Read Online An Excellent Wife by Charlotte Lamb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Lamb
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while, leave you two alone?' Patience asked.
Both James and his mother said, 'No!' together, in a rush.
So his mother wasn't easy with the idea of talking to him, either? he realised, looking at her and seeing now how thin and pale she was. You could see all the bones in her face, all the fine blue veins under her skin. She was as insubstantial as a cobweb, and yet he could see a sort of beauty in her still; time had worn away the mask and laid bare the striking bone structure of that face.
'Patience says you lived abroad for a long time, in Europe,' he said politely, making small-talk with this stranger.
'France, Spain, Italy,' she nodded. 'I travelled quite a bit.'
'Singing, Patience says?'
She smiled. 'That's right—do you remember, I used to sing to you when you were a baby? Only when your father was out, of course; he hated me to sing, although I was singing when he met me—that's how we met, I was singing with a small band, at a London hotel. Your father had dinner there, with friends, and he came back again, alone, the following night and asked me out. I think that was the first impulse move he had ever made. He wasn't an impulsive man as a rule, but he was younger, then; his real nature hadn't begun to show.'
'I won't listen to you running my father down!' James began to get up and she threw out a hand pleadingly.
'I didn't mean to upset you! I'm sorry. Don't go, James.'
He was aware of Patience hovering, her face concerned, and slowly sat down again.
His mother sighed and relaxed again, her frail hand lying on the duvet, fingers almost skeletal, ringless. She had always worn rings, he remembered: her gold wedding band, her ruby and diamond engagement ring, a big diamond his father had given her the day after James had been born. Her fingers had glittered when she moved her hands.
'I didn't know you had ever been a singer; nobody ever told me that.' What else had he never been told? Yet, oddly, he did remember her singing, with him sitting on her knee, at the piano in the drawing room; she had played nursery rhymes for him, sung old folk songs. How strange—he had forgotten that entirely until now. Memory played strange tricks.
She smiled wryly. 'I'm not surprised—your father didn't want anyone to know. He regretted marrying me while we were on honeymoon, I think. His family didn't approve, his friends were standoffish, and, really, we had nothing in common, either. It was a mistake, on both sides; I was a bit dazzled by him for a while. He had class—good-looking, nice clothes, lots of money. I felt like Cinderella when she met the Prince, and it was a convenient escape route from all my problems.'
Coldly, James said, 'So you didn't actually ever love him?'
'I thought I did, for a while. I told you, I was dazzled, but I want to be honest and tell you the whole truth. The band and I weren't doing too well—this was the late fifties, of course. In America there was Elvis, and a lot of rock films were being made there. Here, the Beatles were just around the corner, and a host of other rock bands. Kids didn't go for our sort of music; we were all in our twenties and we were already going out of fashion.
'We had a struggle getting work, even more of a problem finding the money to pay rent and eat. I had no rich family to back me; my father had died and my mother was living with a guy I didn't like. When your father asked me to marry him I jumped at it. I really did think I was in love, James. In a way, I was for a while—in love with a dream. It was only after we were married that real life broke up our illusions and the terrible gaps began to show.'
'You mean you met another man.' James was trying not to lose control again, but his anger burnt in his voice.
'I'm being honest, James! Yes, I did meet someone else, but that came later.
First, I realised my marriage didn't work. Your father wished he had never married me; he had never really loved me at all.'
'He never married again!' He couldn't
Both James and his mother said, 'No!' together, in a rush.
So his mother wasn't easy with the idea of talking to him, either? he realised, looking at her and seeing now how thin and pale she was. You could see all the bones in her face, all the fine blue veins under her skin. She was as insubstantial as a cobweb, and yet he could see a sort of beauty in her still; time had worn away the mask and laid bare the striking bone structure of that face.
'Patience says you lived abroad for a long time, in Europe,' he said politely, making small-talk with this stranger.
'France, Spain, Italy,' she nodded. 'I travelled quite a bit.'
'Singing, Patience says?'
She smiled. 'That's right—do you remember, I used to sing to you when you were a baby? Only when your father was out, of course; he hated me to sing, although I was singing when he met me—that's how we met, I was singing with a small band, at a London hotel. Your father had dinner there, with friends, and he came back again, alone, the following night and asked me out. I think that was the first impulse move he had ever made. He wasn't an impulsive man as a rule, but he was younger, then; his real nature hadn't begun to show.'
'I won't listen to you running my father down!' James began to get up and she threw out a hand pleadingly.
'I didn't mean to upset you! I'm sorry. Don't go, James.'
He was aware of Patience hovering, her face concerned, and slowly sat down again.
His mother sighed and relaxed again, her frail hand lying on the duvet, fingers almost skeletal, ringless. She had always worn rings, he remembered: her gold wedding band, her ruby and diamond engagement ring, a big diamond his father had given her the day after James had been born. Her fingers had glittered when she moved her hands.
'I didn't know you had ever been a singer; nobody ever told me that.' What else had he never been told? Yet, oddly, he did remember her singing, with him sitting on her knee, at the piano in the drawing room; she had played nursery rhymes for him, sung old folk songs. How strange—he had forgotten that entirely until now. Memory played strange tricks.
She smiled wryly. 'I'm not surprised—your father didn't want anyone to know. He regretted marrying me while we were on honeymoon, I think. His family didn't approve, his friends were standoffish, and, really, we had nothing in common, either. It was a mistake, on both sides; I was a bit dazzled by him for a while. He had class—good-looking, nice clothes, lots of money. I felt like Cinderella when she met the Prince, and it was a convenient escape route from all my problems.'
Coldly, James said, 'So you didn't actually ever love him?'
'I thought I did, for a while. I told you, I was dazzled, but I want to be honest and tell you the whole truth. The band and I weren't doing too well—this was the late fifties, of course. In America there was Elvis, and a lot of rock films were being made there. Here, the Beatles were just around the corner, and a host of other rock bands. Kids didn't go for our sort of music; we were all in our twenties and we were already going out of fashion.
'We had a struggle getting work, even more of a problem finding the money to pay rent and eat. I had no rich family to back me; my father had died and my mother was living with a guy I didn't like. When your father asked me to marry him I jumped at it. I really did think I was in love, James. In a way, I was for a while—in love with a dream. It was only after we were married that real life broke up our illusions and the terrible gaps began to show.'
'You mean you met another man.' James was trying not to lose control again, but his anger burnt in his voice.
'I'm being honest, James! Yes, I did meet someone else, but that came later.
First, I realised my marriage didn't work. Your father wished he had never married me; he had never really loved me at all.'
'He never married again!' He couldn't
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