The Soldier's Bride (2 page)

At one end, the top of the piano was home to several big Victorian vases with painted pastoral scenes, some sepia photographs of various relatives staring out with
fixed expressions, and some smaller vases. The piano had belonged to Mum’s mother. So had the six tall-backed chairs and the round dining table with extensions that opened with a winder, its polished mahogany usually protected by a chenille cover with bobbled fringes, an aspidistra in an ornate pot in the centre. Today its extensions were fully out, covered with a snowy Irish linen cloth and Grandma’s best cutlery laid for the wedding breakfast. The two-tiered wedding cake stood in the middle, like a silent honoured guest, in place of the aspidistra.

At the other end of the parlour was a horsehair sofa with an armchair to match, the other one being wooden, with a padded back and padded wooden arms, such as Mum liked to use. ‘Keeps the back nice and straight,’ she maintained. ‘Floppy sitting makes a woman ungainly.’ She was still very Victorian in her ways, and it was too late to change her now. A lovely straight back she’d had once, a habit passed on to all three girls. It was sad to see how bent those shoulders had become over her slowly collapsing chest.

Letty wandered to the piano, lifting the lid with one hand and picking out two bars of ‘I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls’ with the other. Mum used to play on Sunday evenings. They’d sing their favourite songs, Dad’s voice powerful, Mum’s sweet, the girls’ mostly indifferent. They’d not done it much since Mum had become so tired and worn. Letty closed the lid despondently.

What would Dad do if anything happened to Mum? She’d always had to push him, being a bit of a dreamer, always talking of what he’d do but never doing it. He wasn’t
hard enough, more of a leaner really. Mum’s people had been metal merchants, brought up hard on business. Had she been a bit sterner with him, Arthur too might have been harder, made good money. But he was in love with beautiful things. He and Mum used to argue a lot once, over some fine piece he refused to resell after buying it off someone trying to raise a bit more cash than the pawn would give. He could be stubborn sometimes, Mum said, in a silly way. But they no longer argued, hadn’t for months.

A lot of his treasured finds graced the mantelpiece that reared above the fireplace like a mahogany monarch almost to the ceiling in whirls and scrolls and shelves on fluted columns, backed by small mirrors. Each piece reflected Dad’s passion for beautiful things.

Letty knew how he felt. She felt the same. She loved to wander around the shop touching the smoothness of polished wood, the silkiness of good china, looking at shapes, staring at pictures.

She heard Mum call out: ‘Time’s getting on, Lucy dear.’

And Lucy call back: ‘The church is only in the next street, Mum. We ain’t going all the way to Timbuctoo!’

‘I know, luv. But it’s time Vinny got herself sorted out, then ’as a cup of tea and a bit to eat. She ’as to sustain ’erself through the ceremony till we all get back ’ere for the wedding breakfast. Vinny, don’t you forget to wear yer gran’s garter … something old. An’ you’ll have to borrer something too. You got a clean ’anky, luv? Can I help?’

‘No!’ Lucy’s cry was just a little panicky. ‘Don’t come in ’till Vinny’s ready. It’ll spoil the surprise.’

Dad’s voice rasped irritably: ‘’Er name’s Lavinia! Damn
this bloody collar! See if yer can fix it, Mum.’ He seldom called her Mabel.

A sudden outburst came from the bedroom. ‘Lucy – it’ll fall down, I know it will! Right in the middle of the service. My veil will pull it down. I shall feel such a lemon.’

‘It won’t fall down!’ Lucy’s voice was full of effrontery, her effort with Vinny’s hair being criticised. ‘It’s well pinned.’

‘If it falls down, I’ll blame you! I won’t get married. I’ll run out of the church, I will!’

‘Lucy! Vinny!’ Mum was making for their bedroom. ‘You’ll spoil yer pretty face, Vinny, if yer start crying.’

‘But just look at it, Mum!’ she was wailing. ‘It’s all floppy.’

Letty leapt into action, running in behind her mother, Dad following. There the bride stood in all her glory, except for a face creased in pique. Letty made her eyes grow wide with admiration. Not all in pretence either for Vinny was delicately pretty.

‘Luvaduck!’ she gasped. ‘I ain’t never seen anyone look so … so beautiful!’

Vinny’s grey-green eyes grew hopeful. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Think so? I think your Albert might faint away at the sight of you. I think the vicar might too. You look … you look as pretty as Carol McComas.’

She couldn’t have quoted a more apt example of loveliness. Carol McComas was Vinny’s favourite actress on whose swan neck, small perfectly balanced features, clear skin as delicately blushed as a peach, Vinny strived to model
herself. In her high-necked, white satin wedding gown, its bodice a froth of lace, with more flaring at the elbows and the train, Vinny looked so like her, it took Letty’s breath away.

‘Your Albert don’t know just ’ow lucky he is,’ she sighed, wishing for a brief moment it was she who stood there.

Lavinia’s face sobered with uncertainty. ‘Oh, I do hope he’ll like the way I look.’

Mum put her hands to her lips and stood back to survey her. Letty felt with a searing of sadness that Mum would much rather have cuddled her eldest daughter, soon to leave her family to share a new life with her husband, but dare not let this beautiful girl catch what she had. ‘He won’t be able to ’elp himself, luv,’ she whispered, and her voice wavered.

The only man in a family of women, Arthur Bancroft risked a surreptitious wipe of one finger beneath his suddenly moist eyes. ‘You best make yerself scarce now, Lavinia. Before people start arriving,’ he said huskily. ‘Can’t ’ave ’em see yer before yer walk down that aisle.’

Master of himself again, he ushered his eldest daughter out of the bedroom to be safely hidden in her parents’ room until her entrance in church would take everyone’s breath away.

At last Letty was free to place herself in Lucy’s deft hands to be helped into her new undergarments and the dress that had been hanging behind the door under a sheet since being made up by Mum’s friend Mrs Hall, a widow who lived above the Knave of Clubs on the corner of Bethnal
Green Road. The material had been bought at Debenham & Freebody’s departmental store just off Oxford Street – apple green crepe-de-chine – and went well with her auburn hair. Lucy’s dress was pale blue, and a wonderful job Mrs Hall had made of them both.

Not too fancy, all right for Sunday dresses afterwards: the bodices pintucked and frilled, with tiny bunches of tulle rosebuds, satin ribbon at the waists, skirts that flared to a small train. Mrs Hall had made the hats as well and they were a sight for sore eyes; a good twenty inches across, a mound of tulle bows with masses of tiny artificial flowers, to be anchored to the hair by huge pearl-headed hatpins.

Uncomplaining, Letty submitted herself to Lucy’s quick, sure hands. Lucy would have made a good lady assistant in one of those high-class departmental stores like Dickens & Jones, except Dad had never let any of them go out to work as girls of poorer families did. He didn’t seem to think that helping in the shop for just a bit of pocket money was work, and always made sure they never went short.

Lucy stepped back as far as the bed behind her allowed to view her handiwork just as the shop doorbell tinkled. The shop was closed, of course, a handwritten sign on the door stating the reason.

‘There!’ she breathed, satisfied with her accomplishment, as well she might be – for Letty, seeing herself in the mirror on the ancient chest of drawers, couldn’t have faulted her. They stood, the two of them, one eighteen, one twenty, both a dream in crepe-de-chine, beautiful hats, long gloves, waists elegantly slim, faces glowing with pride and excitement. ‘Just in time. Hope it’s none of Albert’s posh
lot. After where they live, it will look so cluttered to them here.’

Lucy had suddenly acquired a much posher voice. Throwing a reluctant look at the cramped and narrow bedroom, she went to the window and glanced down to where the new arrivals stood waiting to be let in.

In an instant she had withdrawn her head, eyes brilliant, her face animated.

‘It’s him! It’s Jack! I thought he was going straight to the church but he’s come here first. Oh, Letty – pr’aps he intends to pop the question. D’you think he does?’

‘He’s been calling on you for the last seven months,’ Letty said, smiling at her excitement. ‘Time he did. Not this very minute though.’

But Lucy wasn’t even listening. ‘I know he’s been thinking about it, the way he talks. I’m sure he’ll get around to asking Dad soon.’

She’d met Jack Morecross when Vinny’s Albert had brought him one Sunday to meet her. Three years older than Lucy, he was a pleasant-looking, lanky young man with flat gingery hair and earnest blue eyes. He lived not far from Albert, his father having a small printing works inherited from his own father who had retired. A far better catch than the boys from around here, most of whom had no prospects and even less initiative, Lucy had lost no time in hooking handsome Jack.

Letty couldn’t help feeling a little envious and faintly put out that she wasn’t even walking out with a boy at the moment, not one she’d call halfway worth it anyway. The local boys hung around her hoping one day she’d ask one of
them home to meet her dad, but she kept every one of them at arm’s length, her mind set on the Prince Charming who would one day sweep her off her feet. Some hopes of that!

‘You’ll meet a nice boy one day, with your looks,’ Mum would say, and immediately refer to Billy Beans whose parents had the grocer’s shop further along Club Row. Rudely handsome and thick-set, about her own age, he was always setting his cap at her, hanging around. Trouble was, she liked Billy but not his name. Fancy – Letty Beans!

Lucy was back at the window, peering down as Mum’s footsteps echoed on the narrow lino-covered stairs down to the shop.

‘He’s brought his friend, he said he would. Yoo-hoo, Jack!’ Leaning out, waving, Lucy’s joyous giggle told of her wave being returned. She withdrew her head as the shop door was opened to admit him. ‘His dad’s a friend of Jack’s dad. Jack and me thought he’d be company for you.’

Letty felt distinctly annoyed. ‘You thought … Honestly, Lucy, you do take a lot on yourself! I can find me own company, thank you.’

Lucy looked a little ruffled. ‘I thought you might like someone a bit more interesting than them around here. He’s ever so educated.’

‘I don’t care if he’s Tolstoy,’ retorted Letty, having once had
War and Peace
inflicted on her at school. ‘I don’t want someone I don’t know tagging around after me all day, telling me how educated he is. What do I say to ’im? I wish you hadn’t of done it.’

Lucy was pouting, her good intentions in ruins. ‘Well, better than the weeds around here. Jack says he’s ever so
handsome. He’s got pots of money. His name’s David Baron. He’s twenty-eight and …’

‘Twenty-eight! I don’t want no twenty-eight …’

She broke off as the arrivals were shown into the parlour, but Lucy already had her by the hand, pulling her along, hurrying to welcome Jack. They reached the parlour as the doorbell tinkled once again, compelling Mum to go back downstairs.

Jack was standing self-consciously by the sofa, staring down at his hat held in both hands. His friend was also politely bare-headed, but if he felt at all ill at ease in a strange home, he didn’t show it. He was tall and dark-haired, and stood very still with his eyes steady. Dark eyes, Letty saw as Lucy dragged her into the room after her. He certainly did look well off, and so very mature in a well-cut charcoal grey suit that Letty felt her cheeks begin to burn, feeling even more angry with Lucy who left her standing to rush over and take Jack’s hand.

Someone coughed and Letty turned to the window. Dad stood there semi-obscured by the sunlight pouring through the thick lace curtains. Neither expecting nor approving of this invasion by his second daughter’s admirer and some complete stranger to boot, when both would have been better going straight to the church, he was busying himself filling his pipe to cover the resulting embarrassment.

Lucy’s hand was confidently on the stranger’s arm, drawing him towards her sister. ‘Letty,’ she began in her very nicest voice, ‘this is Mr David Baron, Jack’s friend. David, this is my sister, Letty …’

‘’Er name’s Letitia,’ came a deep rumble from behind
the smokescreen of Dad’s now kindled pipe. A reek of Navy Cut had filled the room. ‘If yer goin’ er introduce people properly, Lucilla, then get their names right.’

Her aplomb shaken, Lucy threw him a look, but any hope of further introductions was stopped short by an invasion of relatives surging like the hordes of Gengis Khan through the door: Uncle Will, who was Mabel’s brother, his wife Hetty, and three adolescent cousins, Bert, George and Ethel; then Arthur’s sister Mildred, husband Charlie, and two more cousins, Violet and Emma, just coming up to adolescence. The room was suddenly a mass of people, with everyone kissing everyone else as if they’d all come together from the ends of the earth, when in fact all of them lived just a tram ride away, Uncle Charlie’s lot from Whitechapel and Uncle Will’s from Stepney.

‘We all met up at the door,’ Charlie of the constant ribald jokes explained jovially. ‘Thought we’d pop in instead of going straight to the church. Funny you thinkin’ the same thing, Will. So we all met up together at the door, didn’t we? Funny that. Funny coincidence.’

Mabel, out of breath, hid a cough with her handkerchief. Letty, her mind taken off Mr David Baron for the moment, saw her sink into her chair set between the sofa and the fireplace. She looked like a little ailing mouse, wanting only to crawl away into a hole, out of sight. Letty’s eyes tingled with sudden tears, the lining of her nose became acutely sensitive and her throat constricted. She fought the emotion, sniffed, bit on her lip. Couldn’t start dissolving into tears in front of everyone, especially in front of the self-assured stranger.

‘You all right, Mum?’ she said, knowing immediately she’d intruded on her privacy as all eyes turned to her.

Mabel smiled and got up out of her chair, her tone terse with the effort to sound unconcerned. ‘Them blessed stairs. Wear you out, them stairs do.’