The Women in Black Page 9

  ‘Magda gave me this,’ she said. ‘Would you like to try it? It tastes nice, too.’

  She pressed her lips together.

  ‘She gave me this, too,’ she added, pulling at her belt. ‘Do you like it?’

  Her mother stared at her, speechless.

  ‘I’m sorry I was late, Mum,’ Lisa continued, ‘but we went for a walk, and it took longer than I thought it would. We looked at all the houses, and Magda talked about Slovenia. That’s where she comes from. And then I had to walk up to Spit Road, and the tram didn’t come for ages. I’m sorry, honestly.’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Lesley,’ said her mother. ‘I’ve never seen you like this before. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘There’s nothing to think,’ said Lisa. ‘But Mum, I wish you’d call me Lisa, too. That’s what they all call me at Goode’s. I told them that was my name. It’s on the form and everything.’

  ‘It’s what!’ exclaimed Mrs Miles. ‘It’s what! What do you mean? Your name is Lesley!’

  ‘But I don’t like it,’ said the girl. ‘I want to be Lisa. And I will be. And I am!’

  And she burst into tears at the same moment as her horrified and overwrought mother began to weep. The two women cried separately for a minute, and then Lisa looked up. Mrs Miles was wiping her eyes on her apron.

  ‘Lisa,’ she said, ‘Lisa. How do you think it feels to have your own child telling you she wants a different name? You’ve always been Lesley to me, you always will be. What’s wrong with Lesley?

  It’s a lovely name. Lisa. It’s like a slap in the face. Perfect strangers—’ ‘Magda’s not a perfect stranger, she’s my friend,’ said Lisa.

  ‘Some friend!’ cried Mrs Miles. ‘I don’t even know her!’

  ‘Well, that’s not my fault,’ said Lisa. ‘She’s still my friend, and so is Stefan.’

  ‘Who’s Stefan?’ asked Mrs Miles, alarmed.

  ‘Only Magda’s husband,’ said Lisa.

  She thought she had better not mention Rudi just now.

  ‘He’s very nice. We talked about books. And I’m going to their New Year’s Eve party too, if you’ll let me. Magda said I had to ask your permission.’

  ‘I should think so!’ said Mrs Miles.

  She looked down at the linoleum; secretly she was somewhat mollified by this piece of Slovenian politesse.

  ‘I’ll see,’ she said. ‘But Lisa! Lisa! How could you do such a thing? To change your name like that, and not a word to me. It’s so sly.’

  ‘Oh Mum,’ said Lisa. ‘I didn’t mean to be sly, I didn’t. I just wanted—I wanted a real girl’s name. Lesley is a boy’s name.’

  ‘It’s a girl’s name too,’ said her mother. ‘It’s spelt differently for a boy.’

  ‘But it sounds the same,’ said Lisa, ‘that’s what counts. I wanted a proper girl’s name, for when I grew up. I’ve been a child for so long now; I want to be grown up.’

  ‘Oh Lesley—’ said her mother, ‘Lisa. If you only knew what being grown up can be like, you wouldn’t want to do it any faster than you have to.’

  ‘Oh Mum,’ said Lisa, suddenly appalled, and she got up and went over to her mother and they put their arms around each other.

  Mrs Miles’s eyes had filled again with tears which began to slide down her cheeks.

  ‘Please don’t cry, Mum,’ said Lisa.

  ‘Oh dear, I don’t know what to think,’ sobbed Mrs Miles. ‘I suppose I always knew I’d lose you one day, I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon!’

  And she wept more loudly.

  ‘Mum, Mum, please don’t cry,’ said Lisa, on the verge herself of fresh tears. ‘You haven’t lost me, you aren’t losing me: you’ll never lose me. You’re my mother, how could you lose me? I’ll stay with you always.

  ’ ‘Now Lesley, Lisa, you know you can’t say that,’ said her mother, wiping her eyes again. ‘You’ll marry, or you’ll go away, even go abroad—all the girls do that now. You can’t stay with me always, can you? It wouldn’t be right. I’m just being selfish, I suppose.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Lisa. ‘But even if I marry or go away, you’ll still be my mother, and I’ll always see you, often.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Mrs Miles.

  They glimpsed the long prospect before them and turned their eyes away from its impossibly mysterious and even tragic vistas.

  ‘Just try to be a good girl, Lesley,’ said her mother. ‘That’s what matters.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Lisa. ‘You can go on calling me Lesley if you like,’ she added.

  Her mother now at last smiled.

  ‘I’ll see,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to see what I think. I might manage to call you Lisa sometimes, if you’re very good. It depends.’

  They both laughed and let go of each other.

  ‘But right now I’d better get on with my potatoes,’ said Mrs Miles, turning back to the sink.

  As she did so, she looked at Lisa from the corner of her eye. The girl was leaning over the kitchen table, retrieving her glasses and the lipstick and her handbag, and Mrs Miles was struck by the feminine grace of her form, set off by the wide leather belt.

  ‘You know, that belt looks really nice,’ she said. ‘It must be a very good one. Magda was very kind to give it to you, it must have been very expensive. I hope you thanked her for it properly.’

  Lisa smiled brilliantly.

  ‘Of course I did,’ she said. ‘And for the lipstick. Do you want to try it now?’

  ‘I will later,’ said her mother. ‘It’s a very nice colour, it looks very nice on you. I must say you do look very nice: Magda must like you, to go to so much trouble.’

  ‘Well, I suppose so,’ said Lisa, uncertainly.

  ‘But I can’t think why,’ said Mrs Miles.

  ‘No, me neither,’ said Lisa, ‘a horrible girl like me.’

  ‘Well, you’re still growing up,’ said her mother. ‘You’ve got a bit of time. You might be quite nice in a few years. We’ll have to see. Right now I want you to sit down and shell those peas for me.’

  ‘So can I go to the party?’ asked Lisa.

  ‘I’ll see,’ said Mrs Miles. ‘Just shell the peas first, and I’ll think about it.’

  There was silence for a time, and then she was heard to say, half to herself, ‘Lisa. I never.’

  26

  As soon as Fay got home from Goode’s, she began to attack her flat. The area of battle was not large: it consisted of a medium-sized room with two armchairs and a divan bed and a few occasional tables, and a kitchenette. She shared a bathroom which she was not obliged to clean but often did. When she had dealt with her flat she did her laundry in her landlady’s copper and hung it all out on the clothesline where it flapped wildly in the ocean breeze, and then she had a bath and washed her hair and did her nails.

  She had finished The Women’s Weekly by dinnertime, so when she had cooked herself some macaroni cheese she sat down on the fl oor to eat it, propping Anna Karenina open at the first page, and she began to read. Late on Sunday night she said to herself, it’s really amazing how fast time goes by when you’re reading a book. I never realised.

  27

  Mrs Crown was on the telephone, sitting by the little table where it was kept in her hallway.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re not coming over?’ she was saying.

  ‘I’ve got a big leg of lamb here specially, it’s just gone in, and I’ve already done the vegetables. What do you mean, you’re not coming?’

  Patty shuddered with fright and confusion. This was proving to be more difficult even than she had imagined: it was a nightmare.

  ‘But Frank’s not feeling well,’ she said. ‘He’s not up to it.’

  ‘Frank not well!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘I never heard of such a thing. Frank’s always the picture of health. What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Patty, ‘it’s nothing, he just needs a day to himself. He’s lost his appetite, he
feels crook.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he needs a doctor. Have you had the doctor?’ asked Mrs Crown.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Patty, ‘I don’t think he needs the doctor. I’ll see how he is tomorrow.’

  And then she began to cry.

  ‘Patty Williams, or Crown as was,’ said her mother, ‘I’m coming right over there, even if the lamb has gone in. I’ll turn it off and come right over, even if it is ruined. If you won’t tell me what’s going on I’ll just come and see for myself. I don’t care about the lamb if you don’t.’

  ‘No!’ sobbed Patty, ‘leave the lamb in. I’ll come over, I’ll come myself. Just give me a bit of time to get ready.’

  She wasn’t even dressed yet; she had awakened in the empty bed at six a.m. and had been sitting almost catatonic with fear and shock in her kitchen ever since, staring at the front page of the Sunday paper.

  ‘I’ll come over as soon as I can,’ she said. ‘Leave the lamb in.’

  She looked through the coloured glass panels surrounding her mother’s front door as she had done as a child, and rang the bell.

  ‘Patty,’ said Mrs Crown, standing on her doorstep in a pinny, ‘now perhaps you’ll come in and explain yourself.’

  They proceeded down the long narrow hallway to the kitchen where the lamb could be heard loudly sizzling in the oven. The table was already set for five.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Patty, sitting down suddenly in a heap, ‘is Joy coming?’

  ‘No, just Dawn and Bill,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘The kids are all at the beach with the neighbours.’

  ‘That’s something,’ said Patty; ‘I couldn’t face Joy.’

  Mrs Crown put the kettle on.

  ‘I’m going to make some tea,’ she said, ‘and you’re going to tell me what’s going on. Now.’

  ‘Frank’s disappeared,’ said Patty.

  ‘He what?’ asked her mother.

  ‘He’s gone,’ said Patty. ‘He was gone when I got home yesterday. He hasn’t come back.’

  ‘Have you told the police?’ asked Mrs Crown, pale with shock.

  ‘He might’ve had an accident.’

  ‘They said not to worry yet,’ said Patty. ‘They said people do it all the time. They said to come to the station and fill in a Missing Persons form if he doesn’t turn up after a week. A week!’

  And she burst into tears.

  Her mother sat beside her and patted her shoulder.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘there now. You cry for a bit.’

  Patty cried for some time.

  ‘I don’t understand it, Patty,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘Have you had a row?’

  ‘No!’ cried Patty.

  She could hardly tell her mother what they had done instead.

  A row! The memory of the strange shared secret was now like a dream, something which had not actually happened.

  ‘I don’t understand it either,’ she said. ‘I really don’t.’

  And she began again to cry.

  ‘Listen, Patty,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘I’ll tell you this. No one understands men. We don’t understand them, and they don’t understand themselves. That’s flat. That’s why they do these wicked stupid things, like going off. I could tell you some stories! But they always come back, in the end. Usually, anyway. The ones that don’t, aren’t worth it, believe you me. He’ll come back. You’ll see. They can’t really manage by themselves, men can’t. They think they can, but they can’t. They’re just children.’

  At this word Patty’s tears increased, and her mother continued to pat her shoulder.

  ‘Now then, Patty,’ she said, ‘you dry your eyes. Go and wash your face and we’ll have some tea. I’m going to put the vegetables in.’

  She got up, and Patty went to the bathroom. When they were drinking the nice hot tea Mrs Crown looked at her daughter. Poor little Patty, the one in the middle; she had always been squashed by the determined Dawn, the assertive Joy. She was a bit of a mystery even to her own family, was Patty.

  ‘You know I like your hair a bit longer,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘Why don’t you grow it out for a bit? It suits you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Patty dully, ‘I might.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Mrs Crown, ‘what did Frank take with him? Did he take many clothes?’

  ‘I never thought to look,’ said Patty. ‘I just waited, I thought he’d come back any minute.’

  ‘So he might,’ said her mother, ‘but it won’t do no harm to look.

  I’m coming back with you later and we’ll have a good look. Then you can get some things and come and stay here with me, while he’s gallivanting around, the selfish bugger, causing grief.’

  ‘No!’ cried Patty, ‘I have to stay at home, in case he comes back!’

  ‘Humph!’ said Mrs Crown. ‘He doesn’t deserve it. You think about it. Serve him right if he came back and found you gone.

  Selfish, they all are. They never think.’

  ‘Please don’t tell Joy,’ said Patty. ‘Or Dawn.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘We can’t say he’s ill, can we? Dawn won’t believe that any more than I did. I know. We’ll say he’s gone away for a few days on business—that’s all right, isn’t it? He used to do that when he was a travelling salesman there. We can say he’s filling in for someone else for a few days. Then we’ll see what happens. It’s too bad just before Christmas and everything. He’d better come back by Christmas, that’s all I can say, or he’ll have some explaining to do to me, that’s all I can say!’

  And Mrs Crown looked properly fierce, and Patty, almost to her surprise, felt strangely comforted, and began even to feel quite fierce herself. He was a selfish bugger. They all were. But they couldn’t manage by themselves.

  28

  The scene which met the military eye of the Ruritanian army officer, as he ushered Lady Pyrke through the doorway of Goode’s at eleven a.m. on Christmas Eve, was pandemonium, with sound effects complete. To the obbligato of a hundred intense conversations between the black-clad staff and their customers were added the shrill ringing of cash register bells, the cries of lift attendants— Going Up!—and the unhappy shrieks of children large and small whom it had been impossible to park with neighbours: the women of Sydney, or a frightening proportion thereof, were still doing their Christmas shopping, and it could only, so the lieutenant-colonel observed to himself, get much worse as the day wore on, for after lunch the office workers let off early, as so many of them were on this day, would swell the throng. Lady Pyrke sailed sedately down the marble stairs into the mêlée as if stepping into the waters at Baden Baden. At a time like this, thought the lieutenant-colonel, it really pays to be non compos mentis: good luck to the old girl. He watched her proceeding serenely to the handkerchief counter and turned back to face the street.

  The scene on the second floor was a little quieter. Here an atmosphere merely of contained frenzy had been achieved. It was astonishing, thought Mr Ryder, how many ladies seemed to leave it to the last minute to buy their Christmas frocks, but here they all were, going into the fitting rooms with several over their arms to try on at once, and much consequent confusion for his staff who were already hard pressed. There was Lisa now, emerging from the fitting rooms half-smothered in assorted cocktail frocks retrieved after customers had found, or not, the one which suited them. If nothing else in their brief lives had rendered these frocks fit to be marked down, he observed, this last Christmas shopping day must:they would hereafter be good for nothing but the sales.

  Even Model Gowns seemed to be doing business which verged on the vulgarity of being brisk. Mr Ryder noted with satisfaction that Magda—the inimitable! worth every penny!—was at the moment attending—but with such calm, such infl exible tact—to no less than three different customers; and that was at least five hundred guineas’ worth of business on the hoof. If that wasn’t a lovely sight, he would eat his hat.

  There was Fay Baines, taking a handful of notes from a satisfied customer, with four more waiting their t
urn, and Lisa again with a great armful of frocks returning to the rails; Miss Jacobs stolidly explaining matters to an echt North Shore matron wanting a size they hadn’t got in a model they had, and Patty Williams looking awfully pale and even—well, on the verge of—interesting, as she wrote out a charge form: if you want to get sick, Mrs Williams, he thought, just wait until five-thirty p.m., there’s a dear. He smiled encouragement at them all as he proceeded on his rounds.

  At lunchtime Lisa, after changing, ran out into the hot and thronging city to buy her Christmas presents. She had done the necessary research during the previous week and now she dashed along to Grahame’s and purchased a copy of The Story of British Bloodstock, extensively illustrated and bearing on its dustjacket the fine portrait of the Godolphin Arab, for her papa; in Rowe Street she bought a tiny snuff box made from a seashell for her mother. The total expenditure came to slightly more than one week’s wages. In the canteen afterwards she saw Patty Williams looking rather ill. I wonder if I should speak to her, she thought. But she didn’t; there was a forbidding expression on Patty’s face which she had never seen before, neither had anyone else.

  Oh the bastard, Patty was thinking, the bastard. The selfish, selfish bugger, leaving me to cope like this; who does he think I am? It was the ancient question and it had now occurred at last to Patty. Just run off, without a word, and left me to cope: thanks. It had been only this morning when she awoke that Patty had suddenly realised that if Frank had absented himself from home he was likely to have done so no less from work, and that she had better try to make his excuses in that quarter. But what—dreadful thought—if he were absent only from home? During her lunch hour she telephoned her mother to ask her to ring Frank at work in order to discover whether or not he were there; then having waited for ten minutes she telephoned her mother once more.

  ‘He’s not there,’ Mrs Crown informed her. ‘I didn’t tell them anything. I didn’t tell them who I was or anything. They just said Mr Williams hasn’t come in today, they suppose he’s crook but he hasn’t let them know yet. They said to ring you if I wanted to know any more. Humph! You’d better phone them now, tell them he’s sick and you don’t know when he’ll be back, that’ll do for the moment.’