by Lyn Andrews
She remembered the name, Arnot Street, and now she stood staring at the row of neat houses, wondering which one he lived in. She walked past the school on the corner and halfway down she stopped and knocked on the door of a house. Inside she was trembling but outwardly she was ice-cold. A middle-aged woman opened it.
‘Excuse me, could you tell me which house Mr and Mrs Hartley live in, please?’
‘Who wants them?’ Came the suspicious reply.
‘I was at school with Mrs Hartley, only she wasn’t called that then. I haven’t seen her since she got married, I’ve been away, working. In London.’
‘We’ve lived round here for years and I don’t remember Jenny Taylor ever mentioning anyone like you?’
‘Well, Jenny and I are old friends, even though I haven’t seen her for years and she never mentioned you to me, either!’ she lied.
‘As long as you’re not from the authorities! It’s number sixteen!’
The door was slammed and with a sickly feeling in her stomach Cat walked away. She couldn’t turn back now, the woman was watching her. She’d seen the curtains move as she walked away.
With each step she took she wished she hadn’t come at all. She knocked on the door of number sixteen and a young woman answered it, a chubby baby on her hip.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but are you Jenny?’
‘Yes. What do you want? Do I know you?’
‘Jenny Hartley?’
She nodded, shifting the baby into the crook of her arm. From inside the house Cat heard the fretful howl of a young child.
Cat cast frantically about in her mind for something to say.
‘If it’s Stephen, my husband, you want, he’s out. Have you come about the private tuition he advertised?’
Cat felt so ill all she could do was nod. Jenny Hartley had answered all her questions without knowing it.
‘Will you come in?’
‘No! No, I’m sorry, I haven’t much time.’
‘He charges a shilling an hour and he can take students two nights a week, here in the parlour. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays he takes evening classes. Teachers’ pay isn’t all that good, not when you first start and we’re trying to save up for a house of our own. Will you leave your name?’
‘No. I was just inquiring, that’s all. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
It was as much as she could do to stop herself from taking flight. Her legs felt unsteady and it was an effort to place one foot in front of the other, but somehow she reached the top of the street. She was about to cross the road, heading for Marie’s when she remembered that Marie would be at college. Instead she found herself walking towards St Mary’s, the old parish church of Walton-on-the-Hill. Once through the lychgate she sat down on a bench among the old gravestones. He’d used her! He’d only wanted one thing from her . . . she felt physically sick and covered her face with her hands. She felt cheap as she remembered their passionate embraces, their hot, lingering kisses, the feelings his hands had evoked as they had caressed her breasts. He hadn’t been interested in her education or her feelings, he’d only been interested in one thing. Her body! Disgust chased guilt to be followed by anger. Anger that consumed her. He’d pay for this! She’d make him pay for the way she felt now! She’d never be able to look Joe in the face again!
At last she rose. Wiping her eyes and running her hand through her hair. The price of her silence would come high! She’d make him squirm and feel as she felt now! She’d see to that!
Chapter Eleven
IT WAS ALMOST A QUARTER to three when she entered the foyer of the Imperial Hotel that faced Lime Street Station. She was wearing her best herringbone tweed costume, the white lawn blouse with its lace collar, the black leather shoes and the black velvet hat. Her hands were encased in the black kid gloves and over her arm was her best handbag and Mrs Gorry’s treasured fox fur which Marie had cajoled from her mother for the occasion. She glanced at the clock on the wall as a uniformed porter came forward to meet her.
‘May I help you, madam?’
‘It’s miss. Miss Catherine Cleary. I have an appointment at three with Mr Barratt. Mr David Barratt, he is expecting me.’
‘If you would follow me, Miss Cleary, I’ll just check if Mr Barratt is in the hotel.’ His manner was a little patronising and she stared hard at him as he motioned her to a circular padded velvet seat in the centre of the palm-filled foyer. She watched him as he went to the desk, checked some papers and then returned, smiling obsequiously.
‘Mr Barratt has left a message that he may be a little late and that I am to offer you his apologies and a drink. What would you like, Miss Cleary?’
She didn’t drink but she knew this would only add to his mistrust. ‘I’ll have a small, sweet sherry, thank you.’
He disappeared and she glanced around her. It was a very smart hotel, she thought. Not as smart as the Adelphi, but very elegant just the same. Still, a junior officer must earn a decent wage. A waiter in a short white jacket, black bow-tie and narrow black trousers appeared, bearing a tray on which was a small glass of sherry. She took it from him and sipped it slowly. It tasted like the Madeira wine Mrs Travis had once given her. Her eyes narrowed as she thought of her old benefactress. She’d not given up her dream. She’d never give it up and she’d never trust another man again! Her gaze hardened as she thought of the scene with Stephen. At first he had tried to protest, to deny that he had a wife and children. Then he had grown angry and abusive, calling her a cheap little slut, no better than she should be! She had rounded on him then like a small fury. Threatening to tell his wife, the entire street and his headmaster just what he got up to after his evening classes. She’d seen the anger drain from his face and it was then that she had first felt the sensation of power. It was a feeling she enjoyed and she had revelled in it, watching him back away from her, nervously fiddling with his moustache. She had felt nothing but scorn for him then. The price of her silence was the reason why she was sitting in the Imperial Hotel. He had promised to obtain a meeting for her with his old friend, David Barratt, and she had insisted that he tell his friend why she wanted to meet him.
She had stood over him as he wrote the letter and she had made sure he posted it, too. Then she had waited for the reply, and, because she didn’t trust him, she had made him suggest that David Barratt write directly to herself at Marie’s address.
She sipped the sweet drink again and looked around, taking satisfaction from the fact that she was equally as well dressed as the women who wandered through the foyer and up the wide staircase. The waiting had been the worst part. She hadn’t gone back to evening classes, she couldn’t bring herself to face him again, she despised him so much, and she hated herself. Over and over she had railed silently at the naive, gullible fool she had been. She hadn’t seen Joe either, until the day he sailed, when he had come round to Eldon Street to say goodbye. She had apologised to him and it had been accepted without any recriminations. Just the usual peck on the cheek and the warning to ‘Take care of yourself, Cat!’ She hadn’t gone to see him off.
She had waited nearly ten days before she received the reply. The Empress of Britain was due in Southampton on 4 September but he was travelling up to see his mother and he would be glad to meet her for afternoon tea in the Imperial Hotel. It had been signed ‘Yours Sincerely, D. Barratt’.
She looked at the clock again. It was a minute to three. She placed the empty glass on the table and smoothed down her skirt. She had to make the most of this opportunity. She would never get another one to meet anyone who held such a position with the Canadian Pacific Line. He was one of those ‘right’ people Joe had talked about. He was her ticket into the world she desperately wanted to enter. She remembered the shabby, uneducated, desperate girl who had gone begging for a job – not even knowing how to go about it or even what to say. She stroked the fox fur. She was older now and wiser. Joe had once called her ‘streetwise’, now she hoped she was more worldly-wise. This was the first
step on the ladder and she would use anyone she could to secure that first, vital step. She had learnt a hard lesson at the hands of Stephen Hartley and it was a lesson her pride would not let her forget!
‘Miss Cleary?’
Her deliberations were forgotten and she looked up. David Barratt was in his early twenties, of medium height and build, with hair not unlike the colour of her own. But he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen in a man. His face was tanned and self-assurance oozed from him. Under his arm he had carelessly tucked the white-topped, stiff-peaked cap with its gold braid and corporate symbol. She stiffened, all her instincts sharpened by experience.
‘Yes. You are Mr Barratt?’ She extended her hand and he took it warmly.
‘I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting. Shall we go through?’
With easy confidence he offered her his arm while nodding in the direction of the reception desk. The porter came over instantly.
‘Would you follow me, sir. The table is ready!’
She forced herself not to gaze around her as they were ushered into a quiet lounge, tastefully furnished, where a few other couples were taking tea.
He pulled out the chair for her, waving aside the porter’s efforts, slipping a coin into the man’s hand, unobtrusively. She placed her bag on the table, then, with as much nonchalance as she hoped would be convincing, draped Mrs Gorry’s fox fur over the back of her chair, aware he was noting every movement.
A waiter appeared beside them.
‘Tea and scones, please. Unless there is something else you prefer?’
She didn’t feel in the least bit hungry. ‘No, that will be fine.’ She left him to undertake the ritual of pouring the tea from the silver service.
‘What did Stephen say in his letter?’ she asked, knowing full well what that letter had contained. Even to utter his name without venom was difficult.
‘That you were a remarkable young lady.’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘You’re not at all what I expected.’
‘Indeed.’ She wondered if he was goading her. ‘What did you expect?’
He leaned back in his chair and pretended to scrutinise her closely. ‘For a start, someone a little older.’
‘I’m older than I look. My mother tells me it is a fact I will learn to appreciate as I get older.’
‘Your mother is a wise woman. Tell me, what does she think about this career of yours?’
She hadn’t expected that. ‘Not a great deal, at least she hasn’t said much.’ It was true. Her mother knew nothing at all about it.
‘You are also independent. I like that. Why do you want to go to sea?’
She was feeling more confident and had anticipated this one. ‘Because I’m bored ashore and I hear it is a good way to travel and be paid for it.’
‘It’s also damned hard work.’
‘I know. I’m not afraid of work!’
‘It’s not very pleasant, not until you rise to the status of a first-class stewardess and you do look to be, how shall I say, a little more refined than the usual type.’
She was still unsure of him. Not really knowing if he was mocking her or just trying to find out how she would cope. She also wondered if she hadn’t put on too good an act.
‘Everyone has to start somewhere, usually at the bottom, and I have always worked hard and not always under conditions that could be called satisfactory let alone good.’
‘You’re not afraid to speak your mind, are you, Miss Cleary?’
‘No. I speak as I find, Mr Barratt.’
‘Can we drop the formalities? I get enough of that aboard, as you’ll find out. It’s David.’
It was a real effort to replace the cup on the saucer without spilling the contents. ‘My name is Catherine, but I was nicknamed Cat by my elder sister years ago.’
He smiled and she noticed that there were tiny white lines around his eyes where the sun had not turned the skin brown. He appeared to have relaxed a little, but she kept her guard up.
‘Stephen asked me as a favour, and God knows I owe him a few, if there was anything I could do to help you. Get a start, I mean.’
She had dictated every line of that letter but she held her gaze steady. Wondering what price she would have to pay for his help.
‘I did mention to him – well to Jenny really – that I wanted to go to sea, that I wanted to make a career of it.’
‘Then you have no intention of getting married?’
‘None!’
‘Ever?’
She shrugged. ‘Who knows. What about you?’ She deftly turned the questions away from herself.
‘I’ve been working too hard and I’ve not met anyone . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.
‘I was once warned never to marry a sailor.’
‘Oh, I thought “All the nice girls love a sailor” as the song goes.’
‘This one did and lived to regret it. He was a captain on the old tea clippers and was lost at sea. She died a sad, lonely old woman.’
‘I think it’s time we changed the subject.’
She felt calm enough to lift the cup again.
‘I’ll do what I can for you, Catherine, I do have a little influence, but then so do quite a lot of people. But if you give me your number I’ll phone you.’
She panicked. Everything was moving too fast and she certainly hadn’t anticipated this. ‘Aintree 613.’ Marie’s telephone number tumbled from her lips before she had realised it. She hoped Marie wouldn’t mind too much.
He had written it down. ‘Fine. I’ll phone when I know something definite. You’ll have to be prepared to go for an interview at short notice.’
‘That will present no problem. I am out quite a lot so if you phone, perhaps you could leave a number and I could phone you back, or leave a message, with my sister.’
‘I’ll leave a message. I don’t have a permanent base in Southampton, except the ship, of course.’
He didn’t appear to have a permanent base anywhere, she thought. She felt the muscles in her stomach knot. Now it would come. Now she would find out what price she would have to pay for this favour.
‘More tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’m terribly sorry but I’m going to have to leave you, I’m expected at home in half an hour and if I’m late again . . .’
‘Oh!’ The exclamation came out as a weak gasp.
‘Usually I wouldn’t take much notice but my aunt is home, too. Miss Eileen Sabell. Take note of that name, you’ll soon hear it a great deal – if all goes well.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s the chief stewardess on the Britain.’ He stood up and took her hand. ‘No doubt I’ll be seeing you again – soon – but you’ll hear from me. One way or the other. Sorry to rush off!’
He had released her hand and had left some silver coins on the table. ‘Goodbye, Cat.’
She smiled. ‘I hope it will only be au revoir, David.’
She made no attempt to steady her hand as she refilled her cup. She was still dazed. It had all been so simple. Everything Joe had said was true. If you spoke correctly, dressed well, had a modicum of education and self-confidence, knew the right people, it was all so easy. And the money Mrs Travis had left her had provided the means to this end. But she was puzzled by David Barratt’s behaviour. She had fully expected him to have asked her out, at least to have made some sort of innuendo. But he had gone.
Pull yourself together, Cat Cleary! Maybe not everyone in life is the same and he did say that . . . that he owed that despicable toad a few favours. But she was left feeling uneasy and confused. Surely it couldn’t be that easy? After months of dreaming, hoping, praying, the object of her dreams had been placed before her without any arguments, any begging, any bartering. The thing she dreamed of, the dream she had clung to, putting it before everything and everyone else, looked as though it was about to take on a definite form. Both the improbability and impossibility were things of the past – nearly
.
You’ve not got it yet, don’t start building up your hopes, a voice inside her head warned. Perhaps he had been just stringing her along. Perhaps that toad Hartley had written another letter, telling David Barratt God knows what? She hadn’t thought of that before. Maybe it was only curiosity that had brought him here today, to see what kind of a girl it was who dallied with married men! She wanted to get up and run. Instead she slowly picked up her bag and the fur and walked from the room, nodding to the waiter.
She sat on Marie’s bed with her feet tucked underneath her while Marie, who had acquired a lot more self-confidence and a certain amount of polish along with her mastery of business studies, sat on the stool before the kidney-shaped dressing table with its pink and white flounced draperies.
‘So, when he phones I tell him you’re not available and that I’m your sister and can he leave a message? You did tell him you’ve got a sister?’
She nodded.
‘And you told him you were older than you looked? How old?’
‘I didn’t say.’
‘What we’ll have to do is write everything down so you can learn it, otherwise you’re going to get in a terrible mess when you fill in the application form.’
‘I haven’t got any kind of form yet and maybe I never will!’
‘Now stop that! You’ve got to think positive as I’m always being told.’ She took her shorthand pad and sat with pencil poised. ‘I’ll write down your name and address, this address and phone number, Dad won’t mind taking any calls. Now, your date of birth. How old would you like to be?’
‘Marie, it’s not a game!’
‘I know and we’ll both go straight to hell if we drop down dead, so shut up!’
They decided that twenty-one would be the best age, as it was the official age of consent and not too many years ahead for them to get confused. Marie wrote everything down, giving her a fictitious set of qualifications from a not very well known, but very respectable convent in Dublin. All the rest of the details belonged to Marie and appertained to her life, but she was very generous with them, entering into the spirit with more enthusiasm than Cat. When they had finished she passed over the list.
