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Cover by Cornel Lucas/ Pictor International. Top By Jersea. Shoulder Bag By Brighton Belle.
Stories
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Appointment in Prague . . . . 2 Just Beginning: This Romantic Thriller. By Judy Chard. A Woman's Work 25 It's never done, so sometimes it has to be abandoned. By Carol Adorjan. The Memory Box 36 // took a journey into the past to open it. By Jean Sounders. Life And The Wadhams . . . 49 By E. M. Holland. The Girl At The Window .. 56 She was so close - and ye* so far away. By Stella Whitelaw.
LARE HOWARD, a freelance illustrator, was relaxing in the London flat she shared with her mother, Laura, who worked in the Department of Education. Clare had seen her widowed mother off on a holiday to Scotland only a few days before. Alan, Clare's boyfriend, had gone up north on a course for his firm, for six months. He'd talked of a wedding when he returned, but Clare wasn't sure marriage was what she wanted right now. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Puzzled, Clare answered the bell, to find a complete stranger there. He introduced himself as Detective-Sergeant Fredericks. He had come to inform her that her mother was unconscious in hospital, in Prague. Clare breathed a sigh of relief — there must have been a mistake. Her mother was in Scotland. However, the policeman was adamant, and produced a copy of the photo in Laura Howard's passport, wired from Prague. He went on to tell Clare that a flight would be arranged for her the next day, and she would be taken to the hospital to identify her mother. Clare made the journey as if in a dream, and was met at the airport by Patrick Ellis, an Embassy employee. At the hospital, it was explained to Clare that her mother had been involved in a car crash. Clare was led to the bed where the victim lay, and to her astonishment recognised her mother. Clare was then accompanied by Patrick to the hotel booked for her, the same hotel her mother had been going to. She was totally bewildered. As they entered Laura Howard's room, Clare saw a bowl of roses on a small table, with a card propped against them. On it, she saw a message in a foreign language. "Is it Czech?" she asked Patrick. Patrick took the card. "It says, 'With deepest affection. Yuri.' And it's in Russian
JUST BEGINNING: Our Compelling New Romantic Thriller Specially Written By JUDY CHARD
Features Bill McAdam: The Vicar Who Raises Roofs — And Eyebrows A Special Report. By Catherine Gibson. Frances Hatfield Answers A Problem Are You A Peer Amongst Men? By Eileen Elias. Crossword Mary O'Hara — Living In Harmony With Her World A Special Interview. By Valerie Ward. Follow Your Star Ready . . . Steady . . . Heave! A Special Report on Tug-Of-War. By Irene Dancyger. Your Own Page The Sweet Smell Of Success By A. Irwin. Walls Have Ears By Roni Borden. Between Ourselves
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Crochet A Real Head-Turner! A Charming Shawl.
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Cookery A Touch Of The Sun Special Grape Recipes.
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Fashion Double Take ............. Two Super Slim -Line Skirts.
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Appoint In Prague Here at last was the man her mother had crossed Europe to meet.
LARE and Patrick stood without C speaking for a moment. He turned the card over in his hands before putting it in his pocket. Clare couldn't understand why, but the card had somehow brought back all the menace of the events surrounding her mother. She felt as though Patrick had withdrawn slightly, and was watching her more closely. "There's no point in staying here," he said suddenly. "Shall I bring the vase of flowers along to your room?" She shook her head. "No, leave them here." For some reason they only added to her anxiety. He smiled briefly, and took her arm. "Come on. Let's find your room. What you need is a good night's sleep. I'll have a meal sent up to your room, with a glass of brandy. I don't suppose you've slept properly since you first heard about the
APPOINTMENT IN PRAGUE Continued from Page 17.
the ballet, for tonight. I can't pronounce the name of the theatre, but I could spell it . . ." "Never mind about that. What time is the performance?" "Eight o'clock." There was a long silence and Clare wondered if they'd been cut off. "Patrick?" "I'm still here. I was just thinking. Is there any message at all with it? Could the desk clerk tell you who handed it in and when?" "No, he couldn't. It was a different clerk from the one on duty when I arrived, and he was much more helpful. He told me there'd been several phone calls for my mother from a man who didn't leave his name. "As for the message, all there is is one word — 4 Remember' — written on the back, and I think it looks like the same writing as on the card with the roses." There was another silence, before Patrick finally said, "You must go, and all we can hope is that it may throw some light on the situation. I'll be at the hotel about half-past seven to pick you up. We'll discuss the details when I see you." "Right, Patrick. I'll be ready. I just hope what you say is true — that this is our first breakthrough into the mystery of what brought my mother here in the first place. 'Bye, and thank you." She heard the click as he replaced the receiver.
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S Clare dressed, she thought how strange it felt, preparing to go to a strange theatre alone to look for a man she had never even seen, knew nothing about; but a man who meant something to her mother, something very special . . . Patrick arrived at exactly the time he'd mentioned. Clare was very much on edge, and he was quick to realise it. "You look very nice. I'm only sorry there's just one ticket!" he said lightly, glad to see his comment bring a smile to her rather sombre face. "I'm sorry too. I could do with some moral support." She passed Patrick the ticket. He turned it over, and took the other card, the one which had come with the flowers, from his pocket. "I'm no expert, but I would say the writing's the same. The reservation is for one of the two most expensive boxes in the 18
theatre." He glanced at her. "I don't suppose you could possibly come to the theatre with me?" Clare asked tentatively. "I hate the idea of going by myself. There's something about this which sends shivers up my spine." Patrick spoke gently but firmly.
"I think it's important at the moment that you should be alone, and be seen to be alone." "It's not knowing who I'm looking for. Do you think whoever it is will be alone? What would I do if it turned out to be a party?" Patrick was silhouetted against the window. "I can't really give you any exact advice, but I think the party idea is unlikely. You'll have to weigh up the situation for yourself. I'm sure you'll be able to handle it. "One thing I promise — however long it takes you, I'll wait for you. There's a wine bar next door to the theatre. Come straight there." She glanced at him quickly, but couldn't see his expression in the darkening room. She wondered if she had been wrong in imagining the tension in his voice. As they drove to the theatre, Patrick did his best to keep Clare's mind off the coming ordeal. He talked of Prague, pointing out various places of interest, many of them illuminated in the darkness. k *lt's one of the most beautiful cities I've ever known," he enthused. "I love it, and I promise to show you around while you're here. I'll help you relax a bit while your mother is in hospital." "You're very kind," she said, appreciating his attempt to ease her tension as they came closer to the time of her arrival at the theatre. If only she'd some idea of what lay in wait for her . . . She shivered, and dragged her attention back to Patrick, still talking about his beloved Prague. "Music is a very important part of life here; sometimes it's almost as if the city itself breathes music. You must try to see the Jaros singing fountain with its little metal toys that spray forth a shower of notes as the water falls back on the metal." Clare couldn't imagine Alan ever being so enthusiastic. Patrick was such an outgoing Continued on Page 22. >
NARY O'HARA-
Living In Harmony With Her World Mary O'Hara has been asked many times to tell the moving story of her past life in a convent. We asked her instead to take stock of the years since then and tell us how she sees the future . . .
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Mary with her famous harp.
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m Saying hello to a friend.
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ITHIN seconds of my knocking on Mary O'Hara's door, at her beautiful cottage in the country, there came the sound of her calling from an upstairs window: ''Hello. I've just washed my hair. I'll be down in a few minutes." During those few minutes I thought of how many times I had watched Mary giving a performance. And it occurred to me that I must be one of millions of people who feel that she emanates a tremendous charisma. I found myself equally aware of it when she came to her door to welcome me with a warm handshake and a smile that at once conveyed her
serenity, graciousness and gorgeous sense of humour. Mary immediately led the way through to her kitchen, one of the few rooms in the cottage that she has not decorated herself. She opened the fridge and offered me a cup of milk fresh from the cows on a nearby farm. Mary herself loves it. But I could have tea if I preferred. And how about an oatmeal biscuit with it? She always eats health foods, she told me. She's been encouraging everyone within ill-fed sight to do the same since she was seventeen. She doesn't grow her own food, but she can buy organically-grown vegetables from the farm. Once I'd had my tea my hostess suggested we carry on our chat upstairs in her living-room. She said she hoped I liked it, then added amusingly that I was to say I liked it otherwise she'd bomp me on the head! It is a charming room with a slanting ceiling that lends a cosy, tucked-in atmosphere. Above Mary's desk is a
A Special Interview Valerie Ward
window through which pours any available sunlight to reflect on white walls adorned with a few pictures. Small collections of shells and pebbles grace the tops of some of the bookshelves. And the floor, covered with woven matting, plays host to a television set, and stacks of mainly classical records surrounding a record player. As we made ourselves comfortable â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Mary on the sofa, me in an armchair â&#x20AC;&#x201D; the presence of two of her beautiful harps turned my thoughts to her career. Remembering that Mary had left Stanbrook (the convent she entered some years after her husband's death) because of ill-health, I asked if she had intended to start singing again so soon afterwards. ''I had planned not to sing for about six months to a year and just get well again," she replied. "But it attacked me as soon as I came out. "I came out in October 74 and in the November I flew to Dublin because a member of my family was seriously ill. "While I was in Dublin I was lassoed into appearing on 'The Late, Late Show,' which is a much-watched Saturday-night Irish television programme. I did my level best to get out of it. "Finally I gave in. To this day I'm glad that I did because the response was tremendous. It was like after my first appearance on the 'Russell Harty Show' in October 77. I had to go back the following week." After "The Late, Late Show" Mary was asked to do a lot of radio work. Then, in the following March, a producer friend in Scotland invited her to broadcast on BBC radio. That same month Mary managed to get away by herself to a tiny Greek island for a badlyneeded holiday. But her return to success had already begun to echo the way her career began back in the late Fifties. "When I was in my late teens I discovered I was getting little forms slipped through my front door," Mary recalled. "They were contracts from Radio Eirrean. I didn't ask for them. Ttiey just came. "Then, people who were putting on shows around Ireland would hear me on radio and say, 'Come and do such-and-such/ That's how it all started. Then I crossed the water." Y the time Mary was twenty she had her own BBC television series. Five years later, when she entered Stanbrook, her fame was international. The thought crossed my mind that while Mary was growing up she might have had ideas of following a very different profession. "No. Never," she replied. "I didn't even think of singing until I was eighteen. Fortunately I was in a position where I didn't have to worry about earning a living because my parents were well-off. "It just so happened that I got work bit by bit and before I knew where I was I was earning my own living. I have been very blessed in that I have never had financial worry. I have been blessed in many ways, but that is one of them. "Even when I left Stanbrook I had relatives and friends who'd leap in at any moment. I tried to be as independent as I possibly could. But there was never any question of being on the breadline." So much has happened to Mary since she resumed her career. Quite apart from countless television and radio appearances, it's been a case of "all seats sold" for her two concerts at The Royal Festival Hall, another at the Albert Hall, and a week at the London Palladium.
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Mary loves the country life.
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MARYO'HARA Continued from Page 19.
Then there have been three new albums; concerts at Carnegie Hall in New York and Massey Hall in Toronto; being voted Irish Person Of The Year 1978 . . . and much, much more. I asked Mary if she looks back on the past few years with affection. She considered the word "affection/' "I certainly wouldn't have used that term. I wouldn't even have thought of using it for previous phases of my life. Gratitude is a better word/' she said, then added warmly, "and wonder." That was not the only occasion during our conversation that Mary carefully selected the right words to express her feelings. She loves words, she said, but she does not write words for songs. She either takes a poem that means a lot to her and sets it to music, or she gets someone else to write words for her. "I have set two of my husband's poems to music," Mary told me. "I have to live with a poem for a long time before a tune comes. I'm a reluctant composer, and a somewhat reluctant singer, too." My surprise on hearing that last remark brought a smile to Mary's face. "You see, I'm not ambitious and I'm not competitive/' she explained. "Things descend on me, you know. I have never been a success seeker. Maybe if I had been ambitious, all the things that have happened to me wouldn't have happened. Who knows? "I do have one ambition, though," she commented. "I'd like to have a portable tennis court. I love tennis. When the weather is fine I usually manage to victimise somebody into playing with me." That brought us to talking about some of the other things that occupy Mary when she is at home. "People don't realise that I have a lot of essential work to do here. It's preparing new material. It's composing, when I have the right words around me. It's practice, practice, practice on harp arrangements that have gone stale, or that I haven't used for maybe fifteen years. "So there's that work to do every day. Then there's this house to run, which I enjoy," Mary went on. "I also have a lot of letters to write."
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S often as possible Mary enjoys having friends visit her. But, inevitably, her busy career makes social planning rather difficult. "I don't mind that because my friends are very understanding. I have been blessed with very deep friendships," she said warmly. "These friendships that we have transcend having to see each other. We write. We phone. We try to see each other. But if we can't, the bond is still there. One day the heat will be on less." Talking to Mary in this relaxed atmosphere, and hearing her occasionally spice her bright conversation with finely-observed Cockney and American accents, I realised that this was a view of her that her audiences never have. Before each of her performances she is absolutely tense with nerves. That is partly why she finds it essential to have some time alone before a concert. "It's a vicious circle, but a good and right one. If you didn't have the nervousness you wouldn't give the performance you give. Therefore you wouldn't give the pleasure you give. So it's a necessary evil, as I think any performer worth his or her salt will tell you. "But there is a fulfillment," Mary declared. "It's a creative thing. You're going through a kind of agony, but you're being fed at the same time." When I remarked to her that it rather sounded as if singing gives her no pleasure at alt Mary laughed. "It does give me pleasure, but after the event," she said. "What pleases me is the response of the audience, either collectively or individually. That's what makes it all worth while." Then, referring to her voice, Mary went on, "In a way you've been given this thing. And obviously, if you're getting this kind of response, you've been given it to use. "If I didn't give the pleasure I give I wouldn't sing, I can tell you." All too soon, it seemed, it was time to leave. And as Mary waved farewell from her doorstep I thought of the point in our conversation when I had asked her how she thinks of fame in terms of herself. "I don't think of it at all," she had replied. "I just get on with my work." But Mary's fame is such that, naturally enough, people recognise her and want to say hello. "You cancel their warmth," she had said. "They seem very discreet. They say what warm thing they have to say and go away. It's a nice, happy, brief experience." And that's exactly what it's like to spend a few hours at home with Mary. A nice, happy, experience.
(shieken Succulent, juicy chicken breasts are so tender you hardly need a knife to cut them. Keep some in your freezer and you'll always have the makings of a quick'ri easy meal at remarkably low cost. They're delicious fried and a delight served like this. Sprinkle 4 large chicken breasts with salt, brown in butter then remove. Stir loz flour, salt, pepper, 2tbs brown sugar into remaining butter until smooth. Slowly stir 8oz orange juice and Soz^ water. Reduce heat, add chicken, cover and simmer 30 minutes. /^5a \ Garnish with orange segments, and fresh rosemary
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