by Erica James
‘Speak up! How do you expect me to hear what you’re saying when you mutter like that? And where’s my tonic? You know I have to have it straight after I’ve eaten. Dr Flowerday was most insistent on that.’
‘I’m just getting it for you,’ said Florence. From the shelf in the kitchen where she kept the tea caddy and cannister of sugar, along with the tin in which she put the housekeeping money, she took down the glass tumbler which Ruby insisted nobody but she used. Into this Florence emptied a sachet of white granules which Dr Flowerday had prescribed Ruby for her dyspepsia, and then held the glass under the cold tap. Stirring vigorously, Florence imagined the granules were a fatal dose of strychnine, which would cure her mother-in-law of her flatulence once and for all.
Back in the front room where Ruby was sitting in the best armchair directly opposite the television set waiting for Dixon of Dock Green to start, Florence handed her the glass. ‘Here you are,’ she said with a dutiful smile.
The effort was lost on Ruby. The woman scowled and all but snatched the glass from her. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, put the television on. Or are you deliberately trying to make me miss my favourite programme?’
‘Of course not.’
‘And make sure you have the volume turned up. I know you always turn it down to spoil my enjoyment. And when are you going to change out of that awful dress? It’s too tight and too short. Billy will be shamed to his boots to be seen with you looking like that.’
‘Billy helped me choose it,’ Florence said with some satisfaction. ‘He said the colour really suited me.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ Ruby scoffed. ‘Out of the way, then. How do you expect me to see the television with you standing in front of it?’
Perish the thought that the old witch would ever be grateful for anything Florence did for her.
Upstairs she heard George humming to himself in the bathroom and Rosie drying her hair in her old bedroom. She had left home six months ago to work as a receptionist at the Angel Hotel in Bury St Edmunds, and where she lived-in. It was good to have the children home, if only for the weekend.
Florence found Billy standing at the full-length mirror in their bedroom, an exasperated expression on his face.
‘I can’t do this wretched bow-tie,’ he said. ‘Do I have to wear it? I look like a bloody waiter dressed like this, and I bet there’ll be folk there who’ll treat me like one.’
‘Of course they won’t. They’ll all think you look exceedingly handsome.’
He grunted and tried again with the tie, but ripped it from his neck in angry frustration.
‘Let me do it for you,’ offered Florence. She went over and within seconds had deftly tied the bow-tie for him. ‘There,’ she said, with a final adjustment, ‘as handsome as Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk.’
‘And you, Mrs Minton,’ he said, his face suddenly breaking into a wolfish grin, ‘look gorgeous in that dress. Very sexy.’ His hands moved around to her bottom and pressed her against him. ‘It hugs you in all the right places. I reckon I’ll have trouble keeping my hands off you tonight.’
‘Billy Minton, just you behave yourself,’ she said sternly. ‘Whatever would they say down at the Sally Army if they knew the way you carry on,’ she added fondly, remembering the first time she’d heard him play in the band at the village fête when it was held on Clover Field. She had watched him playing his trumpet and thought how smart he’d looked in his uniform. She remembered too how he had winked at her. That was more than twenty years ago, yet it felt like only yesterday.
The word ‘yesterday’ brought to mind the anonymous letter that accused Billy of cheating on her. It had to be Ruby who had sent it. Who else hated Florence so much? No one as far as she knew. But why would Ruby accuse her own son – her blue-eyed boy – of such a terrible thing? Or was she so bitter and twisted she would resort to any trick to undermine their marriage?
Billy’s hands were busy again with her bottom, kneading her buttocks with his strong sure fingers. Not for the first time, she said, ‘I’m not a lump of bread dough, you know.’
He laughed. ‘I warned you I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.’
‘Well, perhaps this might cool your ardour. Your mother’s just said I look like a cheap whore.’
He swore under his breath. ‘I’ll speak to her.’
‘It won’t do any good. After all these years she’s not likely to change. If anything, she’s getting worse.’
‘I’ll still speak to her. I won’t have her talking to you like that. It’s not on.’
‘I’m used to it, love. Water and a duck’s back.’ Releasing herself from his hold, she sat down on the padded stool in front of the dressing table. She carefully removed the chiffon scarf, which she’d tied around her head after washing and drying her hair the minute she’d got back from helping at Meadow Lodge. With equal care she began taking out the pins and rollers.
Behind her Billy said, ‘I’ll go down and warn Mum that if she doesn’t treat you better, I won’t let her come here to watch our telly.’
Florence watched him go, knowing that whatever stern ticking off he gave his mother, following a few days of good behaviour Ruby would revert to her nasty old self.
Most evenings Ruby came here to eat supper with them and to watch television. Billy had offered to rent her a set from Radio Rentals so she could watch in the comfort of her own home next door, where she lived above the bakery. It had been her home, with Billy’s father, and where Billy grew up, for over fifty years. Her response to Billy’s generous offer was to tell him not to be such a spendthrift, she was happy enough watching their television. To Florence she’d said, ‘I suppose that was your doing, wasn’t it, trying to stop me from spending time with my only son?’
Florence hadn’t wasted her breath in denying the truth Ruby had concocted; there was no point. Ruby hated her and that was all there was to it. Some things you just had to accept.
But Florence would not accept spite-filled anonymous letters from Ruby, that was most definitely a step too far. Just as soon as she had the chance, she planned to sneak next door when Ruby was watching the telly here and see if she could find evidence of her mother-in-law having snipped out letters from the pages of a newspaper.
The last of the pins and rollers now removed, she took up her hairbrush and with the lightest of strokes, gently brushed out each curl. When she’d finished, she reminded herself that she had used the last of her Amami setting lotion and must remember to buy some more.
Once she was happy with the effect and had sprayed her hair, she opened her make-up drawer. She wore very little make-up, just a dab or two of blusher, a touch of mascara and a shimmery coating of pale pink lipstick Rosie had given her. With Rosie’s help she had experimented with false eyelashes but had hated the effect. She didn’t hold with too much artifice; she preferred a more natural look.
Which was what Billy said he liked too. But what if he’d grown bored of that and fancied something on the side that was a bit more . . .
No! she told herself firmly. Under no circumstances was she to start thinking there was any truth in that anonymous letter. Do that and Ruby would have won.
Chapter Twenty-Two
La Vista, Palm Springs
October 1962
Romily
The sky was the clearest and strongest of blues; there was not a cloud to be seen. High above Romily’s head, and hidden within the foliage of the palm trees, birdsong rang out.
From where she was standing on the paved terrace, she could hear Red speaking on the telephone inside the house. He’d taken the call just a few minutes after she’d arrived. He’d wanted to ignore the ringing, but Romily had insisted he answer the phone. His doing so gave her the chance to explore the garden, just as he had suggested she might like to do.
While driving her back to Casa Santa Rosa late last night
, Red’s invitation to visit him this morning had not surprised her. What did surprise her was what she was seeing now; this was unlike any garden she had seen before. It had none of the stiff manicured splendour of Casa Santa Rosa, but was instead a joyous blend of natural form and colour.
With a choice of gravel paths in front of her, she selected the one that led to the right. It took her through what felt like tropical vegetation, such was the density of trees and bushes. Majestic palm trees towered overhead, and oleanders showed off every shade of pink. In turn, she then came to an area that was more open and planted with cacti and succulents, some of which were in colourful bloom with jewel-like flowers.
Following the path yet further, it led her down a series of steps hewn out of rock with yucca trees either side. There were large prickly bushes too that she didn’t recognise, then rounding a corner, she suddenly found herself in a clearing overlooking a long thin swimming pool. It looked the sort of pool that was designed for somebody intent on swimming lengths to keep fit, rather than for merely cooling off in. Beyond the pool was a spectacular view of the mountain range that seemed to be within touching distance. It was one of the most impressive views she had ever seen.
When the taxi had delivered her here and she’d commented to Red how much she liked the location – his nearest neighbour was half a mile away – he had explained that he preferred to be on the edge of things, rather than in the middle of the town that was becoming too built up for his liking. She suspected that being on the edge of things was his modus operandi.
Taking her time over retracing her steps in the arid heat, she had just reached the terrace when her host reappeared.
‘Sorry I abandoned you like that,’ he said. ‘Now then, let me fix you a drink. How about some iced tea? Or being British, would you prefer hot tea? If you trust me to make it properly, that is.’
‘I’ll put you to the test another time,’ she said with a smile, ‘for now iced tea would suit me very well.’
He indicated a comfortable-looking sofa in front of a glass-topped coffee table in the covered area of the terrace that stretched the full width of the house.
Painted white and built on one level with large windows, the streamlined property was everything she might have supposed she wouldn’t like. But she did like it. She approved greatly of the strong clean lines of the architecture, and the boldness of the progressive mind that had created it. Sitting down in the shade, glad to be out of the sun, her back resting against the downy softness of a plump cushion, she thought how Stanley would love to design something so modern.
The rattle of ice cubes heralded Red’s return. When he was seated on the sofa next to her and had passed her a tall glass of iced tea with a sprig of mint, she said, ‘Thank you for inviting me here, and for last night; it was fun.’
‘It was my pleasure, I enjoyed sharing the desert with you. If it wasn’t for this damned leg of mine right now, I’d be off for a hike, as well as camp out overnight. There’s nothing better than waking up to watch the dawn break when you’re in the desert. It’s the best tonic I know.’
‘Is your leg troubling you today?’
He shrugged. ‘A new prosthetic always takes some getting used to. Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll be fine. But never mind that, we need to talk about you.’
She groaned. ‘Must we? I find myself so very dull.’
‘I’ll wager you’re the only one who does. I, for one, find you extraordinarily interesting.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you. One of the most fascinating women I’ve met in a long time.’
She tutted. ‘I advise you not to waste your breath on smooth-talking me. You won’t come out of it well.’
He tipped his head back and laughed. There was something so free and uninhibited about the way he laughed.
‘Is that what you thought I was doing,’ he asked, ‘smooth-talking you? Now why on earth would I do that?’
‘To convince me we should work together. It’s why you’ve invited me here this morning to see your home and to—’
‘Hey, you mean a guy can’t show some bona fide all-American hospitality without there being an ulterior motive? Whatever is the world coming to?’
‘You know exactly what I mean.’
‘I do. But I believe the woman doth protest too much and really you just want me to cajole you some more, and then,’ he clicked his thumb and forefinger together, ‘we’ll be in business!’
‘Evidently I have not protested enough,’ she said, amused at his chutzpah. ‘As otherwise you will have given up trying to persuade me.’
He leaned against the back of the sofa and crossed one leg over the other. ‘Something you should know. I never give up on what I believe in. I’m relentless in that respect.’
She turned to look at him and held his gaze. ‘I’m sure you are.’
‘I’m told it’s one of my finer qualities.’
‘And what of your less commendable qualities?’
‘That would be telling.’
‘It would. That’s why I’m asking.’
He cocked his head. ‘Are you flirting with me, Mrs Devereux-Temple?’
She continued to meet his gaze, determined not to blink or be the one to look away. ‘Certainly not.’
‘I think you are. I think we’ve been flirting with each other since the moment we met.’
‘All I can say to that is that Americans must have a different idea of what constitutes flirting compared to us Brits.’
‘Oh, I doubt that. But to be serious, and yes, I can be exceedingly serious, I’ve known you for,’ he checked his watch, ‘almost twenty-four hours, but I—’
She wagged a finger at him. ‘Don’t you dare say it. Don’t you dare say you feel like you’ve known me all your life!’
‘Hey kid, credit me with more savvy than that! I was going to say, I haven’t had this much fun in quite some time. You’re a real breath of fresh air.’
‘You realise you just called me kid, don’t you? I’m fifty-five years of age; I’m anything but a child.’
‘But I’ll bet inside you feel like a child who has so much more she wants to see and do. Am I right? Or have I got you wrong? Are you itching to get home so you can put on your slippers and sit by the fireside in your rocking chair, content to let others have all the fun?’
‘Don’t forget the cat on my lap and a pair of knitting needles in my hands.’
‘I was coming to those.’
‘Along with a dozen more misguided clichés I don’t doubt.’
He grinned. ‘See, not even twenty-four hours and you know me so well already.’
Incorrigible. Absolutely incorrigible. Dangerously so. If she wasn’t careful, Romily warned herself, she could easily succumb to this man’s charm and wit. In that respect he was a lot like Jack – confident and not afraid to make fun of her. Or stand up to her, yet at the same time prepared to treat her as an equal.
After spending time in the desert with Red last night, she had acknowledged that her mistake yesterday had been to underestimate him. Her initial reaction had been to dismiss him as being shallow and patronising. God knew she had met plenty of men like that over the years, the type who treated her as an inferior little woman who needed to be put in her place. That had been especially true during and after the war. Thousands of women had shown their mettle in helping to fight the war against Germany, only then to be expected to don their aprons and return to the kitchen where supposedly they belonged.
‘I’ve lost you, haven’t I?’
Her attention swiftly brought back to the man sitting opposite her, she apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I was—’
‘Thinking about something entirely different? Care to tell me what?’
She smiled. ‘You always want me to do the talking, don’t you?’
‘That’s because you fascinate me.’
She rejected his words with a wave of her hand. ‘Not true. You’ve been instructed by Gabe and Melvyn to twist my arm and by any means. Which includes flattery and, if necessary, seduction.’
‘You make me sound like a Soviet spy!’ he said with another loud and uninhibited laugh. ‘But I told you last night, not everything I ask you has previously been scripted by Gabe and Melvyn. I’m quite capable of thinking for myself and, for that matter, writing my own scripts. But the thing is, I just can’t get it out of my head that we could make a good team together, you and me. And before you get any ideas, I’m talking about working together. However, I’m astute enough to know that you’re like me, that unless your heart is in a project, it’s a non-starter.’ He rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘Is there anything I could say or do to persuade you to take me seriously?’
‘Why do you believe I don’t already?’
He shook his head and put down his empty glass. ‘I’d feel it if you did. But I’m not getting that vibe.’
‘Then perhaps you need to relax and stop trying so hard. What are we going to do for lunch?’ she asked, keen to change the subject.
He looked surprised at her question. ‘Well, I could cook us lunch, if you’d like?’
‘You can cook?’
‘Sure I can. I’m a dab hand when it comes to grilling steaks. Would that be agreeable to you?’
‘It certainly would. Will you let me help though?’
‘I think I can allow that. But finish your drink first.’
She quickly drank what was left in her glass. ‘Ready when you are,’ she said.
Lunch turned out to be cooked in another part of the garden, and on a large grill that was housed in a solid brick-built affair with a chimney above it.
‘I don’t suppose you have this kind of thing back at home in England, do you?’ he said, poking at the hot coals with a pair of long tongs.
‘No,’ she said, ‘but I’m beginning to think I should like to have one built. It looks fun.’
