by Diana Hunt
‘That’s very nice of her: I accept.’ Mel moved next to me as I sat on my bed. She said:
‘Sorry I was silly, Di. I was frustrated; I wanted to be with you.’
‘And I wanted to be with you, Mel.’ She put her arm round my shoulder, leaned over, and kissed my breast. ‘Your boobs are just as nice as mine, Di.’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss Pearson. Now come on, I need to make myself decent.’
The Pearsons were their usual hospitable selves; they also had the knack of making me feel part of the family as soon as I walked into the house; I never felt uncomfortable or out of place. Her brother and father were out, so there were just the three of us. Mrs Pearson said:
‘Charles (her husband) and Miles are at some male thing - don’t know what; very mysterious.’
‘Christmas shopping for us women, Mummy, and Miles’s girl friend. To them it’s a military operation.’
Mrs Pearson smiled at now sharing the secret, which she knew of course already. The games families play....We had a rich beef casserole, with chunks of bread, and a bottle of red wine (I noticed that Melanie and her mother drank only one glass). The wine went down smoothly, and I didn’t hesitate. I detest the smell of beer and spirits, but I was developing a taste for wine. We ate in their bright large kitchen; the atmosphere relaxed, homey. But part of me felt out of it; I watched Mel and her mother chatting companionly - daughter and mother best friends. What would Mrs Pearson think if she seen her daughter in my room a couple of hours ago?
Her mother turned to me. ‘And of course we have a judo expert for dinner.’
‘Judo players don’t like the word ‘‘expert’’, Mrs Pearson. ‘
‘I see; is it something to do with an oriental self-effacement attitude and bowing? And please call me Claire.’
‘Something like that, Claire. But it’s true - As you know, I have my first black belt.’ I didn’t want to discuss it further; it might lead to more questions about me and my family and any plans I might have for the future. I drained my third glass of wine and said:
‘Thank you for a lovely meal, but I’d better get back to the Ship. Will you take me back, Mel?’
Claire Pearson stood. ‘That’s all right, Diana: I will. Melanie can earn her keep while home and do the dishes.’
I sat next to Mrs Pearson as we drove through the dark countryside, then joined the link road to Lynn; but we said nothing to each other. Eventually, she parked in front of the Ship: there was no sign of a fire engine; in fact, one couldn’t imagine that there had been an emergency, except for pools of water shimmering in the light from lamps in the hotel entrance.
I moved to get out. ‘Thanks again, Claire.’
She put a hand on my arm. ‘Just a second, Diana: I want to talk to you, please.’
‘What about?’
‘Melanie.’
My heart sank. ‘Mel? Why? Is anything wrong?’
‘Not as far as I know, Diana. I’ll come straight to the point. I need to know what your feelings are towards my daughter.’
Towards my daughter....So that was it. I decided to hit it straight on: ‘She’s my best and only true friend - I love her.’
Claire thought for a moment. ‘Does she feel the same?’
‘You had better ask her. But I believe she will say Yes.’
‘I see. I felt you were close - going to Paris together, always in each other’s company at college....Oh, dear this is difficult. I just wanted...look, Diana, I feel Melanie is still an innocent in some ways - I worry about her in Cambridge.’
‘I feel very protective when I’m with Mel. But I can’t be that when she’s not here. But I think you’ll find she’s a lot tougher than you realize.’
‘You see, Diana, I was ...’
‘....going to ask me whether we are lovers? Yes, we are. There is nothing we can do about that. It’s our nature. But it can’t be much of a grand passion - she’s hardly ever here. If you are going to tell me to back off - I can’t. And you have no right to ask me. Melanie and I are both adults.’
She gripped the steering wheel tightly with gloved hands. ‘Diana: I have been a school-teacher for 27 years - adolescent crushes and homosexuality can hardly shock me now. I have to admit that I would prefer it if Melanie were ‘straight’, but if you are sincere, Diana...’
‘I would never do anything to hurt Melanie - I’ve just told you, Claire. I love her. Just one thing more: Please don’t repeat this conversation to Mel, will you?’
‘Of course not. Goodnight, Diana.’
‘Goodnight, Claire.’
By the time I got to my room I was fuming. How dare she! How dare she cross-examine me! Doesn’t she realize that Melanie was a woman - a woman, not some adolescent innocent. My God! These bourgeoise women certainly close ranks when they fear that an intruder from the wrong side of the tracks gets too close. Was that ‘Goodnight’ ‘Goodbye’? - hands off? Bugger, bugger; I was so angry. I needed to get rid of the anger, so I left my room and ran down the stairs to the the front entrance. One of the maids was staring at the mess left by the blaze.
‘Maria?’
She turned and shrugged. ‘I am leaving off duty, but...?’ She was a conscientious girl, but looked helpless, for which I could hardky blame her. I said:
‘Can you stay longer?’
‘My husband, he is coming?’ I heard a van draw up. As he came in, I said to them, ‘Look: if you both stay and help me clear up, I’ll pay you £100 each. OK?’ They looked at each other then nodded. We needed her husband - he was a big bloke, thank goodness, for there were heavy pieces of furniture to move into the lounge - chairs, tables - before we could get near the bar to clean. I made sure that all electrical points were unplugged before we got the mops and buckets out. The area had been cordoned off - but there didn’t seem to be any hazards. Any how, two hours later we had cleared up all the mess left by the firemen. The place was now dry and clean. We moved all the bar stock that was left into the lobby and locked it away.
I cordoned it off again. We had done. I said: ‘I’m really grateful to you and your husband, Maria. I’ll make sure you get your money at the end of the week.OK?’ Her burly husband grinned and shrugged his shoulders, then shook my hand. Now it was five minutes after midnight, and I watched them drive away, so I locked every door, left a note for Jim Morrison, and went to bed. I lay awake for a while after showering and throwing an extra blanket over the duvet.
At least I had got rid of the anger and resentment and was thinking more clearly. Whenever I lose my temper I explode and let rip; but I don’t let it linger: I blow up, then it’s forgotten. But what else did I expect from Claire Pearson: she was looking after her own - who wouldn’t do the same, which woman would not when it came to her child’s welfare? I realized on the edge of sleep that this was my problem; my hangup. Oh, sod it, I said to myself as I turned over.
CLAIRE PEARSON
AS I DROVE AWAY from the Ship Hotel I felt that I had not handled the situation with Diana very well. I suppose my intention, and instinct, was to be very firm with my daughter’s friend. I had always thought that Diana was a very quiet girl (sorry, woman!), polite, obviously competent. I made the mistake of thinking she was meek. I knew very little of her background, except that her father had worked in an accounts office, her mother a housewife; she had a brother who worked in a building society. Diana was the only one in the family with further education (from what Melanie had told me, exceptional at languages). She would be aware that she was a beautiful woman: was Melanie overawed by that? I now realized - albeit reluctantly - that there was nothing I could do about the situation; but secretly relieved that Melanie spent the academic year at Cambridge. Perhaps after all this was just a phase out of their teenage years? Hopefully, Melanie would go through three years at university without too many scars, take her d
egree - and perhaps go on to do a PhD. I could not believe that Diana would be satisfied with working at a hotel for very long; the bright lights will beckon; she is a very ambitious young woman. With that slight consolation, I closed my front door behind me.
THE INTERNAL TELEPHONE IN MY ROOM woke me with a jerk just as I was coming to the end (which I did not experience - why do we never?) of a very pleasant dream, in which I was lying on a sunbed beside a pool next to a villa. I was wearing a miniscule yellow bikini. I remember feeling very content - because I was the only one there and because I was replete, with an excellent lunch, sexually fulfilled: I was a sybarite, a hedonist, without guilt. Below me a lake shimmered in the heat - Lake Como? I had always wanted to visit....
‘Melanie? Jim Morrison here. I’d like to see you when you’re ready.’ I sat up, glanced at my watch. God. Eighty-thirty. ‘Sorry, boss: overslept.’
‘No problem. But see me as soon as you’re here, OK?
That came to a bleak halt: I drew the curtains as I was fastening my blouse on to a grey drizzly morning with a busy morning ahead of me. Merry Christmas. At least Jim Morrison had a pot of the inevitable coffee in front of him when I entered his office. ‘Want a cup?’
‘Black and sweet, please, boss.’
‘I got your note, Diana. You showed good initiative. But I still think that it could have waited until this morning.’
I gulped my coffee, then connected with the world. ‘I don’t agree, Jim.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No offence intended. You see I considered that if the place looked as tho’ we were on the ball after the fracas, the residents would be impressed by our consideration and efficiency and not leave the place in droves. Have any of them left?’
‘As a matter of fact none of them have. But it’s still going to cost the hotel two-hundred quid!’
‘It’s worth every penny - and you know it.’
‘You’re a cheeky mare, Diana - but just don’t push your luck.’
‘Yes, Mr Morrison.’
‘Right: bugger off. And next time check with me.’
I might be a ‘cheeky mare’ (which of course I liked being), but I got my own way on this one; it also lessened the fury I felt with Mel’s mother. It was the week before Christmas; the hotel was looking festive again, with a six-foot tree twinkling with lights in the foyer. But those of us who worked on reception got fed up with - as Sandra put it - ’the bloody Blackpool illuminations blinding us’. But they were Jim Morrison’s pride and joy so nobody said anything.
Every day of that week the hotel had either a lunch party or evening function, so of course by the end of it we were exhausted and if anyone mentioned the ‘Christmas spirit’ they got their head bitten off. Christmas day was on Sunday; the hotel was closed on that day and the following. Our final function was lunch party on Christmas eve. At about seven o’clock that evening, Jim called us all to reception and said:
‘I want to thank you all for the tremendous effort you have made. It has not gone unnoticed. That is all, except that if you look in your pay slips you will find that your bank accounts have received a boost. Thank you again and happy Christmas.’
So, I cleared up the final details of the season’s festivities in the hotel - a celebration in which I had no interest. But business is business. Even so, I looked forward to the break; my life seemed to have been ruled by the Ship Hotel’s demands for months. And in a strange way to be sleeping in my own bed at home. All I had to do now was spend my bonus (ironically, £200) on presents for Peter and friends and write the rest of my cards.
I had sent a card to Doug and Phil, saying something like:
Darling American Boys
Just to show you that Mel and I have not forgotten you both, here are Christmas greetings from our side of the pond.
Melanie went up to Cambridge this autumn (Fall?), mixing with all the egg-heads; I’m still slaving at the hotel. In future you will address me as ‘Housekeeper’.
Hope the rag trade is still booming. Any vacancies for a mannequin? I scrub up quite well.
Much love from us both.
I think they were a little surprised and more than pleased to hear from us, because we got an enormous card with several pages of their dress designs. Doug wrote:
Lovely ladies!
How vey sweet of you to remember us both. Doesn’t Paris seem such a long time away? We actually did good business there. Hope you like the pix of our latest collection. We would LOVE to dress you, Diana. Good news about Melanie. We always knew you both had brains as well as absolutely stunning looks.
HAPPY HOLIDAY!
Love from Doug and Phil.
The parcel that sat on my bedside table I saved until the last; it was about 2 inches thick, oblong; and heavy. The cover of the book had a glossy dust-cover showing a seagull against a background of a bright blue sky. The title said The Shore Birds of Norfolk and the author, MAX GILBERT. The paintings - some in oil, a few in watercolour - were breathtaking. It was like walking into his studio. There was an inscription on a blank preliminary page:
To my good friend Diana. Happy Christmas - Max Gilbert.
It brought tears on, and I hugged it. You lovely old man.
What of Mel? Her card to me, in her great, loopy handwriting, said: Darling Di. I don’t seem to have stopped since the emergency at the hotel. We are all going away at Christmas to relations in the West country. I am not really looking forward...but, noblesse oblige. I will phone you early in the new year. I need to be with you.
Happy Christmas! Much love - Mel.
So, nose to the grindstone, Diana.
Chapter 10
ALDEBURGH SUFFOLK
FROM WHERE I WAS STANDING, I was looking across the grey sea to the horizon, a sliver of pale yellow sliding under the clouds. Out to sea, the waters seemed smooth and unmoving, but broken lines of white waves struck the shore, then scattered on the pebbles. The breeze blew hair round my face and I took deep breaths of it. If I looked to my right the beach and shore stretched away into the distance flatly for miles. There was no one about that late Spring morning; I had driven from King’s Lynn early on the A148 (driving my late father’s Corsa), stopped at now-’gentrified’ Holt for breakfast, then headed southeast - a long journey to Suffolk.
Aldeburgh - like Southwold, Walberswick, Thorpeness - bears no resemblance to Norfolk coastal resorts : this is ‘refined’ East Anglia. There are no huge caravan parks or enormous Sunday car-boot sales in these towns. They keep the scruffs out. How? Simple: they don’t provide the attractions for the hoi-polloi. And anyway, how could they afford the house prices?
Those were the sort of reflexions I had whenever I visited places like Aldeburgh. They were mixed up with a type of socio-psychological observation (if that is not too grand a phrase) I had when considering my own ambitions. The reason that the oik-visitor to places like Great Yarmouth never move any higher is because (a) they are too thick; and (b) because of that they don’t have aspirations; sometimes they are brave and holiday on the Costa del Sweat These arrogant observations didn’t turn up often in my mind, but when they did I saw them perfectly clearly. My background supplied my leitmotiv. I am of course a snob.
I shook my head, turned and walked along the promenade, past the boating-pool (still empty) and the ugly metal sculpture in shapes of sea-shells that dominated that section of the frontage. Two or three fishing boats were beached below blackened huts; there were notices advertising fresh fish - cod, crab, lobster - and I could see the fishermen unloading and filleting.
I am a young woman, so why did these old-fashioned Suffolk towns appeal to me? Possibly because I recognized the quality of its buildings, the goods on sale, the quiet inhabitants. So that was the reason that I had taken my two days off from the Ship Hotel to journey to the Suffolk coast. I crossed the road pa
st the long, white-fronted White Lion hotel, and turned into a side alley into the High Street. Half-way down was an old pub that had just opened its doors, so I went in and ordered a crab salad and a glass of white wine. While I was waiting, I found Max’s letter and read it yet again.
My dear Diana,
I was so sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I am aware that this is the second death in your family within months. Please accept my sincere condolences. I know only too well what it’s like to lose someone you love.
I also realize that you are an independent young woman (!), but I think that you are not quite sure where you want to direct your life. That does sound impertinent of me, doesn’t it? But I believe our friendship is close enough for me to say so.
I have been working on a new series of paintings - this time common-or-garden birds within a city skyline, sparrows, pigeons, blackbirds, etc. I only hope that my sense of perspective in buildings in a skyline is still there.
When you have your next couple of days’ leave perhaps you would contact me. I may have a proposition for you.
My kindest regards to you as always.
Max
I finished my salad and put the letter in my bag. Max knew I would be intrigued - but what was it all about? It was typical of him to be mysterious. Well, two can play at that game. I’ll leave my reply for at least another week. I collected the car and left Aldeburgh by the B1122, headed north through Leiston and Westleton; Dunwich Forest was on my right until I joined the A1095 at Blythburgh - my destination, Southwold. I had booked a room at the Crown Hotel, which is situated half way down the high street at Southwold; there is a small car park behind the hotel (and just enough space for the small car). This leads on to the rear entrance. I checked in, the woman behind the cubby-hole, which served as a reception desk, asked me if I wanted dinner that evening. I said Yes.
I had to duck my head getting up the stairs
to my room ( part of the hotel’s charm, but a hazard to me), which was welcoming (and I know something about hotel bedrooms); lots of wooden beams, pale watercolours of Southwold on the white walls. There was a firm bed with lots of soft covers, an immaculate bathroom. The room was at the rear of the hotel; looking through the window, I craned my neck, but I couldn’t see the lighthouse, but could certainly smell the hops from the brewery. I unpacked my overnight bag, then removed all my clothes and folded them carefully.
