A Liverpool Lass (46 page)

‘Yes, she’s very modern,’ Lilac said brightly. ‘Once we reach the dressing-room I can mend that tear without any trouble, Miss Kingsley – I just hope I can find the right colour thread,’ she added.

She hung back a little and Sarah Kingsley mounted the stairs in front, chattering all the while.

‘It’s great fun of course, and I am enjoying myself, but normally I only see Godmother at our house, or on At Home days, so ... but Father and I are very old-fashioned, we live quietly in the country ... that was why he wanted me to come, and to come without him, what’s more.’

‘Don’t you have a mother, Miss?’ Lilac said rather timidly as the two of them entered what seemed to be a small sitting-room with pastel roses on the walls and a carpet so pale that it would, Lilac was sure, show every footprint. ‘You haven’t mentioned her.’

‘No. My mother died when I was two, so I don’t remember her at all. But my father is a wonderful man,
truly. And there’s Auntie Lena, who keeps house for him and taught me to ride and swim ... oh, we’re very happy at home, even if we
are
old-fashioned.’

She said the last a little defiantly, as though her old-fashioned attitude had been held against her, and recently. Lilac thought of the people downstairs, the blonde in scarlet and white with her long red nails, the girl in black and silver with the provocative glances, the young men with their sweaty hands and gleaming, oily hair. She could well imagine that they would despise the fresh, open-air beauty of the girl beside her. But that was something a servant could scarcely say! So she scrabbled through an elaborate work-box until she found what she wanted and turned to Miss Kingsley once more.

‘Here we are, Miss, blue thread, just the right blue, as well,’ she said chattily. ‘If you’ll just sit down for a moment ...’

She settled the older girl in a comfortable chair and began to stitch the pale blue gauze with tiny, delicate stitches. Miss Kingsley waited until the job was nearly finished and then turned her head.

‘Don’t you sew nicely? I’m dreadful at it, Father says he thanks God fasting that he no longer has to pretend to use the handkerchieves I used to make him, or wear the gloves I knitted. When I was small I used to struggle away to make him presents at birthday and Christmas and he was always so good, maintaining that the handkerchieves were the finest he had ever owned, trying to get the gloves on even when I knitted a pair with one finger missing, which I did when I was ten.’ She paused, then said, ‘But how I do rattle on! What’s your name and what do you do for my Godmother? I don’t remember seeing you before.’

‘My name’s Lilac Larkin, Miss, and I’m only hired
for the evening,’ Lilac said carefully. She would have lied shamelessly to anyone else who asked, but not to this glorious girl. ‘I work for the Mattesons, on Rodney Street.’

‘Not Doctor Matteson? Why, he’s looked after me since I was a tiny thing, because Father knew him years ago, when they were both at Oxford together! Isn’t that an odd coincidence? So I don’t suppose you’re any more used to such events as this than I? Dr Matteson and his wife are very quiet and busy.’

‘Finished, Miss,’ Lilac said, cutting the thread off short and putting her needle carefully back in its small case. ‘Yes, the Mattesons are quiet and don’t entertain much, so this is ... a real change for me.’

‘Well, be careful not to get caught in any dark corners by that disgusting young Willoughby,’ Miss Kingsley said frankly. ‘You’re not very big compared with me, and I had a struggle to stop him mauling me as if I were a kitchen maid ... oh, how offensive of me, I
am
sorry, it was just a figure of speech.’

‘It doesn’t matter; but I’m very strong,’ Lilac assured her new friend. ‘Hadn’t you better go back to the party now, Miss?’

‘Yes, I suppose ...’ Miss Kingsley was beginning reluctantly, when the door swung open.

A slender woman stood there. She still wore a little black mask outlined in sparkling glass diamonds but her fingers were fiddling with the ribbons, and she tugged at it, obviously trying to take it off. She had quantities of rather brassy, red-gold hair, pale, puckered skin and a scarlet mouth. Her dress was off the shoulder, the upper part transparent, and it clung to her shape as though it had been wetted. The colour was a clear blue, reflecting the shade of the eyes which Lilac could see through the slits in the mask.

‘Sarah, what on earth ... and who the devil are you?’

It was Mrs Allan, it could be no other. Lilac began to stammer that she was one of the maids, that she had been helping the young lady, when the woman made an impatient gesture and took a step nearer.

‘Quiet! Just who are you? A young friend of mine said ...’ the mask was half off and must have made it difficult for her to see before, for suddenly, almost as though she could not believe her eyes, she ripped it right off and stared, her eyes widening horribly for a moment and then narrowing dangerously.

‘A servant! My God, what in heaven’s name ...’

And then, before Lilac could speak, she drew back her hand and slapped the younger girl across the face, so hard that Lilac fell against the door panels.

‘Get out!’ Mrs Allan hissed. ‘Get out of my house!’

‘Godmother!’ Sarah Kingsley shouted, bounding across the room, putting a protective arm around Lilac’s shoulders. ‘Oh, Godmother, she was only here because I asked her to come and mend my dress, what on earth did you think she was doing? It’s all right, she’s only doing as I asked ... are you unwell, Godmother?’

The woman in the doorway swayed, then threw her discarded mask to the floor. Lilac, straightening from the blow, saw the blaze of big blue eyes and the wreck of a once-beautiful face. Powder and paint could do so much, but they could not cover up the ravages either of time or of reckless living, which Lilac could see on the face so near her own.

‘Get out – the pair of you!’ Mrs Allan hissed again. She sounded frighteningly insane to Lilac. ‘Get out, get out, get out!’

The two young things exchanged scared glances,
then obeyed without further demur, running from the room, only pausing halfway down the stairs to glance back, make sure they were not pursued.

‘Gosh, what a temper!’ Miss Kingsley said. ‘Lilac, I’m most awfully sorry, I can only suppose my godmother has been drinking. She does, I know, though my father has no idea that ... Oh, please don’t go, you’ve worked so hard, I’ll speak to Cobbett ...’

‘I’d better go,’ Lilac said feelingly. ‘I don’t think your godmother likes me ... I’ll just run and fetch my coat, then I’ll make an excuse and go home if you don’t mind.’

‘I don’t mind – I don’t blame you, but look ... I’ll speak to Godmother as soon as she’s herself again, make sure you get paid, at least,’ Miss Kingsley said, obviously much concerned. ‘No, I’ll have a word with Dr Matteson ... I was never more shocked in my life!’

‘Don’t worry; I startled her,’ Lilac said. ‘I’m ever so glad I met you, Miss, and thanks.’

She hurried along to the cloakroom and claimed her coat. Then she found Polly, up to the elbows in suds as she washed up what looked like a million plates.

‘I’m not feeling so good and we’ve mostly finished,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going now. We’ll talk later.’

She left by the back way and as she hurried past the jigger which served the big houses she was hailed by a young man who had apparently left the party to get some fresh air. He made a rude suggestion which caused Lilac to tilt her nose loftily but she ignored him, making her way gladly back towards Rodney Street. What a shame that the party had finished so horribly, yet despite the fracas, she was suddenly aware that she was smiling.

I must be mad, she thought. Her cheek stung from the woman’s double slap, her knees felt a bit weak and
wobbly, but there was a great enormous happiness within her and she could have sung and danced along the pavement despite her tiredness and the lateness of the hour.

When Mrs Allan had taken off the mask she had seen at once that this person could not possibly be her mother. Oh, the colouring was the same, but there all resemblance ended. Mrs Allan had a mean little face, lined, raddled skin, and a cruel, thin-lipped mouth. She was thin and brittle, harsh voiced and spiteful, and her hair was dyed and lifeless, without gleam or gentle waves. And she had hit Lilac with all her strength, just out of sheer nastiness, since Miss Kingsley had made it plain as plain that Lilac was with her.

So why am I so happy, Lilac asked herself. But she knew the answer. Her Quest had just bitten the dust and she was glad from the bottom of her heart.

What do I want with a high-born mother? Lilac asked herself happily as she plodded homeward. Why, what a fool I’ve been and what a lot of time and energy I’ve wasted! My own dear mother’s been right by me all the time – Nellie’s my mother, and a better one never lived or breathed. She’s my dear little mother, and it’s high time I told her so!

Mrs Allan had been told, downstairs, that her goddaughter had gone off to have a seam stitched or some such thing, and she had followed her because she had drunk too deeply of the champagne – as she so often did – and wanted to ask Sarah what she thought of young Willoughby. She had noticed with some annoyance that Rex Willoughby had seemed more than a little taken with Sarah’s buxom charms ... Mrs Allan looked down at her own sticklike contours and felt
only satisfaction ... so it would be interesting to find out how Sarah felt about him.

Mrs Allan had been pursuing Rex Willoughby for a month and had not invited him to her party just to see her goddaughter waltz off with him, but Sarah did not know that – yet. So clearly she must be told that the young man, though eligible enough, was not a suitable
parti
for Gerald Kingsley’s adored only daughter.

Unfortunately by the time she was halfway up the stairs the champagne, and her own salacious imagination, had managed to convince her that she would find Sarah not alone or with a maid, but in the hot embrace of young Willoughby. The more she thought the more convinced she became that she was about to be thwarted. And the more convinced she became, the angrier she grew. Sarah owed her something, young Willoughby owed her more, she would not be forced to lose the man she urgently desired just because she was not quite as young as she had been and Sarah, damn her eyes, was as fresh and green as a snowdrop in spring.

She burst into the room, remembering the mask at the last minute, struggling to snatch it off, determined that they should know who had found them out, know who they had betrayed. Anger, painful jealousy, bitterness, fought for supremacy as she glared at the young person who stood before her.

But it was not Sarah! Who on earth was it?

And as the first red mist of her rage cleared from her eyes, Lucille Allan saw – youth. Aghast, she stared at the pale face, the big blue eyes shining with innocence, the mass of red-gold hair gleaming like a crown on the small, shapely head. It was like looking in a mirror, but a mirror into the past. She was seeing the girl she had once been, when she had been young and innocent,
before she had married an old man and become disenchanted with the life of a rich, spoilt society darling. Before she had begun to find consolation in fast living, champagne and young men.

And suddenly she had been devoured by a jealousy and a rage greater than she had ever felt before. She hated that innocence, she hated that youth, she hated everything about this fresh, childlike servant girl – she would have killed her if she could. But all she could do was to hit her, hard, across the face and rejoice as the wide-eyed innocence crumpled into bewilderment, then turned from her, ran from her ... leaving her the victor, breathing hard, clenching her hands into fists and driving the nails into her palms, then forcing herself to pace carefully down the stairs, to call for more champagne, to clutch young Willoughby and giggle against his ear ... and taste only bitterness, only defeat, because she could never know youth – or innocence – again.

‘Sadie, are you doing anything this evening? I thought I’d go along to the Pivvy; they’re showing
One Arabian Night
, with Pola Negri. It’s supposed to be good, but I hate going to the flicks alone.’

‘Pola Negri? She’s all right, but I’d rather have a good laugh any day. There’s a Mack Sennett comedy at the Electric with Louise Fazenda; wouldn’t you rather see that?’

Nellie and her room-mate, Sadie Pickerfield, were in the nurses’ sitting room, huddling round a rather inadequate fire. They were both what Nellie cheerfully described as ‘long in the tooth’, compared with some of the probationers, since they had learned a good deal of their nursing during the war, but experience tells and they were finding the work very much easier and pleasanter compared with their wartime experiences. It helped, of course, that several of the senior staff had nursed with the two girls at one time or another and knew their worth. And right now, they were on a surgical ward with Sister Francis, back from France, in charge – and Nellie had always got on well with Sister Francis. The Sister remembered most of Nellie’s friends and a good many of her soldier patients and they often fell to reminiscing as Nellie made beds or set up blood transfusions.

Now, however, Nellie leaned forward and gave the fire a vicious prod with the small brass poker which stood in the hearth.

‘A comedy? That’s not a bad idea. I could do with something to make me laugh – other than Mr Williams, of course.’

Mr Williams was a confirmed grumbler. He moaned about everything. His operation, which was only to remove a gigantic bunion, was the most painful anyone had ever experienced, the surgeon had done it wrong anyway, the houseman had prescribed the wrong painkillers, the nurses were rough, the dressings impossible to bear. Mr Williams crouched in a chair in a hairy brown dressing gown and scraped his plate clean at mealtimes whilst saying the food was inedible and someone would be in trouble when he put in his report.

What this report was he never said, but the nurses, fed up with his continual carping, had taken to leaving his dressings until last, avoiding him as they came down the ward, and becoming mysteriously deaf when he shouted for attention or rang his bell.