Monday, November 12, 2018


An Imperfect Life

 
Getting known.

 
Chapter 33

 
“You’re very lucky Pat – this is a big advertising campaign for the Milk Marketing Board and they particularly want a small blonde.  Be there at 2.30pm looking very glamorous.  Don’t let me down!”

  Paula had already told me that although my height 5’ 4” was fine for films it was short for modelling.  Even though most of my work would be hair, teeth, make-up and sweaters photographers sometimes lacked imagination – like casting directors, and liked to have the whole package.  I was frequently called ‘Little Pat Manwaring.’

  William and I pored over a street map of London to decide how to get there and I asked Renata if she could come earlier for coffee – I didn’t want to let her down again.

  I gasped when I saw her. “Renata! Have you had an accident?”  She had a large fading bruise on the side of her forehead.  Was that why she had kept her head down the last time I saw her?  Had that brute been hitting her?  I couldn’t bear the thought of it but she said she had left a cupboard door open and walked into it.  She seemed much happier and was wearing a pretty silver necklace with a heart on it that the spiv had given her.

“It is so exciting Pat that you have this important audition.  Just think your photograph will be everywhere.  On those big bill boards at the station – everywhere and you will never have to buy milk again!

However when I reached the studio – dead on time, bright eyed and bushy tailed I was greeted with “Sorry darling – we had to give it to Zoe.  She’s just perfect for the campaign.”  And I had to agree.  Zoe was a good two inches shorter than me with white blonde hair and an elfin face.  For the next few months her photograph was everywhere - her white blonde fringe complementing the large glass of milk she was drinking.  I felt a bit shamefaced when I rang Paula but she glossed over it and told me to get a move on with getting my photos round the studios.   Rejection was something actors and models had to get used to and goodness knows - I already had had some experience of it.  Onward and upward!

  William was supportive when I bleated to him but when I voiced my fears about Renata he said.

“We mustn’t interfere.  If she comes to us for help that’s different but you should never come between husband and wife.  And anyway she’s probably telling the truth.”

  Life was hectic; I enjoyed having the head shots taken – it gave me a foretaste of what I would be doing for the next couple of years.  I liked Reg the photographer and found it easy to respond to his instructions.  You couldn’t always rely on a rapport with whoever was shooting – either for stills or filming.  I learned to have a secret scenario going on in my head to portray real emotion and a smile that spread to the eyes and made them sparkle.

   Back at our new home the decorators had done a great job– and all for free.  We got the furniture out of store and moved in.  I decided to give myself a week delivering photos – why were they scattered all over London - and then concentrate on settling in.  I was fairly sure there would be a waiting period before I would get any bookings.  I had seen enough of the girls hanging round Paula’s office to realise there were many more models than jobs.  I had to trust that Paula knew what she was doing.  On the back of each photo I had to write my details.  I’m sure now it must all be done electronically but then it was a truly hands- on job.

You turned up cold at the studio, introduced yourself, offered them a photo complete with your details and then hoped they liked you enough to remember you the next time they were casting for a shoot.  The receptionists were the worst part as they examined you like a piece of meat before deciding if it was worth calling the photographer.  One particularly frightening woman with jet black hair scraped back in a chignon – a real female Dracula- glared up at me from her desk.

“Have you got a plate?” she snarled.

Feeling like a bumbling idiot I asked her what she   meant – I was still getting used to people who didn’t have a Northern accent.  She meant a dental plate.  When I’m nervous my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and sitting below me she had glimpsed it and concluded I had shop clackers.  I managed to convince her that they were mine – all mine, but felt I probably wasn’t going to be top of her list.  Eventually when I became known she would ask for me by name but was always more dragon than pussy cat.

  One place where I was always treated with charm and courtesy was Tower House, Southampton Street which housed Woman’s Own.  I immediately felt at home and they were the first to use me regularly for artist’s reference, fashion and eventually covers.  Artist’s references were fun to do.  The models were first photographed and then the artists would make a drawing from that.  Rix was one of the top names and I found his drawings more compelling than photographs to illustrate the short stories.  Woman’s Own seemed to take a personal interest in my modelling career and couldn’t have been more helpful and encouraging.

  I used the Underground to get around London as I felt I was less likely to get lost.  I would look for the nearest station to the studio and often was doubling the distance travelled when I could have just walked round the corner from A to B.  It was a nightmare if the weather was wet and windy.  Arriving at the studio looking like something the cat has dragged in didn’t impress them much so more cash was expended on taxis.

 I began to get migraines. Throughout my nursing career with all the stress involved I never had a migraine but the stress of always having to look tip top started me on a cycle of migraines which lasted until I had my first child.  Touch wood I have never had them since.  The lift man at Gloucester Mansions said I always looked a if I had stepped out of a band box.  It was expected.  Barbara Goalen, the top model de nos jours was the epitome of elegance.  Some years back whilst shopping in London my DIL pointed out one of the top models.

“She can’t be.  She looks so scruffy!”  But I was assured she was.  Times change!

Many of the male models were struggling actors.  There were far fewer acting jobs then and many paid a pittance.  Modelling provided them with useful earnings to keep the wolf from the door, feed the kids and keep them free for that golden opportunity which was just round the corner.

  The next six months were a hard slog going from one end of London to the other.  I didn’t mind the hard work but was worried about the expense of travel – we were a couple of miles from Epsom - and keeping up appearances with no money coming in from me.  William convinced me it would all be worthwhile and he was right.  Slowly but surely I would be asked for by name and there seemed justification for phoning Paula twice a day. 

“When it comes right down to it - it doesn’t matter that you’re not the tallest hollyhock in the bed.  If they like you they’ll book you!”  William turned out to be right.

I was somewhat of an oddity amongst all that glamour and urban sophistication.  Since then, all the years of living with William has nurtured a supposedly, pleasant speaking voice but at that time, if you think of the character that Jane Horrocks occasionally plays - a simple girl who ‘comes right out with it’ – that was me in the fifties.  No surprise that Jane and I were born and bred within a few miles of each other – in different lifetimes.

  One still had to audition for important jobs and contracts and it was a reality check sitting in waiting rooms with these gorgeous creatures – not just models but also film starlets. Jill Ireland and Audrey Hepburn were just two around at the time.  I really had a problem with my lack of self confidence but one day sitting outside Paula’s office waiting to do my accounts I got into conversation with a very pretty starlet.  She was similar to Barbara Windsor- a cockney sparrow – I think her name was Vera and she gave me a real good talking to.

  “You think they’re something special don’t you?” indicating the photos on the wall.

  “Well let me tell you you’re every bit as special as they are and a bit more.”

Bless her!  I remembered that the next time I felt inadequate.

Once when William was away I had three auditions in one day.  I decided to take Havoc our corgi for moral support and I swear it was Havoc’s charm that got me all three – Phillip’s Stick a soles, Bayer Aspirin and Harvey’s Bristol Cream.  She got special doggy chocs that night.

  William pointed out that I would have to pay tax on my earnings so I decided to go and see the tax man and ask his advice.  I was confident I could do it myself once I knew the rules.  The man I saw was – to me – an elderly gentleman who was very interested in the whole business and helpfully told me all the things I should take into account in the way of expenses and that I should keep all receipts and dates of bookings etc. Times change!

  I really enjoyed a bit of book-keeping.  The payment was a bit haphazard; sometimes the studio would pay you on the spot and sometimes the cheque would go straight to Paula.  We had a session once a month to sort the finances.  One dark day I left Paula’s office laden with notes and stopped in Leicester Square Underground to make a phone call.  I discovered I hadn’t enough change, dashed into the tobacconist’s – purse in hand- leaving my handbag with a stuffed wallet and, more importantly, my diary with all my bookings  It was seconds before I realised and dashed back but my handbag was gone.  I went to Bow Street Police Station (now defunct) and left my details but they didn’t hold out any hope.  I few days later I received a parcel containing my handbag and diary but no wallet.  A thief with half a conscience?  I was grateful.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Age 23
Eyes Green
Hair Fair
Height 5' 3-4"
Weight 7st  7 lbs
Bust 34"
Waist 22"
Hips 34"
Shoes size 5


Friday, September 21, 2018


An Imperfect Life

 

Sluice to studio

 

Chapter 32

 

Life was good.  The bungalow would soon be ours, the agent had given us wallpaper books to choose our décor and once the contracts were exchanged the decoration would be done at no cost to us so we nipped over to Epsom to take measurements. William was happy to leave all the choices to me and I had endless fun choosing colours.

  Back at the flat we were greeted by Renata.

“Pat there has been an urgent telephone message from Marta.  It is very important that you phone her immediately.” 

“Thanks Renata.”  I stared at her - she looked as if she had been crying and kept her head down. I put my arm round her shoulders and dropped my voice.

 “Look are you alright?  You look a bit down.”

“No no I’m fine – just a bit tired.”

“Come and have coffee with me in the morning and we can have a good chat.”  She nodded and then disappeared upstairs.  I told William about the message from Marta and asked him what I should do.  After her previous rudeness I wasn’t keen on jumping when she snapped her fingers.  To my surprise William said I should give her a second chance.  It was an opportunity and if I spurned it I may regret it later. It made sense. I didn’t enjoy relying on William financially and there was such a lot I wanted to do to our house – once we were in it.  If Marta were right and I could be accepted as a model I would be earning much more than I had ever earned as a nurse.  After dinner I phoned Marta.

“Pat!  Meet me at my agent’s office tomorrow at eleven.  And look your best- DON’T let me down!”

“Oh Marta I’m so sorry I can’t - I’ve made arrangements to…

“CANCEL THEM!  Pat this is important.  There are hundreds of girls who would give their eye teeth to get on Paula’s books and I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to…”

“OK Marta – I’ll cancel it.  And thank you – I really am grateful- umm- can you give me the address please?”

She did – it was a block of Mansions in Soho.  I hadn’t a clue how to get there but felt sure it wasn’t in Marta’s remit to give me travel directions. I dashed upstairs to apologise to Renata and to ask if she would mind postponing our coffee date.  She was fine about it but I felt guilty.  I didn’t go in because I knew the spiv was at home and the less I saw of him the better.

  Thank Heaven for William!  He worked out that I should get a tube to Leicester Square and then walk up Charing Cross road to Cambridge Circus.  Easy peasy!

Praying it wouldn’t be wet or windy - or Heaven forbid both – I washed my hair and decide to wear the same outfit I had worn when Marta stood me up- freshly laundered of course  and this time - a pair of flatties for my feet with a pair of heels in a smart carry bag I had just bought. 

  It was a lovely day and at Leicester Square Underground I popped into the Ladies for a last tweak and scrutiny- something I would be doing regularly for the next eighteen months.  I felt excited walking up to Cambridge Circus- there were exotic book shops and weird men in hats and mackintoshes.  The Mansions had a lift like a giant iron cage which somehow added to the atmosphere of decadence and sleaze.  I told the lift attendant I wanted the sixth floor and we slowly rattled our way up in full view of people braving the stairs.

  Outside the agent’s office was a narrow passage where three beautiful girls were sitting.  They looked more like show girls than models and look surprised when I said good morning to them.  From inside the office I could hear the constant ringing of phones - interspersed by bursts of conversation - then more ringing.  Suddenly the door burst open and a large untidy woman appeared.

“I’m only seeing people with appointments” she bawled. Two of the girls left and then she spotted me.

“Who are you?”

She was quite imperious and scary and her eyes looking me up and down felt as if they were going right through to the marrow.

“I’m a friend of Marta’s.  She asked …um - we were supposed to…”

“You’d better come in then!”

  I followed Paula in to the most chaotic office I have ever seen.  The walls were covered with black and white photographs – mainly men- she was noted for her stable of excellent male models – many of them ‘resting‘ actors and some glamorous women.  Marta had pride of place – cheeks sucked in and looking amazing.

Two long narrow windows looked out over Cambridge Circus and Paula’s desk was placed so that her face was away from the light which illuminated anyone else in the room.  Her desk was covered in papers, directories, notebooks and a large diary.  The two phones on the desk were constantly ringing so there was plenty of opportunity to look round but where was Marta?

  One of the photos of a long legged beauty looked familiar and further scrutiny revealed it was Paula herself, a decade or two and a few gallons of gin earlier.  In spite of the chaos it was clear as she answered each call she was superb at her job and subtly changed her approach depending on whether it was a client or a model and if a model whether they were in or out of favour.  I soon realised you didn’t want to be the latter.

“Dawn!” she yelled”The studio have just been on the phone and they said you were half an hour late.  I’m not having anyone on my books who is unreliable.  I have queues of beautiful girls outside waiting for an interview.(pause) It’s no good saying the bus was late- get a taxi for God’s sake – you’re paid enough.  I’m not gonna argue Dawn – this is your final warning.”

She slammed the phone down which immediately started ringing again.

“Paula Day Agency.  Robert- how are you darling?”  The contrast was astounding – Paula was purring.

“How did it go?  Did they like you?”

(Pause.) “I should think so.  I told them you were the best I had.  Lunch?  Marta’s coming. (Pause) No I didn’t think you would.  Ring me tonight sweetie.”

  In between the phone calls Paula peppered me with questions about my age, my marital status, where I lived and what training I’d had.  She thought I looked younger than my age and that being married was an advantage - she didn’t want any more silly young girls going off the rails.  The nursing training didn’t impress her but she latched onto the fact I had done some Am Dram which in agent speak would be translated into my being a very experienced actress.

  The door burst open and in breezed Marta- surprised that I was here already(she was half an hour late)  There were kisses all round and she suggested we went off to lunch away from the incessant phones.  I gathered myself and prepared to leave.

“Pat where do you think you are going?”  Marta looked amazed.

“Well I …”

“It’s alright Pat – don’t take any notice of Marta- you’re invited and we can finish getting your details over lunch.”

I blessed William for giving me some spare cash – for emergencies.

We arrived at a smart Italian restaurant where both of them were obviously known and respected.  Marta had a campari and Paula a gin and tonic.  I wasn’t sure about campari so settled for a G and T.  After the first sip I found myself relaxing and enjoying myself.  They gossiped about other models, photographer and actors – some of whom I had heard of so found it fascinating.  At one stage Paula was talking about a society osteopath and suddenly said.

“Look out Pat.  He collects young girls from the provinces.”

I didn’t take it seriously as I felt I had my head screwed on and I wasn’t that young – 23-24 I think.  Paula was quite astute but I think even she would have been surprised when a few years later the government was rocked by a scandal, a cabinet minister was disgraced and Stephen Ward- to whom Paula was referring - committed suicide on the last day of his trial - deserted by his cowardly false friends.  That was the Profumo affair with a Russian spy, Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice Davies who immortalised the phrase “Well he would say that wouldn’t he?

  Marta – late for an appointment had to rush off.  Paula said I must get some decent head shots taken.  She would give me a list of all the studios and then I would have to take the photos round and introduce myself.

“Here’s the address of a reliable photographer – he’s just round the corner in Gerrard Street so you can get started right away.”

“Do you think I’ll be any good?”

Paula looked at me with raised eye brows.

“I wouldn’t be wasting my time on you otherwise dear.  You’ve got to start believing in yourself.  As long as you do exactly as I say you’ll be fine.  Phone me morning and evening.  Got the phone number?”

I couldn’t help wondering if Marta always did as Paula said.  Somehow I couldn’t quite believe it.  As for the phone number- my memory isn’t what it was but if I live to be a hundred I shall never forget that Temple Bar number.

As I was in Soho I decided to get stuck in right away and went to look for the studio.  The street was interesting with various ladies standing around keeping a distance between each other.  I suspected they were ‘ladies of the town’ and to me they looked quite old and raddled.  The studio was over a night club and walking through its shabby décor – which didn’t suit daylight and which smelt of booze, stale fags and sweat I decided that nightclubs were not for me.

  The receptionist was friendly and when I told her Paula had sent me she called out to the photographer – her husband - to come and meet me.  We fixed a date when he would do my head shots and they asked me to bring a variety of tops.  Tentatively I asked how much it would cost - I would have to have masses of prints to take round the studios.  The total bill would be more than I earned in a month as a nurse but back at home William said you have to speculate to accumulate. 

“I have to phone Paula morning and evening.”

“Well there’s no point until you have the photos!”

Paula had been quite firm about it so at 6pm I phoned her.

“Pat write down this address.  You have to be seen at 2.30pm tomorrow, looking very glamorous.  Don’t let me down.”

Thursday, August 02, 2018


 

An Imperfect Life

 

People like me?

 

Chapter 31

 

New Maldon seemed quite a pleasant place and it was a short walk past shops to the station; convenient for both William and myself, should the modelling become a possibility.
“The Sweeneys have invited us for tea.  Remember Pat – we’re in the south now and that means afternoon tea- sandwiches, cakes and biscuits not your lusty high tea – that’s their dinner.”

Lunch to us was what we had mid–morning at school but in the south it was the equivalent of our dinner.  Crikey!  Would I ever get used to it?

  The flat owners lived in an old house next door- Mr and Mrs Sweeney and their teen –age son.  The table was beautifully laid with an embroidered cloth and silver tea-pot.  William’s eyes gleamed when he spotted the crumpets – simply oozing with butter.  It was a bit sticky making polite conversation and trying to eat at the same time.

William had an attractive speaking voice – apart from his stammer, but I wasn’t attuned to this particular Surrey accent.  It wasn’t that Mrs Sweeney was posh because Fleur, my sister in law was posh and she had quite a raucous voice.  Mrs S spoke in a very gentle voice and was ‘refained’ so when she said she had heard I was fond of ‘ceiling’ I thought perhaps she was referring to my house painting and went off at a tangent.

“No no!  Ceiling !  Ceiling!”  By now she was getting a bit riled.  In panic I looked desperately to William for enlightenment but his mouth was stuffed with crumpet.  He finally swallowed and then started to stammer and laugh at the same time which made everybody talk at once in their embarrassment.

“THE BROADS!” he roared.   The penny dropped.

“Oh sailing!  Yes we love it!” trying to stifle my giggles.  Sighs of relief all round and I felt a prize idiot – couldn’t even speak the language.  In spite of it all we seemed to pass muster.  Although Mrs S appeared both fragile and whimsy it was clear who wore the trousers and she even gave me a light kiss as we said goodbye.

  The flat was ground floor and furnished and I couldn’t wait to personalise it with our own pictures and linen.  We decided to hire a van to bring down essentials and the rest would go into store.

  The next fortnight went quickly as I finished at the hospital, said goodbye to friends and family and finally moved south.  Now to find a house we could afford, settle in and - at last - start a family.  I couldn’t wait!

  A typical northerner I set off down south with a few prejudices and a slight chip on my shoulder but determined to be open –minded and to give people the benefit of the doubt.  I knew I was going to miss the cheery, friendly, unashamed nosiness I had known all my life but it was time to grow up and discover the world.

  I soon had the flat looking as if it belonged to us and our first visitors were my sister Maddie and her boy friend George.  They had great news; they were going to be married and were buying a large house – with the aunts - in Caterham.  Maddie’s son was going to leave boarding school and would be educated locally.  George worked as a radio officer with BOAC but to my great relief Maddie was leaving BOAC and was looking for a job locally.

  We had heard some shocking news recently: one of the girls in Maddie’s year at school, who had also joined BOAC as a stewardess had been killed in a Comet plane crash.  Maddie also had a frightening experience when the plane she was in developed a problem and was forced to circle the airport for hours to use up petrol.  Maddie had to keep calm and to reassure the passengers.  They landed safely and she was given a citation from Sir Miles Thomas.  We were delighted she was going to look for a safer and less stressful job.

  We met our neighbours in the flat above.  The wife Renata, was Rumanian and very sweet and friendly but I didn’t take to her husband who was a big burly Londoner.  Looked and sounded exactly like a wide boy – a spiv.  During the war a spiv was a person living by his wits and engaging in petty black market dealings.  You wanted a bit of extra bacon, sugar, coal or petrol (gas) the spiv was your man.  Never mind the sailors in the Merchant Navy and on tankers risked and often lost their lives providing these things; the spiv didn’t have a conscience.

  “What happened to your determination not to prejudge people – you’re just imagining things.”  William was right so when they invited us to go out for a drink with them we agreed.

  It was a perfect summer evening and they took us to a pub on the river.  We sat in a garden with willow trees drooping elegantly in the water and the swans were like a corps de ballet warming up for Swan Lake.  William went to get drinks and I tried to be as friendly to the husband as I genuinely felt to his wife.  After a few sips of wine I began to feel more charitable and thought maybe he wasn’t such a villain after all.  He certainly was good company.  He told us how he got round the gas and electricity charges.  Both flats had separate meters and the money was collected by Mr Sweeney.

The spiv had manufactured a shilling (the required coin) on a wire so he could insert it in the meter ad then retrieve it.  I looked at William’s face and could see he was shocked.  This was cheating – not the gas board etc, but the Sweeneys who were providing both our families with homes at a reasonable rate when there was a great scarcity.  As the evening wore on the spiv said you couldn’t sit by the Thames on a summer night without tasting a Pimm’s.  I had never had one.

“It’s a mixture of gin, quinine and herbs made into a long drink with lots of fruit floating in it.  That’s Pimm’s#1.  Pimm’s #2 has a Scotch base and# 3 a brandy.

Now what’s your poison Pat?”

I decided to try a gin base but William said he would stick to beer.  It did taste delicious and looked so pretty but when I tried to stand up to go the rest room I fell over.  Suddenly I felt very ill –my head was swimming and I had to be carried to the car.  The next 24 hours were the most wretched I had ever spent and almost put me off alcohol for life.  Later we discovered the spiv had thought it a jolly wheeze to put double rum in the Pimm’s - in addition to the gin.  I think I was right about him in the first place.

  We decided to avoid our neighbours after my disastrous evening with them and started looking at maps and deciding where to house hunt.  Neither of us wanted to live in so urban a place as New Malden.  We wanted a house with a garden, a decent living room, a kitchen big enough to eat in and three bedrooms.  Oh and a garage!  We didn’t have a car but we expected – in the fullness of time, to have all of that.

The first house agent asked all sorts of questions about our financial state and took us to see a house in an unattractive area.

“Why have you brought us to see this house?  Apart from anything else it only has two bedrooms and no garage.”

“Mrs Maitland, forget the garage!  With your finances there’s no way you can afford a car so you don’t need a house with a garage!”

I was incensed!  How dare he?  Who was he to put limits on my life style and deprive my children of somewhere to house their father’s car?  The fact – as William pointed out – that we had neither car nor children did little to diminish my outrage.

  We tried another agent and another area.  Gradually we were moving further and further out in the suburbs until we reached Epsom.  It was a lovely town in the fifties, with the Downs and the famous race course an added bonus.  We were having a drink and a sandwich in a pub in the centre of town and were entranced when mine host answered the phone in a deep gravelly voice with the thickest of Surrey accents,

“Marquis o’Granby ‘ere!”

  The only house agent open on Sunday was what we thought was a slightly fishy firm- widely advertised with the emphasis on the wide.  The agent had a handle bar moustache, and flat, Brylcream-ed hair.  A dead ringer for Sam Costa who used to be in the marvellous radio programme ‘Round the Horn’.  We told him what we wanted and he said he had just the place.  Well he would wouldn’t he?  The snag was it was in a little hamlet – a bus ride from town which meant commuting by train and bus.

It was a bungalow and fitted all our requirements except for the garage, but there was space for one.  From one of the bedrooms you could see the race horses being exercised on the Downs.  The decor was a bit dreary but amazingly Sam told us we could have each room redecorated at their expense.  I couldn’t believe it.  He drove us back to Epsom and suggested he took us for a cup of tea.  After a cream bun I was putty in his hands and wanted to make an offer there and then but William insisted we should talk it over and phone the agent that night.

  All the way back on the train I prattled on about furniture, colours, which room would be the nursery- I was in love with a bungalow and William did his best to rein me in but I could tell he was excited too.

I needed to earn if I was going to make the house beautiful.  The next day William made an offer to the agent and I phoned Marta.  Miraculously she answered the phone and seemed to be delighted to hear from me.

“Now Pat darling you don’t know London so let’s make it easy for you.  There is a big store in Piccadilly – Swan and Edgar’s, you can’t miss it.  I’ll meet you there at 12.30 and take you to meet my agent.  Must fly darling – I’m running late.  Ciao!”

  I dressed with great care: dark grey suit, fresh white blouse, little white gloves and       high heels.  I caught an early train and found myself in Piccadilly an hour early.  Drifting round the Store I discovered the Ladies Room had an actual Rest Room where you could recline on a sofa and rest aching feet.

At 12.25 I was bright eyed and bushy tailed waiting to greet Marta.  At 1.25 I was still waiting

At 2pm I was a bit tearful- my feet were hurting so much.  Wearily I limped back where William – home early - gave me tea and sympathy, suggesting I phone Marta after dinner.

  “Marta are you alright?”

“Pat darling!  Yes why shouldn’t I be?”

“I was supposed to meet you and…”

“Oh my God!  I’ve been so busy – I totally forgot.  Pat darling I hope you didn’t wait long.”

“Well actually…”

“You see darling most people would know that if I wasn’t there I’d be at the Ritz or the Dorchester – or lunching at the Ivy.  I have to remember when I’m dealing with people like you.”

Those words echoed in my head long after the conversation was over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Interlude
 
 
Over the last month I have been having health problems and investigations.
 
So far nothing sinister has turned up and I feel hopeful that I may have turned a corner
 
and can at least resume the next chapter of 'An Imperfect Life' as I catch up with
 
everything else I have neglected.
 
Here's hoping and thank you for your endless patience.
 
Lot of love,
 
Pat.


Wednesday, May 30, 2018


An Imperfect Life

 

Leaving the North

 

Chapter 30

 
 

  In the end I was thankful we were going over to the Jones’s for lunch.  It would take my mind off William’s departure.  It would be the first time in my life that I would be alone overnight.  The prospect of being alone in an apartment over a shop which was empty between the hours of 5.30pm and 9am, made it worse.  Gran was in the States and everybody else had their own lives.  I would just have to get used to it.

“William did I tell you when I spoke to Bridie on the phone she said her niece would be there.  The point being she lives in London and could be helpful to us when we move down.”

John and Bridie greeted us warmly, gave us drinks and whilst the two chaps discussed William’s appointment, Bridie showed me her collection of china figurines.  But where was the niece?

“Oh poor girl – she’s had such a time of it lately she’s worn out so I made her have a lie in.  She’ll be down before lunch.  Now did I tell you Pat she’s a model and has just been put under contract to J Arthur Rank – no less?  My sister’s beside herself!  Marta’s only eighteen – would you credit it now?

Bridies’sister – who was Irish of course had married an Italian and the result was Signorina Marti Rossi.  I couldn’t wait to meet her.

“Hi everybody!”

There in the doorway was Marta herself.  Pausing just long enough for us to take in her remarkable presence and retrieve our jaws from the floor, she advanced towards us.  Eighteen she may have been but she had the sophistication of a forty year old.

“Pat- this is my niece Marta Rossi and Marta this is William- Pat’s husband.”

Marta gave us each a dazzling smile and an elegant hand shake.  She had a pleasant musky smell.  I don’t know about William but I was captivated.  I had never seen anyone like her before in the flesh.  Thank God I’d washed my hair but I wished I’d put on more make-up.  She was taller then me, as slim and with similar colouring but her hair was very short- like Ingrid Bergman’s in ’ForWhomTheBell Tolls.’  She had highlights before anyone knew about them.  She looked very chic but told me later her clothes ‘cost nothing’ that it was how you put them together that mattered.

She wore a dark grey pencil skirt with a white open- necked shirt.  Her waist was clinched with a scarlet belt and a jaunty scarf round her neck tied the whole outfit together.

Over lunch she told us she had started out doing photographic modelling and was sent as a ‘special’ (a step up from an extra) to work on a film.  Here she was spotted by Dirk Bogarde who told Rank they would be mad if they didn’t put her under contract.  Maybe it occurred to him- with her slim build - she would make a suitable leading lady for him; he was quite slight.  So they did and all was set for her to have a brilliant career.

“Marta did I tell you that Pat and William are going down to London for William’s new job and Pat has to find a job for herself?”

Marta turned her blue/green eyes on me and studied me from head to toe.

 

 

“You would be photogenic.  You can’t always tell but with those cheekbones you are very lucky.  I still have puppy fat and have to suck my cheeks in like this.”  She demonstrated and for a moment had Dietrich-like cheekbones.

‘‘Look when you come down give me a ring.  Auntie Bridie will give you my number.  I’ll arrange for you to meet my agent and see what she thinks.’’

I nearly burst out laughing- it was so ridiculous.  Me – a model; who couldn’t walk in a straight line, who had a blushing problem, had been schooled never to raise my head above the parapet, lacked confidence and had a tendency to knock knees.

Looking back it occurs to me that Bridie might have planned the whole thing.  She was a wily old bird and had always been very kind and caring towards me.

  All too soon it was time to go- I could have listened to Marta’s husky accented voice all day.  I was pretty sure William would pour cold water on the whole idea.  Quite right too – but it was fun to day dream.

        ‘’What did you think of Marta?’’

“She seemed to know what she was talking about.”

“But what did you think of her idea of me trying to model?”

He gave me one of his grown up looks.

“You’ve always been very pretty dear.  And remember that photograph I took? That won in a national newspaper.  You’ve nothing to lose.  You might as well give it a go.  You’d have to stop nursing when we start a family.”

Why did it always make me furious when William said I was ‘very pretty’?

  The next day his mother Dodie came over to see him before he left for London.  She was soon to leave herself; Wallace and Fleur had found her an apartment in Southsea within reach of them but not too close.  Her house had been sold, and some of her excess furniture was being stored for us until we were settled in a house.

I had mixed feelings saying good bye to William at the station.  Part of me was dreading being alone at night but I also felt a frisson at being able to please myself what I did in my spare time; I could eat what I liked, go to bed when I liked – keep the light on - reading all night if I chose.  My job would keep me occupied during the day; I just wasn’t sure how many week-ends I could cope alone.

  The first week-end I phoned William at his brother’s house and he seemed quite cheerful.  He had been looking round a town called New Maldon for a flat, was settling in the job and said I should probably hand in my notice now.  When I told Sister she was very sweet and said how much I’d be missed and the ward and the children had never looked so well cared for before I came.  That was thanks to my training school RMCH – fondly known as ‘Pen’ short for Pendlebury.

  I did what all lonely people do - kept the radio on from dawn till dusk and had long chats with shop keepers and the ladies in the hat shop, who found it odd that William didn’t come home at the week-end.  The second week-end on my own I was really fed up.  Why did everybody have to be away at the same time and then I remembered Keith Barker.  He was a bachelor we had come to know – quite studious with a dry sense of humour and we both liked him – which was something of a rarity.  On an impulse I rang him and asked if he would like to go for a walk on Sunday morning.

He immediately said yes and we arranged to meet at 10.30am.

The minute I hung up I regretted it.  What had I done?  A married woman asking a man out.  I was overcome with guilt and didn’t know what to do about it without making an utter fool of myself.  I couldn’t phone him again and say I’d made a mistake – I decided to go for a walk to calm myself down.  After a while I realised I was near Carol’s antique shop and had a brainwave.  She was a level headed person and a good friend, maybe she would help me out.  When I told Carol what I’d done she roared with laughter, said I was an idiot to get my knickers in such a twist and of course she would join us.  It turned out to be quite enjoyable after the first flicker of surprise when Keith saw Carol, we had a lovely walk and then they both came back and had a simple lunch with me.

That night I phoned William who had been enjoying one of Fleur’s dinner parties.  I put my foot down very firmly and said he had better be home the next week-end.  Something in my voice must have rung a bell and he got the message.  By Saturday I was in high spirits – everywhere was spick and span, there were fresh flowers, I’d made a trifle, bought a bottle of wine and there was a chicken (still a treat in the fifties) roasting in the oven.  Even the ladies in the shop were excited and beamed at us as we returned from the station.  We both had missed each other and for a while basked in a happy glow.  The bell rang from down stairs to warn us that someone was coming up; the door opened and in walked Dodie her arms outstretched to embrace her son.  Just when William and I were about to have a romantic meal together after a three week separation.  I dashed into the bathroom to try to conceal my frustration and tears.  After rinsing my face with cold water and some deep breathing I went back into the living room.  William had made her a cup of tea and I’m fairly sure he must have had a word because Dodie said,

“I know you’ve cooked a delicious meal and don’t worry I’m not stopping.  I just wanted to make sure William was alright.  I’ll just finish my tea and leave you in peace.

  Now I felt guilty.  However she did go and we had the evening I had planned

“The flat in New Malden is fine so I’m going to move in and you work out your notice Pat, arrange for the furniture to go into store and then you can join me.”

“I’m longing to see what it’s like William.  Tell me all about it,”

“Actually the owners – the Sweeneys- are very anxious to meet you so it’s probably a good idea for you to come down next week-end.”

All my frustration and angst disappeared and I was excited at all the lovely adventures ahead of us.  The Southerners couldn’t be all bad could they?

 

 

 

Monday, May 07, 2018


An Imperfect Life

Changes

Chapter 29

 

 

“OH WILLIAM!”

“What’s up?”

“Just come and look at this!”

William ran down the steps into the small kitchen – concern on his face.

“My new honeymoon underwear – ruined!  Just look at it,” I whined.

We had acquired a new washer which you filled up and emptied manually but it washed – preferably whites and coloureds separately.  No-one told me that Dodie had dyed William’s white naval shirts a burnt sienna colour.  Now I had matching underwear.

As far as house cleaning went I was satisfactory.  In hospital we had learned the science of cleaning and practised it daily, so my paint work was washed regularly and cleaning started from the ceiling and progressed downwards, with all the guff vacuumed up at the end.  But there had been a few disasters.

Trying to emulate Dodie who made scrumptious red currant jelly which we had with roast lamb, I got as far as slinging a muslin bag full of boiled red currants between the kitchen taps only to realise with dismay, that the red liquid vanishing down the plug hole was the jelly- not the mess in the muslin.

A valuable lesson to learn: read the whole recipe before you start cooking.

 

We had been given a pressure cooker as a wedding present and for years it was our only cooking pan.  Sadly one day I had the heat too high, bringing the pressure up too quickly and the whole kitchen, from the ceiling downwards was sprayed with boiling stewed apple.  A lovely fresh smell but sticky underfoot.

 

“We’re invited for Christmas to Fernhill.  Mummy’s invited too.”   Fernhill was Fleur and Wally’s beautiful new home and I could tell from William’s face that he was delighted at the prospect.  My job apparently was to make the Christmas pud’.  I found an old war-time recipe and used grated carrot to cut down on sugar.  I really concentrated, following every step with the greatest of care and I can honestly say it was the best Christmas pud’ I’ve ever tasted.

 

“I’m going to take some extra time off work – I’ll write to Fleur and tell her we’ll be arriving a few days early.”

I thought this was a rotten idea remembering how Mum and Gran used to get in a state with Christmas preparations but William would not be swayed.

 

There was a mile long narrow lane to reach the pretty white house deep in the Hampshire countryside.  The grounds were littered with ornamental stone mushrooms and one of the outhouses alone would have made a splendid house.

When we arrived I took one look at Fleur’s face and wanted to run for the hills.  Thanks to the Christmas post our letter hadn’t arrived and poor Wallace had to cope with the fall out.

The house was filled with Fleur’s mother’s beautiful furniture.  The dining room chairs were all carvers with women’s torsos carved on the uprights of the arms.  It amused me to watch the men’s hands slip casually on to the carved bosoms.  This seemed to have a soothing effect on them.

Fleur ran the house as her mother had done with different napkins for breakfast, lunch and dinner and such things as the basins in the bedrooms cleaned daily.  The difference being that her mother had staff and Fleur didn’t even have a ‘daily’ (cleaner).  When I offered to help – a little light dusting in mind, I would be likely to be presented with a bucket of potatoes to peel or a similar arduous task.

 

She worked very hard herself – eyes narrowed to avoid the smoke from the cigarette wedged in the corner of her mouth and we were always rewarded with a suitably stiff naval libation – G and T with ice and a slice at lunchtime and a Horse’s Neck (brandy and ginger) or three at dinner.

It seemed there was a lot of work to be done outdoors so William and Wallace disappeared after breakfast and returned for meals – having enormous fun.  I admired Fleur greatly but we didn’t have much in common so the highlights were mealtimes which were excellent, although one knew all the beautiful china and crystal would be washed very carefully by yours truly.

 

“For God’s sake don’t break anything Pat!  All this stuff comes from Greylands (her old home) and is irreplaceable,”

 Mealtimes were quite noisy.  Wallace had an acerbic wit, especially after sundown and Fleur would give her raucous laugh which would bring on her smoker’s cough.  Dodie getting her Willies and Wallys confused had me in stitches which would start my endless hiccups.

The delicious meals were cooked on an enormous Aga which ran on fuel and sometimes had the temerity to go out.  That was the time to take the children for a long walk until things had quietened down.  It was an interesting Christmas and I learnt a lot.  The brother’s got on well with William quite happy to do as his elder brother wished.  I felt a little homesick for my family and was happy to be back in our more humble home again.  Did William ever wish he had married into money I wondered?

 

We decided to give a party.  We had made lots of friends during our time in Altrincham and were within reach of some old ones.  I stipulated that the room should be warm and welcoming - it was before central heating – and there should be plenty of food (my responsibility) and drink (William’s). Our cuisine was not very sophisticated in the fifties but the aim was to mop up the alcohol and allay people’s hunger so we had cheddar and pineapple bites, bridge rolls with tasty fillings, sausage rolls and masses of trifle, fruit salad and cream.  I realised that to have a successful party I – the hostess should sacrifice my evening and just look after everybody.  William kept the beer, wine and cider flowing and a choice of soft drinks.  When everybody had eaten and was sitting in a happy haze - sipping on the floor - I relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the evening.  I got a kick out of bringing people from different areas of our life together.

“Bill meet Diana.  Or did you meet at our wedding?  Oh no, of course we didn’t know you then.  Well you must be sure to come to the divorce!”

I don’t know why I said it. Maybe it was the drink. There was a nanosecond silence and then everyone laughed

 

We were pleased that our joint effort had been successful.  Some time earlier we had been invited to a party the Jones were giving for their daughter Libby and for me it had been a disaster.  He was William’s boss – tall with a craggy face and the debonair manner of a forties film star.  His wife Bridie was small, plump with wild hair, full of fun and a captivating Irish brogue.  The two of them together were fantastic company but I felt a little sorry for Libby - a nurse who was in her early twenties and somewhat overshadowed by her scintillating parents.  The other guests were mainly nursing friends of Libby.  One of them stood out – Ruth – a gutsy, attractive, sturdy girl with dark curly hair and fresh colouring.  She was very animated and hit it off with William who was probably the most attractive man there.  As the evening wore on they seemed to get more and more excited and I was feeling uncomfortable.  When finally William drank some wine out of Ruth’s shoe I fled to the bathroom and had a weep.  I was angry with myself for being such a wimp - maybe I had PMT- it wasn’t universally recognised then, but I felt hurt and lonely.  I understood why he did it but I wished he could relax and not feel he had to prove something all the time.  I got over it – we had had this successful party and in the summer we would go sailing which always brought out the best in William; not in a flotilla this time and somewhere more adventurous than the Broads.

 

“When shall I ask for time off William?”

“Leave it for a while - I’m going to start applying for a new job.”

This was news to me.  He explained that he wanted to diversify and change the direction of his career towards research and that would probably mean a move down south so I would be leaving anyway.

I’m ashamed to say I quailed at the thought of living amongst ‘bloody southerners’

 

“What about your mother?”

“I expect she’ll sell the house in Norfolk and buy an apartment near Wallace and Fleur now they are settled in Hampshire.”

 

We planned to live in a commuting area to London and considered places within a 20 mile radius.  I favoured north to make visiting my family easier but William preferred south to be accessible to his.

 

He applied to British Iron and Steel Research Association in Battersea and was invited for an interview.  I had been nursing, at different levels since I was sixteen and working as I now did, part-time was unsatisfactory.  I needed to do something different but decided to keep my job until our plans were firm and we moved south.

 

I was afraid William’s stammer would affect his interview but it never seemed to hold him back; he came through with flying colours and they offered him the job.  Mum and Dad weren’t fazed when I told them we would be living at the other end of the country.  They were having the time of their lives.  They now had a small car and the world was their oyster.  Gran spent most of the time in the States, Evan was happily married and Maddie had met a radio officer and they were contemplating marriage when their divorces were absolute.

 

We decided William would accept the job, go down alone and live in digs until he found somewhere for us to rent, when I would join him.  The plan then would be for us to buy a house so that we weren’t spending all our earnings on rent.  He said we would see how long we could last living apart, to save money.  I thought this was not a good idea.  William was quite happy to spend the week-ends with his brother but I didn’t relish being alone for an indefinite period just to save money.

 

Meanwhile the Jones invited us to lunch the week-end before William left.  I tried to cry off remembering my humiliation I had felt at the party but William said we owed it to them to go as John had obviously given him a great reference.  They were a sweet couple and this was lunch – not a party- so I relented.  Little did I know that this lunch party would have such an effect on my life.  And I nearly missed it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday, May 02, 2018

 
Sorry!
 
 
 
 
I'm limited to short, sharp bursts at the computer just now so I regret chapter 29 will have to be posted even later than usual.
 
Hope to be back to normal before long.  Keep the faith.

Monday, March 19, 2018

William's photo that won the Daily Express 'Miss Zipp' prize.  Sailors will note that Pat was actually stationary at the time

Friday, March 16, 2018

 
Pat actually sailing

Thursday, March 15, 2018


An Imperfect Life

 
William’s Passion

 
Chapter 28

 
 
“Pat!”

I turned to look at William - he was standing with his eyes half closed – a sure sign he was trying to say something, which was odd as normally he never stammered with me.

“Sit down I want to tell you something.”

Devoured with curiosity I plonked myself in one of our new Parker Knowle arm chairs.

“There’s something I’ve been keeping from you.”

“What…

“Don’t interrupt – just listen!”

William sat in the other armchair and I waited expectantly whilst he cleared his throat.

“Actually since I was a young boy I’ve been mad keen on sailing.”

“Well yes Dodie showed me some snaps of you in a small boat sailing on the Broads.  She said what a splendid sailor you were – but then she would wouldn’t she?”

“Actually it’s more than that – it’s somewhat of a passion.”

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me before?”

“Well that’s the point – I was afraid it would put you off.  In fact I almost suggested we charted a sailing boat for our honeymoon but decided not to risk it and anyway I knew you were just as passionate about climbing mountains.”

“Well that was jolly generous of you.  But now it’s your turn.  Right?  So let’s fix it for our summer holiday and I’ll book some time off.”

  William leaned back in his chair and looked happier than I’ve seen him look for sometime.

   He was anxious that I should enjoy sailing and thought a holiday on the Broads would be a gentle introduction and decided we would join a flotilla of sailing boats.  For a couple of weeks we could forget Dodie and all our responsibilities.

  We all met up in Yarmouth - there were six boats and crew.  Bertie who planned it all was in charge.  His side kick was Cyril who was also his crew.  Bertie ordained that the skippers i.e. the husbands would meet up each morning to discuss the day’s sailing and the crew i.e. the wives would be informed in due course.  This was years before Women’s Lib but I have always had a Bolshie streak (I blame my Irish Gran) and the idea of ‘the men’ telling the ‘little women’ how they were going to spend every day of their holiday had me muttering.  Quite loudly. 

  The first task was to get the flotilla safely under the bridge and out the other side.

  “We’ll get all the boats tied up to me and to each other and I’ll guide all the boats under the bridge,” proclaimed Bertie, “and Cyril!”

“Yes Bertie.”

“Cyril you bring up the rear in the small dinghy.  Tie up to one of the boats.”

“Aye aye Skipper!”

 

William who had been brought up on the Broads knew that with wind and tide this was not going to work.  He tried to explain this to Bertie but Bertie had the wind in his sails and wouldn’t listen so William and I quietly sailed through alone, moored the boat and watched from the bridge.

  As soon as Bertie started leading the flotilla it all went horribly wrong.  The boats caught up with him, overtook him and swirled round, bumping and banging whilst the crew frantically threw out their fenders - designed to protect the boats from damage.

Skippers screamed at their crew to rescue all the cushions now floating in the river and Yarmouth came to a halt to watch the funniest sight they’d seen for years.

William tried to help by shouting instructions but couldn’t be heard over the melee.

My sides ached and I had a bad case of hiccups.  Just when we thought we couldn’t laugh anymore Cyril - who resembled an older Billy Bunter appeared to be going backwards – his stolid frame a small mountain in the tiny dinghy.  Alas the rope tethering him to the boats had broken.

  It was sunset by the time everyone was on the other side of the bridge and it was decided - by the men - of course, that a destination would be chosen each morning and then we would all make our own way there and meet up in the evening.  Sounded good to me.

  I enjoyed seeing William in his element.  He was a natural sailor and being on a boat brought out the best in him.  He worked hard to teach me about wind and tides and slowly I began to absorb it- mainly through hands on experience; getting the feel of the wind and learning when to come about when tacking.  He explained that tacking is when you have to zig- zag to find the wind to push you forward and I learned there is an art to knowing how long to leave it before yanking the tiller over and going on the other tack.  He was endlessly patient and the most generous of sailors; there was no hogging the wheel as some men are wont to do.

  I loved the Norfolk countryside with its rushes and reeds and prolific wildlife; the only sounds - bird song and the ripple of water as the breeze nudged us along.  Occasionally we would meet a motor cruiser or ‘gin palace’ as we called them.  They were meant to give way to sail but the message hadn’t got through to some of the skippers, in their yachting caps and blazers, and we had a few near misses.

  There was always lots to do; lowering the mast when we came to a bridge, cooking, tidying up, cheesing the ropes but doing chores was much more fun on a sailing boat.  When we reached the open broad we could really let rip and cut through the water like a knife, heeling right over - my panic controlled by Williams deft handling.

He encouraged me to go out alone in the little dinghy.  At first I was slowly drifting in circles and then the wind caught the sail, I pulled on the rope – hand on the tiller and WHOOSH – we were off and I laughed out loud - poised between elation and terror.

  William took a photo of me in the boat and was so pleased with it he sent it to the ‘Miss Zipp’ Daily Express competition.

The caption read: ’A girl steers a boat thoughtfully, as serene as the sea she sails on.’

In fact we were tied up at the time and no way would I have done serious sailing scantily dressed but William was delighted with the prize money. A most successful holiday.

  I had made two new girlfriends- very different from each other but they both worked in shops.  Carol was fairly serious and managed an antique shop.  She was boyish – with an Eton crop, very practical and a gifted furniture restorer.  She had worked on a bow-fronted chest of drawers that Dodie had given to us repairing the damage, polishing the mahogany and fitting elegant brass handles.  She also guided me through the tricky business of making pelmets with velvet, buckram and gold bobbles.

In stark contrast Lily- who worked in her father’s newsagent’s shop was pretty, bubbly and a bit ditsy.  Her fiancée was an Oxford undergrad which stirred a few memories.  I really enjoyed being silly and light- hearted with her.  They both helped me get over my occasional down times.  I saw Lily most days when I picked up a news paper. At the end of the summer she said she was thinking of joining the SAPS – the Sale Amateur Players and did I fancy being a Sap too?  They were about to produce a Somerset Maugham play and would I like to go with her to the audition.  Would I?  Just try stopping me.  I knew William’s stammer would probably preclude him from acting but thought he might be interested in a backstage job.  He wasn’t and I didn’t blame him.  His job was physically tiring and he was happy to sink into a book after dinner.  I sometimes felt the book he hadn’t read hadn’t been written.  He haunted second hand book shops- never paying more than a few pence for them.  If any of the family or friends showed a flicker of interest in any subject William would have a book on it or wouldn’t rest until he had found one.

  The play ‘Before the Party’ concerned ‘a murder lurking beneath the surface of a socially respectable household.’  There were parts for two men, four women and a school girl Susan.  Both Lily and I had our eyes on the part of the young widow.  Lily was very excited as she was shortly going to Oxford to visit her fiancé and I was delighted to be asked to help her shop for a new wardrobe.  We agreed that whoever won the part the other would accept graciously and may the best man win.

  The committee were seated round a table in a separate room and we had to take turns to go in and read for them.  Eventually it was our turn and Lily went in first.  She seemed quite happy when she came out so I took a deep breath and went in.  I told them I would like to read the part of the young widow and there was an uncomfortable silence.

“Actually Pat, we’ve decided that Lily is perfect for that part.  Would you mind reading the part of the school girl?”

I gasped.  What a bleedin’ cheek!  Here was I – in my early twenties – older than Lily and a married woman to boot- me read the part of a school girl?

Meekly I sat down and looked at the script.  Choking with outrage and nerves I started to read - not knowing how to handle it.  I had to say something about a shilling and I stumbled and lisped a bit.  Hang on that sounded real.  There’s the key.

  When I had finished they were beaming at me.

“We’d love you to play Susan Pat,” the chairman himself spoke up and I said yes – already planning a gingham dress-hair in bunches and perhaps binding my bosom.

We went for a milk shake to celebrate.

William seemed pleased I had a part and the weeks of rehearsal passed quickly as they always do when you’re having fun.  The play was a success with mixed crits.  I treasured mine.

One performance which I exclude from any adverse criticism was that of Patricia ….. who is a young married woman but who lightly shed quite a few years to give a delightful portrayal of the inquisitive lisping schoolgirl.’

A case of arrested development?  At least I felt more mature then Lily.  She told me she was going to break off her engagement.

“I’m still very fond of him but I don’t feel ready for such commitment.”

“Oh Lily,” I commiserated, ”and you were so looking forward to going down to Oxford.”  (We always said ‘down to Oxford because geographically it was.)

“Oh I’m still going,” she said.  I stared at her, “Well I’ve got all my new clothes.”