Wives & Mothers

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  ‘Oh, darling, don’t. Look, we’ve had a marvellous time together but we knew it couldn’t last forever, didn’t we?’

  Elaine was silent. She hadn’t known anything of the kind. If she’d thought about it at all, she’d imagined them staying together till the end of time.

  Patrick went on: ‘We’re both young. You have your career to think of too. Believe me, there’ll be other fellows — plenty of them. They’ll be falling over themselves. You get lovelier every time I see you.’

  His words stabbed her to the heart. To think that he wouldn’t care about all these other boys he spoke of. She felt as though her chest would burst with the pain. Although she tried hard to hold them back, the tears welled up and ran down her cheeks. ‘Oh, Patrick, there won’t be anyone else — not ever,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think I can bear it. How can I live for two whole years without seeing you?’

  He drew her close, pressing her head onto his shoulder, soothing her like a child. ‘You’ll be surprised at how quickly you’ll forget me.’

  ‘No — never.’ Her voice was muffled against his neck. ‘I love you, Patrick. I’ll never love anyone else. I — I thought you loved me too.’

  He sighed. He hadn’t been prepared for the depth of her hurt. ‘I do, darling, I do. And I always will — in a way.’ He held her away from him to look into her eyes. ‘Listen, it’s only for a couple of years. It’ll go really quickly, you’ll see. When I come back I’ll get a job; teach maybe, or take a job with some advertising company — just until I make my name. If our love really is strong enough, it won’t die. But it’s my guess you’ll be married by then to some upright fellow with a steady job. Not a layabout artist like me.’

  She shook her head. ‘How can you say that? I won’t. I know I won’t.’ She looked at him with pleading, tear-filled eyes. ‘We’ll keep in touch, won’t we?’

  ‘Of course — if you like.’ Patrick winced inwardly. He’d meant to be so strong, so positive. Make a clean break so that they could both be free. It was all going wrong. In a minute she’d be offering to go with him, then what would he do? Already her eyes had brightened with a terrible transparent hope.

  ‘Perhaps, if I save up hard, I could come over and visit you,’ she said.

  He shook his head awkwardly. ‘I expect to be moving around a bit — not staying in Paris all the time.’ Seeing her crestfallen expression he relented. ‘Look, tell you what: you could come up to Town at the end of term. We could spend a couple of days together while the flat is empty, before I go.’

  She threw her arms round his neck. ‘Oh, Patrick, that would be marvellous — something to look forward to all this term.’

  ‘That’s if your mother will let you come.’

  Her chin lifted. ‘She can’t stop me if I want to, can she? Anyway, she’s far too involved with Morgan and his bloody knitting to bother about what I’m doing.’ They laughed together and the tension eased. ‘How will I exist till March though?’ She laid her head against his chest.

  ‘You’ve got the reunion with your father to look forward to as well,’ he reminded her. ‘The time will go so fast you won’t notice it. Once I’m gone you’ll hardly give me a thought.’ But even as he said it he knew it wasn’t true. He only wished it were.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘It’s a Hillman Hunter. Isn’t it lovely? Grace rubbed at a speck of dust on the car’s immaculate paintwork and looked at Elaine for approval. ‘Two years old and only one lady owner. Wasn’t Morgan clever to find it?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Elaine muttered between clenched teeth. She had found her mother standing at the kerb, admiring the car when she’d arrived home from college. Looking at the dark blue estate car she had to admit that it looked as new as the day it drove out of the showroom. Of course it would have to be Morgan clever-clogs who found it, she told herself.

  ‘There’s plenty of room in the back for transporting stock,’ Grace said excitedly, opening one of the doors. ‘The back seat folds down, see? We might even be able to go up to the warehouses at weekends and bring back our own stock. That way we’d reduce delivery costs. Morgan’s going to start teaching me to drive this very weekend,’ she went on. ‘I shall have to put in for a test at once. There’s always a long waiting list, he says.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘He’ll give you some lessons if you want. You do want to drive, don’t you? You’re old enough for a licence now, you know.’

  ‘Mother, I can drive already,’ Elaine told her coolly. Grace stared at her.

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear, of course you can’t.’

  ‘I can. Tom’s been teaching me.’

  ‘Tom? In that terrible old jallopy of his? You might have been killed. Anyway, it’s against the law.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I’ve got a provisional licence. So far I’ve had...’ Elaine counted on her fingers. ‘...six lessons. And my test date came through last week. It’s at the end of next month. Tom says I should pass first time.’

  She was rewarded by her mother’s shocked silence. When she recovered her breath Grace asked: ‘But — when did all this happen? You never said a word about it.’

  Elaine smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. It was meant to be a surprise. I’ve been going in the lunch break and sometimes after college. There’s no need to worry. Tom’s a really good teacher.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly a surprise, I’ll say that. I do wish you’d mentioned it to me first, though if I’d known what you were up to I’d have been worried out of my mind.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,’ Elaine laughed. ‘Tom’s been teaching Alison too. She didn’t tell her mum either.’

  Grace looked at her daughter with grudging admiration. ‘Well — I hope I take to it as easily as you obviously have. I’m so pleased with the car though. We’ve got it just in time for the fashion show next week. Oh, I really feel that things are looking up for us, don’t you?’ She linked her arm through Elaine’s as they walked back into the shop and began to climb the stairs to the flat.

  ‘By the way, darling, I haven’t told you. I had a bit of luck this morning — I found Morgan a new room.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Elaine went through to the kitchen and began to fill the kettle.

  ‘Yes. I went into Mr Carne’s shop when I was passing — just to see if he’d got anything new and to have a chat. He’s such a charming man. I happened to be talking about Morgan and the show and everything...’

  ‘When aren’t you?’ Elaine mumbled under her breath.

  Oblivious to the remark, Grace went on: ‘He said what a shame it was that an artist of Morgan’s calibre should have to work in such soul-destroying surroundings. Then he mentioned that they have a spare room as Patrick is about to go to France for two years.’ She glanced at Elaine. ‘Well, you’re friendly with them all so I expect you know that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Elaine’s heart began to beat dully in her chest.

  ‘So I said I was sure that Morgan would be more than grateful for a room like that. I rang Mrs Carne as soon as I got back and it’s all settled. Morgan can move in as soon as he likes. She said she’d been looking for someone artistic to let the room to. They don’t like to have just anyone. Well, you can’t blame them, can you?’

  Elaine wanted to scream. Morgan in Patrick’s room — sleeping in his bed; the bed where they’d made love. The thought made her feel sick. ‘Look, Mum, I’ve got some preparation to do for college tomorrow,’ she said ‘I won’t stop for tea now. I’ll go up and get on with it.’

  In spite of her mother’s protestations she escaped to her room. Closing the door behind her she threw herself full-length on the bed and closed her eyes. Patrick had been gone three weeks now and she missed him more with every passing day. Much to her disappointment he had gone back to London before the term started. To clean the flat and get ready for the new term, he had said. She wanted to believe him when he said he loved her and that he would miss her too. But if it were rea
lly true how could he bear to go away and leave her days before he needed to? How could he face the thought of two whole years in France without her? She squeezed her eyes shut in a concentrated effort to block out the doubts that tormented her. Instead, she levelled her thoughts on the weekend they were to share at the end of term. Seven weeks away. How was she to exist till then? And then there was her mother to persuade. It wouldn’t be easy to convince her that she must go, but somehow she would do it. At the back of her mind a dark thought lurked. Had Patrick suggested the weekend as a sop — something to keep her quiet — and not because he wanted to see her at all? She closed her mind against the thought, determined to shut it out.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she opened the bottom drawer of her dressing table and took out the box of cards from her father. At the bottom was the scrap of paper on which she had scribbled his address. Ever since the New Year she had been trying to write to him a letter, but she had torn up all her attempts in disgust. They sounded so false; so fatuous. She wanted him to know that she hadn’t changed, and yet show him she was a grown woman too. Did she address him as ‘Daddy’, ‘Father’ or even ‘Harry’? Did she write as a woman or as a child? She had tried both ways and found them forced and unreal. Sometimes she wondered despairingly whether they had anything to say to each other any more. If only they could meet. She took out the faded snapshot of him and sat looking at it, wondering how much he would have had changed. If she saw him in the street, would she recognise him? She peered at herself in the mirror, comparing her reflection to the framed photograph of her mother and herself on her dressing table, taken soon after they moved to Cambridge. She was sure that he wouldn’t know her. She had altered out of all recognition even in the five years since it was taken.

  She fetched a pen and notepaper from her desk and tried once more, driven by a sudden sense of urgency. If she didn’t send a letter soon he might move away again and she’d have lost the chance to get in touch again.

  ‘Dear Daddy...’ Yes, Daddy was still how she thought of him. Better to write as she felt.

  ‘I expect this letter will come as a surprise to you. I’ve always been so pleased to hear from you but lately I’ve been wishing so much that we could meet again and tell each other all our news. So much has happened since last we saw each other...’

  She went on to tell him about school and her ‘O’ levels; how she was studying domestic science at college; about Alison and her friends the Carnes; about Red’s puppet theatre — she was sure he would love that. She told him how much she regretted giving up her music — about her driving lessons. In fact once she got into her stride she found herself covering page after page. Being herself — writing straight from the heart — was the answer. And once she got into her stride, it came easily, as easily as it had when she had written to him during the fateful world cruise six years ago. The significance of the fact that she hadn’t mentioned her mother, the shop or Morgan never even occurred to her.

  When she had finished the letter she read it through carefully. Then she folded it and slipped it into an evelope, carefully printing the address on the front.

  ‘If he likes it, he likes it,’ she told herself philosophically as she sealed the envelope. ‘If he wants to see me, he’ll let me know. If not — well, then I’ll know not to try again.’

  *

  David Rose looked up as Harry took a seat on the opposite side of his desk. He’d retained the name of the agency when he’d bought Gerry Sylvester out, but sometimes he wondered if he wouldn’t have done better building a completely new image for the outfit. Some of the clients he had taken over from Gerry were undeniably dead wood. The singer Stella Rainbow and her pianist-arranger, Harry Wendover were among them in his opinion. Over the hill was how he privately thought of them. Profitable enough in their time, granted, but fit only for the end of the pier or opening village fetes now. These were the sixties. The dawning of the Age of Aquarius, as the song said: a time of revolutionary social change. Groups were what everyone wanted now; something excitingly different. New music, new songs with up to the minute lyrics expressing modern ideas. Double acts were old hat — dead as a doornail. Most of David’s out-of-office time was spent travelling up and down the country, searching the clubs and pubs, the small-town theatres and discotheques, looking for talent. Young people with that special something that today’s public craved; finding a group to succeed the Beatles, that was what David dreamed of for his agency, not acting as a crutch for a bunch of has-beens.

  ‘Are you sure Miss Rainbow is fit enough to work again?’ he asked abstractedly, leafing through his morning post.

  ‘She will be,’ Harry assured him. ‘We’ve been rehearsing and her voice is as good as ever. I thought perhaps a summer season. By the end of May I’ll have her back in shape again.’

  David looked up with a faintly amused expression in his quick brown eyes. ‘You sound more like a football coach than a musician,’ he remarked.

  Harry flushed. ‘She’s still popular, you know. People are still buying her records. The last royalty statement...’

  ‘People are still buying Gracie Fields’ records, Harry,’ David interrupted tetchily. ‘But that doesn’t mean they still stand in line to see her. Bums on seats is what it’s all about, Harry boy — bums on seats.’ He opened a drawer and pulled out a file. ‘Most of the summer shows are already booked, but I might be able to offer you a season at a holiday camp.’

  Harry’s heart sank. ‘I had thought perhaps a cruise. It would really set Stella up.’

  David lit a cigar, more to hide his irritation than from a desire to smoke. What did they think he was in business for? What was he? Some kind of benevolent society — a rest home for washed-up singers?

  ‘The cruise ships are all looking for something a bit more with it nowadays,’ he said, with brutal frankness. ‘Younger artists with a bit more chutzpah — pzazz — a more sexy image.’

  ‘Stella’s only thirty,’ Harry said defensively. ‘She’s still a great looking girl.’

  David looked doubtful. The last time he had seen Stella he’d thought she was running to fat. ‘Thirty’s over the hill, Harry,’ he said, leaning forward earnestly. ‘Today’s punters are the kids — fourteen to twenty, that’s your sixties public. They don’t want to see folks who look like their mums and dads standing up there singing golden oldies. They want someone they can identify with — someone to idolise, scream and drool over.’

  Harry bit his lip hard to stop himself telling this brash young man what he thought of his insulting remarks. If he’d had his way he wouldn’t be here at all. After all, he and Stella didn’t have to work any more. They could afford to retire. But if he didn’t go home with an engagement of some kind, Stella would fall back into her depression again. ‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Where’s the holiday camp?’

  David looked down at the file again. ‘With a bit of luck I could do you Skegness,’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Skegness?’

  ‘Yes. Lucky to get it too. The act they’d booked let them down — got a better offer last week and backed out.’

  Harry didn’t blame them. He turned the fiery protest that rose to his lips into a cough. ‘David, in case you don’t remember, only five years ago Stella was starring in a Broadway musical.’

  David spread his hands. ‘I know — I know. It never made it over here though, did it? Even the hit number didn’t get into the charts in the UK.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t have to tell an old stager like you, Harry. Five years in this business might as well be five hundred. Stella’s been out of the public eye too long. You know what people are. Today, they love you — tomorrow they can’t even remember your name. Well...?’ He waited, drumming his fingers as Harry struggled to make a decision. ‘Do I book you for Skegness or don’t I?’

  Harry sighed. ‘Pencil us in. I’ll see what Stella says.’

  David pursed his lips. ‘I warn you, the offer won’t stay open long.’

  Harry st
ood up. His temper was shortening dangerously. If he didn’t get the hell out of here soon, he’d be unable to resist telling David Rose what he could do with his holiday camp — Redcoats and all.

  ‘I’ve got another appointment in ten minutes,’ he lied. ‘I’ll have to be going. I’ll be in touch.’ He was already halfway out through the door.

  As he went through the door to the outer office he almost collided with a secretary on her way in with a sheaf of letters for David to sign. She looked over her shoulder as she came into David’s office.

  ‘Wasn’t that Harry Wendover?’

  ‘Yeah.’ David nodded, taking the letters from her.

  ‘Did you tell him his daughter rang a couple of weeks ago?’

  He looked up at her with a frown. ‘Didn’t know he had a daughter.’

  The girl nodded. ‘From a previous marriage, apparently. Don’t you remember, I asked your permission to give her his address?’

  ‘Yes, I remember now you mention it.’ David shrugged. ‘Sounds dodgy to me. Doesn’t do to get involved in their private affairs, Lyn. If they drop themselves in the shit we don’t want the name of the agency linked with theirs in the papers.’ He rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Anyone else rings asking personal stuff about those two, just hang up.’

  *

  Still seething, Harry bought himself a sandwich at a nearby coffee bar and sat wondering what to do. Stella might be pleased just to be working again. On the other hand, when she heard what the offer was... One could never tell with Stella nowadays. If only Gerry were still his agent, he’d have come up with something. Gerry really cared about his clients; treated them more like his family. But Gerry was the last of a dying breed. Harry looked at his watch. It was still early. He’d made an early start this morning.

  An idea struck him: if he got a fast train he could be in Cambridge by mid afternoon. He had the address in his pocket. He could see Grace and talk to her face to face. Surely all the old bitterness would be gone by now. And it shouldn’t be too difficult for them to get a divorce. After all this time she could divorce him for desertion. And if he could go home with the promise of his freedom it would more than make up to Stella for the lack of exciting offers. Feeling more cheerful he paid for his sandwich and set off determinedly for King’s Cross Station.