The Factory Girl (38 page)

She had been sorry about the early departure of their Birmingham friends, feeling they might have felt a little put out, though their goodbyes had been cheery enough. They'd been a breath of fresh air in the dim world she had come to know. Now she was again with people she held mistrust for, especially Jimmy with his narrow, immobile features and eyes that had a tendency to hint at unremitting hostility, unless he was cracking jokes of which he had a vast store, most of them crude. Even then there was never a smile as everyone else dissolved into laughter and to which his diminutive wife squealed with merriment, crying as she clung to his arm at the table and later at the bar, ‘Isn't he a scream?' then kissing him in full view of them all.

Watching him, Geraldine experienced an inward shudder. Not a man to be crossed was Jimmy Alcott, for all his jokes. It was towards the likes of his sort that Tony, to her shame, seemed to act as though the sun shone out of their arses. Or was Tony also afraid under his show of chummy bravado? Whatever, he never let on to her, scoffing if she so much as even partially admitted to uneasiness about these so-called business friends. How deeply he was involved with them sometimes seemed to her more than she knew.

Jimmy was telling one of his jokes, hunched over his brandy at the round table where the eight of them now sat in the bar after their meal, the joke crude in the extreme. Geraldine, appearing to listen intently, had her mind more on her life, on a year that had simply sped by.

Where had the last eighteen months gone? Hers was a life many a woman might envy yet even the wild social round could become humdrum by its very frequency. Then there were the evenings of real boredom when Tony was away,
doing business
from which she was excluded – in the way, not to be trusted, the less she knew the better, and so on. If only she had a child it might be easier to bear, someone for company. Why had all the times she and Tony made love never produced a baby?

Geraldine let her mind wander dismally. It seemed she lived two lives, divided between the normality of her own family, and this swaying tightrope life on the edge of a society with its probably dishonestly come-by wealth, looking to ape the real elite yet never quite succeeding. The real cream of polite society, the nobility, the upper crust and famous names, the well brought up to wealth rather than the suddenly rich, would never have tolerated people like these. They too knew how to kick up their legs, did things decent common people would never dream of doing, maybe there even existed an undertow of illegal dealings, but they had real elegance, good manners, whereas the people of money she knew didn't even profess to loyalty except that which crime and crooked dealings no doubt held together.

The company exploded into laughter, pummelled her from her thoughts and, thus prompted, she laughed along with them, despising the wide-open red mouths of the guffawing women, lips no longer the rosebud shapes the rouge had painted them.

The men were beginning to sweat a little after the heavy meal and too many brandies and glasses of champagne. Tony had loosened the knot of his tie for coolness. He was still grinning away at the last joke. Cynthia, patting her prominant collar bones to cool herself down, gave a little hiccup.

‘I simply must go off to the ladies. If I'm not careful I shall wet myself. Anyone coming with me? Lily? Paula? You, Dolly?'

Each in turn shook her head, Paula again convulsing into laughter at an aside from Jimmy whose own face remained immobile. Cynthia's eyes switched to Geraldine. ‘How about you?'

It would be good to escape the incessant laughter, the men's sweaty faces, Jimmy's steel-eyed stare. Tony must never get on the wrong side of him.

Only two other women were in the large, ornate cloakroom with its pink and gold décor, but they very soon went out. It was peaceful in here after the roars of inane laughter that had invaded the other bar users' quiet conversations.

Geraldine drew her powder compact from her bag and dabbed the puff around her nose while Cynthia went off to relieve herself. Geraldine had been earlier, needing only to escape. The chain was pulled and Cynthia emerged to wash her hands, dry them on a pink towel, then to plaster more rouge on to her already bright red lips, carefully tracing the cupid's bow shape.

‘We should have worn something nicer to come here, had we known,' Geraldine said, staring into the mirror at her outdoor clothes.

One of the most enjoyable things she knew was dressing up in the lovely clothes Tony gave her, latest fashions complementing her now almost Eton-cropped hair, jewellery, long ropes of pearls, dangly earrings, those new slave bracelets, the best his own shop provided and often admired by others.

Cynthia nodded concurrence to Geraldine's statement, if somewhat absent-mindedly. Leaning closer to the large gilt-framed mirror the easier to study the rouged cheeks and painted eyes, the reflected eyes switched to the mirrored ones of Geraldine. There was a light of admiration in them.

‘I do think you carry it all off so marvellously well, Gerry,' she said in reply to Geraldine's questioning look.

‘Carry what off well?' Her mind half on clothes, she automatically assumed her companion had referred to style, fashion.

There came several rapid blinks of the reflected blue eyes. ‘Why, the way Tony's carrying on with that Manners woman. I do admire you your composure over it all. Some wives would have gone berserk, darling.'

The regard slowly grew cautious, guarded, almost seemed to shut down as Geraldine's stare continued somewhat uncomprehendingly.

‘Darling, you must know!' Cynthia burst out, and then, realising the faux pas, whispered, ‘Oh, God, you don't! Surely you must have suspected. It's been going on for over a year. Everyone knows about it.'

Cynthia seemed fixed in her bent forward position, her stare now completely confused. ‘Hasn't anyone so much as hinted? Oh, Gerry, I'm so sorry. I don't know where to put myself, I'm simply devastated, really I am.'

She wasn't the only one. Geraldine could only stare at her as though mesmerised, at once overcome with disbelief and shock, even to returning her powder compact to her bag as though it had to be the most important thing to do. Then without warning came anger, a flood of anger, like a river bursting its banks.

‘How can you make up such lies?' Fine words fell away. Tears of rage filled her eyes. ‘You'd all love me and Tony ter fall apart, wouldn't yer?'

‘No, darling!'

‘Yes you would. Well, I don't believe one word of it. They're rotten lies. Tony's—'

The door bursting open to admit a diner stopped the flow, but the woman had already heard the raised voices. With awkward glances towards Geraldine's flushed and contorted face, she hurried on past the two of them and into one of the toilets. Reluctant to be overheard, Geraldine closed her mouth as Cynthia lowered her painted eyes.

‘I had best be getting back to everyone. They're most likely thinking we've both fallen down the loo.' She gave a nervous half laugh then stopped and looked directly at Geraldine. ‘Are you coming, Gerry?'

Without knowing why, Geraldine nodded, picking up her little bag from the shelf under the gilt-framed mirror and following her out as though she were some little puppy called to heel.

Mum was glaring at her. ‘Why come ter me? I could of told yer so, Gel. Yer made yer bed, love, an' yer messed it up. What d'yer expect me ter do?'

‘I don't know,' she answered lamely, then in renewed anger, at herself, at Tony, at Mum for taking it all so calmly, not one hint of sympathy, only blame, condemnation, a shrugging of the shoulders, burst out, ‘I don't know what ter do, where ter turn.'

‘So yer come cryin' ter me,' Mum was going on. ‘Don't want us when things is going on orright. Ain't got time for us. But the second yer get a spot of bother, its, “Where's Mum?”'

‘That's not true, Mum. I do come to see you, any time.'

‘When it suits.'

‘And this ain't a
spot of bother
, Mum. Tony having it off with another woman ain't a spot of bother. It's the end of our marriage. He's been lying to me all this time. He's been unfaithful.'

‘It takes two, my gel. And I don't mean another woman, I mean the person what could of drove 'im away in the first place.'

‘How could I have driven him away? I've been a good wife to 'im. I've never gone off the rails.' She thought suddenly of Alan and how easily at one time she could have done just that except that it never came up, he'd never approached her in that way, merely said he loved her and always would. It broke her heart thinking of the way he'd said that. ‘I've been loyal and loving and caring – what more could he have asked for?'

‘Fer you to of give 'im a baby.'

‘I did. But she died, Mum, remember?' Fresh tears collected in her eyes but her mother didn't even blink.

‘Then yer should of tried again instead of gallivanting around dressed up like a dog's dinner, stinkin' to 'igh heaven of scent, yer face all plastered with paint, you drippin' with jewellery, yer 'air cut like you was a boy because it 'appens ter be the fashion.'

She hadn't paused to think that Evie too had cut her hair almost as short. ‘Too blessed 'igh an' mighty ter go in for a family. Would of clipped yer wings too much, spoilt yer enjoyment.'

Anger was bringing more tears. ‘Don't you think I've tried?' she was blubbing. ‘God knows I've pleaded and prayed for another baby but it just ain't happened. I don't think I
can
'ave any, Mum. I 'ad that fall just before Caroline was born. Maybe it twisted something inside me – I don't know. But it ain't my fault I ain't had another baby. And I've tried so 'ard to.'

Mum was regarding her with just a fraction more sympathy, was even looking surprised. ‘I didn't know you 'ad a fall. Yer didn't tell me.'

Geraldine too had calmed a little. ‘I didn't give it much thought at the time. It wasn't a bad fall and I forgot about it, until much later, until I never seemed to get pregnant. Then I began putting two and two together, and that's all I can think of – the reason why I ain't been able to start a family.'

Mum's shoulders appeared to drop as though the short moment of sympathy had already drained away. ‘Well, it could be one reason, I s'pose. Maybe it ain't your fault not 'aving babies. But when a woman can't keep 'er man, somethink's wrong somewhere.'

‘Something certainly is wrong,' Geraldine burst out, angry again. ‘And it ain't me. It's that woman, with her bleeding enticing eyes and her bleeding seductive voice, and her—'

‘Don't swear.' The admonition, totally divorced from the pain she was trying to convey to her mother, shocked and enraged her. How could Mum be so unfeeling, concerned only that her daughter was resorting to swear words?

‘You don't bloody care at all, do you, Mum? You've never 'ad to go through what I'm going through and you can't even be bothered to put yerself in my place just for a second. I'm losing my husband, Mum!'

‘And blessed good riddance.'

‘You can't say that. I love 'im! What d'you know about love?'

The question was ignored. ‘Yer'll just 'ave ter learn ter fall out of love, won't yer?'

Before Geraldine could retort to that unfeeling remark, Mum said, dropping her voice and speaking as though to herself or to a child not quite comprehending her words, ‘If yer 'usband died this very day, yer'd 'ave ter get on with life, learn ter survive, pull yerself up by yer boot straps and get on with it.'

Mum was wandering about the back room, picking up vases and the small, framed photographs of family members, studio photos and seaside snaps, and carefully replacing them as though they were the sole objects that mattered to her at this present time.

‘When God takes our loved ones there ain't nothin' we can do about it but get on with things, even when we're in grief. So yer've got ter look at this, Gel, the same way as yer would if yer lost 'im proper like.'

‘It ain't the same, Mum. Someone dying can be taken as God's will if yer like, but this 'as been done by Tony 'imself, and the bitch of a woman who doesn't care who she hurts, only interested in stealing someone else's husband for her own pleasure.'

‘It is the same. And if you can't see it, then it ain't worth talking to yer. You're a fool to yerself. You're determined to suffer like some blessed screen heroine and pull yer 'air out, an' make life a misery fer yerself and fer everyone around yer, as if other people tearing out their 'air on your be'alf will cure what you're going through. Well, it don't wash, Gel. It's only you what can make things better. If yer can't entice 'im back ter your bed, then best forget 'im, like 'e 'ad died, and get on with yer own life. It's the only way. It's the only advice I've got ter give yer.'

‘You can't even give enough to cuddle me, can you?' Geraldine spat.

‘What's cuddling goin' ter do?' came the reply. ‘If I cuddled yer, yer'll feel better for a time, but it'll all come back, an' I can't be 'ere cuddling yer forever. Yer've got ter see ter yerself. No one else can do it for yer.'

Mum was wrong. She couldn't see how alone she felt, had no feelings; if she lost Dad, or if he walked off and left her, would she be spouting the same platitudes, taking her own advice?

Geraldine came away from the house filled with anger and remorse and quite understandably sorry for herself. Alone in her world, she thought of Clara and went to seek her out. Mavis was too like her Mum to tell her woes to, and Evie was too young and in love to understand. And besides, she'd asked, pleaded with Mum not to tell anyone why she had gone there, and Mum, to give her credit, would honour that plea. Even if she thought it herself – ‘I could have told you so' – she wouldn't want others to have the privilege of thinking it, to her own humiliation, not even Dad.