‘You what?’
Sally’s mother was crouched on the end of her bed, her toes separated with wads of cotton wool while she coated their nails with varnish.
‘Not “pink”,’ she would exclaim to anyone who commented. ‘It’s cerise d’amour.’
‘You what?’ she asked again.
‘You heard,’ Sally said.
‘He never!’
‘Well thanks a lot.’
‘He took his time, though, didn’t he?’
‘Not really.’
Sally fiddled with the brass doorknob, which was loose. Struck by a terrible thought, her mother paused a moment, varnish-brush in mid-stroke.
‘He hasn’t put one in your oven, has he?’
‘What if he had? What difference would it make?’
‘He’d be marrying you for the wrong reasons, that’s what.’
‘Since when were you so romantic?’
‘Who mentioned romance? Marriage is hard enough when you start off on the right footing. You didn’t throw yourself at him, did you? Didn’t go cheapening yourself?’
‘Of course not,’ Sally lied. ‘He just asked me.’
‘And you said yes straight away? Well of course you did. Can’t go calling their bluff at your age. Christ Almighty! Married at last! Well come here and have a kiss.’
Sally came forward and stooped to the bed. She expected the usual, cursory, don’t-spoil-my-hair peck and was surprised by a hug that was actually tender. Then her mother quickly retreated into more characteristic gruffness.
‘And now you’ve made me cry! Give me one of those hankies quick before I wreck my face.’
Sally reached for a handkerchief from the pile of ironing her mother had left on the bedside chair. Her mother took it with muttered thanks and dabbed at her eyes, which had already been pink and watery from an over-zealous application of cold cream. Then, seeing to the last of her nail-painting, she said, ‘You were always such a dry little girl. You weren’t one for dolls or princesses. No ribbons in your hair. And you never cried.’
‘I must have done.’
‘Well not while I was around.’
‘I had you for an example.’
‘I always tried to look nice for you, you know?’
‘I used to think your nails grew that colour.’
Sally joined her mother on the bed although still kept at a distance by her careful labour.
‘Was I a disappointment to you?’ she asked cautiously.
‘No. Not really.’ Her mother stopped to consider then continued her work.
‘Well,’ she said, casually hurtful, ‘if I’m honest, I wanted a boy. I knew I couldn’t have any more after you.’
‘You never said,’ Sally sighed.
‘Complications in the birth, they told me. You’d understand, of course. Back then we never thought to ask for details. Anyway –’ she finished her nails briskly and screwed brush back into bottle ‘– you were the best of both worlds; brave as a boy, cunning as a girl.’
‘Cunning?’
‘You got your way. You always did. I admired that.’
‘Oh.’
‘So. Is he going to come and ask your dad’s permission?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Why not?’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I turned eighteen several years ago. I don’t need permission. Your blessing would be nice, though.’
‘Oh,’ her mother snorted. ‘That. Well, I wish you well, of course I do. Marriage is no joyride – especially if you’ve a will on you like you have. At least he’s young. That way he’ll respect you and you can get him well trained. Well don’t go looking all old-fashioned! If you want wine and roses, you stay single, you know that. Marriage is a kind of business proposal when you get down to it.’ She carefully stretched out her legs before her to give her handiwork a critical once-over.
Sally looked about the room, this temple to her parents’ own marriage. There were so few clues. The big heart-shaped mirror over the pink-skirted dressing-table. Their wedding photograph. Sally’s christening photograph. China souvenirs from their honeymoon in Scarborough, meticulously dusted. Nothing much. The ugly, heavy wardrobe and matching chest of drawers, the big divan bed and the his-and-her chamber pots not quite tucked out of sight suggested some of the profound lack of romance at which her mother hinted. Their wedding photograph, in which her father was still upstanding, a lithe, fit young man, younger than his daughter was now, gave more positive proof of disappointment. Her mother caught her looking at it.
‘No,’ she said, ‘That picture’s a lie. That’s not the man I married. The man I married is sitting downstairs. That dreamboat in the natty suit and shiny shoes was a man I dreamt up and carried in my head. I hope you know him well, your Edward.’
‘I do.’
‘I mean really well. Men change, girl. They grow up slower than women.’
‘You must have had some good times with him.’
‘Oh. Yes. Good times.’ Her mother leant against the headboard and snorted at her recollections. ‘I suppose he made me feel safe, which was nice. And he was taller than me then, before his accident. And he was a good dancer, when he’d had a few, which makes it all the sadder I suppose.’ She looked at her hands again, her hard, worker’s hands with their incongruously lacquered nails, and sighed to herself. ‘So,’ she said, ‘Have you set a date?’
‘Not yet,’ Sally told her, ‘But I don’t see much point in a long engagement.’
‘No. I bet you don’t.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Oh you know, Madam. You know.’
Sally surprised herself by blushing and had to pretend to blow her nose. Her mother went on regardless of the confusion she had caused. ‘Where will you live? You can’t live here.’
‘We might have to, Mum, to start with.’
Her mother began to protest but Sally cut her short.
‘We’d pay you rent. Proper rent.’
‘Well I don’t know. You might end up like that Perkins lot up the street and never move out.’
‘Don’t be silly. Anyway, we’ll probably find somewhere in Rexbridge.’
‘You’d better go and have a word with the parson tomorrow evening. Fix up the banns and everything.’
‘Oh I’m not sure we’ll get married in church.’
‘Because he’s Jewish? We brought you up C of E, my girl, and we’re paying. So you get married in church.’
‘But we never go to church!’ Sally protested.
‘So? We’re English and your father and I got married in church, and you can do the same. C of E.’ Her mother wrinkled her nose. ‘You don’t want one of those poky registry office jobs like some old tart with a divorce on her. You want a bit of charm, girl. A bit of dignity. There’ll be time enough for the other.’
‘Well I’m going to wear cream, I warn you.’
Her mother sat up sharply.
‘I thought you said you weren’t in the club?’
‘I’m not, but I can’t wear white at my age.’
‘At your age, at your age. You’re only twenty-seven.’
‘A moment ago you were carrying on as though I was forty.’
Her mother pointed a warning finger.
‘You wear cream and it’s over my dead body. I don’t want all the neighbours getting ideas. We’ll take you round to Ida’s sister. She can do you something simple with a little veil. You can always shorten the sleeves and get it dyed later. I’ll pay.’
‘Where’s all this money come from suddenly?’
‘It’s my money. I earned it. You don’t have a daughter and not put something by just in case. Daughters cost. It’s a fact of life. Now. Go to bed and get some sleep. I’m exhausted and you look as if you could do with some too. Have you told your dad?’
‘Yes. He was asleep by the stove with the radio on. I told him when I came in.’
‘What did he say?’
They looked at each other and started to chuckle at the thought.
‘You know what he’s like. He said “Oh,” and asked me what Edward did again, as if I hadn’t told him already a hundred times, and then he said, “Well you’d better tell your mother.” I know he wasn’t any wilder about me seeing Edward than you were, but I had expected a little more enthusiasm.’
‘Oh he’ll be pleased. In his way. When it sinks in.’ Her hair wrapped in chiffon, her mother had already climbed into bed and was tugging the covers up around her. She sometimes claimed that sleep was the one pleasure that never disappointed. Sleep and Gordon’s gin.
‘Put the top light off on your way out, there’s a love,’ she murmured sleepily.
Sally crossed the cramped room with its loudly ticking alarm clock and bedroom smells of night cream and talcum powder. As she reached for the light switch, her mother made soft, pettish little settling noises as she snuggled into her pillows and Sally knew that even now, after so many years of hard practicality and cruel disappointment, her mother threw aside her khaki slacks and work gloves in her dreams to become some headstrong character from the films she loved, with a palatially draped bedroom suite, dour but loving Scottish servants and an embarrassment of impatient suitors.