She's Leaving Home (20 page)

The girls were scribbling furiously. The change in their teacher’s tone indicated that she had become didactic.

‘But what we have today is a kind of mass satire in which the whole population has joined. Everyone pokes fun with no respect. Nor are any institutions held sacred. That dratted television programme thrashes away at the props of our lives, including the Church and the Royal Family. Conventional morality is become a source of mirth. Now is that safe, or destructive? Is it a necessary cleansing of Augean stables, or a nihilism which will demolish the pillars which hold up the house, and so make matters infinitely worse? That is the theme for next week.’

Her students looked puzzled and began to ask questions, but Miss Plumb held up her hand for silence. ‘What you make of it is up to you. I will prepare a reading list based on what’s in the Library. Don’t be so alarmed – you’re quite familiar with
Gulliver’s Travels
and
Animal Farm
, so it’s not as tough as it sounds. We’ll use one of the
Telegraph’s
more portentous quotes as our title. Yes, here it is. “Is mass satire desirable in a liberal society, or is it a ‘cannibal dance around the idea of Authority’? Discuss.” Consider the use of the word “cannibal”. Not more than ten pages of foolscap by next Tuesday.’

The girls’ groans were sufficient acclaim. With a wave she dismissed them. ‘Good morning.’

Miss Austen’s acerbity and the levities of such TV stars as David Frost and Bernard Levin were not in Helen’s mind as she jumped from the bus and ran, satchel in hand, up the road to her house.

What would she be like, the new auntie? Would she look like Dad? Or terrifyingly alien? She was much older – an old woman. Would she be decrepit – would sharing a room be an ordeal? What happened when somebody spent the whole of her adult life abroad, in a country as powerfully
self-confident
as America? Would she sneer at them, call them old-fashioned and try to change their
ways? But then, Helen reasoned as she arrived panting at the gate and waited a moment to catch her breath, that was understandable in those who’d left and returned on a triumphant visit. They’d be bound to show off a bit. Otherwise it might be inferred that they’d made a mistake by leaving in the first place.

Don’t be petty, she chided herself. How can you believe boasting must be part of their style? Michael isn’t like that. He’s dignified and polite, and somehow finds a pleasant or complimentary remark to make about everything. That’s quite a talent. All too rare in Liverpool.

The reflection on Michael made her pause a moment more. He and the boys were coming to the club tonight, but it might be fun instead to introduce him to the Cavern. The dilemma was that she’d be expected to stay in for her aunt. It’d be the height of bad manners to disappear on her first night. Helen leaned on the gatepost and bit her lip in despair. She had to see Michael; there was no argument about it.

Michael R. Levison. Airman first class, but hoping to be promoted before long. He could have tried for an officer but preferred to stay with the enlisted men. Tall and wide. A strong neck, angled jaw. Ruby-stoned fraternity ring on his finger: she had never seen one like that before, nor did most males of her acquaintance wear rings or anything fancy other than a watch – they’d have condemned the idea as cissy. But Michael could not be called that, not in a million years.

Tonight he had said he would be in mufti, as he called it. She wondered what a young American might wear, and how obviously his nationality would be advertised: she’d be torn between pride and embarrassment if he stood out or looked silly.

She murmured anxiously to herself and glanced at the door. Tonight was for Michael and no one could dissuade her or badger her into giving him up. Perhaps she could get away with it. It might be best simply to lie.

What was it about him? Why should she want to conceal this friendship? Why had she already misled her mother, and deliberately refrained from sharing the delight she felt at meeting Michael? It was new, this urge to have secrets. She shivered, as if a cold finger had touched the nape of her neck. There was absolutely nothing wrong or wicked about this slight connection with a young GI who might disappear back to the US at any time. Yet her natural honesty and desire to please her parents was under threat. She would not tell her parents the truth about her intentions that evening. She would not allow Michael to enter the conversation nor the realm of family discussion. Knowing him was a private matter.

Thus it was with a jagged sense of shock, and of a decision inadvertently taken, that Helen put her key in the front door lock and walked in.

Noisy chatter came from the living room. Shyly Helen hid in the hallway. The new relative stood in the middle of the room as if she owned it, with the parents hovering like lackeys.

Helen took a long steady look. This lady wasn’t ancient – far from it. A rangy elegant woman above average height in a fine knitted suit, the aunt had a handsome mane of reddish hair folded at the back of her head in a French pleat, the like of which Helen had never seen before. The eyes were hazel and the face carefully made-up, with mascara and eyeshadow discreetly applied as if by a professional. Her fingernails were shiny scarlet. It was odd to see a woman with crinkly skin around the eyes and deep smile-lines etched each side of the mouth who refused to admit the depredations of age – Helen knew the aunt was much older than her father. Before, the notion of a respectable elderly woman wearing make-up would have seemed disgusting but on Gertie it was cleverly done and acceptable. The suit was strange, too – it was made of a sleek silvery thread which swished as the wearer moved. Perhaps that indicated that it was very expensive, a conclusion supported by the numerous items of jewellery which winked and gleamed. The overall effect was magnificent.

Barry was excitedly unwrapping a large present, his eyes alight with greed.

‘Oh, wow,’ he breathed. From the tissue paper emerged a briefcase in tan leather with a brass
clasp. On the flap were stamped his initials in gold.

‘A gift to see you through from childhood to manhood. See, it has a combination lock,’ Gertie drawled. ‘Put in some numbers you won’t forget – your birthday, perhaps.’

‘That’ll look great at school,’ he murmured. ‘Nobody else’s got one like this. Golly, Auntie Gertie. Thanks a million.’

The woman held out her arms for a hug but Barry hung back. ‘Boys don’t kiss, sorry,’ he muttered and withdrew. Gertie laughed and dropped her arms.

‘Gawd, I’d forgotten how uptight the English can be. My own kin! OK, but would you please call me Gertie? I hate that auntie bit.’

‘No,’ intervened his mother stiffly. ‘We can’t have them using your first name. It’s Auntie Gertie and don’t forget it.’

Barry sauntered off down the hall and rehearsed carrying his briefcase. Gertie turned.

‘Well, hi! You must be Helen. Do I get a hug from you, if not from your brother?’

Helen came forward awkwardly. In a family which did not hug she was not sure how to do it and sensed that she failed to respond as required. Her aunt smelled flowery – that must be scent. The skin was fair and papery.

Her gift was prettily wrapped. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ her mother asked, disappointed. The girl glanced at the aunt who winked conspiratorially: it was her niece’s right to choose when to put the item on public display.

‘I’ll open it later. I’m sure it’s something very special.’ It felt like a leather vanity case. Her mother pouted but the girl continued to resist. Helen realised she was mentally pushing Annie aside to make room for the aunt. And to clear space for herself.

‘Sure, kid. I gather we’re in the same room? We’ll have lots of chats. You can try my perfume.’

Her mother turned away, obviously put out, and busied herself with setting the table. Helen suddenly grasped that the two women did not know each other and would find it awkward to become friends, so different were their fields of reference. But something extra was at play. Her mother found the visitor overwhelming and a source of fear. Maybe it was already obvious that Gertie would dazzle them, but her mother feared most the effect on the vulnerable young girl.

That suggested the American aunt had something to teach her. And though her mother was afraid of it, she, Helen, was not: and wanted to learn all the more.

Daniel was as hesitant as his children, once the tensions released on the dockside had subsided. Had the rest of the family been on hand that morning he would have restrained himself. Now, however, he had a suggestion. He clapped his hands.

‘When you’ve unpacked we’ll go out to dinner. Somewhere nice, to celebrate your arrival.’

Faces fell all round.

‘But I’ve put a pot-roast in the oven –’ began Annie.

‘Does that mean I have to dress up?’ lamented Barry.

Helen said nothing but caught her aunt’s eye in a flash of panic. With easy grace Gertie took her brother’s arm and chuckled at his  crestfallen expression.

‘Great idea, Danny, but not tonight. I’m bushed. How about tomorrow – or better still, Saturday? Then we could step out in our finery, like Barry says. Where did you think we might go?’

Daniel lifted his chin defiantly. ‘The finest restaurant in Liverpool. The manager’s a client –’ he added hastily at Annie’s squeak of alarm. ‘The Rembrandt.’

Helen had heard of it. The Rembrandt was a private club. It was the location of the smartest twenty-first birthday parties and dinners – the ideal of many of her schoolmates but quite beyond their parents’ pockets. Her father must have decided to hang the expense.

Annie was tugging at his sleeve and spoke in an urgent whisper. ‘But it’s not kosher.’

Daniel looked at Gertie who shrugged slightly. ‘So what?’ he countered shamelessly. ‘I’ll book the table tomorrow. It’s not often we have my big sis with us and I intend to make her stay here a truly memorable event.’

As Helen moved quickly away upstairs to change, she caught a glimpse of the expression on her mother’s face. Annie was suffering. Her mother was no longer in charge in her own home. That meant she was in charge nowhere, and counted for nothing.

‘You feeling a bit better, love?’

Sylvia Bloom put down the cup of tea on the bedside table and paused, hands on hips. As much concern as she could muster was in her voice, but she kept her face averted. Playing nurse for an hour was one thing. Catching flu in sympathy was quite another even if the invalid were her own sister.

‘Dough, dot really.’ The bunged-up nose of Rita Nixon was red and swollen. ‘Pass me the Kleenex.’

‘I’ll sit with you for a bit,’ offered Sylvia. The patient groaned and blew her nose, which both took as consent.

Sylvia had brought the newspaper with her and began to read as her sister dozed, but at the first flicker of awareness sought a suitable topic of conversation. However extraordinary the
goings-on
in Parliament might be, the daily details of their own lives were vastly more important.

‘You going away on holiday this year?’

Rita sneezed. ‘Yeah, if I ever leave this bed. Nix says we’ll need some sunshine after that terrible winter.’

‘There’s an ad here. “
Make Madeira your island paradise this summer. Bananas and tropical fruits ripen all year round. Breathtaking scenery t
hey all say that, don’t they
wines are cheap and plentiful
.” That’s more like it. I enjoy a drop of Madeira. Stay in an exclusive hotel from twenty-five bob a day, or two weeks’ holiday all in from sixty-nine guineas.’

‘That’s still a lot. Anywhere cheaper?’

‘Um, let me see. How about Belgrade? Fly with Pan Am on big jets. One month return flight for fifty-five pounds and sixteen shillings. Full Rainbow Economy Service.’

‘You’d have to get a hotel on top. And who’d want to stay in Belgrade for a month? Where the hell is it, anyway?’

Sylvia pondered. ‘Yugoslavia, I think. It’s past Italy. You know, Tito’s place. Not sure I’d want to go to a country ruled by a dictator. I’d probably say the wrong thing and get arrested.’

‘But Madeira’s not much different. Doesn’t it belong to Portugal?’

‘Bloody dictators everywhere. Blackpool’d be safer. At least if I get into a row the policeman speaks the same language.’

‘Doesn’t have the weather, though. Or cheap wines.’

‘True.’

Rita’s stertorous breathing filled the room. Her sister looked around. The Nixons had installed fitted bedroom furniture in a pseudo-French style. Doors from floor to ceiling hid cupboards, wardrobes and drawers. Mirrors with gilded surrounds and hidden lights conveyed hints of a royal boudoir. White woodwork with gold filigree was handsome, Sylvia conceded, but collected dust and would soon look tatty. Had she herself been attracted by something similar, her sister’s choice made it out of the question. Pine was altogether more modern.

‘Fancy a trip to London one weekend?’

Rita stirred. ‘What’s on?’

‘We could try and get tickets for
My Fair Lady
. It’s been at Drury Lane five years and I still haven’t caught up with it.’

‘It’ll be coming to Manchester soon, I read in the
Echo
.’

‘Much better to say you saw it in London. We can catch it up north as well. Costs less here so you can take the family.’

‘The kids’d rather see the Beatles. D’you know Roseanne paid three pounds for a ticket for them with Tommy Roe and Chris I can’t remember – Montez, yes, at the Liverpool Odeon? She says it was “fab”. I don’t understand the way they talk these days.’

Sylvia flicked through the paper for the cinema listings. She brightened.

‘So: d’you fancy this new film with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton?
Cleopatra
. Four hours long. Steamy antics on set, apparently. In and out of each other’s bunks. I adore Burton but he’s a dope to fall for her. Married man, too.’

‘She’s gorgeous, though.’ Rita’s voice became dreamy. ‘Big bust and tiny waist and those eyes – d’you think she puts drops in to make them violet, or was she born like that?’

‘Remember her in
National Velvet
? She was such a pretty little thing. Not had a happy life since she left England.’