One Summer Night At the Ritz

by Jenny Oliver

  Jane winced.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Will nodded. ‘He said he didn’t mean it like that, the way it had come out, but he did. He just said that he didn’t want to be miserable and stressed stuck behind a desk.’ He rolled his shoulders back then added, ‘He said he wants to do something outdoors. Something with his hands. God knows what that’s gonna be. I have a friend who works in marquees, that’s the best I can offer him.’

  ‘And are you still going to give him money?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Less,’eWill said.

  She smiled. ‘Good. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said with a tilt of his head like a salute. ‘Look, it’s boiling out here. Let’s go inside. I can’t be that bad,’ he said. He reached over and took the keys from her hand, then stood up and unlocked the studio.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  If Jane had thought that the smell of Enid’s boat had rocketed her back, it was nothing compared to this. The scent of the dye, the fabric, the wood of the big table, the layer of dust all heated by the sun. The warmth and the smells spilling out as the door opened, coating her in her ten-year-old self. Her fifteen-year-old self, her twenty-year-old self. She stood for a moment where she was.

  ‘This is amazing. This is absolutely incredible. You made this stuff?’ Will asked, walking forward to look closer at the stacks of printed fabric.

  She nodded.

  ‘You still able to speak?’ he asked as she hovered on the doorstep and she laughed.

  Will walked round the room in awe, touching cloth and leaning forward to inspect sketches and drawings pinned to the wall. Jane watched him as she stepped into the dust-swirling air that shimmered like glitter in the sunshine streaming through the windows. She felt a sense of pride begin to swell inside her as she tried to look at the room through his fresh eyes. Fabric was still pinned up on string along the walls, some of it finished, some of it not. Bright reds, pinks and golds hung next to swatches of stencilled linen and experiments she was doing with screen-printed silk. The wooden block prints were all stacked up on the shelves at the far end. Jane’s stencils were fanned out messily on the big table next to a stack of screens for the press. One of the doors to the old cupboard in the corner was half open and she could see a glimpse of the piles of fabric. Off-cuts from commissioned designs, merino wool, organic cottons, velvets folded and neatly waiting. The scissors and pinking shears, pencils and tape-measures were all stacked in ceramic pots and trays on the table. On the wall were measurements scrawled in soft fat pencil in her mum’s handwriting.

  Jane pulled out a seat and sat down. ‘This is really weird.’

  Will found another stool and sat down opposite her.

  ‘I think I thought I would come in here at some point and just close it all up.’

  Will rested his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. ‘And now you don’t think that?’ he asked.

  She stroked a swatch of maroon velvet printed with a fluorescent-orange paisley pattern that was lying on the table. ‘I have no idea.’ Jane looked around the room. The soap by the sink, the towel, her chipped mug, her mum’s mug. ‘This is so surreal.’

  She looked back and Will was watching her.

  ‘It’s like I could just stand up and carry on. Which I never thought it would be. I think I thought it was over. I’ve had no creative desire to come back here but now I am here, I could just get on with it.’

  ‘You can’t not do this.’ Will glanced around the studio space. ‘You’re clearly incredible at it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jane smiled.

  Will tipped his head. ‘You’re welcome.’

  She pulled over a swatch of silver silk and held it up, remembering the stag and peacock feather pattern she’d printed on it years ago. ‘It also feels sort of comforting,’ she said. ‘Like it will always be here. Like I don’t have to stand up and do it now. You know?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Well it’s like… Maybe. Rather than, this is what I do. Not that I’ve done it for a while. Like I could go off and explore and if I wanted to come back and do this, then I could. It’s basically not as scary as I thought it was going to be. I haven’t come in here because it had become a chore. Now I’m in here and it’s all light and the smell is exactly what I know, now it seems more like freedom. Like a place I will probably, in the future, come back to. Stop looking at me like that. This is me having some inner transformation.’ She laughed then swallowed, the intensity in the room doubling and trebling. ‘Seriously, stop looking at me, stop smiling at me.’ She took a breath in. Her eyes met his without blinking, and she found herself saying, ‘Why didn’t you kiss me?’

  ‘Because I was stupid,’ Will said with a laugh, then he looked down at the table, his fingers toying with a couple of frayed off-cuts. Then he glanced up at her and added seriously, ‘Because it felt like you deserved much better than me.’

  She watched him across the table; it looked like he was about to push his chair back and stand up when a voice cut into the silence.

  ‘Hello? Jane? Are you in there?’ Jane turned to see Martha standing at the entrance to the studio, dressed in her denim dungarees and big wide-brimmed sun hat.

  Jane shut her eyes for a second, then said, ‘Yeah, Martha, we’re here.’

  Martha walked over to join them, taking her hat off and neatening her frizzy, grey ponytail as she approached. ‘Sorry to interrupt but the lot back at the cafe said you were here and that you were with Mr Blackwell. Hello!’ Martha turned to look at Will who pushed himself up from his seat and went over, his arm outstretched for a handshake.

  ‘Will Blackwell.’

  Martha nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Yes it is. I suppose you’re my…’ She paused. ‘Step-nephew? Half-nephew? Is that a name?’

  Will smiled. ‘Maybe? Or just go with nephew, probably easier.’

  Stoic, brusque Martha suddenly looked quite emotional. ‘I read it all, in the end. And I was glad that I did. I, er… I learnt about my mother, which was quite nice actually. I thought it wouldn’t be. I thought it would perhaps be too upsetting but actually I found it very useful. I can see that for you, William, it would be more detached. More like history. But for me, yes, I found it very useful. Anyway…’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘I don’t want to interrupt, I just wanted to say hello and, actually, I just wanted to have a quick word with Jane in private. If you don’t mind?’

  Will shook his head, a bit taken aback, but said, ‘Not at all, I’ll, er…wait outside.’

  Jane gave him a quick confused look, to show that she didn’t know what this was about, but he shrugged to say it was fine.

  Martha sat down on Will’s vacant stool. ‘I am sorry to interrupt, Jane.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘He seems like a nice chap,’ she said, glancing to the open doorway and then back at Jane. ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. I found it when I was clearing out Mum’s boat. When we were looking for the old diaries, remember? I found a stack that were not quite so old?’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that.’ Jane frowned.

  ‘No. No I didn’t. They were at the back of a drawer in the kitchen. I wanted to check them first.’ She patted her fingers against her lips as if she was nervous. ‘I wasn’t going to show you because I was so sure that things should be left as they are found. That if people wanted to tell us things then they should. But now I’m not so sure. I feel now that I know my mother so much better. And…Well… I now know my father. And I thought, however the story had turned out, I would have wanted to know the truth. So, well, I’m going to give you this,’ she said, reaching into her big leather bag and pulling out a diary, the picture on the cover faded, the pages dirty and thumbed at the edges. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner,’ she said as she slid it across the table.

  Then she stood up
and walked out of the room.

  Jane stared at the book. At the gold embossed letters that spelt Diary on the front, the picture on the front a Van Gogh, the emblem of the Tate on the bottom. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Martha talking to Will. She heard her ask him if he’d like to have a quick coffee. She saw him glance in and look at Jane but then saw Martha beckon him away.

  Then suddenly she was alone. The sun was still streaming in through the windows, the noise of the birds and the boatyard coming in through the open door.

  She reached forward and picked up the diary. It was the date of the year before she was born. She didn’t read it the way she’d read Enid’s diaries – slowly, chronologically, letting the story play out before her eyes – instead she hurtled through it, flicking the pages as fast as she could, skimming paragraphs to see anything that might be important, back-peddling over a whole chunk about Enid taking her boat to France to travel the canals; there were maps and names of people she could moor with, the whole outline of the journey was there, along with a note to remind herself to give notice to the council to cancel her Cherry Pie mooring. She was wondering why the trip never happened when she stumbled across what she was searching for.

  Angie’s back. She’s back and she’s a wreck. Kate won’t see her – stubborn as ever. Thinks she’s brought shame on the bloody family. Shame. I want to shake her. She arrived last night. As always crap at landing, she smashed the boat into mine – I thought it was an earthquake. I tell you, I looked out and I didn’t think I’d see that boat again. When she left with him I had actually started to believe that maybe I was wrong. Maybe she would be happy. Maybe he would make her happy. But I know his type. He wasn’t going to settle down with anyone and as much as I want to blame him, I can’t. He told her, he told her not to follow. I told her not to follow. Kate told her not to follow. But that was probably what actually did make her follow.

  And now she’s back and, by the looks of it, she’s about three months’ pregnant. And she’s a wreck. I could wring his bloody neck. Wreck, neck. In my anger I’m a poet.

  Jane flicked through some more, skimming forward, looking for words, names, anything.

  Angie keeps saying he’s coming back for her. That this is just a temporary thing. He’d said that she is to wait. She’s been bloody waiting every night, sits out on her deck, waiting. I keep taking her dinner round because I don’t think she’s eating. I’m sure he’s not coming back. I don’t see why he would have told her to wait.

  I’ve asked one of the guys down at the boatyard, they say they’ve had no word of him planning to come back. He was here on temporary work, they don’t have any more. I know he’s not coming back - I can feel it. She’s fooling herself. I asked where he was and they reckon he'’s moored for a bit in Windsor but won'’t stay long.

  I got the train to Windsor today. And, guess what, there he was – fishing off the side of his boat like he didn’t have a care in the world. He was more than surprised to see me, I’ll tell you.

  I told him about Angie and the baby. And do you what he said? He said he knew. He knew. The useless bastard. He said he couldn’t be tied down. He couldn’t stay. He’d warned her not to get involved. I walked away because I couldn’t bear to hear any more. The idea of it. I thought I might hit him. I know what it’s like to bring up a child alone and I just feel for this poor baby. Angie doesn’t have a clue what to do. I can’t go to France now, can I? I can’t leave her with a baby and no one to help her look after it – they’ll take it into care.

  Do you know what he said as I walked away? As if it made up for it? I’ve given her money, he said. I’ve given her money.

  Money.

  What bloody good is money?

  Jane put her hands to her lips. The money. In the account. It was her father’s. It was her father’s for her to make up for him.

  She swallowed and shut the book. He wasn’t dead. Or he might be dead now, but he wasn’t dead as she was growing up and Enid had known. She’d known that her mum wouldn’t be able to look after her and she had given up her chance to leave. She had stayed to look after Jane.

  She felt her eyes welling up and used the backs of her fingers to push the tears back.

  She had stayed to look after Jane.

  It was no casual chance that she happened to be there for her. She’d orchestrated it. She hadn’t stood in and taken charge. She’d let her have her mum and just been there when she was needed to pick up any pieces or make things normal.

  She had cancelled her trip for them. She had chosen to stay. God, what must she have thought about Jane’s tirades about finding her father? How she’d shouted that he would solve everything, save the day. Enid had almost told her, hadn’t she? That day in the kitchen when she’d reached into the drawer and got her cigarettes. But instead she’d allowed her to believe it. To believe in him. To have her fantasy.

  But what Enid hadn’t realised was that she herself was greater than any fantasy figure in Jane’s imagination. The knowledge that Enid had stayed for her, had chosen to care for them, was better and more fulfilling than any news about this man fishing on the edge of the river bank. She had been loved and her mum had been loved, and they had been saved, by someone much more important than him.

  She stared at the pages some more. Reread. Absorbed the few snippets about her dad, Enid, her past, their story. She took pleasure in filling in a history she had thought forever blank. Then she put the diary in her bag and left the studio, shutting the door behind her but without the finality that she had the last time she had locked it.

  As she walked, her steps felt different. Like with each footprint she was treading with a sense that she belonged. She was tethered to the ground. She had a grandmother fuelled by propriety, a father who liked to fish and couldn’t be caught, a mother who had chased headlong after love to hell with the consequences, and a guardian who had given up a dream to keep her safe. And when she thought back to those evenings lying on the boat as it bobbed with the river, listening to poems, the smell of cigarettes and blossom in the air, she hoped Enid had been OK with her choice.

  She presumed Martha had taken Will to the cafe but she did a quick detour through the orchard before she joined them.

  They’d scattered Enid’s ashes under one of the trees, a little plaque with her name on it nestled in the long grass. Jane stopped when she got to it then did a quick check to see that no one was watching. She stepped forward, threw her arms around the gnarly trunk and hugged it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for staying for me.’

  Then she rested her cheek against the bark for a second before letting go, wiping some tears from her eyes and heading back towards the cafe.

  Through the kitchen window she could see right the way inside. Will and Martha had joined the table with Jack, Emily, Annie, Matt and River. Annie’s mum and her husband Walter were standing next to it chatting to Martha. Will was talking to Jack. River’s girlfriend Clemmie arrived as she was watching and climbed over everyone to sit next to River in the corner. Ludo was carrying over a huge tray of coffees and bowls of cherry pie.

  She watched for a moment without moving.

  Thought how nice it would be to have Will like that in her life. But she knew he was from a different world. That he didn’t have enough room in his schedule for her. That they didn’t fit together – just look at his clothes. She laughed to herself.

  He looked up as if he could sense himself being watched and met her eye through the window. She raised a hand to say Hi. She saw him smile.

  She wondered what Enid would do in her shoes and the line in her diary about going to The Ritz popped into her head.

  If we can’t make beautiful memories at the moment, what can we do?

  It might not be wartime, but for Jane, she felt like she’d just come out the end of a very long battle with life.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The barbecue at Matt and Annie’s went from afternoon through into th
e evening. The drive was lined with flickering lanterns on big sticks, there were fresh flowers on little tables dotted about the garden and a bar of summer cocktails.

  Will had stayed and helped them set up and then asked if he could invite his brother and his mum because he was sure they’d want to be involved. Matt said the more the merrier. When they turned up it was early evening and people had started dancing, all the teenagers were swimming in the pool.

  Will introduced his mum to Martha while Zeph sidled up to Jane, two beers in his hand and offered her one.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, slightly wary. But he looked less cocky this evening, maybe more relaxed. He was wearing board shorts, flip flops and a black knitted jumper. He took his sunglasses off before he started to talk.

  ‘I should be thanking you.’

  ‘Yeah? Why?’ Jane shook her head, unsure.

  ‘My brother spends one night with you and suddenly we’re having lunch and an actual conversation. I’m assuming the two are connected.’

  Jane laughed, put the bottle of beer to her lips and didn’t say anything to agree or contradict.

  ‘I apologise if I was rude. At The Ritz,’ he said. ‘I’d had a fair amount to drink and it’s no excuse, but…I sort of got the impression that perhaps I didn’t help the evening along.’ He looked at her, his eyes glinting.

  ‘No. No you didn’t help much,’ she said, glancing past Zeph to where Will was standing with his mum and Martha, with one eye clearly on their conversation.

  ‘Sorry,’oZeph said again, a touch more sheepish. ‘I still don’t think you’re his type, by the way.’

  ‘Yes, we have that established.’

  Zeph laughed. ‘Let me finish. I don’t think you’re his type, but I think you’re good for him. And it’s more than possible that his type’s been wrong his whole life,’ he added with a wink.

  Jane rolled her eyes and took another swig of her beer. She could see Will heading over in their direction. Zeph saw him too and said, ‘I think this is my cue to leave.’