Authors: Barbara Taylor Bradford
After smoothing on the foundation, she powdered her face, dusted off the excess, added rouge to emphasize her high cheekbones, then used brown mascara on her lashes, before outlining her mouth with pink lipstick.
Satisfied that she had done the best she could, Audra sat back and regarded herself. She was momentarily startled by her own reflection. The makeup had brought out her best features and highlighted her eyes and her skin. Her face had taken on a fresh look, seemed more vibrant and alive. Pleased with the effect she had created, she brushed her hair, smoothed it into place with the comb and then, as a final touch, she added a dab of her favourite gardenia perfume behind her ears.
Standing up, Audra walked across the bedroom to the wardrobe, and took out the tailored navy-blue silk dress she had made for herself last week. It was a perfect copy of a Christian Dior afternoon dress she had seen in
Vogue
magazine earlier in the year, and she had clipped out the photograph, as she always did when she saw a style she liked, whether it was for herself or for Christina.
After placing the dress on the bed, she took out her navy bag, white fabric gloves, the small navy straw trimmed with a single white rose and the pair of navy court shoes she had bought yesterday.
Once she had slipped on the dress and shoes, Audra returned to the dressing table and sat down again. She put on her hat, added the marcasite earrings Vincent had given her for Christmas, her mother’s engagement ring, and her watch, and then she slid open the drawer and took out the box containing Laurette’s pearls.
Lifting the lid, Audra stared at them, admiring them. There was only one single strand, but the pearls were beautiful, of good quality. Mike had bought them for Laurette at Greenwood’s, the finest jewellers in Leeds, not long after the end of the war, and her sister-in-law had so loved them.
Audra sighed, touched by a sudden fleeting sadness for her darling Laurette, who had died three years ago. It had been sudden; she still hadn’t quite recovered from the shock. None of them had. Laurette had looked so well in the spring of 1948, but she had fallen sick that summer and by November they were burying her. It had been cancer. She was thankful that Laurette had gone quickly, that her suffering had not been prolonged. She missed her so very much. There would always be a void without Laurette—and for all of them.
Remembering the time, Audra sat up straighter in her chair. She took the pearls from the box and fastened them around her neck, looking in the mirror again, touching the necklace, smiling softly to herself. And she let go of the sadness, let go of the painful memories of Laurette’s passing. The last thing
she
would have wanted was for her to be sorrowful on a day like this. Laurette had always been so terribly proud of Christina.
Rising, Audra went to the bed, picked up her gloves and bag and hurried down the stairs. She dropped her things on the hall table next to the telephone, and paused, glanced at the grandfather clock, wondering what had happened to Vincent. He had said he would be home by one-thirty and it was already one-forty-five. He’ll probably want a cup of tea, she thought. He usually does. I’d better go and put the kettle on.
Apart from the shock and anguish they had suffered with Laurette’s death, the last few years had been quite
good to the Crowthers. They no longer lived in the cottage in Pot Lane. They had moved into this much larger house in Upper Armley in 1949. It was not far from Charlie Cake Park, and it had three bedrooms, a dining room, a sitting room, and a big, family-style parlour-kitchen, where, as usual, everyone seemed to congregate. The rooms were spacious and there was a light, airy feeling about the house in general: it had a happy atmosphere.
In particular, Audra loved the long back garden. She had planted it with rose bushes and delphiniums and a variety of other flowers, and with its smooth green lawn stretching down to two shady trees at the bottom, it was a little paradise in the summer weather. Audra derived much enjoyment from it, and from her flowers and the small vegetable plot she had started near the high back fence beyond the trees.
Vincent was more prosperous. Immediately after he was demobilized, at the end of the war, he had gone into partnership with Fred Varley and his son, Harry. And finally, after talking about it for so many years, he had enrolled in night school in Leeds, to study architecture and draughtsmanship. He no longer worked outdoors on the building sites, but ran the business with Fred; he did most of the planning, drawing and paperwork. Varley and Crowther was a small company, but they were kept busy with local building projects and Vincent was earning a decent living; he was able to support his family himself. The money Audra earned at the Infirmary went into the bank for Christina’s education and her clothes.
The war had changed Vincent Crowther.
His turbulent character and wayfaring ways had been somewhat tempered by the death and destruction he had witnessed in the Navy. He still liked to go to the pub at weekends, and he continued to bet on the horses, but he
no longer indulged himself in romantic flings with other women.
Not that his relationship with Audra had changed. But after twenty-three years together they were used to each other. It was an enduring marriage, it seemed, and they shared a common bond, one that truly welded them together: their immense pride in their daughter, who had turned out to be very special indeed.
Audra was thinking about Christina and the clothes she still had to make for her as she filled the teapot and carried it over to the table. There were only ten days left before they went to London to get Christie settled in the little studio flat. Well, she would have time to cut and sew at least one more dress in that time, and the remainder of her clothes for college would have to be sent by parcel post.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Vincent said, barging in through the back door in a great rush. ‘There was such a lot of traffic between here and Pudsey, I thought I’d never get here—’ He cut himself short, stared at her through narrowed eyes. ‘What have you done to yourself, Audra?’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ she exclaimed, stiffening, giving him a defensive look. His tone had sounded critical.
He held his head on one side and studied her thoughtfully. ‘It must be the hat, or maybe it’s the new dress—’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake it’s the makeup,’ she muttered. ‘I’m wearing some of Christie’s foundation lotion and rouge.’
‘I like it,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘You look nice. Ever so nice, love. You should wear makeup more often.’
Audra half smiled, and then glanced away quickly. She felt suddenly self-conscious under his unexpected scrutiny. Vincent had not looked at her like that in
years… She said, ‘Do you want a cup of tea now? Or later, after you’ve changed your shirt and suit?’
‘Later. I won’t be but a few minutes.’ He hurried out.
Audra remained standing near the kitchen table, staring after him, thinking how well he looked.
Vincent had hardly changed over the years, hardly aged at all. Last month he had celebrated his forty-eighth birthday, but he appeared to be so much younger. There wasn’t a grey hair on his head and his face had retained a certain boyishness, and the smoothness of his cheeks and brow, along with his fresh complexion, only underscored his youthfulness.
She took a chair, sat waiting for him to return, thinking about him, wondering if he ever had love affairs these days. Years ago she had suspected that he saw other women, even though there had never been gossip, nor had she had any proof. But their relationship had been so bad at times she had supposed he found solace for his woes in more welcoming arms than hers.
A deep sigh escaped her, and she shook her head, mildly irritated with herself. She was having such strange thoughts today. First she had been on the verge of tears, dwelling on Laurette, missing her, and now here she was brooding over all sorts of imponderables about Vincent. As if it made any difference now.
‘Let’s have that cup of tea, Audra,’ Vincent exclaimed, coming back into the kitchen. ‘We haven’t got much time to waste.’
As he spoke he sat down opposite her and reached for the teapot. ‘Did our Christie get off all right?’
‘Yes,’ Audra said. ‘She left at noon. She said she had several things to check in the college gallery—the exhibition, I expect. She always fusses about having the proper kind of light on her paintings, you know what a
perfectionist she is, everything has to be exactly right.’
‘Just like her mother,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Come on, love, get your bits and pieces together and let’s be off, we don’t want to miss the ceremony, it’s something you’ve been looking forward to for the last twenty years.’
Audra smiled. ‘That’s absolutely true. And so have you.’
‘Yes.’
Later, as they were driving into town, Audra suddenly put her hand on Vincent’s knee and squeezed it.
He glanced at her through the corner of his eye. ‘What?’
‘I
know
that one day Christina will be as famous as those other two great Leeds College art students, Barbara Hepworth and Henry Moore.’
Vincent nodded. Who was he to argue with her. She had always been right about their daughter thus far.
Christina loved the little flat in London.
It was in a tall, narrow house in Chester Street, not far from Belgrave Square. The house had belonged to Irène Bell for years, and Christina and her mother had stayed at the flat several times in the past when they had come to London on their art educational trips, to visit the many galleries and museums. She already knew it well.
Irène Bell was renting the flat to Audra for four guineas a week. Audra thought it was a bargain at the price, and indeed it was, but Christina knew that Mrs Bell hated charging her mother rent. She would have much preferred to let her have it for nothing. But as she had explained privately to Christina, that was not Audra’s way of doing things. ‘Your mother’s too shrewd,’ Irène Bell had said. ‘If the rent doesn’t seem right to her she’ll be suspicious.’ Christina had agreed, and together they had arrived at a suitable figure.
The flat was on the top floor of the house, was, in fact, converted attics with a living room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. It had its own front door and was a self-contained little dwelling within the house.
Originally, Irène Bell had created the studio flat at the top of her house for her daughters to live in at different stages of their lives. It had been a
pied-à-terre
for them, and later for Theo, when he had been studying law at
Cambridge and came to London on weekends occasionally. Theo, who was thirty and a barrister with chambers in the Temple, had recently married, and he and his wife Angela occupied the town house. Sometimes Irène Bell came to stay with her son and daughter-in-law, but only rarely. She was in her seventies now, and since Thomas Bell’s death three years before she rarely ventured far afield. She liked to hold court at Calpher House, and have her children and many grandchildren visit her there.
On the day that Christina and Audra had arrived from Leeds, the Bells’ house in Belgravia was deserted. Theo and Angela were away on holiday in France, but Mrs Bell had given Audra a set of keys and told her they should make themselves at home.
This they had done and now, at the end of the first week in London, Christina was well and truly settled in the studio under the eaves. Her easel, spare canvases, paints and brushes had been unpacked and put away, as had her books, her other possessions and her clothes.
These filled the large closet in the bedroom and every time Christina looked inside she was impressed with the spectacular selection of outfits her mother had made for her.
The measuring, cutting, pinning, sewing and pressing had gone on for the last eight months, but it was only when she saw everything hanging there together that she realized what an extraordinary undertaking creating this stylish wardrobe had been for her mother.
‘I’m going to be the best dressed girl at the Royal College of Art,’ Christina said to Audra late on Friday afternoon as she took a pearl-grey silk dress from the wardrobe, held it against herself, stared in the mirror.
‘I should hope so,’ Audra said with a light laugh,
watching her from the doorway of the bedroom. ‘I certainly worked hard enough.’
‘Oh Mummy, you did! I
know
you did. Thank you for all of my lovely clothes, for all the time and effort you put into them, and the money you’ve spent. You’re a wonder, Mother, you truly are.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Audra said, hastily brushing aside the thanks and the compliment. But nevertheless she looked pleased as she came in to the bedroom and sat down on one of the twin beds.
Christina swung around, still holding the silk dress pressed close to her lithe body. ‘What do you think about this for the theatre tonight, Mummy?’
Audra nodded her approval.
Christina flashed her a vivid smile, hung the dress on the top of the cupboard door and said, ‘I’d better find the right shoes and bag… the black patent, I think. And perhaps I’ll take the grey silk Dior shawl Grandma gave me for my birthday, just in case it gets cool later.’
‘I doubt that’s going to happen,’ Audra said, ‘it’s been awfully hot today. In fact, I think we’re in for a heat wave this weekend.’
‘Don’t say that, Mother!’ Christina made a face. ‘Not when we’ve planned to go to Windsor Castle for the day on Sunday. I don’t fancy the idea of sweltering in the scorching August sun all day, as we tramp around the grounds.’
Audra smiled as she leaned back against the pillows, watching her daughter take out her accessories for the evening, thinking how striking she was to look at.
Christina’s light brown hair of childhood had turned years ago to a deeper, richer chestnut, and in the summer it was always shot through with reddish-golden streaks from the sun. Her resemblance to her father was marked,
and although she was not strictly beautiful, she had an arresting face with clear, chiselled features and a lovely complexion like Audra’s. Her huge grey eyes, so soft, so smoky, were Laurette’s eyes, and Christina had inherited the Crowther height, stood five feet seven in her stocking feet. This pleased Audra. She had always hated being only five feet two inches tall.