Darling Cass,
It was lovely to get your letter with all your news. I read it to everyone at breakfast, and they were all very interested. Call Me Bill said boarding school was obviously doing you good. Is it? Are you happy? You don’t say, but I really want to know.
All is much as usual here. I think The Dog misses you as he keeps going up to your room and snuffling under the bed. Call Me Bill is sleeping in it at the moment, but of course I’ll turn him out and give your room a good clean before you come home at half-term.
I hope you don’t mind, but it’s turned very cold and Richard is sleeping in the living room. They say you can’t have too much of a good thing, but if a ukulele is a good thing, then I assure you that you can. I almost prefer Lucas on the violin.
We’ve got a new Lodger. We found him in the local paper. He’s a weaselly little man with tufty hair and eyes like tiny black beads, and he seems to be out at night a lot. Lucas thinks he’s a cat burglar because he’s the right size for climbing through windows and always seems to have plenty of money. I don’t really care what he does as long as he pays the rent and cleans the bath after use. But I don’t think I’ll get fond of him. It’s odd, isn’t it, that there are the kinds of Lodgers one can be fond of, and those one can’t. I don’t think he’s especially fond of us, either.
I’m sorry about the knickers, and can’t understand why everyone’s making such a fuss. I’ll try to get some more when I have time. I haven’t much time at the moment as I’ve got a new job as a waitress. Such fun, Cass, and I get lots of tips. Greta thinks it’s beneath me, but what does she know? I don’t think she’s ever done an honest day’s work in her life, or any other sort, come to that. But then she’s got Private Means.
Lucas has a girlfriend! She is small and mousy, with a stammer. I wonder what Lucas sees in her. Maybe she makes him feel masterful. Masterful or not, Lucas’s hormones aren’t helping his school work. He seems to come bottom in everything.
Got to go. Making gingerbread men.
Love, Mum xx
PS I hated chemistry too. I think it’s a boy thing.
(This was the first and longest of Mum’s letters. I think she must have been missing me, or perhaps writing me letters was a novelty. If that was the case, the novelty was very shortlived.)
St Andrew’s School
17th Sept. 1961
Dear Mum,
Who were the gingerbread men for? Isn’t everyone too old for gingerbread men now? Lucas certainly is, if he’s got a girlfriend. Talking of which, I don’t suppose he’ll ever write now. I wonder what they do together. I can’t imagine Lucas kissing anyone. What’s her name?
I’m OK, but I seem to get into an awful lot of trouble. There are so many rules and regulations, and I often can’t remember what I’m supposed to be doing.
I’m either late, or in the wrong place, or I’ve forgotten some important piece of equipment. Talking of which, I REALLY need those navy knickers. Matron looked out a pair that had belonged to someone who left, but they are enormous and look even more ridiculous than mine. The elastic has gone all floppy, and I have to hold them up with my tie. Even then, I don’t dare do too much leaping about in case they fall down. This may not seem very important to you, but at the moment I can’t think of anything that would make me happier than some of my own which actually fit me. You asked me if I was happy, and the answer is not very, but the right knickers would be a start. PLEASE, Mum.
Does Call Me Bill have to sleep in my room? I don’t like the idea of him poking around among my things, and I certainly don’t like the thought of him in my bed. Why can’t he get a place of his own? As for Richard, I always thought he rather took pride in being a Homeless Person. If he’s living in our home all the time then he can’t call himself one any more, can he?
He certainly shouldn’t put his HUNGRY AND HOMELESS notice round his neck. It’s not fair on the people who give him money. The Agatha Christie he gave me has fifteen pages missing, so I shall never know what happened in the library.
The new Lodger sounds awful. Couldn’t you find a better one? If you really think he’s a burglar you could try going through his stuff when he’s out. There might be a reward, and then you could stop being a waitress. It’s time our family had some proper money. Helena is very rich and lives in a big house and has a horse of her own. She wants me to stay with her for half-term.
I came bottom in a chemistry test. I’ve never been bottom in anything before, but if I had to be, then I think I’d choose chemistry to be bottom in. Tell that to Call Me Bill. He might not like to sleep in the bed of someone who comes bottom in chemistry.
Love from Cass xxx
Hazelwood House
21st Sept.
Darling Cass,
The gingerbread men were for Richard. He says they remind him of his childhood. And of course he’s homeless because he hasn’t got a home of his own. I’m surprised at you, Cass. I always thought you were such a kind child.
Call Me Bill saw your letter and took umbrage and has gone back to his landlady with a bunch of flowers. So you’ve managed to upset him too, and you’re not even here! I miss his car. It was useful for shopping and the doctor.
Lucas’s girlfriend is called Millie. Rather a silly name, I thought. And I’ve no idea what they get up to but I’ve told Lucas all about condoms, so they should be fine.
I went to the market to try and buy your knickers, but they only had pink or white frilly ones.
Greta is having Spanish lessons.
We’ve decided the Lodger isn’t a burglar after all as he’s got quite a posh voice and washes a lot.
Please don’t go somewhere else for half-term. We’ll really miss you.
Love, Mum xxx
(I must have been very irritated by this letter of Mum’s, for my reply had a waspish edge to it.)
St Andrew’s School
24th Sept. 1961
Dear Mum,
I’m doing OK still, though I haven’t cracked the chemistry yet. Miss Cole keeps me behind after everyone has gone to explain things all over again, but I still don’t understand it. She says I don’t concentrate. How can anyone concentrate on anything so boring? Yesterday we boiled up potassium permanganate in a test tube and then filtered it. What possible use is that to anyone? I spilt mine down my front and had to go and change.
Your last letter was very odd. For instance, what makes you think that someone with a posh voice who washes a lot isn’t a burglar? I’m sure there must be clean burglars as well as dirty ones. Having said that, I never thought he was a burglar in the first place (although I’ve never met him).
Call Me Bill should never have read my letter. My letters home are PRIVATE. If he read it, then he deserves to go back to his landlady. I hope she gives him a hard time.
Don’t bother about the knickers. Helena was so sorry for me that she wrote to her mother to say she had lost hers, and her mother sent some more, so I’ve got those (I’m not sure how you lose six pairs of knickers, but her mother didn’t ask any awkward questions). Of course the market don’t have navy ones. They have cheap and nasty common ones. I would NEVER buy knickers from the market.
As for Richard, he’s using you. It seems to me that everyone uses you, and you just don’t realize it. And what does Greta want to learn Spanish for? She needs to have English lessons first. I hope she’s still helping with the cooking.
Helena really wants me to stay for half-term. She says I can ride her horse. She’s got an older brother, and acres of garden. I’m not usually jealous of people, but sometimes I’m a bit jealous of Helena.
I don’t think I want to hear about Lucas and Millie.
Love from Cass xxx
Hazelwood House
5th October
Darling Cass,
I thought this picture postcard of the town hall would remind you of home. The Dog’s been knocked down. Stitches in leg, but otherwise OK. Call Me Bill’s landlady’s allergic to flowers and threw him out again so he’s bac
k. Greta knitting you a cardigan. Please come home for half-term. Sorry this is so short — no room for more.
Love, Mum xxx
Nine
My mother moves restlessly on her pillow, her fingers plucking at the sheet, her lips moving soundlessly.
‘Are you in pain, Mum?’
‘Pain,’ she nods. ‘Oh, such pain!’
I ring the bell and a nurse — one my mother particularly dislikes, all bosom and bustle and shiny badges — comes in with a syringe on a little tray.
‘Roll over, dear.’ My mother claws her way to the edge of the bed, exposing her painfully thin bottom. The nurse stabs with a practised flick of her wrist. ‘There we are. All done. Time to sleep now.’
‘“Roll over, dear,”’ mimics my mother, as the nurse whisks out of the room. ‘Like the bloody lottery. Silly cow.’
We exchange glances and smile. Oh Mum! I love you so much. Have I ever told you just how much I love you?
‘Love you, Cass.’ Mind-reader. Becoming drowsy. Beginning to drift off now, on a tide of drugs.
‘Love you too, Mum.’
At this moment, I would give everything I have to spare my mother her suffering, and yet over the years, she and I have caused each other much pain, one way or another. That, I suppose, is the price of love. But often I didn’t realize how much I was hurting her.
I must have hurt her badly that first half-term, and yet at the time, I barely gave it a second thought.
For I did go to Helena’s for half-term. I think that postcard of Mum’s clinched it. I had missed her so much, and imagined her missing me. I had pictured us rushing into each other’s arms when I returned home, my favourite meals being cooked, perhaps even one of Mum’s famous parties to welcome me home. I had already gathered that life at home was progressing quite nicely without me, and I could just about handle that. But I had hurried to fetch my post that morning, and all I had received was that one lousy postcard. Up until then, I had never even noticed the town hall, and I certainly didn’t need a cosy little reminder of its continued existence.
How I regretted sparing Mum all my tales of woe; the homesickness, the nights spent weeping into my pillow, the touching, cherished services of Blind Bear. Selflessly, I had spared her feelings by not bothering her with emotive accounts of my misery, and she had repaid me by letting Call Me Bill into my bed and sending me a postcard instead of a proper letter. However much information you put on a postcard (and there was very little on this one), there is something careless and impersonal about a piece of correspondence which is open for anyone to read.
One of our Lodgers, a snob and a name-dropper, who had so many letters after his name that they took up more room than his address (Mum thought he had made most of them up), used to send us what Lucas called boastcards. These would arrive from various distinguished venues where he disported himself in the company of those whose names he so frequently dropped, and were obviously intended to be read by — and to impress — as many people as possible. They were usually just addressed to Mum, but they fooled no one.
Thus, with that postcard, my mother had put paid to her chances of having me home for that first precious exeat. If she was going to treat me with such cavalier indifference, then two could play at that game. Besides, the idea of spending the half-term holiday in Helena’s grand house appealed to me enormously, and although I still longed to go home, I would be back at Christmas and could see everyone then. I might even send Mum a postcard.
But Helena’s house was not at all what I had imagined. There was no park, no tree-lined drive, no stone steps sweeping up to the front door. The house was big, it is true, but it was modern and ugly, with unpleasant orangey-pink brickwork and pretentious black and gold gates. There were certainly statues in the large, manicured garden, but these were poor imitations of armless Greek females swathed in drapery, stooping sentimentally over seats and flower beds, and there was a vulgar little Cupid peeing into a pond.
Inside, the house was a shrine to the gods of conspicuous consumption, from the gold-plated drinks trolley in the spacious living room to the lavatory paper holder in the downstairs cloakroom, which played a merry jingle from a Disney cartoon every time you took a sheet of paper.
‘Do you like it?’ Helena asked, when she had shown me round the house. ‘My parents had it architect-designed.’
‘It’s amazing,’ I said with absolute truth, and fortunately this seemed to satisfy her.
‘I’ll take you up to your room,’ she continued, picking up my suitcase. ‘Come on.’
I had envisaged us sharing a room, having cosy chats into the small hours, exchanging those confidences which are best shared in the dark. This was what I had been used to at home, where any visitors I had were accommodated on a mattress on my bedroom floor. This arrangement had suited my friends and me admirably, but obviously things were done differently in Helena’s household.
‘Here!’ Helena flung open a door. ‘This is yours.’
The room was vast, with an enormous double bed and even a small sofa. Everything was fussy and frilly, decorated in what my mother used to call ‘bridesmaid colours’ (peach, aqua, lilac), with matching fluffy towels laid out in the adjoining bathroom. In those days, it was almost unheard of to have one’s own bathroom, but while I was impressed that I should have the use of one, there was something very insular and chilling about having one’s needs catered for on such a solitary basis.
But despite my spacious accommodation, I was beginning to feel stifled; stifled by the opulence and the frills, stifled by the feeling that I was supposed to react in a way which I found almost impossible, and stifled by the heat. I had never in my life experienced central heating. Home was heated by a combination of open fires and electric heaters. If we were cold, we were told to put on more clothes, and in the winter we all used hot water bottles. Here, the heat was overpowering, and although it was a chilly week in October, the only occasions upon which I wore a sweater were when we went outdoors.
Helena’s parents were kind and welcoming, but they were not what I would call homely people. Her mother was immaculate in her pale slacks, low-cut blouses and stilettos, with dyed blonde hair and lots of gold jewellery; her father was quiet and dark-suited, and seemed to spend most of his time at work.
‘Where do you keep your books?’ I asked Helena once, desperate for something to read (I had already finished the two I had brought with me).
‘Books?’ She smiled vaguely. ‘We haven’t really got many books, though Mum sometimes goes to the library.’
So I had to content myself with old copies of Reader’s Digest and the heavy (and obviously unread) volume of European Art Collections from the coffee table.
The other disconcerting thing about a visit which was less than satisfactory was the change in Helena. I suppose we all alter according to our environment, but Helena was a different person when she was at home. Gone were the giggles and the pranks we enjoyed at school, and she spent much of her time phoning her friends or shopping with her mother (I was invited to accompany them but declined, since I had no money and didn’t want to be in a position where I had to borrow any). The horse, Elvis, which was kept in an adjoining paddock, was my only consolation, and although I was a timid rider (I had never been on a horse before), I enjoyed grooming him and leading him down the nearby lane to graze (the grass in his field was sparse, and so far he had declined the hay that was on offer). I think Elvis was as lonely as I was, and so the arrangement probably suited him as well as it did me.
‘Aren’t you bored?’ Helena asked me once. ‘Just standing around watching Elvis can’t be much fun.’
‘I’m never bored,’ I said, and it was true. While the discipline at home had always been pretty lax, the one thing Mum would never tolerate was boredom. If you had a brain to think and eyes with which to read, there was no excuse, she always told us, and in this she was successful, for I don’t remember either Lucas or me ever being bored.
Strangely, I felt
even more homesick at Helena’s than I had at school. School wasn’t meant to be homely, and I had never expected it to be so. But before my visit to Helena’s I had anticipated at least a little of the comfortable domesticity of home. A cosy kitchen, cooking smells, Mum in her old apron, the busy sound of the wireless (BBC Home Service), people’s various comings and goings; all these helped to comprise the atmosphere which I had always called home, together with saggy, old, comfortable furniture and dusty collections of books in every corner. In contrast, Helena’s house was bandbox tidy, the cushions neatly angled on their corners on sofas and chairs, the pale carpet spotless, the air fragrant with lavender furniture polish. I tiptoed round the house, terrified lest I disturb or sully any of this perfection. I was grateful that I had tucked Blind Bear at the bottom of my suitcase, for without him I don’t think I would have survived at all.
The day before we were due to return to school, Helena’s elder brother, Alex, returned from boarding school for his half-term holiday. I had never given much thought to the subject of Greek Gods, but seeing Alex for the first time, I knew immediately what one would look like. Tall and slim, with waving blond hair and sea-green eyes, he eyed me up and down when we were introduced and smiled a lazy teasing smile.
‘So this is Cassandra.’ His voice was unexpectedly deep, his handshake warm and firm. ‘Well well. You never told me how pretty she was, little sister.’ He turned mockingly to Helena. ‘Perhaps you were jealous?’
‘Oh, shut up, Alex!’ Helena was obviously stung. ‘Take no notice of him, Cass. He’s like this with all my friends.’
‘Only the attractive ones,’ Alex said, unperturbed by Helena’s indignation. ‘And this one, Helena dear, is very attractive indeed.’
I shall never know how I got through the rest of that evening. Sitting opposite Alex at dinner, I was painfully aware of him watching me; of the teasing smile, the slightly raised eyebrow, and once, when I caught his eye, a knowing wink. I couldn’t imagine that this sophisticated young man was actually still a schoolboy, having to wear a uniform and abide by rules and bedtimes just as we did. Helena had told me that he was seventeen, but to me he looked much older; certainly years older than Lucas. He seemed to treat his parents with the same levity as he did his sister, although they both obviously adored him; and if his manner towards them was more than a little high-handed, neither of them seemed aware of it. They questioned him closely, applauding his sporting achievements and exam results, laughing at his jokes, hanging on the most humdrum of his words. If they had possessed a fatted calf this would certainly have been the occasion for it to be called into service.
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 6
