Page 11 of The Lavender Bride
10
SHEFFIELD, AUGUST 1947
‘You’re lying.’ I throw out the words as if that will stop the flood of accusations coming from Father’s mouth. Cold dread settles in my stomach. I wrap my arms across my middle, protecting myself against Father’s words.
‘I assure you I’m not.’ Father gestures for me to take the chair on the other side of his desk.
We’re in his study. On his desk books are neatly aligned, the Methodist Recorder is open in the centre of it; his pipe sits next to his tobacco tin. Above his head, flypaper is suspended. Mum changes them every morning and already there’s a cluster of shiny bluebottles stuck to it. Outside the window, the sun beats down. Between the rows of peas and beans, the marigolds and hollyhocks are withering from lack of rain. After the terrible winter and the floods that followed it, August has brought day after day of blazing sunshine.
‘Freddie was arrested on Wednesday night,’ Father says. ‘I persuaded the police to issue a warning seeing as he’s never been in trouble before.’
There’s a buzzing in my head. I can’t take in what he’s telling me. Freddie arrested? I see him in a police cell, the cold clang of the door as it closes, Freddie terrified and alone. I shake my head. It’s not possible. And today is Saturday. Why am I only hearing about this now?
‘What did he do?’ My throat is dry and the words come out as a barely comprehensible croak.
‘Something reprehensible.’ Father’s lips tighten. ‘That’s all you need to know. His parents are distraught.’
I squeeze my eyes shut as if that will push all of this away. Behind my lids, a picture forms of Freddie’s mother sobbing. She’s a small, plump lady who adores her only son. I imagine Freddie’s father, a tall, spare man always dressed in a three-piece suit, standing beside her, patting her shoulder as she cries.
‘As good Christians, Freddie’s parents have barred their door to him?—’
The mental image abruptly shatters. ‘What?’ My voice rises. ‘How could they? What can he possibly have done that’s that bad?’
‘Calm yourself, Audrey.’ Father sounds as if he’s talking to a two-year-old and that fuels my anger. ‘I appreciate this is a shock.’
‘Of course it’s a shock!’ My hands fly out to punctuate my words. ‘Freddie’s my best friend and you won’t tell me what he’s done that’s so bad.’
Father sighs heavily. ‘Do not take that tone with me, Audrey. You must allow me to be the judge on this matter.’
‘No!’ My voice is high and shrill. ‘I want to know what Freddie’s done. I’m not a child any more.’
‘Yet you persist in behaving like one.’ Father leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. ‘I was in the trenches fighting for my country when I was your age.’
I throw my hands up. He always brings this up when I disappoint him. I’d have done my bit if I’d been allowed to during the last war but I was too young. But I do hold down a job, help around the house, type his dratted sermons and pay for my board. Yet he persists in treating me like a child.
I stand and pace away from him. My chest is tight. He’s making me feel small again. But I’m not having it this time. I put my hands on my hips and take a deep breath before I turn back to him. ‘I’m going to ask once more, Father. What did Freddie do?’
‘I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you.’ Father stands too. His voice is taut, his patience stretched wafer thin.
Usually, I heed the warning and back down but not today. This isn’t only about me. He’s lying to break up our friendship. Father’s tried many tactics before but I didn’t think he’d descend to baseless lies about my best friend.
‘Fine! I’ll go find Freddie and ask him.’
‘You will not.’ Swift as a predator, Father’s hand shoots out and grips my arm. ‘I told you for a long time that I didn’t think your friendship suitable but you persisted. Circumstances have proved me right and I am going to spell it out in words of one syllable seeing as you appear to need that. You will not see Freddie Greenwood again.’
The cold in my stomach floods my entire body. I want to scream at the sheer unfairness of it, but I clamp my jaw shut. How can he do this to me? Does he not care about my happiness at all? I almost laugh at that because the answer is brutally obvious now. He cares only that I follow his rules and am seen to be the good daughter.
Well, that stops here! I have had enough of doing what he wants. I’m old enough to make my own decisions.
‘Sit down, Audrey.’ Father’s hand tightens around my upper arm, forcing me back into the chair. His fingers are digging into my flesh, hurting me. ‘I know you’re upset but as a good Christian girl, you will respect my views.’
He’s stronger than me; I can’t pull away without really hurting myself. Slowly, I lower myself back into my chair. My heart is pounding, my hands shaking. I drop my head to hide the tears of anger and impotence. Father releases my arm and I wrap it across my torso, folding the other arm protectively over it.
I take a long moment to steady my breathing, then I look him straight in the eye. ‘You’re asking me to give up my best friend because of something he’s done that you say is reprehensible. I need more than that. I’m an adult and it’s about time you started treating me like one.’
Father sighs heavily. Somehow, the sound implies that I’m the one being utterly unreasonable and it’s a trial to have to deal with me. ‘You’re a young woman.’ He annunciates the words slowly as if the argument has addled my senses. ‘It is my job as your father to protect you from certain ugliness in the world.’
My brain races trying to make sense of what he’s saying. What ugliness? Is this something to do with sex? Only that would make Father talk in riddles. What’s so terrible that Father won’t talk about it?
‘Was he with a prostitute?’ My voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. ‘Is that why you won’t tell me?’ I may have led a sheltered life but I do know that they exist. The thought makes my stomach curdle. How could he? After I’ve been waiting for him, how could he go off and do it with someone else?
‘Audrey! There are things which we do not discuss in this house and that is one of them.’ He raises his hand, palm out, stopping further discussion. ‘My decision is made. As long as you live in my house, you will obey my rules. You will not see Freddie Greenwood.’
The cold stone in my stomach leaches into my veins and runs all the way to my fingers and toes. It’s come to this, has it? I have to choose between Freddie or my parents. Freddie, who I’m angry with if he has been with a prostitute but who I love with my whole heart. Or this man who’s threatened, controlled and bullied me my entire life. I will not regret leaving Father but if I lose him, I lose Mum too.
That causes a deep crater of loss to open up in my chest. Not to see Mum every day will be dreadful. But she always takes Father’s side, always silently backs him up.
I look across the desk at Father, at his steel-grey hair, his ruler-straight nose, the puckered line of scars, his cold, blue eyes. A clarity comes over me, armouring me against the consequences of the words I’m about to speak. Because this will change everything.
‘Then I won’t live in your house any longer.’ I stand swiftly this time, not giving him chance to grab me. ‘And when I’m far away living my life, I want you to remember that you made me choose.’
Father goes entirely still for a long moment. Then he strides from behind his desk to tower over me. ‘You ungrateful little wretch! I’m trying to protect you.’
‘No, you’re not.’ I tilt my head back to meet his gaze. ‘You’re trying to make sure I do what you say, like you always do. But I’ve had enough. You don’t get to make decisions for me any more!’
His hand is a blur. It strikes my cheek, knocking me sideways. I stagger to keep my balance as pain radiates across my face. My vision blurs. I blink away tears, wipe my nose on my sleeve and press my hand against my face. The pain has a heartbeat, a pulse and it’s focused on my cheekbone. It’s hard to find my voice. He’s not hit me in over a year. I’d forgotten the brutal shock of it, the unforgivable indignity. The way it makes me want to crawl away and curl in a ball.
‘Go to your room,’ he says.
I force myself to stand tall, to look him straight in the eye. He will not cow me this time. ‘I’m going to my room, Father, but only to pack my bags.’ I’m proud of the steadiness of my voice, that I don’t let him see how much I hate him in this moment. ‘I’m not staying another night under the same roof as you.’
‘And where are you going to go? There’s no point running to Freddie. He’s gone to London.’
I grab the back of the chair to steady myself. London? Why didn’t Freddie tell me? Tears threaten. I’m fighting for him and he’s gone and left without telling me? That’s not fair. That’s not the way we treat each other. I bet ruddy Michael’s at the bottom of this.
The name kicks the gears in my brain into action. I’ve got Michael’s address because I wrote to Freddie when he stayed there at Easter. I’ll write to Michael. If Freddie’s not with him, he’ll know where he is.
I can’t let Father see my hurt. He knows too well how to turn my doubts against me. I fold my arms across my chest like a barrier and raise my gaze to stare Father straight in the eye. ‘Then I’ll go to London too.’
‘I cannot believe you’re running after that degenerate.’ Father spits the words out, spittle falling on my face.
‘He’s not a degenerate. He’s my friend.’ How dare Father speak of Freddie like that. ‘We’ve got plans. We’re going to Hollywood together and?—’
‘Grow up, Audrey. Girls like you don’t go to Hollywood. They get married, settle down and have babies and the sooner you accept that, the better.’
The words are painful barbs, digging beneath my skin, burying themselves in my heart. If I stay, that is my future. Marriage to a man approved by Father and babies as soon as I can pop them out. I feel lightheaded and sick. It’s as if all of the air has been sucked from the room. I will suffocate if I stay and all my hopes and dreams will wither and die.
‘Maybe I am a dreamer.’ My chin comes up. ‘But I’m brave enough to stand up to you because you’re a bully who browbeats his family into agreeing with him and however long I live, I never want to be like you.’
Instinctively, I flinch, ready for the next blow, but he walks back behind his desk, making it a barricade between us. ‘Get out of my sight,’ he says.
* * *
A strange numbness comes over me as I pack my cardboard suitcase. I feel oddly far away, as if I’m watching myself fold my clothes, stuff my stockings in my felt hat to make sure it keeps its shape and wrap my camera in a cardigan to keep it safe. Once it’s done, I stand by the door and take a long last look at my room. The anaglypta wallpaper is obscured by a collage of photos that I’ve cut out of my film magazines and Vogue . Cary Grant, James Stewart and Gene Kelly have kept me company over the years. Lee Miller’s photographs have provided inspiration.
Will I be back? Will I ever again sleep in the bed, put my clothes in the wardrobe, brush my hair in the mirror? A weight lodges in my windpipe. I press my palm there as if that will help me breathe past it, but the weight is keeping the tumult of emotions contained and if I dislodge it, I will break. I have to go or I’ll never be brave enough. I close the door behind me.
As I walk downstairs, I see my parents standing in the hall. Tears streak Mum’s face. I utter a wordless cry, dropping the case as my hands automatically raise to hug her.
Father’s arm snaps out to stop me. ‘You’ve made your bed, Audrey. Don’t come crying to us when it all goes wrong.’
My chin wobbles. He won’t even let me hug Mum? What kind of tyrant is he?
‘I’ll give you one last chance to reconsider because once you leave this house, you are no longer my daughter.’
My knees wobble as the finality of what he’s said stuns me. I thought it’d be my choice whether I returned or not. I never thought he’d cast me off. I stare mutely at Mum. Hoping against hope that she’ll speak. But she stares at the carpet, wiping tears from her eyes. I love her so much. How can I walk out and never see her again?
But how can I not? Father has made it entirely clear that I have no place in this house if I don’t do exactly what he says. If I stay, I will suffocate.
At least I’m not going through this alone. Freddie’s been cast out too. If he can face it then so can I. Whatever Father thinks, I will create a life for myself. One that’s full of love and excitement and adventure. A life that is nothing like the stultifying one I’ve endured living in the same house as him.
‘If that’s supposed to make me change my mind then it’s not going to work.’ My chin comes up even as I struggle to speak around the enormous lump in my throat. I look past him to Mum. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘It’s all right, love.’ She looks at me for the first time. Her eyes are glassy with tears. How can she do this? How can she let Father dictate everything in their lives including whether their daughter stays or not? ‘Let me know you’re safe,’ she adds softly.
Father tuts as if that’s the last thing he cares about. He takes something from her and reaches across the three feet of carpet that divides us to hand it to me. It’s my ration book. I stare at its buff-coloured front page with my name and address written on it. Mum’s always taken care of the rations, making sure we’re all fed. Now I’ll have to do that. The enormity of what I’m doing starts to sink in. I truly will be on my own.
I feel sick as I take my summer coat from the rack. It’s too hot to wear it. I fold it over my arm, put my straw hat on and pick up the case again. This is really it; I’m leaving home. I look around the hall with its shabby carpet and faded wallpaper. I stare at the glass bowl on the side table that’s stood in the same place on the same crocheted doily for as long as I can remember. My gaze shifts to the framed picture of two kittens above it, to the row of neatly paired shoes beneath the table, to the matching tasselled lampshades that cover the wall lights. None of this will change. It will all stay exactly the same as it always has. And if I stay, I’ll be like that bowl, forever static because that’s the way Father likes things.
I take a deep breath to push the sick feeling down and reach for the door handle. ‘Goodbye, Father.’ His face is austere and remote. His eyes flick towards me and then away. He doesn’t speak.
I look behind him to where Mum stands. ‘Bye, Mum.’ My voice catches, tears finally start to fall. I stare mutely at her, hoping she’ll do something, say something to make this ghastly moment better.
‘Cheerio, love,’ she whispers.
The ‘love’ is a punch to my gut. There’s a pain inside me so deep, I can’t name it. I want to sit on the bottom steps and howl, it hurts so much. But if I do, Father will think he’s won and I can’t let that be.
I straighten my shoulders, open the door and step out into the relentless sunshine. Tears stream down my face. I taste salt as they reach my lips. At the end of the path, I look back but the door is already closed.
* * *
I ring Esther from the station. I’m barely able to speak for crying. She tells me to get on the first train to Newark and she’ll meet me at the station. I write to Michael while I’m waiting for the train. The letter is awkward, full of crossings out as I struggle to find the words to send to this man I’ve never met but have heard so much about. On the train, I stare unseeingly out of the window and try not to cry.
At Newark, I climb out and Esther’s waiting on the platform with David in his pram. She takes one look at my face and pulls me into a hug.
I cry all afternoon. Esther makes me tea and toast, holds me as I sob. David sits on my lap, his tiny hands fastened around my fingers. His gurgles stir the bone-deep love I have for him and my tears stop although the ache in my chest doesn’t shift. If Bill’s surprised to arrive home and find his suddenly homeless sister-in-law sitting at the kitchen table, he doesn’t show it. He pats me on the shoulder and tells me I can stay as long as I need.
For four days, I sleep on Esther and Bill’s sofa, spend my time playing with David and trying to block out Esther’s well-meaning advice to let Bill help me find a job with the railway.
On Wednesday morning, a letter arrives from Freddie. He’s with Michael, he’s fine, he’s got digs in Camden and gives me the address. He says it’s all been a misunderstanding but he won’t be returning to university and is looking for a job in London. But I’ve known him a long time and I can read between the lines. He’s not fine at all.
I write a letter to work telling them I’m leaving and catch the lunchtime train to London King’s Cross. Esther and David come to the station with me. As Esther hugs me, she slips a ten-bob note into my hand and whispers, ‘You’re always welcome with us.’ I try to give her the money back but she won’t take it. David is asleep in his pram. I press my fingers to my lips and transfer the kiss to his downy cheek. He doesn’t stir. I hope he knows how much his auntie loves him when I’m far away. Esther and I are both crying as I climb into the third-class compartment. The whistle blows and the train jerks into movement. I wave to Esther and then settle back in my seat.
I’m two-thirds excitement and one-third trepidation. I’ve never been to the capital. As the locomotive steams southwards, I tell myself it’ll be all right when I see Freddie. That his face will light up when he sees me and he’ll swing me round and finally he’ll kiss me because he’ll know that I’ve chosen him. I’ve put him before my family, my sister and my nephew. That’s what you do for the people you love. As the train passes Peterborough and Stevenage, I daydream about the life we’re going to have together.
The dream sustains me as I battle through the crowds at King’s Cross and plunge into the confusion of the Underground. It keeps me going as, on the hottest day of the summer so far, I carry my suitcase through the streets of Camden, past bombed-out buildings, until I reach the address Freddie’s given me.
Trepidation kicks in when I see it’s three storeys tall, white paint flaking from its once elegant facade, weeds growing in the small front garden. I climb the steps and after wiping sweat from my palm, reach for the brass knocker. A strip of peeling black paint falls off as I knock.
I hear footsteps inside. The door swings open and a young man about Freddie’s age stands in the doorway. He wears a blazer and crumpled trousers. He ushers me inside, apologising for the untidiness. The hall is crammed with bicycles, bundles of leaflets are stacked against the wall and a poster of Joseph Stalin frowns down at me from the wall.
I gasp as my eyes widen. A chill skitters down my spine as I automatically follow the young man into a sitting room. There’s a waft of something sour underneath the stench of cigarette smoke and damp. He asks me to take a seat and says he’ll get Freddie.
Dirty net curtains cover the elegant window, shrouding the room in gloom despite the bright sunshine outside. Three armchairs huddle around the soot-blackened fireplace. Tacked to the wall is the red flag of the Soviet Union with the gold hammer and sickle in the corner and a star above it. On the coffee table is the Daily Worker , its bold headline reads:
US Warns Britain Off Soviet Trade
Beside it sits a dirty teacup, Animal Farm and a three-quarters-empty bottle of milk. I take a seat in the chair which sags least.
I stare at the door, waiting for Freddie to appear. This has all got to be some terrible mistake. He can’t be living here. These people appear to be Communists. I hear Father’s voice say, ‘something reprehensible’. Is this what he meant? I blow out a long breath. No, that doesn’t make sense. Father would have been only too happy to tell me about Freddie’s political views. And you don’t get arrested for being a Communist.
At that moment, the door creaks open.