Marnie (5 page)

She’d gone on like that for what seemed like about six hours, while every now and then old Lucy had put her head round the door saying: ‘Stop it, Edie, you’ll kill the
child!’ ‘Stop it; Edie, you’ll have a stroke.’ ‘Stop it, Edie, give it a rest, you’ve done enough!’

I suppose, knowing her, I couldn’t have done anything to tread on her corns so badly as break open the alms box in the chapel. And with the tears streaming down my face and bits of wet
hair sticking to my cheeks, and my voice half plugged with pain – not remorse – I couldn’t explain to her then, and never had got round to saying so afterwards, that I had really
been doing it all for her.

Of course I wasn’t hungry or down-at-heel; Mother saw to that; she went without things herself to do it. And that made it harder for me to take. Try being grateful when you’re
expected
to be grateful; it mops you up. Lucy would even rate Mother sometimes. ‘All on your back it goes,’ she’d say. ‘Better in your belly, Edie. It don’t do
no good to be well dressed in your coffin.’ ‘When it’s our time to die we’ll die for sure,’ Mother would say. ‘But not before. God’s will be done. Marnie,
get on with your homework. And don’t call it belly in this house!’

Breaking open those boxes had been the first shots in my own private war, as you might say.

There were all sorts of things at the root of it. When my Dad was killed in 1943 Mother was expecting her second baby. I was nearly six then, and first Mother got the shock of losing her
husband, and then within a few weeks of that she was bombed out of her house in Keyham and we went to live in a tiny two-bedroomed bungalow in Sangerford, near Liskeard. I could just remember
that.

When it came time for the baby to be born they sent for the doctor, but it was before National Health and he was busy with some more profitable cases, so Mother had the baby without anaesthetic
and with only the district nurse to help. Something went wrong, the baby died, and ever afterwards Mother dragged her leg. There was a court case against the doctor, but nothing came of it and he
got off scot free.

The year after that we went back to Plymouth, but the other end near the Barbican, and I went to school there till I was fourteen. When I left the headmistress wrote: ‘Margaret is a girl
of real ability and it is a great pity that she has to leave school so young. Had she been prepared to work I am certain she would have gone far and even achieved something special in Mathematics
and Science. I am equally sure that her abilities are capable of misdirection, and in her last year she has given ample evidence of this. It is vitally important to her welfare that she should keep
the right company. I wish her well in her future life and hope she will not fritter away her gifts.’

Well, I’d tried not to fritter away my gifts.

The annual dinner and dance of the firm was held at the Stag Hotel in the High Street. Mark Rutland’s suggestion had let me out nicely, but at the last minute I decided I
didn’t want to be let out. You know how it is sometimes, you get the urge to see for yourself.

Everybody was there, all the printers and binders and setters and all their wives, and all the girls, with their husbands or boy friends. Old Mr Holbrook had brought his wife. Mr Newton-Smith
was a bachelor, Mark Rutland a widower, and Terry Holbrook a divorcee.

Dawn Witherbie said: ‘It makes you think, girls.’

When the dinner was over old Mr Holbrook made a speech, giving a review of the year’s work; but it was a hot night and the windows had had to be opened on to the High Street, which still
carried a lot of traffic.

He said: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. It gives me pleasure to rise for the fourth time at this our annual dinner and dance to propose to you . . .’ Heavy lorry and four cars. ‘. . .
on the whole a very satisfactory year. I won’t hesitate to say that we suffered some uneasiness over the trading disputes of last June but happily . . .’ Three motor bikes. ‘. . .
so that we were not ultimately involved.’ He turned on his smile. ‘It is, as I have said before, a source of great comfort to me that we in this firm are something of a
family
.
We are not so large . . .’ Sports car overtaking two buses. ‘. . . also our order sheet gives rise to some satisfaction though naturally not to complacency. Compared with last year . .
.’ His smile died away as he compared this year with last year, but he switched it on again at the end to show that the figures pleased him. ‘During the year we have had three marriages
in the firm. Will the happy couples please stand up and take their medicine.’ The happy couples stood up and were clapped. ‘Six of our staff have for one reason or another left us, but
we have taken on fifteen new members. We say to them . . .’ Several cars both ways. ‘. . . up, please, so that we can see just who they are.’

The man next to me was squeezing my elbow. I moved it but he squeezed it again. ‘You’re new, Mrs Taylor. Stand up.’

So I stood up, the last of the few, and smiled vaguely and somehow caught Mark Rutland’s eye and then quickly sat down.

After dinner I stayed out for quite a while, but as soon as I came back Terry Holbrook asked me to dance.

He was good, so he made it easy. I hadn’t danced much these last few years but that wasn’t because I didn’t enjoy it. It was because I hadn’t had time, and because going
to a dance with a boy usually leads to necking. But I often dreamed of having lots of money and lovely clothes and a diamond necklace and going to a Ball where everything would be beautiful and
gracious and softly lit and full of colour and music. One of the romantics, me.

Terry Holbrook said: ‘Has anybody told you before what a pretty girl you are?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Oh, modesty, my dear! Anyway, let’s be impersonal and say that’s a ravishing frock.’

I’d bought it yesterday, falling for it because it was expensively simple and thinking people here wouldn’t realize. But this man knew all about women’s clothes . . .

He did a few odd steps, and I thought last time, last time . . . It was in a dive called ‘Sheba’; I’d gone in with a girl called Veronica; I couldn’t remember her
surname; she’d let herself go good and proper, shoes off, hair flying; I never could quite, something short; I’d stand back and look at myself and think, it’s crazy to get that
way over a dance. That fellow in the shirt striped like a wasp had come over; blue jeans so tight they creased the wrong way, Brando hair cut; hands were clammy and he smelt of sweat . . .

‘You dance like a dream, Mary.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But a slightly dead-pan dream. Do tell me what you’re thinking.’

‘What a nice family party this is.’

‘Please! How tactless!’

‘Why? Isn’t it?’

He looked me over, eyes drooping. ‘Can you do Latin American?’

‘Some.’

‘Did you know Jive and Rock ’n’ Roll were Latin American in origin?’

‘No.’

‘It’s all essentially the same style of dance. The man is only the central figure; all the real action is done by the woman. Don’t you think that’s as it should
be?’

Again that feeling he was poking sly fun at me. His face would flare up at the corners of his mouth and eyes when he spoke.

Later we danced again, but half-way through the band started introducing stunt novelties that sent him into a temper.

I said: ‘Well, if you don’t like it, let’s sit down.’

‘My dear, you can if you like but I’m a director, I have to look as if I
enjoy
it.’

‘Does Mr Rutland never dance?’

‘Why don’t you ask him, if you’re interested.’

‘I’m not specially, but you spoke as if the directors
have
to join in.’

‘He doesn’t, my dear, that’s why he’s unpopular.’

‘
Is
he unpopular?’

‘Ask your friends.’

‘Hasn’t he joined in any of the other dances before?’

‘My dear, this is the first annual dinner he’s ever condescended to attend since he condescended to join the firm.’

We didn’t seem to be getting on very well, so for the next hour or so I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t ask me to dance. Not that I was short of partners. But about one, when a
good bit of the top table was making a move, he came across and said:

‘It’s getting a fearful drag now. I’m asking a few people over to my place to finish off the evening. Care to come?’

‘To dance?’

‘No. For a few drinks and a chat and a gramophone. Quite
unambitious
.’

This was the time to slide out. I’d kept free of everything personal in Manchester, and it always paid off. But you don’t always do the clever thing. I said: ‘Thanks, I’d
like to.’

‘Divine. We’ll meet at the door in about ten minutes. I think the MacDonalds will have room for you in their little car.’

Well, he only lived about ten minutes away. The MacDonalds were two of the firm’s guests and were both as tall as cranes – the steam sort – but nice enough in their smart way.
They were London smart, which means a bit phoney, but not as phoney as provincial smart. She was a blonde with that sort of urchin cut that makes you look like a drowned cat, and she was wearing a
flowered grosgrain frock that showed too much leg and too much bosom. He wore his hair long and a dinner suit with blue velvet lapels. I shared the back seat of their Mark 9 Jaguar with Dawn
Witherbie and a funny type called Walden. Alistair MacDonald drove like a madman, but Terry somehow got there first, so we all got out and went into his flat, which was three rooms done very
modern; you know, bright purple carpet, orange and yellow walls, neon lights shaped like letter Zs, and a cocktail bar in one corner with the front made of padded and buttoned blue leather.

There were twelve of us and everybody talked and drank a lot. Not that
I
drank much because it didn’t do to be talkative the way I lived. Somebody shouted, ‘Put the tape
on,’ and then a sort of round-the-clock dance music started coming out of the radiogram, and two or three couples began to circle in one corner. But on the carpet it was hard work, and after
a while Terry dragged a table forward and said, ‘D’you play poker, Mary?’

‘No. Do you mean gambling?’ I said. ‘No.’

He laughed. ‘It’s only fun. Not really gambling. I’ll soon teach you.’

‘No, thanks, I’ll watch.’

‘If you’re as quick at learning this as you were the cha-cha . . . Two shilling maximum, Alistair?’

‘Low limits kill bluffing, old boy, old boy,’ Alistair MacDonald said. ‘Anybody will see you if they can do it on the cheap.’

‘Yes, dear boy, dear boy,’ Terry said, mimicking him. He lowered his voice and did a little finicking wave towards the dancers. ‘But we’re a mixed bag this evening. I
think we have to take a democratic view.’

Gail MacDonald pulled the shoulder strap of her frock up. ‘Darling, don’t be a bore,’ she said to her husband. ‘We’re slumming tonight.’ She glanced at me.
‘Darling, I don’t mean you. In that divine frock – is it Amies?’ – she knew it wasn’t – ‘you look like an early Modigliani, that lovely warm skin . .
. Of course we’ll play for whatever you say, Terry, poppet.’ She kissed him.

Some of them got round a low table which had a banquette on two sides. I wouldn’t play at first but Terry insisted on teaching me. Somehow in the process one of his hands was always
touching me somewhere; one minute it was round my waist, then it was on my shoulder – and always two or three fingers seemed to overlap on to the bare part – or he held my arm or my
hand. I didn’t like being pawed, and I was glad the MacDonalds had offered to take me home.

I pretended I hadn’t any money, so Terry lent me two pounds, but I had no luck and when that was gone I said I was drawing out; this gave me the chance to slide away from him.

I began to watch the game. Terry was right, it was easy to learn – anyone could go through the motions in ten minutes – but it didn’t stop there. It looked as if anybody with a
bit of time and head exercise would be able to work out what chances of winning you had when you picked up a card and what chances you had of doing better by swapping your cards. For instance if
you had four cards of the same suit and hoped to pick up a fifth, for a – what was it? – a flush, the odds against you, because there were four suits in the pack, were roughly four to
one. But if you had three cards of the same number – three fives, for instance, and hoped to pick up a fourth, the odds against you must be forty-eight to one because there was only one more
in the whole pack. No, twenty-four to one, because you had two chances.

When nobody was looking I grabbed up my bag and found some paper and began figuring.

About three o’clock, the Smitherams and Dawn and another couple went home, and we all had a drink and I thought it was going to break up; but two or three of the others shouted to go on,
so they squatted down once more, and this time they made me play again. I took out a pound note of my own and sat down swearing I’d
walk
home when that was gone.

But it didn’t go. I won. All the things I was quite good at came in then. For years I’d had to hide what I was thinking however I felt. Ever since I was ten I’d had to do it.
Then the liking for mathematics and money. Then the fact that I’d been watching everybody and trying to guess whether they were bluffing.

Not that I got any fun out of it. Gambling has always scared me to death. The only time I ever put a pound on a horse I felt sick like seasick, and it was almost a relief when the race was over
and the money was lost. I don’t know why it is because I never much mind giving money away.

By five o’clock when it all broke up I had won twenty-two pounds. I felt clammy and awful and glad it was over. I wouldn’t pick up the money at first.

‘No,’ I said, ‘take it back. It’s too much.’

‘Taken in fair fight,’ said Alistair MacDonald, patting my shoulder. He was the only other one who had won. ‘But don’t ever be ingenuous again or we won’t believe
you.’

‘The candles burn their sockets, the blinds let in the day,’ said his wife with a gaping yawn behind her spread-fingered hand. ‘It’s me instantly for bye-byes. Home,
James.’