Chapter 30
30
AUGUST 1968
Eloise
‘Unlike formal coming-out balls, Eloise,’ Muriel said crossly, ‘which are always held during the social season in spring or summer, one’s individual coming-out party may, according to social convention, be held at any time of the year. So please do not contradict me when I tell you yours is at the end of August.’
‘Coming-out balls?’ Michael, drowning a bowl of cornflakes in a pint of milk, sniggered. ‘I don’t have to get my knackers out at this do, do I?’
Muriel, reaching for a copy of the Midhope Examiner , slapped Michael around the head with the Classifieds section while Maude Hudson, who’d arrived uninvited in the kitchen, made her way past Eloise to the kettle, patting her granddaughter’s arm as she did so.
‘What’s wrong with the kettle in the gardener’s hut?’ Muriel snapped, eyeing Maude’s muddy boots with distaste. ‘And d’you think you could leave the mud where it belongs, in the vegetable patch?’
‘Blown a fuse,’ Maude said unapologetically. ‘Can’t prune the lavender or sow the annuals without tea and a smoke.’ She went to sit by Eloise, reaching for her tobacco tin.
‘Do not light up in here, Maude,’ Muriel instructed, glaring in her mother-in-law’s direction. ‘And, Michael, stop stuffing food down your throat at a rate of knots. And elbows off the table…’
‘I hear the Yorkshire Debs’ Ball at The Queen’s in Leeds is off?’ Maude winked conspiratorially across the table at Eloise.
‘Not definitely,’ Muriel said huffily. ‘We’ve time yet to up the numbers. And, if it doesn’t go ahead, all the more reason for Eloise’s coming-out party here at the end of the month. Invitations have gone out and there’s a wonderful take up for that .’
‘People round here won’t turn down a pint and a pie and mushy pea supper.’ Maude winked again at Eloise and this time, despite feeling utterly miserable at the thought of being flaunted in front of the cream of Yorkshire’s society, Eloise laughed out loud.
‘Pie and peas, for heaven’s sake.’ Muriel’s neck turned an unflattering shade of turkey red and she dabbed at her face with the tea towel she was holding.
‘Menopause, Muriel?’ Maude’s tone was nothing but sympathetic.
‘Are you in that already, Ma?’ Michael looked up with interest from his cereal.
‘Excuse me!’ Muriel snapped. ‘Would you mind your language, Maude, in front of Michael? And, I’ll have you know, the Veuve Clicquot is already ordered while a very expensive and tasteful supper will be prepared and presented by the chefs from The George hotel.’
Maude nodded her approval but then shook her head. ‘And you’re seriously expecting everyone to troop up through my gardens, trampling over my flowerbeds in order to get up to that great monolith on the lawn?’
‘Absolutely. Mr Bower and his underlings are laying down… laying down… something for people to walk on. Can I remind you, Maude, they’re no longer your gardens…? Where d’you think you’re going, Eloise? I need you to sort out what you’ll be wearing and?—’
‘Sorry, Mummy, must dash.’ Eloise made for the door. ‘I promised Sarah I’d help her with arrangements for her engagement party. May I take the Mini?’
‘Oh, absolutely, yes. And make sure you give her your party invitation.’ Muriel turned to Maude. ‘Do you know this Sarah, Maude? One of the Harrogate Huntington-Greens apparently; an old school pal of Eloise’s living just twenty minutes away? Eloise and Sarah are great chums – she’s spent every minute of the past few weeks with the family. This is the sort of friendship we need to be encouraging; I’m led to believe Sarah has several older – single – brothers and then there’s a whole pool of Huntington-Green cousins?—’
‘Can’t say I have,’ Maude said, cutting Muriel off mid-sentence. Tired of listening to the litany of Muriel’s hopes and expectations regarding a suitable match for Eloise, she quickly made her tea and headed once more for her roses.
* * *
‘Where does your mum think you are?’ Janice asked, opening her front door to Eloise.
‘At Sarah Huntington-Green’s near Mirfield.’
‘And why aren’t you?’
‘Because she’s a total figment of my imagination.’ Eloise, feeling braver with each passing day she spent as Janice’s mate, laughed, nervously at first and then with more confidence.
‘You be careful, love.’ Norma Atkinson, at the sink, turned. ‘I’m not sure your dad and your brother would approve of you hanging about down here.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry if I’m in your way.’ Eloise’s confidence shrivelled to embarrassment.
‘Don’t be so daft, Eloise. You know you’re more than welcome here any time. Are you staying for a bit of dinner? Our Gary’s just off to the chippy.’
‘That’s awfully kind, Mrs Atkinson, but I’m meeting a friend and heading out to take some photographs.’ Eloise indicated the camera over her shoulder. ‘I don’t seem to be able to stop snapping these days.’ She knew she was talking too fast, knew also that Norma probably had a jolly good idea who the friend was.
‘Be careful, love, that’s all I’m saying. They’re not like us. Different, you know?’
‘I’ll be off, then,’ Eloise said, her face flaming, Janice following her down the path to the Mini.
‘Look, Eloise,’ Janice said. ‘This is all my fault. If you hadn’t come to the Rooms with us the other week, you’d never have started all this.’
‘Janice,’ Eloise said, smiling, ‘I fell in love with him the minute I saw him taking the photo of the thrush…’
‘But Eloise, he’s… look, I know he’s absolutely gorgeous; I’ve always fancied him myself, to be honest, but, you know, that’s as far as it went…’ Janice was genuinely anxious.
‘Janice, I feel alive for the first time in my life.’
‘Oh, now you’re being dramatic.’ Janice tutted. ‘How about a date with our Gary? He fancies you like mad.’
‘Stop worrying. All will be well.’ Eloise opened the Mini and slid into the driver’s seat.
That, she realised, was the second lie of the morning.
* * *
As soon as she saw him, standing waiting for her by his rusting old Triumph Herald out on the moor above Wessenden reservoir, Eloise marvelled again just how utterly gorgeous he was. She pulled up behind the Triumph, crashing the gears as she did so.
‘You sure you’ve passed your test?’ Junayd smiled through the open window.
‘Well, only a month ago and, to be honest, only because it was absolutely pouring down and the examiner couldn’t open the door to see how far I was from the pavement when reversing.’
‘Right, well, hopefully we’ll see a curlew or a dipper if we’re lucky. Got plenty of film?’
Eloise nodded, hoping Junayd would take her hand but, instead, he set off at pace, heading down a tussocky path looking over Wessenden reservoir.
‘You know, I’d never been up here until you suggested it.’
‘I can’t believe that,’ Junayd said. ‘It’s absolutely glorious. Look at that heather. Shh…’ He suddenly bobbed down behind a huge boulder, taking Eloise’s hand and pulling her down with him.
‘What?’
‘A skylark.’
‘Well, you won’t be able to take a photo of that,’ Eloise whispered. ‘It’ll turn out just a black dot.’
‘But, oh, the beauty of that black dot.’ Junayd continued to gaze into the cerulean-blue sky. ‘Have you never read Meredith’s poem “The Lark Ascending”?’
‘Er, no, can’t say I have. I was more into maths and sciences, I suppose, than, you know, literature.’ Eloise felt embarrassed at her lack of poetic knowledge. She leaned forwards to take her camera, wanting to preserve Junayd’s image for posterity. Well, at least so she could gaze at his picture in the secrecy of her bedroom. ‘How do you know about English poetry?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? As soon as I knew A levels were the only way out of the mill, I made sure I enrolled at night school. Mind you, the sciences I needed to study medicine – my parents’ dream for me – are pretty much beyond me. I’ve swapped over to English, art and photography. I want to go to university.’ Junayd’s eyes were wide with anticipation at the prospect.
‘Do you miss home?’
‘I am home,’ Junayd said almost crossly. ‘Where I am now is home.’ He threw Eloise a look, staring down at the reservoir instead of up at the black dot that was beginning its rapid descent. ‘Do you have any idea, Eloise, why my family and I were, not only invited to this country by your government, but actually driven out of our homes?’
‘Driven out? By whom?’ Eloise was indignant.
‘After partition – you do know about partition? – the Mangla dam was commissioned by a consortium of eight US companies. The Jhelum River, in the Pir Panjal mountains, was diverted, sending billions of gallons of water into the dam.’
‘Surely that’s a good thing?’ Eloise frowned. ‘You know, clean water for drinking, hygiene, industry?’ She glanced down at Wessenden reservoir below them.
‘Hydroelectrics? The whole lot?’
‘Well, yes.’ She paused. ‘No?’
‘Not wonderful for the people like us who were living there. When my family has known nothing but farming and agriculture. When our village, and hundreds like it, disappeared under the water. When, in order to live, to survive, my family had to move.’
‘But you were invited to work here? In Daddy’s mill? I thought you wanted to come?’
‘Oh, a great opportunity? Is that what you’re saying? We should be grateful?’
‘I wasn’t saying that,’ Eloise stuttered.
‘Do you think you Brits want us here?’
‘Well,’ Eloise said stoutly, flushing as she spoke, ‘ I certainly want you here.’
‘You’re such an innocent, Eloise.’ He leaned forwards to stroke her face gently with his thumb and she found herself moving towards him, unable not to. ‘And when I turn up at your coming-out party—’ Junayd smiled as he spoke the words ‘—your father will welcome me, one of his Pakistani workers from the carding shed? Your mother will come forwards, take me by the hand, introduce me to her guests?’
‘My party? How do you know about my party?’ Eloise felt panic setting in at the thought of Junayd turning up unannounced; Muriel’s face as he laid claim to her over The George hotel’s devilled eggs and mini prawn cocktails.
He was laughing now. ‘Oh, don’t worry, just something I overheard at the mill. The problem is, Eloise, we’re worlds apart and, before I fall totally in love with you, we have to stop meeting like this, on the pretence of taking photographs. I wait every dinner break for you, desperate to see you, talk with you, pretending it’s our cameras that’ve taken me there, when really…’
‘Really?’ Eloise held her breath.
‘You know what I’m saying. Your family wouldn’t approve in a million years. And, I have to tell you, Eloise, neither would mine. My father is already questioning me…’ Junayd took her face in both hands, cupping it gently, bending to kiss her eyes, her nose and eventually her open mouth. Never having been kissed before, she wasn’t sure what to do, but instinct somehow, magically, took over and she closed her eyes, loving the feel of him, his breath sweet, his heart beating until she wasn’t quite sure where he ended and she began.
‘This is not good, Eloise,’ Junayd finally said, sitting up and gently pushing her away from him. ‘This is wrong.’
‘This is good,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s right.’ And, reaching for him, she pulled him down into the heather-strewn grass behind the rocks.
* * *
Muriel had insisted Eloise wasn’t to go into the mill – playing at being secretary – the week leading up to the party, when, instead, she was to stay at home and help with arrangements, as well as visit the hairdresser and beautician. Eloise, unable to contemplate five days of not seeing Junayd, had been equally insistent she should. She and Muriel had eventually compromised on her being at home on the Thursday and Friday prior to the do. By offering to pick up some dry-cleaning, as well as sneaking off early from Beddingfield Beauty Bar on the Friday, she managed to meet up with Junayd after work, both driving out to the moors for their secret assignation. When, later that evening, Muriel demanded to know why there were bits of heather stuck in Eloise’s crocheted sweater, the mythical Sarah Huntington-Green and all three of her tall, handsome and rich brothers were quickly resurrected in explanation.
Saturday dawned with a warm hazy morning, the August sunshine quickly burning off the last of the mist to leave a perfect day for a party in the garden. Eloise had longed to invite Janice, Jean and Eileen, but had the good sense to quit while she was ahead: Muriel, she knew, would have had something to say about Hudson’s menders and weavers being on the guest list.
She actually rather liked the dress Mrs Livesey, her mother’s tailor, had made for her. While it wasn’t as short as she’d have liked (and certainly not the black wide-legged trousers and floppy hat she’d squirrelled away upstairs in her wardrobe after a shopping trip in Leeds the previous Saturday with Junayd, who certainly had an eye for women’s fashion) she went along with the cream layered creation Mrs Livesey had come up with. While it did make her look like a royal-iced wedding cake, once on, and her blonde hair in the up style suggested by Angie the hairdresser, Eloise accepted the look, knowing the whole shebang would be over and done within a few hours.
* * *
‘Eloise, do come and stand at the door to welcome everyone,’ Muriel instructed, a rictus of a smile on her over-made-up face. ‘And, Michael, don’t you dare help yourself to any more of those vol-au-vents.’ She pronounced the final word to rhyme with rents . ‘Now, d’you think there’s enough food…? Eloise, are these Huntington-Green people coming? I didn’t have an RSVP – poor form… Michael, no, you’re not allowed champagne, there are bottles of Orangillo for the non-drinkers… Eloise, will you please pay special attention to Christopher Howard when the Howards arrive…?’
‘Who?’ Eloise, wanting only to pay special attention to her dreams of Junayd, shook her head irritably.
‘The Howards, Eloise. You know – Christopher is Brian’s chum – the pair were at prep school together: caused mayhem when Mrs Dixon had to have a term off for her down-below bits and that dreadful young woman straight from college took the class with her newfangled ideas on education. She had the boys sitting together round tables rather than in rows… Anyway, the Howards are all en route… Ah, Lady Saville, delighted… And Bunty and Bobo as well! How lovely…’
Eloise was seriously beginning to think Muriel was on something. She’d not stopped talking in this ongoing stream of consciousness for the past thirty minutes.
‘Good God, what is your mother wearing now, Ralph?’ Muriel shot a look of distaste towards Maude in a purple crushed-velvet trouser suit.
‘Hello, Granny, you look lovely.’ Eloise hurried over to the entrance to the white house, taking Maude Hudson’s arm and handing her a glass of bubbly before leading her to a table of septuagenarians, all Maude’s mates from when she ruled the roost up here before being tipped out into the dower cottage down by the village duck pond.
‘Christopher, do you remember Eloise?’ Muriel was at her side once more. ‘I’m sure you do! I seem to think I have a snap of the pair of you playing in the paddling pool totally in the ruddie nuddie when you were tiny. Too sweet. ’ Eloise thought Muriel just too silly for words, but Christopher, in a sober dark suit and tie, didn’t appear to have noticed. He was already on his second glass of fizz and was looking past Eloise, eyeing up the talent who all seemed to belong to her brother Brian. ‘I’ll leave you with the party girl, Chris,’ Muriel said, patting his arm matily, ‘and attend to my other guests.’ She exited with a warning nod and wink in Eloise’s direction.
‘Hello, Eloise, you look different with your clothes on.’ Christopher Howard, having spent a year in the States desperately trying to drum up business for his family’s failing engineering company, finally deigned to look her way. He spoke a strange mixture of educated public school peppered with native Yorkshire, and an undertone of pseudo-American twang every time he remembered he’d been living Stateside. ‘Hey, you have grown up since I last saw you. Quite the beanpole, aren’t you?’
‘Seeing that must have been sixteen years ago, that’s no surprise, I suppose.’ Eloise took in the round pink face, the fine blond curls hiding an already receding hairline and a gut straining at his trouser belt and shuddered. Give him a trumpet and take his clothes off – Eloise breathed a silent yuck – and he’d be a dead ringer for one of the cherubs in Raphael’s Sistine Madonna .
In reply, Christopher reached for another glass of champagne from the waitress, gave the girl a friendly squeeze on her backside and knocked back the drink in one.
Eloise suffered almost an hour of Christopher Howard talking about himself, his racing cars, his tennis, his golf, his family’s engineering business before returning to yet more birdies and holes-in-one. She was just about to excuse herself and join Granny Maude and her mates, who all seemed to be getting well stuck into the champagne, chortling merrily and thoroughly enjoying themselves, when a man, dressed in full black morning suit and obviously in charge of proceedings, produced a huge gong and announced food was served.
Supper, to Eloise, seemed interminable as the sixty or so guests piled their plates with the delicious delicacies, either standing to eat or making their way back to tables. A tiny woman on a harp, brought in at great expense to aid the guests’ digestion , seated herself and began the commencement of many pieces neither Eloise, nor, she suspected, anyone else, had ever heard before. She was just about to set off to find Michael, who Muriel said had been looking somewhat green around the gills five minutes earlier, when her mother headed over.
‘Eloise, Eloise, Eloise , the photographer is here…’
Still in Manic Muriel Mode, Eloise noted.
‘I was hoping for at least Yorkshire Life or even The Yorkshire Post , but we end up with the Midhope Examiner … And…’ she lowered her voice ‘…a coloured man , for heaven’s sake. Don’t tell me there wasn’t an Englishman available… what will our guests think…? I shall have words. Now, do go and freshen up, Eloise, brush your hair, pull your dress down, don’t want the whole of Yorkshire to think you’re a tart… don’t want the photographer to see your knickers…’
‘I beg your pardon…?’ Eloise didn’t hear her mother’s response, wasn’t sure if there had actually been one, because all she could hear was a buzzing in her ears and she felt the blood drain from her face before returning in a whoosh of burning red. Slightly hysterical, she only just managed to stop herself from saying: ‘Too late, Mummy, he already has!’
‘You all right, Lou?’ Michael, as pale as she was scarlet, was standing at her side. ‘I’ve just been sick in the rosebushes,’ he added cheerfully. ‘You don’t look too good either.’ He laughed. ‘Ma’s gone off on one too. She can’t understand why the Examiner ’s sent a coloured bloke to take the photos of you.’