London Transports (19 page)

“What are you going to do for the week-end?” asked Sara.

“This and that, Miss Gray. See you Monday,” said Eve.

Sara spent Saturday reading the company’s reports, which Eve had left thoughtfully on her desk. She took Eve’s advice and wore the black dress to the party where Garry Edwards’s surprise at seeing her was as exciting as any romantic flutter. “I can see how people can become obsessed with all this infighting and competitiveness,” thought Sara.

She was charming to the chairman, she was respectful to Garry Edwards, and risked calling him Garry once or twice: she caught him looking at her sideways several times. She was very pleasant to a middle-aged and lonely woman who was the wife of a noisy extrovert board member. The woman was so grateful that she positively unburdened her life story. Eve’s face came like a quick flash across the conversation; Sara remembered how she had implied that people don’t really want to be bogged down with personal life stories, particularly of a gloomy nature. She murmured her sympathy for the details and disclaimers of the woman’s tale about neglect and being pushed into the background.

“All he cares about now is our son, he’s coming down from Cambridge soon, with an arts degree—no plans, no interests.”

Eve would have been proud of her. She geared the conversation gently to her own office, to how she would be delighted to meet the boy—she even gave the woman her card with a little note scribbled on it. How amazing that she should suddenly find a need for those nice new cards which Eve had ordered for her and produced within days of her arrival. Garry Edwards came across at one stage to find out what she was up to; Sara steered the conversation away again.

“Where’s that chap that you are seen with sometimes—and sometimes not?” asked Edwards, determined to wound.

“If he’s not here, it must be one of the evenings I’m not seen with him,” Sara said cheerfully.

That night she went to sleep in her big double bed hoping that Geoff would not come home. She had too much to think about.

The weeks went by, two more of them. She had already held three successful and supposedly impromptu gatherings in her office. Always she had included several people higher in the pecking order than Garry Edwards.

Everyone had thought it was a splendid idea to have the handsome young son of their important board member and his lonely wife in the department. He worked most of the time in the general promotions department and two afternoons a week he got what was described as a training from Sara. What it really was was an access to her files, permission to sit in her room as she worked out schemes with some of the other promotions executives, and he learned an almost overpowering respect for Miss Gray from Eve, who stood up and expected him to do the same. Eve almost lowered her voice in awe when she spoke of anything Sara had done, and the well-meaning, overeducated, and not very bright Simon did the same.

Simply because Eve kept him under such an iron rule, Simon did learn something. So much in fact that his parents were utterly delighted with him, and the head of marketing, who had opposed his appointment as the nepotism it undoubtedly was, had to admit that that young Miss Gray was able to do the most extraordinary things. He took to dropping in to her pleasant office occasionally, and once or twice that strange colorless secretary had told him very firmly that she couldn’t be disturbed. When he implied that he was more important than whoever she could be talking to, the secretary had said very flatly that her instructions were to ask everyone to make appointments, or at least to telephone in advance if they intended to drop in. Since the head of marketing had been saying long and loud that too much socializing and twittering went on in his department in the name of work, he could not be otherwise than pleased.

Geoff came back. His latest lady decided that she must go back to her husband and children. This she said was where her duty lay. She said it when all Geoff’s money had run out. Geoff had shrugged and come back to Sara. Amazingly she wasn’t at home. He let himself in one night with a bottle of champagne, a single rose, and a long explanation, but there was nobody to receive any of these things so he just went to bed.

She wasn’t there in the morning either. He checked her wardrobe, most of her sweaters and skirts seemed to be there. The place looked neater somehow, and there were no work files strewn about. She had a lot of much more expensive cosmetics in the bathroom too. He wondered what had been happening. He couldn’t have been gone more than a month. She hadn’t run out, surely? She couldn’t have decided to end with him, surely? After all she hadn’t changed the lock or anything. His key still opened her hall door.

He called her next morning, and a very cool voice that was not Sara’s answered him. “Miss Gray’s office.”

“Oh, we have gone up in the world,” giggled Geoff. Loyalty to Sara and building her up to her colleagues was never his strong suit.

“I beg your pardon?” said the voice.

“Listen, it’s Geoff here, can I talk to Sara?”

“Can I know who wants to speak to Miss Gray please?” asked Eve.

“Hell, I’ve just told you. It’s Geoff. Sara’s chap, Geoff. Put me onto her will you, sweetheart.”

Eve answered very pleasantly. “I’m afraid you must have the wrong number.”

Geoff sounded annoyed. “Sara Gray’s office, right?”

“Yes, this is Miss Sara Gray’s office, now will you kindly tell me who this is speaking?”

“Geoff. Geoff White, for Christ’s sake, who is that?”

“I am Miss Gray’s secretary. Mr. White, can you please tell me your business? You’re taking up a lot of time.”

She didn’t actually lie when Sara asked had Geoff phoned. She said that a totally inarticulate man had called but it could hardly have been Geoff. Sara had paused only momentarily to wonder. She had spent five days at a sales conference in Paris, and had told Eve excitedly how she had been asked to address the meeting twice about new brochure ideas. Mr. Edwards—or that buffoon Garry as she was now calling him—looked positively yellow with rage. He had tried to make a pass at her which she had rejected with amazement and something akin to distaste. Eve was full of praise.

Next day Sara said, “The inarticulate man must have been Geoff. His things were in the flat, but I couldn’t bear to be woken at three
A.M.
with champagne and tears and all, so I bolted my door and didn’t hear whether he called or not.”

Eve nodded in her cool way. She wanted to hear no more, not one word of Sara’s private life. Yet she looked pleased. Things were going as hoped for. Sara was now too busy to worry about Geoff, and soon she would be too confident to accept his amazing behaviour, which was already a legend in office gossip. The new Sara would either throw him out or make him behave in a civilized way. Very satisfactory.

The weeks passed again. By now it was already office gossip that Sara would shortly take over from Garry Edwards. People who hadn’t rated her much before were saying now that she had been holding back. Others said that she was always brilliant and that it was only a matter of time before it was recognized.

Garry Edwards blew it. He tried to drop Sara into great trouble for one of his own mistakes. Unlucky Garry Edwards that he had joined battle with Eve’s filing system, the relevant documents were produced in a matter of minutes; quite obviously Sara had dealt with the problem; had recommended a correct course of action.

It was shortly after this that Eve asked Sara to come into her small cubicle and go over the filing system with her.

“Let’s do a test,” Eve said. “Suppose you had to find press comment on Senior Citizen Campaign, where would you look?” Sara checked first under “Publicity” then under “Senior Citizens.” It took her five minutes.

“It’s too long,” said Eve firmly. “Perhaps you should have a look for something every day for the next month or so. Just to familiarize yourself.”

“You’re going to leave me, aren’t you?” asked Sara.

“I think so,” said Eve.

“It’s not the year, it’s not even half a year,” Sara complained.

“But there’s nothing left to do, Miss Gray. We get you a new efficient typist, we both explain to her and to Simon what the routine is, you’ll be leaving shortly anyway for Mr. Edwards’s job, we’ll just make sure that any changeover here goes smoothly.”

“Can’t you come with me, upstairs?” Sara nodded in the direction of the promotions manager’s office. “Please.”

“No, you can do it better on your own really. And it’s better for you.” She was like a swimming instructor encouraging a bright but apprehensive pupil.

“The office, Eve, how will I do up the office so that it’s like this…I mean I hate his furniture, I hate his style.”

“You choose, Miss Gray. A few months ago you wouldn’t even have noticed his office or his style.”

“Eve, a few months ago you know very well nobody would have noticed me.”

“You underestimate yourself, Miss Gray. Shall I advertise for a secretary, I’d be happy to advise you on any points during any interview.”

“God, yes, Eve.” Sara looked at her. “I won’t keep asking you but you know there’s no problem about salary.”

Eve shook her head.

Sara put her face into a bright smile. “In a few months I suppose I’ll get a telephone call from some bewildered woman asking me do I know Eve and can I possibly recommend her insane notions.”

Eve looked solemn. “Well, yes, if you don’t mind. I should like your name as a reference.”

“And I’ll say Miss whoever you are…Eve is not from this planet. Let her have her way with you and you’ll be running your company in months.”

Eve stood up briskly. “Yes, if you think it was all worth it.”

Sara put out her hand and held Eve’s arm.

“I know you hate people prying but why, just why? You’re far brighter than I am, than the woman in the bank, than the other woman—the one you told to have dinner parties. I mean, why don’t
you
do it? Why don’t you do it for
you
? You know better than any of us how to get on. It’s like a kind of crusade for you but you stay in the background all the time. I don’t know what you’re at. What you want.”

Eve shrugged politely. “I like to see you do well, Miss Gray, that’s enough reward for me. You deserve it. You were being passed over. That wasn’t just.”

Sara nodded. “Now I promise, all the rest of the time you are here, I’ll never ask again. Never. Just tell me. Why this way? If you feel there’s discrimination against women there must be better ways to fight it.”

Eve leaned against the beautiful table and stroked it. “If there are I can’t find them. I simply know of no better way to fight it than from within. You have to use the system. I hate it but it’s true.”

Sara didn’t interrupt. She knew that if Eve was ever going to say anything it would be now. She let the pause last.

“How do you think I, as a feminist, like asking intelligent, sensitive women like you and like Bonnie Bernstein in the bank and Marrion Smith in the ministry to dress properly? As if it mattered one goddamn whether you wore woad to the office…all three of you are worth more than any man I ever met in any kind of business. And I could say that for seven or eight other women too. But women don’t have a chance, they don’t bloody know….”

Sara sat breathless.

“It’s so
unjust
.” Eve stressed that word heavily. “So totally unjust. A married man has a woman to look after his appearance and his clothes and his meals and his house, a woman does not. A single man has a fleet of secretaries, assistants, manicurists, lovers, to look after him. A single woman is meant to cope. A man is admired for sleeping with people on his way up, a woman is considered a tramp if she does. A man…” She paused and pulled herself together, almost physically. “Miss Gray, you must excuse me. I really don’t think I should be taking up your time with all this. I do apologize. I feel ashamed of myself.”

The moment was gone, the spell was broken.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you feel like this? I mean was there some experience in your life, Eve? You are so young, too young to be bitter about things.”

Eve looked at her. “No, of course I’m not bitter, I’m very constructive. I just try to get some justice for strong, good women who deserve it. When I’ve got it I move on. It’s very satisfying. Slow but satisfying. Now, about this advertisement. I don’t think we should phrase it ‘travel business,’ it will attract the kind of woman who thinks in terms of cheap flights and free holidays.”

Sara played along. She owed Eve that much.

“Oh yes, of course. Let’s word it now, and put it in whenever you want to. The later the better of course. You know I don’t want you to leave here ever.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Gray. But I think really if you agree I’ll get it into tomorrow’s papers.”

Sara looked up.

“So soon?”

“There’s a lot to be done,” said Eve.

Euston

A
t the beginning of December, Mary decided to forgive them and go home for Christmas. She saw this documentary on television about people who held grudges and people who took stands and did things for a principle but still the principle only made everyone else unhappy and meant nothing to anyone. It was as clear as daylight to her: she would forgive them and go home. She looked up the plane times, and decided to go on the Wednesday. That would give her a day in Dublin, she would travel home by train on Thursday night.

She felt years younger, once she had decided to forgive them. She wondered whether anyone else who saw the television programme had got such a clear insight. She might write to them afterwards and tell them about it. People said that television folk loved to hear from people that programmes were good. She walked around her little room hugging herself. She hadn’t felt so lighthearted for years.

She must tell them in plenty of time, too, no point in all this surprise business, arriving, long-lost prodigal on the doorstep, on Christmas Eve. It was fine in the parable, but she’d always felt sorry for the Prodigal’s brother, the one that had been there all the time and nobody killed a scrawny chicken for him, let alone a fatted calf. No, they must have time to think about it. Because obviously they would need to adjust to the relief of it all, just as she would. She would write to her mother tonight.

Her mother would be so happy; Mary could almost see the way she would hold the letter to her chest as she did whenever she got good news. In the old days she had suspected that a letter meant bad news and it was always opened in fear. It would be funny to see her mother as an old woman—she would be seventy-five on Stephen’s Day. Imagine her mother being like one of the old women she saw in the super-markets here; imagine, her mother probably had a stick, and glasses. Her mother, who used to be so tall and strong. And so convinced that she knew everything. So sure of herself, and her notions.

But of course all that had changed now. There had been none of that sureness and accusation in the letters she had written begging Mary to come back. Oh ho, no. There had been different words. “Life is very short,” “families shouldn’t fall out,” “it’s very hard to have you turn your heart against us.”

Mary remembered the letters, she had filed them neatly in a box that had once contained a rotary whisk. She had written on each envelope the date it had arrived. She had read them once and placed them in neat rows. She had answered none of them—there was nothing to say. She didn’t mind that they were saying an extra decade of the Rosary for her, she didn’t get any satisfaction out of the grudging admission that her father might have let himself go a bit far. She knew that her father had let himself go much too far. She knew that there was no way she would forgive them because they didn’t want to have anything to do with Louis.

Louis had said that she should be patient, that she should be sensible, they would see things differently in time. But Mary Brennan didn’t think there was enough time. Louis had said that her mother and father were kind to worry so much; he wished that he had someone to worry about him, he had no one, but if he ever had a daughter he’d be careful who she went off with. Mary told her mother this one night, with tears running down her face.

“He’s all for us to wait, Ma, he says we’ll wait two years if you like, just if we can get engaged. See how sensible he is. Ma—how can you call him a fly-by-night?”

To Mother and Father this was further evidence of Louis’s cunning. That proved that he must be after her money. But what money? Mary used to throw her eyes wildly up to the heavens; Lord God, they were talking about a few hundred pounds. Twelve hundred pounds. How could they be so stupid and so cruel as to think that Louis wanted to marry her so that he could get his hands on twelve hundred pounds?

Ah, but her father had said, does he want to marry our Mary? That’s the point. Doesn’t he just want to go off and live with her until the money was spent? What was all this nonsense about not wanting a big wedding because he had nobody to ask? What kind of trickery was that? What kind of a man had nobody to ask for a wedding, had appeared from nowhere in the town with no background, no recommendation. Wasn’t it funny that he had picked a girl that nobody else had seemed to make much of a run for? Answer him that. How was it that none of the other young fellows in the town had seen fit to run and propose to Mary Brennan when it was time for them to pick a wife? No, only a fellow from God knows where, running from God knows what, picking the town’s settled spinster because she had a few pounds in the post office.

Mary Brennan had been twenty-nine the year she had met Louis; he had come to work in Lynch’s grocery for the summer. He had cut ice creams and the children liked him because he made the fourpenny ones big and put a little extra in the threepenny cones. The Lynches liked him because he was always smiling and he didn’t mind staying open late after the cinema crowds, or even until they came out from the dance when he’d sell crisps and minerals and he always knew how to move on anyone who was a bit noisy. They made more money that summer than ever before. He used to tell them to go in and listen to the wireless; he didn’t mind sitting in the shop.

Mary Brennan had been dreading the end of the summer but no, the Lynches kept him on. Then when all the tourists had gone, Mary used to have him to herself. They walked the cliffs in autumn and when the winds got cold in October he put his coat around her shoulders and told her that she was lovely. Nobody had ever kissed her, except two drunks at the dance, and she thought it was great to have waited so long for it because it was even better than she had ever hoped. Then people started to tell her that he was making a fool of her.

Her father had been the worst, even her mother and Nessa and Seamus had tried to stop her father when he got into one of his attacks. Nessa had looked away when her father had said to Mary that she should look in the mirror and have some sense. How would a young ne’er-do-well like Louis, six years younger than she…how could he want a woman like her?

The winter days had melted into each other, Mary could remember only a blur. She used to go to work in the post office every day, she supposed. She must have come home for her tea, but did she have it on her own or were there rows every single night with them all? She remembered that Louis was always shivering, they used to talk on the street. They couldn’t come home; her father wouldn’t let him into the house, he couldn’t ask her into the Lynches’ house…it would be setting them up as enemies of her parents. Sometimes they talked in whispers in the back of the church, where it was warm, until once Father O’Connor had said it wasn’t very respectful to the Lord to come into his house and talk and skitter in it like a couple of bold children.

The night that Louis had said maybe he was only being a cross for her to bear, she made up her mind. Louis had said maybe he was bringing her more bad luck than happiness, and that he should go off and she should forget him. Mary Brennan made up her mind firmly. She was very calm. It was three days before Christmas, and she filled in all the forms about transferring the money from her post office account. She tidied up her little section of the counter and told the postmistress that she should look for someone else in the new year, and then she walked home and told her mother and father and Nessa and Seamus that she was leaving on the bus, and they would catch the train and they would go to England.

She left the house in an uproar and went to Lynch’s and told Louis. He said they couldn’t go now. She said simply:

“You have to come with me, I’m cleaving to you like it says in the New Testament—you know, about a man cleaving to a wife and leaving father and mother and all. That’s what I’m doing. Don’t leave me to cleave all by myself.”

Louis had laughed and said of course he couldn’t do that; he packed his case, he told the Lynches that they needn’t pay him the Christmas bonus because it wouldn’t be fair. He came and stood outside the Brennans’ house with his suitcase in his hand, a bit like he had looked when he arrived at the beginning of the summer but colder, and waited until the door opened and all the crying and the noise came out into the street and Mary came down the steps slowly, but without any tears.

They had never cried on that journey, they laughed and thought what great times they would have and they found a room near Paddington station and, though they pretended to be married, they slept in separate beds until they were married by an Italian priest three weeks later, with two Italians as witnesses.

She wrote one letter home. Early in that year, in the spring of 1963. She said that they had been married in a Catholic church and that they had used her £1,200 to buy a share of a small corner shop. They thought the business should be very good.

They were both prepared to work long hours, and this was how you built up good trade in a neighbor-hood like this. She said she had nothing more to say, and she didn’t really expect to hear from them, she thought they had said all they ever wanted to say that last day. But still Louis had been very keen that she should let them know where she was. Louis sent them cordial wishes. She was merely pleasing him by writing this once.

They wrote, they tried to write letters explaining what had been done was done with the best motives. Nessa wrote and told her about the visit of President Kennedy and how they had all gone on the excursion to see him. Seamus wrote and said it was a bit dead at home now, and you’d sort of feel sorry for the old fella. But Mary never wrote back.

Once, when she was combing her hair, Louis said she should look in the mirror. “Look at yourself in the mirror, there’s a bit sticking up there,” he said good-naturedly. Mary had burst into tears. She never looked in the mirror. She was afraid she might see a mare like her father had seen.

When he knew the result of his exploratory operation, Louis wrote to Mary’s parents. “She is very proud and she feels always that to open up her heart to you…is to let me down somehow. She thinks that it’s further loyalty to me if she cuts you out. But when it’s all over I’m sure she’ll need you. Please let her know that this is what I wanted. I’ll leave her a letter myself.”

They had tried to contact him at the hospital, but it was too late. Mary had sent them a black-edged printed card, thanking them for their condolences.

As she had worked for ten years in the little shop as a wife, so she worked ten years as a widow. Other little shops were bought by new immigrants, hardworking Pakistanis who were prepared to work equally hard hours. Once or twice an elderly Pakistani had made her a good offer for her little corner business, saying he wanted to set his nephews up in a good trade. That day she remembered that she, too, had nephews. Nessa had three sons, and Seamus had two. She wondered what they heard of their Aunt Mary in London.

The night she forgave her family Mary looked at herself in the mirror. Nearly fifty, she didn’t feel it; perhaps she looked it. She didn’t really know how she looked nowadays. No Louis for many years to admire her, or tell her she was frowning too much, or that she had beautiful big gray eyes. Her father was nearly blind now, and her mother’s yearly letter seemed to imply that he was no longer able to leave the house. Her mother seemed to go to the church even more than she had done all those years ago; there was a lot of mention of Nessa’s family, she had married the son of the pub owner, which was a good thing to have done. They had three boys and three girls.

Nessa had her own car. Not much mention of Seamus. His wife was hardly mentioned at all. Perhaps she had been another Louis in their eyes, a no-good, mad for the Brennan money. The poor Brennan money. It was laughable. Within two years she and Louis had gathered more than her father had gotten in his lifetime. But she mustn’t speak like that when she got home.

No, no triumphant tales of how well it had all gone, what a good man Louis had turned out to be, how wrong, how very wrong they had been to say that he had been anything less. No, if you forgive, you must forget a lot too.

They had obviously been able to forget, too, no words of apology these days. Not since Louis had died, and they had sent her his letter and asked her to come back. Begged her.

Excitedly, she wondered what it would be like. She would stay for a week, young Mr. Patel, who was her assistant in the shop, could easily run the place. His family didn’t celebrate Christmas anyway. She could even stay for two weeks. She wondered where she would sleep. In her old room? She supposed that Nessa would want her to stay in her house, too…and she’d make a great effort to go and stay with Seamus and the wife and make a fuss of them. She would be like Santa Claus for all the children…she must look through the letters again to see how old they were. It would be desperate to bring them all the wrong things. Lord, Nessa’s eldest would be seventeen now. A grown man nearly.

What would he have to say to his aunt, his new aunt, or rather his old aunt? Her gaiety left her for a moment. What would any of them have to say?