My mother came in and announced lunch. ‘Steak and kidney pie. I hope you like it, Mr Crimony?’ she asked.
‘Indeed I do. You know I dote on your pastry. I have been complimenting Bella on her appearance. She has grown into a handsome young woman and that scar isn’t at all bad. I tell her she must keep her back to the light and no one will notice.’ And he went on tittering as we walked into the dining-room and sat down to eat our steak and kidney pie followed by treacle tart. No wonder I’d been overweight when I lived at home. Or was all this pastry in Mr Crimony’s honour? There he was calling mother Annie in a most familiar way and she laughed at his feeble jokes. But she did at least call him Mr Crimony and not Charlie which I seemed to remember was his Christian name. Even when we returned to the drawing-room for coffee he was still with us so I was unable to mention my daughter or anything about my present life. Perhaps my mother did not want to know about it because she seemed quite happy about Mr Crimony’s heavy presence. I suggested we washed up the dishes together; but she declined my help because she had recently had a dishwasher installed in the kitchen.
When we finished our coffee I said it was time I went home and no one pressed me to stay longer.
As I said goodbye to mother on the doorstep I suggested a visit to the shop, but she seemed doubtful. ‘It would mean a lot of travelling and I don’t think I could spare the time.’ But Mr Crimony had crept up behind her and suggested driving her over one Sunday. ‘It’d make a nice little drive, Annie, we could go through the park and cross the river and be in Twickenham in no time. We will be getting in touch, Bella, never fear.’
When I got as far as the gate I looked back and they were still standing there, and one of Mr Crimony’s heavy hands was on mother’s shoulder. Was he the ‘little surprise’?
Chapter Five
The spring came early that year and I walked in the Forbeses garden with Gertrude, who was looking splendid in a blue cashmere dress, her happiness shining out of her. She said she had never felt so well before, indeed she had no morning sickness or any of the other minor discomforts of pregnancy. Sometimes she said, ‘Wouldn’t it be awful if I wasn’t pregnant at all? Suppose it was only a false pregnancy, women do have them, you know.’
Marlinchen ran ahead of us to examine the daffodils which were just coming into flower and we’d shout ‘No, no!’ every time her hand went out to pick one – well, not exactly pick, she pulled their heads off, looking at us and laughing as she did it.
The Forbeses garden must have been the first private garden she had been in and she called it ‘the park’ although it was most unparklike, as a large part of it was almost wild with little paths twisting between the trees and bushes. There were several apple trees about to blossom and a large cherry. Near the cherry tree in a wild corner there was something Gertrude called the juniper tree, although it was really a very large bush. She said it had berries that she enjoyed eating. ‘I believe they are used in the making of gin,’ she laughed, ‘but I like them.’ There was a bench where Gertrude used to sit under her tree, watching the birds, and she said that if she were worried about anything, the worries went away. The old greyhound, who followed us, lay down by the seat as if it were a place she was very used to.
On Saturday evenings, after the shop was closed, the Forbeses often took us home with them and brought us back on Sunday night. One of the things we enjoyed about this was using their beautiful bathroom, as we only had a little washroom with a basin at the shop. We really looked forward to our baths there, often using flower-scented, foaming bath seeds to add to the luxury.
That spring Sunday we were enjoying the garden, Gertrude was expecting a visit from her younger sister, Charlotte, who taught in a nearby German school. She was tall and golden-haired like Gertrude, but there the likeness ceased. She had a high colour in her cheeks and an air of authority. To myself I called her the Corn Maiden, and although I admired her brains and strength of character, I was a little afraid of her. She didn’t get on with Bernard very well and they argued over the dining-table. This Sunday was no exception. While the rest of us were enjoying sole cooked in mushroom and chive sauce, they were arguing about late Sumerian culture and Bernard appeared to be really angry.
‘I wish she wouldn’t do it,’ Gertrude said in a low voice. ‘She even lays down the law about wine; men hate that sort of thing.’ Then, loudly, ‘You two stop, you’ve gone on long enough,’ and there was peace for the rest of the meal.
Then, when we were having coffee round the drawing-room fire, Bernard suddenly broke the comfortable silence and said, ‘Well, Bella, have you been in touch with your mother?’
So I stammered out an account of my visit, aborted by the persistent presence of Mr Crimony. Now I was sharing it with other people my visit seemed almost funny and not distressing as it had seemed at the time. The pity was that, if the silly Crimony had not been there, my mother and I might have got on quite well. The little improvements in her appearance had touched me and under her prickly manner there appeared to be a faint warmth as if there were a little seed of understanding there.
‘So she still does not know about Marlinchen, then,’ Gertrude said regretfully. ‘Never mind, the next time you meet things will be better. You must choose a time when that man isn’t there,’ and she patted me encouragingly. ‘If she only works part-time you must telephone her in the afternoon when the boring Crimony is selling his coal.’
Bernard asked ‘Do you think he is planning to marry your mother?’ I didn’t answer because Marlinchen awoke from her afternoon rest on the sofa and demanded to be taken to the swing in the ‘park’, and Bernard threw away the stump of his Sunday cigar and decided to take Charlotte and the greyhound for a walk, so no more was said about my mother. As they left the house Bernard and Charlotte were quarrelling again, this time about a Spanish painter called Tapies, and Bernard was almost shouting, ‘Of course I know I’m right. After all it is my job.’ And their angry voices grew fainter as they walked up the hill.
In the evening, when Bernard drove us home, I saw there was a note sticking out of the letter-box. Customers often left notes when the shop was closed so I wasn’t surprised, but when Bernard had driven away and we had taken off our outdoor things I remembered the note and unfolded it to read, ‘Sorry you were out.’ It was signed ‘Mother and Charlie’, but it wasn’t written in mother’s handwriting.
On Monday evening I telephoned her but it was Crimony’s voice that answered. I replaced the receiver and tried again a little later. It was Crimony’s voice again, but this time I persevered and, trying to disguise my voice, asked to speak to Mrs Winter. Crimony was not deceived. ‘Is that you, Bella? Speak up louder, your voice isn’t very clear, ducky. I suppose you want to speak to your mother. She’s sitting right beside me and she’ll be ever so pleased to have a little chat with you.’
I could hear whispers, then my mother’s voice. ‘Is that you, Bella? Have you anything particular to say to me? Yes, it was a pity we drove all that way and you weren’t there. You would like me to come next Sunday, about tea-time. Or any other day would do. Well, make up your mind, dear. You say Monday would be best for you. I don’t think Mr Crimony could manage Monday. No, of course I couldn’t come by bus and train after a heavy morning at the travel agency. You are making it very difficult and I haven’t time to go on and on talking. We’ll leave it open. Anyway, this line is very bad, I can distinctly hear a child’s voice cutting in. Goodbye, keep in touch.’ And the receiver was replaced.
‘Mummy, who was that?’ Tommy asked for the third time. She liked to join in on telephone conversations. ‘Actually it was your granny, though you wouldn’t think so,’ I said as I hugged her close and carried her upstairs. I wouldn’t have risked making a call if I’d known she wasn’t asleep in her bed. I looked down on the smiling face on the flowered pillow and thought that Mother was exceedingly fortunate to have such a lovely grand-daughter, even if she did not know it yet.
Easter came and the Sa
lvation Army band played stirring music on the Green and then went home to eat hot cross buns. It was a cold, wet Easter and there was nothing much to do. The shop was closed for three days and the Forbeses were somewhere in Devonshire. They were to be away for at least ten days and I hadn’t realized before how dependent I was on them. They, and in a lesser degree, Mary Meadows, were my only close friends. How had it happened that I’d become so isolated? I used to be a friendly girl, perhaps a little reserved, but still friendly. I’d been fairly popular at school although I seldom asked girls home. Later there had been the odd boyfriend but men meant little to me until I met Stephen. I longed to be loved and admired but had little to give in return. With Stephen it was different. I used to think it affected when people talked about total commitment, but that was what I had for him, real, total commitment, or rather, the first year we were together total, and the second, just commitment. After the accident, just for a little time, it was total for both of us; but it didn’t last long, and he turned away from me as we talked although he had caused the sneering scar to come on my face. Then the quarrels started, usually about money because for a time I couldn’t pay my share and when I became a telephone girl I didn’t earn much. Stephen seemed to be really pleased when I moved out. This made me more and more bitter and we said such unforgivable things to each other. I think most women would prefer their particular man, the man they love, to be cruel rather than mean. It was small things like, ‘Could you pay the taxi? I haven’t any change,’ or, ‘Will you see to the porter, dear?’ Stephen had several expensive watches and a carriage clock which was always needing attention and somehow it was always me who had to collect them and pay the watchmender. I’d far rather he had hit me than practise these meannesses on me. Even so, I did miss him the first year we were apart; but as I became more and more engrossed in Tommy Marline I thought about him less and less, and rather pitied whoever had taken my place. But in spite of my child’s company, I was very lonely that Easter.
Chapter Six
When the Forbeses returned from Devonshire, Gertrude appeared to be a little tired and her heavy lids half covered her great eyes, giving her a doll-like look. She said that she didn’t care for hotel life and that she had missed her garden. The garden was looking particularly beautiful. In the wild part that Gertrude called the spinney or thicket, the trees had grown even thicker and the green branches were closely entwined. The birds sang until the trees resounded and the last of the blossom fell on the mossy green and blue ground. At first glance I thought the blue was bluebells but it was wild periwinkles growing in great profusion. I’d never seen them grow like it before. Gertrude said they sometimes did abroad and the ones in her wild garden were descended from a few she had brought back with her from a Spanish wood years ago. We sat on the bench under the juniper tree and she nibbled a few of the needle-like tender leaves as we talked in a comfortable way. We really were happy to be together again. Bernard joined us for a few minutes but did not stay long and refused to share our bench. He preferred the tame part of the garden. Besides, he was practically driven away by a pair of noisy magpies who had built a strange, dome-shaped nest in a nearby tree. Gertrude looked at them and smiled. ‘I know they are thieves and steal other birds’ eggs – and baby birds too, I believe, but I can’t help loving them, they are so elegant and I even like their silly chattering. I’d be sorry if they didn’t nest here anymore, my elsters.’
Gertrude soon recovered from her unwanted holiday, but as her pregnancy increased she stayed more and more at home. She entertained a little but could hardly bring herself to visit her friends’ houses and now on Saturday evening it was only Bernard who came to the shop. It was the same with theatres and films. They had been so fond of their almost weekly visits, but now Bernard had to go alone or take Charlotte or me instead. Gertrude was quite happy to stay at home and look after Marlinchen while I went to these entertainments with her husband. I hadn’t been anywhere for over three years and for me it was wonderful to go to the theatre and read the reviews and choose the plays I’d like to see. I’d discuss my choice with Bernard and if he thought it a bad one he’d most likely talk me out of it. The concerts I left for Charlotte because I knew little about music and even Bernard, who loved imparting knowledge, couldn’t face my ignorance.
The shop continued to do well and with the extra commission I earned I bought a really good dress for special occasions – and there were plenty of them those days. I also bought a pair of soft and delicate shoes for nearly forty pounds. It seemed a fortune to me, but they were worth a fortune because they were so comfortable and pretty. Occasionally I went to a hairdresser, just for the cutting really, but they insisted on doing other things and sometimes when I got home I put my expensive head under the tap, particularly if Bernard was taking me to the theatre. He’d say, ‘My God, what have you done to your hair?’ and I’d feel so self-conscious I couldn’t enjoy the play. The men who came to the shop liked it, though, and often asked me out; but except for the odd pub lunch I never accepted. Actually the dealers became a bit of a problem because they started to hang about the shop, sometimes even interfering when I was serving a customer. They thought they were being helpful, but I wished they’d go away. It wasn’t only the improvement in my appearance that made me more attractive, it was my happiness and a new assurance that I’d never had before. It was so surprising to wake up in the mornings to all this happiness and interest in life.
There was one shadow that I kept in the back of my mind as much as possible, and that was my mother. To me she was almost like the wicked fairy, poor woman. She wasn’t exactly a problem. She made no attempt to encroach on my life; she appeared to be reasonably content with her own. I used to feel a great bitterness towards her, but that had almost gone and it was mostly pity I felt now. Pity mixed with fear.
One afternoon when I was rearranging the shop window I noticed a nasty little dark blue car drawn up opposite the shop and there was Mr Crimony slamming a grey felt hat on his head and helping mother out of the car. He carefully locked the doors and crossed the road holding her arm in a possessive manner. By this time I had reached the shop door and turned the notice that said ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’ and stood waiting for them to enter.
‘Well, here we are,’ mother said nervously. ‘I must say it is a pretty little shop. Better than I expected, but very small. Do people really buy this kind of junk?’
Mr Crimony took off his wide-brimmed grey felt hat. It was greasy, with a black band, and strangely repellent. He placed it on a plaster bust of Beethoven, slightly tilted it and said, ‘Of course they do. Antiques, that’s what they are. My auntie had this kind of thing in her old cottage but we threw it out after she died. Rubbish it seemed to us, but it was worth a small fortune, we heard afterwards. A brass bed, I remember, and a slippery horsehair sofa, and things under glass domes, china and that. There was a square piano that looked for all the world like a coffin on tressels and some stuffed fish her Dad had caught years ago.’
Mr Crimony was waving his large arm about in a dangerous way so I hustled them into the back room and mother’s mouth went down when she saw that I cooked, ate and sat in the same room. ‘Is this all you have, then?’ she asked as I lit the gas under the kettle.
‘No, there are two perfectly good rooms upstairs but it is more convenient to stay near the shop. Anyway, I like this room.’
Mr Crimony, who was trying hard to be pleasant, looked round and said, ‘That’s a fine dresser you have there, Bella, and those plates are very handsome. Annie, have you noticed the dresser?’
Mother brightened: ‘Yes, some very nice things mixed in with the rubbish, but of course it’s her trade.’ Then to me, ‘I must say it’s very cosy in here,’ and she looked comfortable and at home sitting there in a Victorian buttoned chair waiting for her long-lost daughter to give her a cup of tea.
I didn’t want to shatter the peace, there had so seldom been any between us, but I felt the time had come when I must tell her
about Tommy Marline. I would have to fetch her from nursery school soon. Mother put down her tea cup and said in a relaxed way, ‘Pretty, isn’t it? Hand-painted, I suppose.’ Then, looking at the twisted staircase that led upstairs, added, ‘I’d rather like to see the rest of the place while I’m here. If it’s convenient, of course.’
So I led her upstairs and first we went into the room that I used as a bedsitting-room. It had a good view of the Green with its chestnut trees and the scarlet buses flashing past half hidden by the bright young leaves. The room was really quite pretty now I’d redecorated it. The divan and recess where I hung my clothes were covered by Indian material, red and white with a design of peacocks, and there was a fine old writing table in the window where I did the shop’s accounts, and a built-in bookcase and shelves for china, mostly Staffordshire. It was the most individual room I’d ever had and I asked brightly, ‘Do you like it, mother?’
She lifted the curtain covering my clothes: ‘So you’ve only got this place to hang your clothes. Why don’t you get a wardrobe or something. You had a beautiful built-in one at home, remember? Mr Crimony fits all his suits into it and with room to spare. I’m not saying it isn’t a pretty room. You have made it very nice, considering, but I should do something about the wardrobe if I were you.’
The Juniper Tree Page 4
