The Girl From Barefoot House (27 page)

Four months later, Josie still hadn’t got used to leaving her child. When she got home Laura was usually asleep. She’d always been a perfect baby, and rarely woke during the night.

I’m missing so much, she thought as she watched Jack move the typewriter to the floor, then take the casserole she’d made the night before from the oven and put it on the table. She’d been at work while Laura had spent a whole hour trying to pull her fingers off one by one, and when she’d sat up unaided for the first time and held out her arms to be picked up. At weekends, when she nursed her, she noticed Laura’s eyes turn to Jack. Who is this stranger? Josie imagined her thinking. Who the hell is this funny woman whose knee I’m sitting on? In another few months Laura would start talking, and her first word wasn’t likely to be ‘Mummy’.

The graffiti-covered factory served as a background to their meal. If there had ever been cypress trees in Cypress Terrace, there was no sign of them now. ‘I was wondering,’ Jack said, ‘if we could run to a television? Not buy one,’ he added hastily. ‘I mean get one on hire. It only costs about a dollar a week. It’s just that, if I’m to approach the BBC, I’d like to see a few plays first. Bob said they have on at least two a week. You might enjoy having a set, sweetheart.’ Bob was someone he’d met in the corner pub, his only social outlet and so utterly
pathetic when compared to the frantic clubbing and partying in New York.

She would never have time to watch TV. There was always ironing to do, Laura’s nappies to wash and soak before they went to the launderette, things to mend, next day’s meal to prepare – the inevitable casserole or stew – tidying, cleaning. She was lucky if she managed to snatch an hour with a book before it was time for bed, where Jack always wanted to make love, and she had to pretend it was wonderful when all she wanted to do was sleep.

He was looking at her pleadingly, and she couldn’t stand it. She hated being the breadwinner and her husband asking for money.

‘Of course we can afford it,’ she said cheerfully.

‘I’ll arrange it tomorrow.’

She took her empty plate over to the sink, and noticed a canvas holdall on the floor. ‘Jack, did you take the washing to the laundrette?’

‘Christ, I forgot.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll take it now – they’re open till ten.’

‘You might as well have a drink while you’re waiting.’

He planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘I suppose I might. Bye, sweetheart. See you later.’

‘Bye.’ Josie let out a long, slow breath when the door closed. She put the dishes in to soak and sat at the foot of the bed beside the cot. Laura was on her back, her hands raised in a position of surrender. Josie lifted the quilt. Her knees were spread, feet together, making a perfect diamond.

‘I love you,’ she whispered. Laura uttered a tiny cry, opened her brown eyes – Jack’s eyes – stared unseeingly at her mother, then closed them. She was Jack’s child, with his eyes, his fine nose, fine eyebrows, the same coal black hair.

The nurses had exclaimed in surprise at the amount of hair she’d had when she was born. ‘This baby already needs a haircut,’ the midwife said. The birth had been as easy as the pregnancy – no complications, no stitches, hardly any pain.

‘You’re a dream baby,’ Josie told her, ‘which is just as well. If you were like some babies I’ve heard of, your dad would hardly get any writing done. Mind you, I wouldn’t mind if you had a little cry in the middle of the night, so I could pick you up and give you a bit of a cuddle, like. But then, frankly, luv, I feel more than a bit worn out, so ignore that.’

Two months later, Josie came home to find Laura standing up in her cot, clutching the bars and grinning fiendishly. ‘She did that herself,’ Jack said proudly. ‘You should have seen the look of determination on her face. She was going to stand up or die in the attempt. She’s enormously pleased with herself.’

‘I wish I’d been here,’ Josie said wistfully.

‘So do I.’ His expression changed to one of mild irritation. ‘Lately, her favourite game is throwing her toys out the cot, and expecting them back straight away so she can throw them out again. I must have got up at least twenty times.’

‘She can’t stay in her cot for ever. She’ll be crawling soon.’ Josie knelt beside the cot. ‘Won’t you, darling?’

Laura did a little jig. ‘Bah!’ she cried.

‘Would you like a rusk?’

‘Bah!’

‘I’ve already fed her,’ Jack broke in. ‘Don’t give her any more. She’ll get fat.’

Josie stroked her daughter’s plump arm. ‘She’s already fat. Shall I change her nappy?’

‘She had a fresh diaper about half an hour ago.’ He put the kettle on. ‘Hey, despite the trials and tribulations of the day, I finished that play for the BBC. It took some discipline, trying to fit the whole thing into an hour and a half.’

‘Good.’ Josie picked Laura up out of the cot and carried her to the settee, half expecting Jack to tell her not to. The baby immediately made a grab for her necklace of multicoloured beads. ‘What’s it about, the play?’ He was unwilling to discuss plots until he’d finished.

She only half listened as he explained that it was about a pit disaster somewhere, followed by a famous strike, aware only that it sounded dead dull, as Jack’s plays usually did. It was strange because he was basically a happy sold, yet everything he wrote was as miserable as sin.

How much longer would this go on? she wondered as Laura tried to strangle her with the beads. They’d been in London fourteen months, yet Jack was no nearer success than the day they’d arrived.

Suddenly, the beads broke. They fell on the cushions of the settee and rolled on to the floor.

‘Damn!’ Jack exclaimed.

‘It doesn’t matter, they’re only cheap ones.’

‘I don’t give a shit about the necklace,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m worried Laura’s got one in her mouth. You should have stopped her chewing it.’

‘I didn’t notice she was,’ Josie said in a small voice.

Laura, conscious that something was happening she didn’t understand, raised her arms and looked nervously at Jack. He came over and plucked her off Josie’s knee. ‘It’s all right, honey. Open your mouth for Daddy. Let’s
see what you’ve got in there. Good girl, four perfect little teeth, another two on the way and not a bead in sight.’

It was all Josie could do not to burst into tears.

It was Friday. Josie came out of the office, and saw Jack waiting on the other side of the road. He smiled, waved and came striding across, lightly dodging the traffic. For the first time in ages she felt a tiny thrill. There was something about the confident, bouncing walk that reminded her of the Jack of old.

‘Where’s Laura?’ she demanded as soon as he arrived.

‘I left her with Elsie Forrest,’ he said easily. ‘I’ve got some great news.’

‘Elsie Forrest, the woman in the basement?’ Josie hurried towards the bus stop. ‘She’s not quite right in the head, Jack. Haven’t you heard the way she cries?’

Jack laid a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Josie, I told you ages ago, she used to be a nanny. She’s looked after dozens of children. Laura’s completely safe. Elsie only cries because she’s lonely, that’s all.’

‘But, Jack …’ Entirely against her will, she found herself being steered into a pub. ‘I’m worried about Laura.’

‘I’ve told you, she’ll be fine. What do you want to drink?’

‘I don’t want a drink.’

‘Well, you’re having one, so sit down. We’ve got something to celebrate.’ He brought her a sherry and a beer for himself.

‘What have we got to celebrate?’

His dark eyes danced. ‘This morning, I was leaving the apartment to take Laura for her walk when the phone rang. It was a woman from the BBC, wanting to talk about my play. The long and short of it was, she asked if
I was free for lunch. It was too good an opportunity to miss, so I said yes. I was going to call your office, ask you to come home, but thought about Elsie Forrest. She was only too pleased to oblige. I’ve been home since,’ he said quickly when Josie opened her mouth to speak. ‘Laura didn’t want to know me. She’s fine with Elsie. Anyway, back to this afternoon. Matty took me to a very smart restaurant in Mayfair.’

‘Mattie?’

‘Mathilda Garr, Mattie, the woman from the BBC.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘She’s old. Although she didn’t think much of the play, she reckons I’ve got a way with dialogue. She wants me to write a pilot for a series she has planned. My play arrived quite fortuitously while she was casting around for a writer.’

‘What sort of series?’ She was doing her best to relax. Surely Laura wasn’t likely to come to harm with an ex-nanny?

‘A crime thing. An American cop, a detective, joins the Metropolitan Police. There’s all sorts of resentment until he becomes accepted.’ He put his hand over hers. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I’ve a feeling this is it. By this time next year we’ll have that flat in Mayfair that I promised.’

‘But, Jack, it doesn’t sound your sort of thing,’ Josie said cautiously.

His lip curled. He leaned back in the chair and shook his head. There was a hard look on his face she’d never seen before. It made her feel very sad. ‘I don’t think anyone’s interested in my sort of thing, sweetheart. If Mattie likes my script, there’ll be a four-figure advance for seven episodes. I say, fuck plays, I’d sooner have the cash.’

Josie felt even sadder. If they had never met, he would be in New York, still full of ideals, writing plays that
meant
something.
What would his old friends say if they knew the noble Jack Coltrane had sunk to writing for money?

Still, it would be more than welcome, the money. She felt guilty that she’d been so preoccupied with Laura that she wasn’t as excited as she should have been at his news which, now she thought about it, was dead marvellous. He looked a bit let down, she thought. He’d have expected her to be as thrilled as he was.

She put her hand over his and squeezed it warmly. ‘Congratulations, luv. Let’s buy some wine on the way home. We’ll drink to your success tonight.’

Josie was relieved to find her daughter sitting contentedly on Elsie Forrest’s floor, surrounded by her toys and scribbling furiously in a pad. She completely ignored their arrival.

Elsie, a small, neat woman with lovely silver hair, wore a navy blue pinafore dress and a white starched blouse and apron, almost a uniform. The basement flat was clean, probably cleaner than the Coltranes’, and Elsie was smiling radiantly. ‘That’s Mummy she’s drawing.’ She looked fondly at Laura. ‘I never thought I’d care for a baby again. I’m so happy.’

Jack gave Josie a challenging look. There! I told you it would be all right, it seemed to say.

‘Why don’t you leave her a little longer and have a nice dinner to celebrate?’ Elsie suggested. ‘She’ll fall asleep soon. She’s been too busy all afternoon to take a nap.’

They went to a small Italian restaurant in Soho with red gingham cloths and candles on the tables. The owner, Marco, was the brother of someone Jack had known in New York, and it was almost like old times
when he introduced himself. Marco slapped him on the shoulder and shook his hand for a good five minutes.

‘Course I hearda Jack Coltrane. Frankie tolda me you come to London. You Mrs Coltrane? Sit down, sit down, here, nice, private corner.’ He produced a menu and waved his arms expansively. ‘Meal’s on the house for Frankie’s besta friend.’

Josie couldn’t remember having met anyone called Frankie, but in New York everyone regarded themselves as Jack’s best friend. The wine arrived, and with it some of the old magic. She knew it would never return completely, not after the hard look she’d seen on Jack’s face. Circumstances had changed him, as they had probably changed her. She had never been a happy, carefree person, not like Jack, she had too many painful memories. She was too introverted, she took everything too seriously, but over the last eighteen months she’d felt as if she was carrying the weight of the whole world on her shoulders.

They had moved less than a mile, to another cul-de-sac of tall terraced houses, but it was like moving to the other side of the world. The yellow brick residences were brand new, and the estate agent described them as ‘town’ houses, not terraced. There were twelve altogether, six each side, built on the site of an unused church off the Kings Road, Chelsea. They were mostly occupied by young couples like the Coltranes.

It was an area that reminded Josie a little bit of New York. She loved the boutiques with their outrageous clothes, and the coffee-bars and pubs where she frequently glimpsed faces she’d seen in films or on television.

The ground floor was a garage in which they kept the blue Austin Healey convertible. There was a small room at the back that Jack used as a study. The living-cum-dining room was on the first floor, with a window that took up the entire wall. Behind, overlooking a paved courtyard, was a kitchen, with matching units, a refrigerator, a Hoover twin-tub washing machine and an alcove with padded seats and a table, where they ate if they didn’t have guests. Three bedrooms and a bathroom were on the floor above.

Everyone in Bingham Mews was friendly. In summer, they held cocktail parties in the open, drifting in and out of each other’s houses in search of snacks and drinks – Jack was an expert at mixing cocktails. There was sometimes a drinks party on Sunday afternoons, and they invited each other in small groups to dinner, gravely discussing the Suez crisis, the enforced desegregation of schools in America, the revolution in Cuba led by a man called Fidel Castro.

Josie didn’t care that she was the only woman in the mews who did her own cleaning, but found it nerve-racking having to make meals for half a dozen dead posh people – her previous culinary experience extended no further than casseroles and shepherd’s pie from the cheapest mince. But she had no intention of letting down the working classes. She bought a ‘Good Housekeeping’ recipe book and learned how to make chicken marengo, turkey blanquette, venison and all sorts of gateaux and meringues, as well as discovering thirty different ways to use an orange.

Elsie Forrest, now their regular babysitter, usually came to help. Elsie was frequently ‘borrowed’ by other residents with children. She had moved to a much nicer flat in Fulham, and considered Jack entirely responsible for her change in fortune. ‘If he hadn’t trusted me with your darling Laura, I’d still be wasting away in Cypress Terrace.’