Strangers in a Garden Page 3

‘What are you doing, Kel?’

  ‘Metallurgy. I’ll end up on a Rhodesian copper mine.’ Laura remembered Adrian’s first letter. Kel was a Rhodes scholar. The others were envious because it was a generous scholarship so Kel could always afford a pint.

  Adrian. Where on earth had he got to?

  As if reading her mind, Kel said, ‘Can’t show you Adrian’s room ‘cos the appalling Logan will be swotting in there. But have a look at mine. I room with Sven. He’s all right, is Sven, once he stops moaning on about missing Swedish herrings.’

  On the second floor, Kel opened a door into what, after Arundell House, seemed pure luxury. Two beds, two desks, two armchairs, two oak wardrobes, shelving, good quality carpet, chenille curtains. And, oh bliss, Livingstone Hall was centrally heated.

  You’re very lucky boys, Laura decided as Kel escorted her downstairs. And there was Adrian, at last, tearing through the front door. He was wearing a well-cut Harris tweed jacket and his college scarf.

  ‘Laura! For heaven’s sake. Why didn’t you let me know?’

  That is not the right response, Laura thought as, still on the third stair, she awkwardly bent to kiss him.

  ‘I wanted to surprise you. Aren’t you glad to see me?’

  ‘Of course. It’s just – I mean – I’m not very good at surprises. How did you get here?’

  ‘I flew,’ she said matter-of-factly, as if she were a seasoned traveller. ‘Stand-by. Cheap.’

  ‘Yes, but even so, flying up just for the weekend…’

  She slipped her arm through his. ‘Adrian, I’m not just visiting. I’m here. I’m living here. At Arundell House.’

  He gave a shout of laughter. ‘The Virgins’ Retreat? Good grief. Come on, I need a drink.’

  There was wine, beer and a buffet supper spread on a long table at the back of the Common Room. Kel and Sven were, tactfully, keeping their distance.

  Adrian gulped at a beer and lit a Guards. It was a packet of ten, with two remaining.

  ‘No thanks, I’ve got my own,’ said Laura. She didn’t like the way things were going. Surely he didn’t regard her as just a summer fling? Not after what had happened on her front porch.

  She moved to the buffet. She’d missed high tea at Arundell and was starving.

  Adrian bit into a Scotch egg. ‘Arundell House. How did you hear about it? Did your father –‘

  ‘God, no. I saw a notice in the Glasgow Herald. We used to have all the Scottish papers delivered to the office.’

  ‘And your job. What about your job?’

  ‘I left. I have an interview first thing Monday with the publicity manager of McAllisters.’

  McAllisters was the prominent Glasgow store group. They also owned the store Laura had worked for in Regent Street.

  ‘Well,’ Adrian finished his beer. ‘You certainly don’t hang about.’

  Laura wanted to kiss him, shake him and slap him all at the same time.

  And suddenly, the mood in the room changed. Someone had put on the Beatles. ‘She Loves You.’ Everyone erupted. Everyone was dancing. After a lifetime of crooning Bing Crosby and cloying Rosemary Clooney, the young were exhilarated now by music of their time, music that made them feel alive.

  After a couple of energetic hours, Laura murmured to Adrian, ‘Couldn’t we, you know, slip upstairs?’

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t. Logan.’

  Bloody Logan.

  They danced wildly on until midnight, after which hour women were no longer welcome at Livingstone Hall.

  ‘What colour’s your coat?’ Adrian asked. ‘I’ll get it from the hall and give you a lift home.’

  ‘You’ve got a car?’

  ‘Yeah, the old man finally did the decent thing. Wouldn’t increase my allowance though, so I probably won’t be able to afford to run it.’

  It was a brand new red Triumph Herald. ‘It’s got a heater,’ Adrian said, fiddling with the dials, ‘and a radio.’

  As they turned off from the Great Western Road into Arundell Terrace, Laura, mindful of Miss Speddie, suggested that they park at the far end.

  Rapidly unbuttoning her coat, Adrian sighed, ‘Oh! That lovely dress.’

  ‘I’ve had it on all evening, Adrian.’

  ‘I know. But with all the guys looking on, I couldn’t, you know…’

  Feeling him reach for her, feeling his mouth finding hers, she thought,

  I’ve done it. I’ve got him back.

  ‘Miss James! Wake up this instant!’

  Startled, Laura sat up to face the looming presence of Miss Speddie, clad in black bombazine.

  ‘It is the Sabbath Day, Miss James. And you, you are lying in sloth.’

  Laura said nothing, mainly because she hadn’t a clue what sloth was. As Miss Speddie slammed out, Laura was aware of sounds emitting from the mound in the bed by the window. As her room-mate emerged into the chill of the November day, Laura saw she was fair, grey-eyed and laughing fit to bust.

  ‘Lying in sloth! What the Dickens is that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Laura said indignantly. ‘I had a bath yesterday.’ She smiled at the girl. ‘I’m Laura.’

  ‘Marje.’

  The girl was shrugging on a candlewick dressing gown and stuffing underwear and towels into a huge shopping bag. ‘Been to the laundry room yet? No? I’ll take you.’

  On the way downstairs she pointed out the Dorm. ‘It’s always bedlam in there. They have pillow fights and steal one another’s clothes. Drives Dinkie nuts but on the other hand she gets pole position bed near the window, because she does all the girls’ hair.’

  ‘Doesn’t Miss Speddie kick up a fuss?’

  ‘Look, a lot of the girls here are only sixteen, seventeen. They’ve never been away from home before. So one minute they’re out in the terrace playing hopscotch, and the next they’re sobbing away, homesick as hell.’

  In the basement, Laura found herself in a dank scullery. Two soap-slimed washboards rested in two large stone sinks. There was a mangle, an ironing table with rusted legs and overhead pulleys from which Marje was yanking down towels. It was, of course, freezing.

  ‘How on earth does anything get dry?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Takes ages,’ Marje said cheerfully. She tipped her washing into the first sink and filled the other with water to rinse. ‘Now, who have you met here?’

  ‘No-one, really. When I arrived, there was a girl, very pretty, blonde, and I think it was her playing the piano.’

  ‘Oh that’s Lola. Lol,’ smiled Marje.

  ‘And then there was someone called Fiona, on the phone.’

  ‘Did you notice her dressing gown?’

  ‘Well – it had certainly seen better days.’

  Marje paused in her scrubbing. ‘Fiona’s a mean bugger. I’m not being rude. That’s what she calls herself. She works down at the docks, inspecting the ships for bugs.’

  ‘Sounds very specialised.’

  ‘It is. She’s got a first-class degree and earns a packet. She shouldn’t be at Arundell at all. She could afford a super-duper flat. But she’s too mean. And no one will share with her so she has to fork out extra for a single room.’

  She saw Laura shiver in her fleecy pyjamas. ‘You’ll have to get yourself a nice warm dressing gown. Now, go and get yourself dressed and when I come up I’ll show you how to fiddle the gas meter. It’s the reason Room Nine is the best in the house.’

  Half an hour later, Marje took the shilling Laura handed her, lit the fire and artfully jammed the meter. There was a drying line by the window and onto this Marje slung three newly washed bras.

  ‘I don’t leave them downstairs any more. Fiona saw they were padded and hooted, Oh look. There’s Marje’s breasts hanging on the line!’

  Standing gratefully by the fire to finish dressing, Laura was thinking about what they’d be doing at home. Mummy in the kitchen. The smell of the Sunday roast, the sound of Yorkshire pudding being beaten up in a china bowl. Two-Way Family Favourites on the radio. After lunch,
while Laura did the washing up, Mr James would firmly switch off the Billy Cotton Bandshow, submerge himself in the Sunday paper and express his customary disappointment.

  Kay James could gain respite from this litany by hiding in the garden, but she needed a man to mow the lawns and help with the rough. Mr James disapproved of this man. ‘On a hot day he looks like he’s brought his own personal entourage of flies.’

  From the depths of Arundell House, a gong was sounding. Instantly, the stairs, the landings, the corridors were crowded with running girls.

  ‘Come on,’ gasped Marje. ‘Mustn’t be late. Not fair on Miss May.’

  Lunch was served in a Germolene-pink dining room next to the kitchen. Laura sat at a table with Marje, the enchanting Lola, Fiona and Dinkie. Laura gathered that Dinkie was so called because she was anything but. Small and dumpy, she had a moon face, a spherical body and, Laura was to learn, the kindest of genuine good natures.

  Because it was her turn, Fiona fetched the food, which had been plated up ready in the kitchen. Laura was astounded at the quantity. Huge Yorkshire puddings, crisp roasties, swede, parsnips and big jugs of steaming hot gravy to pour over the generous slices of roast beef.

  ‘You mean Miss May cooks all this herself, for twenty-five girls?’

  Marje nodded. ‘Starts at five. Finishes at five.’

  ‘And there’s always seconds,’ Dinkie put in, plundering the Yorkshire.

  With the first few mouthfuls safely down, Marje regaled them with the lying in sloth, Miss Speddie incident.

  ‘Laura was so indignant. But I had a bath yesterday!’

  ‘No, no,’ said Fiona. ‘You see, sloth has nothing to do with being unclean. Sloth means lazy, not a midden.’

  Midden? Laura frowned. This learning Glaswegian exercise was going to be more complicated than she’d thought.

  ‘And what do you do, Laura?’ enquired Fiona, with the air of the graceful hostess, kindly putting her guest at ease.

  ‘I’ve an interview tomorrow, at McAllisters.’ No one needed to be reminded that McAllisters was the most superior department store in Glasgow.

  ‘I work in a dress shop!’ exclaimed Lol.

  ‘Well if I get the job I’ll be in the publicity department. I want to train as a copywriter.’

  Dinkie put down her knife and fork. ‘Is that the same as a signwriter? My uncle’s a signwriter.’

  ‘Don’t be such a fat-head,’ Fiona said. ‘A copywriter writes the words that go in the advertisements.’

  ‘Oh indeed? And how is the buggery business these days, Fiona?’

  ‘Frankly, it’s all getting more complex. Termites are getting more cunning. They used to stay completely separate, so the South American didn’t mingle with the African. But now the survival instinct has taken over, and they interbreed. You learn a lot from their droppings.’

  ‘Well thanks for that!’ flared Lol. ‘I hadn’t finished my food.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be so slow.’ Fiona started to clear the plates. ‘It drives me crazy watching your prissy mouthfuls.’

  ‘I was brought up not to gobble.’

  Laura stood up to give Fiona a hand, but Marje restrained her. ‘No, when it’s your turn, it’s your turn. Otherwise it gets confusing.’

  Laura passed on her apple pie and custard to Dinkie. ‘I’m having tea at Livingstone Hall. My boyfriend stays there.’

  Fiona leaned forward. ‘Is he – is he coming to pick you up?’

  ‘No. I said I’d stroll round on my own. But he’ll probably give me a lift back.’

  They all said, in unison, ‘He’s got a car?’

  Dinkie swallowed a huge wodge of pie. ‘What sort of car?’

  ‘Red.’

  ‘I saw you! Last night. The windows were all steamed up.’

  Laura could see her stock was rising. She had a boyfriend. He had a car. They did heavy petting in the car.

  ‘Can I do your hair before you go out?’ asked Dinkie. ‘I have to practice a chignon.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Fiona, ‘you were supposed to be concentrating on passing your manicure exam.’

  Laura was surprised. She’d no idea you had to pass an exam in order to varnish nails.

  ‘Come on,’ urged Marje. ‘Time we were on the steps.’

  In the hall, she reached into a large cupboard containing old coats, scarves and woolly hats left by previous girls. Suitably muffled up, and saved the chore of having to trail upstairs for something warm to wear, the girls gathered on the broad front steps and lit up. Fiona, who didn’t smoke, jabbed at her gums with toothpicks which Lola swore she split lengthwise.

  They chatted about work. Marje was rehearsing the panto at her dancing school. ‘One parent marched up to me, furious I’d made her galumphing kid be a tree.’

  Dinkie was having a moan about Revlon. ‘They’re so strict. Honestly, I only made the tiniest smudge, but they failed me.’

  None of them appeared to have boyfriends. Marje said she was simply too tired, Dinkie wailed that she was too fat and Lola sighed she had just never met anyone really special. Fiona gazed with superior disdain into the middle distance, as if to imply that any romantic involvement with a man was a mug’s game.

  The phone was ringing. ‘That’ll be for me.’ As Fiona dashed to answer it the others took advantage and got themselves upstairs to Room Nine for what was to become a weekly ritual. Watching Laura get ready to go out.

  They sprawled on Marje’s bed and watched Laura get undressed and slip on a light wool dress. They watched her put on her best stockings and high-heeled court shoes. They watched her make up and then they watched Dinkie arrange her chignon.

  The approval was unanimous and Laura was relieved there was something Dinkie could do passably well.

  They all insisted on trooping down to see her off, and stood waving on the steps, as if she were the Royal Yacht Britannia.

  Despite the cold wind, Laura felt a warm glow as she walked along the Great Western Road. She was touched at the welcoming friendliness of these girls. Even frosty Fiona had been solicitous enough to serve the newcomer first at lunch. And what a lunch! She must remember to thank Miss May. And where, Laura wondered, does Miss Speddie eat? Later, the girls told her that Miss May brought her up a tray. As if the poor cook hadn’t enough to do.

  At Livingstone Hall, as she walked into the Common Room, Adrian gave a slight shake of his head. Laura sighed. This meant Logan was glued to his seat in their room.

  The maids, trim in black dresses with white frilled aprons, were laying out the high tea. Thick slices of ham, Scotch eggs, mashed potatoes, pickles, sliced bread, fruitcake. Laura and Adrian spent a couple of hours at the card-table with Sven and Kel, playing Vingt et Un.

  Laura’s hopes of nipping down to the Byres Road pub were dashed when Adrian said, ‘Can’t. It’s Sunday. Nothing in Glasgow ever opens on Sunday. Anyway, you’ve got your interview tomorrow and I’ve got an essay to do. I’ll walk you home.’

  Laura felt like her father. Disappointed. How could she get hold of Adrian, properly get hold of him, if they didn’t have the privacy of the car?

  But their route took them past grand houses with portals that were almost vaulted. There was no one about. Glasgow’s West Side seemed totally deserted. She was tempted to make Adrian do it standing up, but he seemed preoccupied. Thinking about his essay, she guessed.

  Reluctantly, she allowed him to guide her towards Arundell House. Before Laura came here, she had made a pact with herself never to interfere with his work. She was, in a way, glad he was rooming with Logan. Adrian had told her Logan had a new slogan on his desk: ACTION THIS DAY!

  By refusing to budge out of their room, Logan might be interfering with her love-life, but he was a serious student and would encourage Adrian, by example, to stop throwing paper darts and get down to it. And at least, walking into Arundell Terrace, he had his arm round her. If the girls were looking, they’d see.

  On the steps, Adrian held her close.

&nb
sp; Not wanting him to go, she murmured, ‘I wonder why Arundell is spelt like that. Arundel in England has only got one l.’

  ‘The Arundells are a distinguished Scottish family,’ Adrian told her.

  Adrian seemed fidgety. ‘Good luck tomorrow. I’ll ring you.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  As she slipped inside she thought, it’s funny. I wasn’t nervous when I did my A levels, played county tennis or boarded a plane for the first time. I was petrified taking my driving test but only because I was terrified of pranging Daddy’s Hillman. Apart from that, the worst thing I remember is walking down Regent Street for my first day at work. Jelly legs, heart pounding so much I thought it was making my dress move. Everyone else surging down from Oxford Circus tube seemed so self assured –

  Her reminiscing was disturbed by the sight of Fiona coming down the stairs, lugging a large suitcase.

  ‘Good evening, Fiona’ said Laura. ‘Not leaving us already?’

  Fiona, a little breathless, paused. ‘No, I, I’m going babysitting.’ She peered at Laura. ‘Your chignon’s all mussed up.’

  Laura allowed herself to look smug. Dinkie’s hairpins would now lie scattered along the Great Western Road. And Fiona, babysitting! Wonders would never cease.

  ‘What age are the children?’

  ‘Five and seven. Boys.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘I know. But I have a technique. I play them modern jazz. They hate it and slope off to bed. That’s the way with children. Bore them rigid and they keep away from you.’ She saw Laura eyeing her suitcase. ‘Oh, that’s my washing. They have a machine at the house I can use.’

  ‘But then you’ve got to heave back a load of heavy wet washing’ said Laura, wondering why on earth someone didn’t invent a suitcase with wheels.

  ‘No, I – the boys’ father – he’ll give me a lift back.’

  Fiona was uncharacteristically flustered. Something was clearly up.

  But she rallied: ‘It’s your interview tomorrow? How are you feeling?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Well get mad,’ Fiona said. ‘You can’t feel angry and nervous at the same time. The two emotions don’t go together. Get angry and let that dominate.’ She picked up the case. ‘Oh, and best of luck.’