I Made a Mistake

by Jane Corry

  ‘Your daughter’s trousers?’ repeats Sharon now in a sarcastic tone. ‘I’d have thought you could afford your own clothes.’

  Bitch. I don’t normally use that word but trust me, this woman is one.

  ‘Very funny,’ I say. Then I gesticulate at Sharon’s shapeless navy silk shift; an expensive designer tent, contrived to hide bulges. ‘You look extraordinary.’

  I’m not lying. She does. And yes I know that my choice of words could be taken either way. Guess which one she seems to have gone for, from the look on her face? To be fair, she wouldn’t be wrong. The problem with being in this business is that you can say or do some pretty awful things just to stay ahead of the game – even if you kid yourself that you’re really a nice person.

  ‘Sorry,’ I blurt out, spying Ronnie, another of my clients, in the corner and seeing an escape route. ‘There’s someone I have to talk to over there.’

  ‘Me too,’ she retorts in a cold, clipped voice. ‘Catch you later.’

  ‘Another drink, madam?’ asks a passing waiter.

  ‘Thanks.’ I stop to have my sparkling water topped up. I can’t drink because I’m driving home tonight. I only hope the weather isn’t too bad. It was freezing on the way over and there were warnings of snow.

  But just before I can reach Ronnie, my mobile flashes. Home.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ sobs a small voice.

  I can only just hear my younger daughter with the loud party music around us.

  ‘Melissa has taken my sketchpad and won’t give it back.’

  Daisy has lived and breathed art from the moment she picked up a pencil. No one knows where this particular skill comes from. Betty tries to be arty with her various hobbies, but although we praise her efforts, she’s not a natural. Obviously, I’d never say so for fear of hurting her feelings.

  ‘Can’t Gran sort it out?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s meditating in her room.’

  ‘What about Dad?’

  ‘He’s going to be late again.’

  I swallow my irritation. Stuart had promised to be back early from the surgery because of this party. Although Betty is brilliant at dealing with the girls, she’s not getting any younger and I don’t want to impose on her.

  ‘Give me that!’

  It’s Melissa. ‘I only took it off her because she wouldn’t let me watch I Want to Be a Star.’

  It should be said here that my eldest daughter’s entire aim in life is to get onto the stage. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but the conversations always end so badly that I’ve given up now. ‘Just because you failed, doesn’t mean I will,’ Melissa had snapped the last time. Ouch!

  ‘Please, girls,’ I say down the line. ‘Can you get Gran to come downstairs?’

  ‘She says she will in a minute but that we’ve got to sort out our own arguments because it’s good for us.’

  That’s all very well, but right now I’d rather Betty intervened.

  ‘And where have you put my leotard? I need it for dance class tomorrow.’

  I try to think. ‘In the linen cupboard.’

  ‘I’ve looked and it’s not there.’

  Maybe that’s because it’s a right old mess. I never seem to have time to fold everything so I just chuck it in. I can’t ask my mother-in-law to do everything.

  ‘In the dirty laundry bin?’ I suggest.

  ‘Nope.’

  Then it comes to me. The gusset had torn and needed mending. So it was by my bed, waiting for me to ask Betty if she’d mind. I know my stuff when it comes to running an agency, but sewing is not one of my skills. ‘I remember now–’

  Damn! My mobile’s just cut out. I meant to recharge it in the car on the way here but forgot to bring my lead. Now I’ll have to go and see if they have a spare at reception. If not, I’ll ask if I can use their phone to ring the children back.

  ‘Poppy,’ says a plaintive voice at my side.

  It’s Ronnie. My heart instantly softens. He reminds me a bit of my dad with that combination of anxiety and determination on his face.

  ‘I heard that vicar chap from Peter’s Paradise is here. The really good-looking one. You don’t think …’

  I know what he is going to say. Matthew’s success came from his role as a vicar. Vicars are Ronnie’s speciality. In fact he was a vicar himself until he got defrocked (he’s rather vague on the details) and now he specializes in pretend ones. Clearly Ronnie worries his toes are about to be trodden on.

  ‘Ronnie, I’d be amazed …’ But before I can say any more, Jennifer comes lolloping over to us.

  ‘Poppy, it’s true. He’s HERE!’

  The music stops just as she yells the last part. Suddenly, the whole room goes silent.

  Everyone is looking at the man who has just entered the ballroom. He’s wearing a black dinner suit but has made it look different from everyone else’s by artfully tucking that scarlet bow tie into his jacket pocket so it is just peeping out; rather like a nosegay. It’s the sort of thing that someone might do halfway through a party but it takes a certain confidence to arrive like that.

  The crisp white shirt is open at the neck, revealing a mass of curly brown chest hair. On his feet, he’s wearing winkle pickers. In our day, they might have been considered old-fashioned but now they look cool. His dark hair is swept back from his face, revealing a strong forehead and a nose that isn’t afraid to stand out, rather like his dress sense.

  He takes the glass of champagne offered by an admiring waitress. Downs it in one and accepts another. ‘Cheers,’ he says in a deep rich voice, as if he is talking to the cameras. Deeply. Intimately. You can’t help feeling that this is a man who enjoys an audience. He scans the crowd, resting momentarily on Doris Days and a few selected others as though each is the only person in the world who matters.

  Then his eyes settle on my face.

  I cannot breathe. Matthew Gordon is making his way straight towards me.

  ‘Pops,’ he says, now standing so close that I can smell his minty breath. No one has called me that for years.

  I am aware of several jaws dropping around me and the unspoken ‘please introduce me’ expressions. This is a man whose name would mean nothing to my children. It might not mean much to my generation either unless they have encyclopaedic memories like Jennifer. But it doesn’t really matter. People would be staring anyway. This man is objectively drop-dead handsome in a fifty-plus way and he has presence. In spades.

  Matthew puts out his hand to shake mine. His skin feels warm. Just as it had twenty-three years and three months ago when it had last pressed against mine in my little Kilburn bedsit with its one-bar electric fire. ‘What a lovely surprise!’

  Central Criminal Court, London – Summer

  Court No. 1 is large and modern, with white walls and an RAF-blue carpet more suited to an office. There is a series of long tables laid out before the judge’s bench, almost like a classroom. The prosecution and the defence barristers in their wigs and black gowns with flapping crow-like wings are seated in separate tiers. Behind them are their respective teams in their sharp suits who lean forward at times to pass a note or whisper in their barristers’ ears. There are computer screens on all the desks, including the judge’s, and even on the wall.

  And, of course, there’s the jury. When the jurors first filed in at the beginning of this murder trial, they looked rather stunned and out of their comfort zone. But now, two days in, some are becoming more assured. Others are still twitchy, like the man fiddling with his anorak zip as though there was something wrong with it.

  He stops, however, when a woman is called to take the stand. Instantly a deafening silence sweeps across the courtroom. All eyes are fixed on her. She is wearing a loose emerald-green dress with a bright white collar, which she keeps smoothing down as though nervous. The colour suits her auburn hair. Her face is devoid of make-up. She is not wearing earrings, although if you look closely you might see that
her ears have been pierced. Her eyes dart from one place to another, resting fleetingly on all the heads turned towards her.

  ‘Poppy Page,’ says the prosecution counsel in her crisp clear voice. ‘Can you tell me precisely what happened when you met Matthew Gordon, the deceased, at the Association of Supporting Artistes and Agents’ Christmas party?’

  The woman starts to answer, but the words appear stuck in her throat. Her fingers are twisted awkwardly as if she is threading one through the other like a child’s game.

  ‘We talked,’ she says finally.

  ‘About what?’ says the prosecutor sharply.

  The woman looks up to the public gallery. There are quite a few there. It’s a popular place, not just for the family and friends of those on the stand but also for those seeking free entertainment and shelter from the rain. Right now, it’s actually nearly thirty degrees outside. We are, according to the forecasters, set for a heatwave. Both in court and out.

  ‘About the industry,’ she says. Each word that she utters appears to be a huge effort.

  ‘Did you talk about anything personal?’

  Her eyes meet those of the prosecution barrister who has just spoken. ‘Why would we do that?’

  ‘That’s for you to tell me, I believe, Mrs Page. Let me ask you another question. Is it true that you used to know the deceased in a … non-professional capacity?’

  The woman looks down at the ground. She nods her head in a quick, awkward jerking motion, rather like a puppet on a string.

  ‘Please use verbal responses only.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers.

  ‘Louder, please. I’m afraid the court might not have caught that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you originally meet?’

  There is silence. The barrister glances at the judge, who wears a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. They appear almost anachronistic, set just below the wig, which looks like it belongs to a different age. He leans forward disapprovingly.

  ‘Mrs Page,’ he says. ‘Would you like the question repeated?’

  She shakes her head and then visibly swallows hard. It almost seems that something is stuck in her throat. She takes a sip of water. After that she looks down at her hands – now perfectly still – as if they are not her own.

  And then she speaks.

  2

  Betty

  Dear Poppy …

  ‘How can any of this have happened? You’ve been like a daughter to me and now … well, what can I say? I’d like to talk to you, face to face. But as you’ve discovered, you poor thing, it’s not private enough during visiting hours. So I’m writing to you instead. You might not like all of it. I’m not even sure where to begin. But I’m going to start with my own adult life. You’ll understand why, later on.

  When I got married back in 1970, I was twenty and life was all very different. In our part of the East End, it wasn’t on for a couple to live together without a wedding ring. ‘Only a slut would do that,’ my mum used to say. ‘Don’t you ever go getting yourself into trouble, girl, or your dad and me will sling you out faster than you can say “sorry”.’

  ‘It’s “your dad and I”,’ I wanted to say. But I didn’t dare or she’d have clipped me one for being cheeky. We used to have neighbours whose daughter had ‘got into trouble’. She had to get married, of course, but they couldn’t deal with the scandal and moved away. ‘That girl ruined her parents’ lives,’ my mother muttered every time we went past their block of flats.

  It’s incredible how attitudes to these things have changed in what isn’t such a very long period of time. Then again, maybe all generations feel the same. Who knows what life will be like when Melissa and Daisy are my age? It’s both scary and exciting to think about it.

  I’d never had a boyfriend before Jock. It wasn’t for the wanting. I’d have given anything for one! But I was painfully shy. Once a boy at school started to chat me up on the bus but I didn’t know what to say. It might have been different if I’d had a brother but men, to me, seemed like an alien species.

  Besides, the opportunities for finding love were few and far between. My parents wouldn’t let me go to the dances that my friends did. ‘Plenty of time for that sort of thing when you’re older,’ my father used to say. I was fifteen at the time. Dead strict, he was.

  My mother persuaded him to let me go to the church youth club but there were mainly girls there. Then a group of skinheads came in one night and brought bottles of beer with them. They smashed up the place and the youth club closed because it couldn’t afford to repair the damage. My parents wouldn’t let me go out at night after that – they said it wasn’t safe. So that was the end of my social life for a while apart from spending my pocket money on a fizzy lemonade at the local Wimpy bar on Saturday lunchtimes with girls from school. Of course, we always eyed up any of the blokes who came in. But none of them showed us much interest. So instead, we just talked about Davy Jones from the Monkees. Fancied him rotten, we all did! I had a poster of him on my bedroom wall that had come free with Jackie magazine. Every night I prayed that Davy would somehow find me and whisk me away. Of course, I knew it wouldn’t really happen but we all need our dreams, don’t we?

  I wasn’t very bright at school. English, maths, geography … That kind of stuff never made sense in my head. Maybe it was because my school was so rowdy. It was hard to concentrate in class. I’d actually got a place at the Grammar when I was eleven but my parents wouldn’t let me take it because they couldn’t afford the uniform. So I went to the local comprehensive instead, which had quite a name, for the wrong reason.

  But I liked art and needlework. ‘Your Betty has a real skill,’ the teacher told my parents. ‘She could go on to art college or teach domestic science if she stays on.’

  There was no way my parents would allow that. They didn’t believe in further education. In their view, students were ‘layabouts’ and ‘spongers’ with long hair. I believed them, not knowing then that their narrow-minded attitude came from fear of the unknown. They could still remember the war. All they wanted now was safety and a sensible occupation for me. My mother had worked in a light-bulb factory until she’d had me. My father was still there. It was the way it had been when they were young in the late forties and early fifties and they didn’t see why it had to change now.

  ‘I’ve made inquiries, Betty,’ Dad told me with pride on my sixteenth birthday. ‘Spoke to my boss, I did and got you a place on the factory line. You’re a very lucky young lady. There’s people would kill to get a steady job like this.’

  ‘Why can’t I go to college to do dressmaking?’ I protested. I’d always been a good girl and done what I’d been told, partly because I was an only child. There was no one else to fight my battles for me. But the thought of working in the same factory as my dad, just round the corner from our council estate, filled me with dread.

  ‘Arty crafty stuff and nonsense, you mean,’ snorted my dad. ‘That’s not going to help us put bread on the table. You need to start earning your keep if you’re going to carry on living here.’

  I know that sounds hard. I can’t ever imagine you saying something similar to the girls, Poppy. But it was the way that many working-class families thought at the time. They believed it was good for us. Maybe it was.

  Then, just before I was due to start work, I caught the 38 bus to Tottenham Court Road and went window shopping in Carnaby Street with some of my old schoolfriends. None of us could afford much but I liked to look at the clothes and work out how they were made. Afterwards, I’d browse round the local market and buy some material from saved-up birthday and Christmas money. I’d make my own pattern and run up outfits using Mum’s sewing machine.

  Then I saw the vacancy on the door of a boutique. (It was really ‘cool’, as Melissa and Daisy might say, although we used the term ‘groovy’.) It had blacked-out windows and dim lighting inside so you could hardly see the clothes. They also played music, which in those days was really different. WANTED
, said the advert, SHOP ASSISTANT. PERMANENT POSITION.

  Almost without knowing what I was doing, I went in and filled out a form. ‘We want someone who can advise our customers on fashion,’ the manageress told me.

  ‘Well,’ I said, smoothing down my jacket. ‘I made this and the skirt I’m wearing.’

  ‘Did you now?’ she said thoughtfully.

  When I got home, my dad was livid. ‘What’s this about working in some clothes shop?’ he’d demanded. The manageress had already rung our home number (which I’d put on the form) and told my parents that the job was mine if I was still interested! I expected Mum to be furious too but the funny thing was that she was quite impressed. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll talk your dad round.’

  She did as well, partly because the pay was higher at the shop than the factory. Oh, how I loved it there! I got to know lots of the customers who kept coming back because I’d show them what suited them and what didn’t. They seemed to appreciate my honesty. Often, I’d explain how to wear something in a slightly different way – like a jumper off the shoulder or with a chain belt from our new range.

  Sometimes they’d ask where I got the clothes I was wearing. I explained I made them myself. ‘Can you come up with something for me like that?’ customers would inquire. I asked the manageress for permission. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But you can make a couple of outfits for us and we’ll sell them, keeping half the profits. Does that sound all right for you?’

  It sounded more than all right. I was able to save enough to buy Mum her favourite perfume – Blue Grass – for her birthday. But the other girls in the shop got jealous because I was making more money than they were with my on-the-side earnings. They started whispering about me and kept asking me why I didn’t have a boyfriend. It made me feel that there was something wrong with me. In those days, people still talked about being ‘left on the shelf’. The worst thing that could happen to you, apart from getting pregnant before being married, was not finding someone who wanted to marry you.