by Nicola Upson
So why had she risked all that with one rash decision, tricked by her father into a complicity that shamed and horrified her? Perhaps he was right—genes would always out, no matter how hard she fought against them, and a child’s life was mapped out even before he or she was born. She looked around the workroom, so full of colour and individuality—walls covered with sketches of historical costumes and glamorous theatrical production shots, shelves groaning under the weight of art books and gallery catalogues from which the Motleys so often took their inspiration, small personal items left next to the sewing machines by several of the girls, implying a sense of ownership and continuity—and compared it to what she was used to: long rows of treadle sewing machines, overlooked by two prison officers, where the only embroidery to be done was the stencilling of a number on a mailbag; no banter and no company, other than a few old drunks languidly teasing out coir to fill mattresses, the joints of their hands swollen with rheumatism; and certainly no creativity or beauty—just automatic, monotonous work, the relentless blue of prison uniforms.
Sighing heavily, she put the finished violets down and walked over to the row of tall windows which overlooked St Martin’s Lane. The first flakes of snow had begun to fall, fulfilling the promise of the day’s cold, and Marjorie watched the people on the pavement below hurrying into theatres or public houses, shaking the weather from their Friday-night clothes and laughing as the ultimate symbol of Christmas began its gentle veiling of the city. Why did everything seem so much more desperate as Christmas got closer? The sense of disappointment and longing was even stronger than usual, the briefest moments of happiness all the more intense. December was always marked in her house by the biggest rows of the year, and the pressure to please only increased the greatest worry—money. It had peaked when she was about twelve, when they still lived outside the city; her mother belonged to a loan club, and she always drew on it a couple of weeks ahead of Christmas. Marjorie remembered how she used to love putting the money out on the kitchen table; it couldn’t have been more than a few quid, but she would set some by for the kids’ presents and use the rest to pay back debts from the year; the small piles of coins built up on scraps of paper—IOUs or shopping lists. Marjorie was washing up at the sink, listening to her mother hum one of the familiar carols while she did her sums; her father was by the fire, reading his paper. Then one of her little brothers called out from the next room and her mother went to see what he wanted; her father must have gone out after her, because when Marjorie turned round a few minutes later, they were both standing in the doorway, looking accusingly at her across the table, where one of the piles had disappeared. There was a hell of a row and Marjorie stormed out; she knew that her father must have pocketed the money—later, her mother had admitted that she knew as much, too, but it had been easier to blame her daughter. That was a talent her mother had, finding anyone to blame but the person at fault; it was a trait that ran throughout Marjorie’s fractured family, with her parents at the centre of it—by turns resentful, uneasy, lost, as if they could no longer remember who had trapped who.
Frustrated, she turned away from her reflection in the glass and went through to the small clients’ fitting room to fetch the next job on Mrs Reader’s list and tidy up after the last of the appointments. In spite of her mood, she had to smile when she saw the bottle of vodka and two glasses that Geraldine Ashby had smuggled in with her earlier that evening. Marjorie was under no illusions as to Gerry’s interest in her, and she saw no reason to be coy about it; what intrigued her, though, was that the feeling was mutual. She was surprised by how much she liked Geraldine—not because of her wealth or her title, but because she was unpredictable; she resisted what was expected of her, and to a girl whose petty acts of rebellion had got her in and out of trouble since she was fifteen, that sort of spirit was dangerously attractive. Marjorie picked up the bottle to throw it away before it was discovered, then thought better of it and poured herself another drink from what was left. There was a cutting from a magazine on the wall in front of her, a piece from last month’s Tatler with the headline ‘Nurses to benefit from theatrical coup’; the photograph showed the Motley seamstresses and some of the members of the Cowdray Club standing in the workroom, preparing the clothes for next week’s gala, and there was a smaller picture underneath of Noël Coward on stage with Gertrude Lawrence. Ronnie and Lettice had bought copies for all the girls to take home, and Marjorie thought again of what her father had said—her new friends were not all they seemed. She knew what he meant, and yet there was something about this world of glamour and make-believe that seemed more real to her than anything else she had ever known. The taste of it had made her reckless, and encouraged her to make promises to Lucy which she had no idea if she could keep. Lucy didn’t seem bothered, though. Half the time, Marjorie got the impression that the girl was only humouring her anyway, and—emotionally—Lucy often seemed more grown up than she was; perhaps that’s what having a child did for you. Still, she thought, holding up the dress that was to be altered and looking at herself in the mirror, this plan was more solid than most, and it was stupid to have doubts when it was too late to do anything about them.
As she carried the gown carefully back into the workroom, a tailor’s dummy in the corner caught her eye, next to a roll of deep-blue silk. She knew it was waiting to be transformed into a cape to match one of the evening gowns for the gala, and that it would be the first job on Hilda Reader’s list in the morning. She never tired of watching as the cutter worked from the designs that the Motley sisters produced, interpreting their sketches into a three-dimensional garment by pinning, draping and cutting the material, apparently without effort. It was a great skill, and Marjorie had been so thrilled when Mrs Reader said she was almost ready to try it herself. She liked Lettice and Ronnie, and was in awe of their talent; obviously she wanted them to think well of her, but it was Hilda Reader—the woman who had first had confidence in her, the mother she wished she’d had—who she really wanted to impress, and what better way than by making the cape herself, now, when everywhere was quiet? It was a risk, but it would be worth it to see the look on the head cutter’s face in the morning, and it would keep Marjorie’s mind off other things.
She took another sip of vodka for courage and measured out a length of material, then arranged the silk on the back of the dummy, leaving enough at the top to complete the collar work later. Carefully, she brought the selvedges round to the front and pinned them to the back cloth at the top of the shoulders, making sure that the material was not too tightly drawn across the chest. She checked the desired length against the sketch one more time, took a deep breath, and picked up the scissors—this was the moment of no return, but there was no point being half-hearted about it. She cut boldly across the bottom, allowing for a two-inch hem, and was relieved to see that the line was straight and the silk fell as she knew it should. Buoyed up by her success, Marjorie carried on patiently, so absorbed in her work that she forgot everything else. As she stepped back to examine the general shape of the material before making the final cuts, she heard the sound of footsteps on the iron stairs outside. Still exhilarated by the miraculous way in which the garment now resembled its paper counterpart, she went out into the corridor, confident that she could handle anything.
When she saw who it was, she opened her mouth to speak but, before she could utter a word, she found herself shoved hard against the back wall of the lobby. The action took her completely by surprise, and there was no chance to recover before something was sprayed in her face. She turned away, blinded for a moment, but the spray came again and whatever she had inhaled disoriented her. She stumbled back into the workroom and tried to shut the door behind her, but she was too slow. By the time she felt the tape measure tighten around her neck, she was too weak to offer any resistance.
News of Josephine’s arrival in town had spread fast. She arrived back at the Cowdray Club to find a note from Ronnie and Lettice with instructions—by no stretch of t
he imagination could it be called an invitation—to meet them for supper at Rules after the evening performance of Romeo and Juliet. There was ‘much to catch up on’, apparently, and the envelope also included a ticket for the theatre in case she wanted to see the show. The period of coming and going as she pleased was at an end, obviously, but she found she didn’t much mind.
Considerately, the girls had reserved a house seat at the back of the stalls for her so that she could slip into the performance at any point, and she was able to get some more work done before getting ready to go out. She decided to take a cab to the New and expected to have to go to Oxford Street to find one, but, as she left the Club, she noticed a taxi a few doors down, dropping someone off outside the church in Henrietta Place. The driver acknowledged her wave, and she waited on the pavement while he finished with his current fare, still thinking about what she had seen in Finchley and Islington.
‘Josephine?’
The voice was hesitant and came from across the street. She looked over to where a woman was standing by the iron railings, and found it difficult to believe what she was seeing. As she stared, too surprised even to say hello, the woman left the shadows and walked up to her, apparently unsure of her welcome. ‘I’m sorry to turn up like this,’ she said, ‘but I wanted to see you and every scheme I came up with to bump into you seemed so ridiculous that I thought I’d just come clean and say hello.’
‘You don’t have to come up with ways to bump into me, Marta—you could just telephone.’ Josephine held out her arms, genuinely delighted to see her friend’s lover after so long. ‘Lydia didn’t even tell me you were back.’
‘She doesn’t know.’ Marta pulled away from the hug, and Josephine was struck by how much she had changed in the last eighteen months. She was still remarkably beautiful, but the warmth in her eyes which had prevented it from being merely a physical attribute was now hard to find, and the spark of defiance which Josephine had found so attractive had all but disappeared. It was hardly surprising, she thought: she had come so close to death, and the enforced separation from Lydia alone must have taken its toll. God knows what damage Marta’s other demons had done to her in the meantime. ‘I know I should have called Lydia,’ she continued, ‘but I just couldn’t face it at the moment.’ She paused, apparently trying to find a way to explain. ‘You see, I didn’t want her to think …’
‘I know, I know.’ Josephine interrupted, wanting to make it easier for her. ‘After everything that’s happened, things are bound to be strange between you, but she won’t think badly of you, really she won’t.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘Lydia loves you, Marta, and that hasn’t changed—trust me. Do you want me to pave the way for you? Is that why you’re here?’ She looked back down the road to where the taxi was turning round, ready to pick her up. ‘I was just off to meet Lettice and Ronnie, but that can wait if you want me to talk to her now. Getting you two back together is much more important than …’
‘Josephine—please, just listen to me for a minute,’ Marta said impatiently. ‘That wasn’t what I was going to say. I didn’t want Lydia to think we could pick up where we left off. Things have changed—I’ve changed—and I wanted to see you because I wanted to see you. It’s got nothing to do with Lydia.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you?’ Marta turned away for a moment, her frustration getting the better of her. When she looked back, Josephine was shocked to see tears in her eyes, although she spoke more calmly. ‘The last time we met, we didn’t have the chance to get to know each other very well.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I suppose you could say that things got in the way, but I don’t want to talk about the past. This is a fresh start for me. I don’t know if that includes Lydia. I rather hoped it might include you.’
The taxi pulled into the kerb and stopped at a discreet distance from the two women. ‘Are you really saying what I think you’re saying?’ Josephine asked, horrified.
‘God, I knew I’d make a mess of this, no matter how many times I rehearsed it.’
‘Don’t worry, Marta—it must be hard to be word perfect when you’re asking me to betray someone we both care about. Well, someone I care about, at least.’
‘Of course I care about her, but it’s not that simple—you don’t understand.’
A feeling which she could only describe as panic made Josephine react more harshly than she wanted to. ‘Don’t you dare patronise me like that,’ she said. ‘I’ve spent nearly two years watching Lydia try to pick up the pieces after you pulled her life out from under her, so I think I understand all I need to.’
‘Aren’t you romanticising things a little? I’m sure if Lydia’s career were going better, she’d find my absence much easier to bear.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m hardly in a position to criticise Lydia, and that was a despicable thing to say.’
‘Although not entirely unfair.’ Josephine smiled, and some of the tension between them relaxed. ‘I’m sorry, too, Marta—but I wasn’t expecting this.’
‘I understand that. Neither was I.’
‘You hardly know me. When we met, it was the most terrible time of your life and I happened to be there. I can see why that was important to you, but it’s not real—surely you must see that?’
‘Now who’s being patronising? Look, I’ve said more than I meant to already,’ Marta admitted. ‘I really just came here to give you this.’ She reached into her bag and took out an envelope. ‘I’ve been keeping a diary for a few months now. I thought it might help me to come to terms with what happened, and then I realised how often you were mentioned in it. I’d like you to read it.’ Josephine opened the envelope and looked inside. In the light of the streetlamp, she could see a sheaf of thin, blue paper, covered in Marta’s distinctive handwriting. ‘It might do a better job of explaining than I’ve managed in person. I know it’s been a shock, my turning up like this,’ she added, ‘but can you honestly say that it’s just me? Did I only imagine that there might have been something between us if things had been different?’ Josephine thought for a moment, trying to be honest with herself before she said anything to Marta, and her hesitation seemed to give Marta the encouragement she was looking for. ‘Please, Josephine, give me a week—a week of your time to read this and think about it, that’s all I ask. I’ll be at Prunier’s next Friday—if the answer’s no, I won’t press you and I won’t bother you again.’
‘And if the answer is no, where does that leave Lydia?’
‘If?’ She raised an eyebrow challengingly, and Josephine blushed at the admission that there was anything to consider. ‘But in answer to your question—I can’t think about Lydia until I know how you really feel.’ She held up her hand as Josephine started to protest. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but I’m forty-four, and that’s far too old to waste time doing the right thing, even if it means kicking kindness and sympathy out of the window. If anything good can be said to have come out of the last few months, it’s that I’ve had the chance to be honest with myself and think about what I want. I’ve wasted far too much of my life over the years, and I’m afraid it’s made me selfish.’ She leaned forward and kissed Josephine gently. ‘If you’re not there, I’ll know you’ve made your decision.’
Marta walked over to the taxi and held the door open for her, but Josephine paused before getting in. ‘How did you even know I was here?’ she asked.
‘I saw you shopping and followed you home.’
‘So the gardenia was from you,’ Josephine said, the scent of Marta’s perfume still heavy in the air between them.
‘Yes. I thought it would be fairer than just appearing out of nowhere.’
‘It would have been fairer still if you’d put your name to it.’
‘I didn’t think I’d have to, Josephine,’ Marta said quietly. ‘So perhaps I have my answer already.’
When the cab pulled up in front of the New Theatre, an embarrassed Josephine tipped the driver generously and settled into her seat just in time for the Capul
ets’ ball. Lettice and Ronnie had designed both the stage sets and the costumes, giving the show a visual unity for which their productions were always famed, and, had she been in the mood for any sort of make-believe, she would have been instantly transported to Renaissance Italy. A narrow strip of sky ran along the back wall, suggesting sunlight and warmth, and streamers hung down from the fly tower, giving a festive air to the proceedings. The balcony stood in the centre of it all. As the play progressed, the closing of some curtains or a clever change of lighting transformed the stage swiftly and effectively into a garden or a friar’s cell, Juliet’s bedroom, and later her tomb, while the costumes—fresh and brightly coloured at first—faded subtly but inevitably to black, mirroring the shifting mood of the story.
Feeling as though she had already dealt Lydia one blow that evening, Josephine was determined to dislike her rival leading lady’s portrayal of Juliet—but she found it impossible to do so. Peggy seemed to have walked straight out of a Botticelli painting, and the lightness and spontaneity of her performance made it a joy to watch. Larry was coming to the end of his time as Romeo, and, although Shakespeare’s poetry would no doubt be better served when John Terry took over the role at the end of the month, Josephine doubted that Johnny—who was really only in love with himself—would be capable of the sort of youthful, restless passion that had the audience captivated this evening. Somehow, Larry managed to be impetuous and hesitant at the same time, and it took no great feat of imagination to believe that he was in the grip of a love so intense that he gave little thought to the consequences. It was really the last thing Josephine needed to see, preoccupied as she was with Marta, and, when the actor tenderly touched the balcony as though the stones were an extension of Juliet herself, she found herself barely able to watch.
