by Maureen Lee
Then Sean slid his arm further along the bench until it rested on her shoulders. Gently, very gently, he pulled her towards him, put his other hand on her cheek, and kissed her. She didn’t respond, but nor did she stop him. She didn’t want him to stop. His lips were hard, yet undemanding. He wanted nothing back, just her acceptance of his long, sweet kiss, that was only interrupted by the voices of people coming home from the pub.
‘I love you,’ Sean whispered, and was gone.
Lachlan wasn’t the slightest bit drunk. He was stone cold sober and walked a straight line to prove it. ‘You know I never drink much. I had one beer, that’s all.’
‘You sounded drunk,’ Jeannie argued. She’d been pretending to be asleep when he came into the room and tripped over her shoes so she pretended he’d woken her. It was then she accused him of being drunk and he accused her of thoughtlessly leaving her shoes in the middle of the room for anyone to fall over.
‘I sounded as if I was having a good time, that’s all,’ he said haughtily. ‘We all were. It’s not necessary to get plastered in order to enjoy yourself, though Max over-indulged, as usual. He’ll have a head on him in the morning. Fly can drink like a fish and it doesn’t affect him.’
‘Perhaps Max senses his entire world is about to collapse, and that’s why he over-indulged.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Jeannie. Max is lucky to have got as far as he has. He can join another group or go into management. He must have more than enough in the bank to last till he sorts himself out.’
‘Oh, and you think Monica will be happy about that? She’ll be as mad as hell and the person she’ll be maddest with is Max himself.’ Jeannie turned over in the bed with a flounce so she was facing away from Lachlan when he got in. For the first time they slept with backs to each other. Not that Jeannie slept much, and it wasn’t thoughts of her brother that kept her awake, but the memory of Sean’s kiss, which she could still feel on her lips. Why hadn’t she pushed him away, slapped his face, stopped him somehow? It troubled her that she’d let another man touch her when Lachlan was the only man she’d ever wanted. She’d betrayed him, just as he was about to betray Max.
When they woke, the sun was streaming into the room and they were facing each other. Jeannie reached for him at the same time as he reached for her. They made love, savagely, like strangers.
‘Perhaps we should row more often,’ Lachlan gasped hoarsely when it was over. ‘We’ve been married for four years, but that was the best ever.’ He groaned. ‘I love you, Jeannie Flowers.’
‘And I love you, Lachlan Bailey.’ She snuggled into his arms, Sean’s kiss forgotten until later in the day when she saw him again. They greeted each other coolly, as if the kiss had never happened.
Rita hunched in the background when the guests followed the newly married couple out of church, where they were met by an enormous cheering crowd, a posse of eager photographers, and two television cameras. She hated being filmed or photographed except if she was singing, when she didn’t care. Other times, it made her uncomfortably aware of her plain looks and her inability to smile naturally. She managed to stay out of sight until there was a call for the other Flower Girls to be photographed with the bride and her dad came looking for her.
‘You’re wanted, girl.’ Kevin took her hand and led her to a shady spot under a tree where Jeannie, Zoe, and a radiant Marcia were waiting. ‘I wish you’d taken your mam’s advice and worn something a bit more fashionable, luv,’ Kevin said. ‘You look like Little Orphan Annie in that get up.’ Rita’s calf-length frock, bought from C&A, was cream with a pattern of pastel flowers and a sailor collar. She’d bought her hat in the same shop, a little cream straw boater.
Rita clenched her teeth and tried not to wince while the photographers yelled at them to look up, lookdown, smile, look at the bride, and the television cameras rolled.
The torture continued. The Merseysiders were requested to join the group and positively refused to wear their top hats. It was too hot and they looked daft with long hair. She was grateful when Sean put his arm around her. He was the only one who guessed how she felt. ‘It’ll be over soon, sis,’ he said quietly. She noticed his eyes flicker in the direction of Jeannie, who looked gorgeous in a brief yellow frock and a big hat to match, and wondered if he still had a crush on her after all this time. His girlfriend had arrived this morning, a model called Anita something. She came from somewhere in Latin America and had thick, black, shining hair.
The camera wielders announced they’d had their fill. The guests began to drift towards the line of cars waiting to take them back to the reception. Some preferred to walk. Rita tagged on to the end of a group of walkers.
No one spoke to her, until an elderly man in front turned round, and waited for her to catch up.
‘Aren’t you a Flower Girl?’
‘Yes,’ Rita mumbled.
‘I’ve seen you on television. You look very different when you sing. For a minute there, I hardly recognised you.’
‘People never do.’ When she sang, she came alive. He held out a hand for her to shake. ‘Robert Briggs, the bridegroom’s grandfather. How do you do, Flower Girl. I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’
‘Rita McDowd. Are you a lord?’
‘Good gracious me, no. I’m just plain mister. Philip’s mother is my daughter. You’re very shy, aren’t you, Rita McDowd?’ he said in a kindly voice.
Rita nodded numbly at this undeniable and clearly obvious fact.
‘You shouldn’t be. You’re a very talented, extremely successful young woman, yet you pretend to be invisible. Would you like to hold my arm?’
‘Please.’ She linked him and he patted her hand.
‘There!’ he said comfortably. ‘I feel very honoured. What you need is a guardian angel, someone who’ll constantly remind you of how wonderful you are, take you out of your shell. I’d offer to do it myself, but I’m getting on in years and it takes me all my time to walk up this hill.’
‘What hill?’
Robert Briggs laughed and said that only proved his point.
It was two o’clock in the morning when the reception drew to an end, by which time Marcia and Phil had long ago left for their honeymoon in the Seychelles, and the villagers had gone home, exhausted, to their beds. Only relatives and close friends remained for the last waltz.
The eight-piece orchestra began to play ‘Some Enchanted Evening’, and Sean’s girlfriend, Anita, jumped to her feet and they began to dance. Sean wished with all his heart it was Jeannie he was holding in his arms. She was dancing with Lachlan, her head on his shoulder. He’d scarcely been able to take his eyes off her all day.
Elaine and Zoe remained seated, lamenting the fact they didn’t have a man between them. Zoe’s boyfriend had had to leave early. ‘He’s in a play in London and he had to be back in time for the first house.’
‘I haven’t got a proper boyfriend,’ Elaine said. ‘I’m too busy with my studies for anything serious.’
Max Flowers knew that Monica would give him hell tomorrow for getting drunk two nights in a row. Hours ago, she’d taken Gareth back to the house in a huff. He sighed. Getting plastered didn’t seem such an awful thing to do, not at a wedding. Sometimes, he wished he’d tried to pay her off, as everyone had suggested, not gone and married the damn woman.
‘Well, if this isn’t the best wedding I’ve ever been to,’ Kevin McDowd said to his wife. He’d danced himself silly and made himself look ridiculous, but didn’t care.
‘Every wedding you go to is the best ever,’ Sadie remarked tartly. ‘Lord knows what people thought, you turning everything, even the Twist, into an Irish jig.’
‘They thought, “That fine fella drives a Rolls and manages one of the best known pop groups in the country. If he wants to dance a jig to the Twist, then hasn’t he got every right in the world?” ’
‘Ah, go on wit’cha.’ Sadie nudged him sharply.
Kevin gasped. Her nudges always turned him on. ‘D’you think our
Rita’s clicked with that ould geezer?’ he asked. His daughter was being swirled around by a sprightly individual with snow-white hair. ‘She’s been with him all day.’
‘Don’t be an eejit, Kevin McDowd. That’s the groom’s granddaddy.’ Sadie gave him another nudge.
Jaysus! If she nudged him again, he’d drag off both their clothes and give her one on the spot. That’d give folks something to talk about.
Chapter 11
‘So, you see, Mum,’ Jeannie finished, ‘Max will be gutted when he finds out. It’ll destroy him.’
‘I think you’re exaggerating, Jeannie. Our Max is a strong person. He’ll survive.’
Jeannie didn’t argue that Max was anything but strong. Her mother hadn’t been really listening when she’d told her that Max was about to lose his place with the group that had been his life since he was fourteen. These days, she was totally preoccupied with Alex and their two little girls – Amy, three, and Eliza, who would soon be two.
It was the Monday after the wedding and the weather was still hot and stuffy. Jeannie and her mother were on a swing seat in the garden of Magnolia Cottage, a fairy-tale place, with crooked latticed windows and a red tiled roof. The garden was a tumble of trailing flowers and fragrant shrubs. Climbing roses hung around the front and back doors – Lachlan complained they had been fitted with elves in mind every time he banged his head.
Inside the cottage was just as pretty. The walls and the low ceilings were criss-crossed with black beams and there was a miniature inglenook fireplace in the living room where logs were burnt when it was cold. Rose had never been allowed much say in the decoration of the house in Disraeli Terrace and had disliked the big, dark furniture that had belonged to Tom’s mother. This time, she’d had free rein. Every curtain was draped and held back by a frilly tie and the cretonne three-piece suite had its own matching cushions edged in thick lace. There were flowers in the fireplace in summer and the crockery was covered with rosebuds.
Jeannie’s half-sisters were splashing about in a plastic pool uttering tiny, excited cries. They were nothing like Jeannie or her brothers, the children Rose had had with Tom. Alex’s girls were white-blonde, fragile creatures, like little fairies.
She was almost sorry she’d come. Her mother’s lack of interest in Max worried her. It could only mean she’d be equally disinterested if she, Jeannie, had a problem. Or Gerald. She said, ‘Gerald’s coming home on Friday for a few days, Mum.’
‘Is he, love?’ She didn’t add, ‘Tell him to come and see me,’ or ask how Gerald was getting on, living on his own in London, something he’d been doing for a year since he’d turned eighteen. Unlike Max, Gerald had realised he would never make more than a second-rate guitarist. In London, he had joined a group of like-minded youngsters, who played together for fun. By day, he worked in the advertising department of the New Musical Express, and was occasionally called upon to write an article or represent the magazine at a not-very-important gig. His ambition was to become a professional journalist covering the pop music scene. The few times a year he came back to Liverpool he stayed with his sister and Lachlan. Gerald wasn’t important enough for Monica to make welcome at his brother’s house.
‘Have you seen your father lately?’ her mother asked.
‘Not since April. I’m not sure if he really wants to see me.’ They’d more or less been abandoned by their parents, Jeannie thought ruefully. Rose preferred her new family, and Tom seemed sullen and depressed whenever she called. He was sixty-seven, still tending Colonel Corbett’s garden. Various women attended to his domestic needs – possibly other needs if the frequent presence of Mrs Denning was anything to go by. She made his evening meal and stayed for hours.
‘I wish he’d agree to a divorce,’ her mother grumbled. ‘Iris and Alex divorced quite amicably – she’s already married again – but Tom positively refuses.’
‘He’s just being awkward.’
‘He’s good at that. I can’t remember him being much else.’
‘Never mind, Mum. You and Alex are perfectly happy as you are. A piece of paper won’t make much difference.’
Rose rolled her big blue eyes and sighed. ‘I suppose not, but it makes me feel like a kept woman instead of a wife. You’re not going, are you, love?’ she exclaimed when Jeannie got to her feet. ‘You haven’t had a cup of tea. Oh, aren’t I a terrible hostess!’
‘It’s all right. I’d like to get back and make Lachlan some lunch.’ Lachlan was quite capable of making his own lunch should he feel hungry, which was most unlikely. Anyway, the house had been gradually filling up with people when she left. It would be even fuller now and nobody would think twice about raiding the fridge. She just wanted to get away from the mother and the rose-covered cottage where she didn’t belong.
‘Marzipan Dream’ was released to general acclaim. Wildly enthusiastic reviews in the music press declared it to be the best song the Merseysiders had ever done. Within its first week, it shot to number four in the charts.
‘Next week, it’s bound to reach the top,’ Lachlan said gleefully, rubbing his hands, but a few days later, the Beatles’ ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ came out and soared to number one, where it would stay for weeks, while ‘Marzipan Dream’ slowly went down.
‘Never mind, there’s always a next time,’ Jeannie said consolingly.
‘We’ll never do anything better than that,’ Lachlan groaned.
‘Of course you will. That’s a defeatist way to think.’ He looked so woebegone she gave him a hug, though she thought him silly to want so much when he already had more than enough.
It was late when Monica rang, almost midnight. Jeannie answered. She was about to go to bed and Lachlan was winding up in the studio downstairs.
‘Do you know what your husband has done to Max?’ Monica screamed.
Jeannie’s heart sank. Unable to think of a suitable answer, she mumbled something incomprehensible, which didn’t matter, as Monica continued with hardly a pause. ‘He’s only gone and given him the push. Max is bloody beside himself. He’s in the bathroom, crying his eyes out. I never knew men could cry. You might like to know I’m having another baby and we’re about to have an extension built on the house.’
‘I’m sorry, Monica.’ Now didn’t seem the appropriate time to congratulate her on the baby.
‘Did you know about this, Jeannie?’
‘Lachlan did mention it, yes.’
‘And you didn’t tell Max? Fine sister you turned out to be. But then, you’re all right, aren’t you?’ The spite in the shrill voice made Jeannie’s blood run cold. ‘The money just keeps rolling in. How are me and Max supposed to manage? We’ll soon have two kids and the house isn’t nearly big enough.’
‘I’m sure something else will turn up, Monica.’ The house was already three times as big as the ones in Disraeli Terrace, more than enough for four people.
‘Oh, fuck off, Jeannie!’ The receiver at the other end was slammed down with such force that the sound hurt Jeannie’s ear.
She sat on the bed, nursing her ear and taking deep breaths, wanting to rush down to the basement to tear Lachlan off a strip for not preparing her. It would be best to wait, calm down a bit, before she faced him. He must have told Max tonight. They’d gone out to dinner earlier, Fly and Sean too, something they’d never done before. Perhaps Sean had announced he was leaving at the same time.
The phone rang again. Jeannie considered ignoring it because she knew who it would be. Let Lachlan answer. There was a phone in the basement, but he wouldn’t hear if the studio door was closed.
Gritting her teeth, she picked up the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Jeannie!’ It was Max, as expected, and he said her name with such reproach she wanted to weep. ‘Why didn’t you tell me what Lachlan was going to do?’
‘Oh, Max! What difference would it have made?’
‘I would have known where I stood. Did you try to talk him out of it?’
‘Of course I did, Max. We had an argume
nt, but you know Lachlan. He wouldn’t be moved.’
‘When was this?’
‘On the way to Marcia’s wedding.’
‘That’s more than a month ago.’ His voice was sad and dejected. ‘You’ve let me down badly, Jeannie. I’m not sure if I can ever forgive you.’ The receiver was replaced, gently this time, with scarcely a click.
‘Max!’ Jeannie yelled, but Max had gone.
Gerald called a few days later. She’d heard no more from Monica or Max, and there was no answer whenever she tried to ring.
‘Is this true about our Max being dropped and Sean McDowd leaving the Merseysiders?’ Gerald asked.
‘How did you find out?’ Jeannie felt angry. There’d been no need to announce to the world the truth about Max. Why couldn’t he just ‘leave’, like Sean?
‘It’s in a press release that arrived this morning from Eddie Ford. Has Lachlan lost his marbles or something? I know he couldn’t have stopped Sean from going, but he’s mad to drop Max at the same time.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s common sense. The Merseysiders will seem like a completely different group without Sean and Max. I’m not just saying this because Max is my brother, Jeannie,’ Gerald said earnestly. ‘Max may not be the best guitarist of all time, but people have got used to him. They don’t like change. Tell Lachlan he’s making a big mistake.’
‘I will, Gerald,’ Jeannie promised.
But Lachlan pooh-poohed Gerald’s advice. ‘What does he know? He’s just a kid. He’s worked on a music mag for a year and thinks he knows everything.’
‘So did you when you were nineteen.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’ He patted his knee. ‘Come and keep me company.’
