“She adores you. She’s growing up. Asserting herself. She’s probably jealous of you because you’re beautiful and young-looking instead of being fat and old.”
“Perhaps I should put on weight and stop using lipstick.”
“Don’t you dare. It’s just a stage. It’ll pass. Daughters are often jealous of their mothers.”
“How do you know? You never had a sister. You’ve only got Cousin Dorothy.”
“Now, don’t start in on her.”
* * *
As much as there could be a bone of contention between them, Harry’s cousin Dorothy was it. She was a good ten years older than Mary, and in every way, immensely superior. Unmarried, she had made her career in the Civil Service, attached, for some years, to the Foreign Office. She spoke three languages and worked for some Under-Secretary of State, with whom she was constantly being sent abroad on important missions. When she wasn’t either in Geneva or Brussels or stalking the corridors of power at Whitehall, she lived in a service flat in the neighbourhood of Harrods, where she did her grocery-shopping and had her hair done. Mary had never seen her when her hair was not immaculate. Her clothes were the same, and she always wore very beautiful, expensive shoes, and carried a leather handbag large as a briefcase, bulging, one was certain, with immensely important State Secrets.
“I’m not starting in on her. It’s just that I can’t imagine Dorothy being a tedious teenager, or falling in love, or suffering from any sort of emotion. Admit it, Harry, she is fairly awe-inspiring. She must think I’m the most boring little housewife, because whenever I meet her, I clam up and can’t think of a word to say.”
“Never mind. Your paths don’t often cross.”
“No. But she is your cousin. It would be nice to be friends.”
* * *
Vicky was seventeen when Harry died. By then, one would have thought, the teen-age antagonism between mother and daughter would have burnt itself out, but it had simply faded to embers, which, under stress, flamed up again into a blaze of meaningless resentment, and when they should have been able to comfort each other, they seemed to do nothing but quarrel.
It was a terrible time. Coping with grief and loss and all the painful formalities of death had been bad enough, but learning to live without Harry was worse. Over the months, through sheer necessity, Mary taught herself to be practical. Learned to make lists, write important dates on the calendar, use a calculator. By trial and error she finally managed to get the motor mower started. She found out where to put the oil in the car, to interpret the incomprehensible forms sent in by the Inland Revenue, and how to change the plug on the electric kettle.
Vicky, however, was another matter altogether. Vicky was lost and hurt and angry because her father was gone, and Mary understood this and was deeply sympathetic, but still found herself wishing that Vicky did not find it necessary to take this anger out on her mother. Their arguments—usually about something utterly trivial—invariably ended in floods of tears, or doors being slammed in Mary’s face. The problem was that Mary couldn’t reach her. She understood exactly what poor Vicky was going through and yet she couldn’t reach Vicky to comfort her. And she knew that there was nothing she could do, because whatever she said would automatically, inevitably, be wrong.
The worst was having no person to confide in. There were many friends, of course, in the little Wiltshire village where she had lived all through her married life, but you couldn’t confide in friends about your daughter’s shortcomings. It would be too disloyal.
And as for family, there was only Harry’s cousin Dorothy. Retired now from the Foreign Office, she had left London and moved to the country, to live not ten miles away, run the local Red Cross and play a great deal of golf. Sometimes, she and Mary met for a formal lunch, but it was difficult to think of things to talk about. And Vicky was a touchy subject, for Dorothy had never shown much fondness for Vicky. “She’s a spoilt brat,” she had told Harry more than once. “Only child, of course. You’ve never learned to say no to her. You’ll regret it, of course. You’ll live to regret it.”
The last thing Mary wanted was to give Dorothy the opportunity to say “I told you so.”
* * *
Altogether, life went through a phase of being almost impossibly difficult, but just when Mary was deciding she couldn’t carry on for another moment, Vicky herself, cool as ever, came up with the solution. At breakfast one morning, she announced that it was pointless hanging around at home, doing nothing. So why didn’t she go to London and learn to cook?
Mary’s first, thoughtless reaction was to say, “But, darling, you’re a marvellous cook.” Which Vicky was, and had turned out many a delicious meal when she was feeling in a good humour and ready to be helpful.
“Oh, yes.” Vicky was scornful. “Shepherd’s pie and cauliflower cheese. But if I do this course, I’ll get a degree. I’ll be a professional. And then I can stay in London and earn my own living and be independent.”
She was just eighteen. Mary carefully set down her coffee cup. “Where did you think you might do this training?”
Vicky told her. “Sarah Abbey went there. You remember, she was at school with me. She’s living in her own flat now and earning a bomb doing director’s lunches. She says I could stay with her. She’s got a spare bed in the flat.”
Mary, presented with this fait accompli, weakly said that she would look into it. But Vicky, it appeared, already had. In fact she had already put her name down for the next term. The course cost an arm and a leg, but Mary meekly supposed she would find the money somewhere and agreed to the arrangement. There wasn’t much else she could do.
When the time came to put Vicky on the train for London, she was torn by two conflicting emotions. Losing her only child, knowing that Vicky was virtually leaving home for good, caused a lump to come into her throat and her eyes fill with stupid tears, which she had some difficulty in concealing. And yet, as well, there was some relief in returning to her quiet and empty house, where she could be herself, alone and peaceful, and subjected no longer to Vicky’s casually hurtful remarks, her disparagement, or, worst of all, her baffling, brooding silences.
She’ll be better on her own, she told herself robustly, and went upstairs to change into old jeans and a sweater that had once belonged to Harry. Eighteen’s adult nowadays. Vicky’s got her feet on the ground. She went out into the garden to do some weeding. She won’t do anything stupid.
* * *
But Vicky, true to form, proceeded to do everything possible that would fill her mother’s heart with alarm. She moved in with Sarah Abbey, the old school friend, stayed a month, and then moved out. To give her her due, she called Mary on the telephone and told her what was happening.
“But, Vicky, I thought you liked her.”
“Mummy, she’s turned into the most frightful bore. I’m going to live with another girl, who’s in the course with me. And two chaps. They all share this house in Fulham. It’s going to be much more fun.”
Mary swallowed. “Yes, I see…”
“Look, here’s my address…” Mary grabbed a pad and pencil and wrote it down. “Got it? Great. Look, I must fly.”
“Vicky…?”
“What is it?”
“How’s everything going?” She amended this hastily. “The course, I mean.”
“Oh, like a breeze. Dead easy. I’ll do you a crown of lamb next time I come down.”
“When…?”
“Oh, soon. A weekend some time…”
* * *
She came and had changed, and wore extraordinary clothes that looked as though they had been bought at a jumble sale or a flea market. Which they had. She came again with a young man, whom she had met, she explained, at a disco. He wore a crumpled mauve linen suit and spent the entire weekend plugged into his Sony Walkman. He even wore it when Vicky took him for a country walk, as if determined not to hear a single thrush go tweet.
The cooking course lasted a year. At the end of it, Vicky pa
ssed all her examinations with flying colours and instantly set about finding work. She bought herself a second-hand Mini and in no time at all was busy as a bee, driving herself around London with pots and pans, cooking knives and liquidizers all piled up on the back seat. She cooked for dinner parties, filled deep-freezes, catered for wedding receptions, and concocted enormous luncheons for prestigious board meetings.
With evidence of such industry and success, it was pointless to go on worrying about the child, and so Mary stopped, but still could find no good excuse to explain away Vicky’s quite extraordinary friends. They were brought to Wiltshire at regular intervals, and each was odder than the last, but quite the strangest was a girl called Regina French, who looked like a very thin, young witch, and would eat nothing but raw oatmeal and nuts.
Mary made these friends all welcome and entertained them and fed them, and made certain that they had enough to drink, but she found them all peculiar. There must be, she told herself, some perfectly pleasant, normal young people living in London. Why didn’t Vicky ever meet them? And if she did meet them, why didn’t she like them? Was she trying to prove something? Was she reacting against her own conventional upbringing?
There didn’t seem to be any answers.
* * *
Dorothy rang.
“Mary?”
“Yes. Dorothy. How are you?”
“My dear, I just had to ask. I was in London yesterday in Harrods and I saw Vicky. At least, I think I did. But she’s dyed her hair. It’s bright yellow.”
“Well, at least it isn’t pink.”
“What’s she doing with herself? Has she got a job, or is she on the dole?”
“No, she is not on the dole.” Mary was indignant. “She’s started her own little catering business. She’s working very hard.”
“Well, she looks extraordinary. I’m amazed any person employs her to boil so much as an egg.”
“How she looks is her affair.”
“I’d be concerned if I were you.”
“I am not concerned.”
“Oh, well, she’s your daughter.”
“Yes,” said Mary firmly. “She is my daughter.”
It was the first time she had ever stood up to Dorothy. It made her feel quite good.
And then, out of the blue, the unimaginable happened. Vicky went to Scotland for a fortnight, to cook for some fishing party in a remote Highland village that had a name like a sneeze. There, she met a man called Hector Harding. Before long, his name was being mentioned with monotonous frequency and slipped into the conversation on the slenderest of excuses.
Mary’s attention was caught. “Who is Hector, Vicky?”
“Oh, just a chap I met in Scotland. I … I’ve been seeing quite a lot of him.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s an architect.”
An architect. This was breaking new ground. There had never been an architect before. Hope stirred. But she had learned to keep her counsel, and silence was rewarded. Hector Harding was invited to Wiltshire for the weekend.
Just another friend, Mary told herself firmly, and made no special preparations, but yet, when the car came trundling up to the front door on Friday evening, she could not suppress a flutter of curiosity as she went out to meet them. They had come, not in Vicky’s Mini, but in Hector’s car, which meant, at least, that he had some possession of his own, and that she had not had to do the driving. He climbed out from behind the wheel, unfolding very long blue-jeaned legs, and came at once to shake his hostess by the hand. He was immensely tall and thin, wore horn-rimmed spectacles, and had a lot of wild and untidy brown hair. Not particularly good-looking; not particularly anything, really. Just ordinary. And terribly nice. On the Saturday morning, he cut the grass and mended the electric toaster, which had been behaving oddly for weeks. That afternoon, he and Vicky took themselves off for a long walk. They returned at five o’clock looking faintly bemused. Later, over drinks before dinner, they told Mary that they wanted to get married.
* * *
Dorothy rang.
“Mary, I’ve just opened the Daily Telegraph, and read the announcement of Vicky’s engagement. When did this happen?”
Mary told her.
“Who is he?”
“He’s an architect.”
“Do you like him?”
“Very much. And Harry would have liked him, too.”
“What a stroke of good fortune! I was perfectly certain that Vicky would end her days with some appalling hippie. When’s the wedding?”
“In May.”
“Soon as that? Registry office, I suppose.”
“No. The village church, and a party here afterwards. Not a big, elaborate wedding. Just their friends.”
“Even so, you’ll have your work cut out.”
“Vicky’s coming home to help me. And like I said, it’s all going to be very simple.”
* * *
But she was wrong, because it wasn’t. Vicky, as always, had a mind of her own.
“We’ll have to get invitations printed and make out a guest list.”
“Hector and I don’t want more than fifty people. Just our close friends. No old relations we don’t know.”
“But some relations will have to be asked. Cousin Dorothy, for instance.”
“Why do I have to have Cousin Dorothy at my wedding? She’s never been able to stand the sight of me. I saw her in Harrods one day, and I shot off, through the soft furnishings, before she could buttonhole me. I knew she’d fix me with that beady eye of hers and ask a lot of probing questions.”
Mary was sympathetic. “I know. She puts my back up too, sometimes. But I still think she must be asked.”
“Oh, all right,” Vicky conceded ungraciously. “She can always sit in a corner and chat to Hector’s old granny. She’s ninety-two and uses an ear-trumpet.”
Which dealt with Dorothy. But there were other considerations.
The catering?
Vicky would do that herself. Concoct an enormous cold luncheon and put it all in the deep-freeze.
Champagne?
No, not champagne. Far too expensive. They would give the guests white wine. Vicky knew a man who would let her have it wholesale.
A photographer?
They would ask the nice man in the village.
Flowers?
Mary could do the flowers. She was better at doing flowers than any florist.
Bridesmaids?
No. No bridesmaids. Vicky was quite firm on this point.
Finally, the most important question of all.
“What about a wedding dress?”
“What about it?”
“Well, you’ll have to wear something.”
“Actually,” said Vicky. “I’ve seen a picture in a magazine.”
A picture in a magazine. It sounded quite hopeful. Mary tentatively imagined white lace and a veil. She might have saved herself the bother. Presented with the periodical, she gazed, wordless, at the picture. The model in the photograph was not unlike Vicky, with a short blonde thatch of hair and long skinny legs. The dress resembled a T-shirt, with a cotton skirt attached. The skirt fell in points, like handkerchiefs hung out to dry. The model wore ankle socks and tennis shoes.
Vicky broke the silence. “Don’t you think it’s smashing?”
“It costs three hundred and twenty pounds,” was all her mother could think of to say.
“Oh, I wouldn’t buy it. I’d get it copied. Have it made. You remember Regina French? I brought her down to stay once, ages ago.” Mary remembered Regina, munching her nuts. “She dressmakes.”
“Professionally?”
“No. Just as a hobby. I’ll ask her to do it for me.”
“Vicky…” It had to be said. “Are you sure she’d be good enough? I don’t mind what we have to pay.”
“Of course she’s good enough.”
“Would she get it done in time?”
“Why shouldn’t she?”
“Yes. Well
.” Mary took a last look at the frightful picture of the frightful dress and laid it down on the table. It was, after all, Vicky’s wedding. “Perhaps you’d better get in touch with her right away. Make sure she can do it. After all, we haven’t got that much time.”
Vicky went off to telephone. But she couldn’t get through to Regina, so she rang Hector instead and talked for an hour. Mary, washing up the breakfast dishes, was filled with foreboding. She yearned for her dear, dead husband. She felt very alone.
* * *
Her foreboding had been well grounded. Regina French was not a girl upon whom one could rely. Each time Vicky went up to London to see how she was getting on, or telephoned the wretched female, there was always some excuse. The material had not come. Her sewing machine was on the blink. She had to go to Devon to look after somebody’s baby. But not to worry, not to worry, it would all be all right on the night.
* * *
Not to worry. Mary opened her eyes. Saw her own flower-sprigged room, and all her own pretty and personal possessions around her. The wedding was a week away and still the wedding dress had not come. She got out of bed, dressed and went downstairs, only to discover Vicky down before her, sitting at the kitchen table and drinking coffee out of a Wedgwood mug. The post had arrived.
“Anything from Regina?”
Vicky said, “Yes.” She would not look at her mother. Mary glanced around in the hopes of seeing a large parcel that might contain a wedding dress. There was none. “A letter,” Vicky enlarged, and held it out. With a sinking heart, Mary took it from her. She put on her spectacles and read it.
Dear Vicky. Terribly sorry, have been stricken with measles. Can’t even reach a telephone. Sorry about the dress, can’t possibly cope with it now. Hope you have a lovely wedding. Love, Regina.
She felt her knees turn to water. Reached for a chair and sat down. Across the table, mother and daughter eyed each other.
Vicky spoke first. “If you say ‘I told you so,’ I shall scream.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort.”
“Well, you’re thinking it. You always thought Regina would be a dead loss. Admit it.”
“Well, I don’t know … she did seem a bit … fey. Rather vague. And now she’s got measles.” She added, for form’s sake, “Poor girl.”
Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories Page 23
