The Watercress Girls (18 page)

‘He’d be glad to, but … you can’t drive, as I recall.’

‘No, but you can, I understand! Would you be my driver, Mattie? I don’t think it would take up too much of your time, and you would be paid, of course! I take it, that nod means yes. You look quite bemused, lost for words! You see, I know exactly what I intend to do: I shall open a beauty and hair-styling salon in the city – sell my own products. What d’you think? I could run courses for students in the art of make-up, too.’

Mattie found her voice. ‘I think it’s a great idea – I’d love to be involved!’

‘It seems to me that women have become so used to the drabness of
the depression, that they need a lift to their spirits. I don’t want to sell in an exclusive fashion as I did back in Plymouth – I want to brighten the lives of women in general!’

‘What will you call your business?’

‘The Fullilove Beauty Experience. I think Rufus would have approved.’

‘I
t’s good fun,’ Megan observed, spooning up her breakfast porridge, ‘having Aunty Sybil next door. She’s taking me to the movies on Saturday afternoon—’

‘Movies!’ Mattie exclaimed. ‘Back home we called it going to the pictures – that’s all it was, when we left for Canada – now we have
talkies
… Can you choose the film?’

‘Well … Kay’s coming too, and her brothers said the new Harold Lloyd movie is
amazing
– he does tricks like Harry in the garage….’

‘Fortunately, Harry confined his acrobatics to the garage beams. Well, off you go to school – it’s time for me to honk the horn to let Sybil know her chariot awaits.’

‘I haven’t had a chance to look at the funnies yet,’ Megan complained. ‘Dad’s allowed to read the paper at breakfast, why can’t I?’

‘Evie and I weren’t permitted to read at the table.’

‘That was in the old, old days, Mom!’

‘Your dad says you’ll look like Popeye if you keep reading under the covers when you should be asleep at nights. Got your lunch box?’

‘Hope you made me corned-beef sandwiches? ’Bye, Mommy.’

‘Have a good day, darling. Learn lots!’

As she went down the front path Mattie thought ruefully: Sybil’s right, it
is
a jungle of potato plants but North Dakota reds are simply the best! In Sybil’s garden, next door, the flower-beds appear to be
manicured
round the edges, and that’s right for
her
.

She settled into the driving seat of the smart black box-shaped car, a new model from Ford, so easy to start after old Tin Lizzie. She squeezed the horn. No sign of Sybil yet. She sighed. Why does Sybil assume that she can take Megan out, and spoil her with treats, without asking me if I mind, first? Griff is happy with this, saying Sybil is family. It was he who suggested she should eat with us in the evenings – she still hasn’t learned to cook, and as for housework, I’d have been landed with that, no doubt, if I hadn’t known that Kay’s mother was looking for a little job. Megan seems bewitched by her glamorous aunt – not that she’s
really an aunt, unlike Evie, whom she resembles so much, but Megan decided to call her that.

Mattie sounded the horn again, trying not to feel jealous. She reminded herself that Sybil often told them how happy she was to be with them again.

Sybil apologized profusely for not being on time. ‘I didn’t manage breakfast, so could we stop at the bakery on the way and buy a bagel?’ Mattie nodded, as they drove off. ‘D’you approve of my new perfume?’ Sybil added.

Mattie smiled. ‘It’s very … potent. Have you named it?’

‘Not yet. Any ideas?’

‘I think you should call it “Sybil” Mattie said, tongue in cheek.

‘Perfect!’ Sybil agreed. ‘I could hardly say that myself, but coming from you.…’

‘That’s all right then, eh?’

The Fullilove beauty salon was situated in a parade of rather
old-fashioned
stores which had evolved from humble beginnings, opposite a modern lofty office block. There were beauty shops in the vicinity of the city centre, but this was a new venture here.

This was not a wealthy, big-business area, but it had survived the lean years, and seemed a good place to start working life. Stenographers in dark dresses brightened by colourful scarves and cinched at the waist by shiny patent leather belts (for hour-glass figures were back) and
sometimes
detachable white collars and cuffs, hurried in through revolving doors and took the lift up to one of the firms named on the brass plates in the foyer. The junior clerks wore tan-coloured rayon stockings and clumpy shoes; their superiors sported sheer silk hose and ankle-strapped shoes with heels. The majority were young or middle-aged, a good many were the family breadwinners, for unemployment had risen to
twenty-five
per cent. They shopped during the lunch-hour break. As professional women they must keep up appearances, and the salon had prices they could afford.

The beauty salon had been adapted from a store with an apartment above. The beauty treatments and hairdressing were accommodated downstairs. Upstairs, there were products for sale, and helpful
assistants
, who would oblige by filling the customers’ own containers with lotions and creams. Beyond the sales area there was a door to the balcony. This spring, Sybil had invested in café tables and chairs and set them out. Clients were welcome to eat their packed lunches overlooking the busy street and to have a cup of freshly made coffee ‘on the house’.

Sybil watched from the doorway to wave Mattie off, then she turned and went inside. She wished she had been able to persuade Mattie to work part-time in the salon, but Griff had worried that it would be too
much for her. She inhaled with pleasure the exotic scents. The whole place was decorated in pale pink with chrome fittings. There were comfortable cane chairs, with heart-shaped cushions, a treatment couch, mirrors everywhere, a manicure bar with stools to perch on, and
manicurists
behind the counter. The curtained cubicles were for those requesting privacy. At the rear of the long salon a door marked PRIVATE led to a suite of rooms where new products were tested by an expert in the field before going on sale. Earlier, Sybil had been
disconcerted
when warned by the consultant, Lloyd Morris, that some preparations must be modified because of a toxic content. She’d learned to accept his wise advice.

She was greeted by members of staff she passed by on the way to her small office. They were pretty, smiling girls who naturally used Sybil’s potions themselves.

Dolores, who dealt with the appointments book, was sitting at her desk, telephone in hand. Sybil lifted her hand in silent greeting, then hung her jacket and hat on the stand in the corner. She went to her desk by the window, but before shutting her handbag in a drawer, she removed a brown-paper bag. The bagel was still warm. She took a bite. Dolores would make her a drink when she finished her call.

They drank their coffee together. Dolores had a doughnut in lieu of breakfast. She was enviably slim despite her consumption of such items, with a dark, natural beauty, large, expressive eyes and perfect white teeth, unlike many girls of her age who’d grown up in a poor area. Dolores was ambitious, already achieving at age twenty-two.

‘No treatments booked until eleven,’ Dolores observed. ‘Axel is hoping you will have time to watch him using the new permanent-wave machine – he has a client coming at 9.30 a.m.’

‘Curls are in vogue again – the short, straight styles don’t flatter all faces, do they? So I hope we soon recoup the outlay,’ Sybil said. ‘I may have a permanent myself …’ She remembered how she’d transformed her appearance, and upset her parents, when at sixteen she’d bleached her mousey locks, and began experimenting with make-up.

The croquignole method of permanent waving had been developed for the liberated woman, freeing her from the time-consuming ritual of caring for long hair, when crimping meant applying sizzling-hot tongs, or curling with rags which were uncomfortable to sleep on. These curls were short-lived, especially when it rained.

Axel’s client looked definitely nervous, despite the hair-stylist’s soothing chatter as he wound strands of hair tightly on steel rods upwards to her scalp. There was a strong smell of chemicals, and she closed her eyes, which were smarting and watering. Fearsome dangling clamps were attached to the rods, the machine vibrated, and the
resulting steam, with a strangulated yelp from the client, caused the audience to retreat.

‘Phew!’ Sybil told Dolores. ‘I need more coffee. I hope she won’t sue us!’

‘Best dollar I ever spent,’ said the satisfied client, some hours later. Her scalp still tingled, but the deep waves in her hair were indeed impressive.

Sybil was relieved that the client still possessed a full head of hair. However, she decided to forgo the experience herself. She was rather glad that the clever, aloof Mr Morris had not been at work today. He might well have disapproved, she thought.

Mattie was feeling at rather a loose end back at home. She’d found a letter from Evie waiting on the mat.

I’m jealous again, Mattie realized. Christabel and I were best friends, but she hasn’t told me her news … what’s the saying: Out of sight, out of mind? I need to be doing something – but what? – to keep me busy and happy.’ This house is easy to clean, Megan is at school, and I miss, oh so much, working alongside Griff, as we did on the farm.

The thought of her beloved home on the prairie made her wipe her eyes on her apron. She went upstairs, opened the honeymoon trunk, as Griff had dubbed it, and took out the scrapbook of memories.

Much later she popped down to the dime store. She bought half a dozen cheap notebooks, a box of quality writing paper, a fountain pen and a bottle of black ink. She’d write her ideas in pencil in the
notebooks
, edit them, and then copy them out neatly on the good paper. First-person articles often appeared in the local newspapers. She enjoyed reading human interest stories herself. ‘So,’ she said aloud, ‘I can but
have a go …’ She had a title for what she hoped would be a series: PRAIRIE SONG. The inspiration had come from
The Desert Song
, the film mentioned in Evie’s letter.

On Saturday both Griff and Sybil had a rare afternoon off. Sybil, as promised, took Megan and her friend to the local cinema. ‘We’ll catch the bus there, the girls will enjoy that,’ Sybil said. ‘Afterwards, Mrs Barker has invited Megan and me to join them for tea. We should be home around seven.’

Mattie cleared the lunch table and glanced at Griff, reading the paper. It seems ages since we’ve been on our own like this, she thought. What can we find to talk about? I don’t know why, but I want to keep my writing secret for the moment.

‘D’you want me to help with the washing up?’ he enquired, without looking up.

‘Only plates and cups and saucers – you relax. You’ve had a busy week,’ she replied, as she rinsed the crocks clean.

He took her by surprise, bending over the sink, as he had often done in the early days of their marriage, arms tight around her waist. He kissed the nape of her neck.

‘That tickles.’ She giggled. She shook the water from her hands and turned in his embrace. ‘Give me a proper kiss.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said softly. ‘Dry your hands, shed your pinny, and follow me upstairs. Take your own advice, relax, be Mattie instead of Mom for a few hours.’

She realized, with a pang of remorse, that it had been weeks since they last made love with abandon. Following her illness and slow recovery Griff had been patient, and understanding in that respect, as the doctors had advised. Then had come the big move to the city and she had felt drained and disappointed. Now it was another spring, and time to change, for she realized that Griff had suffered too.

She unbuttoned her frock, slipped it over her head, and lay back on the bed. ‘Well, don’t stand there looking mesmerized,’ she said, ‘come here!’ And he did.

Some time later, she asked him: ‘Are you happy now?’

‘I am. How about you, darling?’

‘I’m like a new woman,’ she said solemnly.

‘You feel like one … you obviously made up your mind not to fade away, eh?’

‘I’ve a secret to share with you.…’

‘I’m listening,’ he said, smoothing her hair out of her eyes. ‘Not…?’

‘Not another baby, no. Unless we’ve crossed that bridge today … I want to
write
, Griff – about our experiences since we decided to
emigrate, ten years ago. All the ups and downs, all the good friends we met along the way – what d’you think?’

‘It’s the best idea you’ve had in a long while,’ he said, ‘I love you so much, Mattie.’

Harold Lloyd had the audience gasping when, caught in a hoist, he was hauled up the side of a skyscraper in his latest film, Paramount’s
Feet First
. Megan dropped her packet of popcorn and, later, crunched it underfoot before they emerged, blinking, into the afternoon sunshine in the street.

There was time to visit the drugstore for an ice cream before catching the bus home. After the mishap with the popcorn, Sybil thought it wise to save this treat for ‘when you can see what you’re doing’.

Others from the cinema had the same idea, so they joined a growing queue. There came a polite tap on her shoulder, and Sybil turned to see her colleague – she wouldn’t have dreamed of calling him her employee – Lloyd Morris, smiling at her. He was accompanied by a boy of about Megan’s age.

‘Did you enjoy the film?’ he enquired. ‘This is my grandson, Max. He is visiting me this weekend. This is Mrs Fullilove, Max.’

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fullilove,’ Max said, and it was obvious, unwillingly.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Max. This is my stepson’s daughter, Megan, and her friend Kay. Oh, excuse me – I must pay for their ice creams.’

‘I will see you on Monday, goodbye,’ Lloyd said, as they moved away.

‘That boy poked his tongue out at me,’ Megan sounded indignant.

‘Did you do the same?’ Sybil asked.

‘Oh, Aunty Sybil, of course I did!’

‘My mom’s a writer,’ Megan told her friends proudly at school. ‘You can read her story in the paper. They came and took her picture, and printed that, too. She’s going to write lots more, and my dad’s going to do some pen-and-ink pictures, he says. Tell your moms to buy the paper every Friday.’