The Factory Girl (28 page)

Through a pall of grief, Mum's words had drifted on, saying how concerned Alan had been, how he had urged her to go and see her daughter straight away but to her shame she had ignored that advice until Tony's telegram had come.

Geraldine stirred herself briefly. She thought of Alan Presley. That he should put himself out going round to her house – her old house, she corrected – to tell her mother of their meeting. Somehow it seemed he had been affected by seeing her. Geraldine found herself smiling. He was the nicest man she had ever known. Of course she loved Tony, couldn't imagine life without him and appreciated all he'd done for her, and thought that no one could be nicer than Tony, yet a small admittance crept into a tiny corner of her brain that the man she had turned down might have been the one to make her happier for all his lack of money. Geraldine pulled herself up in the realisation that she hadn't been thinking of Caroline, her lost baby, for at least several minutes, knowing a surge of guilt at the fact.

She became aware of someone ringing on the newly installed doorbell. Mrs Stevenson no doubt, come to do her morning chores and cook lunch for her, a lunch she would toy with before pushing away, barely nibbled at. Mrs Stevenson would be gone again by then and thankfully wouldn't see her culinary efforts thus wasted.

With an effort, Geraldine got up and went to let the woman in, turning away with a desultory good morning when a voice in the street hailed her.

‘Don't close the door, darling!'

Glancing towards it she saw Fenella flying down the street towards her, a bright vision under a leaden sky, brown and orange umbrella flapping wildly and almost hooking off her low-brimmed hat; below the French seal-fur coat with its snug collar and huge cuffs, slim legs going like pistons while Cuban heels echoed like castanets tap-tapping on the shiny wet pavement.

She arrived with a final flourish of silk-stockinged legs at the top of the three stairs. ‘Darling, simply couldn't find one taxi in Oxford Street that wasn't being used.' She sounded as breathless as if she had been running the entire length of it. ‘It's this atrocious weather, my sweet, everyone using them. So I thought I'd walk – I had an umbrella – and walking helps keep one slim, darling. Then down came the rain again, and I had to run for it.'

Inside she pumped the umbrella vigorously, flapping the silk in and out, then closed it, dumping it in the hall stand to drip to its heart's content. Geraldine had leapt back to avoid the cold splatter of rain on her legs from the flapping of the brolly. Mrs Stevenson with hers had already gone towards the kitchen.

‘I'll have Mrs Stevenson make up some coffee,' Geraldine said.

‘Oh that would be absolutely divine on a day like this!' Fenella replied a bit too loudly so that Geraldine felt the curl of her lips in an amused smile.

Fenella was at last making this happen; had ploughed through many a dreary visit with the tenaciousness of a farmer ploughing some claggy field by hand, and was finally reaping the results: to see her smile, no matter how brief or thin.

Coffee brought in, and a plate of small, assorted sweet biscuits from Harrods, Fenella continued talking. For the most part Geraldine listened, aware of life seeping back into her as it always did when her sister-in-law was here. Fenella
was
life. She felt its gradual transference into her as one hour went past, then a second and it was time for lunch. She was even joining in the light conversation: how the décor of the living rooms in this house could be made far more modern at little cost, ‘unless you use the services of a really good designer – I mean art deco is all the rage and these rooms are so old-fashioned!'; the growing problem of keeping domestic staff happy, ‘They walk off the moment you're horrid to them, not like when I lived at home, servants knew their place, but now … so independent!'; the cost of house repairs, ‘Simply soaring through the roof since the war – skilled labour demanding enormous fees, yet there are still hundreds of ex-soldiers parading the gutters – one would think some of them might turn their hands to
something
or other!'

Geraldine, remembering her own background of struggle and poverty, merely nodded as she had more or less nodded to everything Fenella had said, too weary to argue but content to draw strength from her prattle. Sometimes Fenella could prattle endlessly, other times she could be quiet and thoughtful. Obviously this morning was one for prattling.

So Fenella continued bounding from subject to subject: her husband, Reginald, came under fire about his work, a solicitor like her father, ‘That's how we met, you know, Gerry'; the clothes she'd just bought, taking them from thick paper bags with names of well-known shops to display a green tweed skirt, fashionable jumper, maroon and white-striped cardigan. Geraldine hadn't noticed the additional encumbrance of bags as well as the umbrella.

‘I need a complete new wardrobe with winter coming on,' Fenella chirped. ‘And look at this, Geraldine dear – don't you think it's simply marvellous?' She unfolded layers of tissue paper to reveal a gold-embroidered, taffeta evening dress, the skirt cut to resemble the petals of a flower, the hem at least eight inches above the ankle.

It was all light-hearted. Mrs Stevenson having finished her morning chores and prepared lunch came and placed plates of egg and cucumber sandwiches, cake, fruit and coffee hot in its pot before making her exit for the day, after asking if there was anything else Mrs Hanford needed and receiving a negative shake of the head and a mumbled, ‘Thank you, Mrs Stevenson.'

Persuaded to show Fenella her wardrobe so that Fenella could make comments about what she should be wearing this coming winter, she felt more lively than she had for days. But Fenella always had this effect on her after a while of being there, bless her heart.

‘With Christmas less than three months away, Geraldine, you simply must prepare for it. I've still loads to do as well as buying presents for all and sundry. Mostly I'm ordering Harrods hampers to be sent, as you know. So convenient. But my own family is different – I'm buying Reginald one of those darling gold wrist-watches that have become all the rage. His pocket watch is so old-fashioned. And you and Anthony of course will have special presents, and naturally, mother and father, and for little Stephanie I'm choosing …'

That's when it happened – all Fenella's efforts wiped out in a word.

She knew Fenella had been talking so brightly, not because she was in any way shallow but because she felt that by remaining so there'd be no danger of unwittingly penetrating to the thick layer of grief lying just below the so-thin armour of normality. Then, this single unguarded moment. Even as she cut off abruptly, Geraldine, on the point of going to the occasional table where lunch had been laid, sank back into the armchair.

Without warning, huge gulping sobs welled up from deep inside her to choke in her throat, the name of Fenella's daughter reminding her of how she'd been robbed of the joy of buying for her own daughter. There would be no buying of baby presents, no baby, no Caroline.

‘Oh, Fen!'

Her sister-in-law was leaning on her with her whole weight in a vain attempt to undo her last words as Geraldine crumpled into the armchair to double up in misery.

‘I'm so sorry, Gerry. I didn't think,' she kept saying, over and over.

It was ages before Geraldine could get out the words, ‘It wasn't your fault,' and force herself into recovering. But lunch had been spoiled and lay untouched; she sunk into her chair, Fenella on the padded arm, one arm around her shoulders, and her voice low and soft but insistent with restored confidence.

‘Darling, you must let go. I know what you must be going through, but you can't go on like this.'

But what did Fenella know of the loss of a child? Maybe her mother did, having a son killed in the war in his youthful years. But what did Fenella understand of the inability to cast Caroline from her mind. She'd say it to herself over and over, hearing herself addressing the infant as though it lay in her arms. She knew she should not be doing it, that she would drive herself mad doing it, but she couldn't stop. She had once spoken the name to Tony but he'd flown into a rage, told her she must try to forget, not keep harping on it, life had to go on. Easy for men. Men didn't feel these things like women did, especially a grieving mother.

Tony's parents hadn't come. For all she saw or knew of them, he might not have had any family at all. But she lacked the will to criticise even as Tony spent energy alternately apologising for them, feebly defending them or being angry with them on her behalf. For all the good any of it did he might as well have said nothing at all, she not having the go in her enough to respond.

‘I know,' she answered limply, not caring enough to control that occasional spasmodic sob left over from her outburst of tears. ‘I try, I really do. Tony gets impatient with me but somehow I can't bring myself to remedy it. It's like being held by an invisible rubber band that stops me going forward. I can't help weaving little scenes around Caroline – what she would be doing now, what I'd be doing – preparing her morning bath, seeing the water wasn't too hot, feeling her soft silky skin all slick with lather, lifting her out, drying her, dressing her, and her all clean and sweet-smelling ready for her ten a.m. feed. My milk has now dried up, but if I squeeze a nipple long enough there's a sort of pearly drop of watery milk that oozes out, and the sight of it only makes me cry again to think it had been meant for her, to nourish her, my little Caroline. Instead—'

Fenella cut her short. ‘That's what I'm getting at, Gerry dear, you mentioning her name and referring to her as though she were here. You mustn't. Gerry, darling, I know this must sound callous, but you've done enough mourning. You gave her a lovely little burial even though the church hadn't officially christened her. Stop trying to resurrect her. She's buried in the ground. She must be buried in your mind too, covered, and time given to let the flowers grow over her. You'll never forget her, but do you think that little baby can rest in peace while you are constantly bringing her back? My dear, be kind to her. You loved her all the while she was being made. Now let her rest.'

Geraldine had lifted her eyes to her sister-in-law, one thought in her mind that surprised her – she'd never thought of Fenella as being religious. Perhaps she was. Perhaps from that great house of hers not far from her parents' home, she sometimes attended church on Sunday mornings. Fenella could be full of surprises at times.

‘Can you do that, my dear?' Fenella was begging. ‘She really should be left to rest. Can you do that? For her sake.'

Geraldine's stare, drying now, was still on her as she nodded. How simply she had put it. The last thing she wanted to do was to have Caroline's peace of mind disturbed – no loving mother could do that to her child. For Caroline's sake she must return to sanity.

‘I'll try,' she said in a small voice, and Fenella patted her shoulder and rose from the arm of the chair as though the problem had been solved satisfactorily.

‘Now then, darling, let's find you a drop of brandy.'

‘There's coffee in the pot.'

‘Brandy and coffee – perfect.' Her observation was interrupted by the trilling of the doorbell. ‘I'll go,' she chirruped.

Left alone, Geraldine sat without being able to form one thought. She heard Fenella query, ‘Yes?' then a man's voice, a small hesitation, followed by Fenella calling, ‘There's a Mr Alan Presley here, wants to see you, Gerry.'

‘Sorry to intrude.' Alan Presley stood in the centre of the lounge where Fenella had brought him in the same manner in which she might have brought in a stray cat, unsure of its genus, much less its pedigree.

He looked quite out of place yet it was only his clothes that made him seem so and as he turned his face towards Geraldine, firm and calm, she saw a natural dignity that appeared to give him height. It was a dignity she'd never noticed before and she experienced a surge of pride for him. In the right clothes he could fit in anywhere.

‘Didn't mean to,' he was saying. ‘I ought ter go.'

‘No, you're not intruding, Alan.' She glanced across at Fenella, who for once was silent, hovering to one side of the room, eyes switching between her and Alan as if to ask incredulously, ‘You know this man?'

‘Fenella, this is …' Geraldine began and stopped. How should she introduce him? Who as? ‘Fenella,' she began again, more firmly, ‘this is a family friend. Alan, this is Fenella Grading, my sister-in-law.'

He had turned to the other woman, gave her a small nod. ‘Very nice ter meet yer.'

Fenella returning the nod without speaking, Geraldine found herself cringing at Alan's untutored accent. ‘Well,' she said brightly, and realised this was the first time she had sounded anywhere near bright since Caroline died.

She turned away from the thought. ‘It is nice to see you, Alan. I think there's still some coffee left. Would you like a cup?' It sounded so trivial and she could see he was feeling awkward. She felt awkward too. A look flitted across Fenella's eyes and she knew exactly what she was thinking.

Fenella made a move, coming forward as if struck from behind. Her voice was overbright. ‘I'd best be off, darling. Things to do, you know. Sorry I have to go but I hope our little chat …' she grew guarded and secretively confidential, ‘I hope it has been of some help, my dear. I expect I'll see you on Wednesday. Now keep your chin up, Gerry darling, remember. I'll see myself out.'

‘No.' Geraldine followed her. ‘I'll come to the door with you.'

With Fenella putting on her coat and bending to gaze critically at herself in the hall mirror so as to adjust her low-brimmed hat properly on her head, the now dry umbrella retrieved from its stand, Geraldine added rather foolishly, ‘I'm sorry about that. I was surprised to see him. He's never come here before.'