by Alice Jolly
Dreadful news, isn’t it? Mr Whiteley says. What can Mr Chamberlain do now?
Oh father, don’t start, Violet says. Come on, look in the mirror. She pulls Rose up onto the first step of the curving stairs and Rose looks at herself through the chips and spots of the bevelled mirror. The cardigan is just what Violet would have chosen for herself and – for a moment – in the mirror, Rose sees herself as Violet, scrubbed clean and glistening, pale and doll-like but awkward and stiff in the joints. Violet’s hand, hot and fleshy, pulls Rose on up the stairs. Come on, I haven’t finished getting ready. Come and talk to me while I’m finishing my hair. You know, Stanley Bunton is coming to lunch as well. After golf with Frank.
Violet’s bedroom is decorated in pink satin and a cream-coloured Chinese carpet covers the floor. Swagged curtains make the window look like a stage. The bedhead is made of curving oak and the kidney-shaped dressing table has a salmon satin skirt underneath. Rose loves every detail of this room – and hates herself for loving it. She changes the words of St Augustine in her head. God give fairness and equality to the world but not right now.
Rose kicks off her shoes and collapses on the bed, gliding her hands across the slippery satin quilt. She worked overtime at the factory yesterday, sang in the Folly Night Club until midnight, spent the morning delivering copies of Peace News and helping to put up posters for a concert to raise money for the German refugees. Her feet ache and her arms are heavy but she’s still full of energy. She rolls onto her stomach, cups her chin in her hands, swings her feet in the air. Her shoulder aches where a man stubbed out a cigarette on it at the club. She’d been lucky to get away with only that. Of course, Violet has told Rose on numerous occasions that singing at the Folly is common, and that no decent man will walk out with a girl who does that, but Rose suspects that Violet’s disapproval is tinged with jealousy. Anyway she loves singing at the club, loves the scratchy feather costume, and the bright lights and the faces in the shadows, turned up, watching her. Now she turns her cheek, touches it against the fluff of the cardigan. Of course, she won’t wear the cardigan to the factory. Cheap little gold-digger. She hears the whispers but cares nothing for them – and yet she is fascinated by her own duality, by her ability to balance her different worlds.
So tell me, she says. Has Frank said anything more?
Violet sits at the dressing table, securing her hair with pins. Not really. Well, he hopes I’m thinking it over.
But you don’t need to think it over, do you?
I don’t know, Violet says. I just – I’m never quite sure.
Oh come now. You mustn’t disappoint Aunt Muriel.
Violet and Rose chant together – Because she’s already got the hat.
Laughing, Violet takes cigarettes and a lighter from the dressing-table drawer and comes to sit on the bed. She takes two cigarettes out of the pack and passes one to Rose.
What’s the problem? Rose says. You’ve wanted to marry him since you were ten.
Violet lies down on the bed, pulls Rose’s arm around her.
Go on, tell me why you’re not sure.
Oh no. I couldn’t. Violet blushes pastel pink, hides her face.
Go on, Rose says. Tell me.
Violet pulls Rose’s head close to hers and whispers. Her breath is hot and her words rustle in Rose’s ear. He might be a pervert.
Rose laughs. No. Why?
Well, I don’t know. It’s just— You know, sometimes when he kisses me. Violet pushes her head closer to Rose’s and whispers again. Rustle, giggle. Puts his tongue in my mouth. And once on the Green. Put his hand up my skirt.
Rose pushes her head down into the satin eiderdown, trying not to laugh.
Yes, I know you think it’s funny.
Violet, men do that.
Not until they’re married.
Yes, they do.
Violet gets up from the bed and goes to the dressing table. Putting her cigarette down, she clips on earrings and loops a string of pearls around her neck. Rose. I know that in your sort of world. Well, I know that the girls in the factory would think nothing of it but I expect Frank to show some respect.
Rose opens her eyes wide, making a silent objection.
Oh Rose, really. Don’t be offended. You know I didn’t mean it like that.
Downstairs the gong sounds so Violet stubs out her cigarette and Rose’s as well, and pushes them back into the packet. Mr Whiteley doesn’t like women smoking and particularly not in the house. Now he’s so ill, he doesn’t seem to notice but it isn’t worth taking any chances. Violet links her arm through Rose’s but on the landing she stops. Should I?
Oh don’t ask me. You know, I don’t believe in marriage.
Rose.
I don’t. It’s a capitalist institution for the subjugation of women. The desire for reproduction is the force which destroys the female. Rose starts this sentence in a serious voice but halfway through she begins to laugh.
Is that what Mrs Watson says? Violet asks. The one who wears men’s trousers and smokes cigars and has lice leaping in her hair?
Rose slaps at Violet who catches hold of her hand and they fight for a minute before bursting into giggles and lolling on down the stairs. Frank has just arrived and stands by the fireplace in the hall. Frank Fainwell. His pale hair is neatly combed into a side parting. His porcelain perfection illuminates everything around him. But on his neck a rash burns where his shirt collar has chafed. Violet throws herself towards him, kisses him, then takes hold of his hand and swings it back and forth. Frank comes to lunch at 34 Warwick Road every Sunday, has done since his childhood. He and Violet are second cousins and their faces are remarkably similar – Frank has that same sugar-crusted brightness and the same dull blond hair, sullen mouth. The same slightly insect-bulbous eyes, surrounded by mauve shadows. But whereas Violet is tiny and awkward, Frank is tall and lithe, beyond improvement or comparison. The two of them stand together now, joined, the one a mirror image of the other, indivisible.
Frank stretches out his free hand to Rose and says good afternoon. Rose knows that Frank’s mother, Aunt Muriel Fainwell, refers to her as Violet’s common little friend but Frank always waves across to her at the factory, even though he’s in Accounts whereas she’s on the Works floor.
Beautiful weather, Mr Whiteley says, appearing at his study door. The sap is rising? Can’t you feel it?
The doorbell rings and Stanley Bunton bustles into the hall in his homburg and tweed coat. Rose knows him from the factory where he’s employed in the Company Solicitor’s office. Although Stanley is the same age as Frank, he appears to be of another generation. Portly and precise, he has a clipped black moustache and hair slickly oiled back. Rose wonders why he’s been invited – perhaps the management have mentioned him to Mr Whiteley as Promising. Mr Whiteley may have retired but he is still a major shareholder. Stanley shakes hands with Rose briefly, giving her an awkward half-smile. Rose knows that men like Stanley find her unnerving and she’s glad of that. The fact that she’s taller than Stanley doesn’t help, disrupts the proper hierarchy.
Violet and Frank head into the dining room, hand in hand, legs moving in time, and Stanley follows. Mr Whiteley has got his stick wedged in a threadbare patch of carpet near his study door, so Rose goes to release it and then guides him across the hall. The dining room is at the back of the house with French windows that open into the garden beyond. Through those windows Rose sees a glimpse of a wrought-iron arch. It must once have been painted white and rises to a Moorish point, decorated with a pineapple-type knob. Wisteria twists through the ironwork but is not yet in flower. The dining-room furniture is all mahogany and so tall that it feels as though it’s leaning in on them. Lace encrusts the blinds, the edges of the shelves, the tablecloth, suffocating. In one corner, a parrot in a tall brass cage puffs up his grubby feathers and shrieks at them.
So where is Arthur? Violet says, with a sigh. Was he at the – oh what’s it called? Delivering stuff with you?
He was
there first thing, Rose says. But I don’t know where he went after that.
Typical, Violet says. He probably won’t even come.
He will come, Frank says.
But always late. Violet isn’t keen on Arthur. He’s another cousin but he was brought up in Italy and has only just returned. Mr Whiteley found him a job at the Works and always asks him to Sunday lunch, despite Violet’s complaints.
Rosie, dear, come and sit near me, Mr Whiteley says, as he always does, and Rose gives him a kiss before settling herself down next to him. The cardigan suits you, my dear, Mr Whiteley says and runs his purple hand down her arm, stopping to give her hand a squeeze. Rose looks across at Frank and Violet, together. Violet raises her right hand to her glass and Violet expects Frank to raise his left hand at exactly the same moment even though it doesn’t happen quite like that. But their eyes sidle together, meet, and they smile secretly, excluding everyone else. Rose knows that when they were children they used to play at being twins.
A housemaid arrives and serves braised beef, swede, peas and boiled potatoes. Mr Whiteley pushes down pills from a china box which stands beside his water glass. Stanley makes a comment about Chamberlain’s speech on the radio and the situation in Czechoslovakia – a place which, apparently, no longer exists. Violet groans and pleads with him to stop. Frank suggests to Violet that they might head out to Binley Woods later for a walk and Violet approves this plan. Rose raises her eyebrows at Violet, and runs her tongue along the top of her lip. Violet tries not to be amused.
Well played, the parrot shouts. Well played.
The front door opens and rolling footsteps – clump, shuffle, clump, shuffle – sound across the hall. Arthur enters, out of breath and sweating. He’s older than Frank, older than Stanley. His skin is pockmarked, his face long and lugubrious. His nose wobbles over thick lips but his small eyes are intense and humorous. Today he looks tired but every man in Coventry looks tired at the moment, with the factories running six days a week and into the evenings as well. I’m sorry, Arthur says, waving his hand. I’m very sorry.
Rose loves the exotic lilt of Arthur’s voice, the way that he stresses the beginning of every word and raises his hand in operatic emphasis as though drawing the words out of his mouth. Arthur shakes hands with the men and then kisses Rose three times. Rosa, my bella. How wonderful to see you.
Violet waves to him vaguely across the table. Arthur sits down, knocking a knife from the table but catching it deftly. His black hair is plastered to his head by sweat and the port-wine stain which covers his chin burns brightly. Although Arthur is neither particularly tall nor abnormally large, something about his compact and blunt body looks out of place among the polished mahogany and tissue-thin china of 34 Warwick Road. He looks up, catches Rose’s eye and smiles. The smile says – We may be outsiders but we know how to play this game.
The parrot bounces up and down on his perch. Cunt, he shouts. Cunt.
Violet winces, exchanges a brief glance with the housemaid who hurriedly produces a black cloth and places it over the cage.
I have some new books which you might want to look at, Mr Whiteley says. Rose says she’d love to see the books. Mr Whiteley has a vast library and, since he retired, he spends most of his day reading political books and articles. He often lends Rose books and she’s grateful for that. In her childhood, few books were available and most of them were silly romances. You’re an advanced young woman, Rose Mayeford, Mr Whiteley often says. Very advanced. Now Mr Whiteley puts a pea on his side plate and flicks it at Arthur who is talking to Stanley about Czechoslovakia. Arthur tries to flick one back but it only goes as far as the salt cellar. Stanley chokes on his beef and reaches for water. Pea-flicking is a regular activity during Sunday lunch at 34 Warwick Road but it seems that no one warned Stanley.
But we have to act, Stanley says, wiping at his moustache with his white linen napkin. And Britain can win a war now, thanks to the work of companies in Coventry.
Rose quotes Mr Chamberlain’s speech at Kettering. In war, whichever side may call itself the victor, there are no winners but all are losers.
Pudding is served – jam suet roll and custard. Mr Whiteley prevents the housemaid from taking the dish of peas, lines one up on his side plate, flicks it towards Frank’s water glass and laughs gleefully. Violet is sitting up straight, her lips pressed together. She doesn’t like politics or pea-flicking. The housemaid will complain about the mess.
It’s about capitalism, Arthur says. Exploitation. And people don’t think that so much arms production is good for the future of the city. Of course the contracts keep on rolling in, and now even more shadow factories will be built but Coventry shouldn’t be based entirely on one industry.
Violet sniffs, turns her head away. Rose feels a momentary pang of pain on Arthur’s behalf. So many people are affronted by him or suspicious. Partly it’s his club foot, dark skin and foreign name – Arthur Bonacci – but it’s more because he isn’t as humble as a plain-looking foreign man should be. A spick, Violet says. But it is exactly Arthur’s pride that Rose likes. She also loves his voice – that swooping, surprising, spacious voice. Often at the factory she and Arthur sing together, just to lighten the atmosphere, although they have to watch out or the Foreman complains. Sometimes they sing English folk songs – ‘The Oak and the Ash’, ‘Afton Water’. Sometimes modern songs like ‘Paper Moon’, ‘A Tisket, a Tasket’ or ‘Cheek to Cheek’. Rose loves to hear Arthur’s voice joining hers, blooming into the air. She stands close to him, feeling exactly when she needs to start and end each note. Arthur’s exotic accent makes the words sound extravagant. Afterwards everyone claps and the other girls on her line – Beryl, Ivy and Win – plead for more and Win says, You don’t hear better even on those broadcasts from Carnegie Hall.
Well, yes, Mr Whiteley says, blowing his nose into a large handkerchief and then lining up another pea. In theory that may be right. Yes, in theory. But my thought is that marriage might be the answer. All you young people should be married by now. One has to find an outlet for one’s natural instincts.
Arthur flicks a pea that bounces across Frank’s napkin and says – but despite all the money coming into Coventry, wage levels are not rising.
Yes, in theory.
People will resign from the arms factories, Arthur says. They feel strongly that the more military production there is, then the greater the chance of war.
Oh don’t be so silly, Violet says. Haven’t you listened to the radio, Arthur? There is going to be a war. There has to be.
No, Rose says. Chamberlain is negotiating at the moment. If they manage to bring together the Pact of Five—
Oh really Rose, Violet says.
Rose feels a twinge of anger but it soon subsides. Why does Violet never question anything? Is she very stupid or highly intelligent? Rose listens to her voice. Light and bright, languid and listless. She’s talking to Frank about clothes, voluntary work, golf, the cinema. Such jolly good fun. Rose should be irritated but she knows that, in truth, if she were ever to discover another dimension to Violet then their friendship would be finished. Violet must remain as she is, an intricate surface.
Frank, reaching to flick a pea, upsets a jug. It falls across Violet’s plate splashing water and jam suet on to her dress. Violet jerks her chair back and Frank rights the jug.
Oh Frank, look. Honestly.
Sorry.
A housemaid appears with a cloth. Rose knows that she is expected to help clear up the mess and does so gladly enough. She knows how to feign a feeling of social inferiority although in reality she has never experienced such a feeling herself.
Frank, my dress is stained. Look. And it’s new. You could at least help.
Frank jumps to his feet and tries to look useful, although the housemaid is now in charge. Rose catches Frank’s eye. She’s hardly ever looked at Frank before, never seen him properly. He’s always been part of the background, ornamental, something to be kept behind glass, admired from a dist
ance. As she moves a plate, his hand – blue-white and transparent – catches against hers. His eyes are darkest blue but strangely shallow. Once he’s married to Violet, he won’t even be able to flick a pea, let alone express a political opinion.
People promised, Arthur says. We all promised.
Promised? Promised what? Violet wipes at the mark on her dress.
We signed the Peace Pledge, Rose says. Two million people signed it.
She remembers all the postcards. And the words on them. Two million people had sent off their cards promising that there would never be another war. Even in Lincolnshire, where Rose had been brought up, people who thanked the squire for lowering their wages still sent off their postcards. That had been the beginning of the Peace Pledge Union and at one time it had had more than a million members and the meetings had been crowded out. Rose knows that even Violet signed one of those cards but now she, like so many others, tries to forget.
It’s a matter of conscience, Arthur says.
Oh these young men and their consciences. Mr Whiteley lines up another pea.
Arthur, please don’t encourage father with the peas. You’ve already ruined my dress. I’ll have to go upstairs and change.
Frank jumps to his feet to open the door for Violet.
Rose my dear, Mr Whiteley says, let’s escape from all these temperamental people and retire to the library for a little peace and quiet. What say you?
Oh yes, of course, Rose says.
Arthur and Frank stand up and Arthur says that he has to go. He’s on his way back to the Peace Pledge office. Rose gives him a wave and promises to see him in the office later. There’s a meeting tonight and papers to prepare.
Rose offers to take Violet upstairs to rinse the dress but Mr Whiteley is keen to get on with his books and so she follows him to the library. He closes the door behind them, takes the key from the mantelpiece and locks the door. The library is on the ground floor, looking down onto the Warwick Road and Greyfriars Green beyond. It’s a high-ceilinged room with bookshelves on every wall from floor to ceiling. Only the marble fireplace and the tall mirror over it are bookless. The room smells of lavender and bottled air. Mr Whiteley, who is always concerned that the spines of his books might fade, draws the blinds down and switches on the lamp on the desk. Rose moves over to the shelves at the back where Mr Whiteley always puts his most recent acquisitions, ready for cataloguing. She opens a copy of The Limits of Economics by J. F. Broadbent.
