The Second-last Woman in England (22 page)
The presents sat in a sad little pile on Jean’s bed, all neatly wrapped in the same rather cheap-looking wrapping paper covered in angels and trumpets. It hadn’t looked so cheap in the shop.
She closed her eyes very tightly and held on to the edge of the bed.
On that final Christmas, the last one before the bomb, Mum had presented Gladys and Nerys each with a pair of gloves. Mum had painstakingly knitted them through the autumn from wool she had unpicked from an old jumper of Dad’s. The jumper had made two pairs of gloves and one scarf for Bertie, and Mum had sat up night after night knitting by candlelight, or sometimes in the tube station if there was a raid on, waiting for the all-clear, her fingers turning blue with cold. It was wicked, Mum had said, to see the girls go off to school with frozen hands, and now they each had gloves, dark blue they were, and made with love from Dad’s old jumper. Gladys and Nerys had put them on right then and there and kept them on all Christmas Day because the paraffin heater was small and the windows had ice on them so that you could hardly see out.
A shout of laughter from downstairs suggested the present opening had begun. Evidently the nanny’s attendance was not required. Jean looked at the small pile of presents on the bed and wondered if she could stomach the chocolates herself. Probably. Not the liquorice, though. Edward had loved liquorice, she remembered. Or was that Bertie? She couldn’t remember anymore. It couldn’t have been Bertie, though; he was too young—there had been no liquorice around then. Probably he had never even tasted it.
She sat down on the narrow little bed and wondered if she had the energy for Christmas. For any Christmas ever again.
‘Nanny! Nanny come and look at my presents!’
She must go down; she couldn’t hide up here all day. But to take the presents or not? No, leave them. She could always come back up for them if necessary. She ventured cautiously downstairs. The drawing room door was open and a chaos of gaudy wrapping paper, tangled ribbons, gift tags and cards littered the floor. As she approached, a chorus of laughter erupted from the room.
‘Look, Nanny! Look what Great-Aunt Hermione sent!’ said Anne, gleefully holding up a pair of large and obviously home-knitted socks in a delicate shade of lavender. ‘What do you think they are?’
‘Looks like an elephant’s nightcap!’ observed Julius, not waiting for Jean’s reply.
‘But they’re mauve!’
‘Are you meant to wear them?’
‘I think they’re bed socks.’
‘But for whom? The Jolly Green Giant?’
Jean stood in the doorway. ‘Aren’t you going to show me your presents, Anne?’ she said, cutting into the laughter.
Anne didn’t need to be asked twice. She led the way over to a gleaming red and chrome bicycle that stood proudly against the wall.
‘See?’ she said. ‘It has adjustable handles, brakes here and here, and a bell!’ and she rang the bell as proof that it was indeed as she claimed. There was also a dolls’ house in the style of a large Victorian country house with a miniature family to inhabit it, two
Girl’s Own
annuals, a new pair of soft pink ballet shoes and a book on ballet, a brightly coloured woollen jersey with a teddy bear on the front, which Anne held up rather dubiously, and a tiny gold-coloured evening dress with matching shoes that apparently was for one of the row of dolls that sat silently on Anne’s top shelf. Anne displayed the dress with some reluctance also and Jean tried to remember the last time—any time—she had seen Anne play with her dolls.
‘How wonderful!’ Jean exclaimed, as this seemed to be expected.
‘Not really,’ said Julius cheerfully. ‘She wanted that dress last Christmas. I expect dolly has grown too big for it now.’
Anne slowly folded the little gold dress up and put it away in the corner.
‘I had thought there would be something from Uncle Simon,’ she said aggrievedly.
‘The books were from Uncle Simon,’ said Mrs Wallis a little crossly as she bent to pick up some of the rolls of wrapping paper.
‘Oh yes,’ said Anne and she sighed.
‘Not a bad haul, all things considered,’ remarked Julius, surveying his own presents critically. A collection of cricket pads and bats and assorted other sporting paraphernalia was stacked in a neat pile on the floor.
‘What about Nanny’s Christmas present?’ cried Anne suddenly and Jean felt a moment of horror. ‘Mummy, we didn’t get Nanny a Christmas present!’ Jean felt the smile stiffen on her face and she busied herself with stooping down to retrieve the discarded wrapping paper.
‘We don’t usually get Nanny a Christmas present,’ said Julius. ‘Do we, Mummy? We didn’t last year for Nanny Peters.’
‘She never got
us
presents,’ said Anne, thoughtfully. ‘Nanny, did you buy us Christmas presents?’
Jean froze, picturing the mean little pile of cheap presents on her bed upstairs. The mass of wrapping paper scrunched noisily in her arms.
‘Well—’
‘Anne, dear, we always get Nanny a little something,’ interrupted Mrs Wallis. ‘There is Nanny’s card, over on the mantelpiece,’ and she nodded to where an envelope leaned against the clock. Anne went over and retrieved it, reading the single word—‘Nanny’—that was neatly written across it. She turned it over, a faintly disappointed look on her face that clearly said adults gave each other the dullest presents.
‘Here you are, Nanny. Merry Christmas.’
Jean took the envelope with a hesitant smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Anne demanded.
Jean’s fingers fumbled with the envelope. Why were they all watching her? In desperation she tore at the corner of the envelope and ripped it open. Inside was a Christmas card. She pulled it out. On the front was a picture of a merry Father Christmas with a snowy beard, red robes and round, rosy cheeks, a bulging sack beside him. There was a silence. Were they waiting for her to open the card? She did so, and a ten-shilling note fluttered out.
Ten shillings. It was quite a good sum. More than the cost of the presents upstairs.
‘Thank you—’ she began, but Anne was already on her hands and knees rearranging her dolls’ house kitchen, Mr Wallis was reading a card he had just opened, Mrs Wallis was studying a list on her knee and Julius seemed to have left the room. Jean folded the note back inside the card and slid the card back inside the envelope.
‘Mummy, is there time before lunch for me to ride my bike?’ said Anne, tiring of the miniature kitchen.
‘You may get Nanny to take you out in the back garden. Mind you don’t get your best clothes dirty. And wrap up. You’re not to go out unless you’re wearing gloves, hat and scarf.’
‘But I’ve
lost
my other glove!’ protested Anne indignantly as though the request were unreasonable and the missing glove had deliberately got itself lost.
‘I’m sure Julius will let you borrow one of his,’ Jean replied.
Mrs Wallis ignored this suggestion. ‘Well, you have plenty of other pairs, don’t you? Just wear one of those.’
Anne grumbled something about
that
pair being absolutely her most
favourite
pair and hating all her other pairs but she allowed Jean to lead her upstairs to a bedroom drawer stuffed with various pairs of gloves, and eventually they retrieved a pair that met with Anne’s satisfaction.
‘And I must get my own gloves, Anne,’ Jean said. She had no winter gloves, but it was imperative she go up to her room, just for a moment, to catch her breath.
She went quickly, hoping Mrs Thompson was downstairs in the kitchen. She entered her room and closed the door and saw again the pathetic little pile of presents. All that chocolate … Her stomach closed up with nausea.
‘Nanny, are you coming?’
She looked up and saw her own face staring back at her from the little silver-backed bedside mirror that Mrs McIlwraith had given her. A parting present. The face in the mirror was thin and pale with a small patch of red on either cheek, as though she had pinched them to give herself colour. Her nose was too narrow, her hair too dull and brown, her lips too thin. The girl that stared back at her wasn’t a girl at all; she was a person who had lived beyond childhood and now could hardly remember what it had felt like.
And now the mirror was in tiny pieces on the hard wooden floor and Jean looked down in silent astonishment at the fragments of glass that were scattered in all directions. One fragment was lodged in her left hand and, as she stared at it, bright-red blood seeped out around the fragment and began to gather in a pool in the palm of her hand.
For a moment the house was silent and Jean stood perfectly still. Little pin-points of light flickered before her eyes. A moment later footsteps thudded up the stairs and a hand knocked quickly on the door.
‘Miss Corbett? Is everything all right? Are you all right in there?’
It was Mr Wallis. A drop of blood splashed onto the floorboards.
‘Yes, fine, thank you,’ and her voice sounded quite normal; a little strained perhaps, but quite normal. ‘A minor accident, that’s all. Everything’s all right.’
‘Well. That’s good. Thought you’d hurt yourself.’ There was a pause. ‘Shall I ask Mrs Thompson to pop up and help?’
‘No need. There’s no mess, really.’
Why didn’t he just go away?
‘All right. Very good,’ and at last she heard him pick his ponderous way back down the stairs again.
She found she was holding her breath. She exhaled and her chest ached. She stepped backwards and glass crunched beneath her feet. It was everywhere: on the floor, under the wardrobe, beneath the bed. And her blood had made a small, glistening pool in the centre of the room. She sat down on the bed.
‘
Nanny!
Where are you?’
‘The King-Pattersons have given us another of those ghastly faux Ming vases,’ said Harriet, regarding a tall, brightly patterned porcelain receptacle that stood on the baby grand surrounded by a mound of white tissue paper. Downstairs she heard a thud as Anne negotiated her new bicycle down the back step and out into the garden. The nanny, one presumed, was keeping an eye on her.
‘Nigel imports them from India, I told you that last year,’ replied Cecil.
Harriet returned to the neatly handwritten list on her lap. The list showed this year’s Christmas presents divided into two headings and two subheadings: Presents: Received and Sent; Card Only: Received and Sent. Attached to this was last year’s list, against which this year’s had been meticulously cross-referenced.
Cecil was curiously studying a small gold object. ‘What the
devil
is this?’
‘Snuff box,’ Harriet replied without looking up.
‘But why on
earth
—’
‘Never mind that. It’s from the Carsons. We didn’t send anything to the Carsons this year.’
‘Didn’t we?’ Cecil regarded her with some surprise. ‘Why on earth not?’
‘They’re in Egypt. Besides, we sent them something last year—toiletries I think—and they didn’t send us anything.’
‘I see. So next year we send them something because they sent us something this year, but they don’t send us anything as we didn’t send them anything?’
‘Yes.’ Harriet studied the list with a frown. ‘Would you believe the Park-Crichtons only sent us a card? A rather cheap one at that.’
‘His shares have hit rock bottom,’ replied Cecil, replacing the snuff box. ‘The Americans are churning out cars at half the cost and about a thousand times the volume. Old Jonathon Park-Crichton will be lucky to afford Christmas dinner this year.’
‘Poor Eleanor,’ Harriet mused, pausing for a moment to gaze into the middle distance. She had seen Eleanor Park-Crichton at the Hatfields’ dinner party only last month. Eleanor had worn a rather super silver gauze Hardy Amies gown and spoken of her acquaintance with one of the minor royals. One would never have guessed …
She returned to the list and drew a neat line through the Park-Crichtons, removing them from the ‘Present’ list and adding them to the ‘Card Only’ list.
Harriet laid down her pencil and removed her reading glasses.
Were she and Cecil really going to spend another Christmas morning opening and cataloguing a collection of dreadful Egyptian glassware, tasteless Spanish vases, gaudy Chinese silk scarves and various inedible luxury food items imported at great expense and sold in the month before Christmas for outrageous sums in the food halls of London’s department stores?
‘Peruvian dates,’ said Cecil curiously, holding up a small tin. ‘Do they grow dates in Peru? I suppose they must.’ He turned the tin over. ‘Oh. It says packed in Staines, Middlesex … The card says, “All the compliments of the season, with love from Sue and Robert”. Who the devil are Sue and Robert?’
Yes, it did indeed look as if that was how she and Cecil were going to spend Christmas morning. And yet, if they weren’t cataloguing unwanted presents from people they saw once a year, what
would
they be doing on Christmas morning? Not so many years ago they had helped the children play with their new toys. But increasingly one left that sort of thing to the nanny.
Cecil was kneeling in the middle of the room surrounded by the many and varied oddities that fifteen years’ worth of relatives, friends, colleagues, associates, clients and vague acquaintances had sent them both. A pile of unopened gifts lay beside him and at his elbow was a pile of gift tags and cards, upon which he was transcribing a brief description of each item. He looked thoroughly absorbed, a child contemplating a tricky jigsaw puzzle or the construction of a particularly complicated model aircraft.
