The Hidden Women Page 7

  ‘Our parents are both creative and a bit scatty,’ she said.

  I snorted. ‘Scatty,’ I said. ‘Forgetful, more like.’

  ‘When we were growing up they weren’t great with money,’ Miranda went on. ‘Bills often went unpaid. The electricity would go off. They weren’t poor. Just disorganised.’

  ‘But when we were really small, it was all fun,’ I said. ‘We were too little to know any different and all we knew was they loved us.’

  ‘But when Mum had Imogen, things changed,’ Miranda said. ‘Postnatal depression, I guess. Though it took a while for it to really get a hold of her.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I have a friend who has depression,’ he said. ‘It’s like a gradual creeping up with him.’

  ‘That’s it exactly,’ Miranda said. ‘She didn’t just wake up depressed one morning, it was more like a downward spiral.’

  I let Miranda talk. She was two years older than me so she remembered it better.

  ‘Once, Mum left Andy in my classroom when she dropped me at school, instead of taking him to nursery,’ she continued. ‘When my teacher noticed him, she rang Mum to come and get him. She was so upset.’

  ‘Andy wasn’t remotely bothered of course,’ I added, wanting to make Mum sound less awful.

  ‘But that’s when things started to go downhill. Mum wasn’t really functioning and Dad – well, like I said, he was “scatty”.’ Miranda made quote marks with her fingers. ‘Things got a bit messy for a while.’

  Jack smiled at me. ‘Did your mum work?’ he asked.

  ‘She still does,’ I said. ‘In fact, you might know of her – she’s an art historian.’

  ‘So that’s where you get it from,’ Jack said to me. I felt like a flower opening up in sunshine as he turned his gaze to me.

  Miranda butted in and I almost tutted because I was enjoying having Jack’s attention.

  ‘She’s an expert in Victorian painting and she’s often on those daytime antiques shoes. She’s brilliant, actually, on screen. She’s so enthusiastic and because she’s been a university lecturer forever she explains things really well. She writes books, too. We’re very proud of her, because it’s not been easy for her.’

  Jack was staring at Miranda. ‘I know her,’ he said, excitedly. ‘She’s got hair just like you but in a cloud round her face, right?’

  Miranda laughed. ‘That’s her,’ she said. ‘And she wears glasses like Helena’s.’

  I pushed my black-rimmed specs up my nose and grinned. ‘I don’t have the hair,’ I said, gesturing to my own poker-straight style. ‘But I did inherit the dodgy eyesight.’

  I felt we were giving Jack an unfair picture of our mother so I carried on. ‘Mum’s wonderful. She’s a brilliant grandmother to Dora, and Miranda’s little boy. She’s helped me out so much. I wouldn’t have been able to go back to work without knowing she was round the corner.’

  Miranda nodded. ‘She is fab,’ she said. ‘We’re lucky she got over her depression and that it never came back – not like it was.’

  ‘And what about your dad?’

  I felt a bit like Jack was researching us rather than me him, but somehow I didn’t mind.

  ‘Dad’s a composer,’ Miranda said. ‘He writes music for films and TV shows, and adverts sometimes too.’

  I shifted in my seat. ‘He did some of the music for Mackenzie,’ I said, wondering if I should have mentioned this before. ‘Not the theme but some of the incidental music.’

  He gaped at me in astonishment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘My Mackenzie?’

  ‘The very same.’

  Jack chuckled. ‘Isn’t it a small world, eh?’

  ‘Isn’t it,’ said Miranda. ‘Dad’s career was just taking off in the Nineties, when we were growing up. He worked long hours. And when Mum got ill, he wasn’t completely able to cope with four kids.’

  Jack nodded. ‘And Lil?’

  ‘She was a musician, like Dad,’ I told him. ‘Piano, mostly, but she’s the sort of person who can play anything. She was a session musician and she travelled all over the world playing with different bands or singers. Six months on a cruise ship here, a year in a jazz club in New York, there. Recording an album with the Rolling Stones one day, hanging out with Fleetwood Mac the next.’

  ‘Sounds incredible.’

  ‘She’s got some brilliant stories,’ I agreed.

  ‘But when we were kids and Mum was poorly,’ Miranda said, ‘Lil stepped in and made sure we were being looked after.’ She drained her wine glass. ‘I’m not sure what we would have done without her.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Jack said, topping up Miranda’s empty glass. ‘You are really close?’

  I nodded. ‘I thought so,’ I said. ‘And yet she’s never mentioned her time in the ATA.’

  I looked at Miranda. ‘Manda, we found Lil’s service record.’ I picked up the folder Jack had brought with him, which was now splattered with beer and something that looked like tomato ketchup, even though we’d not eaten. ‘Look at what happened.’

  I handed her the sheet of paper and watched as she read the lines at the bottom.

  ‘Oh shit,’ she said. ‘Dishonourable discharge?’

  ‘What do you think, Manda?’ I said. ‘Do you still think we should speak to her about it?’

  Miranda made a face. ‘I’m going to Paris on Friday for a week,’ she said. ‘So I can’t help. But yes, I think you should go and see her. Find out what it was all about.’

  ‘She might not want to talk,’ I said. ‘What if it upsets her? She’s really old.’

  ‘She’s tough as old boots,’ said Miranda. ‘I really think you should try to talk about it. We can’t pretend that we don’t know now – she’d see through that in a flash.’

  I nodded. That was true.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and see her at the weekend.’

  Chapter 12

  The following Saturday, Dora and I sat on a train heading out through the leafy suburbs of south-west London to see Lil. She was ninety-four now and very frail, so she lived in a care home. It was an amazing place, funded by an entertainers’ charity. All the residents of the home had once made their living as performers of one kind or another and now saw out their days reminiscing together and – too often for my liking – providing their own entertainment. They had mostly been jobbing actors, or, as Lil had been, session musicians, but there was the occasional recognisable face and they all loved to put on a show.

  I normally phoned ahead when I visited, but today I’d not told Lil I was coming. After everything we’d found out, I was nervous about seeing her, which was strange considering how much I loved her. And for some reason I didn’t want to warn her – though quite why I needed to be so sneaky about it all, I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like I was expecting to walk in and catch her piloting a Spitfire around the residents’ lounge.

  What I actually found, when we walked into the residents’ lounge, was one of the actors – a man who once trod the boards at the RSC and had been a regular on the West End stage – standing in the middle of the room, reciting a speech from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  I paused by the door, scanning the room for Lil and clocked her sitting in the corner watching the ageing actor with barely disguised amusement. Our eyes met and she smiled.

  ‘Hello,’ she called, ignoring the fact that the actor was still going. ‘I wasn’t expecting you today.’

  Dora jumped up and down. She loved Lil. ‘Hello!’ she shouted. ‘’Lo, Lil!’

  Like a small bullet, she swerved the gesturing arms of the Shakespearean chap, and hurtled over to my aunt. I followed and sat down next to her.

  ‘Surprise!’ I said. ‘Careful of Lil’s legs, Dora.’

  Dora clambered up on to my knee and beamed at Lil. ‘’Lo, Lil,’ she said again.

  ‘Hello, my darling girl,’ Lil said to her, twirling one of her curls round her finger. ‘I think you’ve grown again.’

  ‘Do you want to stay here?’ I asked Lil, lookin
g at the actor with suspicion.

  ‘Oh God, please, please, take me out of here,’ she hissed. ‘I can’t bear to listen to this for a second longer. He’s such a nice chap until he gets all overexcited about sodding Shakespeare.’

  I grinned. ‘I couldn’t possibly interrupt such a cultural afternoon,’ I teased.

  Lil gripped my hand with a strength I didn’t know she had. ‘Take me out of here,’ she said, ‘or I’ll tell him your name and the names of your siblings.’

  I sighed. Mum and Dad had named us all after Shakespearean characters – Miranda from The Tempest, Imogen from Cymbeline, and Andy – Lysander – and me from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I liked all of our names individually – even Lysander’s – but I did think that all together they were a bit, ooh what’s the word, pretentious? And I had a feeling the actor, who was now starting on something from Hamlet, would bloody love it.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said to Lil.

  She was in her wheelchair – she could walk but she was frail and had broken her hip a year or so back, and she was a bit wobbly – so it was easy to perch Dora on her knee, and then back her out of the lounge’s large French windows and round to her room, which was also on the ground floor.

  Lil had a corner room, overlooking the garden. It was as homely as it could be with lots of her books piled on shelves and a poster featuring a jazz band that she’d once played with in Paris. Lil hadn’t ever accumulated a lot of stuff because she’d moved round so much in her life but the few things she had, she’d brought with her. She had a guitar in the corner of her room, though I hadn’t ever known her to play it often, and the lounge had a piano for her to play whenever she felt the urge. And if none of the other residents had got there first.

  I pulled out some colouring and a selection of My Little Pony toys to keep Dora amused. She plonked herself on the floor and started arranging the ponies into a long queue.

  ‘Traffic jam,’ she cooed. ‘Bloody, bloody traffic jam.’

  I made a mental note to watch my language when I was in the car with my sponge-like daughter and rolled my eyes at Lil.

  She chuckled. ‘Make us some tea, darling,’ she said.

  She had a kettle on a table in the corner of the room, with a small fridge underneath for milk. I filled the kettle from the tap in her bathroom, switched it on and produced a box of pink wafer biscuits – her favourite – from my bag.

  She grinned. ‘You always remember,’ she said. I made the tea and put her cup next to her, studying her as I did. Lil had never been big – we were all fairly dainty in our family and Immy especially was teeny – but now Lil was very delicate, like a baby bird. Her hair, which had once been as dark as mine, and similarly straight, was now pure white and thin. She wore it cut short, and I could see her scalp in places. But her eyes were alert and, despite her frailty, she was still as smart as anything.

  ‘So why are you here?’ she said, as I sat down.

  I blinked at her. ‘Just wanted to see you,’ I stammered, surprised by the direct question.

  ‘Oh bollocks,’ she said. ‘You always tell me when you’re coming, and Miranda’s normally with you, and Freddie. Why are you here on your own with Dora?’

  She stared at me in an accusing fashion.

  ‘With pink wafers,’ she added, like Hercule Poirot revealing the culprit. ‘You only bring pink wafers when you want something.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ I said, folding at once. I would be terrible in any sort of interrogation. ‘I do have something I want to ask you, but I was going to build up to it gradually.’

  Lil smiled at me in triumph. ‘Spill,’ she said.

  I pulled my folder out of my bag – the clean, orderly version without Jack’s beer splatters – and took a deep breath.

  ‘I’ve been researching a family for work,’ I began. ‘The family of the actor Jack Jones.’

  Lil looked unimpressed. She’d never been interested in celebrities, which oddly was why so many of the fame-obsessed fellow residents in the home thought she was wonderful.

  ‘Jack’s grandfather was in the Air Transport Auxiliary,’ I went on, noticing her stiffen slightly as I said it. ‘And while I was looking for his records, I found this.’

  I handed her the copy of her own service record. She glanced at it, without interest, and then put it on the side table next to her cup of tea.

  ‘Lil,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to find this, but I did. And now I can’t pretend I didn’t see it.’

  She nodded, taking a bit of a wafer. ‘Who’s the grandfather?’ she said.

  I blinked at her.

  ‘Jones? Did you say?’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Frank Jones?’

  I smiled. ‘That’s the one. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Nice chap,’ she said. ‘Brilliant at impressions – he used to have us all in stitches taking off the officers and the ground crew. Such a performer.’

  I was thrilled – maybe that’s where Jack got his acting talent from.

  ‘Was he a pilot?’ I asked. ‘Frank?’

  Lil nodded, helping herself to another wafer. ‘Weren’t many men, funnily enough. It was mostly …’

  She trailed off, as her eyes went misty from memories.

  ‘Mostly women?’ I finished for her. ‘Like you?’

  I laid my hand on the service record.

  ‘Lil, it says you went to a court martial,’ I said. I watched her expression close down as I changed the subject, but I carried on regardless. ‘And that you were dishonourably discharged from the ATA.’

  Lil nodded again. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So, I wondered if you could tell me any more about it,’ I said. ‘Not necessarily about the discharge, but about the ATA itself and what you did there. It would be really helpful for Jack’s story …’

  I trailed off as I realised Lil was shaking her head.

  ‘No?’

  ‘I don’t think so, darling,’ she said. ‘It was a long time ago and I don’t remember much.’

  I looked at her and she looked back, her pale blue eyes wide with innocence.

  ‘You don’t remember much about the war?’

  Lil shrugged. ‘I’ve done a lot of things since then.’

  ‘You remembered Frank Jones.’

  She stayed quiet.

  ‘Lil,’ I said, more forceful now. ‘You flew Spitfires. How can you not remember?’

  She said nothing, her lips pressed together in a tight line.

  ‘Was it all the flying during the war that made you want to travel? Did it give you the bug?’

  Again, Lil stayed silent.

  ‘Did you ever want to get in a plane again, after the war had ended?’ I went on. I had so many questions and my words were falling over each other in my urgency to ask them. But I was getting nowhere.

  ‘Why did you join the ATA? What made you want to fly?’

  Lil closed her eyes.

  ‘Lil,’ I wailed. ‘Surely you can tell me something?’

  She opened her eyes again and looked at me. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it all happened just as you said, darling, but I can’t tell you anything.’

  I sat back in my chair, disappointed. ‘Lil, surely you can remember something?’

  She looked at me briefly then glanced away, her eyes flickering to the folder on the table. She took a breath and she sat up a bit straighter.

  ‘It’s not that I can’t remember, Helena,’ she said, speaking slowly and clearly as though she wanted to be very sure I was understanding her. ‘It’s that I don’t want to remember.’

  I stared at her. Was that it? Was that all she had to say?

  ‘I’m very tired now. It was lovely to see you both.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. My visits normally lasted longer than this.

  ‘Thank you for the wafers.’

  I stood up, picked up my bag and stuffed the service record back inside the folder.

  ‘Come on, Dora,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and get on the train.�
�

  Obediently, Dora stood up. ‘Bye bye, Lil,’ she said. She trotted over and gave Lil one of her little ponies. ‘Present,’ she said. ‘For Lil.’

  ‘This is yours, darling,’ Lil said.

  But Dora shook her head. ‘Present,’ she said fiercely. ‘Bye, Lil.’

  Smiling, I bent down and gave Lil a kiss.

  ‘Bye then,’ I said, hoping she’d say, ‘Stop, stay longer’. But she didn’t.

  She smiled back at me, but it was an odd smile. One without any happiness in it. ‘Bye, Dora,’ she said. ‘Bye, Helena.’

  Chapter 13

  Lilian

  September 1939

  I skidded to a halt at the garden gate and jumped off my bicycle, ignoring it as it clattered to the ground behind me. I hurdled the small wall and raced up the path, just as Ruth, my sister-in-law, opened the door.

  ‘Have you heard?’ I panted.

  She nodded, stony-faced.

  ‘Is Bobby here?’

  She nodded again, and stood aside to let me in to the small cottage.

  ‘He says he’s going to join up,’ Ruth said. Her voice wobbled. ‘He says it’s best to go before they call you up.’

  I squeezed her fingers then, still trying to catch my breath, I went into the front room where my brother Bobby was fiddling with the wireless.

  ‘Damn thing just won’t pick up the signal,’ he was muttering.

  ‘Bobby …’ I began.

  He looked up. ‘Oh, Lil,’ he said. ‘Lil.’

  I went to him and rested my head on his chest. Ruth was behind me and I felt her reach past me and wrap her arm round Bobby’s waist. We stood there for a second, in a strange three-way hug. Then I raised my head.

  ‘Do you remember? What it was like before?’

  Bobby was ten years older than me, so he’d lived through the Great War. The war that had broken our father.

  ‘Sit down,’ Bobby said. ‘Ruth, can you make some tea?’

  Ruth gave me a quick smile and headed to the kitchen.

  I turned my attention back to Bobby. ‘Do you remember?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not properly,’ he said. ‘I remember when Dad came home, of course. He actually came back a little while before Armistice Day, because of his hand.’