Wives & Mothers

by Jeanne Whitmee

  Grace looked pointedly at her watch. ‘It’s very late, Bryan. I don’t want to push you out but I’m thinking of your long drive home.’

  ‘What have I to go home for?’ he asked gloomily. ‘My wife couldn’t care less whether I’m there or not.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ Grace edged away but found herself trapped by the arm of the settee.

  ‘I’m going to make a little confession to you, Grace.’ Bryan slipped an arm around her shoulders and she caught a whiff of expensive talc mingled with male sweat from his shirt. It almost made her gag. ‘I’ve always been very attracted to you, but seeing you so upset tonight, all trembling and helpless, brought out all the protective instincts in me. There’s nothing I’d like better than to look after you, my dear. You know, right from the first moment I saw you, I knew that you and I had a lot in common.’ He pulled her roughly against him, his other hand on her thigh. ‘Come now, admit it. You felt the same, didn’t you?’

  Grace felt panic rising inside her. It was almost as stifling as the shock of seeing Harry. Trying to extricate herself from his claustrophobic embrace she said: ‘Look, Bryan, I like and respect you very much. You’re...’

  ‘There, I knew it.’ He aimed a kiss in the direction of her mouth. It slipped off her cheek as she turned her head. ‘Aw, come on, Grace. Don’t be shy with me. I believe you’re teasing?’ he added archly. ‘That’s not fair, you know. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. You’ve been encouraging me all evening.’ He leered into her face and the large hand closed over her thigh again, squeezing painfully. ‘Come on now — do you think I didn’t guess why you took your frock off?’

  She dashed his hand away and broke free to stand up, trembling as she tried to swallow the disgust that rose like bile in her throat. ‘Please go, Bryan,’ she said shakily. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve somehow managed to give you the wrong impression. But I’d really like you to go — now, please.’

  Slowly he stood up and stood staring at her for a long moment, his eyes narrowed and his fleshy mouth pinched meanly. ‘So...’ he said at last. ‘Margaret was right about you. She always said you were a frigid bitch. I didn’t believe it. I thought she was jealous because she knew I fancied you. You looked to me like a right little fireball. The cool, quiet ones usually are. Perhaps you would be for the right man. Perhaps you are, eh?’ He leered at her unpleasantly. ‘So who is he then? This man with the knitting needles? Sounds a right pansy, but perhaps that’s what you fancy.’

  She shuddered. This was the last straw. It was almost more than she could bear. Using every last shred of her control, she walked across the room and laid her hand pointedly on the telephone. ‘Please go. I won’t ask you again.’

  ‘All right, I’m going.’ He picked up his jacket and walked, scarlet-faced, to the door. When he reached it he turned. ‘By the way — the new agreement on the shop. It’s still quarterly, remember? That gives you till Christmas — unless you discover which side your bread is buttered before then.’ Without waiting for her reply he left, slamming the door behind him.

  Grace stood motionless, barely breathing as she listened to his footsteps going down the stairs. She heard the street door slam behind him and, a moment later, the Jaguar’s engine starting up. Only when she heard the car roar angrily away did she unclench her fists and let out her breath. He’d gone. Thank God. It was only then that the frustrated anger pent up inside rose like a tidal wave to overwhelm her. A sound that was somewhere between a sob and a howl broke from her mouth and she screamed into the silence: ‘You brought me to all this, Harry Wendover. I hate you. Oh God, I hate you.’ Picking up the glass paperweight she threw it with all her force at the door through which Bryan had just passed. It chipped the paint but it didn’t break, merely falling to the floor with a dull thud. Sinking into a chair she sobbed till the tight coil of fury slowly unwound. But as she fumbled for a handkerchief and dabbed at her swollen eyes the words of Bryan’s parting shot suddenly came back to her. ‘That gives you till Christmas — unless you discover which side your bread is buttered before then.’ It was only then that she recognised it as an ultimatum. He expected her to pay for his kindness by sleeping with him, as Margaret had done. If she failed to comply then she and Elaine would be out. Once again that deadly bargain. Once again she was expected to sacrifice herself to a man’s revolting lust.

  A vision of Stella, her hand on Harry’s shoulder — of the intimate look that had passed between them — rose before her. She thought of Bryan’s flabby hand on her thigh — a hand so like another, long ago. She felt her flesh creep at the memory of those fingers on her skin. Her stomach heaved and clasping one hand over her mouth she scrambled to her feet and rushed to the bathroom to retch miserably into the toilet bowl. When the wave of nausea had subsided she felt exhausted but somehow cleansed. She splashed her burning face with cold water and walked on trembling legs into the kitchen to put the kettle on. A strong coffee was what she needed — coffee, and to think hard about the future. She drank it sweet, black and scalding hot, and began to feel stronger.

  ‘Right,’ she said aloud to the empty kitchen. ‘We’re really on our own now. It looks as though we’re going to have to leave here. But we’ll be all right. Somehow or other we’ll be all right — because I’ll never, ever, give a man the chance to ruin my life for me again. And that’s a promise.’

  *

  In the room under the eaves in the silent house Elaine and Patrick slept as soundly as children, wrapped in each other’s arms. The moonlight slanting down through the skylight turned their smooth young bodies to marble. On the easel the charcoal drawing of Elaine was already beginning to curl slightly at the edges. A light breeze stirred the humid air and Elaine shifted slightly, smiling in her sleep. ‘I love you, Patrick,’ she murmured.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘This is it, Morgan.’ Grace drew the typed letter out of the pocket of her skirt and passed it across the table to him. They had finished dinner and she was pouring coffee.

  ‘This is why I asked you to dinner this evening, while Elaine is out. I felt you should see it. It’s what I’ve been dreading. Mr Bostock, my landlord, has decided to sell this shop.’ She gave him an apologetic little smile. ‘Not only the shop, but the business too.’

  ‘Can he do that?’

  ‘Apparently, yes. It seems that ‘Style ‘N’ Grace’ was registered in his name — a fact he conveniently forgot to mention to me. I thought I was renting the premises. It seems I was renting the business from him too.’ She shook her head. ‘The split with Margaret muddled everything up so. I suppose I should have read the small print more carefully. I’m sorry, Morgan.’

  He read the solicitor’s letter through twice, then looked up at her. ‘They’ve given you three months’ notice. And it says here that as sitting tenant you have first refusal to buy?’

  ‘I know — but have you looked at the price he’s asking?’ Morgan looked again at the letter. ‘Mmm, I see what you mean?’

  ‘He knows I don’t have that kind of money.’

  Morgan shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. Why would he do a thing like this to you? I thought you and he were old friends.’ Grace sipped her coffee thoughtfully. She was going to have to explain to Morgan. It was dreadfully embarrassing but it was only fair. It was four months since they had begun working together. After their first meeting Grace had obtained the information necessary for retailing Morgan’s knitwear on a businesslike basis through acquaintances in the trade. She had also given him what advice she could. He had begun by advertising for out-workers to knit his garments while he toured Wales, looking for further wool suppliers. Once he had found them he had come back to Cambridge and shut himself away to work on new designs. Meanwhile, Grace had put his garments on sale at ‘Style ‘N’ Grace’ and found them immediate best-sellers. Her customers just couldn’t get enough of them and in no time at all she had sold out. As winter approached they had become even more popular. Her takings this Christmas, compa
red to other years, looked like trebling. Morgan now had ten out-workers and was working hard on new designs for a spring collection. When the letter had arrived from Bryan’s solicitors they had been planning a fashion show to be presented in the New Year. Morgan Knitwear was to be the principal feature and Grace was sending invitations out to some of the leading fashion houses she bought from. She felt confident that they would be impressed enough to come up with orders. But with the arrival of the letter from Bryan’s solicitors her hopes had crashed.

  ‘And it’s more than just the business, Morgan,’ she said anxiously. ‘This place had been both home and livelihood for Elaine and me for the past six years. It’s going to be a wrench, leaving. Where we’re going, and what I’m going to do about earning a living, I just don’t know.’

  Morgan raked his hand through his hair. ‘I still can’t understand his motive for doing a thing like this,’ he said. ‘The shop is doing well, so why close down? Do you think he’s strapped for cash? Is he thinking of retiring maybe?’

  Grace bit her lip. ‘No. It’s my fault,’ she said quietly. ‘Unfortunately, after Margaret went, Bryan developed — certain ideas about me. I can’t imagine why, because God knows I never gave him any encouragement. When I made it clear that he was wrong, he gave me till Christmas to change my mind, threatening that something like this might happen if I didn’t. I thought at the time that he might be bluffing. Now I know he wasn’t.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry, Morgan.’

  He was staring at her. ‘Good God, Grace — if you’re saying what I think you’re saying you have nothing to apologise for. It’s incredible. I thought that kind of thing only belonged in Victorian melodrama. I only hope you told him where to go.’

  She smiled faintly. ‘I did. It hasn’t done us any good though, has it?’

  ‘It might.’ His face was beginning to brighten. ‘Grace, how about you and me going into proper partnership — buying this place? What’s to stop us?’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘At this price?’ She tapped the letter.

  ‘We could make him an offer — get a mortgage.’

  Grace bit her lip. ‘I don’t know. It’s a big step. You really should be trying for a bank loan of your own, to launch your business properly. You don’t need me and the shop round your neck.’

  ‘Round my neck?’ He looked at her incredulously. ‘Without you I’d never have got this far. We’re a team, Grace. Look, why don’t we make some enquiries? It couldn’t hurt to ask.’

  Grace hesitated. She had promised herself to stand on her own from now on; never to let another man into her life. If she went into partnership with Morgan and, at some future time, she wanted to get out of it, how could she? Over the past four months the two of them had become good friends. Morgan was the first man she had felt completely comfortable with since the early days with Harry. With him she never felt threatened or dominated. She warmed to his boyish charm — enjoyed mothering him. And she soon found that under the gentle vulnerability was a quiet, innate strength. But as the months passed and they spent more and more time together Grace felt increasingly worried that, in spite of the age difference, their closeness might one day lead Morgan to expect a relationship of a more intimate nature; something she dreaded, because quite apart from her revulsion against sex, she wanted very much for things to stay as they were. She looked up at him now. Aware that he was eagerly awaiting her reaction to his suggestion.

  ‘We could enquire, I suppose.’

  He reached across the table to touch her hand. ‘Grace, what are you afraid of?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She snatched her hand away and, too late, heard the strident note of protest in her voice.

  He smiled. ‘You’re afraid that I might be like old Bostock, aren’t you. Might begin to consider the term “partnership” as something more personal. Is that it?’ He saw the dull colour suffuse her face and gently covered her hand with his. ‘Listen, Grace, I think it’s only fair to put all our cards on the table. After all, I do owe my success so far to you.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s worked both ways. I’ve made money too.’

  But he brushed her protest aside. ‘I’ve become very fond of you, Grace. You’ve become the family I’ve never really had. Because my own family turned against me — when they found out what I am.’

  She looked up at him. ‘What you are? What do you mean?’

  He smiled gently. ‘I think I told you before that I was the odd one out. In the eyes of the world I’m one of nature’s oddities. I’m what they call “queer”, “bent”, and other nasty little euphemisms. Maybe now you’ll want to reject me too; on the other hand, knowing that might be reassuring to you.’

  Very slowly Grace digested his words. Homosexuality was a grey area to her. It was something she knew very little about. But looking at Morgan’s gentle, open face — knowing him as she did — she could not believe there was anything evil or wrong about it. Suddenly she began to see why she had felt such a strong affinity with him. She had instinctively identified with his isolation. He had suffered as she had. Not in quite the same way, maybe, but in the sense that they were both innocent and misunderstood. She looked at the sensitive, vulnerable face and saw the apprehension in his eyes. Suddenly her throat tightened.

  ‘Oh, Morgan. Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s hardly the kind of thing you introduce yourself with. There’s still a stigma attached, even in the so-called swinging sixties. People think that we choose to be the way we are. They don’t realise that we have no more control over it than over the colour of our eyes.’

  ‘I know — I know. Do you have a — is there someone...?’ Grace asked tentatively.

  He shook his head. ‘Not now. There was someone at college but it ended — which was partly why I dropped out.’ He looked up at her wistfully. ‘We hurt just as badly as anyone else when things fall apart, you know. It’s still love in every sense of the word. That’s what most people can’t, or won’t, understand.’ He shrugged. ‘Since then there’s been no one. And somehow, I don’t think there ever will be.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Morgan,’ she whispered. ‘Believe me, I do know how you feel.’

  ‘Of course. You’re divorced, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not divorced — separated.’ She licked her dry lips. He’d been honest with her. Now it was her turn. ‘You know, you’re lucky in a way. At least...’ She swallowed hard. ‘At least you know what you are. In my case I — I couldn’t respond — physically to my husband. I tried, but there was nothing I could do about it. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. I did — very much. I just couldn’t stand the intimate side. It got worse and worse. In the end he found someone else and left. As well as the hurt, it made me feel like some kind of freak.’ She was faintly surprised at the ease with which she was able to say it to him, and at the tremendous relief talking about it brought her. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Suddenly she felt light and free. Looking up at him, she added wryly: ‘Maybe if I’d been more normal we wouldn’t be in this mess now. Bryan was always kind to Elaine and me. Maybe I should have...’

  Instantly he was on his feet. Taking her by the elbows, he drew her up and put his arms protectively round her. ‘Never let me hear you say a thing like that again, do you hear?’ He held her away from him and looked into her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll all work out for the best, I know it will. Look, Grace, now that we understand each other, now that everything is out in the open, how do you feel about a partnership? What do you say we find out whether we can get a loan and go from there?’

  She looked up at him, a sudden sense of excitement and adventure lifting her heart. Here at last was someone who understood her — someone who would make no demands — someone she could even share her life with, because she wouldn’t always have Elaine. ‘Yes,’ she said decisively. ‘Yes, all right, Morgan. Let’s do that.’

  *

  The Carnes’ house was decked with everg
reens and paper chains. The students had already left for the Christmas holidays but there was to be a party to celebrate Patrick’s homecoming. Elaine hadn’t seen him since half term when she, Alison and Tom had gone up to London for the day in Tom’s newly acquired car — a battered pre-war, but still roadworthy Austin seven. The four of them had packed as much as they could into that one day. Patrick had taken them to Carnaby Street. It had been all the girls had imagined and more. They had treated themselves to a Union Jack tee-shirt each. In Kensington High Street all the young people had been dressed in up to the minute clothes that made them feel positively old fashioned. Here and there young men sweltered in vintage military unforms, while, by contrast, some of the more daring girls wore see-through tops with no bras underneath. Elaine had specially wanted to visit Biba and she hadn’t been disappointed. Its dark interior, with the black and gold decor, had thrilled her. She felt she could have stayed all day, listening to its throbbing pop heartbeat and looking at all the excitingly different ideas on offer.

  Later they had gone to a Rolling Stones concert, then back to the flat Patrick shared with two other students in Earls Court. It was small and cramped; there was very little furniture and the walls were covered in avant-garde posters. Andy Warhol creations rubbed shoulders with Van Gogh, Monet and Renoir prints. Over the fireplace hung a framed abstract. It was made up of thousands of brightly coloured dots. Patrick came up behind Elaine as she stood looking at it.