6
Nancy lay on her bed at home, flicking through the French phrase book she’d bought in town at lunchtime while Bernie was browsing the wedding planning manuals. She remembered more words and phrases than she thought. It shouldn’t be too hard to get up to speed again. And, as Olivia had said, she was bound to learn more quickly in Paris. Nancy smiled to herself. Let’s face it, you’re not going to learn anything new and exciting staying here. And Olivia’s right - once you’ve got away from Coventry, escaping on that sailing trip will be much easier.
The dinner bell rang downstairs. No time like the present. She’d raise it with her parents while they were tucking into overcooked lamb chops with peas and plain boiled potatoes, the meal they always ate on Tuesday evenings.
Nancy’s father looked furious. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. No daughter of mine is going to Paris on her own. It would ruin your reputation. What would the neighbours say?’
As far as Nancy was aware, he hadn’t spoken to the neighbours for years. In their large five-bedroomed detached house set in its own grounds on the outskirts of Coventry, they didn’t even see Mr and Mrs Clarke next door, let alone speak to them. She doubted he would lower himself to acknowledge their existence even if they danced naked across the front lawn.
‘And you. You’re strangely silent?’ He shouted at Nancy’s mother at the other end of the dining table. ‘You should be backing me up on this.’
‘I think it’s a good idea,’ his wife said calmly as she struggled to cut another tough piece of meat from her lamb chop.
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ her husband shouted.
She put down her knife and fork. ‘I said I think it’s a good idea. You want to expand the export department. Having someone you can trust who’s fluent in French would be a boon. Nancy’s only going for six months. Olivia’s father has an agreement in principle with the bookshop owner. Plus, Olivia is there already. Nancy wouldn’t be on her own.’
‘It’s alright for the upper classes like your family and the Forbes to swan around abroad. But it’s not for my daughter.’
There it was - the enormous chip on his shoulder. Nancy’s father had been a grammar school boy. Nancy’s mother, on the other hand, had gone to a private girls’ boarding school and grown up in a mansion in Devon. Her family hadn’t always been wealthy. Nancy’s great-grandparents had purchased Dashford Grange in 1886 using a generous financial gift from the then Prince Edward to keep Nancy’s great-grandfather quiet while the Prince was having a torrid affair with Nancy’s great-grandmother. However, one generation later, Nancy’s grandmother chose to forget about her family’s meteoric rise to the upper classes, acting as if they had been members of the landed gentry for centuries. She was very much of the opinion that her daughter had married beneath her station when Nancy’s mother walked down the aisle with the son of a Midlands factory owner.
Nancy also wondered what her mother saw in her father, though in their wedding photo, he did look handsome in his wartime army uniform. It was difficult to believe that the slim, smiling man was the same person as the balding, red-faced lump of pure rage currently sitting at the end of the dining table.
‘You were swanning around abroad at my age,’ Nancy said in disgust.
‘Swanning around! I was fighting the Nazis, I’ll have you know, young lady.’
‘There weren’t many Nazis in the army stores, as I remember, dear,’ Nancy’s mother chipped in.
Nancy’s father ignored his wife. ‘I won’t hear of it.’
He threw his napkin on the dining table and marched into the hall. They heard his heavy footsteps as he stomped across the parquet floor, followed by the slam of his study door.
‘That went well,’ Nancy said to her mother.
‘He’s had a bad day.’ Nancy’s mother sighed.
Nancy was furious.’ Please don’t make excuses for him, Mother. I’ve had a bad day too. I’m going to Paris regardless of what he says.’