The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  It’s only been three weeks, and of course it’s just temporary, but so far so good. The free coffee is amazing, the team are friendly – no one seems to want to stab anyone else in the back with a teaspoon. At Fletchers, if someone came up to Kate’s desk, it was invariably with a problem. When customers approach Kate at Aposta, they’re usually quite cheery, and by the time she’s served them a buttery, flaky Danish or a cheese toastie and a strong flat white, they’re in an even better mood. When she leaves at the end of the day, she gets to take home any leftover bread and pastries, rather than a bagful of fear about the seven things that might go wrong with the in-store turkey dangler roll-out.

  Even when she’s scraping off burnt milk from the frothing nozzle, or grappling with a particularly heavy bin liner, there isn’t a moment when she regrets quitting Fletchers – she only regrets staying so long. Her body feels different, lighter. The everyday anxiety she used to feel as she approached the revolving doors at Fletchers has turned into a low-level tingle of excitement each morning as she pulls open the glass door to Aposta, ties her hair back and gets ready to meet the new day.

  Chapter Forty-six

  ‘THAT WAS AMAZING,’ says Kate, looking down at her empty plate where all that remains of Nick’s epic bacon-cheeseburger is a small puddle of ketchup.

  ‘The beef is better on the barbecue,’ he says apologetically, staring out at the November downpour. ‘But at least the griddle pan gives chargrill lines; I reckon it was eighty-five per cent as good.’

  ‘Not eighty-six per cent?’ says Kate, ruffling his hair as he smiles in contentment.

  ‘We should investigate making our own brioche buns in the new year – what do you think?’

  ‘I think I love this burger the way it is.’

  ‘But it’s not perfect, the bun isn’t—’

  ‘I think you should speak to your shrink about your perfectionism,’ says Kate, laughing.

  ‘I haven’t made burgers since the summer,’ he says, clearing the plates away. ‘That feels like so long ago.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ve had a rather turbulent second half to the year.’

  ‘But we’re good now, aren’t we?’ says Nick, smiling as they snuggle down on the sofa together.

  ‘We are,’ says Kate, pouring more wine and stroking his hand that’s resting on her shoulder.

  ‘I had a beer with Rob the other day,’ says Nick, reaching for the TV remote control.

  ‘Oh? How’s he doing?’ says Kate, though she couldn’t care less.

  ‘Struggling a bit. He’s been sleeping on a mate’s sofa since he moved out of Tasha’s, and he’s hurt his back.’

  ‘Ah well, he probably should have thought about that before he shagged the pub Petri dish. Anyway, let’s not talk about him. What shall we do this weekend?’

  ‘Friday I’ve got night shift, but other than that I’m easy.’

  ‘I’ll probably do the Saturday shift at the café, but Saturday night we could make that Nigella meatball recipe? Columbia Road on Sunday morning, then come back and clear some space in your wardrobe for my things?’

  ‘You don’t want to try and see the old lady again?’

  ‘I’ve called her half a dozen times in the last month – she won’t take my calls. Quite frankly, why I’m stalking her when she owes me an apology – by the way, do you think that print I bought at Spitalfields would look good in your hallway?’

  ‘Which bit of wall?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  While they’re out in the hallway Kate’s phone rings, but by the time she gets to it the caller’s leaving a message.

  ‘Oh. Shit,’ says Kate when she sees the caller ID. She listens to the message – it’s a long one – frowns, then her eyebrows raise and she smiles and nods.

  ‘Everything OK?’ says Nick.

  ‘I think so. Apparently, Mrs Finn’s been in hospital.’

  ‘Oh. What for?’

  ‘Being ninety-seven, by the sounds of it. She had a chest infection. They were worried it might turn into pneumonia so they took her to the Whittington for a few nights. I bet she hated that.’

  ‘Is she still there?’

  ‘This was two weeks ago,’ says Kate, biting her lip. ‘She’s back, apparently, she’s fine, and it’s her birthday on Sunday. Normally they give each resident a tea party. She’s obviously having none of that, but she told Mrs Gaffney to tell me.’

  ‘Presumably that means she wants to see you.’

  ‘The ice is thawing . . . OK, forget Sunday’s plans, I might need you to help me make her a present.’

  ‘Hmm. Do you think she’d like a bespoke computer programme?’

  ‘I was thinking something a little more edible.’

  ‘A burger?’

  ‘A fiskepudding.’

  ‘Fiskepudding? Cute name for a baby. What is a fiskepudding?’

  ‘I still don’t know. Some sort of Scandinavian fish mousse? Anyway, it’s one of her favourites. We can cook it, and I’ll make a little white flag to stick on top.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  Chapter Forty-seven

  ‘IS THE BIRTHDAY GIRL in?’ says Kate, poking her head round the door to find Cecily hunched in her chair. Cecily looks frailer than a month ago, her cheekbones more prominent, the skin at her temples so thin Kate can trace every vein.

  ‘You are who . . .?’ says Cecily regally.

  ‘I’m here, and tea’s on its way – that’s all that matters. How are you, Mrs Finn? I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Still not dead,’ says Cecily with lips that are pinched but struggling not to smile.

  ‘Sorry to hear you were in hospital.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with me, just a small cough,’ says Cecily, squinting at the Tupperware in Kate’s hand. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘A birthday treat.’

  ‘A little premature, isn’t it? My birthday’s in May.’

  Kate pauses, then laughs. ‘Silly me. Oh well, I’ll save the card, I was going to say your birthday’s two weeks before mine but it would appear Mrs Gaffney has got her dates wrong,’ she says, presenting the Tupperware’s contents to Cecily, then taking a packet of crackers from her bag and spreading a few generously.

  Cecily looks at the fiskepudding, then up at Kate, then back at the fiskepudding.

  ‘Made with pike and plenty of salt, Mrs Finn – not a mackerel in sight.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Cecily, swallowing hard. ‘That’s . . . yes, well, I suspect that’ll be preferable to whatever filth that woman has planned.’

  ‘And I brought you a toffee cream cake – I know you’re partial to a toffee or two. I’ve started working at a coffee shop that sells the most delicious cakes.’

  ‘You’ve done what?’

  ‘Yup, it’s been a busy month.’

  ‘Instead of the carrots or as well as the carrots?’

  ‘No – no more carrots: I have to admit, you were right about the day job.’

  ‘I was right about the other things too.’

  ‘Mrs Finn,’ says Kate, ignoring the comment, ‘I do have one small favour to ask.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘Could you carry on with the story of how you became a writer? Last time we met you were telling me about your European adventures with Samuel.’

  ‘Had I been in the hospital?’

  ‘For your cough?’

  ‘No, in the 1930s.’

  ‘You didn’t mention a hospital, no.’

  ‘Let’s have that,’ says Cecily, pointing at the cake. Kate serves her as she settles back in her chair, fingertips gently tapping together. ‘Right – well, Samuel and I had been to Franzensbad as the waters were considered conducive to fertility. We’d been married nearly three years but nothing was happening. Eventually, we saw a doctor who discovered a fibroid the size of a mango,’ she says, touching her belly gently. ‘I needed surgery immediately if I was to conceive.’

  ‘Did you want children?’ says Kate with surprise.


  ‘I was ambivalent – but it’s what one did in those days; and Samuel adored children, he was far more patient than I ever was,’ she says, reaching for her plate. ‘We returned to England for the surgery but it went very wrong. I remember reading the chart at the bottom of the bed after the operation, it said Chances of Pregnancy – nil. I felt sick at heart. My surgeon came in and said, “Dear girl, you’d best find other things to do with your life.”’

  ‘Oof, bedside manner . . .’

  Cecily shrugs as she digs her fork in. ‘No choice is also a choice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Life has given you a path, even if it’s not your preferred one.’

  ‘Even so. I’m sorry that happened.’

  Cecily chews the cake thoughtfully. ‘In retrospect, I’m not. My fellow inmates here are an emotional and financial burden, their children are now pensioners themselves, praying their mothers will hurry up and die before their entire inheritance gets eaten up.’

  ‘That’s pretty brutal.’

  ‘Generating offspring in no way guarantees happiness – often the reverse.’

  ‘Generating offspring?’ says Kate, trying not to laugh. ‘You can’t write off the whole of humanity just because you claim old age doesn’t suit you – which it does, by the way, you’re in incredible shape.’

  ‘I once gave a speech at the UN and now putting on my cardigan is a triumph,’ says Cecily with disgust.

  ‘A speech at the UN?’

  Cecily shrugs. ‘I became terribly bored in my sixties after I stopped the screenwriting. Samuel had always inspired me to do things for other people, and I realised I hadn’t done much of that, apart from teaching. So I joined the board of an educational charity, one thing led to another and I was invited to the UN to talk about education.’

  ‘Hollywood and the UN? You’re like Superwoman.’

  ‘I didn’t feel much like a superwoman back in that hospital bed. There was nothing I could do about my body’s failure to reproduce, but I was heartbroken for poor Samuel – I was taking away his chances of fatherhood. But he took my hand and his eyes filled with tenderness. He said, “It’s going to be wonderful, you and me and a lifetime of adventures, the two of us.” I didn’t want him mistaking my tears of gratitude for sadness, so I tried to shoo him off to buy cigarettes but he casually patted his pockets and pretended he’d forgotten his wallet. Samuel never forgot his wallet, not once in all the years we were married. He never forgot a birthday, or an anniversary – he never once let me down. Anyway, he stayed with me in that stuffy ward, my hand in his, until well past visiting hours. The matron turned a blind eye, she’d fallen in love with him as everyone did. Later, I brought up the subject of adoption, but then life had other plans . . .’ She pauses, staring down at her plate with a look of such sudden sorrow Kate worries she’s asked far too personal a question.

  ‘So you moved back to London then?’ says Kate, hurriedly.

  ‘Yes,’ says Cecily, shaking her head as if rousing herself from a disturbing dream. ‘We rented a flat, a sunny, happy home. They were golden times. We had great friends, we entertained modestly – those were the days when a Fuller’s walnut cake at three shillings and sixpence was the height of luxury. But our lives gradually darkened with the increasingly terrible stories from Germany. A year after we returned from Sweden, the Munich crisis blew up.’

  ‘I should remember this from GCSEs . . . That was 1938?’

  ‘September 1938 – and yes, you should. Samuel was back in Stockholm for work. People in England panicked, they thought London would be flattened. Samuel managed to telephone to say he could get me on the last boat out to Esbjerg and I should pack and come at once.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  ‘My parents were in Bournemouth. Leo and May were around.’

  ‘Were your siblings married?’

  ‘Leo remained a bachelor his whole life. They have other ways of saying that nowadays. He died of a stroke ten years ago. May married twice and ended up in New York with husband number two, a significant improvement on the first. She died young, a week before her eightieth. Unfortunate timing, as we’d just booked to fly out to celebrate and instead we had to fly out for her funeral. Samuel helped keep my spirits up but it was peculiar, being the last one of us all left alive. I felt rather abandoned . . .’ she says, her eyes clouding over. ‘You interrupted me, where was I?’

  ‘About to get on a boat to Esbjerg, wherever that is.’

  ‘Jutland.’

  Kate winces. ‘Where’s Jutland again?’

  ‘Didn’t they teach you anything at school?’ Cecily grunts her disdain. ‘I left our lovely London flat with a sad heart and boarded the ship – but halfway across the sea Chamberlain’s announcement of “Peace in our Time” came through – oh how we cheered. I bitterly regretted leaving England. As soon as I got to Sweden, I thought that Samuel would say we could go home again, but instead he was furious. I’d never seen him angry. He could barely speak – not like Samuel at all. He thought Chamberlain was a fool, and felt sure war was imminent, so we ended up staying put. The news only got worse. The Nazis swallowed Czechoslovakia, then Austria. Stockholm became a first-class waiting room for the luckier refugees who’d bribed transit visas. Sitting in the cafés we’d see these poor people promenading in a macabre parody of the life we’d all previously enjoyed. Elegantly dressed, they gave no impression of being exiles until one saw the fear in their eyes. They’d fled their homes, investing in furs and jewels – but they didn’t have the cash in their pockets for a decent meal.’

  ‘It’s so grim, and when you look at the news today . . .’

  ‘That’s precisely why I don’t,’ says Cecily briskly. ‘Then in September 1939, on the final day of our summer holidays at a pension in Saltsjöbaden – oh look it up on a map, Kate – Hitler invaded Poland. We were sitting listening to the radio in the parlour along with some Jewish refugees, Swedes and a small party of Germans. Chamberlain said, “We are now at war with Germany”. There was a terrible long silence, I could hear my heart thumping in my chest – then, slowly, the Germans rose and stalked from the room.’

  ‘I can picture it now,’ says Kate, shuddering.

  ‘Fear crept into my bones. The rumours from Poland were alarming, of all sorts of discrimination, Jews being excluded from jobs and universities, increasing violence against the community. We had no news of Samuel’s family and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t find any. I’d catch him staring out of the window with such a haunted look, but whenever we talked he tried to reassure me. Conditions seemed better in England, so in March we decided to return home. Samuel bought me an air ticket. He’d follow a week later after tying up loose ends. After some debate we decided to change my ticket as I wanted to fly with him. He thought I was being sentimental but I’d had a weird panic that we’d somehow be separated from each other. I went to the Turkish baths, as we had no hot water at home, but as I was sitting relaxing in a cloud of steam, a message came through from Samuel: the airline had no other tickets, I must travel that night. I rushed back to the flat, packed a small bag of clothes and books and hurried to the airport, my hair still damp at the nape of my neck.’

  Kate’s hand goes to her heart.

  ‘I thought Samuel would be back a week later, but my panic proved prescient – I didn’t see him again for three years.’

  ‘Wait, what? Three years? Why?’

  Cecily leans back in her chair. ‘I am fatigued beyond all reasoning today.’ She starts a yawn which turns into one of her lengthy cat yawns that lasts a minute.

  ‘Please, Mrs Finn, don’t leave me on a cliffhanger.’

  ‘Surely you know who won the war?’

  ‘Not the war, you and Samuel! Here, have more cake,’ says Kate, hurriedly cutting her another slice.

  ‘Oh, OK, then,’ says Cecily, flashing her an indulgent look. ‘I arrived home to a blacked-out, depressed England. Life with Samuel had never been
extravagant – money didn’t matter, we were simply delighted we’d found each other. Still, I didn’t realise how spartan life in Bournemouth with my parents would be. Papa refused to have a phone at home or even curtains. He said respectable people went to bed when it was dark. The week after I arrived, he told me there was bad news. “Hitler has invaded Norway and Denmark, Sweden will be next – you’ll never see Samuel again.” My stomach dropped. Samuel was due the next day but I heard nothing. I could barely breathe. It was a perfect spring that year, hot and sunny. Every day I’d walk with Mama to the beach and I’d sit passing the warm sand through my fingers, trying not to let my imagination run amok. Finally, a cable arrived: Samuel was OK, and he’d been offered a special role at the British Embassy.’

  ‘Ah, as a spy?’

  Cecily nods and raises an eyebrow.

  ‘So what type of spy was he? A jumping-between-tall-buildings kind or an office-based one?’

  ‘Samuel? He’d have broken his spectacles if he’d jumped off the kerb,’ says Cecily, chuckling. ‘Also, far too tall. Whenever he entered a room, you noticed him. No, Samuel was in intelligence. With his language skills and good nature he was the ideal candidate. Everyone thought him a “lieber Kerl” – a good fellow, which meant he cultivated connections very naturally. He’d make acquaintances with all sorts of people passing through Stockholm – sailors, engineers, financiers, who’d inform him of what was happening in Germany. He’d report back to the Allies on what new buildings were being planned, what shortages of raw materials existed, information then used to plan attacks.’

  ‘My goodness, so a proper spy.’

  ‘Yes. I already told you that – why would you doubt me?’ says Cecily irritably. ‘He risked his life every day. Anyway, back in England the war had flared up. After Dunkirk, Bournemouth was flooded with soldiers. The Battle of Britain raged above us, the sound of planes filled the air. Looking up one saw swarms of silver-winged insects flickering in the sun. A silver streak would suddenly burst into a flaming flower and hurtle out of sight, leaving only a trail of evil black smoke,’ she says, her hand drawing an arc in the sky.