Remember Me

by Liz Byrski

  Mrs Maxwell wasn’t in the typing room when I got back and Jackie Baldwin promptly appeared alongside my desk.

  ‘Well,’ she said, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers. ‘Did he offer it to you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The job—his secretary.’

  ‘Well yes he did actually, how did you know?’

  ‘God!’ she cried, rolling her eyes. ‘How dopey are you? Everyone knows he was going to pick one of us, we thought it would be you.’

  I interleaved some carbons between sheets of paper and rolled them into the typewriter.

  ‘I didn’t even know that Daphne Roberts had left,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘No, well you haven’t noticed anything for weeks. Not since Fritz, or whatever his name is, kissed your hand. Have you heard from him?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, but I’ll see him this weekend. I know I will.’ And I told her about the letter and how I was going to London on Saturday.

  ‘You’re being a bit pushy aren’t you?’ she said, her eyes round with amazement, but I could tell she was impressed. ‘You know—writing to him like that. You’re so fast! Heaven knows what he might think of you.’

  I shrugged, affecting a nonchalance I didn’t feel. ‘I don’t care, there’s nothing wrong in writing a letter.’

  Mrs Maxwell materialised between us.

  ‘I suppose we’re losing you then Liz. Dr Murray says he wants you in his office from Monday.’

  I nodded. I wasn’t really interested in Monday. Saturday came first, it was Saturday that mattered. Jackie was staring at me thoughtfully, sucking the end of her hair.

  ‘And what are you doing Jacqueline?’ said Mrs Maxwell, tapping Jackie’s hand away so that the damp strand dropped back to her shoulder. ‘Don’t do that dear—such a nasty habit. Now don’t you have any work to do?’

  ‘I was just telling Liz,’ Jackie said, ‘that we all thought she’d get the job.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Maxwell. ‘Yes indeed we did. Although I must say that your work has gone down in the last few weeks Liz. But this is a wonderful opportunity for you and perhaps it’ll get your mind off that boy.’

  ‘Class,’ Jackie said softly, turning back to her desk.’ You’ve got class girl.’

  Mrs Maxwell, with her uncanny ability to hear the softest whisper, was walking back to her office. ‘Exactly,’ she said, looking back over her shoulder. ‘Class—there really is no substitute for it. You’d do well to remember that yourself Jacqueline.’

  Class—perhaps this would impress you—I wished I could bottle it and wear it as perfume on Saturday.

  ***

  I survived that week in such a state of excitement and tension that when my father finally dropped me at the station on Saturday I was trembling. As I waited on the platform my feverish imagination scanned the hurdles that could still prevent me from seeing you. The train would not arrive, no trains would run that afternoon, every route to London would be blocked. Even when the train did arrive and I had found a seat in a Ladies Only compartment, I was still rigid with nerves. Only as I walked up Northumberland Crescent to the house did my anxiety turn to pure anticipation. I thought you might be watching for me from the window. I tried to look casual and made a superhuman effort not to look up. I mustn’t let you know how anxious I was to see you.

  How extraordinary! Desperate for the sight of you, frantic for you to notice me, speak to me, want me, touch me, desire me—anything—everything, I would still, at the sight of you, affect an offhand manner. Despite the fire within I knew that a cool and dignified distance was required. This was the dance of courtship and you would have to take the first steps, risking rejection in pursuit of acceptance. Despite your silence I was still surprisingly confident that once face to face you would start dancing.

  Jock opened the door and took my bag while Angus hurled himself at my legs.

  ‘Wiz Wiz,’ he cried, holding up his arms and I lifted him and carried him up the stairs to the lounge where you would be waiting for me. ‘Kiss Wiz,’ he squealed, pressing his damp, Ribena stained lips against mine and nuzzling my face. Just what I needed—Ribena all over my face at the most crucial moment of my life. He clung to me like a crab, his legs wrapped tightly around my waist, his arms around my neck. By the time he was finished with me I would have soggy rusk in my hair as well. I loved Angus dearly but his timing was awful. Even Joan’s welcoming hug could not dislodge him and so, still wearing my coat, my heart beating faster at the sound of male voices, I walked in to the living room to meet you again.

  The two young men sitting at the table stood up, they were Joan’s other lodgers, they smiled and shook hands. There was tea and cake and conversation, there were jokes and laughter, but there was no sign of you. I tried to hide my disappointment and grapple with my confusion. I hadn’t come to see Joan and Jock, not Angus and Jenny and certainly not these strange young men. I had come only for you and it had never occurred to me that you might not be there. Old friends were suddenly an irritation, strangers an insult. The tea was cleared away, the sky outside darkened. I longed for the abandonment of tears to release me from the tension. I lacked the confidence to ask where you were, if you would be home soon.

  If I told this story to a seventeen-year-old today she would look at me in amazement. ‘Why didn’t you just ask?’ she’d say. ‘Why didn’t you call him instead of waiting for him to phone you? How pathetic!’ But I had learned that I would be judged by a complex and stifling set of rules and I had already broken them by writing to you. What others might think was always to take priority over my own feelings and desires. I had risked my pride in coming here, to risk revealing my purpose by enquiring after you was unthinkable. My disappointment was so raw that I imagined it written across my face.

  An hour passed, and then another. We played some sort of game at the table, cards perhaps, or a board game—I can’t remember. I couldn’t concentrate. The children laughed and cried and the clock in the hall chimed five and then five thirty. Perhaps you didn’t know I was coming, or perhaps you did know and had no interest in seeing me again. Perhaps you were out with your girlfriend who was undoubtedly tall, slim and incredibly beautiful; older than me but younger than you, with the body of a goddess and hair that moved. Were you walking with her now, hand in hand at dusk?

  As Joan organised the children for their baths I contemplated the possibility of leaving that evening and catching a train home. I had stayed many times in that flat but the familiar rooms seemed barren without you. The game was put away and the clock struck the quarter. I carried some cups into the kitchen and started on the washing up.

  Drying the last saucer I hung the tea towel on the rail and as I turned from the sink you were standing there. The cold air of the street clung to your clothes, a film of moisture glistened across the shoulders of your jacket and your surprise at seeing me softened to a cautious smile.

  ***

  Memory is a fickle companion. It seduces me with highlights of diamond clarity, leading me through hazy galaxies to the edges of its black holes. I struggle to discover its depths but some things are beyond my reach. That afternoon I was dizzy with the relief of seeing you again. But then there is a blank and somewhere in there is the memory of our first kiss lost somewhere, sometime over the years. But I do remember later that night when we’re sitting side by side not touching, but talking and Jock is sitting facing us. He is wearing his pyjamas and dressing-gown and he is obviously extremely fed up about being there. He is irritable, his eyes wander, his fingers tap impatiently on the arm of his chair, he wants to be in bed. We don’t want him there and he knows it, but he has been sent by Joan to keep an eye on us. I am aching to touch you, to lean across and take your hand, to rest my head on your shoulder, but Jock will not go away. Nothing has been said but the signals are unmistakable—we are not to be left alone. We have broken the rules—I think we must have been seen kissing. What else could we have done to merit this unflinching sup
ervision? If we met again would you tease me for my memory lapse and tell me where we went and what we did?

  Realising that Jock would not move even if we sat there all night, I got up from the couch, said goodnight to you both and went to my bedroom. As I was about to climb into bed I heard the murmur of your voices and Jock walked back up the passage to their bedroom. There were footsteps in the kitchen and a tap was turned on. You were still there. Very softly, now wearing my nightdress, I opened my door and crept back to the kitchen. You were standing at the sink washing our coffee cups and when you saw me you dried your hands and we faced each other across the kitchen table.

  For long moments I stood there, watching you, taking in everything, the magnetic quality of your eyes, the shape of your ears, the clear smooth glow of your skin, the way you turned your head. You glanced at the door in concern and as your eyes settled on me once again I walked over to you and put my arms around your neck and kissed you. I know this was not our first kiss but it’s the first I can remember and I remember it so clearly; the feel of your face, your mouth warm and firm on mine. I breathed you in and you smelled of fresh linen and warm clean skin; I felt the firm muscles on the back of your neck, and the strength across your shoulders. Briefly you held me close and as you released me you put your hand up to the side of my neck, stroking my jaw line with your thumb, and murmured that I should go to bed. You were wary now, I felt your concern and I knew it was serious. Slowly I took my arms from around your neck and stood briefly savouring this moment alone.

  There seems to be so much between us,’ I said, and as I turned back at the kitchen door you gave me the slightest lingering smile. I went back to my room and as I climbed into bed my body remembered the way your eyes embraced me.

  Late the following afternoon we went together to the park. The day had been overhung with the dismal pall of Joan’s disapproval and the tense undercurrent of our need to be together, until finally we were alone, under the beech trees.

  Whenever I find myself in a park encircled by a street of Edwardian houses the atmosphere of Northumberland Crescent that day haunts me. The trees were bare, their branches stark against the darkening sky. The street lamps glowed and a slight mist made our shadows blurry on the ground. The memory resonates with longing, my hand feels small in yours, in the cold air your breath is warm on my cheek.

  Even then we understood that we were meant to be together, but the complex weave of experience that had brought you to this point in your life had left its scars.

  ‘I was married before,’ you explained. ‘I have a daughter, four years old, she’s in Germany with her mother.’

  Your wife—ex-wife,’ I said. ‘Do you still love her?’

  ‘I care for her, but no, I’m not in love with her. You see there was someone else too, more recently. She left me, I was devastated—I thought I would never recover.’

  ‘And now?’ I asked, sensing that you were struggling to keep control.

  You paused, looking up through the branches of the trees and then turning back to face me.

  ‘Now—now it is over. The first time I saw you—I knew then that I could be free of her, it was as though you broke the spell.’

  The soft light from the street lamp revealed the tears in your eyes.

  ‘So it’s all right then,’ I said, anxious for your reassurance. ‘There’s no one else now?’ It all seemed so simple to me.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ you said. ‘Afraid for you—’

  ‘But why,’ I cut in. ‘You told me you love me—the rest is all in the past.’

  ‘I’m frightened of hurting you, my life—well it’s been so complex, I’ve been so hurt and I’ve built a wall—’

  ‘A wall?’

  ‘To protect myself. I don’t know what I’m capable of now I’m not even sure I can break through my own defences. I don’t want to draw you into something I may not be able to Your voice trailed away as I put my hand up to touch your cheek.

  ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘I know it will be all right.’

  The confidence of youth mixed with the power of love is such a potent cocktail. Your words didn’t scare me; I believed I could dissolve your defences and, if I loved you well enough, I could liberate you from the past and have you for ever.

  ***

  It was so easy to fall in love with you. I was seventeen and my spirit soared, I shone and glowed and sparkled. Back home in the privacy of my bedroom I gazed in wonder at the new face I saw in the mirror. I stretched out my legs and saw them smooth and shapely. I studied my breasts, admiring their firmness. I ran my hands over my body, satisfied with the curve of my waist, the flat stomach, the softness of my skin. I took the pins from my hair and it sent a sensuous shiver through me as it fell softly on the back of my neck. For the first time in my life I really looked at myself. I turned, stretched and twisted, and felt my body coming alive. When my mother called from the kitchen to tell me that dinner was ready I blushed with shame at my narcissism, put my clothes back on and went downstairs.

  The chaos of the preceding weeks was gone, my energy was high and I became a wonderful creature to myself. Letters appeared from my typewriter without blemish, a new filing system was born, and multitudes of scrappy bits of paper were replaced by a long-range planning calendar. Dr Murray surveyed his transformed office in amazement.

  ‘Well, well Miss Beard,’ he muttered several times with an indulgent if bewildered smile. ‘You really are sorting me out.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you applying yourself to your work again Liz,’ said Mrs Maxwell when she came to visit me in the Secretaries’ Room. ‘We’re all very impressed.’

  ‘You look like the cat that got the cream,’ Jackie whispered as we queued for lunch in the canteen.

  ‘I did,’ I smiled.

  ‘And—?’

  ‘And he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever met.’

  ‘And did he—well—y’ know…?’

  ‘He kissed me—so beautifully—I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘Phew,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder to see that our conversation was not being overheard. ‘You’re such a fast worker, but isn’t he really old?’

  ‘He’s only thirty-one; that’s not very old,’ I said defensively. ‘I like him being older.’

  ‘So, you invited him for the weekend,’ my mother said. ‘That’s rather sudden isn’t it? I thought you wanted to see David.’

  I squirmed with embarrassment at the reminder of my lie.

  ‘Oh Mum—but he’s so gorgeous. You’ll like him, I know you will—please, pretty please.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course he can come, though goodness knows what your father will say.’

  Hospitality was something my parents did particularly well. Hearty meals and a well-stocked bar were only a small part of their generous formula for entertaining at home. They both came from the poorer areas of East London and together had dragged themselves over the hazardous barricades from working to middle class; maintaining the symbols of that success was important. Owning a beautiful house and having the income to go with it was a huge satisfaction to them.

  Smugglers Cottage was buried in the Sussex countryside; a mile and a half from the nearest village, three miles from the nearest town, it stood in half an acre of well-tended garden and was surrounded by another seven acres of its own land. Its history was colourful and well documented. In the sixteenth century it had been a stopping place, an overnight hide-out, for smugglers making their way back and forth between London and the south coast with whisky and lace. With its leadlight windows, white wattle and daub walls, and dark timber beams, it was a picture postcard cottage. The salt cupboards, old tiles and doorways that barely cleared five feet, ensured its internal charm. In winter great logs burned in the fireplaces and a big range warmed the kitchen, and in summer vases of fresh flowers stood at the open windows where breezes fluttered the chintz curtains. Well-aired and warmed beds, embroidered guest towels and tiny tablets of rose scented
soap, and my father delivering a cup of tea with digestive biscuits at seven in the morning were all part of the five star service.

  They were generous, warm-hearted, conservative people, hanging grimly on to what they had created. Appearances were important and at Smugglers Cottage they had appearances under control. It was always safe to bring friends to the house; they were welcomed, sometimes slightly patronised, sometimes deferred to, according to their status in the social hierarchy. My parents were smart and unpretentious but ever conscious of and nervous about their origins. I loved and admired them and had learned not to disagree with them, and there was seldom any temptation to do so.

  I sailed through the week. In the hushed and dignified surroundings of the Secretaries’ Room I was welcomed and approved. I might be a bit young but I was a nice girl with a good accent, I dressed appropriately, I cleaned the backs of my shoes as well as the fronts, and my stocking seams were always straight.

  ‘We’re pleased it’s you,’ said Sally Palmer. ‘Some of those girls down in the pool may have good speeds but they don’t have what it takes to be a secretary.’

  ‘They wear noisy jewellery,’ Mrs Wilmot contributed in disgust. ‘So common. Don’t ever wear anything that rattles in here will you dear!’ It was a warning, not a question.

  Mrs Wilmot was the private secretary to the managing director and she had been with the company since prehistory. I assured her that I would not wear noisy jewellery. Indeed I vowed to myself that I would never ever, in my whole life, do anything so common.

  ‘You mustn’t mind asking if there’s anything you’re not sure of,’ Sally said in a tone more proprietary than generous. ‘We’re all older in here and more experienced, we’ll be happy to help.’

  ‘God it must be boring in here,’ whispered Jackie when she brought some papers up to Mrs Wilmot. The other secretaries were at lunch and we had the room to ourselves.