In Her Mothers' Shoes (17 page)

‘They’re beautiful,’ she’d said, amazed. ‘You have such a good eye for finding the right angle.’

His best photos were on the wall of his parents’ lounge – black and white shots mostly of sunsets off the beach, ripples across the sand, the backlit wings of a seagull in flight, his father out fishing, reeling in a heavy line.

‘One day I’d like to have my own darkroom,’ he said. ‘I develop all my own films but I can only print up the best.’

He used the darkroom at the Kapiti Camera Club and attended their meetings whenever he could.

In the last three months, as their friendship had firmed, he’d taken her on two of the camera club field trips, combining his love of the outdoors with photography, lugging his heavy camera and lenses wherever he went and pulling it out whenever something caught his eye.

Looking at the negatives on their return, she’d noticed a remarkable number of shots of her – shots she didn’t recall being taken. She’d smiled, pleased, but hadn’t said anything.

Tomorrow night he was meeting her in town after work and taking her to the movies to see Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in
Roman Holiday
. She would have to go through her wardrobe tonight – what there was of it – and find something decent to wear, something she hadn’t worn already on a date with him, something that would make her hips slimmer and her chest smaller. Julia used to say she was lucky to be so well endowed; she’d give anything, she’d say, not to have to pack cotton wool inside her bra. But Lizzie wished she could get rid of some of her natural padding; it was an embarrassment. It was even more embarrassing since the baby, her breasts had been so big then and even now, over a year later, they were much bigger than other girls her age. It made buying dresses and blouses so difficult because most of the clothes in her size were only fit for old ladies. She hated being different; if only she could be like other nineteen-year-old girls, without such a shameful secret.

She puffed up the driveway and climbed the steps up to the front door, wishing as she always did at this point that she was a lot fitter. Having the baby certainly hadn’t helped her physical condition; she’d put on weight, especially since coming home. It was as if she was eating to compensate for the loss – the loss that threatened to overwhelm her almost every day, the loss that still made her arms ache every time she remembered that moment after giving birth when the baby was taken away.

Standing on the front porch and looking across to the hills - misty and mauve as the sun tracked behind them, the houses beginning to light up as the twilight settled over the valley - Lizzie again felt the familiar ache. Where was she now, baby Katharine? Was she happy in her nice home with the nice couple? The man working away in a bank, the woman at home with the baby that should have been hers, were they looking after Katharine properly? Were they giving her all the love she would have given?

She felt the locket hanging at the end of a silver chain right above her breastbone, close to her heart. Inside was a tiny lock of her baby’s hair, a snippet: dark, fine, slightly curled.

The nurse had brought it out to her after seeing Lizzie’s distress. She’d thought the nurse had disappeared for good, had felt no sympathy, but she’d returned later, when the hospital was quiet and Matron had gone home for the night, producing the few wisps of hair.

‘Don’t you dare tell anyone I gave this to you,’ the nurse said. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth.’

She’d treasured it, keeping it inside her diary until she’d found the little locket at the bottom of her mother’s jewellery box.

‘Can I have this, Mummy?’ she’d asked one night.

‘That’s your grandmother’s,’ her mother said, holding the fine silver and turning it over in her hand. ‘I suppose she wouldn’t mind if you had it.’ Her mother undid the clasp and clipped it around Lizzie’s neck. ‘There, it suits you.’

‘Thank you. I promise to look after it.’

‘What are you going to put inside it? A photo? Your brother and sister perhaps?’

‘You’re joking!’

Her mother was grinning. She was joking.

‘I don’t know. Nothing yet.’

She’d never told her mother what was inside. She’d never tell anyone. Except perhaps Steven. But even then, not for a long, long time.

~   ~  ~

Lizzie loved Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holiday
playing the part of an escaped princess who fell in love with a commoner. Coming out of the theatre, Steven seemed surprisingly romantic, taking her arm and holding her close. He said he’d like to take her somewhere for a coffee or a meal.

‘I know just the place,’ he said, leading her across the road and into a narrow, dimly lit dining room with a high counter on one side and a series of small tables lining the other. Each bore a candle burning on top of an empty sherry bottle, the wax dripping down in thick teardrop cascades towards the crisp white linen-covered table-top with its array of silver cutlery. She felt very grown up. Steven had taken her to milk bars, he’d taken her home to have dinner with his parents, but he’d never taken her anywhere as sophisticated as this.

They sat down on the dark wooden ladder-back chairs and a waitress in a long black satin skirt and a frilly white high-necked blouse brought over a menu.

‘What would you like, Lizzie?’ Steven said. ‘Coffee? Something to eat? I’m feeling a bit peckish, myself. You can have anything you like. My treat.’

She smiled at him then opened the plush red velvety, gold-embossed cover of the menu. What would a young sophisticate choose? She didn’t want to look as if she was out of her depth. Her parents had taken her out to dine before, but they’d been large brightly lit rooms in hotels and her mother had been quick to tell her what to do, what to order, how to choose the right knife and fork. Here, it was completely different.

‘What do you suggest?’

‘I think we should start with a coffee – or would you prefer a glass of sherry?’

‘Oh, no, thank you.’ Lizzie shook her head then wondered if perhaps she should have said yes. That’s what a sophisticated young lady would have done. Trouble was she hated sherry. It burned her throat and made her gag.

‘Righto, then. We’ll have coffee then perhaps something to eat. Would you like to start with the soup, cream of chicken? No? Then how about the sole meuniere? Filet mignon, perhaps, or beef tournedos?’

Lizzie was annoyed with herself. She never had any trouble ordering when her mother was there. Why was she so tongue-tied now? She was fast losing her appetite. She ran her finger down the printed words, trying to pick out a French name that was familiar, wishing they’d put the prices next to each dish so she didn’t choose the most expensive. Steven wouldn’t be able to afford lobster thermidor on his wages, she knew that much and kept looking.

‘I’ll have the soup, I think,’ she said at last.

‘Just the soup, nothing else?’

‘No, I’m not very hungry.’

‘Maybe some dessert later then?’

‘Maybe.’ She flashed Steven a grateful smile. He was being so sweet.

He ordered for them both and the waitress brought their coffees over almost instantly.

Unusually nervous, Lizzie took a sip. It was too hot. She swallowed it quietly, holding back a cry of pain. She could feel it burning her tongue and the back of her throat as it slid down. Why was she so on edge? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been to a restaurant before. Was it because this was such a special place, small and intimate and so sophisticated? Or was it because she was with Steven and it was the first time he’d taken her anywhere as elegant?

‘You’re very quiet, Lizzie. That’s not like you,’ he said, interrupting her thoughts.

‘Am I?’ She should say something, but what? Words, usually slipping so easily off her tongue, were failing her. He was looking at her expectantly. She swallowed. Seeking inspiration, she looked around. ‘This is such a lovely place,’ she said lamely.

‘Yes, one of the chaps at the office recommended it. I wanted to take you somewhere special.’ He paused and looked closely at her. Was there some singular meaning to this? ‘You see, Lizzie, we’ve known each other a while now and I think we get on pretty well.’ He was looking at her that way again. She wondered if she was expected to say something. He cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly on his seat. ‘I was thinking perhaps we could get married, you and I.’

‘Heavens,’ was all she could think of to say. Was he proposing? Then why wasn’t he down on his knees? That’s what the men did in all those romantic novels she’d read.

Suddenly, as if he’d read her thoughts, he pushed back his chair and knelt beside her, taking her hand. ‘Lizzie Hamilton, will you marry me?’ Then he let go of her hand, fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulled out a blue velvet-covered box and flipped it open. Inside, nestled on white satin, was a solitaire diamond ring.

Everything went quiet and very still. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the waitress stop in her tracks on her way to one of the tables behind them.

What was she waiting for? Of course she should marry him. She liked him, didn’t she? He was right, they did get on well. And she couldn’t be too picky. She was damaged goods, wasn’t she?

‘Oh, God!’ It slipped out, just like that. She’d have to tell him. Now. She couldn’t let this nice man take her down the aisle without knowing about her past. But she couldn’t tell him here, not with all these people staring. ‘I’d really like to marry you, Steven,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But there’s something you need to know. Something I haven’t told you about me.’

Steven closed the lid on the little blue box and stood, clearly taken aback, then sat down hard in his chair where he continued to stare at her, wide-eyed. The box containing the diamond ring sat tantalisingly on the table between them.

The waitress passed by, giving her a rueful look.

‘What is it?’ he said after a moment.

‘I can’t tell you here, not in front of all these people.’

‘When can you tell me?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll tell you tomorrow. After netball. We’re going up the coast, remember, to take photos?’

He sat back in his chair, his hands falling into his lap.

‘We can talk then,’ she said. ‘There’ll be nobody around.’

~   ~  ~

The walk along the coast and around the estuary was unaccountably busy on Saturday morning; the whole way Steven was unusually tense, on edge, glancing at her nervously whenever it seemed nobody was around then looking equally irritated when someone appeared around a corner, or voices could be heard approaching from far off. He cursed several times when he missed a shot he would normally have caught easily – a bird that took off as he fumbled the focus, a seagull arching its back and ruffling its feathers to defend its split shellfish. By the time he unclipped the lens cover, its opponent had backed off.

‘I can’t seem to get anything right this morning,’ he said.

Lizzie was waiting for him to say something, to blame her. But he simply clipped the cover on again, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and kept walking.