Orphans of War (55 page)

Gloria couldn’t forget that look on Greg’s face when she’d seen them in that café in London, all aglow with excitement. Once they’d got home he was on the phone every hour, working late, restless, checking his sites as if she hardly existed.

It wasn’t as if they weren’t content together. He made a great fuss of Bebe, but he was hardly at home, too busy making money. If only he’d spend more time with them. He was talking of them moving up again to a Victorian villa in town, one of the huge ones off the Ripon Road. ‘It’ll be closer to the shops,’ he laughed. He seemed to think money was all she was after, but all she wanted now was his attention

They’d got every gadget you could wish for and yet
Gloria was fed up, dissatisfied, empty, and she didn’t know why. Her days were always the same in a life of leisure her mam could have only dreamed of. They’d lost touch with each other years ago. She wanted no reminders of Marge Conley’s life. No friends, no family, no job, Gloria had nothing to do but housework, and she had Mrs Handley to do that.

If only Greg would share things with her, take her with him on trips, surprise her once in a while, but he spent most of his spare time with his mechanic under that blessed rally car, tinkering until all hours while she sat in watching television:
Coronation Street. Emergency Ward 10, What’s My Line:
anything to while away the evenings.

All her dreams were coming true. They’d never had it so good, and yet…

Gloria was lonely at times, bored and disappointed, and she’d still got to think of something for Greg’s birthday. As she had headed towards the car park in town, she noticed a new photographic studio, The Yorkshire Portrait Gallery. There were some pretty shots of girls in party dresses with sashes, smiling from gilded frames, hand-tinted to show off the colours, and it gave her an idea.

She darted to the reception desk and made an appointment for one Saturday morning. This would be a surprise for Greg’s birthday, gilt framed like a portrait to hang on the wall. But first Bebe would need something pretty to wear. She dashed back to Marshall and Snelgrove, snatching a selection of party dresses on approval so they could try things on in secret. She’d
have her own hair set, a new dress and make-up on, and Greg would be delighted with such a novel present.

‘I can’t be thirty,’ Greg sighed out loud. ‘Where’s the time gone? Making all this happen, he thought, staring at the forecourt where his beautiful red Jaguar sat in the sunshine. On the coat rack hung his Crombie overcoat, as the weather was still chilly. His oak desk, cluttered with bills and diaries, was solid and antique, and in a silver frame was a photo of Bebe as a baby.

He could still recall the thrill of holding her in his arms for the first time, red-faced, with a fluff of ginger hair. She flickered her eyes at him and he was lost, besotted, her slave. Every working hour was worth it just for her arms round him when he came home at night.

He’d snatched a glimpse of that article about Maddy in the
Post
when Gloria wasn’t looking and had cut it out. It was locked in his desk drawer. Then memories of birthdays in the Old Vic came flooding back: up the tree, throwing balloons, and those wonderful parcels of stuff from America, with all those comics.

He was glad the hostel was still being used. Trust her to think up a scheme. He’d sent some cash to the Hungarian relief appeal straight away.

Sometimes he lingered late in the office, putting off the moment when he must leave for Sunnyside Drive and Gloria, who would be made up to the nines, waiting eagerly to dish up supper, all airs and graces. Poor girl, she spent money like there was no tomorrow on contemporary wallpaper, rugs, fancy standard lamps,
and then she’d spoil the effect by putting wax flowers in the window when they’d got a garden full of plants.

He’d suggested she go to flower-arranging classes, but was given one of those pained looks he knew so well and changed the subject.

Was this it? Was this all there was to marriage: a gleaming house, a pretty child, net curtains, and sex on Saturday night if he was lucky? What could have happened to make life so predictable?

Sometimes he felt as if he’d been trapped by his own ambition and drive. He wanted a wife and family to care for, but when he turned into the driveway his heart sank with dismay. That was unfair of him; to be disloyal to Gloria who’d never done him any harm.

He knew when he married her he’d get a simple girl from a rough background, thrown on a train by a selfish mother. She’d pulled herself up by the ankle straps, made a cosy home, dressed smartly. There was nothing about her he didn’t know. He’d rescued her when she was down and she’d been so loving to him.

They rushed into marriage too quickly, and Bebe was a honeymoon baby. Gloria had had a terrible delivery, the doctor said. If only there was a little lad to hand on the business to somehow. He didn’t see Bebe as a managing director. Nothing was turning out as he planned.

It was late and dark, the last of the guys had left the storerooms. But someone had forgotten to put the light out in their cubbyhole, the makeshift den that smelled of sawdust, axle grease and Swarfega, dirty towels and manly sweat from oily dungarees. It was not a place
he went to, unless invited. There were pint mugs of tea with rims of stale milk waiting to be washed, newspapers and girly mags; the usual male clutter.

On the wall was one of those calendars that came in brown paper envelopes, by courtesy of tyre companies, exhaust fitters and car accessory companies.

What was it this time? he smiled. The calendar was years old. Wasn’t it bad luck to have one of those up on the wall, or was it bad luck to open next year’s too early? He flicked over the pages, glancing through the pictures of the poor cows posing, arms aloft, bums and tits on show. Nothing was left to the imagination.

Imagine having to do that for a living, he thought, but he thumbed through it just the same. Some of the poses were a bit close to indecency–Miss May…Miss June…and then his eyes stuck to Miss October. There were a few dried leaves covering her complete nakedness, but her ginger pubes and glorious red hair were decorated with berries.

Greg’s heart was thumping at the picture before him. It just couldn’t be…Gloria must have a double, but that sexy, knowing look he recognised so well…His wife’s face was staring up at him. It made him want to throw up. How could she have done this? It couldn’t be his Gloria, it just couldn’t. He tore the calendar off the wall, rammed it into his briefcase and headed for home via the Black Horse.

Bebe was staying up late to give her daddy the present. She was so excited and kept dashing to the window to see if the car was coming. Gloria kept looking at the
clock, having made his favourite roast with all the trimmings, bought a fancy Victoria sponge cream cake, especially iced, and put candles on it. The parcel was wrapped in fancy paper, and the bird was getting dry in the oven.

Come on, come on, she thought, what’s keeping you? Had he had an accident? But someone would have telephoned. It was not like Greg to be late for his own birthday party. It was a school day and Bebe would have to go to bed soon. Then she heard the roar of his Jaguar, and Bebe jumped on the sofa.

‘He’s here! Shall I hide?’

‘Behind the sofa, quick, or he’ll see!’ laughed Gloria, relieved that the dinner was still salvageable.

She rushed to the door to greet him. The whisky fumes hit her as soon as it was opened.

‘Happy Birthday, Greg! You’re late; you know what day it is?’

‘Of course I bloody do! Thirty years into my life sentence,’ he snapped.

‘Don’t be like that…What’s up? You’re not that old,’ she replied, trying to reassure him.

He brushed past and stomped into the kitchen in a strop.

‘We’ve got the party all ready. Bebe’s been helping me,’ she added, seeing thunder on the horizon. What had gone wrong at work now?

‘I hope she’s in bed, that’s all I can say.’

‘No, she is…what is it? What’s got into you?’

‘This is what’s got into me!’ he yelled, producing the calendar, a grubby motor tyre annual calendar.
‘Look at Miss October. Do you recognise anyone?’ He shoved it into her face, dropping it on the floor, open. ‘You cow, you deceitful cow.’

‘Stop this…I don’t understand.’ Then she saw her face staring out from the floor, her body bedecked with leaves, and began to shake.

‘It is you, isn’t it?’

What could she say? ‘I can explain it…It was a long time ago,’ she whispered.

‘I can see that. You must have been barely out of school, and it was hanging in the lads’ den for anyone to see. The boss’s wife naked for all to see like a tuppenny tart!’

‘Greg, please, shush!’ Gloria pointed to the sofa through the dividing doors.

‘I’ll not shut up. You made a right fool of me. I thought you were different from all the others. All that innocence was window dressing. This is Ken’s work, isn’t it? How many more are there floating around?’

‘I don’t know! Oh, please, Bebe will hear. She’s listening.’

‘No excuses. Better she knows what sort of mother she has. You’re as bad as Marge. Blood will out. They always say redheads are hot for it!’

‘Gregory, please, calm down. I was desperate. I thought I was doing catalogue work. I was young and silly, and Ken Silverstone persuaded me to do things for fun and then he started to blackmail me and I was scared. I did what he told me. That’s why I left him. Please believe me, it’s the truth.’ She saw the look of hatred in his face and cowered from him.

‘Get out of my sight! You wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit you on the nose. Leave me alone!’

‘Daddy?’ Bebe poked her head up from behind the sofa. ‘Happy Birthday. We bought you a present. Come and open it. It’s a surprise.’ The child looked at him, puzzled. ‘Why are you so cross?’

‘I don’t feel like a birthday tonight, poppet. Perhaps tomorrow.’

‘But I made this card all by myself. Daddy, don’t be angry with Mummy. We want you to see our present.’ Bebe took his hand and dragged him to the parcel.

Gloria quickly stepped in to hide it. ‘Let Daddy wait until he feels better. We’ll save it for another day, Bebe. Time to go to bed now, come on.’ She had to avoid any more rows while the child was in the room.

‘But you said I could stay up and I want Daddy to have his birthday.’ Bebe was stamping her feet in a paddy of frustration.

‘Oh, let me open the damn thing then!’ Greg snarled, tearing at the paper.

‘Now’s not the right moment. Let’s leave it, Greg,’ Gloria pleaded but it was too late. He opened the cardboard to reveal the staged, posed portrait of Bebe and Gloria in all their finery, smiling in a gilded frame. Madonna and child it was not.

For a moment there was silence, and she hoped he’d be pleased, but Greg stared at it, and then with one roar of fury he put his fist right through the glass. ‘Take it away!’

Bebe was howling but Gloria was strangely calm.
‘Daddy’s not well. He’s upset. He didn’t mean to frighten you, love. Better go upstairs now, up the wooden hill to dreamland.’

In one act of defiance she turned on her husband. ‘How could you? That was so childish,’ she said, but there was no response. He was too busy looking for something to wrap round his hand.

Bebe was distraught at the sight of blood.

‘You can sleep in my bed tonight as a treat. Daddy will go in the spare room,’ Gloria ordered.

Greg was not going to sleep in their bed tonight, not stinking of whisky and with his bloodied knuckles.

When she came downstairs to face his fury she heard the roar of the engine and the front door was open. It was a relief to know he’d gone to cool off. Tomorrow she would try to explain again and then he’d see things in a different light.

Greg sped down the drive. It was late and he was drunk, heading onto the moor road. It was a clear starlit night with frost listening on the tarmac. He wanted to drive into the hills and forget those images forged into his brain. He wanted to burn the engine until she smoked. He wanted to punish the metal, to test his own strength and stamina.

Speed and timing, the perfect harmony of mind and body and machine, this was the holy trinity of rallying. Not tonight, though. Now he just wanted to race into the wind and forget all the mess down there, lose himself in the pure act of driving this beauty. Faster and faster, he drove through the night as if in a trance.
This was the only way to release his fury, by taking it out on the metal, burning through the white-hot rage he was feeling.

He thought he was a man on top of the job but everything was built on shifting sand. How could he have been such a dunce? Gloria was never his princess, but now he knew her for little more than a common tart and in his rage he hated her for making a fool of him. He would not let her antics disturb his concentration. It was as if for the first time in years there was just him and speed. He smiled, thinking of his go-karts, jumping from that railway bridge, tearing around on a motor bike during the war. He was at his happiest when attached to wheels, not women. Wheels may puncture but they could be mended. The heart was not so easily repaired. Why were women so faithless, so deceitful? First Maddy, and now Gloria. Drive on…Don’t think about that now…Drive on!

Nothing compared to the simplicity of speed. Nothing could reach him here, just one man and the open road. It was perfect, the engine was powering and he could go on like this, forgetting all the night’s terrible revelations.