Light A Penny Candle (54 page)

‘Oh yes, he made the sort of speech,’ said Harry without enthusiasm.

‘Yes, he and his friend Simon Burke, they’ve been very kind to me … and I’ve grown quite fond of Henry actually … and we go to the theatre … and we go to art galleries, and oh, I don’t know where else … he’s cooked me supper in his flat, and I’ve even had him to supper in Clarence Gardens when Father’s out, and once when he was there … and do you see – Johnny doesn’t mind a bit. Not a bit.’

‘Well, are you only doing it so that Johnny will get jealous? That’s a bit silly isn’t it …?’

‘No, that’s not it, it’s just that it would never have gone so far if Johnny had showed the slightest annoyance, he hasn’t. He’s quite happy if I say I can’t meet him on Saturday because I’m going to the Old Vic with Henry.’

‘What did you expect him to say?’

‘I don’t know, I didn’t expect him to be so indifferent … I asked him straight out. …’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said, “You know me, pussy cat, I don’t tie people down,” and of course he pointed out to me that I didn’t make a fuss when he took other ladies out so he certainly wasn’t going to come the jealous lover bit. I told him that I hated him going out with other women and that I wanted him to come the jealous lover bit with me. He said I’d picked the wrong man for those kind of antics.’

‘Well,’ Harry said, nonplussed. ‘He spoke fair and honest, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but that’s all there is to it, all there’ll ever be. The love … the hope and all that. It’s all on my side, don’t you see? There’s nothing giving on his … he doesn’t need me.’

‘So do you see him still?’ Harry looked fearful in case his friend Johnny was being mislaid in a welter of confused female attitudes.

‘Oh, I see him, I see him at Stefan’s, I see him sometimes on a Sunday morning … we go and get the papers and go to bed for the morning – I’ve always thought of that as our time. …’

‘And Henry … doesn’t he think …?’

‘I don’t go to bed with Henry. But I’m very fond of him,
he
’s afraid to tell me that he’s serious about me in case I tell him I prefer Johnny. I know it sounds ludicrous, but that’s the way it is. So we’re all walking on tightropes … except Johnny.’

‘I’m sure it will turn out for the best.’ Harry patted her hand.

‘Oh yes, I’m sure it will,’ Elizabeth said thoughtfully. ‘But as in almost every walk of life, it will have to be Elizabeth White who makes the decision, what is for the best. Nobody else will.’

As it happened Aunt Eileen had heard about Mother because Aisling had telephoned Clarence Gardens one night for a chat and Father had told her why Elizabeth was away. Father had not wanted to hear about the funeral. Elizabeth said she would tell him about it if he liked, but he said no, that Mother had died for him a long time ago.

‘I got a nice note from our Mother’s friend, Aisling’s mother,’ he said in a surprised tone. ‘Very sensible and to the point. There’s one there with an Irish stamp for you too, she must have written to us both. Nice note really, not a lot of nonsense.’

Elizabeth wondered what Aunt Eileen had said that had pleased Father, because she knew it could be nothing like the great outpouring which she had received herself. Eileen remembered all the good bits of when Mother was young, and how Mother had written when Elizabeth was born and said they had never seen such a perfect baby in the hospital, and how Eileen had laughed because they had
never
seen such perfect babies as Sean and Maureen in Kilgarret either. Eileen begged her to remember the good bits of Mother and put aside the sad bits: that’s what she did with Sean, she always remembered him laughing and enthusiastic and giving her flowers for a birthday, and being absorbed in a book. She never remembered him fighting with his father, sulking, or worst of all being blown to bits by a mine. Try to think of her mother as someone very like Elizabeth herself, half earnest and practical and half flighty – not as a figure in a mental home. Not that.

Eileen added that Aisling had seemed in very poor form these days, just between themselves. And if there was any possible chance of Elizabeth rushing over for a visit, then it might be a wonderful time to do it. It would cheer Elizabeth up after all the sadness, and certainly Aisling’s face was never known to be long when her friend was round. But Elizabeth would be very discreet and not mention this, wouldn’t she?

It was tempting but it wasn’t possible. Time to make up at the school, at the college, at the shop. No, there was no way that Elizabeth could go to Ireland. As she was thinking that she might telephone Kilgarret the telephone rang. It was Johnny.

Would she like to go and hear a bit of skiffle or was that too loud and cheery after all she’d been through? Elizabeth said she’d love it. She’d meet him at the skiffle club, it would be just what she’d need, take her mind off things.

‘Was it dreadful, funny-face?’ he asked.

‘Very bleak. Yes,’ she said.

‘I know. I didn’t write or send a wire, meaningless really. Just prefer to remember her as a very glamorous doll. That’s what she was when I saw her.’

‘Right. True,’ she said.

‘Old Harry all right? Must have been a bit of a relief in the end for him? Seeing as she wasn’t going to get better?’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’

‘Well, I’ll see you at nine.’

‘Great,’ she said.

The telephone rang again. It was Henry.

‘I know you won’t want to go out and be jolly and cheerful, but if you liked I could cook you a meal, and we could just sit and talk about it,’ he offered.

‘No,’ Elizabeth said slowly, ‘no, it’s lovely of you but there’s something I have to do.’

Henry was apologetic at once. He should have realised it was too soon to intrude. He would give her a couple of days.

‘I’d like to come tomorrow if you’re free,’ she asked.

He was delighted, he would come and pick her up. Call for her. That was nice. Johnny didn’t call for her. She said she was looking forward to it.

She had a slight headache when she met Johnny at the club. He said he knew how to cure that and he asked for a coffee with some rum and a stick of cinnamon in it. Oddly, her head did feel a little better.

‘How does it work?’ she asked.

‘It burns the headache away,’ Johnny said, taking her cold hand and leading her over to a group of people at a table. He seemed to know them all. She was introduced to them by first names and she wondered which woman he fancied now. It was possibly the small giggly one but she was married to the man beside her, surely. He had his hand on her shoulder and she wore a wedding ring. What difference did it make being married? Anyway the romance, if it was one, would not last long. Johnny held her and she leaned against him as she drank her spicy coffee.

‘It’s nice that you’re back, pussy cat,’ he said stroking her neck. ‘Are we going back to the flat later?’

‘Yes, definitely,’ she said. She must have imagined the speaking glances between them, Johnny and the small giggly woman.

She lay in his arms, and he sighed happily. She realised that this was the only reference to her sad pilgrimage to Preston – vanishing off to the other end of the country – no soothings, no sorrow, no consolations. Johnny didn’t like thinking about sad things, so he never thought of them. He had told her that years and years ago. Simple, wasn’t it?

She had a slight headache again the next night when Henry called for her, but she didn’t mention it. She was afraid he might want to call off the evening, or that he would suggest an aspirin and some hot milk, which would be so dull compared to what Johnny had thought up. He had come in
and
talked to Father for five minutes. Just enough to include Father, but not involve him. As Elizabeth fetched her coat she heard Henry saying, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the form, Mr White, about extending condolences on the death of an ex-wife – but I’m very sorry that Elizabeth’s mother has passed away.’

Father seemed able to deal with formal kinds of conversation like this, he probably had a lot of it in the bank. ‘Thank you, Henry,’ he said. ‘Elizabeth’s mother had a very uneasy and disturbed life. It is to be hoped that she has found peace at last.’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ Henry said respectfully. Elizabeth allowed them a few seconds of silence before she came in.

‘Well, we’re off now, I won’t keep her out too late, Mr White,’ Henry said. Elizabeth felt that this is what other girls must have had, ten years ago. She had missed out on it. She never knew any courtship, boys coming to the house, dates and having to be home at certain times – it made her feel very young and happy for some silly reason.

Henry had everything ready for the meal: a tin of tomato soup in one saucepan, and four scrubbed potatoes in another; on a grill-pan he had two small lamb chops and four halves of tomato. A tray was set with a little jug of mint sauce and bread and butter already arranged on a plate.

‘It’s just simple, but I thought it would be nice for you not to have to cook for yourself,’ he said. He looked innocent and almost afraid that she wouldn’t approve of his preparations.

Elizabeth’s face broke into a great smile of delight.
‘How
marvellous to be waited on like this. You
are
thoughtful and kind.’

Henry flushed with pleasure. ‘I just wanted you to sit back, after all you’ve been through. Tell me about it.’ He poured her a glass of wine and sat her down in front of his gas fire in the sitting room. He sat on the floor opposite her.

‘Tell me what happened … you left here on the train. …’ He looked at her, interested in her and what she had been through. The sympathy on his face was genuine. He really did want to know all about it. Slowly she began to tell him … and when she told him how small Mother was, like a little shrivelled doll, and how much Harry had cried, Henry’s eyes filled with tears … and then Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears and she wept on Henry’s chest beside the gas fire for a long long time. They both blew their noses loudly and Elizabeth went into the bathroom to dab her eyes with cold water and Henry began his laborious preparations in the kitchen and guarded the lamb chops against burning with furious concentration.

Henry had a married sister, Jean, who lived in Liverpool, that was where he was heading for Christmas. His parents had died when he was still young. His father had died the night before he was to join up in 1940 and Henry had been only fourteen. His mother had lived a life of terror and constant anxiety over the war. And then, just after VE day, she too had died suddenly. Henry always remembered the war as taking both his parents away – he
could
never understand why people looked back half-affectionately to all the solidarity and matinées during those years. He had no nostalgia, a schoolboy with a mother whose nerves were on the point of snapping; it was by no standard the best time of his life.

Yes, he was very fond of Jean, she was a nurse and she had been wonderful to him when he was starting to study law, she had helped support him and given him money for his fees and indenture costs, and she had tided him over until they had sold the family house and had some money of their own. Jean had married Derek and they had one small son. He was called Henry too. Henry was going to get him a train for Christmas.

It all sounded very safe. Henry would take the train to Liverpool and Derek would come to meet him: then they would collect the Christmas tree together and take it home. Young Henry would be asleep; the three adults would decorate the tree. Henry didn’t seem to know whether he got on very well with his sister and brother-in-law or not. He didn’t even understand the question. Jean was his sister, he went there for Christmas. That was that. Elizabeth felt a little foolish about her questions … they sounded like an interrogation. She had hoped that he might say that he and Jean had always been great friends, that they had laughed at the same things, and that he liked Derek enormously. Elizabeth had wanted to hear that at Christmas they sat, Jean and Henry, and remembered the good things about their mother and father, that they told each other everything and caught up on the year’s
happenings
as easily as if they had only been separated a week.

If she had brushed with a Christmas like this, it would somehow make her own a little better. She and Father had weathered many a festive season together since Mother had left home, but it was never easy. Father would grow more and more morose as the build-up to Christmas Day continued, and by the time she carved the chicken he would be positively sepulchral. Elizabeth had learned how to cope with this: she just chattered pleasantly and inconsequentially as if she hadn’t noticed any gloom or lack of reciprocal chatter. Then the dishes were washed, and they built up the fire and listened to the radio. She did not even know what Johnny had planned for Christmas; it had never included helping her to enjoy herself and it never would. Johnny had no family – many people might think it normal that he should come for his Christmas feast to Elizabeth and her father. But Johnny didn’t do things that depressed him. He would let her know casually; it might be Scotland like it was last year. Six of them had rented an old crofter’s cottage and had spent four glorious days, walking and exploring the Highlands, and eating and drinking in front of a log fire. Elizabeth was wan with envy when she heard about it.

As it turned out Johnny went nowhere for Christmas because he got a bad attack of flu; it coincided with one of his little dalliances, and an Italian girl, who fancied herself as a Florence Nightingale, patted his brow and handed him drinks of water. Elizabeth called at the flat on
Christmas
Eve. In no way did she let the bewildered Francesca know that she was a long-standing love of Johnny’s. She behaved calmly and kindly as if she were visiting a friend. She ignored the long white dressing-gown on the back of the bedroom door, she never let her eyes fall on the clothes thrown over the bedroom chair, the make-up on the dressing table or the look of embarrassment on Johnny’s face.

‘I just came to wish you Happy Christmas, and Stefan said you were in bad shape so I did what they do in books – I’ve brought you some beef tea. …’ She laughed happily. And after a moment, Francesca laughed too. Johnny managed a smile. ‘So, Francesca can you perhaps heat this up … it’s meant to do magic things … but let’s not question what. If it’s an old wives’ tale, let’s just believe it.’