The Squeaky Wheel
THE SQUEAKY WHEEL
… gets silenced…
—LUCILLE BAXTER
1966
“Can we talk about Aunt Fifi?” Millicent asked a few days later while waiting in the tearoom at Claridge’s to meet sweet Uncle Rodney. The tables, set with fine bone china cups and saucers, and sterling silver spoons, had at their centers three-tiered serving plates piled high with finger sandwiches and scones. Crystal jars of jams and marmalades sat nearby.
Millicent, who had never seen anything so grand, had wanted to sample it all, but was told to wait until Sir Rodney arrived. Rodney Goldstone, who was neither sweet nor uncle, had rescued the girls, believing that Lucille had extricated them both from a volatile and potentially violent homelife.
“I made a promise to Mum on her dying bed I’d take care of my sis,” she had sobbed to him. “I had to get her out of there.”
Sir Rodney’s heart broke as his wallet opened, offering to put them both up in a suite at Claridge’s until he could set them up in an apartment.
Lucille thanked him with tears of gratitude but was disappointed, secretly hoping that he’d offer his Knightsbridge flat, which she’d never been in but had heard was magnificent, with three stories and five bedrooms all en suite, and maids’ rooms and butlers’ pantries, and a dining room that seated fifty. But his wife, who just weeks before had filed for divorce, had only recently vacated, and since he didn’t offer, she didn’t ask.
“Millicent Baxter,” Lucille said, jerking Millicent’s arm and pulling her closer, “we are not discussing Fifi. Do you understand?”
Millicent nodded, frightened.
“Never mention her name.”
Millicent looked at her, wide-eyed. Lucille had never before spoken to her that way. And her arm, she was hurting it.
Lucille loosened her grip and apologized, saying she was nervous about introducing Millicent to Rodney, that was all. This was too important a meeting, and she couldn’t have a careless outburst unravel her plans. Not when she was so close. Lucille explained that until and unless Sir Rodney proposed, she was in a much more precarious position than she had been before his wife had filed the divorce papers.
“After all,” she told her, “Sir Rodney Goldstone is now on the market, and the presumption that I will fill the vacancy is just that, a presumption.” While she didn’t share this with Millicent, Lucille knew that she had to subtly and consistently let the older man find his way to giving her exactly what she wanted. And what she wanted was legitimacy. It was a dance that she performed flawlessly, never making demands, never arguing, just slowly applying the gas, reminding him with love, encouragement, and a nightly blowjob that he had found his way to the next Mrs. Goldstone.
“We’re going to stay at the hotel for a while,” Lucille told her. “And there may be a few nights where you’re on your own.”
“On my own?” Millicent asked, astonished.
“Don’t be a ninny,” Lucille said. “You’re nearly thirteen years old, and this is Claridge’s. I’ll be round to check on you.”
Millicent considered this, then told her in that case she’d like to go back to Aunt Fifi’s.
“They don’t want us anymore,” Lucille snapped. “And we don’t want them.”
But Millicent did. Very much. She wanted things to be as they were. Surely they could all sit down, have tea and a cuddle, then call it a day. This was just a terrible quarrel, much of which she didn’t understand, or hadn’t taken the time to process.
It had all happened so quickly. Lucille had grabbed Millicent and left her aunt, her uncle, and all her worldly goods, until she sent for them later—the goods, that is. It was a pattern Millicent would later emulate; take everything of value, then wipe away the tracks.
Pulling Millicent close, Lucille tried to reassure her. “Put the past behind you,” she said. But somewhere in the past was a truth, Millicent’s truth, and that had been deviling her. Could Lucille be her mother? If so, who was her father? Was he still alive? And how did Aunt Fifi fit into all this? Could she be her grandmother? It was simultaneously too much information and too little. Millicent needed a home and answers. If she couldn’t have one, she was determined to get the other.
“Am I your bastard daughter?” Millicent asked as Lucille passed Sir Rodney, who had arrived only moments earlier, a cucumber sandwich.
Rodney looked at Lucille, baffled, but Lucille, not one to lose her composure, simply smiled and said, “Of course not, Squeak.” Then she offered her a scone.
“But what is a bastard daughter?” Millicent asked, this time addressing her question to Sir Rodney.
“Well, it’s an illegitimate child,” Sir Rodney told her. “Why do you ask?”
Lucille shot a look at her sister, who realized instantly that she had done something wrong.
Millicent was surprised. Genuinely. All Lucille had said was not to bring up Aunt Fifi. The bastard-daughter question was an entirely different subject. She looked at her sister. Was Lucille upset? Had Millicent somehow ruined her chances of marriage?
But Lucille’s veneer was calm and serene as she simply asked, “Where did you hear such language, Millicent?”
Millicent looked to her sister and then to sweet Uncle Rodney. “On the telly,” she lied, and then, avoiding further eye contact, focused on her scone.
A week later, Millicent took her first airplane ride with a nanny charged with her safe deposit to her new school, the Lycée le Rosey, in Switzerland.