A Daughter's Shame

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘I remember. You danced with Isobel.’

  It was Rowena’s turn. He said to her, ‘I thought you were going to invite Isobel to Edinburgh. What happened?’

  Rowena was laughing. ‘Sylvia hasn’t seen her for ages.’

  He was hotter. This outfit was ridiculous for dancing. Highland dress was more suited to marching in the chilly Scottish air. ‘Sit the next one out?’ he asked the girls.

  They had agreed not to leave Magnus alone for long, so they went back to the table. Magnus could not dance, nor could he wear the kilt or dancing shoes because of his knee and foot. He might make it round the floor to a foxtrot, but he moved clumsily and didn’t want people to stare.

  Ian said, ‘Phew! That kicked the stuffing out of me,’ to please Magnus. ‘Shall I order another bottle of whisky?’ The one on the table was empty. They were knocking it back tonight. He said to Magnus, ‘Have you seen Isobel? I’d like to meet her again.’

  Magnus affected a bored expression. ‘Not much hope of that. She’s got a heavy father. He says we’re not good enough for her.’

  Magnus’s mother said, ‘What did you say?’

  Magnus repeated it in the same bored voice. His mother tapped his father’s arm to get his attention. ‘Did you ever hear such effrontery, John? Elsie Stanway’s husband thinks we’re not good enough.’

  ‘Aren’t you pleased?’ John smiled at his wife. ‘You have no time for them.’

  She said, to Sylvia, ‘Is this why Lily didn’t visit us at Christmas?’

  ‘Isobel.’

  ‘I mean Isobel. Is this why?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Sylvia. ‘That and the fact that she thinks you don’t like her.’

  ‘Whatever gave her that impression? When did I say I didn’t like her? It’s her mother I dislike.’ Nobody answered, and she said, ‘The silly woman. Marrying that awful man.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’ asked Magnus.

  ‘Your father says he’s a crook!’

  They laughed, hearing her use the slang word she’d learned from the American cinema. John Hammond held up his hand. ‘Catriona! I said the man was a pretender. Not a swindler.’

  ‘It’s the same thing,’ she answered. ‘He wanted to borrow from the bank. Thousands to buy a factory. He has no security. Nothing.’

  ‘That’s enough, dear,’ said John. ‘I tell you things in confidence. Don’t speak so freely.’

  Magnus said, ‘I’ll ask Isobel to come to see us when we’re home.’

  Ian said, ‘Can I come?’

  ‘As if you needed to ask!’ they chorused – all but Magnus, who drank his whisky very fast and got up from the table, saying, ‘I’m going outside for a breath of fresh air.’

  Isobel was officially Isobel Leigh, legitimate and adopted. They had been to the county court in Knutsford, where the assizes were held, to have her adoption order passed in her new, legitimate name. And though she was grateful to him for her legal status, the words stuck in her throat when she tried to call Mr Leigh, Father.

  He wanted her to. One of his grievances was that she lacked respect for him. He said, ‘When a man comes home from work he expects his wife and daughter to be standing up, waiting to greet him.’

  They were sitting at the kitchen table. Mam had discovered Symington’s soup powder and every night made a pan of soup, which they took before the tinned skippers or cold meat they were to call dinner.

  He dumped his attaché case of samples in the middle of the floor. ‘Aren’t you aware that a man is demeaned if the women are seated when he comes home?’

  They didn’t know. How could they? Isobel glared.

  ‘You, Elsie, should say, “Dearest, you’re home!” and you, Isobel should say, “Welcome home, Papa!”’

  Mam jumped up. ‘Dearest! You are home!’ She laughed gaily. She could jump up when he came in and call him dearest if she wished. Isobel would go through verbal contortions to avoid using any name.

  Her stepfather went away on business every week, from Monday until Friday, leaving Mam alone in the house, and this worried Isobel to death because the diabetes was making Mam pale and thin. It was obvious that something was going wrong with Mam’s sugar and energy levels. Then, when he was at home, her stepfather was short-tempered and critical, finding fault with both of them; demanding of Isobel, ‘Out? Why do you want to go out?’ and saying of Mam’s cooking, ‘What do you call this?’ as if he’d never eaten toast with the burn scraped off, and of her unsteady walk when an injection was due, ‘Why do you keep tripping over your feet?’ Then he’d flash his teeth so that if challenged he could tut-tut and say, ‘Can’t even take a joke.’

  Isobel had only one defence, a sarcastic tongue. When he said to her, ‘Why can’t you be more like Doreen? She’s a strapping girl. You’re becoming thinner and more miserable every day,’ she rose to the bait and answered with the chilly politeness she was learning at her snobbish school, ‘How good of you to point out my failings. I might never have known.’

  Doreen was the only person her adoptive father made welcome, and he encouraged her, taking her aside, fawning, revelling in her flattery, so much so that Isobel asked Mam if she was hurt by his behaviour. Mam said, ‘No. Your father isn’t the kind of man who’d flirt with a child like Doreen.’

  But Doreen had gone past childhood. She appeared much older than her years; overdressed and painted up to the nines, with thick lipstick in Cupid’s bows of theatrical red. Isobel and Doreen never met outside the house but it was Isobel’s turn to feel envious, for Doreen could come and go as she pleased, and it pleased her to visit Mam in the evenings once a week. She earned twelve and sixpence a week as an invoice clerk in the counting-house at Chancellor’s. She was never short of money for clothes and cheap jewellery and scent. Most young people handed over their pay packets and were given a few shillings back. Doreen kept it all.

  Doreen loved her job. She told them that the girls and women who worked in the mill were in love with Ray Chancellor and wanted him to take them for a ride. She said, ‘He came into his inheritance. Bought a Delage.’

  ‘What’s a Delage?’ Isobel asked.

  ‘Just about the most expensive motor car in the world!’ said Doreen, as if Isobel were an ignoramus. ‘Haile Selassie has one. So does the Aga Khan.’

  Mam laughed at this and Doreen said, ‘He teases the mill girls, telling them he can’t choose between them. Telling them if he could decide which one was the prettiest, he’d take her up in the hills for a ride.’ She made the staccato laugh that Isobel hated. ‘The mill girls will do anything for a ride.’

  ‘Anything?’ Mam was laughing fit to burst.

  ‘That’s what they say, but Ray treats them all alike,’ said Doreen. ‘I’ve even got a crush on him myself.’ A self-satisfied look came across Doreen’s face. ‘Fancy! I’ve got a crush on Ray Chancellor! Me! The girl every man in Macc wants to go with!’

  Mam said, ‘Don’t talk like that, Doreen. Don’t say “wants to go with” – it’s cheap. Find a young man of your own age. Watch your reputation.’

  ‘I do,’ Doreen said. ‘I’ve got my eyes on one or two others.’

  Isobel looked with disgust at Doreen. Her stepfather scowled but Mam laughed at Doreen’s impudence. She would never have allowed Isobel to talk like that.

  Towards the end of the spring term, shortly before her seventeenth birthday, Isobel sneaked out of school to go to the pictures and treat herself to tea and cakes in the Grand Cinema’s cafe. She had received a letter from Sylvia, and when she finished her tea she went to the public telephone box and dialled the operator. Soon she was speaking to Sylvia, whose clear, musical voice came ringing back. ‘Rowena wants us to go up to Scotland at the end of July. Will your parents let you come this time?’

  ‘No. Can you send my apologies?’

  Sylvia said, ‘Would it help if I got Father to ask?’

  ‘Oh, no! That’s the last thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Isobel h
ad no hope of going to Edinburgh. She had not seen Ian since they danced at the Palace Hotel. He would have forgotten her.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pity you aren’t home this weekend,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Didn’t Magnus tell you? In his letter?’

  ‘No. Tell me what?’

  ‘I’m finished! I don’t go back to Lausanne. Ian and Rowena are staying with us for a week. We’re having a party on Saturday night. Mama says it’s time I found a rich husband.’ Her silvery laugh rang out. ‘Magnus must have forgotten to invite you.’

  Isobel’s escapes to the cinema had given her practice in being rash and impulsive. Hot blood rushed up to her head, blotting out every inclination to caution. ‘Sylvia?’ She would play truant on a grand scale this time. ‘Will you to go Nanna’s for me? Tell her I’m coming to Lindow for the weekend.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Sylvia hesitated. ‘Are you my best friend?’

  ‘Yes,’ Isobel assured her. ‘Can you lend me something to wear for the party or shall I ask Shandy?’

  ‘I’ll send some things round to your nanna’s. Take your pick. See you on Saturday night. Bye!’

  Isobel put down the receiver and caught sight of her face in the dusty little mirror above the telephone: her cheeks were pink; her eyes sparkled with devilment. She was going to do it. Nothing must stop her. She had saved enough – just – to pay her train fare. It’s nothing short of outright rebellion, she thought, as she plotted her escape. She’d sneak out in her ordinary clothes, climb over the garden wall and run down to Lord Street as fast as she could. If she did it after tea on Friday nobody would miss her until supper, and then it would only be the assistant matron. It would be Saturday before the matron could inform the headmistress about the note she’d leave in the dormitory: ‘Forgot to say I am expected at home this weekend. Back Monday. Isobel Leigh.’

  In the kitchen Nanna was packing Isobel’s rucksack. ‘No stockings?’ She frowned in the direction of her legs – slim but brown and muscular under the flared check skirt that she kept at Lindow for walking. She wore heavy leather walking shoes and turned-over socks that made her skinny ankles look more like a boy’s than a young woman’s.

  ‘Nanna! Modern girls don’t have to be given a hand to get over stiles!’ A smile began to play about the corners of Nanna’s mouth as Isobel said, ‘I won’t be molested. Or drive passing tramps wild with passion. I probably won’t see a soul all day.’

  Nanna said, ‘Why didn’t you tell your mother you were coming? Won’t you slip home for an hour?’

  If she’d thought it out, she’d have seen that she was dropping Nanna into a pickle. ‘I can’t. There isn’t time.’ Her stepfather would not have allowed her to go to the Hammonds’ party. ‘I’ll tell her later.’

  Nanna stuffed the rucksack full, then took down a medicine bottle from the dresser and filled it with milk before banging the cork down hard with the heel of her hand. ‘There! Keep it right way up else it’ll spill.’ She held the sack up. ‘Put your arms in. Where are you off to?’

  Isobel pushed her hands through the straps and Nanna settled the bag between her shoulder blades. ‘Up the hill to White Nancy. Saddle of Kerridge. Past the quarry, through the kissing gate, Rainow …’ She smiled at Nanna. ‘Any more?’

  ‘We’ll want to come looking, if anything should happen,’ Nanna said solemnly.

  She kissed Nanna’s dear, worried face again. ‘Over the Dean. Slack-o’th-Moor. The turnpike road to Derbyshire. Hayles Clough. Past the old mill pool and back via Archerfield. Seven miles. How’s that?’

  Twenty minutes later she’d climbed stiles over drystone walls and walked the steep footpath to White Nancy, where she stopped on the top for a while to let the cooling breeze blow through her hair while she enjoyed the view of Bollington sprawled out below. She could see the whole town from here: Grimshaw Lane, which Doreen claimed was named after her ancestors, the cotton mills, the railway, the canal and the churches and chapels that punctuated the rows of stone cottages. Her misgivings about fleeing school were receding, here in the hills above Archerfield.

  She was warm and the rucksack was heavy, so she opened the iron door of White Nancy and hid the sack by the stone slab table. She’d not want all that food. She’d collect it on the way back. The breeze sighing through golden gorse was the only sound that accompanied her until, after another half-hour, when the first stiffness had gone out of her legs and she was striding out faster towards the three ways at Penny Lane, she heard faintly, then coming closer, someone calling out, ‘Isobel Leigh! Isobel Leigh! Not so fast, Isobel Leigh.’

  She stopped, put her hand above her eyes to shade them as she looked back – and saw a tall, broad man, dressed in cord trousers and a Fair Isle pullover running with long, loping strides. As he came nearer her heart leaped. It was Ian Mackenzie.

  ‘You’re a fast walker,’ he said as he came to a stop, panting for breath, hair awry and damp. ‘I thought I’d catch you a mile back. Your grandmother said you’d only been gone ten minutes.’

  ‘Were you looking for me?’

  ‘Sylvia asked me to drop some frocks and things at Lindow.’ His blue eyes were merry. ‘Your grandmother said, “You’ve just missed our Isobel!”’

  She could not keep her face straight. ‘I bet she didn’t. I’ll bet she said, “You’ve just missed our Lil.”’

  Ian put out his left hand to her and for a moment Isobel thought he wanted to shake hands, so she put her right hand into his. He grinned and held fast. ‘Let’s take the path up through the fields and into the pine woods.’

  His hand was warm and dry and firm and it sent the same tingling sensation up her arm as the very first time he’d shaken her hand. ‘And let’s get to know one another, Isobel – or Lily, whichever you prefer.’ He tugged gently on her hand. ‘Which do you prefer?’

  ‘Isobel, please.’ They set off over the field path to where steps in the wall led to a track into the pine forest, Isobel’s heart singing with happiness, holding his hand, walking in step with him, sensing his keen blue eyes on her.

  ‘You changed your name when your mother remarried?’

  ‘Yes. Lily doesn’t go with Willey-Leigh. So I dropped the Lily.’

  He stopped in his tracks and roared with laughter. ‘And then you dropped the Willey?’

  He had a loud, straight-as-a-die laugh and a candid, outspoken way with him that was infectious. They saw humour in the same things and now they laughed together until tears came rolling down their faces. Every time they tried to stop or straighten their faces they lost the battle until finally they ran the last few yards to the summit of the hill where the pine woods were mere yards away, threw themselves down on the short, yellowed grass, and rolled, heads in hands, crying with laughter until they were done. Then they lay, growing calmer, faces pressed close to the earth, watching one another.

  ‘I’ve not laughed so hard for ages.’ Ian propped himself up on one elbow and smiled at her.

  ‘Nor I,’ Isobel said, breathing softly, merriment gone.

  And all at once, as spontaneously as the laughter had overcome them, Ian stretched out his arm along the grass in invitation. His blue eyes and her grey eyes met and held. Slowly Isobel rolled over into the crook of his arm. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she put her arms up and drew his face down to feel his mouth moving, locked into hers as they held one another fast, bodies close, melting.

  She could taste the sweetness of his mouth after he pulled away and looked into her eyes. His blue eyes were alight with the same passion that had set her ablaze. Then his cheek was against hers and his firm, tender hands were sliding inside the navy-blue jumper and touching her bouncing round breasts, where they stood proud of the fine wool vest that was being slipped down until the shoulder ribbon straps were pinning her arms close to her sides.

  The breeze was cool on her bare breasts as they rose and fell under the
touch of gentle fingers and an enveloping warm mouth. And she was quickening, melting inside as he rolled on top of her, hard and urgent through the layers and layers of serge and tweed that separated them. Then her hands fastened behind his neck and his mouth was sealed into hers again and all her senses became one sweet longing to be loved. She didn’t want it to end.

  It could not have been the first time he’d kissed a girl – and in his chosen profession he must see female bodies every day – and yet it felt as if it were a new discovery to him. Quickly then he pulled away and they lay side by side, Ian breathing very fast. She heard him say, ‘My sainted aunt. This is it!’

  She lay very still, eyes closed because she could not bear any more without crying out; struggling to calm the fast breathing and banging heartbeat she was sure he must hear thundering around her body. It had left her shaken to her core.

  It felt like eternity before he sat up, took hold of her hand and said softly, ‘Isobel?’ For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her again and a great aching was in her arms. She opened her eyes slowly and gazed into those blue eyes that were narrowed against the glare of the sun, making him appear serious and vigilant. She was on the point of tears and he bent over her, stroked her cheek and said, ‘I’ve fallen in love. With a beautiful girl called Isobel Leigh. And if I kiss you again I’ll be lost.’

  She couldn’t control the catching breath that was almost a cry as she said, ‘I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve.’

  He smiled and gently brushed the tears from her face. ‘Fourteen,’ he said. ‘You were thirteen or fourteen when we first met. Remember?’ He held her hands and tugged her up into a sitting position.

  ‘Eleven,’ Isobel said. ‘Nearly twelve.’

  ‘So now you are … ?’ A frown of disbelief crossed his face.

  ‘Sixteen. Nearly seventeen.’

  He closed his eyes and put his hands up to his face. ‘My God!’ he said. ‘Sixteen! I’m twenty-two.’ He sat for a few moments, his hands covering his face. Then he stood, put his hand out and helped her to her feet. ‘You are much too young. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have done …’