GOOD DAUGHTERS Read online

  His wife turned the pages of the letter she was reading. ‘Three pages about this Reichstag fire and one about the family!’ There was very little she missed at close range, but she had no understanding of foreign affairs beyond the Tamar. Not that her horizons were limited; they were just different from those of other people.

  ‘What’s the news of the family, then?’ Joseph asked without shifting his gaze from the harbour.

  ‘He says Judith thinks it would do Alice good to come down on her own this summer. Claire is very much the baby still, and Alice is growing up.’

  ‘And Louise?’

  ‘He doesn’t mention Louise. There’s something wrong there.’

  ‘Now, don’t you go seeing things, Ellen!’

  Ellen Tippet’s red hair had long lost its fire, but the light blue eyes, which sometimes seemed strangers to the face, were as disquieting as ever. It was well known that she had ‘the gift’. In her case, however, second sight did not go hand-in-hand with any notable powers of interpretation. Just as a hunting dog may sniff out a man without knowing what manner of crime he has committed – or even that he is a criminal – so Ellen might ‘see’ trouble in a person’s face, without having any idea of the particular form it would take. She herself was unaware of any discrepancy between her powers of foresight and diagnosis. Some said she caused more harm than she ever did good. But the gift was genuine, and laughter at her pronouncements was always tinged with uneasiness.

  ‘Well, there it is,’ she said with the wry briskness with which she would acknowledge bad fish, or any other catastrophe for which there was no remedy. ‘Louise will be happy because she means to be, and that won’t suit Stanley. Stanley thinks happiness is measured out according to our deserts.’

  ‘Don’t go upsetting Stanley, Ellen.’

  Joseph got slowly to his feet, looking around with his habitual expression of one who has wakened to find himself in a strange place.

  ‘Don’t shift yourself; I’ll get it for you.’ She was always ready to busy herself on other people’s behalf, whether they needed her ministrations or not.

  ‘This is one thing you can’t do for me, Ellen,’ he said mildly. ‘I wonder you didn’t know that, with your powers.’ A few seconds later she heard the kitchen door open as he went down the garden path to the lavatory.

  ‘Now, what’s Stanley got to say?’ he said when he returned.

  ‘It’s mostly politics.’ She handed him the letter.

  ‘He’s a clever man, is Stanley.’ Joseph liked his son-in-law because he listened to his stories about the sea.

  ‘Clever he may be . . .’ She left the unfinished sentence trembling on the brink of disaster. There was no one whom she made more uncomfortable than Stanley Fairley, who had a dark inner world, and didn’t want Ellen paddling in those pitchy waters. ‘If you’d had your mother’s eyes, I wouldn’t have married you,’ he had said more than once to Judith.

  Joseph unfolded the letter, and carefully eased out the creases on his knees. ‘When Alice came down in 1927, the Herzogin Cecilie was out there.’ He enjoyed his grandchildren, who were still of an age when he could relate to them, whereas his own children had passed beyond his understanding while his back had been turned.

  ‘First man that offered and she married him! “There’s something in you he’ll never satisfy,” I told her. But she wouldn’t listen.’

  She remembered Judith telling her that she was going to marry Stanley, whom she had met while on a visit to Dover to stay with a cousin.

  ‘You don’t know anything about him. It’s the uniform’s turned your head.’

  ‘I met him at chapel, and we all had lunch at the Minister’s house.’

  ‘I’ve seen many a bad match made in chapel! You are only nineteen; you’re much too young.’

  ‘It’s the first time you’ve ever told me I was young. Being the oldest child of a family of seven which was to all intents and purposes fatherless had been a responsible position. ‘Harry can be the responsible one now. I want a life of my own.’

  ‘A life of her own!’ Ellen said to Joseph, who was reading Stanley’s letter. ‘Who has a life of their own? Not even a man. Your life belonged to the shipping line. That’s the way it is. But Louise will be the same. She’ll want a life of her own, too.’

  He put the letter down. He had difficulty in coming to terms with distances on shore, but sporadically something close at hand would claim his attention. On this occasion it was his wife. ‘Would you have liked a life of your own?’ he asked.

  ‘With children? I said to Judith, “In a few years you’ll have children of your own instead of a life of your own, whatever that’s supposed to mean.” ’

  ‘No point in being angry about it now, Ellen.’

  ‘I’m not angry. Why would I be angry after all these years?’

  He was amused to catch her on the defensive. When he was alert like this, one could see the humour in the eyes and a certain firmness of character in the line of the mouth; once, when he had had decisions to make, he had been effective and resourceful.

  Ellen said, ‘Maybe she did care about Stanley; there weren’t many young fellows around here a girl would look at twice. I don’t blame her for wanting to go.’

  ‘Not blame her? For leaving Falmouth!’

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘But I came back. I always came back to Falmouth.’

  And saw it as it had been when he was a young man, just as he saw her as the vivacious girl he had married; whereas the boy she had fallen in love with was now incongruously cloaked in the withered flesh of an old man. ‘I’ve had more of that old flesh than I ever had of the young,’ she thought.

  She looked at the clock; it was half-past eleven. There was plenty of time to walk down to the High Street and tell Charlie and Prue that Alice would be coming in the summer.

  ‘Will you come?’ she asked when she had put on her coat and hat.

  ‘No, I’ll walk down to the harbour later.’

  On an impulse, she came and kissed the top of his head. ‘Put on your overcoat, then; the wind’s keen.’

  That same afternoon, Alice was with Grandmother Fairley in her house in Holland Park.

  ‘I’m going down to Cornwall in the summer all on my own,’ she said.

  ‘To stay with your Granny who was a slave?’

  Granny Tippet was a Hocken from Looe. When he had been studying the old records on one of his visits to Cornwall, Stanley Fairley had come across the case of Edward Hocken for whom nineteen shillings and two pence had been collected in church in 1677, he being a slave in Turkey. Claire had told Grandmother Fairley, ‘My other Granny was a slave.’ This had been a family joke ever since, and Grandmother Fairley had never failed to refer to it whenever Granny Tippet was mentioned. Louise said she had to have funny things to repeat, because she had no sense of humour. Louise disliked her grandmother, who was always reminding her that she paid her school fees.

  Agnes Fairley was a tall, thin woman who still had some claim to beauty – if bone structure and elegance of feature are accepted as the criteria of good looks. Her face, however, expressed little save the tight-lipped resignation of the sufferer from neuralgia, a suffering which was emphasized by the way in which her sparse white hair was clawed up on top of her head so that the network of veins seemed taut as wires. When her husband had been alive, she had been an active woman, and had enjoyed her life in Sussex. But on his death she had insisted on returning to Holland Park, where she had failed to make friends. She and Judith Fairley did not get on well. ‘I married beneath me,’ she would say to her sister Charlotte, ‘and now my son has married beneath him. It seems to be a family failing.’ Her marriage had, in fact, been a good one; but now, left alone in old age, she had reverted to the attitudes of her socially ambitious parents. The beginning and the end of life had become the realities for her; the middle seemed only a dream.

  Alice had established a rapport with this rather wintry old woman, because
she liked to hear her talk of her childhood in London. There was, however, another reason why these visits were precious. Neither Claire nor Louise enjoyed visiting their grandmother, so Alice often went on her own. On these excursions she began to realize that she was not the Alice Fairley whom her family and schoolfriends knew. Solitude was rare, and for most of her life she had seen herself in the eyes of others; her mother’s acknowledgement that ‘Alice has the nicest nature of the three, if only she wasn’t so obstinate’; her father’s less qualified approval, ‘Alice has to be allowed to work things out her own way – she is going to be the thinker’; the verdict of the school report, ‘Alice has been a responsible member of the form and she has worked hard’; the judgement of her peers – Podge Fairley, a cheerful companion and good at games. Aware of the images presented to her, she tried dutifully to mould this composite picture into one person. She failed. Then came the surprising discovery that when she got off the bus and headed towards the road where her grandmother lived, all the images remained behind on the far side of the Uxbridge Road. She felt unencumbered, and often experienced a sudden fear that she had left something behind on the bus. She was not nearly as sure of things she knew she should be sure of, and she did not care about things she spent the rest of the week caring about.

  Today, when she arrived at her grandmother’s, and the crumpets had been toasted, she deliberately selected the one towards the bottom of the plate – which would be more buttery – and settled herself on the window-seat, something which would not have been countenanced at home, where meals must be eaten seated at table.

  Grandmother Fairley put the hot water jug in the hearth and poked the fire, the rustling of her long black skirt accompanying her movements. ‘You were late today, dear. I expect you caught a later bus.’ She lowered herself slowly into her chair, and panted for a few moments before continuing mournfully, ‘But then, it’s very good of you to come and see an old woman when you would much rather be out playing.’

  Alice had caught the earlier bus, but as the day was sunny she had walked in Holland Park. She did not want to tell her grandmother this, so she said, ‘I enjoy coming to see you.’

  ‘That’s nice of you, dear.’ It seemed, however, to make Grandmother Fairley even more mournful and she sighed, dabbing with her handkerchief at the butter which ran down her chin. ‘It’s more than your mother would say. And my own son, when do I ever see him?’

  ‘Daddy came on Sunday.’

  ‘He didn’t stay long. But he’s busy, I know that.’ She wiped her fingers on her napkin, and repeated, ‘I know, I know . . .’

  ‘May I have another crumpet, please?’

  ‘Yes, dear. Have as many as you like, they’re all for you, I don’t eat much myself now. My teeth don’t fit so well. Your mother didn’t say anything about my dental appointment?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘They’re all too busy to see me. It’s weeks since I saw anyone.’

  ‘Aunt May comes in every day, doesn’t she, Grandma?’

  The old woman sniffed. It was her adored son whose company she longed for; her daughters did not interest her. She bent down and took another crumpet from the plate in the hearth. ‘Take all the jam, dear. I can’t manage with the pips.’

  They sat in silence for a little while, and Alice looked down into the road. It was mysteriously different from the road where she lived, the houses being tall and plain with no balconies, gables or turrets, and the windows long, coming close to floor level. From where she was sitting, she could see into the ground floor room of the house opposite; there was a grand piano with photographs on it, and a lot of paintings on the walls.

  ‘You’re going on your own, all the way to Cornwall, then?’ Grandmother Fairley said. ‘I hope they know what they’re doing.’

  ‘Daddy is going to put me on the train at Paddington and Grandfather will meet me at Truro.’

  ‘You won’t talk to anyone on the train, will you, dear? And don’t take any sweets if they’re offered.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Ah well, I suppose they know what they’re doing.’

  ‘It must have been so peaceful when you were young.’ All that Alice could see to disturb the peace of the tree-lined road was a newspaper boy on a bicycle, and a postman with his sack over his back. The remark, however, served its purpose, and Grandmother Fairley turned willingly towards the past.

  ‘It wasn’t all that peaceful. The farm carts made a terrible noise going up to Covent Garden in the morning.’

  Alice asked, ‘Did you see Oscar Wilde and Holman Hunt and Dante Gabriel Rossetti?’

  She had asked this often in the hope that Grandmother Fairley would ransack her store of memories and come up with an overlooked trifle concerning one of these great men. Granny Tippet knew all about the important people in Falmouth, none of whom was of interest to Alice. It seemed inconceivable that Grandmother Fairley, who was so well connected, should have lived surrounded by the great without ever having noticed them.

  ‘No, I can’t say that I did, dear.’ In spite of her social pretensions. Grandmother Fairley was strictly truthful in her reminiscences. ‘I did see that woman who writes those books, Beatrix Potter. She was a girl then, of course.’ She smiled mistily down at her fingers and then, remembering how arthritic she was, flexed them, noting the pain with morose satisfaction. ‘And when I was very small, I was taken to Acton to see the mummers. I remember there was one of them called King George who used to fight a Turk and kill him, and then the Turk would be given a big pill which would bring him back to life. I always wondered why they wanted to bring him back to life if King George had seen fit to kill him.’

  The postman pushed something through the letterbox and they heard his familiar rat-a-ta-tat.

  ‘You were allowed to see theatricals, then, Grandma?’

  ‘It wasn’t quite the same, dear. We didn’t go into a theatre to see them; the mummers came to us, and it was all in the open air.’ There was a young woman walking along the pavement. She had dark auburn hair curling beneath a hat pertly tilted over one eye. As she walked she turned her head slowly from side to side, looking at the trees and the houses, and giving enchanting views of her face from many different angles – just like the heroine of a film. She wore an emerald green velvet coat with the prettiest little cape trimmed with fur, which tickled her chin. Her appearance made Alice wonder what opportunities she herself might be allowing to slip by. Were there famous people in Shepherd’s Bush, whom she passed daily in the street without being aware of their identity? It did not seem very likely. In fact, she could not think of a single person whom she knew who might become famous – except, perhaps, Jacov. I must start to keep a diary, she thought, just in case . . . At this moment, the girl was greatly surprised to recognize a man who had been approaching her from the opposite direction. They met in the shade of a tree where Alice could not see them. Her grandmother was offering her a cream horn, and when she had taken it the man and the woman were going into a house where the front door stood open.

  ‘Do they always leave their front door open?’ she asked.

  ‘The house is divided into flats.’ Grandmother Fairley sounded disapproving.

  ‘Like your house?’ Alice said naughtily.

  ‘This house is mine, dear. I have two lodgers, and they are both from the chapel.’

  A thought struck Alice. ‘Grandma, you must know Mr and Mrs Immingham. They go to your chapel.’

  ‘I don’t recall, dear; my memory for names is so bad.’

  ‘They have a son, Guy; he is friendly with Louise.’

  ‘Oh, courting, is she?’ Grandmother Fairley’s interest sharpened, and Alice wished she had not mentioned the Imminghams. ‘No wonder she doesn’t have time to come and see me any more.’ Alice said nothing, hoping her grandmother’s grievance would overcome her curiosity. She looked at the house which was divided into flats. I shall start a diary tonight, she thought, and I shall make a note about the au
burn-haired woman. She wondered whether she should give her a name, such as Zelda, but decided that she must confine herself to what she actually knew and saw.

  An hour later, when she was leaving, her grandmother picked up the letter which the postman had delivered, ‘This is for Number 31.’ She was overcome by sadness at the mistake. ‘I should have know it wouldn’t be for me. There’s no one left to write to me; they’ve all passed on.’ She did not believe in speeding her departing guests on their way with brisk good cheer. Alice, who always tried to get away before she said, ‘I’ll see you next week, dear, if I’m not in glory by then’, took the letter and said, ‘I’ll drop it in on my way.’

  Grandmother Fairley said, ‘Immingham, did you say?’

  ‘I’d better hurry. Grandma; I’m meeting Mummy at half-past five at Pontings.’

  ‘If she’s at Pontings, I wonder she couldn’t come here to fetch you. But you’d better run along; you mustn’t keep her waiting since she’s so busy.’

  Alice kissed the old woman’s cheek, which was cold and smelt of Lifebuoy soap. ‘Thank you for giving me such a lovely tea. I’ll come again next week.’

  ‘If I’m not in glory by then.’

  Alice hurried down the path. When she reached the gate she looked back, but her grandmother was not standing at the window as she often did; perhaps she had gone to the lavatory, in which case she could be occupied for the next ten minutes, as her bowels took a long time to move. Alice darted across the road and went in at the gate of Number 33. It was surely near enough to Number 31 for her to say she had made a mistake if anyone spoke to her. ‘I’ll just stand in the doorway,’ she thought. ‘That’s all I mean to do.’ But when she reached the doorway she thought it would be all right to walk into the hall; after all, the building was divided into flats, so it wasn’t like intruding in someone else’s home. On the right of the hall was a door with Number 33a on it. Beyond, a passage led to a glass-panelled door through which Alice had a glimpse of a garden with a grubby stone cherub, who looked as if he wanted to fly away, but had one foot secured in concrete. Now she could hear the faint sound of music, and she recognized the voice of Jessie Matthews singing ‘I want to be happy’. Alice was drawn towards the music. Slowly, heart thumping, she walked down the passage towards the door leading to the garden, urging herself on by the thought of what a promising start this would be to her diary. From now on, she would put off childish things, like midnight feasts and secret passages, and find adventure in the here and now of life. All that was needed was a little intrepidity. Beyond the glass-panelled door the branches of a tree swayed gently to and fro in the spring breeze, casting moving shadows on the wall. Alice opened the door and went into the garden. To her right there was a long window with a drawn curtain; the window was open at the top. She decided she would just walk to the window. When she came to it she saw that the curtains did not meet properly in the centre. The music was close now. Alice imagined a man and a woman dancing, bodies close and hardly moving, like the people she had glimpsed in trailers of films she was not allowed to see. She placed one foot in the flowerbed and, leaning forward, pressed her nose against the window.