Wives & Mothers

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  Grace’s heart sank. He seemed such a nice young man. What on earth could he have in that case — and how was she to send him away without hurting his feelings?

  ‘Please, may I show you?’ He looked at her hopefully, lifting his case onto a chair.

  ‘Well — all right.’ Grace looked at her watch and wondered if Elaine was coping. But the next moment everything else was forgotten as Morgan Owen opened his case and drew out the most exquisite item of knitwear she had ever seen. It was a jacket, knitted in soft muted shades ranging from charcoal black through every shade of grey to cloudy white. The yarn was soft and whisper-light, and as he handed the jacket to Grace she impulsively held it to her cheek.

  ‘Oh, it’s beautiful. Where did you get it?’

  ‘I made it,’ he told her modestly. ‘The colours are natural. The wool comes from the sheep on my father’s farm in Wales.’

  ‘You mean, you knitted this?’ Grace stared at him in amazement.

  ‘Well, yes.’ He looked almost apologetic. ‘I’ve got some more if you’re interested. There are others in the natural wool shades and some made from yarn I’ve bleached and then dyed with various plant dyes and other things I’ve experimented with.’

  Grace watched him bring three more garments out of the case; the most excitingly new and original items of clothing she’d ever seen. Not only were the yarns interestingly textured and the colours subtly different, but the designs were so astonishingly fresh and avant-garde.

  ‘Where did you learn to do all this?’ she asked him breathlessly.

  ‘At art school, initially. But I dropped out. It was all too conservative for me and they certainly didn’t hold with my radical way of thinking.’ He smiled apologetically.

  Grace looked at him with a new respect. Suddenly the rather hesitant young man who had stood before her a moment ago had changed into someone positive and knowledgeable. Some instinct told her with a sudden flash of intuition that she had made an important find.

  ‘How many orders have you got?’ she asked him.

  ‘Here in Cambridge, you mean?’

  ‘Yes — well, anywhere’

  He sighed. ‘None. Well, no firm ones yet. Lots of people are interested, but somehow they seem reluctant actually to commit themselves.’

  Grace nodded. That would account for his lack of confidence. Was he perhaps asking too high a price? She fingered the jacket that had taken her fancy. ‘How much is this one?’

  ‘Have it on me — as a sample,’ he said suddenly. ‘The colours are perfect for you. Wear it in your shop perhaps, and see if your customers like it. I’ll come back next week.’

  ‘Oh, no. I couldn’t.’ But already he was fastening his case. ‘Look, you can’t just give your work away. I meant it. How much are you asking for your knitwear? I must know if I’m to order any.’

  He looked at her, his assurance diminishing before her eyes. ‘I’m no businessman, Mrs Wendover. I’ll admit that I really haven’t a clue what to ask. That’s my trouble. I’ve been trying to get people to make me an offer.’

  Grace laughed gently. ‘Oh, dear. No wonder you’re not doing very well.’ She could hear voices in the shop now and peering through the curtain saw that several women had come into the shop and were raking through her rail of sale garments. She turned back to him. ‘Look, Morgan — may I call you Morgan?’ He nodded eagerly.

  ‘Can you come back this evening after I’ve closed? We could do a little costing out and work out a proper price for you to charge. I’d have time to look at your things more closely then too.’

  The radiant smile lit his face again. ‘You mean you’d actually help me?’

  Grace smiled, warming to him. ‘I’ve an idea I’m going to be helping both of us, Morgan. Come at seven and have a bite to eat with us,’ she added impulsively. His complexion was a little muddy and she suspected he lived out of tins and might welcome a home-cooked meal. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to go right now.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll see you later.’

  He was going through the door when she remembered the jacket, still over her arm. ‘Wait, you’re going without this.’

  He shook his head. ‘I meant it. Wear it.’ He gave her his radiant smile. ‘Be my first model.’

  Margaret slipped her arms into the sleeves of the jacket and stood for a moment before the stockroom mirror. He’d been right. The jacket suited her, its soft natural colours flattering her complexion; its wide, soft collar framing her face. As she walked into the shop one of her best customers stood waiting.

  ‘Mrs Davies, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said. ‘I had to speak to a rep...’ She broke off as she caught the woman’s expression of rapt admiration.

  ‘My dear, that’s perfectly all right. But tell me, where did you get that delectable jacket?’

  ‘This? It’s part of a new exclusive collection I’m hoping to stock quite soon.’ Margaret bluffed.

  ‘Well, do let me know when you have them in stock,’ Mrs Davies said. ‘I just have to have one of those for the autumn.’

  *

  ‘I don’t really have to stay, do I?’ Elaine was laying the table whilst her mother cooked supper. ‘Alison’s cousin has asked us to go for a trip down the river in a punt. I’ve already said I’ll go.’

  Grace left her cooking to stand in the doorway, a slightly worried expression on her face. ‘Her cousin — which one?’

  ‘Patrick.’ Elaine bent her head low over the table, pretending to adjust the small flower arrangement. If only she didn’t blush so easily.

  ‘Who else is going?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I told you, the four of us.’ She longed to tell her mother that she was being taken out by Patrick alone for the first time, but she was so desperately afraid that Grace might do something to prevent her going.

  ‘Alison and both of her cousins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right. But you won’t lark about and fall in the water, will you?’

  Elaine groaned. ‘Oh, Mum. We’re not children.’

  ‘You’re not far off it.’ The sound of the door bell broke into her thoughts. ‘That will be him now. Go down and let him in, there’s a good girl.’

  Morgan stood expectantly on the doorstep. His hair was brushed and slicked down; he looked neat and clean in flared jeans and a white shirt splashed with tiny blue flowers. Weighing him down was the largest suitcase Elaine had ever seen. It was so heavy and cumbersome that he had difficulty getting up the narrow stairs with it.

  Grace had cooked a mixed grill, accompanied by fresh peas and new potatoes, and Morgan ate his meal with obvious enjoyment, remarking again and again how tasty and delicious everything was. Grace’s suspicion that he lived out of tins was confirmed. The moment the meal was over Elaine looked appealingly at her mother.

  ‘May I go now?’

  ‘You’d better make your apologies to Mr Owen,’ Grace said. But Morgan shook his head.

  ‘Oh, please, don’t worry on my account.’

  ‘It’s a previous engagement, you see, Mr Owen,’ Elaine explained gravely. ‘Please will you excuse me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  When Elaine had whisked eagerly out of the room, he smiled shyly at Grace. ‘She’s very pretty, isn’t she? I expect there’s a boyfriend in the offing.’

  ‘Oh, no. Nothing of that sort.’ Grace assured him. ‘Elaine is only seventeen. Plenty of time for that. Now, show me what you’ve brought.’

  The garments Morgan took out of the case and draped, one by one, over Grace’s settee were like the contents of some magic box. As he shook them out he explained their origins.

  ‘What I’ve tried to do is capture the colours and the textures of the countryside in Wales where I grew up. The hillsides, the rocks, the stone walls, the sky and the sea in all its varying moods. The wool comes from the sheep that live on the hills, and the dyes all come from natural plants that grow there. It’s a natural projection, see? As n
atural as evolution. At least, that’s what I’m aiming for.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful idea,’ Grace told him. ‘And very effective.’

  He smiled, blushing with pleasure. ‘I’m so glad you think so.’

  ‘I hope you can give me some idea of what it costs you to make them,’ she ventured.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve jotted down some figures. I buy the raw wool from my father and a couple of uncles; I spin and dye it myself, see, so it doesn’t really cost a lot,’ he said. ‘Especially as I do the knitting too.’

  ‘Ah, but we must count it as though you pay someone else to do it,’ Grace pointed out.

  He stared at her. ‘But I don’t. Wouldn’t that be dishonest?’

  Grace was remembering the avid look on Mrs Davies’ face when she had seen the jacket. ‘Look, Morgan,’ she said patiently. ‘This could be big business for you. If your garments became popular you’d have to employ spinners and knitters and other workers too, so you must start the way you mean to go on. Besides,’ she added, smiling wryly, ‘people don’t appreciate something they get for next to nothing. That’s a piece of psychology I’ve learned for myself since I’ve been working in this business.’

  Morgan shook his head bemusedly. ‘I can see I’ve got an awful lot to learn.’

  ‘Would you like me to make some enquiries?’ she suggested. ‘I can ring round some of my contacts in the trade and find out what the going rates are. Would you like me to do that?’

  He looked unsure. ‘Well, if you really think my work could be a success.’

  ‘I do, Morgan. Oh yes, I do.’ She smiled. ‘In the meantime, why don’t we have some coffee and you can tell me all about yourself?’

  *

  Zoe Carne put a large bowl of salad on the table and began to carve thick slices from the cold remains of a joint of beef.

  ‘About time too,’ Tom said, seating himself at the table and shaking out his napkin. ‘Dinner in this house can be any time from six to nine thirty. You get worse, Ma.’

  ‘I was busy. I didn’t notice the time. Think yourself lucky to be getting dinner at all.’ Zoe reached across to cuff his ear good-naturedly. ‘So shut up and get on with it, brat.’ She pushed a plate of meat towards him, the silver bangles on her wrist jangling. ‘And I’ll say again what I’ve said so many times before: I’m not the only person in this house with a pair of hands. One of you lot could just as easily make a meal.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Red said, helping himself from a bowl of cold potatoes. ‘Your mother’s work is just as important as yours. More. She gets commissioned work.’

  ‘Well, if I couldn’t do better than this... Tom said scathingly, poking at the cold meat. ‘Not exactly what you call gourmet grub, is it?’

  ‘If it isn’t good enough you know what to do, don’t you?’ Zoe seated herself at the end of the table and began to hack slices from the French loaf on a board beside her. She looked up as Patrick walked in.‘Oh, there you are. We were beginning to wonder if it was something we’d said.’

  Ignoring his mother’s sarcasm, Patrick pulled out his chair, looking with disdain at the food on his plate. ‘If I’d known it was going to be cold as well as late, I could have got myself something,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a date at seven.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’ Tom looked up cheekily.

  ‘None of us would have objected if you’d prepared the meal yourself, seeing you were anxious for it to be on time,’ Zoe put in. ‘I was just saying — I don’t know why you all have to wait for me to put food in front of you. Sometimes I think you’d all starve if I wasn’t here.’

  It was an old argument and went over Patrick’s head as he applied himself to his food.

  Tom repeated his question: ‘I said, anyone we know?’

  Patrick gave his younger brother a baleful look. ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘Bet it’s that friend of Alison’s,’ Tom said. ‘You know she’s still a school kid, don’t you?’

  Zoe looked up. ‘She isn’t, is she?’

  Patrick sighed. ‘No, she isn’t. As a matter of fact, Elaine is almost eighteen and a student.’

  ‘Ah, so it is her,’ Tom said triumphantly. ‘Mmm, jail bait if ever I saw it. Those quiet, mouse-like little creatures are always the worst, you know. Get them on their own and they burst into flames and singe the pants off you.’

  ‘Tom...’ Red shot him a warning look. ‘Eat your dinner and shut up.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Zoe said. ‘I will not have you speaking to each other in that disgusting way at the table. By the way, have you seen the state of that sodding kitchen?’ She looked at her husband. ‘You’ll have to have a word with Toby. He wanders down for drinks and snacks at all hours of the day and night and leaves everything for some other bloody fool to wash up. It’s like a pigsty in there. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked you to speak to him.’

  Red gave a short laugh. ‘Come off it, Zoe. The lads are off to France next week and they won’t be back until after the vac’. Anyway, you know that one of your blistering lectures would be enough to make them all toe the line for at least a month. So why ask me to wield authority?’

  ‘Because you are supposed to be the man of the house.’ She threw down her napkin exasperatedly. ‘Why is it that nothing ever gets done in this bloody house unless I do it?’ she demanded. ‘Why do I have to be the ogre as well as the flaming dog’s-body around here? I’m an artist, damn it. Not a bloody seaside landlady.’

  Tom chuckled through a mouthful of salad. ‘Children, children.’ He rapped the handle of his fork on the table. ‘I will not have you speaking to each other in that disgusting way at the table.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m off — late already.’ Patrick rose from the table and made a hasty escape. No wonder the family only assembled to eat together once a day. It was more than enough for him. It was a wonder they didn’t all suffer from chronic ulcers. He wondered about Elaine’s home life. There was just her and her mother, he knew that much. Her mother ran the little boutique in Prince Regent Street; the one with the twee name: ‘Style ‘N’ Grace’. He pictured the set-up; calm and quiet. A tidy well-ordered house, serene meal times with polite conversation. He sighed. What Elaine had found so romantic and fascinating about the Carne household, he didn’t know. She should try living in it for a week or so.

  He had surprised himself by feeling ridiculously pleased at the prospect of being with her again. After the party he’d hesitated about asking her out. She wasn’t like the girls he was used to at college. He’d known somehow that the casual approach wasn’t for her; she felt things deeply, he’d sensed that. A relationship would mean more to her than to most girls. She’d be easily hurt so she’d need careful handling. Could he cope with that? Did he really want to? He wondered too about her mother. Grace Wendover looked modern enough. He’d met her once in Red’s shop, picking over the things in his bargain basket — looking for props for her window displays. She was a slender good-looking woman, and fashionably dressed. But there was a certain reserve about her that was reflected in Elaine and he wondered if she might perhaps be a little over-protective of her daughter. He’d still been wondering whether or not to ask Elaine out when he’d run into her in the town the day before yesterday. They’d had coffee together and he’d impulsively suggested a trip down the river. Her dark eyes had sparkled up at him radiantly as she’d accepted. Now he found his footsteps hastening towards their meeting place with more anticipation than he had felt for a long time over a girl.

  Elaine lay back in the punt, watching Patrick. It was a warm evening and he had taken off his shirt, revealing a strong, tanned torso. He was broader and more muscular than he looked with his shirt on and as he propelled the punt expertly along she watched his rippling muscles with silent admiration. Since the party she’d wished and wished that he would telephone to ask her out and she’d almost given up hope when they met in town. For the first time she found that there was something she couldn’t share with Alison. The othe
r girl just would not have understood the way she felt about Patrick. She was so brash about boys, fancying someone different each week. And none of them seemed to mean any more to her than a casual fling. Elaine supposed that this was the way it should be. At seventeen one should be carefree. But somehow for her it didn’t work that way. Since the first moment she’d seen Patrick she’d known she was destined to fall in love with him. Looking up at him, she could hardly believe that someone as sophisticated and worldly would actually want to take her out. Of course she had lied a little about her age, but even so...

  With older boys she always felt so gauche and tongue-tied, but Patrick managed to make her feel completely at ease. He laughed with her rather than at her, so that she didn’t feel foolish; he informed, rather than corrected her so that she didn’t feel she was being patronised. But the best of all was the way he looked at her — making her feel like a woman — an attractive, sophisticated, desirable woman. It was a heady feeling. It made her feel so happy, light as a bubble and high as a kite.

  ‘Watch the branches.’ Patrick crouched as the punt floated through a curtain of willow fronds and came to rest against the bank with a gentle bump. He tied up carefully and then, from under the seat, drew out the basket he had brought. He took out a bottle of wine, glasses and some biscuits.

  ‘Shall we get out on to the bank? The grass is quite dry.’

  He helped Elaine out and together they arranged the rug and cushions to make a comfortable place in which to take their refreshment.

  Elaine looked around her. Under the willow tree the light was soft and muted. Dappled green and gold shadows danced on the grass. It was like a little private world all their own. She took the glass of wine Patrick poured for her and sipped. It was a little warm, but sweet and heady. Nothing had ever tasted quite so delicious. Patrick touched his glass to hers and smiled into her eyes.

  ‘Here’s to you, Elaine,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘No, to you. To your future.’ She drank. ‘London is a long way off,’ she added wistfully. ‘And The Slade sounds terribly grand.’ She looked at him over the rim of her glass. ‘I suppose you have to be very talented to get in there?’