‘About this visit,’ he began, and then cleared his throat. He’d remained standing, not in the relaxed way he stood before the fire recounting his exploits on the hunting field but in a rather solemn, important way, which filled her with dread. Stern God the Father.
‘I am afraid there is no question of your staying with this friend. Her father… we were of course very grateful that music lessons… But we had not at that time any idea… there has been unpleasant exposure in the newspapers. Unsavoury is the word, I think…’
‘Tom,’ Mother interrupted sharply, ‘Edwina is not a child.’ She turned to her and said in a very firm voice: ‘Meresia’s father is living at the moment with a person who is not his wife. Do you understand? They are not married, Edwina, so it is quite incorrect – wrong, rather, I should say. Cela ne se fait pas. You understand? Even when a divorce does take place, it would hardly be the m énage…’
She was not to go. What price Christmas then? What point the holidays? She cried all afternoon, a useless, exhausting tantrum, beating with her fists on the bedcover: when someone came, calling out that she was reading, resting, tired after the journey from school. Again and again it flooded over her that Meresia had left, that she would never see her again. At tea-time, white-faced and angry, she said: ‘I should like Fanny to stay.’ Of course, they said, mildly enough, of course. It could be arranged.
‘It is perfectly sickening,’ she wrote to Fanny, taking care to go out and post the letter herself. ‘See if you can get hold of a newspaper.’ She wanted too to write to Meresia, but when she tried she wasn’t able at all. Supposing too, Meresia recognized the pale imitation of her own handwriting? Back went her face into the pillow.
The Party. She had to face the party. And Clare of course. It appeared that Cora was asked too.
Aunt Josephine. Her ally, or so she felt. But she’d been in bed for all the week before Christmas. Edwina had been loath anyway to involve her in the Meresia affair. What could she have done to help? In spite of her friendship with Mother, in spite of her looking so solid, her words didn’t carry much weight.
A card came from Meresia. A little note inside: ‘We were so sorry you couldn’t come. Another time perhaps?’ Fanny wrote too. She couldn’t come, she had too much on. ‘P.S. I found something in a newspaper.’
On Christmas Eve she became ill. From Cora whom she hadn’t wanted to see, she’d acquired a throat, wretchedly thick and coated, so that it hurt whether she swallowed or not. Nurse was surprisingly kind to her. Sarah had left now to get married. Nurse was barely needed, although Cora would not be coming to the convent. There was no point in her leaving home, Mother said, since she was perfectly happy, and so good, and so easy.
But the party was inescapable. She was better, no doubt of it. Not feeling good, but not bad enough to stay behind. There was talk of cod liver oil and iron. She was growing. Mother looked with distaste on Edwina’s growing.
Her hair wouldn’t behave. Not just cotters now, but a horrible habit of not lying any definite way. It seemed to grow independently of her. ‘I hate it,’ she said, on the evening of the party: tugging at it herself, only to see it stick out, slightly greasy, at an angle. She would have liked to have had it washed for the party but it appeared that although she was not ill enough to stay at home she was not well enough for that.
Cora had new shoes and between looking at them in their drawstring bag for half of the journey, and patting her ringlets and tossing her head for the rest, she was an annoying companion. Edwina hoped to lose her early on at the party.
A great log fire burned in the hall and it was warm there but not upstairs where they put their coats. She felt hungry suddenly, the first time since she’d been ill, the first time really since she’d come home. She thought of pastry, mince pies, jellies, savouries, and wanted that part of the party to come quickly.
Clare in a new dress. Lemon georgette so that she looked sallower than ever and not very well. But who was this? She couldn’t believe it. The party only half an hour old and there, standing in the doorway of the library, talking to two other boys and looking restless – as ever – shaking his head, turning it, moving from one foot to (the other: Ned.
They were being marshalled together for some Highland reels to ‘warm everyone up’. She pushed aside some people to get to him before he should move, imagining he might disappear. Quicksilver.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘It’s Edwina Illingworth, from Madame Lambert’s.’
He was pleased, was seen to be the kind of person who didn’t mind at all being interrupted. He even introduced the other two boys to her. One of them called her ‘Miss Illingworth’; the other, a dark thick-set boy, looked very much less pleased. ‘As I was saying…’ he remarked pointedly.
‘Oh, but those classes,’ Ned said. He turned to the others. ‘Edwina and I, we went to these perfectly dreadful dancing classes–’ Then back to her: ‘I say, do you go to school?’
‘With Clare.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘with Clare.’ His eyes darted about.
‘As I was saying,’ the dark boy began, ‘there’s this first-rate notion of having cricket in railway carriages, like on board ship-but you have a pitch in every corridor and passengers can only come out of the compartment when an over’s called…’
It was no good to feel snubbed. And Ned did say ‘See you later,’ as she walked away.
So much food. She ate prodigiously as if from some deep hunger. Three helpings of trifle…
‘Are you all right, my dears? Are you all happy?’ Clare’s father, tall, thin, distinguished, a fragile figure looking as though he’d snap if bent at the waist. He wandered about as though sent on an errand which he’d long ago forgotten. His wife would murmur something and then his face would light up with recognition and for a few moments he’d move purposefully. Then: forgotten again.
For the first game after supper they were told very clearly where they might and might not hide. Edwina scarcely knew her way about and, looking for somewhere, was haunted by the story of the Mistletoe Bough, imagining she saw the skeleton dressed in its faded bridal clothes… She thought: I’ll hide somewhere silly, so obvious that I’ll be found at once.
At first it wasn’t easy. Then suddenly, she came upon somewhere really likely: a sort of linen room, with tables stacked with towels and big baskets full of washing. The cupboards along the length of the wall were too narrow and too hot except for one at the end with two very deep shelves quite empty. The room had undrawn curtains and when she got into the cupboard moonlight filtered weakly through the panels and edges of the door. To make herself comfortable she had to sit with her knees drawn up. She felt warm and quite lively. Her head filled up with some sprightly Mozart, the rhythms insistent, so that her fingers itched. It flashed through her mind as she played: this is what it is to be happy, shut in a semi-dark cupboard, playing Mozart on my knees.
Voices. The light switched on –’Try those cupboards.’ A girl: ‘No, they’re just narrow linen places.’ A boy: ‘Try them all.’ Sounds. ‘One two three – no, they’re all the same.’
‘Ali Baba, in that basket, do you think?’ They laughed and went off. The light still on.
Enough was enough. She had been successful. She turned the doorhandle. Nothing happened. She tried again. It seemed loose – suppose it came away in her hand? She pushed then instead. But nothing yielded.
I want to get out, she thought. I want to be downstairs, back at the party. She called out, ‘I’m in here. Gome and find me.’ She banged on the door with her fists – but her hands, her knuckles, were too precious. She kicked instead.
She began to panic. The trifle rose acidly. She bit on a handkerchief to stop screaming. It was just then that the doorhandle turned. She gave a little high-pitched noise.
‘Hello.’ The door opening. ‘It’s Edwina, isn’t it? I say, you have hidden well. Can I come in, there’s chaps following –’ She moved over a little and Ned climbed in. ‘This is awfully jolly. I
couldn’t –’
She interrupted, her voice a little tearful: ‘You shouldn’t have pulled the door to. Now it won’t open.’
‘No more it won’t. Never mind. We’ll soon be discovered.’
He was sitting as she was, knees drawn up. ‘I can’t see you properly,’ she said.
‘Feel me.’ She reached out. His hair was very silky. She nearly put her fingers in his eyes. ‘Hey – Hey, that hurt. How old are you?’
Thirteen.’
‘Oh crikey, those dancing classes. I’m fifteen now – Those days one just did as one was told. Now I do what I want.’ ‘Can you?’
There are ways and means.’ He had his same urgent manner of talking as if in a hurry to get the next thought out. ‘Not at school of course. But at home – Mother’s always rather busy with being beautiful. It takes a lot of time, I can assure you. Father doesn’t admire her enough. He’s all tied up with money. The Baltic Exchange. Your mother’s not like that?’
What was Mother like? ‘No, not really –’
‘You’re not as fat as I remember. What sort of things do you like doing?’
‘I play the piano very well.’
‘Good for you, so do I, I play by ear a lot. Pick things up. I used to rather like operetta.’ He whistled: That’s the Waltz from Countess Maritza –’
‘when do you go back to school?’
‘Next week. End of.’
‘Come and see us,’ she said.
‘Yes, yes I might. Thanks awfully.’ He was restless again. ‘This really is rather fun. I wonder if they’ll find us soon? Actually I think I did give a hint to Woodward where I might be trying –’
‘What sort of flower is that? It smells nice.’
‘I’ll give it you.’ He pulled at his lapel. ‘Let’s put it in your hairband, here. All right? Hunky dory?’ He eased his legs. ‘I say, remember Laurence?’
They went away just after you did. He’s going to be a diplomat.’
‘Is he really? What I’d–’
Voices. Noise. Banging at the cupboards. ‘Come on out! The game’s over. Is that Edwina Illingworth? They’re looking for you. Your little sister is crying.,.’
A snivelling Cora, her bag clasped to her tummy, swinging her legs.
‘You didn’t need to cry,9 Edwina said. ‘They were coming for us in a bit. You’re just too young to be asked.’
‘Sucks. I didn’t cry to go. I was crying because of going. So. Anyway I know something you don’t –’
‘Well?’ She hated her own curiosity. ‘Well?’
‘The peacocks might have to go. Nurse said. No one loves them and they make too much noise. If they do someone is going to do a painting or take a photograph of them walking about – like those ones on the stairs.’
‘Really–’
She remembered, felt in her hair. The flower had gone.
A new term. A new year. ‘Keep some toast over from elevenses,’ Fanny said. ‘In this paper bag. I want to eat it with toothpaste. Annette says it’s ripping.’ They spiralled on pink Euthymol, making a fat pattern. Fanny was nearly sick. Edwina was.
‘It might be better with biscuits,’ Fanny said. ‘We’ll try again.’ Edwina said, as casually as she could: ‘You didn’t say what you’d found. In a newspaper – about Meresia.’
‘That? Old hat now. It was all about some actor Lydia M. wanted to marry and the father wouldn’t give her a divorce, but now she was getting one herself because of a Mrs something who’s a singer. It was full of words like adultery and petition and cohabitation – I found it in Whitby Library actually –’
‘You might have copied it out for me,’ Edwina said.
‘It wasn’t that interesting,’ said Fanny, shrugging her shoulders and walking off. As likely as not she would be in an odd mood for the rest of that day. She was full that term of odd moods, saying suddenly to Edwina for no reason: ‘You’re only sucking up to me because I’ve got tuck,’ or ‘Look at your phiz, who’d ever want a phiz like that?’
‘Do you want to be my friend?’ Edwina asked.
‘What if I do: what if I don’t? You can pair with anyone you please. I shan’t invite you home though – ‘ They were standing outside when she said that, in the garden just where the formal part was about to finish and sandy grass took over, before the path led down the cliff. It was a day of sudden winter sunshine: Robin Hood’s Bay, red pantiles huddled, was clearly visible. I must be able to go home with her. It was as if standing there she could fly suddenly over the sands to the small house in Bay and cups of tea and hot cakes and sitting on Ben’s knee. She had belonged. She did belong – for no reason she could see. And Fanny was the key which opened the door.
Three Daughters of the United Kingdom dragged on. So did her embroidery. A spider with two legs longer than the others: all to be done again. And who cared whether Beatrice de Woodville became a nun or not?
Then those meals: Communion pudding again today. The gooseberry jam seemed to have fermented. Ugh. And yet when you thought about it, it was a step away only from the Body of Our Lord. ‘Do you suppose,’ she pushed the remains round on her plate, ‘does anyone think that Jesus really sat with his apostles and they all ate this squidgy tasteless stuff. I mean, great grown men. Fishermen.’ She thought of Ben and the others. ‘Having that for their supper…’
‘I heard,’ Clare told them all, ‘about a nun or it might have been a monk – at any rate they live on just that. So holy that the Body of Christ is food enough.’
Fanny, who hadn’t touched hers, said, ‘So what?’ and tipped her plateful behind the hot pipes. From force of habit Edwina glanced towards the head of the long table. Hermione sat there now.
No Meresia. A dull ache, every night and often in the day, although sometimes it surprised her that it wasn’t more. She had thought it would be unbearable.
Music, oasis in the desert of the week, that was what saved her. Those wonderful lessons. Whereas before she could do no right, now she could do no wrong. Mistakes, whether from carelessness or ignorance or over-enthusiasm, were something you learned from immediately. He too: ‘I learn always from who I teach. Every day something. And my teacher said, when I was the pupil –’
She loved Cristina, because for Cristina too she could do no wrong. She had only to sit there and eat, and she was right. They loved her for being Edwina.
She was lent scores to take home. She read them at night with a torch under the bedclothes. ‘You’re mad,’ Fanny told her. ‘You’re getting much too serious about it.’
She explained. She was going to play in public. It would be what she’d do with her life. As she said it, she knew that she had always meant to. And Uncle Frederick had meant her to. She would straddle the world.
‘You are assy,’ was all Fanny said.
Clare, who had coughed all the first month of term, went home for a week. She came back with a gramophone which they were allowed to play in the library. The records were mostly of a tenor called Gervase Elwes. Clare said he had been to stay often. ‘Of course if you’ve never actually heard him sing Gerontius…’
These were Shakespeare songs. Mother Anselm approved. ‘Blow blow thou winter wind…’ The sound, faint but pleasing, was part of the white landscape, the February frost, the rime-covered garden, the grey sea.
Not Fanny’s taste though. John McGormack, that was real singing, she said in the angry voice she used so often now. Madge said, smirking, ‘You’ve got a pash for him.’
‘Yes,’ said Fanny hotly, ‘I have, as a matter of fact.’ She’d managed to get hold of a photograph of him and had it by her bed, next to the one of Uncle Clive. Mother Anselm, seeing it, asked: ‘And who may that be, Frances?’ Fanny said, ‘That may be my uncle, Mother.’ She smiled so as to make a dimple. ‘After all,’ she said to Edwina later, ‘it isn’t as if Uncle Clive is real either.’
Two days later Edwina, her partner on a dreary afternoon walk, saw her burst suddenly into angry tears.
‘I want a father
.’
‘But you’ve got one.’ Edwina said it without thinking.
‘A real father.’ Tears of rage, it seemed, welled up. ‘I want to know all about my real father. I don’t even have a photograph. And they –’ she flung her arm over in the direction of Bay –’they close up. Like those mussels they’re always skeining. Auntie just says, “He was a fine man.” They even muddle me and tell me things like, “He lived in that house for a bit” then next time it’s a different one. He came from away, they say. Then, he and my mother lived in a house built on to Grandad’s because of him being at sea. That’s another story –’
‘But your family in Whitby,’ Edwina said, ‘you even look like them. That’s really belonging.’ Fanny just shook her head.
Later that day though, as if nothing had happened, the old Fanny: ‘My dear, have you heard?’ Leaning over the lavatory partition, ‘An absolute deathly secret and you’re not to tell a soul – Clare wasn’t meant to but she wanted some of my plum cake-It’s about her aunt. She’s going. Out, assy. Into the world. She’s lost her vocation. She’s taking her money with her too. They’re frightfully upset. We won’t get butter on our bread any more…’
There was a letter-card from Meresia, views of Nice folded up concertina-like. The handwriting gave her an odd feeling. She must have tried, and succeeded, more than she thought. Meresia told her about the divorce. Now she was out here for the winter. ‘I feel I’ve lived this sort of life for ages, and yet it’s only eight weeks!’ Then: ‘Your music I so believe in you. And so does Daddy. You can do great things. And remember the parable of the talents…’
All that morning she floated, along the corridors, through the classrooms. She would become the greatest pianist the world had ever known. To please Meresia.
She looked at Mother Scholastica with new eyes now. And Mother Scholastica too seemed to have different eyes. Alternately defiant or slightly tearful. Perhaps leaving wasn’t so easy?
Men On White Horses Page 15
