The Forget-Me-Not Summer (48 page)

All eyes turned to the last coach. A tall and very beautiful woman in a cream dress which clung to every curve of her slender body descended from the vehicle and appeared to drift across to where the man awaited her. She murmured something to him then turned to face the battery of cameras, and even as she gave her audience the benefit of a dazzling smile the wind tore off the tiny hat perched on her head and sent it flying towards the Mersey, whilst the great mass of her hair, released from its many pins, descended in a whirling cloud of primrose around her shoulders. The cameramen moved forward
eagerly as the woman turned, pointing desperately to the neat little hat, but though there was not a man present who would not have dived into the Mersey had it been possible to catch it there was not a hope in hell of doing so, Miranda saw. The hat was gone, the lady was laughing and protesting, Miranda presumed she was saying words to the effect that she had other hats, and the tall man was putting his arm round her, drawing her close, kissing the top of that glorious primrose head.

‘Is it her?' Steve was saying anxiously. ‘Is it your mam, sweetheart? Don't tell me
she's
a bottle blonde, because I wouldn't believe you. Oh, damn, they're going for another photo shoot. But it'll be over in a few minutes; the captain has come to the top of the gangway to welcome his passengers aboard. Then you can nab her . . .'

But his voice was almost drowned by the eager shouts of cameramen and journalists. ‘Show a leg, ladies! Do a bit of a dance for us! That's right, lass, hold out your arms as though you wanted to embrace the whole of Liverpool . . .' Someone else shouted: ‘The whole of England, you mean,' and there was laughter and much bustling to and fro as the cine cameras – there were two of them – trundled across the uneven paving to snatch views of the Americans leaving Britain which would appear, Miranda guessed, in newsreels all over the world.

Then the cameramen moved back, allowing the journalists their turn, and men with notebooks began to converge on the company. The biggest crowd was around that wonderful primrose hair, and Steve took his wife's hand. ‘We've got our press pass, remember,' he whispered. ‘You can ask her anything you like, only it will
have to be you, because she's your mother, or you think she is. Is that right?' The crowd was beginning to thin as the men and women from the concert parties headed for the gangway. But still the man in dark glasses and the woman within the circle of his arm remained. Clearly they were the most important members of the group, and intended to shepherd their flock aboard before embarking themselves. Steve tugged on Miranda's hand, meaning to lead her up to the man and woman now standing at the foot of the gangway, but Miranda shook herself free.

‘You stay here please, Steve,' she whispered. ‘This is something I've got to do alone.'

Steve watched the small, straight-backed figure in the green suit and the perky little hat approach the couple, who smiled graciously. Then the woman turned to her companion and he handed her something which looked like a notepad, and a pencil. She scribbled something and gave the sheet of paper to Miranda, who promptly turned round and re-joined Steve. She was very pink, and there were tears in her eyes, but when Steve asked her what had happened she would only shake her head.

When the couple had climbed the gangway they leaned on the rail, watching as preparations for departure were carried out by smartly uniformed sailors. Steve put his arm round Miranda, bent his head and kissed the side of her neck. ‘Want to leave?' he asked, but she shook her head. So they stood there, almost alone on the quayside now, and Miranda gave a little wave just as the couple on board the liner turned away, and watched in silence until the ship was out of sight.

‘Are you disappointed, darling?' Steve asked anxiously,
as he and Miranda began to walk slowly back the way they had come. ‘I really thought it must be your mother, because of her wonderful hair. What did she give you, by the way? I saw her hand you something that looked like a piece of paper . . .'

‘It was; she thought I wanted her autograph,' Miranda said bitterly. ‘Oh, Steve, when my eyes met hers, when she looked at me as though she had never seen me in her life before, I could have wept. She's married to that man, you know, the one wearing dark glasses. I heard one of the chorus telling a reporter that she was Mrs Salvatore, though that isn't her stage name. He's an – an impresario and they're very wealthy and extremely happy. She's the leading lady in all his productions . . .'

‘But
not
your mother,' Steve said with a chuckle. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I'm so very sorry to have raised your hopes for nothing. But it was worth a try, wouldn't you say? If you'd not had the chance to discover for yourself . . .'

Miranda pulled him to a halt and turned to gaze at him, round-eyed. ‘Are you mad, Steve Mickleborough?' she said. ‘Of course she was my mother! We've wondered many times if she might have lost her memory, and now I'm sure that must be what happened. She looked at me so coolly, with not a trace of interest. And if I'd told her who I was – and who she was – I'd also have had to tell her that she was once a second-rate actress in a second-rate rep company, about to marry a man she didn't love just to settle all her debts and keep her head above water. Oh, Steve, it would've been the wickedest, cruellest thing! As Mrs Salvatore and her husband's leading lady she has a wonderful life, and that, after all, was what I wanted to find out. I always said that if I could know she was
alive and happy I'd be content.' She looked up at Steve and saw his face wreathed in a grin, and hid the tiny stab of pain in her own heart. ‘So I'm afraid you can't claim to have married the daughter of a star after all, just plain little Miranda Lovage . . .'

‘. . . who is now Miranda Mickleborough,' Steve said contentedly. ‘And you've done the right thing. You must know, queen, that you're quite old enough to manage very well without a mother. Most girls have left home and family by the time they're twenty-one. In fact you should be more interested in having a daughter of your own, and I'll help you do just that. So let's go and collect our suitcases and go back to the village to claim our rooms.' They were beginning to walk back towards the main road once more when Steve suddenly remembered something. ‘Did you ask her for her autograph . . . no, of course you didn't, she just gave it to you. I wonder if she signed Salvatore or her stage name? Let's have a look.' Miranda delved into her pocket and produced the sheet of paper. Scrawled across it was one word.

Steve stared. ‘Miranda; she signed it Miranda,' he said in an awed voice. ‘Did you tell her your name, queen?'

Miranda shook her head. ‘I didn't say a word, but of course it's not really odd,' she said in a low voice. ‘She called me Miranda because she had always loved the name, she told me so many times.' She heaved a sigh, then took the paper from Steve and was about to push it back into her pocket when she changed her mind. Very slowly and deliberately she tore the page into tiny fragments, then opened her hand and let the wind take them. Like a cloud of confetti the tiny pieces were caught in the breeze and carried in the wake of the great liner,
already, no doubt, settling into its voyage towards America, and suddenly it seemed like a message, a portent almost, to Miranda. She watched the ‘confetti', blue as her mother's forget-me-not eyes, as it curtsied and cavorted higher and higher in the blue sky, and suddenly she knew she had done the right thing. It was important, she reminded herself, to let go, and unwise to cling, whether to your grown-up child or your mother. Furthermore, if at any time in the future she decided she should contact Arabella, she now had her married name, and her stage name, too.

Hand in hand, the young couple watched until the last scrap of paper disappeared, then turned and began to walk up the slope once more. We're leaving the past behind us and doing the right thing, the kind thing, Miranda told herself contentedly. After all, she had had her mother's love for the most important years of her growing up, and now, bless him, she had Steve's. She squeezed his hand and began to sing beneath her breath, so that only Steve could hear.

Steve returned the pressure of her hand and she saw that his eyes were wet, but he grinned at her and gave her a little push. ‘Race you to the main road,' he said. ‘Oh, darling Miranda, I love you, too!'

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Published by Century in 2013

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Copyright © Katie Flynn 2013

Katie Flynn has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

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