Wives & Mothers

by Jeanne Whitmee

  ‘What’s wrong with the way I look?’

  ‘What’s right with it?’ Tracey, who bought clothes like other people buy food, and never wore anything that didn’t bear a designer label, looked her up and down critically. ‘You never do anything with your hair and you absolutely live in a tee-shirt and jeans. It’s not much of a turn-on, is it.’

  ‘Look, Tracey, I’m a musician, not a model,’ Tricia retorted. ‘This is me — this is the way I am. Take me or leave me.’

  Tracey sighed and shook her head. ‘Okay, but it wouldn’t hurt to make the most of yourself just for once, would it?’

  ‘And just what does that mean?’

  ‘That you’re a very pretty girl. You have great, naturally blonde hair and a lovely complexion. Your figure’s not bad either. So what’s wrong with playing up your assets?’ She looked at Tricia’s doubtful expression and added: ‘Look, put it this way — would you buy a Stradivarius and play Chopsticks on it?’

  Tricia collapsed into giggles. ‘Chopsticks is a piano piece.’

  ‘Exactly. I rest my case.’

  The address Max Crichton had given her did indeed turn out to be his flat, but it wasn’t nearly as opulent as Tricia had imagined. It was on the second floor of a large converted Edwardian house in a small square. As she rang the doorbell she could hear the piano playing inside. At her second ring, it stopped abruptly and a few minutes later Max himself opened the door. When he saw her his eyebrows rose a fraction and Tricia was instantly self-conscious about her appearance.

  ‘Ah — come in.’ He wore cord jeans and a black cashmere sweater. His dark hair was rumpled where he had constantly raked his fingers through it. ‘Perhaps you’d like a coffee before we begin? I was just going to make some.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She felt suddenly uncomfortable, wishing fervently that she hadn’t let Tracey loose on her this morning, allowing her to do her hair in a riot of spiral curls. The flowered pedal pushers and red cotton bomber jacket she had insisted on lending her felt all wrong too. At least she’d drawn the line at the awful Barbie doll make up Tracey had applied, surreptitiously scrubbing it off in the bathroom before she set out.

  Max showed her into the studio. It had a spartan look. The walls were painted plain white and the polished oak floor was strewn with white Indian rugs. A Picasso that looked suspiciously like an original hung over the fireplace, but the room was dominated by a full-sized grand piano. Under the long window was a black leather Chesterfield and a coffee table. Apart from these, the room was bare. As she took off her jacket Tricia began to wish she hadn’t come. She didn’t feel right in these awful clothes. She wouldn’t be able to play dressed up like a dog’s dinner, she knew it.

  Max came back carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee which he put down on the coffee table. He looked at her.

  ‘Relax. You’re all tense,’ he said perceptively. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of.’

  ‘I know.’ She took the mug he handed her and trust out her chin defensively. ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘Good.’ He sat down on the piano stool and smiled at her. ‘So what are you going to play for me this morning?’

  ‘A bit of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.’

  ‘Good. That’s a favourite of mine. Right, shall we begin?’

  Once she had begun to play her nerves calmed. She had practised the piece for hours the day before and knew it thoroughly. She even added some little innovative re-phrasing of her own that she had dreamed up last night. When she had finished, she looked up at him.

  His face completely impassive, he stood up, removed the music from her stand and placed another sheet on it.

  ‘Right — play this for me. Unaccompanied this time.’

  She did as he said. It was a fiendishly tricky piece, but she enjoyed the challenge and was fairly satisfied with her execution of it.

  When she came to the end he got up without a word and walked out of the room. Returning after a few moments with the coffee pot, he refilled the two empty mugs, handed one to her, then sat astride the piano stool and regarded her thoughtfully.

  ‘Tell me about Patricia Kingston,’ he said.

  She was taken aback. ‘About me? There isn’t much. I’m nineteen. I was born in Cambridge. I have no brothers or sisters. I’ve been playing the violin since I was five years old. I told you about opting out of college.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Why are you here today?’

  She frowned. ‘Because — because you asked me to come.’

  ‘That’s all, is it? No other reason?’

  ‘Yes. I came because I want to play with the New World Orchestra. I’ve wanted to ever since I can remember.’

  ‘And what is your ultimate ambition?’

  ‘Just — just to earn my living doing what I love most — with my music. If I’m good enough,’ she added, hoping that a touch of humility was what he was looking for.

  ‘Right, now tell me the truth,’ he said looking her straight in the eye. ‘And don’t try to be what you think I expect you to be.’

  She paused, slightly thrown by his directness. ‘All right. I want to be a concert violinist,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘Great. That’s what I thought. Now we’re getting somewhere.’ He took a deep draught of his coffee, studying her over the rim of the mug. ‘I take it you’ve heard about my reputation as a brute and a bully?’

  ‘No.’ She glanced up at him and grinned. ‘Well, all right, yes.’ ‘Would it bother you to know that you might be shouted at in rehearsal — made to look foolish — humiliated?’

  ‘Yes, it would.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I feel that kind of thing is unnecessary and unprofessional. I wouldn’t respond to it, because I’m a good player. I don’t need bullying.’

  He gave a shout of laughter. ‘I like you, Tricia Kingston. You’ve got guts. But let me tell you that if you came to work for me, you’d have to break some of the rather individual habits you’ve formed. You’d have to learn to do as you’re told — without arguing. And that might be traumatic for you. Because in spite of what you say, I’ve a feeling you don’t take kindly to discipline or criticism.’

  She wanted to tell him that for him she’d climb up Everest or swim the Atlantic. Instead she bit the inside of her lip hard and said: ‘I’m willing to learn. And I don’t mind taking orders — as long as it’s from a person who knows better than I do. A person I can respect.’

  ‘Really? That’s encouraging. But do you feel that I fit that description?’

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Was he laughing at her? Never mind. She was determined to stick it out no matter what. ‘Yes, Mr Crichton, I do,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve wanted to work with — for you — for years. If you give me the chance I’ll prove that I can take discipline and criticism as well as anybody.’

  He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Right. In that case, welcome to the New World Orchestra, Miss Kingston. You’ll be getting your contract in the post. I’ll get my secretary to send you a rehearsal schedule and a list of forthcoming concerts.’ He studied her hard as her hand lay in his. ‘By the way, I’ve been dying to ask ever since you arrived — what have you done to yourself today?’ He frowned. ‘You look different.’

  She flushed. ‘My flatmate thought I should smarten myself up for the audition.’

  ‘And is this your idea of smartening up?’ he asked scathingly.

  Her hand went to her stiffly lacquered hair. ‘No. It was hers, to be honest.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I hate it.’

  ‘The feeling’s mutual. Come with me.’ He walked out through the door, still holding on to her hand so that she was obliged to go with him. At the end of the corridor he opened a door and drew her into a green and white bathroom. Without a word he turned on the tap at the wash basin and, ignoring her indignant protests, put one hand behind her head and thrust it under the tap, holding it there until her hair was thorou
ghly wet. Pulling her upright again, he grabbed a towel and rubbed it dry.

  ‘Comb it,’ he ordered, handing her a comb. When she had done so, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the mirror.

  ‘There. Look,’ he said. ‘That was your first lesson. Don’t try to be something you’re not. It doesn’t work. That’s the real Patricia Kingston. Stay just like that and don’t let anyone talk you into changing, right?’

  Her eyes blazed furiously back at his reflection in the mirror. ‘There was no need to go to those lengths,’ she told him breathlessly. ‘I would have done it myself when I got home anyway.’

  He laughed. ‘I can see that we’re going to get along like a house on fire.’ He gave her a little push. ‘Off you go now. And don’t forget to practise.’

  Looking back afterwards, Tricia remembered nothing about the journey home that afternoon. She didn’t remember much about the audition either. What she did remember with crystal clarity was the moment that her eyes had met Max Crichton’s in the bathroom mirror. At that moment she hated him with an intensity she could almost taste. Hated and adored him.

  *

  Elaine had been surprised when Mrs Freer, the matron of St Hilda’s Retirement Home, telephoned her at the office.

  ‘Your mother-in-law would like to see you, Mrs Kingston,’ she said in her clipped impersonal voice.

  ‘Is she ill?’

  ‘She’s had a mild attack of influenza, but apart from a little chestiness she’s well. She just seems anxious to see you, that’s all.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’ll come as soon as I can.’

  ‘She’d like it to be this afternoon, if that’s possible.’

  ‘Does she need anything?’ Elaine was growing more puzzled by the minute. Mary had made her routine visit only a week last Sunday.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Mrs Freer said coolly. She cleared her throat. ‘May I tell her to expect you then?’

  Elaine flipped open her appointment book. There was nothing that couldn’t wait till tomorrow. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll come round at about half-past two.’

  She went through to Alison’s office to tell her she’d be taking an hour off. ‘I can’t think why she wants to see me,’ she said. ‘If I know Mary there’ll be a snag of some kind. All I hope is that she hasn’t had a row with Mrs Freer and plans to move back to Langmere Lodge.’

  Alison smiled. ‘As long as there’s nothing much doing, why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?’ she suggested. ‘Heaven knows you’ve worked enough overtime lately.’

  Their most recent bride had embarked on a crash slimming course just a month before her wedding and as a result the wedding dress had had to undergo some drastic last minute alterations.

  ‘Actually, I was going to ask you a favour,’ Alison was saying.

  Elaine looked up, surprised to find Alison looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Fine. What is it?’

  ‘I was going to ask you if you’d stay on through the lunch hour. I’ve been asked out to lunch.’

  ‘Of course I’ll stay,’ Elaine assured her. She smiled. ‘Who’s your date?’

  ‘Robert Hannan.’ Alison made a great show of tidying her desk, avoiding Elaine’s curious eyes.

  ‘Our account? There’s nothing wrong with the books, is there?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s — well, purely social.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Elaine smiled her encouragement. ‘In that case, why lunch? I’d have thought dinner...’ Suddenly she did see. All these years Alison had steered clear of all but the most casual relationships; afraid to become involved again; terrified of being hurt. Lunch was safe. It could not develop into a situation that might be embarrassing to get out of.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t you take an extra hour?’ she suggested ‘That’ll still leave me time to get round to St Hilda’s.’ She smiled to herself as she made her way back to her office. It was time Alison found a new man. And she’d already noticed the rapport between her partner and Robert Hannan, their handsome accountant. In fact, it had been there right from the moment the two had first met.

  *

  At St Hilda’s Mary was sitting alone in her room, wrapped in a crochet shawl. Normally she looked younger than her eighty years, but today she looked white and drawn; her hair, usually neatly dressed, was unkempt and straggly and as she slumped in her chair she suddenly looked like a very old woman.

  ‘I’d almost given you up,’ she grumbled as Elaine bent to kiss her cheek.

  She looked at her watch. ‘I’m only ten minutes late.’

  Mary sighed noisily. ‘When you’re sitting here all day with nothing to think about but the passing time, it becomes an obsession,’ she said.

  Elaine put the box of chocolates she had brought on the table, took off her coat and sat down. ‘What did you want to see me about, Mother?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve been ill.’

  ‘Matron said you’d had a slight attack of flu.’

  Mary grunted. ‘What does she know? She isn’t even a real nurse. I thought my last hour had come the night before last — couldn’t get my breath.’ She peered at Elaine with beady eyes. ‘They thought they’d have to send for the doctor, you know.’

  ‘She didn’t tell me that.’

  Mary pulled the shawl more closely around her shoulders. ‘Well, they got the nurse to have a look at me in the end. But I really did have a bad chest. I still have.’ She coughed wheezily as though to prove her point.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother. I’d have come before if I’d known.’

  Mary’s expression softened. ‘Oh, it’s all right. I know how busy you are.’ She sighed. ‘It’s just that I got to thinking — lying there gasping for breath. There are things I should have told you, Elaine, serious things. I feel you’d better know them before anything happens to me.’

  ‘Nothing is going to happen to you, Mother.’

  ‘It might. It easily could.’ Mary looked agitated. ‘And if it did...’

  ‘All right, what is it you want to say? Are you sure you want to

  ‘Oh, be quiet. I’m trying to tell you,’ Mary snapped with sudden impatience. ‘I’ve made up my mind. That’s why I sent for you, so just listen.’ She reached for a glass of water on the table at her side and took a sip, then dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief.

  ‘It’s about Paul. His accident. I don’t believe what happened that day was an accident.’

  Elaine frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I believe he tried to commit suicide.’

  Elaine stared at her mother-in-law. ‘Really, Mother, why should he do that?’

  ‘That day — that afternoon... You were away. I came home and went upstairs — found him in bed with — with someone.’

  Elaine stared disbelievingly at her mother-in-law. The idea that Paul of all people... Mary must be getting confused.

  ‘No, not an affair.’ Mary snapped. ‘It was a young man. Not much more than a boy.’

  Elaine was stunned. Surely Mary must be rambling. She’d always insisted that she didn’t remember anything of what happened that day. Could her flu have made her light-headed?’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Mary said. ‘I’m not ga-ga, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s true. Paul is homosexual. I always knew he had latent tendencies that way, but I hoped he’d grow out of them.’

  Elaine took a deep breath to steady the rapid beating of her heart. She felt as though the world had suddenly tipped sideways. What Mary was saying would account for so much if it were true. Bitter resentment sharpened her voice as she said: ‘You knew that? You knew and yet you let me marry him. How could you?’

  Mary’s lip curled. ‘You were pregnant — frightened to tell your mother. You were glad enough to get a husband at the time, so you needn’t be so self-righteous.’

  ‘You knew that too?’ Elaine got to her feet as the blank corners of the past years were suddenly filled in. ‘It was you who told him, wasn’t it?
You kept it to yourself all those years — and then you told him. To spite me. Why, Mother? Why?’

  The old woman in the chair suddenly seemed to crumple before her eyes. Her voice cracked as she said: ‘I didn’t do it just to spite you, Elaine. I told him because I was afraid you were going to leave him. You’d started this new business with your friend. Tricia was going away to school. I knew you weren’t happy, and then there was that day I came home and found you with that man — Patrick Crown or whatever his name was.’ She looked up, her eyes watery with remorse. ‘I thought you might leave Paul — leave me too. I was afraid.’ She glanced up hesitantly. ‘I — I tried to urge him to make you pregnant. I thought if you had another baby... ’

  ‘ Another baby...?’ Elaine fought hard to control the urge to laugh hysterically. She took a deep breath and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘So you tried to manipulate us as you’d done so many times in the past. And it misfired.’

  ‘I only meant to make him face it,’ Mary said. ‘I quite thought he would have guessed — that he’d simply turned a blind eye. I had no idea he really didn’t know, or that he’d take it so badly — use it against you. I didn’t foresee that you’d go away — or that he’d take up his predilection for young men again.’ Mary took another anxious gulp from the glass of water. ‘It was as though I’d opened a Pandora’s box. We quarrelled violently that afternoon when I found them. I fell down the stairs and I think he thought he’d killed me — or that if I was alive I’d tell you about him. I don’t know which. Either way, you can imagine how desperate he must have been. He meant to take his own life, Elaine, I’m convinced of it. Instead he sentenced himself to life imprisonment.’

  Elaine sat down again, her legs suddenly too weak to support her. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘And he sentenced me too.’

  ‘I know.’ Mary reached out to touch her daughter-in-law’s hand. It was the first gesture of communication she’d ever offered her. ‘It was my fault — all of it. I had to tell you. If I’d died with it on my conscience...’

  ‘And now you’ve told me. Thank you for that at least,’ Elaine said bitterly. She stood up. ‘I’ll have to go now, Mother.’