The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets

  ‘What a pretty lady,’ said the girl called Victoria in the next-door bed to mine.

  ‘Is she your mother?’ demanded Ruth, a moon-faced child with a loud voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She looks like a film star. When was that taken?’

  ‘Just a few weeks ago,’ I said, startled by all the interest.

  By this time all eleven girls were crowding round my bed.

  ‘She doesn’t look like you,’ observed Ruth tactfully.

  ‘I think she does,’ said Victoria.

  ‘No she doesn’t. She’s got black hair.’ Ruth pointed a puddly finger at the glass of the photograph frame.

  ‘They have the same eyes.

  We didn’t, of course, but Victoria could sense my discomfort. I smiled gratefully at her and asked if she wanted to share some Nestlé’s condensed milk from my tuck box (rationing was still on, and I craved the stuff). We were best friends from that night onwards.

  ‘Penelope! We don’t want to miss the train!’ shouted Mama. I slipped my Johnnie Ray fan club magazine inside an old issue of the Tatler and bolted downstairs.

  On the way to London, I thought about Harry and his great love for the mysterious Marina Hamilton and why my mother had not yet told me how she knew Aunt Clare. Sometimes I save all my thinking for the train — I find the hypnotic rhythm of the carriages rattling over the tracks make it an excellent location for reflection. Mama read The Times and said things like ‘I don’t know why we bother’ every time she turned a page.

  At Reading, a group of Teddy boys made a terrific racket as they boarded the train. There was something about Teds that rather thrilled me, although I knew they were always getting into scrapes with the police. None of this lot was very handsome —thin, angry mouths and none of them a day over seventeen — but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the loudest of the group. He took his comb out of his pocket no less than fifteen — fifteen! —times on that journey, and there was beautiful red velvet on the lapels of his drape jacket. Mama kicked me under the table when she saw me staring — she lived in abject fear of me running off with a Ted, though the chance alone would have been a fine thing. Her main reason for not liking them was that they all had spots, for my mother strongly believed that clear skin was second only to good hands in the list of the important physical features for potential husbands. Poor Mama, her beauty was such that the boys on the train couldn’t resist staring at her and nudging each other when she stood up at the end of our journey. She wore a grey and white checked skirt and a slim wool coat and a slash of red lipstick; her tiny ankles and shapely calves were encased in her best silk stockings. When she dressed up for a trip to London, she was as glorious as any Hollywood star.

  ‘Silly, silly silly,’ she huffed irritatedly as they wolf-whistled at her on the platform. ‘For goodness’ sake, stop smiling, Penelope, you’re encouraging them.’

  ‘They’re not looking at me,’ I said, with perfect truth.

  ‘Selfridges first, I think,’ said Mama as the cab rattled off.

  ‘We could have taken the bus,’ I pointed out.

  ‘In these shoes? Come on, darling.’

  ‘You gave the porter an enormous tip, Mama.’

  She ignored me, and I really didn’t blame her. The trees in Hyde Park sparkled silver in the vague November sunlight and I hated myself for reminding her of our Duck Supper dilemma. I huddled into my coat and wished I had remembered the Fair Isle gloves. My mother opened her purse and extracted her lipstick and powder.

  ‘I think Inigo was right about the gymkhana,’ she said, raising her eyebrows at her reflection. (She had exquisite eyebrows.) ‘It was such a boost for Magna last summer.’

  Irrationally, I felt a surge of annoyance. It had been me, not Inigo, who had mentioned holding another gymkhana at Magna. There was never any trace of spite in my mother’s words, but her intrinsic assumption that any sensible suggestions had to come from Inigo, and not me, drove me to distraction.

  ‘People are so very grateful,’ she went on. ‘It gives them something to talk about, doesn’t it? Mrs Daunton at the shop hasn’t drawn breath about the number of cakes she sold. “All but three fairy cakes gone, Mrs Wallace,” she kept saying, “and only one flapperjack left.”’

  I snorted with laughter, in spite of myself. My mother was a superb mimic. She laughed too. I noticed the cabby glancing in his mirror to grin at us, and the next moment he rocketed over a bump in the road, unseating Mama and sending my hat flying off my head. Well, that finished us off completely. When my mother got the giggles there was no hope for anyone; she was as infectious as measles.

  ‘One flapperjack,’ she repeated, taking out her handkerchief and wiping her eyes. ‘Oh help, we’re nearly there. Pull yourself together. Penelope!’

  She overtipped the driver too.

  There was something gorgeously theatrical about Selfridges, with its intoxicating smells of powder and perfume and the rows of salesgirls with shapely fingernails and Thursday-afternoon smiles. It was impossible to imagine anything bad happening to anyone in such a place, and, as always, I felt my intellectual resolve weaken. I wanted everything, everything, everything — in fact, I felt myself positively winded by my need to consume.

  ‘Second floor,’ said Mama briskly. ‘Up we go.

  She attracted the attention of a dopey-looking blonde creature in Evening Wear and put her to work straight away.

  ‘What’s your name, darling?’ my mother asked.

  ‘Vivienne,’ announced the creature, firmly.

  ‘Really?’ asked my mother doubtfully.

  Vivienne widened her eyes.

  ‘Well, Vivienne, we’re going to need your help. My daughter here needs new dresses for the party season, nothing black, you understand. She has wonderful legs and good cheekbones, you see? We must make the most of them.’

  ‘Good cheekbones,’ intoned Vivienne. ‘She’s very tall,’ she added accusingly.

  ‘Six foot,’ agreed Mama.

  ‘She looks even taller,’ said Vivienne.

  ‘Well I’m not. I’m six foot nothing,’ I snapped.

  Vivienne looked as if she didn’t believe me, but showed me to the fitting room and took my measurements while my mother stalked around the floor, her exquisite, spidery fingers reaching out to feel every dress she passed. I could hear her murmuring away to herself as I stripped down to my underwear. Beautiful, ghastly, too old. I thought of Charlotte in my coat and how much better she had looked than I did.

  Vivienne handed me a red and black satin dress with lace edging. ‘These colours are all the rage in America right now,’ she said. ‘Truly. You’ll look like a film star.’

  I had my suspicions about that one. The dress felt tiny in my hands, like doll’s clothing.

  ‘I think the size may be a bit small,’ I called, treading my foot down heavily on the hem.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, just try it and see,’ barked my mother impatiently.

  Of course, I couldn’t do it up, and nor could the wretched Vivienne.

  ‘The dress is too short and too narrow for me. I’m too big for it, Mama,’ I mumbled, hot with annoyance.

  ‘You’re what they call big-boned,’ diagnosed Vivienne with all the sympathy of the terminally petite.

  ‘Nonsense,’ snapped my mother. ‘Get her the dress in a larger size.

  Vivienne scuttled off.

  ‘Vivienne, my foot,’ snorted my mother. ‘I heard that woman over there calling her Dora. I don’t know what’s wrong with young girls of today.’

  This sounded comic coming from one who looked no older than Vivienne herself. Occasionally, I think my mother’s youth frightened her. It reminded her of how much more living she had to do without my father.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mama. ‘Why don’t I try the dress on too? That way you can see how it looks on. It’s the only way to view a dress really.’ She shot into the fitting room before I could demur and emerged a minute later in the same red dr
ess that I had discarded. Vivienne, arriving back with the larger size, stood transfixed.

  ‘You look absolutely beautiful,’ she announced. ‘Nobody would think you had a daughter as old as she is,’ she added with a nod in my direction. ‘You look more like sisters.’

  ‘Give me strength,’ I muttered under my breath.

  ‘It is a wonderful colour,’ agreed my mother, turning round in front of the long mirror to view herself from all angles, an immodest smile on her face.

  ‘You don’t think I look too old for this fashion?’ she asked. I did not bother to answer her, knowing perfectly well that Vivienne’s sighs of envy were enough to quash that particular fear.

  ‘Maybe I should try it in green,’ mused Mama.

  ‘Or we have it in a lovely pink,’ Vivienne said encouragingly.

  ‘Good God, no. Not pink. Never pink.’

  ‘I’d like to look around the shop for a while,’ I interrupted. ‘I promised Inigo that I would try to find that new record he wants.’

  ‘Don’t be long, darling. Oh, and please don’t encourage him by buying him anything silly.’

  I think I knew that I was going to bump into Aunt Clare. Of course it’s easy to say that now, but when I saw her, writing a cheque in the menswear department, it did not surprise me in the least. She looked big, as she had looked in her study, yet eye-poppingly elegant in a beautifully cut bottle-green skirt and blouse. For the first time, I noticed how surprisingly tiny her feet and ankles were and I wondered how on earth she didn’t topple over the whole time. I pretended to be terribly interested in mannequins of a suave-looking cricketer and a laughing golfer and waited for her to look around and notice me. She certainly took her time. To give myself some excuse for being there, I reached up and removed the cap from the cricketer’s head and examined the label. I caught the end of her conversation with the salesman.

  ‘My son will be thrilled,’ she was saying. ‘He does need a new tie. And cerise is such a different colour, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ve made an excellent choice. It’s one of our most popular designs this season.

  ‘Oh is it? How disappointing.’

  ‘I wish your son the very best of luck with his interview. I would love to work in the aeroplane business.’

  ‘It is a thrill.’

  If I am giving the impression that I regularly eavesdropped on people’s private chatter, then I am very sorry. It was not something I was used to doing and what happened next was punishment enough for my behaviour. It pains me to recall that I lost my balance while standing on tiptoes and wobbled forward at the wrong moment, sending the unfortunate cricketer crashing to the ground. Aunt Clare’s assistant sprang into action.

  ‘Excuse me, madam, but someone seems to have upset our “Man for All Seasons” display,’ he cried, leaping over to the scene of the crime where I was trying to heave the cricketer back into place.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I gasped. ‘I lost my balance.’

  ‘These displays are very fragile. Our customers are not advised to handle the goods worn by our models.’ He pointed to a sign with precisely this message.

  ‘I know,’ I said sulkily.

  ‘Are you interested in anything you’ve knocked over?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Of course she is. We’ll take the cap.’ It was Aunt Clare, hot on the scene. She winked at me.

  ‘Oh! I really don’t need it. I was just looking—’

  ‘The cap has been slightly squashed,’ lied the assistant.

  ‘Put it on my bill,’ said Aunt Clare airily.

  He nodded and oozed off and Aunt Clare and I were left alone. I was struck by how different she looked outside the confines of her drawing room, though it was hard to say exactly why.

  ‘You really don’t have to buy the cap. I was just looking. It’s expensive, and I truly don’t need it.’

  ‘Ah! You shouldn’t have said that. No sooner has one announced that one does not need something, than the occasion arises when one does. If I don’t buy this for you now, you are almost certain to find yourself at silly-mid-on without adequate coverage.’

  I laughed. ‘But I don’t play cricket.’

  ‘Your brother does, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Well, that settles it.

  ‘You could give it to Harry.’

  ‘Harry? Playing cricket? Pigs might fly,’ said Aunt Clare bitterly.

  So might he, by all accounts, I thought.

  ‘What a treat to see you again so soon,’ she went on kindly, squeezing my arm. ‘We so enjoyed having you over for tea. I must apologise for Harry’s behaviour; he can be so difficult. Still, I have arranged an interview with a family friend who works in the aviation trade. Building planes, that sort of thing. I think it would suit him rather well.’

  From my brief encounter with Harry, I could not imagine anything suiting him less.

  ‘He and Charlotte are coming to stay next weekend,’ I said brightly.

  ‘Of course!’ said Aunt Clare. I could not tell whether she already knew about their visit and I suddenly regretted telling her in case it was something that Harry did not want her to know.

  ‘I was on my way to the record department,’ I went on. ‘I’m looking for something for my brother, Inigo. He likes the new pop sounds, you know, Bill Haley and all the American singers—’

  Aunt Clare looked horrified. ‘How shattering. Are you here alone?’

  ‘I’ve left my mother trying on half of Christian Dior’s collection.’

  ‘She’s here?’

  ‘On the second floor, yes.

  For a split second, Aunt Clare looked momentarily taken aback. ‘You must send her my very best regards. Darling child, I must be going. I only came here to collect a vase, and I seem to be leaving with half the shop.’ She kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Do look after Harry,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, of course we will.’

  I watched her stride out of the shop, parting crowds of shoppers as she went. I knew that I would not mention her to my mother.

  We left in high spirits. My mother, fat with Vivienne’s adulation and only too willing to put our financial crisis on hold, had bought herself three new frocks. Vivienne, to her eternal credit, had found me a sparkly mint-green dress that suited my ‘difficult’ colouring. It sat next to me on the train, wrapped in white tissue, and enshrined in a huge, black Selfridges bag. That dress seemed half alive to me.

  When we arrived back at Magna we found Inigo in a state of great excitement as the second post had delivered a package from Uncle Luke in Louisiana, USA. Just the sight of the American stamps was enough to send Inigo (and me too) into a bit of a frenzy. Everything good, everything exciting and everything worth talking about came from across the Atlantic, and we had the good fortune of having bagged an American uncle.

  My mother’s older sister Loretta married an American soldier called Luke Hanson and had moved to the United States after the war. Now, eight years on, Loretta was nearly as much of a Yankee as her husband. My mother liked to give the impression of being appalled by her sister’s willingness to embrace a country she considered deeply vulgar, but secretly she was as envious as hell, and who could blame her? She and I were fascinated by stories of refrigerators in every kitchen, proper washing machines and spin dryers, drive-in movies and Coca-Cola. Inigo, obsessed by the new wave of American music, found having a contact in the promised land itself a considerable bonus, and Luke greatly enjoyed irritating my mother by feeding Inigo’s desire for all things new and shiny from across the’ Atlantic. We had barely walked through the door and put down our bags before he started.

  ‘Uncle Luke’s sent me the new Guy Mitchell record!’ he announced.

  ‘He’s not your uncle,’ sighed my mother.

  ‘He’s married to my aunt. That makes him my uncle. And he sends me records. That makes him the closest thing to God around here.’

  ‘Inigo!’

  ‘Let me see,’ I de
manded, dropping my bags on the floor.

  ‘Oh no you don’t. I don’t want your grubby little fingers on my records. You can look but you can’t touch.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be unfair!’

  ‘Let her see it, Inigo.’

  He shot me a warning look and handed over the sacred item. ‘What a funny size for a record,’ I said, examining its unfamiliar shape.

  ‘It’s a forty-five,’ he explained. ‘Soon the old seventy-eights will be done for.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Who on earth does Luke think he is?’ snapped Mama, who feared change.

  ‘You wait till I show this to Alexander,’ said Inigo. (I had been more than slightly in love with Inigo’s best friend until last summer when he drank too much at my birthday party and threw up in the asparagus beds. You can imagine what my mother had to say about that.)

  ‘How can you play it? Surely it won’t work on our old gramophone?’ I asked quickly.

  ‘Course it will. It just plays at a different speed, that’s all. Forty-five revolutions per minute instead of seventy-eight. It couldn’t be easier. I’ve already listened to it about twenty times waiting for you two to get back.’

  Mama looked at me and raised her eyes to heaven.

  ‘Oh, come on, Mama, we must hear the record. Just think, we’re probably the first people in England to play it!’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ sighed Mama. She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘That reminds me, darling. I won’t be here next weekend.’