A Woman's Place (12 page)

He said that his mother was growing irritated about his being out on the one full day he could spend with her. He said that he hadn’t told his mother about her; she assumed that he would remain a single man caring for and giving his sole attention to her for as long as she lived.

‘She’ll have to know eventually,’ Connie said and then remembered that her parents too would one day have to be told.

Until then, these clandestine meetings were beginning to tell on her.

Her father, convinced she was going down with something, felt it of sufficient importance to confront her directly. ‘I intend to arrange for a colleague of mine to take a look at you,’ he announced. As her father he would never dream to examine her himself.

‘There is nothing wrong with me,’ she protested. ‘I’ve no need to see any doctor.’

But he was insistent in his usual obdurate manner. ‘You’ve become as thin as a rake. You are not eating and are too pale.’

Capitulating, she allowed herself to be examined but nothing abnormal was found.

‘In my opinion,’ Dr Chance advised, ‘the girl is pining, nothing more. She needs to settle down to marriage. Becoming the loving wife to a kind and considerate husband is all the cure she needs. There comes a time in every young woman’s life when she will begin to pine yet has no idea why. Marriage, Mornington, that’s the answer.’

This prompted another urgent quest for another well-placed young man whom this time she might consider more favourably. Connie said little, feeling sick at her inability to reveal the true reason for her reluctance.

Telling George had him concerned. ‘I’m going to have to speak to your parents. I love you, Connie, with every fibre of my body. I don’t want to lose you.’

‘You won’t lose me,’ she affirmed almost savagely. ‘Ever. I do love you so much.’

With his arm round her waist as they walked along the bank of a stream in the clear July afternoon, she felt she could have faced anything with him at her side. And when he bent and kissed her long and ardently, she wanted nothing more than to be his wife, for her and him to confront her parents together, this very moment, to stand up to them and fearlessly declare their love for each other.

She drew a determined breath. Being with him was all that mattered.

‘I love you so much,’ she whispered. He drew her closer to him and she could feel the tension in that embrace, hear his breath sharp and rapid, felt the strength rise in him as she melted against him, ready for him.

Without warning he broke away. ‘No, darling! We mustn’t.’ His tone was harsh yet he sounded confused and sorrowful. ‘Time is getting on. You have to be getting back home.’

She knew instantly that he had been afraid to trust his emotions and she too needed to settle those self-same emotions that had arisen so suddenly, so alarmingly.

‘Yes, I must,’ she said simply.

The walk home wasn’t a long one. Neither spoke until he reached the end of the lane where they always parted.

‘Look,’ he said abruptly, ‘I know this is difficult for you, your parents and all that. Your way of life is so different to mine.’ He was choosing his words carefully. ‘I could never match your standard of money. If we were to marry, things would be so different to what you’ve been used to. I can’t lie to you. What I’m trying to say is that if you feel that difference will cause problems, I’d rather you tell me.’

Connie came to life to interrupt him fiercely. ‘I love you, George. I don’t care if we don’t have a lot of money. I won’t ever give you up, no matter what.’

‘You mean that.’ He was looking steadily into her eyes.

‘I mean every word.’

‘But you don’t want me to meet your parents.’

‘Don’t you see, my darling?’ She wanted to shake him. ‘It would ruin everything. I couldn’t bear that. My father, for right or wrong, has such plans for me. He wouldn’t rest until he saw you off, and I would have to defy him outright to keep you. He’s capable of ruining everything for us.’

For a moment George stood without speaking while she tried to stem the anger and the fear of what could happen.

‘We both seem to be in the same boat,’ he said slowly at last. ‘I can’t ask you to meet my mother. She isn’t well enough to meet anyone.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, but in a way felt relieved that she wasn’t to be asked to go through that harassing ritual just yet.

She was glad to see him perk up a little. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘we’re not marrying each other’s family.’

‘Marry?’ she echoed weakly. ‘You really are asking me to marry you?’ He had come out with it with such certainty that it almost took her off her feet. But he was looking steadily at her.

‘That’s what I said. Connie, I’m asking you to marry me, if you will. I can’t offer you what you’ve been used to, but I’ve a decent job with every chance of promotion. As much as I love my mother, and though it sounds unkind to say it, I don’t think she will live much longer. She is quite ill and hasn’t really had any will to live since we lost my father. There are several life-threatening things wrong with her now.’

He hadn’t noticed how stunned she was by the lack of protocol in his proposal, assuming she had consented. ‘You don’t have to say anything right now,’ he said, ‘but I do want to marry you, Connie, very much.’

‘And I want to marry you,’ she burst out impulsively.

As he drew her to him with a gasp of joy, she knew she would face her father and declare this man to be the one she intended to marry. She would be honest and open – no lies, no subterfuge – no deception. All that was needed was to judge the right time to announce it. And while she was about it she would reveal her suffragette activities too.

She felt suddenly stronger than she had ever been in her life, and as she and George kissed, their kiss lingering, she knew she would never give him up, no matter what.

It was a wonderful August day. She felt so grand sitting beside him in his fine motor which he said was a Rover, she who’d never been in a motor car in her life much less knew the name of any.

Her first sight of the sea took her breath away; the expanse of it, the salt tang of it, the way the wavelets kissed the pebble beach with small hissing sounds, the bathing huts, the bathers. They had lunch in a little cafe on the promenade and later a cream tea, driving home as the summer sun began to sink, his hand on her knee, she letting it stay there; she felt very much at ease and in charge of things, like a real lady. Sometimes he drove in silence, other times he talked of all they’d done that day.

‘I’ve just had my apartment redecorated,’ he said as they drove across London Bridge. He’d told her about his apartment in Chelsea. ‘Cost a mint. I think it looks terrific but it would be nice if you could take a peek at it for a minute or two, to tell me what you think. It’s not far out of your way and I can take you home immediately afterwards.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ The idea made her sink back into her seat. A good girl shouldn’t be visiting a young man’s apartment without a chaperone.

What would her dad say? She’d half expected him to go off the deep end when she told him Larry was taking her to Brighton in his motor car. Instead he’d been quite agreeable for his daughter to go off with her wealthy young man, though Mum, querying why he’d stayed out of the country so long, had been a bit wary, cautioning her against getting too carried away. But going to his apartment?

‘I think I should go straight home,’ she said. ‘It is getting late.’

‘It’ll only take a minute or two, just to say what you think of it, then I’ll take you home. Please, come and see it.’ He seemed so enthusiastic.

She melted. ‘Well, just for a minute then, but only a minute.’

‘Fine,’ he said, swinging the motor car in the direction of the West End as they came off London Bridge.

His apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey dwelling set behind railings and an ornate gate. It had two gabled windows and a long straight one giving an uncluttered view of the Thames, its flow here as gentle and sedate as the area itself.

‘It’s lovely,’ Eveline sighed, gazing about at the tasteful eau-de-Nil and fawn wallpaper that set off the brown and biscuit-coloured furnishings and furniture. Everywhere were beautiful vases, bowls, small, delicate statuettes, tasteful ashtrays, and lots of cushions which she felt she could have sunk down into for the rest of her life and never know the time passing. She watched as he threw open a window to let in the evening air.

‘You like it.’ It was a statement rather than a question and as she nodded, he went on like some excitable boy, ‘You should have seen it before. I’ve had absolutely the whole place done and refurnished. Come and look.’

Grabbing her hand he led her from the room into a smaller dining room, then to a bright little hallway to show her the immaculate kitchen. ‘I’ve been in this place eighteen months now. How I lived with the previous decor I don’t know.’

Taking her back into the hall he threw open another door. ‘This is my bedroom.’ As she instinctively held back, he laughed and closed the door again, leading her back into the first room.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said lightly. ‘Look, now you’re here, may I make you a cup of coffee or something? I could percolate some. Won’t take a minute.’

The only other time she’d ever tasted real coffee had been with him in that cafe the night of the rally at the Royal Albert Hall and she hadn’t been all that impressed with it then. It was all right, but …

He must have seen her expression, for he went on, ‘Tea then? Or there’s cocoa?’

‘I’d enjoy a cup of cocoa,’ she said, her dislike of coffee making her reply more spontaneous than she’d intended. She should have declined altogether and mentioned again about getting home. Too late, he was already on his way to the kitchen leaving her standing in the centre of the room.

Seconds later he was back. ‘Look, I’ve run out of cocoa. It’ll have to be tea. But I shan’t have any. I’ll get myself a whisky and soda.’

For a moment he stood looking at her, then cocking his head on one side in a whimsical, questioning gesture, he said. ‘Have you ever tasted whisky?’

Eveline shook her head. Beer was what she knew. Mum with her daily half-pint of Guinness and Dad with his evening pint of bitter. There was port and sherry at Christmas time, perhaps gin for the ladies, but only the men that she knew drank whisky. Her favourite was always port and lemonade.

‘Then you ought to try it,’ he was saying, already pouring his own and setting down a glass ready for her. He turned round to gaze at her. ‘On the other hand it could be far too strong for you.’

That was a relief, he was being considerate, but he followed it up with an enthusiastic, ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you up a whisky cocktail. It’s sweet and maybe more to your taste.’

‘I don’t think …’ she began, but he was already grabbing bottles and pouring a drop from each into a silver cocktail shaker, dropping in other bits of ingredients and shaking the container vigorously, pouring the colourful contents into a different glass to his, one with a wide mouth.

‘Here,’ he said, holding it out to her. ‘Taste this. You’ll like it.’

She did. It had a flavoured syrupy taste, sweet and hardly any kick as people said, though she didn’t quite know what kick would feel like except that she had seen some who’d knocked back a strongish drink choke and laugh.

‘Another?’ Larry asked.

‘I don’t think I should.’

‘It won’t hurt you. As you can see, it’s well watered down.’

Yes, it was nice, and as he said, harmless. She nodded and had him refill her glass, enjoying the smooth liquid.

‘No point standing,’ he said. Grabbing the shaker and his own bottle of whisky he dropped down on to the brown and beige sofa with its myriad of small fawn cushions. ‘You’ll find your legs aching before long. Here.’

He patted the place beside him and for some reason she didn’t decline, dropping down beside him with a little giggle. The cocktail was very more-ish and she let him give her a third refill. Then she really would have to be getting along home. But those cushions looked so comfortable and she sank back in them just to test their comfort as she downed her third refill. It was just like drinking very sweet, fresh orange juice, though not quite, there was such a lovely flavour to it.

Larry drove her home through the dark streets and she had no idea how long it took. It had been a marvellous evening. Larry had made love to her, for the first time ever, and she’d found it not a bit alarming, wondering why she had made so much fuss about their earlier kisses and cuddles becoming too serious. Not that she remembered much about it except that it was lovely.

The motor car had come to a stop. She looked out to see that they were right outside the door of her dad’s shop, all in darkness, the glow from the gas lamp on the corner making it seem even more dark and deserted. Upstairs a light glowed in one of the windows. Dad was up. Dad was waiting for her. The knowledge brought her senses partly flooding back through the maze in her head. She sat up from her half reclining position.

‘Oh, dear God! I must go. He’ll kill me.’

‘Who?’

‘My dad.’

Larry laid an arm about her shoulders. ‘Now wait, darling. You need to give yourself a few minutes. How are you feeling?’

‘I don’t know, a bit dizzy like.’

‘Then just wait a minute.’ He leaned forward to open the small compartment set in the dashboard and drew out a small paper bag.

‘Look, suck one of these.’ Something round and slightly powdery was popped into her mouth and she tasted its pepper mint flavour. ‘Helps clean the breath,’ he said. ‘Then I will help you to your door – to steady you.’

He was out of the car and was helping her out, she sucking furiously, knowing now that her dad might very well smell on her breath what she’d been drinking, that he might realise it had been potent, then became aware too of what she had done under its influence. But she couldn’t blame Larry. It was her fault. And it had been nice …

Larry had his arm about her waist. He was knocking on the side door by the shop. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he whispered as the sound of footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs. ‘Just leave this to me.’