The Good Servant, page 12
‘Surely you are at out at parties in London all the time?’ She heard the teasing in his voice.
‘Oh aye, me and the Prince of Wales are always out on the town.’
‘Remind me to punch him on the nose the next time I see him.’
Marion laughed out loud. ‘I’d lose my job!’
‘Well then, I’ll just stick my foot out and trip him up.’
She heard the engine of her father’s car coming on to the drive.
‘I can hear my parents coming back. I’d best go.’
‘Six thirty. Don’t forget.’
She hung up, then checked herself in the hall mirror, worried that her mother would spot a change in her face. Apart from two little bright spots on her cheeks, she looked the same.
She opened the front door for her parents and found Maggie gripping her coat with gloved hands. ‘I hope you have lit the fire? Your dad and I are frozen.’
‘Welcome back, Mother. How were the shops?’
‘Busy. I would kill for a cup of tea.’
‘You come in and sit down. The fire is lit and I’ll make the tea.’
Maggie stopped shrugging out of her coat and eyed Marion suspiciously. ‘What has happened to you?’
‘Nothing. Let me hang your coat up.’
Maggie stopped her. ‘Not before you tell me what’s going on.’
‘Mother, nothing is going on. Now go and sit down.’
‘You have had a telephone call.’ Maggie moved the telephone back to its rightful spot. ‘I can tell. Who was it?’
Why did her mother have to know everything? ‘If you must know, it was George. He is taking me out on New Year’s Eve.’
Marion sighed now as she put the last of her clothes in the case, and sat on the edge of her bed. New Year’s Eve with George had been lovely. He had behaved so kindly towards her. He had looked so safe and handsome in his kilt and had complimented her on the new dress her mother had made her …
As soon as Maggie knew George was taking Marion to the New Year’s Eve Ball, she developed a spring in her step.
‘Marion, we are going shopping.’
The haberdashers in Dunfermline was a quintessentially female shop. The scent of ladies’ face powder and eau de cologne hung in the air. Three changing rooms were each hung with peach satin curtains and furnished with a large mirror and a petite armchair.
Mrs McGiver, small and plump like a tubby puppy, Marion always thought, welcomed them.
‘Mrs Crawford. Do come in. And Marion, too. Home for Christmas?’ She dropped her voice. ‘The Duchess’s dresses are divine. Where does she get the silk from?’
Marion didn’t have to ask Mrs McGiver how she knew who she worked for. One look at her mother’s guilty face told her. ‘I am not privy to that sort of information, I’m afraid.’
‘France or China, I would say. I have a few special silks in stock, myself.’
Maggie jumped straight in. ‘Marion has a date. She’s going to a Hogmanay Ball.’
Mrs McGiver’s eyes lit up. ‘And who is the lucky man?”
‘Mother!’ Marion’s hushed warning fell on deaf ears.
‘A major. So charming and you can see how fond he is of our lassie.’
Marion gave up any attempt to protest as her mother and Mrs McGiver discussed her.
‘She would look lovely in dusty pink, with her dark hair and pale complexion.’ Mrs McGiver was squinting at her. ‘Or maybe scarlet?’
‘I was thinking more of an opaque sea-green, to match her eyes?’ Maggie proffered.
Mrs McGiver clapped her hands. ‘You are right. I have a beautiful eau de nil satin. Come and see.’
While the two women stroked and critiqued several bolts of greenish fabric, Marion was sent to look through the pattern books.
‘Nothing too revealing, Marion.’ Maggie giggled. ‘We don’t want to show off all your assets too early, do we?’
Marion went pink, and turned to the section of patterns for evening dresses. There were so many different styles to choose. She picked a couple that looked very like the Duchess’s style – frilly with long buttoned sleeves and a modest sweetheart neckline. She marked the pages with a ribbon. She flicked on, satisfied she had found something appropriate, until she came across an illustration of a slender woman, one long leg in front of the other. The dress clung to a small bust, jutting hipbones and ended at the ankle with a small train behind. The neckline ran in a sharp line across the throat, shoulder to shoulder, and the sleeves were puffed slightly at the top, then tight to the wrist. The reverse was pictured too. A swooping, chiffon cowl, exposing pale shoulder blades.
Much less Duchess, much more Mrs Simpson. Marion felt sinful just looking at it.
‘Isn’t that the thing?’ Mrs McGiver was behind her. ‘Mrs Crawford, your daughter has chosen exactly what I would have picked for her.’
Maggie was enraptured. ‘Oh, Marion. For once your height and flat chest won’t work against you! Simple and sophisticated. You will catch George yet.’
Those words ‘catch George’ got Marion wondering. Could she give up the Princesses, her work, her life, to marry a man like George? Could she stay as Governess to the Princesses and still be a wife? If she let herself fall in love with George, what would happen? Was it possible to both be a wife and to keep working?
Three and a half yards of eau-de-nil crepe de chine were purchased, with a yard of wispy chiffon in the same colour for the cowl back, and many afternoons between Christmas and New Year were spent in the spare bedroom where Maggie set up her sewing table and machine.
‘Fine feathers make fine birds,’ she told Marion more than once. ‘And don’t move an inch while I pin this hem.’
When it was finished, she gave Robert the first viewing in the sitting room.
‘What do you think, Dad?’
A big grin lit up his face. ‘Beautiful. You look like a film star.’
‘Thank you, Dad.’
Maggie came bustling down from upstairs, holding a large tissue-wrapped parcel.
‘I was thinking you might be cold, and you don’t want to wear your old coat over your new dress.’
She handed the parcel to Marion, who unwrapped it. ‘Oh Mother! Your stole?’
‘Real rabbit,’ Maggie said.
Marion hugged her mother with true affection. ‘Thank you. Thank you for the dress, and all your hard work and now your stole. I feel like Cinderella.’
‘That’s good.’ Her mother squeezed her. ‘Only you are quite a lot older than Cinderella was.’
When George arrived on the big night, he looked her up and down in admiration. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you are a wee bobby-dazzler, Marion.’ He produced a small box from behind his back. ‘I hope you like this?’
It was a corsage of two white roses to wear around her wrist.
Maggie jogged out of the kitchen to the front door. ‘George! You are wearing the kilt! I could never resist a man in a kilt.’ She shouted over her shoulder, ‘Robert, come and see what a gorgeous couple Marion and George make.’
When Robert appeared, he raised an eyebrow to George. ‘Forgive her, Maggie’s never seen a man in a kilt before.’
Maggie elbowed him hard in the ribs. ‘Of course I have! But you haven’t taken me anywhere I can see one for as long as I remember, that’s all. Now, Marion, let me put your corsage on for you.’
Both parents stood on the doorstep as they watched George help Marion, wrapped in her mother’s rabbit stole, into his little car, then waved until it was out of sight.
George drove the car skilfully, and Marion relaxed into the leather seat, allowing herself to feel a pleasure she was unused to. She glanced at George surreptitiously.
She hadn’t noticed how strong his profile was until now. A good jaw, straight nose, bushy eyebrows. His hairline was receding a little which, she thought, was not a fault, more of a sign of maturity and reliability. And his moustache was rather dashing.
She had noticed that he was quite a bit shorter than her as he had walked her to the car, but then, she was very tall for a woman. Perhaps she shouldn’t have worn heels after all.
He said very little as he drove, which she was thankful for, but as they arrived at the Glen Mule, he looked over to her, smiled, and took her hand. ‘Forgive me, I am rather nervous. It’s a long time since I have taken a lassie to dinner.’
It was a wonderful evening. The food and wine swept the cobwebs from serious, learned Marion, the Marion who could be shy and too sharp. That night she laughed at all George’s jokes and stories and made him laugh with tales of her childhood.
‘And do the Duke and Duchess know this about you?’ he asked gently.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Do you have to be very stiff and proper around them?’
‘Maybe at first, but I think they like me to be me. They enjoy having someone normal around them.’
‘I’m sure they do. I would like to have you around more, too.’
Marion didn’t know how to answer that. So she took a sip of her wine and changed the subject.
‘Robert has been so good to us,’ she said. ‘My own father, John, died when I was three. I have a foggy memory of him – a feeling more than a memory, I suppose. Mother took it very badly and had what I think we would call now a nervous breakdown. Robert stepped in and has put up with us ever since.’
George lifted his glass of wine and took her hand across the table. ‘A toast to your father John and to your stepfather Robert Crawford.’
‘My two fathers.’ They clinked glasses and drank.
The band struck up and George grinned at her. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’
They danced all the way to midnight and as the countdown began, balloons, party hats and streamers were released from a net hanging high above the dance floor.
‘Happy New Year, Marion.’ George caught a bundle of streamers which he hung around his neck, and a sparkly, crepe party hat, with a feather, which he placed with humorous courtesy on her head. ‘I haven’t had this much fun in a very long time.’
He returned Marion to her home at 1.15 a.m., insisting on walking her to the door. For a brief, anxious moment, she wondered if he was going to kiss her. It would be her first ever kiss and she was not sure what the protocol was.
She glanced anxiously up at her parents’ bedroom window, which was open – she could imagine her mother’s ears straining to hear what was going on.
‘Goodnight, Marion,’ he said simply, then took her hand and kissed it as he had done the first time they had met. She closed her eyes and hoped that he would kiss her cheek but he didn’t. ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening, Marion.’
‘Goodnight, George. I had a wonderful evening too.’
He smiled. ‘By the way, do you like winter walks?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Good. I’ll ring you up.’
In the nineteen days since then, he had taken her on long frosty walks four times, and come for tea twice. Two days ago he had taken her to his place of work.
‘Welcome to HQ,’ he said, opening the main door to the motorcar showroom. And may I introduce you to the owner and my friend, Mr Christopher Bailey.’
A plump, red-haired man hurriedly took his feet from the desk where they were resting. He jumped up, his hand held out in welcome.
‘Miss Crawford, I presume.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Bailey.’ She took his small and damp hand. ‘I have heard a lot about you.’
‘Likewise.’
George grinned. ‘Do not believe a word this blackguard tells you.’
Marion felt an unaccustomed shyness in this obviously male environment. She didn’t know one end of a car from another, so when George asked, ‘Shall I show you around?’ she agreed with over-enthusiasm.
‘That would be wonderful.’
Mr Bailey rubbed his hands together as his eyes travelled the length of her. She swallowed hard and turned her eyes to the showroom windows and the outside beyond. Supposing one of her parent’s friends saw her here, alone with two men – what would they think?
‘Marion?’ asked George, angling his arm towards the biggest car there. ‘Can I interest you in the elegant and noble Nine Monaco Riley in oxblood? Four doors and a top that folds back for those leisure breaks in the South of France?’ He opened the driver’s door. ‘Hop in and get a feel for the old girl.’
‘George, I don’t drive.’
‘Then this is your chance to get behind the wheel.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re not expecting me to try and drive it now, are you?’
Mr Bailey playfully scolded George. ‘Don’t tease her, old boy.’ He shook his head and tutted, before turning back to Marion. ‘Maybe the Riley is a bit too much to start with – how about I show you a smaller vehicle. Perfect for a woman?’
Marion saw Mr Bailey smirk at George. She had an awkward feeling that they were both laughing at her and wanted suddenly to leave.
She checked her watch. ‘Oh dear, look at the time. I must be getting back. I’m so pleased to have met you, Mr Bailey.’
‘Christopher, please.’ He held his horrible hand out to her once more and she shook it quickly. ‘George and I go back a long way.’ He hesitated. ‘I was hoping we could talk a little more, get to know each other a bit better, over a tray of tea?’
Marion declined quickly. She didn’t like Mr Bailey. His pale piggy eyes below his bright red hair were too close and his mobile lips, when he licked them, made her uncomfortable. ‘No, really. I’m so sorry to have to go. George, would you mind?’
She checked to make sure George didn’t signal a raised eyebrow or a wink to Mr Bailey, but instead he appeared to understand her need to leave. ‘Of course, my dear. Goodbye, Christopher.’
Marion was unsettled on the journey home. She was certain that Mr Bailey was not a friend of George’s she’d like to meet again.
George was completely unaware and was whistling a cheery tune as he drove.
He glanced over to Marion, who was trying not to look or sound as brittle as she felt. ‘What did you think of old Bailey then?’
She crossed her hands on her lap. ‘Oh, you know …’ she said with a vague smile.
‘He’s been a very good friend to me.’
‘That’s good.’
‘He helped me through some very difficult times. I haven’t told you this before but I was …’ He took his right hand off the wheel and rubbed it over his face. ‘I was married before.’
‘Oh.’ Marion was completely taken aback. In all her innocent, yet frequent imaginings of him, this was a scenario she had not thought of. Why hadn’t she? He was an older man who must have had a past, but she had felt that he and she were the same. Uncomplicated. Unblemished by the dirtier side of life.
It seemed she was wrong.
‘Have I shocked you?’ He turned briefly to look at her before returning his eyes to the road.
‘Not at all.’ She raised her eyebrows with a quick smile. ‘So you were … married before?’
‘I should have listened to Bailey. He saw that she was wrong for me straight away. But I was foolish and the war had just ended. My parents were not the affectionate kind, and Ena – well, she was a ray of sunshine after the trenches. We were happy for a couple of years but I began to realize that she was a sick woman.’
‘Oh dear,’ Marion said, desperate to know more about this woman who had, out of the blue, cast a shadow over any future she might have with George. If she had a future … She felt angry, cheated and possibly jealous.
‘Not physically ill – it was in her mind. Made her very difficult to live with. And jealous. I couldn’t go anywhere or see anybody without her throwing things at me when I got home. She accused me of all sorts. Women, drink, the lot. Then one day, I came home to find she’d put all my clothes outside the front door and locked me out. I went round the back, looked through the kitchen window and …’ His voice began to waver and he coughed to clear it.
Marion remained silent and alert.
‘She, er … she was lying on the floor with her head in the gas oven.’
Marion held her hand to her mouth. ‘My God, how terrible.’
‘I saved her, thankfully, but the doctors took her to hospital and after six months or so, they advised that she should stay there, for her own safety. And that I should divorce her, forget about her and find some happiness before I was too old.’
Marion was stunned. ‘How dreadful.’
‘I expect you think I was a coward.’ He looked over at her. She had opened the small side window and the wind was pulling her hair.
‘I think that must have taken a lot of courage,’ she said.
‘I shouldn’t have just blurted that out but sometimes … it was just so awful and Bailey pulled me through it all. There was a time when I … I thought my life wasn’t worth living. He saved me.’
‘Oh, George.’ Without thinking, she placed her hand on his leg. ‘Your poor man.’
He took his left hand from the steering wheel and put it on top of hers, holding it tight.
‘I’m sorry.’
Without hesitation she responded, ‘Nothing to be sorry for.’
‘Thank you. You are a wonderful girl, Marion.’
‘George, let’s stop for a drink before you take me home. I can’t say goodbye to you without making sure you are all right.’
He turned his troubled face to her. ‘I’d like that.’
They pulled in to the small car park of the Golden Fleece – a public house her dad didn’t go to, so there was no fear of bumping into him.
George helped her out of the car and took her hand. Together they walked inside. Marion knew something between them had shifted with his revelation. To share his tragic story with her meant he trusted her. And to hold his hand and walk into this place for all to see made her feel a little giddy.
He settled her into a cosy table by the fire and she watched him as he walked to the bar and ordered. Although not a tall man, he walked with confidence and ease. As he chatted to the barman, he turned to look at her and smiled. Was this what it felt like to fall in love?
George brought their drinks over and sat close to her on the small banquette. ‘To us.’ He raised his glass.
