Sons and Daughters (19 page)

‘By the way, include some punchy slogans in your notes for the next leaflet. Winston Churchill’s roaring like a lion again on behalf of the Tory opposition. He can see next year’s election as a chance to be Prime Minister again.’

‘Holy ghosts,’ said Lulu, ‘what a disaster. He’ll bomb the Iron Curtain and start a nuclear war.’

‘I don’t think my grandmother will let him do that.’

‘Your grandmother?’ said Lulu, taking her jottings out of her desk drawer. ‘I’d like to believe that.’

‘You can,’ said Paul. ‘Now, about a simple slogan? I quote. “Keep the Tories out.” Make it repetitive, and in bold caps, to be slipped in at regular intervals. I’ll look over your ideas and suggestions sometime this week.’

‘Hardly necessary,’ said Lulu, and began to pore over her jottings, while Paul went through the mail and made marginal notes where required. He smiled when he opened one letter from an enthusiast and found it contained a five-pound cheque for the group’s funds. There was a request for the donation to be used to start an independent fund, that of equipping every Young Socialist with the Red Flag. The signature was that of H.R. Trevalyan, the address The Lodge, Kennington Park Road, Kennington. The handwriting was neat enough to be that of a woman, and the name struck a faint chord in Paul. Now where had he heard it before?

‘Lulu,’ he said, ‘does the name Trevalyan ring a bell for you?’

‘No bells,’ said Lulu.

‘We’ve got a letter from someone of that name, wishing us good luck and enclosing a donation of five quid,’ said Paul.

‘Well, hooray,’ said Lulu. ‘But you’re interrupting my thoughts.’

‘The donation is for the purpose of buying Red Flags for our members,’ said Paul.

‘Waste of money,’ said Lulu. ‘We can always raid the offices of the
Daily Worker
and snaffle all the Red Flags we want.’

‘Borrow,’ said Paul.

‘No good being squeamish, said Lulu. ‘Can’t afford tea-party stuff. Iron hand, that’s the thing to turn the country into an efficient Socialist state. Socialist Republic, in fact.’

‘And what happens to our revered monarchs?’ asked Paul.

‘Give ’em a pension and a country cottage in Tooting,’ said Lulu.

‘Leaving out that Tooting’s not in the country,’ said Paul, ‘you wouldn’t suggest saving the cost of a pension and a cottage by guillotining them, would you?’

‘We’ll get Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle,’ said Lulu. ‘Don’t want blood as well.’

‘Would that be where the iron hand gets squeamish?’ asked Paul.

‘Is that a sample of your unequalled wit?’ countered Lulu, horn-rimmed spectacles perched on
the end of her nose. ‘It’s pathetic. And you’re still interrupting my thoughts.’

My own thoughts, said Paul to himself, make me wonder if her Socialist Republic will arrive in time to do away with all honours and squash the prospect of my grandparents becoming Sir Edwin and Lady Finch.

‘Well, Madame Robespierre,’ he said, ‘you can put your thoughts in your desk after lunch. We’re going to see H.R. Trevalyan, the writer of this letter and the sender of this cheque. It’s a Kennington address, and I think the writer’s a woman. I’d like to meet her, find out who she is and if she’s prepared to be a regular donor. We can do with all the funds we can get.’

‘Good idea, a person-to-person talk,’ said Lulu. ‘Very practical. You need me with you?’

‘Bring your brilliance along and put it to work on her chequebook,’ said Paul. ‘And make the coffee in half an hour.’

‘Your turn, not mine,’ said Lulu. ‘I made it every day last week, and the tea as well.’

‘For yourself,’ said Paul.

‘It’s still your turn,’ said Lulu.

‘I take responsibilities, you take orders,’ said Paul. ‘Or I’ll chop your head off.’

‘You’ll whatter?’

‘Use my iron hand,’ said Paul. ‘I’m not squeamish.’

Lulu tried a sardonic laugh. It spluttered.

And she made the coffee.

Boots and Polly were in the sea with the twins, staying in safe waters. Susie and Sammy were looking after belongings within the shelter of one of the many little coves of the bay. Paula and Phoebe were splashing about with teenagers, and Jimmy, having had a prolonged swim, was sitting close to the sea, letting his swimming trunks dry in the sun. The tide was out, the sandhills of Doom Bar emerging in the distance.

‘Hello.’ Jaunty Jenny appeared in one of her RAF shirts, and her white shorts. Both items looked freshly laundered, and the young lady herself looked a charmer, her round white straw hat on the back of her head, the slipped top buttons of her shirt making her very appealing to the eye.

‘Top of the morning to you,’ said Jimmy.

‘Same to you,’ said Jenny, and sat down beside him. ‘I can’t stay long, we’re going yachting off Rock again in an hour.’ With the tide out, Rock could be reached by trekking over the sand.

‘Your father’s yacht?’ said Jimmy.

‘The same,’ said Jenny, observing him out of
thoughtful eyes. ‘You’re going to ask questions?’

‘Yes, how do your friends like your beach hat?’

‘That’s a question?’ said Jenny, and laughed.

‘Is your father’s yacht large?’

‘It’s his pride and joy,’ said Jenny, ‘but he wasn’t born with it in his mouth, like a silver spoon, so to speak. He started out as an office boy with a City firm of stockbrokers at about ten bob a week, but by the time the war began he was the senior partner.’

‘He’s a smart old dad?’ said Jimmy.

Jenny said smart enough, and that as he belonged to a City Territorial unit he saw service during the war, even though he was old when it started. Jimmy asked how old, and Jenny said thirty-nine.

‘That’s old?’ said Jimmy.

Jenny said old enough to give her mother fits about him going off to fight Hitler’s gruesome lot, but he came home in the end with medals and the rank of major, so how about that as a self-made success? Jimmy said he liked it, it was a prime example of what initiative could do for a bloke.

‘Listen,’ said Jenny, ‘what’s your initiative doing that you’re only selling shirts and things?’

‘I’m like your dad, I’m starting at the bottom,’ said Jimmy.

‘At your age?’ said Jenny.

‘What age is that?’ asked Jimmy.

‘You’re about twenty, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, about.’

‘And you’re at the bottom still?’

‘Any comments?’ said Jimmy.

‘Yes, that’s ridiculous,’ said Jenny.

‘Like my golf,’ said Jimmy, and Jenny laughed again. ‘Where are you staying, by the way?’ he asked.

‘Oh, Barry and the rest of us rowdy lot are at the St Moritz Hotel, Trebetherick,’ she said. ‘Well, it saves us having to do our own cooking and make our own beds. My parents and my brother and sister are in a cottage at Rock, so that they can stay close to the yacht. My mother loves sailing as much as my father.’

Jimmy asked if all her friends were working. Jenny said no, they were all at the art college in Kingston. She was there herself, doing fashion designing. That was what she wanted to be, she said, a fashion designer or an assistant to an established one.

‘Good luck,’ said Jimmy.

‘What do you hope to be? asked Jenny.

‘Happy,’ said Jimmy.

‘Don’t we all?’ said Jenny.

‘D’you play your golf at weekends?’

‘There’s a club not far from our home in Surrey,’ said Jenny. ‘I’m a member, my father pays the fees, but women aren’t encouraged to use the course on Saturdays or Sundays, except after five o’clock. Stuffy old buffers explode if they spot a skirt before that time. Of course, our fees are on a reduced scale, but that’s not the point. The principle’s old hat and unfair. You wouldn’t explode, would you, if you saw me hitting a ball before five o’clock?’

‘I wouldn’t be there,’ said Jimmy.

‘Don’t dodge the question,’ said Jenny. ‘Let’s say if you were there.’

‘I’d ask for a few useful tips,’ said Jimmy. ‘I don’t believe in stuffy old buffers, and I do believe in the right of skirts to be seen everywhere in moderation.’

‘What d’you mean, in moderation?’ Jenny seemed tickled.

‘Well, perhaps I meant not quite everywhere,’ said Jimmy. ‘On a golf course, yes, and on a bus or a tram, but not on a football pitch or a rugby field. That wouldn’t do, you’d get a broken leg.’

‘Idiot,’ said Jenny. ‘By the way, would you like Fiona’s phone number?’

‘Fiona?’

‘Yes, the one who thinks you’re a sweetie.’

‘I haven’t seen her lately.’

‘No, well, Roger’s making sure you don’t,’ said Jenny.

‘Good old Roger,’ said Jimmy. ‘And who’s Barry?’

‘A close friend with ambition and a high pulse rate,’ said Jenny.

‘I had a high pulse rate when I was sixteen,’ said Jimmy.

‘Because of some ravishing young schoolgirl?’

‘No, because of tonsillitis,’ said Jimmy. ‘I didn’t know any ravishing schoolgirls. They were all demons, with daggers between their teeth while they lay in wait for simple blokes like me.’

‘I’ll pass on simple,’ said Jenny, ‘but I will ask, what were the daggers for?’

‘Cutting off our trouser braces,’ said Jimmy.

‘Kill me some more,’ said Jenny.

‘Oh, they just liked to see our trousers drop and flop,’ said Jimmy.

‘You don’t think I believe that, do you?’ said Jenny.

‘I didn’t believe it myself when it first happened,’ said Jimmy. ‘That is, not until I saw my trousers down to my ankles, and a hundred female demons doing a shrieking war dance around me.’

‘Jimmy, you’re a terrible liar.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ said Jimmy.

Jenny’s friends appeared in the near distance at that moment. They hailed her, and she came to her feet. Jimmy unfolded himself and stood up.

‘I’d ask you to join us,’ she said, ‘but Barry would probably heave you overboard.’

‘He’s your personal bloke?’ said Jimmy.

‘I told you, a close friend,’ said Jenny. ‘Bye, and enjoy your day.’

‘You too,’ said Jimmy. He stood watching as she joined her group to begin her walk with them to Rock by way of the beach. One of the girls turned and gave him a wave. Fiona, he supposed, and he returned her friendly gesture.

On they went, a laughing group.

Lovely girl, he thought. Much more natural and forthcoming than when he met her for the first time in the store.

Out on the blue sea white-sailed yachts and dinghies skimmed about. Out of the water and onto the beach came Aunt Polly, Uncle Boots and the growing twins.

Aunt Polly. Over fifty, wasn’t she? Who’d know it, who’d even think it? That swimsuit, that figure, that silky walk. She looks as if she’s modelling beachwear for a fashion magazine. And what a witty, likeable woman she was. No wonder Uncle Boots turned to her when he lost Aunt Emily, although it did cause uneasy ripples in the family.

Jimmy remembered that when he was twelve, he’d asked his mum with all the gaucherie of an adolescent why Aunt Polly hadn’t married a lord instead of Uncle Boots. And his mum had said because Uncle Boots is her kind of man. Well, what’s Aunt Polly’s kind of man? Uncle Boots, said Susie. Crikey, said Jimmy to that, what a daft answer, it’s uninformative. And Susie asked him where he got words like that from. From Uncle Boots, he said. There you are, then, said Susie, Uncle Boots is a man for all people, young, old and in between. And especially for your Aunt Polly.

He understood perfectly now, watching them as they advanced over the shining wet sands, their irrepressible twins skipping ahead. They were talking, and holding hands, Boots and Polly. Holding hands. At their age. I know something, thought Jimmy. They’re still lovers.

Up they came, the lovers and their twins.

‘Where’s your lady fair, Jimmy?’ asked Polly.

‘Gone to Rock to sail a boat, I hope and trust that boat can float,’ said Jimmy.

‘Crumbs, was that a poem?’ asked Gemma.

‘Of a kind,’ said Boots, the firm healthy look of his body belying his age. ‘An entertaining kind. Jimmy has his share of talent.’

‘So has his lady fair,’ said Polly. She smiled at Jimmy. ‘We spotted you talking to her.’

‘Yes, lovely girl,’ said Jimmy. ‘Come on, kids, I’ll help this time with a sandcastle.’

Gemma and James scampered over the beach with him.

‘I think Jimmy’s acquired a crush,’ said Polly.

‘I haven’t met the young lady, I’ve only seen her from afar,’ said Boots, ‘but all the same, I feel I can compliment him on his taste.’

‘Isn’t that a little patronizing?’ said Polly.

‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ said Boots.

‘I’m very fond of Jimmy, and all our young people,’ said Polly.

‘So you should be,’ said Boots, ‘you’re the mother of two of them.’

‘I still feel their conception was a miracle,’ said Polly, musing on that.

‘Aside from the Virgin Mary, miracles do sometimes happen to a special kind of woman,’ said Boots.

‘I wonder, did my fairy godmother wave her magic wand?’ murmured Polly.

‘No, I waved mine, in a manner of speaking,’ said Boots, ‘and hers isn’t the same as mine, in any case.’

Holidaymakers turned their heads to look at a slender woman in a white swimsuit emitting peals of laughter.

And Polly wondered exactly how many more exhilarating years she and Boots would share.

Behind them, Paula and Phoebe came running, everyone making for where Susie and Sammy were opening up the usual mid-morning snack of flask coffee and Cornish jam doughnuts.

Still exploring the waters and the hills of the English Lake District, Sammy and Susie’s daughter Bess found herself much more compatible with the exuberance of her university friends. She was able to resist making comparisons between their never-failing high, noisy spirits and the mature nuances of the American man, Jeremy Passmore. He lingered in her mind, which gave her moments of quietness.

‘Penny for ’em, Bess.’

That request came to her ears more than once, when one friend or another noted her absorption in her own thoughts.

‘Oh, they’re nothing earth-shaking.’

But they were thoughts of a kind she hadn’t had before, simply because they concerned a man who made her companions seem just a little adolescent. Would he really get in touch with her? Or would he merely drop her a line to say he had finally gone home to Chicago? She really could not imagine he would stay on indefinitely in the UK, when
America was booming and the UK, still broke, was in the doldrums.