“You get absolute artistic license to do what you want. There are 1920s bathing costumes, Norfolk jackets, scanty bikinis. The world is your oyster. I don’t need to tell you the pay is fantastic.”
That weekend, she worked again day and night on the drawings. She didn’t stop to listen to the radio or watch the television. Her mind was bursting with enthusiasm. Every detail had to be authentic. This era was her grandparent’s era, a time of optimism, just after the First World War, in some ways a decadent one. She grabbed some paints from the cupboard and began colouring the costumes in a myriad of colours. The swimsuits had to be fun and cheeky, the evening dresses had to sparkle with encrusted diamante.
The following week she hired some seamstresses to help her and they set about making the costumes. They ordered swathes of fabric in beautiful pastel shades, complimented by the sharp contrast of navy ribbon.
As was her way now, she would totally immerse herself in her work. There was no room in her heart for anyone else. She couldn’t bear to be alone with her thoughts for fear they would consume her. She had heard that Len had gone and emigrated to South Africa. A part of her wanted to show him how successful she had managed to become on her own, and even though she knew she couldn’t contact her daughter perhaps she would contact her. Surely Marjorie would have given her daughter her name by now? Her surname was unusual so it couldn’t take long for her to put two and two together.
“You’re a star!” exclaimed David, when she next saw him. “The production absolutely love what you have come up with.”
They were sitting outside a café on Sunday morning in Dublin, overlooking Trinity college. The sun was breaking through the trees and David had just ordered them two coffees. He threw the Sunday papers down on the coffee table in front of them.
“Take a look at these reviews, I quote “Designer for The Boyfriend” David Gordon decided to use all his powers of persuasion which are considerable to coax a very good friend and costume designer of noted ability and flair to take on the task.”
“Oh David, stop talking so loudly. People are starting to stare.”
“Oh let them. I go on. This was none other than Miriam Sullivan-Cody, Cork born, London trained and established in her own fashion business in Cork City for over ten years, also a direct descendant of the renowned “Bufallo Bill Cody”. Some years before, Miriam had designed and made costumes for the Irish Ballet Company which was choreographed by David Gordon and they had received high praise. Though exceedingly busy, working at high pressure, Miriam generously consented to take on the heavy task.”
“It wasn’t that heavy, I loved doing it!”
The waitress came over with their coffees and a glass of water each. Miriam carefully spooned two sugar cubes in to her cup and waved David to continue. She enjoyed basking in David’s enthusiasm and adulation at the same time.
“And heavy it is indeed, as the cast numbers eighteen and each requires at least two changes of costume. Working at every available minute, Miriam has dreamed up a complete range of some of the most delightful, colourful and beautifully made costumes that are likely to be seen on a London stage for some time.”
“Oh David does it really say that?” as she leaned over pulling her cardigan tightly round her shoulders.
“I go on. Included in the numbers are bathing suits of the period which add a special and very authentic note, capturing the spirit of their times and yet hilariously funny to the modern eye now long accustomed to the scanty bikini. There are additionally costumes for the fancy dress ball which in themselves, are a complete delight giving Miriam a chance to show off her rare genius for the exotic.”
“At this moment she nearly choked on her coffee. Exotic!”
“I haven’t finished yet. She has even designed and executed a marvellous “Plus Fours” complete with Norfolk jacket which many of the older generation will remember with nostalgia. For many weeks now the hard work has been forging ahead at a furious pace, with costume fittings, hand finishing and decoration and now all reaching its final stages.”
“Surely that’s it”
“Finally, it is only someone like Miriam Sullivan-Cody who could take on such a task and when the curtain rises on “The Boy Friend” next Wednesday, London will have occasion to see for itself the full range of her mastery!”
“Wow” she said. “That’s quite something to live up to.”
“Shall I read it again?”
“No, no, once is quite enough” she said reaching for her coffee again.
“You know I could never have done this without you David. You have always looked after me through thick and thin especially through that Len business.”
“If you must know, I thought he was ghastly to you.”
“I know, but I simply could not have picked up the pieces without the distraction of the designer business.”
She reached over the coffee table and put her hand over his. “Why do all the best people I know have to be gay?”
“Now you’re flirting with me Miriam.”
“I have to just bury myself in work. I can’t afford to have my heart broken again.”
“You would have made a good mum.”
“Oh don’t say that it makes my heart ache so much.”
MARJORIE 1980s
LONDON
LIKE MANY MOTHERS to teenage daughters, Marjorie had found it difficult being a good mother to Rosie. She would always want what was best for her, and would wherever possible, not compromise her demands. Money was not an issue, as she had been left comfortably off, financially, after Arthur died. Now her daughter wanted to be in Central London. And they had just moved, for the fifth time to a flat in Maida Vale, close to Warwick Avenue tube station. The Wimbledon Semi Finals were playing on the small television in the corner. Marjorie started to slowly unpack the boxes that the removal men had left behind. Over the years they had acquired so much junk, that she felt she just couldn’t get rid of, souvenirs from all the countries they had travelled to recently.
“I can’t believe you bought this manky old sponge mum!” said Rosie.
“At least I haggled for it.”
They were gradually unwrapping the various objects from the scrunched up newspaper. Rosie was pouring over some of the albums, Marjorie had put together. She had carefully recorded each year of Rosie’s life in those albums. Rosie on the beach, Rosie at the swimming baths and Rosie on her first day of school standing proud in her new uniform. She was growing more and more into Miriam each day and that saddened Marjorie.
She had said to Rosie that she didn’t mind if Rosie wanted to find her real mother. After all it was understandable. But she was slightly worried if she encouraged her too much, that she might lose Rosie. Miriam was beautiful and artistic and probably all the things that Rosie would often criticize Marjorie for not being.
“I just don’t understand why we don’t buy some new furniture, Mum, I mean these chairs are a bit dated. Don’t you think we should buy some sofas?”
Rosie was lying out on the rug idly flipping through the pages. Marjorie was knelt down beside her riffling through the boxes.
If truth be known, Marjorie couldn’t bear to let anything go of Arthur’s. Each house, they had moved to was a shrine to him. All she had now was Rosie and even she was going to be leaving home soon, to go to boarding school. Marjorie had agreed to it because she knew it was what Rosie wanted. Marjorie didn’t know how she was going to cope on her own.
“Remember that time we were in Morocco and you were so ill? I thought you were going to die!” said Rosie.
“I know, I’m sorry, I think someone must have given me just a bit too much to drink” Marjorie retorted.
“I remember how kind everyone was to me that day.” Rosie replied wistfully, leaning on her elbow.
“I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but you won’t be too lonely when I’ve gone to boarding school, will you?”
“Oh no, I’ve got my charity work and besides, I thought I�
��d take up sculpting.”
“Sculpting?” Rosie asked
“Yes, I’ve always fancied doing something creative. I was never good at art at school like you, but I think I can do something with these hands.”
She slowly turned over her wrinkled palms. She wanted to make something before, it was too late. Her body was old but her mind was still trying to catch up. She still felt no older than when Arthur had died. She had watched Rosie grow from a child in to an adult. Where had all those years gone?
She got up and walked to the window. The sun was beating down outside on the grass below, turning a slight golden yellow. You could hear the quiet plop of the tennis balls on Centre Court, in the background.
“Bjorg wins the first set 6-4.” ran the commentator on the television.”
“Did you like boarding school mum?”
“Not really, love. I went when I was nine years of age. All my friends lived miles away, so I had quite a lonely upbringing.”
Marjorie got up from the leather arm chair and picked up a bowl of strawberries from the table offering one to Rosie. She thought about all of those years at school when she hardly got to see her own parents.
“Rosie, you do know that you can contact your real mum if you want to?”
“Mum, we’ve been over this before, I don’t want to, I mean I don’t need to. If anything I am more intrigued about my father, having not had a father. I mean I bet I’m more like him.”
Marjorie couldn’t tell her daughter that she was the spitting image of Miriam. She knew that Rosie was soon to become an adult and would be flying the nest, but she didn’t want to lose the connection they had albeit a tenuous one. But she couldn’t help but accept she wasn’t getting any younger herself. She didn’t want to be one of those people that lived on and on. She didn’t want to be a burden to anyone. Yet she still doubted her faith, even more so now that Rosie was leaving. She had thought of converting to Catholicism, but the thought of never seeing Arthur again tormented her.
Perhaps when Rosie left home she would find the answers she was looking for.
ROSIE 1980s
LONDON
BY THE TIME Rosie was seventeen, her adoptive mother offered her the chance to go to boarding school and she grabbed the opportunity. Unlike most children, she wanted to leave home. She knew the school because they had been there for their summer holidays. It was a boy’s school with stringent entry requirements for the girls, that she passed with flying colours. They put her down however, for the house with the clergymen’s daughters.
They arrived on the first day for tea with the housemaster and his wife. The house was set in its’ own grounds just outside the main school. The drawing room was neatly laid out with old antiques and sofas. About six other new girls were also there with their parents. Some of the older pupils were also there to greet them.
“So how do you think you will cope with boarding school my dear?” the wife asked Rosie handing her a cup of tea.
“Just fine.” she replied surveying the normality around her, albeit a somewhat formal one. She couldn’t say that anything was preferable to being at home. She was looking forward to carving out a life for herself, one that involved her on her own.
She settled into school life pretty quickly. It was in some respects easier than her previous school. Everybody formed friendships within the confines of the school. You were cool, not because of the possessions you had, but for your personality and looks. Many of the pupils were from very established backgrounds albeit some of them quite dysfunctional ones. Her favourite subject was art. She used to spend hours in the art room, drawing and painting life and still life art. It was a wonderful feeling to loose herself in the pieces she was creating.
She also started to concentrate on her other studies and would work late in the night to revise for her exams. The house she was in was cold at night and had no central heating. She would wake up in the night and creep in to the toilet to switch a light on and then light a cigarette, even though it was forbidden by the school rules. Smoking had become her new friend, the imaginary mother, she had never met.
“Why do you smoke?” She was often asked.
Because even though she was privileged and lucky to be given a good start in life, that something was not enough. She wanted to take away the pain of being adopted.
Music was her solace. She bought a new digital stereo from London and was allowed to put it in her study. It was the coolest stereo by far and she bought it with her earnings from a summer job with “Next” in London. She started to collect a range of music, from soul to rock. She remembered starting out with the Human League and Spandau Ballet and moving on to Imagination and Michael Jackson. She would often hear U2 blasting out “In the name of love” in the mornings from the various houses.
In the summer holidays, her adoptive mum got a job for her in the Old Bailey on a fraud trial. The building was awe inspiring and she realized that this was the place she wanted to be in when she was older, amongst the old wigs and books of learning. The Court was like a stage with every actor playing their part. She didn’t think the jury understood a bit of evidence, and the judge had to keep interpreting the case for them.
She did so well in her exams, they asked her to do Oxbridge. She applied to a small college in Cambridge and was asked for an interview. She remembered taking the train to London and then changing at Liverpool Street. Her heart was pumping so fast. She had rehearsed her answers, and knew it would be a challenge. The train went chugging through the rolling countryside until it arrived at the beautiful city. The tall spires stretched in to the autumnal sky.
“Why Cambridge?” The interviewer asked her. “And why history?”
“Because in the summer holidays, I did some work experience in the Old Bailey and I think I might eventually want to do a career in Law.”
“Do you have any past connections with the college?” He asked.
“Well my Uncle was here many years ago, but I would like to think I will be judged on my current merits.” She replied.
After a grueling two hour interview she went back to the college house. When she got the offer, she realized that art was no longer to be her chosen career, but a legal one. She knuckled down for those exams. The wait for those results in the summer was unbearable.
“You haven’t got the grades darling. I am sorry.” Her adopted mum said.
“But that can’t be.” She said. “Can’t we get them remarked?”
She made all the telephone calls, to the School, to the university. The only way forward was to take a year out and do the exams again. Cambridge had said they would keep the offer open.
Rosie was devastated. What was she to do now? She couldn’t stay at home now. She wanted to get on with her life. But what was the point of going to university, if it was not Cambridge? Maybe she should go straight to Law School now and not do a degree? Was it too late to get a place? They put her on the milk round to see what other university would have her.
“They’ve got a place for you at Kent.” Her adoptive mother said.
“Where the hell is that! I’ve never heard of it.”
Her half brother came to see them, one of the sons from her father’s previous marriage. He had now retired from a lucrative job in Abu Dhabi.
“Have you got anything better to do?” He asked
“No.” She replied.
“Well I suggest you give it a try and if you don’t like it, you can always move on to something else.” He said.
She met her future husband to be at that university. They established that they had both been in Puerto Banus and Sotogrande at the same time where his father kept a boat. After a few dates, he asked if she wanted to go back to his family home at the weekend. His friends said that his family were really nice and that she should meet them. She was nervous because she hadn’t told him she was adopted and she didn’t want to introduce him to her mother for fear of losing him. The moment he meets my mother and our set up, he won’t like
me, she thought.
They drove down in his car to his parents in the Midlands. Nothing prepared her for his family’s house which was a beautiful Georgian house in the country or his family who were young and vibrant and liked the finer things in life. They had a great weekend, shooting and drinking and meeting his friends at the local pub. Rosie was absolutely dreading the drive back to London. They sat in silence on the way back, listening to the music on the radio. The roads were pitch black, the lights of the passing cars mesmerising them. As they approached Paddington, he asked.
“Whereabouts do you live? You will have to give me directions.”
“Oh you can just drop me off in Clifton Gardens.”
“I can’t just drop you off in the vicinity. It’s dark and anyway, I’d like to meet your mother.”
No you wouldn’t, she thought, or see my flat, or the furniture and how dated everything was.
“I haven’t told her you are coming.” She replied.
“Well, it will be a nice surprise then.”
Oh no, she thought. How can he think that this is her mother when he meets her? Will he ever want to see her again? And they had had such a perfect weekend. His father was gregarious, his mother beautiful and his sisters were lovely. They had nice things, good dress sense. They had fun. How would he view her imperfect world, or anyone for that matter? She had not brought anyone to meet her mum. Surely he would leave her? They parked up outside the mansion block and took the rickety lift up to the fifth floor apartment. She had explained over the intercom that she had brought someone to see her. After making the necessary introductions, she offered them a drink and they sat awkwardly round the table. It was all very formal for what was meant to be an impromptu get together. After an hour he left.
“I’ll see you back at Uni, when we get back the week after next.”
And with that she closed the door, not knowing if she would see him again. He didn’t phone, but that wasn’t unusual for him. However, by now she was pretty sure she had found her soul mate and she didn’t want to lose him.
Abandoned Love Page 19
