Bride's Dilemma

by Violet Winspear

  “This house hasn’t changed a bit, Sid,” Sarah Hutton threw back over her shoulder. “That’s still the same varnished paper on the wall—and, good grief, Maud’s kept that old dresser, and every willow-pattern plate and cup is still intact!”

  She laughed aloud and swung round, taking in every aspect of the sitting room.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Tina asked. “It won’t take me long to make it.”

  “We’ve had a drink at the Tudor Arms, where we’re staying for the weekend.” The woman slipped out of her fur coat, while her husband held his cigar like a gun and looked round with insolent eyes for an ashtray.

  “I—I’ll get you a saucer, Mr. Hutton.” Tina darted into the kitchen, where she flipped off her scarf and apron. She was flustered by this totally unexpected visit, and for some reason she couldn’t believe that Aunt Maud’s sister had travelled down from Birmingham out of sincere concern and anxiety. If you were anxious about someone, you asked right away how they were, you didn’t take more interest in their house. Tina felt a current of anger shoot through her when she returned to the sitting room to hear Sarah Hutton remarking to her husband that Maud had kept this house in good repair and that with the property market on the boom, the place was worth three times its original price.

  Sidney Hutton was now sprawled in a fireside chair, his legs across the hearthrug, and as Tina placed a saucer on the arm of his chair he flicked a look over her that made her itch to slap his face. “Thanks, Tina,” he smiled. “So you’re George’s little girl, eh? All grown up and keeping house while your auntie’s ill?”

  “Poor old Maudie!” Sarah sat down and took a cigarette case out of her big alligator bag. “I was quite cut up when I got her letter. It’s true we haven’t seen each other for a long time, but family differences have to be forgotten at a time like this. She said she’s got to have an operation. Is that right, Tina?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hutton.” Tina went and sat at the other side of the table to avoid Sidney Hutton’s appraisal. Beastly man! His eyes felt like beetles running over her.

  His wife puffed out cigarette smoke. “We’d like to go in and see her this afternoon, Tina. I don’t suppose you’ll mind giving up your visiting hour?”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Hutton, as you’ve come all this way. I’m sure Aunt Maud will be pleased to see you. You’ll have lots to talk about.”

  As if suspecting a tinge of irony in Tina’s tone, Sarah narrowed her eyes. Then, seeing only a slim, pale-haired girl with a fragile pitch to her cheekbones and a mouth that was all heart, the woman complacently crossed her alligator shoes and flicked ash with a heavily ringed hand, “So Maudie didn’t tell you she’d written to me? She was always a bit secretive.” Then Sarah leant forward, a smile curling on her large, painted mouth. “I bet you find her a bit of a trial to live with, don’t you?”

  “I’m used to Aunt Maud,” Tina said loyally. “She’s brought me up—I owe her a lot.”

  “All the same, she can’t be none too lively for a bit of a kid to live with. I bet she hasn’t changed much. Here, Sid,” Sarah swivelled to look at him, “d’you remember that time she caught us cuddling in the parlor with the lights out? I know she told Father a nice old tale, and I always say that’s why he left everything to her. Chaste because she was never chased, that’s Maudie. Still, I don’t like to think of her lying ill in hospital. I mean, she’s getting on. She’s older than George was.”

  Sarah stared at Tina through her cigarette smoke as though searching for a likeness to her brother. “What do you work at, Tina?” she asked. “Do you wait on tables in one of the tearooms?”

  “I’m a typist in an office,” Tina replied, her fingers in a knot in her lap. She was hurt that Aunt Maud hadn’t mentioned writing to her sister. Hurt and mystified.

  Then she gave a start as she realized that Sidney Hutton was speaking to her. He wanted to know if she was courting, and she saw him grin to himself when she shook her head.

  “Chorley never had many prizes to offer when I was a girl,” his wife put in. “I don’t suppose the situation has changed much. Now up in Birmingham you’d notice the difference, Tina. We run a smart roadhouse and we could offer you quite a nice little job, you know, helping with the lunch-time trade and doing some counter work in the evenings. We get some smart chaps in. Nearly all of them run their own cars.”

  “I’m not thinking of leaving Chorley, Mrs. Hutton,” Tina said stiffly. “I’m quite satisfied with the job I’ve got.”

  “That so?” Again Sarah was running a speculative eye round the sitting room. “If your Aunt Maudie left Chorley, you’d leave with her, I daresay.”

  Tina’s mouth went dry. She was right about these two! They hadn’t travelled down from Birmingham solely out of concern for Aunt Maud. They had their acquisitive eyes on her house. On the money it would bring if it was sold!

  They left in a while to lunch at the Tudor Arms. Afterwards they would go to the hospital and return here later ... to take a sentimental look over her girlhood home, Sarah added coyly.

  The blatant insincerity of the Huttons was so plain to Tina that she wanted to say outright to Aunt Maud, the following afternoon at the hospital, that they were interested in only one thing in Chorley . . . the house Aunt Maud had been left by her father, now worth three times its original value. She fumed inwardly at the fuss Sarah made of Aunt Maud. She had bought her a fluffy pink bedjacket and insisted she put it on. Tina’s hothouse grapes were left unnoticed on the bedside locker.

  “There, pink’s your color, Maudie,” Sarah gushed, and Tina, unable to bear any more of this, swung on her heel and hurried out to the corridor.

  “You can go in if you like,” she said to Sidney Hutton, who was smoking a cigarette beside an open window.

  “Oh, let’s leave them to natter—I’d sooner stay and talk to you, little lady.” He smirked a smile down at her and displayed an ornate gold cigarette case, at which Tina shook her head. As he slipped the case back into his pocket his glance travelled over Tina, who was wearing a neat brown coat that set off her fair hair. Her beige handbag matched her shoes.

  “Thought any more about coming up North to live?” he asked, dropping his voice into a low, intimate key.

  She looked at him, taking in his pomaded self-importance and the gold watch chain stretched across his broad chest. “I shouldn’t think for a minute that Aunt Maud will want to leave Dulcey Avenue,” she replied stiffly. “She’s too used to Chorley and its quiet atmosphere.”

  “The place must be a bit dull for a pretty girl like you.” His thick mouth moved in a smile. “Y’know, you could have a lot of fun working for me.” He lowered her a meaning wink. “I’m a generous man to the—people I like.”

  The brand of generosity to which he was referring sent a wave of nausea through Tina, and she moved sharply away from him. The thought of working for such a man, of probably living in the same house, was quite unbearable. Also she knew a fierce desire to protect her aunt from what he and his wife obviously had in mind; they were a pair of sharks, and at the earliest opportunity Aunt Maud must be talked out of trusting them.

  She decided, however, not to broach this ticklish subject until Aunt Maud had undergone her operation, which went off smoothly a few days later and was unaccompanied by complications. On the Friday evening, with her aunt looking very much better, Tina quietly tackled her about the Huttons.

  “Be careful of them, Aunt Maud,” she said, hands nervously clenched as she sat in the bedside chair. “I believe they’re only after the money you’ll get for your house if you sell it.”

  A silence hung between Maud Manson and her young niece, so very different in looks and disposition, then the corded, elderly hands drew the fluffy bed jacket closer around the rawboned shoulders. The dark eyes narrowed, hard as stones in the plain, bitter face. “That’s a very nice thing to say about my sister and brother-in-law.” Maud Manson’s voice matched her eyes. “I suppose you were hoping I’d die and you’d ge
t my bit of money? Well, for all your eagerness to get me into this place, I’m still alive and kicking.”

  The deliberate, acid cruelty of these remarks drove every scrap of color out of Tina’s cheeks. She sat stunned. If her aunt had suddenly given her two hard blows round the face she couldn’t have felt more hurt.

  “Don’t look at me with crocodile tears in your eyes,” Maud Manson snapped. “I made up my mind that day I came into this hospital that I was going to write to Sarah. If anything had happened to me, she’s more entitled to what I’ve got than you are. You make out that butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, but as Sarah says, it’s all put on. She was telling me last Sunday how you sulked just because she wanted to see over the house, for old times’ sake.”

  “She wanted to assess its value, not to re-live old memories.” Tina was still shaking with pain as she pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “Are you going to sell up and go to Birmingham, Aunt Maud?” she asked flatly.

  “Any objections?” Maud Manson’s eyes were sharp and malignant. “Is it so wrong that I should want company after you’ve grabbed some fool man and gone off with him? I know that’s all you’re waiting for—like all the rest—like your chit of a mother!”

  For years Tina had tolerated unkind remarks about the young mother she could not remember, but all of a sudden, on top of her aunt’s growing bitterness towards herself, they were insupportable.

  ‘‘You’ve never felt a spark of affection for me in all the years I’ve lived with you, have you, Aunt Maud?” she said shakily. “I’ve always known, but out of gratitude to you for giving me a home I’ve tried not to mind. Well, I have minded. All children need and expect affection, but you denied it to me because you chose to object to your brother falling in love and marrying. Now, because I’ve grown to look like my mother, you have to keep jabbing at me. I don’t have to put up with that— and I’m not going to. Nor do I intend to come to Birmingham to be the Huttons’ underpaid drudge!”

  “I don’t know where else you think you’re going.” Maud Manson grunted. “But if that’s how you feel, then suit yourself. I’ve done my best for you. Sacrificed the best years of my life bringing up another woman’s child—”

  “I’m grateful for the home you’ve given me, Aunt Maud,” Tina broke in, “but I—I can’t come to Birmingham, If you decided to stay here in Chorley it would be a different matter—”

  “I’m going to Birmingham,” was the tart retort. “Sidney knows someone who will give me a good price for my bit of property.”

  Tina didn’t doubt it for a moment, while she tiredly told herself that if Aunt Maud wanted the Huttons, then there was nothing more to be said. It was obvious she had made up her mind, while if Tina had not quite made up hers, as to where she was going, she had made it up with regard to her aunt’s sister and brother-in-law. She didn’t want to work for them, or live anywhere near them!

  A cold scatter of rain met Tina as she turned out of the hospital gates. When she reached the market square she went into an espresso bar which had replaced an old established tea room and ordered a cup of coffee. There were several leather-jack-eted youths clustered round a pin-table machine, while a juke-box was thumping out beat music. Tina sat down at a table with a chunky cup of coffee and fed brown sugar into it. She sipped its sweet frothiness, her thoughts and emotions in a quiet turmoil. Had she the right, let alone the courage, to walk out on her aunt after all these years? Her gaze turned towards the window beside her and she saw across the square the board of the Tudor Arms swinging in the wind. A chiffon of rain veiled the black and white timbering and plaster of the inn—there on the cobbles fronting it she had said goodbye to John Trecarrel.

  She recalled the things he had said to her. She knew that if he were here right now he would say she had done the right thing in standing up to her tyrannical aunt at long last. “You’re free to go your own way,” he would say. “Haven’t you the grit to grab the chance now it’s within your grasp?”

  Free! To leave Chorley . . . for London.

  Excitement stirred within her. She knew in this moment that she would do it, she would go to the big city instead of just dreaming about it on Chorley’s headland. In the strangest fashion, as she made this decision, she seemed to feel again the firm grip of John Trecarrel’s fingers. His hands had been one of the nicest things about him—on the left hand, on the third finger, she hadn’t missed the Gothic gold band which had told her he was married. His wife’s name had been Joanna. Tina knew because she had looked up the information in Who’s Who in the library. Joanna Lizabeth, daughter of the late Colonel Hilliard Carrish of Brinsham, Devon.

  Joanna Carrish had married John Trecarrel when she was twenty and he twenty-seven. Two years later she had given birth to a daughter, Lizabeth. A year later Joanna had died while yachting with friends off the coast of Ste. Monique.

  The death of John Trecarrel’s wife had occurred eight years ago, and because of those deep lines engraved beside his mouth, Tina guessed how much he had loved her—how much he missed her. She had been beautiful, of course, leaving him with the inability to love again as he had the living loveliness of Joanna. She had been gay and full of life and she had probably called him Johnny . . . and out of his painful knowledge he had said to Tina:

  “Youth is such a short and precious time. Don't waste it.”

  Tina travelled to London a week later, armed with a glowing reference from her Chorley employers, and an address given to her by one of the girls with whom she had worked. The girl’s cousin was employed in London and living in a Kensington hostel for business girls. Tina might be lucky enough to get a room there.

  She took a bus to the hostel straight from the railway station, and half an hour later was unpacking her suitcase in a back box of a room only recently vacated. The hostel was a tall Georgian house not far from Kensington High Street, and Tessa Neal, who came from Chorley herself, turned out to be a pleasant, friendly girl.

  The following evening she took Tina for a stroll round London and was naturally interested in what she was going to do about a job. Tessa worked in a typing agency, where she said there was always room for a speedy typist. But Tina, comfortably aware of the holiday cheque in her handbag, felt like treating herself to a week’s exploration of the big city before she settled down again behind the keyboard of a typewriter.

  “I'd rather like to have a look round before making up my mind, Tessa,” she hedged, for also, having gone through the agony of learning shorthand at evening classes, she felt she’d like to try for a secretarial post. Once she was experienced as a secretary she might be able to get a job in Canada or Australia. Her heartbeats quickened at such an exciting possibility.

  “Anyway. I’ll tell our superintendent about you,” Tessa smiled. “I know my cousin liked working with you.”

  To a newcomer, London has many attractions to offer, foremost to a girl its fabulous shops. Tina spent the following morning dazzling her eyes along Oxford Street and the Burlington Arcade. She lunched at Maison Lyons and felt madly sophisticated sitting alone, in the heart of London, enjoying tomato soup, a grill, and a banana-split. Afterwards she jumped on a bus for Hyde Park, where she strolled along beside the Serpentine and had tea at a little outdoor cafe.

  It was on her way back to the hostel that a sudden breath-taking idea occurred to her for the following day. She would go to the gallery where she knew John Trecarrel’s West Indian bronzes were still on view. Seeing his work would be a little like seeing him again. It was a month since they had talked on the headland at Chorley and she guessed that by now he would have returned to his home on the island of Ste. Monique.

  Blue Water House. An imaginative name, conjuring up a picture of graciousness and charm in Tina’s mind. The house stood near the ocean and you could hear the silvery breakers rolling over a coral reef, hear them crash open, expelling their lovely smell of ozone. There were many flowers, flame creepers, starry frangipani, and bright scarves of bougainvillea . . .
>
  Tina gave a sigh and dragged her wandering thoughts back to the hostel. She must wear something nice for her trip to the gallery—she opened the narrow built-in wardrobe and took stock of the two new suits Kitty had persuaded her to buy. They had been inexpensive but were quite attractive. One was in French navy with touches of white, the other was a crisp houndstooth mixture of topaz, brown, and smoke-blue. She had a smoke-blue silk-knit jersey to go with this suit—yes, she would wear the houndstooth!

  When she was dressed, around eleven o'clock the following morning, she looked almost pretty with her hair held back in a mock-tortoiseshell slide and a dash of lipstick brightening her mouth. She chivvied her reflection when she saw how bright-eyed and expectant she looked. “He won’t be there, my girl!” she said. “Good lord, the man is far, far away, and you are a lost memory as far as he’s concerned.”

  She decided to make this a real treat and upon reaching the High Street she hailed a taxi. She gave the driver the name of the gallery, then sank back to enjoy the novelty of riding through London in style.

  It was a bright April morning, with waves of sunshine breaking on the pavements where people strolled or hurried, and she saw a barrow in a side street laden with bunches of tulips and bachelor’s-buttons. The taxi turned into a road that seemed lined at either side with antique shops, they passed some delightful houses, then an embankment which Tina correctly guessed to be the Chelsea Embankment. A minute later she was fumbling with the door handle, nervously excited as she handed the driver his fare. The gallery was smart and modem looking, with plate glass, platter knobbed doors, and Tina pushed through them on to carpet that was as softly green and yielding as a new-mown lawn.

  She paid her entrance fee and walked forward into the long gallery. There were quite a few people looking at the bronzes, but their voices were muted, as in a museum or a library. The Trecarrel works of art were arranged on pedestal stands.

  Tina wandered from one to the other, and it came to her that showy words like brilliant and exciting couldn’t be applied to creations such as these. They had that same vitality that had struck her about the man responsible for them; a flesh-muscle-bone look that made her feel they would be warm to the touch. She was warmed, stirred, unsurprised by the artistry which had fashioned the dusky negroid head at which she was looking, when a couple of men strolled down the staircase in the centre of the gallery.