Trio - [20]

‘Red-letter day.’

‘Yes.’

‘In more ways than one.’

‘What?’ She straightened up and turned to him.

‘Mr Ince called me in. He’s giving me the regional job.’

‘Oh, Peter!’ She clasped her hands together. ‘That's marvellous. Why didn’t you say?’

‘I didn’t get a chance, did I?’

‘Oh, I knew he’d give you it! Congratulations.’

‘And now I am going to get out of these clothes. Do you want to call Matron back?’

‘Yes.’

‘It'll have to be Saturday or Sunday.’

‘I know.’

He took her hand and squeezed it. She looked alive with excitement again. After the tragedy of the first miscarriage it had been a horrific struggle to balance optimism and dread when Lilian got pregnant the second and then the third time. It was such a relief now to be talking about a baby without the shadow of miscarriage hovering over them. It all felt so simple in comparison.

‘Go and ring then,’ he said.

Lilian held the baby in her arms. She knew this would be her daughter. She touched a small foot encased in a lace bootee. The nun was murmuring about how beautiful she was, with the curls of dark hair and such a sweet face. Lilian knew this would be her daughter, her child, and in the same moment she faced the realisation that she would never bear a child. This baby would not share her blood, her looks, her nature, her background. She would never look at this child and see herself looking back, that particular shade of green in her eyes. She felt an immense sadness soaking through her, despair and bitter grief mingling with the love and hope that the child in her arms brought.

Joan

Carnaby Street was her favourite place. London was so different from Manchester. Things were happening here. Young people everywhere, parading the latest fashions, having fun. Jobs were there for the asking, if your boss got up your nose you could just walk away, there was always something else available. Joan had already had two. The first in a record shop, a place she loved because she could hear all the latest records, but the manager had wandering hands and bad breath and she got sick of his attentions.

There were plenty of dishy young men in London looking for a good time, money in their pockets. She got countless invitations but she turned them all down. She still felt uncomfortable about what had happened. She didn't want anyone to know she had stretch marks, silvery threads that meandered across her belly, and although she sometimes felt aroused she had no desire to sleep with anyone. The woman who had cavorted on desks with Duncan and then gone home and pleasured herself was a stranger. Like a flickering home movie from someone else’s life; she had withered and died as Joan’s baby had grown and been born. Occasionally Joan wondered whether she would ever want to do the normal things again. Settle down, get married, have a family. It all seemed so stuffy, really.

Her friend Frances had got married and moved to the outer suburbs with her new husband. Frances had given up work and become a full-time housewife. Joan couldn’t imagine it. Be like being buried alive.

Her second job was with a record company. They needed someone to run the office. The place was crazy, an endless stream of hopeful youngsters ringing up or turning up, climbing the rickety staircase to the two-room let in a Soho backstreet, clutching song sheets or guitars or letters from the school music teacher. The place was owned by Roger, who had minor connections to royalty and no need to make any money from his hobby. He talked endlessly about the new sound, about rivaling the Shadows, about platinum discs and breaking America. As it was, the only success the outfit had was with compilations of ballads, Russ Conway style.

Joan had her black hair cut short, a stylish cut with a straight fringe. She bought false eyelashes and practically glued her eyes shut on the first attempt. She got dark eye make-up and white lipstick at Biba and saved from her wages to get a second-hand Singer sewing machine. All the dresses in vogue were simple shapes. She ran up an A-line in geometric material from the market and a dress with the empire bust line in gorgeous purple paisley for a fraction of the cost.

Roger liked her to look groovy, as he put it, never mind that half their clients were still wearing what their parents wore. She would give an impression of being really trendy and then the kids would go in and see Roger in his lair. After Joan had been there a month she had created some sort of filing system to show who they had seen and what, if anything, had been agreed. She often had to pester Roger to find out. And catch him straight after an act had left. He was irritatingly absent-minded.

Roger invited her to one of his parties. He had a huge house near Hampstead Heath and he boasted that the parties went on all weekend, day and night. He paid for caterers and cleaners and even people to serve drinks. With all that, Joan couldn’t see why on earth he bothered with his little record label.

When she got there she didn’t know what to do with herself. She smoked too much and drank too much and found herself outside by the terrace being sick behind a hydrangea bush. She fell asleep there. The cold woke her and she went exploring. The house was huge and, with music blaring from all corners and psychedelic lighting, she felt like she’d walked into someone’s bad dream. People were petting on the stairs and dancing in one room to a live group who were hopelessly off key. Everyone seemed to be smoking reefers or popping pills. She opened one door and was shocked to see a bed covered with naked people. Not just one couple but several. A sea of breasts and pubic hair. A man’s willy. She shut the door hurriedly, her cheeks aflame. She felt uncomfortable and walked home.