Sonia and Jennifer

It would be reasonably to say that my life came to an abrupt halt after such a sudden sharp cut of the final chords which had held Jennifer and I together ... Thoughts whirling about in my head, completely confused over an ending that had taken little more than moments, unsure if it really had taken place, the erupted violence, so reminiscent of long ago, of Australia, something imagined buried within me for all time.

Mark stood at the top of the stairs as I crept slowly back up. Jennifer's screams still hard in my ears, unable to think of anything other than mechanically make the tea, sit the silent child at the table, put some food in front of him. Went back into the Big room, looked from the window, some idea that she may have returned after getting little further than Finsbury Park ... time to cool down, to see our relative positions, the position of Mark. Half kidded myself that "she would creep back" ... mentally using Mark as bait. The common, immediate, unthinking ploy ... No... nothing. The red buses trundling disconsolately by ... the geese, ducks, idle on the black water of the Pond. A few punters sprawled on the wooden benches of the pub, pints of beer before them. Ancient, battered Volvos, their strange bearded, black dressed drivers, hanging hazardously to the steering wheels, the vehicles crammed tight with women and so very many children. Had never heard any argument from these people ... never seen them throwing women in the street ... never seen them sitting in the Sunshine of the Pub ... beer sloped down on them ... Never seen them do anything other than walk, to the meeting place, usually seven thirty a.m. Children to school nine a.m. Pick them up four p.m. Walk, almost silently, about "with their children" until perhaps two in the morning ... never heard them raise their voices. Maybe something for me to learn from their existence. Too late, had my chance for all that with Ruth ... another life ago.


Maybe, conceivably, she would ring. Completely without any conception as to what I would do within the next moments of my existence, other than wait for this event, happening. Could think of nothing at all, brain numb after the night's turmoil, the day's fighting. My mind wavered, perhaps she had gone to Sonia's who was her only female friend. Someone who had been top hustler at Churchill's, Harry Meadows' top girl, he had lavished untold wealth upon her, completely captivated by her looks, her totally laid back attitude and her very sharp brain. The fact she had four children at the time of meeting him having been no short circuit to the Voltage flow between them. The children had benefited from his complete infatuation of their Mother, his munificence. Being sent off to a private school ... out of the way, nevertheless beyond their wildest dreams. The Gentleman would have his chauffeur drive food down to them at their weekend retreat in the Roller. No cooking, nothing so menial. Flights to Paris, French Riviera. Indeed the life of the rich, not that of a quiet country girl up from Ireland with nothing but her beauty. Sonia struck pure gold after running with her children from the drunken, navy husband. Her life transformed into a fairy tale. A flat overlooking Regent's Park, "Bentick Court". Who could have a better address? where is there a smarter place to live? A new M.G. sports car parked smart on the forecourt, the creepy, subservient doormen, bowing and scraping to her as she swept magnificently, in and out, rushing to open doors, call the lift, carry her parcels from Harrods, from Harvey Nick's, from the smart, discrete shops at Knightsbridge and along the Old Brompton Road.

A dream beyond Sonia's wildest. Not undeserved. A most charming Lady, a natural elegance, a reserve older women would give anything for. They had been Sonia's high years, Jennifer's also, she too having crept in on the act.

Realising much later, much later what had transpired, each evening at a punctual 8.30 p.m., her rush to get to Bond Street, her evening dress, a different one every night. Poor Peter, still believing in her at the very beginning... that she was the Cashier, she was... for sure, never having seen so much money in her hot little hand all at one time.

How she and Sonia had met up, how Jennifer, from a cripple to a top girl at Churchill's .... until this day remains a mystery. Certainly it had been a struggle to put her on her feet from my point of view, oblivious, initially, that my efforts were being directed along some road beyond conception.

Jennifer realised I had a very good idea what she should look like, how she should present herself, insisting that she had to be the business 'at the Front Desk' ... Would spend hours chasing about sorting dresses, very expensive ones, getting her hair cut smart, short, sharp, my mind seeing her dressed reminiscent of a twenties flapper. It worked. Her world took off in every respect, in every way. She lost sight of Peter ... of Hackney.... Hackney, somewhere for her to go, to refuel, to rest up, to take a deep breath, to see her Son long enough to give him expensive clothes and presents, to then give him back to me, tiring quickly of the mundane, her World in a whirl ... to wave gaily from the back, black limousine window to us both, being driven swiftly, silently, away.
...
Over, for her and for myself. This, an inescapable fact, a complete conviction, the nerve ends of the affair dangling, still acutely sensitive, irreparably broken. Nothing had changed, other than this time round left with a child, some reminder, some tangible evidence of what once had been .

A new dimension to an old situation. A child between Ruth and myself, but denied it by Society, an outcry against what may have been. Strangely now, "what people would say". This flying in the very face of the accepted conventions not going to be tolerated, under any terms, especially by the Mother. Ruth herself, paralysed by the outcry, by the overwhelming orthodoxy ... ... the simple fact of having our child. She was to remain without children after such an experience, preferring to hide amongst the green baize of the gaming tables, the cigarette smoke, the long, endless nights. The cards monotonously shuffling by the time of her existence.