by Jilly Cooper
Tinkle, tinkle went the ice in the glasses. Conversation became more extravagant. The ashtrays filled and spilled over. My smile was as brittle as a dried chicken-bone, as I saw the passionate concentration on Pendle’s face each time he talked to Maggie. I talked to one of Rose’s bridge friends about hats.
Everyone fell over Coleridge and Wordsworth who, bored of barking at the door bell, stretched out in front of the blazing log fire. The room was impossibly hot because Rose, worried that Professor Copeland might not appreciate the chilliness of large English houses, had also turned the central heating up full blast.
The Professor arrived late, and stood in the doorway for a minute with his head held high so that everyone stopped talking and looked at him.
‘He likes to make an entrance,’ said Maggie.
He was wearing a grey herring bone jacket, a blue denim button-down shirt, a black knitted tie, grey flannel trousers, and a big black velours hat, which he left in the hall. In his middle forties, he was one of those tall thin, craggy Galbrathian American intellectuals with an impossibly slow drawling voice, who one felt ought to have one hip permanently hitched on to a broken column and be rabbiting on about the beauties of ancient civilization. He was also without doubt the man I’d seen creeping out in his stockinged feet that morning.
Almost immediately Rose brought him over to meet me.
‘Pru’s a writer too,’ she said airily, ‘so I know you’ll get along.’
Professor Copeland concentrated on lighting a revolting pipe, looked at me with hooded eyes, and in a slow drawling voice asked what I was working on at the moment.
I was tempted to say Pendle, then said I was only a copywriter, and at present was wrestling with a tinned peaches campaign.
‘Not South African, I hope?’
I stifled a yawn, and shook my head, and Professor Copeland in between puffs went on to say that he’d never met an ad man who didn’t yearn to be a real creative writer, and he was ‘darn sure’ I’d got a half finished ‘narvel’ in my bottom drawer.
Stifling another yawn, I asked him what he was working on at the moment. He said he was researching a ‘narvel’, which was set in Africa, which he found ethnically interesting, and what a lonely business writing was, and how he’d given up teaching, because he found it so exhausting to ‘carncentrate’ on creative writing. And on and on and on. God, he was a monster, as long in inches as he was short on charm. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Maggie bending over the sofa talking to Pendle. I didn’t like the way she was letting her hand trail along the back of his neck.
‘What’s your novel about?’ I said.
Immediately Professor Copeland waved a long finger at me.
‘No, no,’ he said, crinkling his eyes in what he no doubt thought was a fascinating smile, ‘I’ve had so many good plots pinched in the past. I know you wouldn’t do it deliberately, but you’d be bound to talk about it when you get back to London. I know what vultures these advertising men are.’
‘I hope you’ve insured the bit you’ve already written,’ I said crossly.
‘Come on, Professor, drink up,’ said Jack, managing to top up Copeland’s glass and pat my bottom at the same time.
‘Well just a small one,’ said Copeland. ‘Normally, I don’t drink, I find it dulls the senses, but I’ve had an exhausting week, I guess, so I owe myself a little relaxation with wine and charming women.’
It was really Rose’s evening. What with Vatman, Admiral Walker, Copeland, and sundry elderly letches vying for her favours, she was well away. She put an old record of Night and Day on the gramophone, and danced around waving her cigarette holder in time to the music and sending a cloud of ash on to the floor.
‘Come along Admiral,’ she said gaily, ‘start the ball rolling.’
The Admiral, who had a red face and a laugh like Basil Brush, whistled through his moustache with excitement, and clutched Rose gingerly as if she was a bag of eggs.
‘If I hold you up to my ear, Admiral,’ said Rose, fluttering her eyelashes, ‘will I be able to hear the sea?’
‘God awful old bore,’ said Copeland scathingly as the Admiral breathed even faster, ‘never stops verbalizing about his darned convoys. I better talk with him later this evening to get some more material. I’ve got a blimpish character like him in my novel,’ and he was off.
Really it was impossible to tear Copeland away from himself for more than a second. Thank God, the record ended, and Rose claimed him for the next dance. Next moment, Vatman had taken the floor. He had removed his jacket to show great sweaty patches under his armpits, and was sweeping one of Rose’s bridge friends round like something out of Come Dancing.
I inherited the Admiral, who stood, bristling with rage, watching Copeland and Rose.
‘Damn shame Mulholland isn’t alive,’ he muttered. ‘Never have let a pansy like that in here. Nor would young Ace for that matter. When’s he coming home?’
‘Some time tomorrow,’ I said.
‘About time too. Place has gone to rack and ruin since he left. Best of the bunch, you know. Oh Jack’s got charm, but he can’t really carry his corn, and as for that Pendle, chilly fella; always seems to have given too many pints of blood.’
I knew I ought to defend Pendle, but the Admiral seemed about to have a coronary over Copeland as it was.
‘Never have allowed a pansy like that in here,’ he muttered again.
‘He’s writing a book about Africa,’ I said.
‘Never bin there. Don’t want to. Full of blackamores. Can’t trust these writer chappies. Just read a biography of Monty. Fella made out he was a homo, damned cheek.’
I tried to distract him with small talk, but it was like trying to amuse a dog tied up outside the supermarket, waiting for its mistress to come out.
Vatman, his bald patch glistening with sweat now, paused in his fishtails and telemaques to help himself to some pâté and biscuits on the table. Rose’s bridge friend took the opportunity to escape his clutches.
‘Where on earth did Rose dig him up?’ she said in a horrified whisper.
I left her and the Admiral to it, and went and stood by Pendle.
‘You made me love you, I didn’t want to do it,’ sang Al Jolson.
‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ said Pendle with a slightly twisted smile.
‘Surprisingly, yes,’ I said. Oh why didn’t he ask me to dance?
Vatman, who was really getting uncorked now, was trying to cut in on Copeland and Rose.
‘May I personally congratulate the lovely lady of the house on her pâté,’ he said, ‘and request the pleasure of a dance?’
‘In a minute, Arnold,’ cried Rose merrily.
Vatman helped himself to more pâté, washed down by several other people’s drinks. Pendle and I watched him fascinated. Suddenly there was a gasp of horror behind us. It was Maggie; she had turned green.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Pendle.
‘Do you recognize the pâté bowl?’ she said faintly.
‘It’s nearly empty,’ I said.
‘It belongs to Coleridge and Wordsworth. I forgot to put it down for them. Ramsbum’s downed an entire tin of Chappie.’
We all looked at each other in horror, then collapsed in uncontrollable giggles.
‘I’d better whisk it away,’ said Maggie, wiping her eyes, ‘before Ramsbum starts lifting his leg.’
‘Gimme gimme what I cry for,’ sang Professor Copeland in a pleasant baritone, foxtrotting past with Rose.
‘You know you’ve got the kind of kisses that I’d die for,’ sang Rose, smiling up at him.
The Admiral went purple.
God, the poor Admiral, I thought. It’s all too much like follow-my-leader. The absent Linn after Copeland, the Admiral after Rose, Jack after me, me after Pendle, Pendle, I dreaded, after Maggie, and Maggie, I imagined, after Ace when he arrived.
I’d had too much to drink. ‘Everyone’s in love with the wrong people in this house,’ I said to
Pendle.
He looked at me sharply. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
But before I had time to answer, Jack came over and asked me to dance. I wasn’t very steady on my feet, but as it was old-fashioned music I was entitled to cling on to him.
‘Did you have a meaningful duologue with the Professor?’ he asked.
‘He’s ghastly,’ I said. ‘The Admiral think’s he’s a pouf. Do you?’
‘No, dear,’ said Jack, putting on a camp voice, ‘but he helps out if they’re busy.’
It wasn’t all that funny, but I fell about laughing. Jack’s arms tightened round me. ‘Christ, you’re pretty.’
When the record ended, Maggie got up and put on a Rod Stewart record.
And then she started to dance by herself. The way she slid into the rhythm was unbelievable — jungle, sensual. I quickly looked at Pendle, but his face was turned towards her. He was incredibly still.
‘Come on, Pen,’ she said softly. ‘Come and dance with me.’
In one fluid movement, he got up. He’d never danced with me, but with Maggie he was inspired. I’ve never seen anything so provocative as the way they moved their hips. Pendle’s face was completely deadpan. Undulating there, he looked once again as pale and slim and dangerous as a cobra. I was reminded of the way he had behaved in court.
The rest of us were mesmerized. Only Rose and Copeland continued to resolve noisily in one corner.
Jack lit a cigarette and handed it to me, and then lit one for himself. ‘I’m afraid we’ve just witnessed a chemical reaction,’ he said flatly. ‘Come and look at the moon.’ He took my arm and led me into the hall, where Vatman was on the telephone. ‘But Monica I shall be home shortly,’ he was saying, ‘but there is a lot of paperwork to go through.’
Jack took me into the dining-room. He didn’t bother to switch on the light. There was no moon outside. It was hidden by pale, luminous clouds scurrying across the sky. The rain had stopped, and the lake gleamed white in the valley.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Jack. ‘I love this place, even if it is falling to pieces. Maggie hates it. I often feel if I packed in the works and got a job in London, she’d be happier.’
‘She’s very beautiful,’ I said dully.
‘Pendle’s just wanted her for a long time.’ At last it was out in the open. I stood very still.
‘But she doesn’t want him?’
‘Doesn’t she?’ Jack drew on his cigarette, ‘I don’t know. She certainly wants him to go on wanting her, which comes to the same thing. He ought to live with her for six months; that would cure him.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ I said miserably. ‘Why did he bring me up here?’
‘I guess he heard rumours that Maggie and I were having trouble — probably from my mother, who loves stirring things. He knows my weakness for redheads, particularly beautiful ones, and brought you up here as bait. The one thing that drives Maggie mad is my chasing after other women.’
‘Then you think Pendle doesn’t give a damn for me?’ I tried to stop my voice trembling.
‘I think you’ve been dealt a marked card, darling. Whether he likes you or not is immaterial. The only thing he wants is to get Maggie back and he’s waited a long time to get her. Beneath that rock-hard exterior there’s a heart of stone.’ Oh dear, he might have been Rodney talking. ‘I’m telling you this because I like you — very much — and I want you to get out before you get in too deep.’
I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks at the futility of the last few months.
‘I’ve made you cry. I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I sobbed. ‘I’m sorry for you, too. Can I borrow your handkerchief please?’ It was silk and smelt of expensive aftershave. I blew my nose noisily.
‘I got it all wrong,’ I said. ‘I thought he was serious because he didn’t make a pass at me. People usually do, you see.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jack, and took me very gently in his arms.
It’s strange how unhappiness sparks off a mood of frantic sensuality. Jack was just a handsome man, kissing me because I was miserable. But as I felt those powerful shoulders and the thick hair beneath my fingers, and breathed in his expensive cologne, he suddenly seemed like a God. I kissed him back as though he were the last man on earth.
‘Wow!’ he said. ‘Wow!’ and he kissed me again. We were so engrossed we never heard the door open. Suddenly we were flooded in light. We swung round blinking. Jack kept his arms round my shoulders. Towering in the doorway, looking faintly amused, was a man I instantly recognized from his photograph as Ace Mulholland.
‘Everyone’s playing General Post as usual,’ he said. ‘Now I really know I’m home.’ Jack gave a shout of delight and bounded forward.
‘Ace! My God! How marvellous. We were expecting you tomorrow.’
‘So I see,’ said Ace dryly.
‘Rose! Everyone! Ace is back,’ Jack shouted down the hall.
Rose gave a muffled shriek and after a few seconds came running downstairs patting her hair. Her dress was on inside out. Goodness knows what she’d been up to.
‘For heaven’s sake Jack, don’t play silly games.’ Then she saw Ace and turned pale.
‘My God, Ace, how wonderful to see you.’
‘So nice to feel wanted,’ said Ace dryly.
I couldn’t take any more. As I fled upstairs I heard him ask, ‘Who’s that? For a minute I thought Maggie’d lost weight.’
‘Pen’s girlfriend,’ said Jack. ‘She’s called Prudence.’
Ace laughed. ‘A singularly inappropriate name,’ he said.
I was horrified when I looked in the mirror. Crying had streaked my mascara, kissing had smudged my lipstick like a clown. The top buttons of my dress were undone, and my bra strap had slipped down to my elbow. I washed my face and tried to screw up enough courage to go downstairs. I jumped in terror at the knock on the door.
To my amazement it was Pendle.
‘Pru,’ he said, ‘are you OK? Suddenly you disappeared. Ace has arrived a day early and my mother’s having hysterics. Come and meet him.’
He took my hand and led me downstairs, stopping on the way to say, ‘Sorry I’ve been uptight. This place always has a devastating effect on me. Thank you for being so sweet.’ He squeezed my hand and suddenly kissed me on the cheek.
That threw me. I nearly started crying again. What the hell was going on? Perhaps things were going so well with Maggie, he could afford to be nice to me. On the other hand it was only Jack’s word against his. All that talk about Pendle and Maggie might easily be Jack’s method of prising me loose from Pendle!
In the drawing-room I was hailed like a long-lost sister. Conversation was very sticky with everyone trying to conceal the fact that they were half cut. All the guests had evaporated which only served to emphasize the chaos. A battalion of empty bottles stood on the table. Records out of their sleeves lay like a handful of loose change in the corner.
‘Pru, darling,’ said Rose, pronouncing her words very carefully. ‘This is Ace, twenty-four hours early, but no less welcome for that.’ Ace got to his feet and shook hands with me, giving no sign that he had already met me in less happy circumstances.
‘Come and sit down,’ he said, pointing to the big armchair, right away from Jack. Pendle sat on the arm. Maggie and Jack were holding hands on the sofa.
‘Why are you a day early?’ asked Jack.
‘The Venezuelan riots were crushed much quicker than anyone thought they would be. There was no point in hanging around, so I flew straight back.’
‘How long will you be here?’ asked Rose.
‘Hard to tell — perhaps indefinitely. The BBC have offered me a news programme.’
‘That would mean you’d be in England all the time?’ said Rose faintly.
‘Yes,’ said Ace, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Then I could keep an eye on you all, couldn’t I? How’s Lucasta?’ he said to Maggie and Jack.
�
�Oh she’s absolutely gorgeous now,’ said Maggie enthusiastically. ‘We’ve got her next weekend, so you’ll be able to see her.’
She’d certainly changed her tune — not a trace of the wicked step-mother anymore.
‘Humbuggery is legal after ninety days at sea,’ I muttered.
I could now understand why they were all so wary of him. He was tall — easily the tallest of the three brothers — and even broader than Jack, and his skin was tanned to the colour of old leather. He’d grown a black moustache since the photograph was taken, which made him look not unlike a Venezuelan bandit himself, and he obviously hadn’t slept for days. But even exhausted, he was formidable. He was one of those tough, self-assured men who rove round the world in search of truth, always where the action is, watching wars begin and governments fall. Each time he opened his mouth, I expected the Panorama signature tune to strike up.
He had a rough, abrupt way of shooting out questions, then listening closely to the answers. I sat in a semi-comatose state as he asked Jack about the mill, Pendle about the Bar and Maggie about the new house — just as if he were conducting a series of short, sharp interviews. Each time Rose chipped in, he brushed her aside. Occasionally his eyes flickered over me. My turn would come later. I don’t like him, I decided. He’s a bully.
Rose picked petulantly at her nail polish for a few minutes, then announced she was off to bed. I went too. In the hall we found someone had left the telephone off the hook.
‘What a frightful waste of electricity,’ said Rose, putting it back.
This time when I got upstairs, I strewed my clothes all over the bedroom, and when I lay down the room went round and round.
Chapter Seven
I dreamt I was trapped by falling masonry, with the flames flickering towards me. I woke up pouring with sweat to find Coleridge lying heavily across my legs. After yesterday’s deluge, the waterfall outside the window was thundering on the rocks, which did nothing to alleviate my excruciating hangover. I lay for a bit trying to adjust to the pain. After all, people learnt to live with suffering, people with cancer, and Odette Churchill having her fingernails pulled out. Just relax into it, I told myself, clutching my head. I gave a low moan. It was no good, I got up and staggered down the passage to the bathroom, where I was confronted by the most glorious back view: broad brown shoulders, thick black hair curling into the nape of the neck, powerful haunches wrapped in a scarlet towel, and long brown muscular legs. Perhaps I’d died after all and gone to heaven.
