a small amount of the tension that perpetually gripped them both.
‘Do you have much delivered from here?’ Sarah asked conversationally.
‘Yes, when we’re in Eaton Square, it’s so convenient. They deliver twice a day, you know.’
‘How marvellous.’
‘I come here to have my hair done occasionally too,’ confessed Lydia. ‘There’s a salon in the basement.’
‘Do you? Why? I thought Dickenson had clever fingers and some flair that way.’
‘Yes, but sometimes it is fun to … oh, I don’t know … mix with other gals, I suppose. You know, the ones that aren’t like us.’ From the look on Sarah’s face, it was clear she had no idea what Lydia was on about; what possible attraction could there be in rubbing shoulders? ‘I like the smell of hot hair,’ Lydia added lamely.
The five-storey building offered a different restaurant on every floor, all of them huge and bustling. The establishment sometimes stayed open twenty-four hours a day, and various fashionable orchestras played on each floor almost continually. Lydia wondered whether the number of patrons that came through the doors indicated that she and Sarah were not alone in needing somewhere cheerful to take sanctuary; did all of Britain feel the same, or were the other tea-drinkers feeling fabulous? Certainly many looked blissful as they jumped up from their seats and danced to the sinewy jazz notes that jerked and jostled their way past the clinking of cups and saucers, and through the ribbons of cigarette smoke.
The women settled on the second floor because they didn’t want to eat more than a cake. They were led to their seats, and as they threaded through the chairs and chatter, the waitress said she’d fetch the trolley so that they could see today’s pastries.
She noticed his uniform first.
It was habit. For years she had noticed every uniform on the streets. At first there were just a few, worn by the overzealous or the desperate. Then there had been many, too many, the streets turned khaki as swathes and swathes of young men marched through, towards the stations and ports. Then there were too few again. The uniforms that did come home were shabby, tucked up to hide a lost bough, or trailing a sleeve, a ghost of a limb.
Now uniforms were few and far between again. Worn mostly by poor, damned men, begging for food or casual work, hoping to kick-start some common decency or at least guilt. But this one was worn by a man with ramrod posture, a man with an air of resilience and triumph. His strength and masculinity oozed out and engulfed the entire room; Lydia noticed that Sarah was watching him too. Every woman in the room was. Some were doing so carefully, from under their lashes or out of the corner of their eyes; others were brasher, and practically allowed their jaws to openly hit the table. Lydia stared. She was incapable of not doing so, even though somewhere, on some level, she realised it was unacceptable.
It was habit too to wait, to see if they could stand, if both arms were in place, if when they turned they might be scarred, burned beyond recognition. But this man turned and he was perfection. It was his absolute perfection that struck her. During the Great War they’d said they were fighting for the women and children, for the farms and the fields. Lydia had never quite believed this, even though she knew she ought. It was hard to swallow when so many women had been left broken-hearted, when so many children had lost a father. Now, suddenly, she understood why they had fought. They had fought for this man. Not men like him; this man alone, in all his perfection.
‘Are you all right, Lydia? Do you know him?’ Sarah asked.
‘Know who?’
‘The man you are staring at.’
‘No, certainly not.’
‘Gosh, what a shame. He’s divine. Beatrice would love an introduction.’ Sarah sat down, smiled at the waitress and began to look around the room, sizing up the other customers’ plates, trying to decide which cake seemed the most appetising.
Lydia had forgotten how to sit down. She’d simply forgotten, as she realised that her breasts were aching, actually aching with longing. She glanced at the man again and felt nothing other than a terrible confusion as she understood that what she was experiencing was extreme desire. In the instant she understood as much, she was ashamed to admit that she had never felt anything similar with Lawrence. Flustered, she dropped like a sandbag into her chair. She made an effort to behave as she should, as she usually did. She tugged on the fingers of her gloves and took them off, set them aside. She picked up the menu and tried to focus, but the words swam in front of her, morphing and misbehaving. Sarah commented that she might have a teacake or perhaps a macaroon, for a change. ‘I wonder what the Russian pastries are like, exactly.’
Lydia found it impossible to do anything other than smile weakly; although she had tried the Russian pastries only last week and had found them overly sweet and a little heavy, she simply couldn’t impart this wisdom. She began to play with the tablecloth, all the while strangely aware that he was in the room. Then she blurted, ‘Should we look at the leaflet?’ Somehow, illogically, the two things seemed related. The perfect man and the exotic sexual positions.
‘Not here, Lydia.’ Sarah coloured.
‘I need a cigarette.’ Lydia offered one to Sarah, who refused; although practically everyone smoked in public, Sarah and Bea were still resistant. Lydia inhaled deeply and tried to think about the menu.
‘Excuse me, is this yours?’
The perfection was talking to her. He was right by her side, just behind the cigarette. His nostrils flared as he took in her smoke. She felt queer that her breath was now inside him. Moved. Up close, he was more beautiful than she had believed possible. His skin was fine and hung on his sharp cheekbones; his dark hair was long and flopped over his right eye, as was fashionable, but even so, it could not hide his eyes. Green. Enormous. Sad. He held out her glove. Red, it lay like a gash in his hand.
‘Yes, it must have fallen off the table,’ she mumbled.
‘Well, luckily I was passing, so I could avert any real disaster.’ His tone was humorous; his enunciation was not quite middle class. He was trying to hide an accent; she couldn’t yet tell which one. She was frozen; he shook the glove a fraction, as if reminding her that he was offering it. She took it from him and their fingers touched; the jolt dashed through her body, then found a harbour below her stomach. She fought the mad urge to stand up and kiss him.
‘I like your eye make-up.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That smoky, smudgy look you’ve mastered. It’s very attractive.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well, good day, ladies.’ He nodded his head a fraction.
‘Goodbye,’ Lydia replied.
Both women watched the soldier leave the café; it was impossible to turn away.
‘Wasn’t he forward?’ commented Sarah.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Handsome enough to be forgiven, though,’ she added, with a playful smile.
‘Indeed.’ Lydia summoned a giggle. It was a little higher than her usual pitch, but she was determined to turn the event into a harmless, flirtatious moment. She couldn’t allow that it was more.
‘Gosh, Beatrice will be devastated to have missed that excitement,’ added Sarah. ‘I wonder who he is.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Officer rank.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, a staff sergeant major. Didn’t you notice the i
nsignia? A non-commissioned officer, but an officer all the same.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well someone must know him.’
‘I suppose.’
Sarah then confided, ‘Not that Beatrice would stand a chance. Not really. I’m certain a man like that has his pick of beauties and fortunes. And Beatrice …’ Sarah sighed, not cruel enough to finish the sentence. It was unnecessary anyhow: Lydia understood.
Lydia breathed in deeply. She tried to adjust her world, straighten it, because it was tilted, just a fraction, and she felt dazed and confused as a consequence. How strange he’d made her feel. Yes, he’d have his pick of women, and she was married. Happily so. She stretched and strained to regain a sense of reality.
‘Let’s take Bea a cake. She’ll like that.’
Sarah beamed, always impressed by her friend’s thoughtfulness. ‘What a lovely idea. Shall we take the macaroon?’
‘Yes. That’s perfect.’
Perfect.
9
IT HAD BEEN a long day. Endless and drab. The trees were beaten by the wind. The sky was tin grey. Her nieces and nephews had not provided the respite that Beatrice had hoped they might. They had not shattered the monotony with delighted squeals or warm, enthusiastic cuddles. Instead they had squabbled and behaved badly. The two older boys had refused to permit little Jimmy to join them riding; her nieces had been prepared to allow him to tag along, but he’d been ungracious about it and lashed out, insisting he didn’t want to be with the girls. He’d flung his wooden pull-along duck, which had caught Molly’s kneecap, causing her to howl. Bea suspected the reaction was disproportionate to the actual injury, but her tears had been loud and fearful enough to bring Nanny running from the nursery. Nanny had thrown Beatrice a furious glare, effectively communicating her condemnation of Beatrice’s inadequate mothering skills.
