Yes, predictability, not age, is the antithesis of youth. Predictability and the death of hope. An end to seeking.
It was a happy morning full of pleasant anticipation; and this, despite the fact that I made what would at one time have been a most mortifying discovery and one which—even as it was—needed the summoning up of all my resources to handle adequately.
No, not merely adequately. Rather well.
On the back of my left leg, just above the knee, I had several tiny swellings; and further down, now that I had made myself really look, little lines of blue—and these were also visible on my right leg!
Oh, sweet heaven!
Young as he was, my father had apparently suffered from varicose veins which he had inherited from his father. (In wartime this hadn’t been enough, necessarily, to keep you out of the army. Not that anyway he’d have wanted to be kept out.) And ever since my mother had first mentioned it—needlessly, perhaps even spitefully, her being well aware of my propensity to worry—the idea of that inheritance had never left me.
And now never would.
But I was sensible about it. I admired the fortitude with which I coped. I admired and was surprised by my philosophy. I was becoming quite a girl.
“Rachel, you are becoming quite a girl!”
It was just a pity there was only myself there to say it.
I shook my head a little sadly, humorous in even such a situation. “No, it’s no good, I just can’t hear you using any expression of that sort!”
And I laughed brightly.
In any case there was no real reason why they’d get worse. Hadn’t I even heard that vitamin E, regular doses of it, could sometimes eradicate varicose veins?
Besides there were clearly ways of disguising such things: makeup or a slightly thicker denier—not thick, for heaven’s sake, just a degree less fine. And my skirt lengths would never be above the knee. And I’d never wear a swimsuit.
“Oh, I don’t know. They must have said things like that in your time. Our time? And of course you have been listening to Bing Crosby!”
This was ridiculous. I wasn’t even in the sitting room.
Yet what better approach was there than by way of the ridiculous? The whole of life was ridiculous. Varicose veins were incontestably ridiculous.
And to illustrate this I did a little Charleston right then and there in my petticoat.
“We dream about,
We scheme about,
We have been known to scream about,
That certain thing
Called the boyfriend.”
Oh, what a hoot it all was! I added a final Vo-di-o-doh.
“Yes, I think you could say that you felt proud of me.”
I listened for a moment.
Then I dropped him a curtsy.
“Thank you, kind sir.”
I didn’t need to be in the sitting room.
“‘Life without him is quite impossible—quite devoid of all charms... ’”
Oh, how you could ride anything when you were gay: not just the big challenges but the petty, unworthy, often sordid little things as well—like, in this instance, wanting his approbation but not wanting him actually to know the cause of my deserving it. One’s blemishes weren’t something one was ever keen to advertise.
Though veins, of course, had nothing to do with age. I knew of a woman who’d had an operation at only seventeen. Seventeen! Why, it could happen to a child.
I must admit it though: my body had always been something of a problem. But that’s what came of having looks. They left you with expectations—even with responsibilities—and naturally with fears. Is it better never to have had, you may begin to wonder. For it could actually strike you on occasion that body was more important than personality and that having a nice shape automatically equalled being found desirable; and worked very hard to keep my nice shape. I was terrified my dainty breasts would one day start to sag.
(In London just the thought of this had sometimes been sufficient to depress me. But there are certain things you simply cannot quite own up to. The doctor would say: “Have you any idea what might have been the cause of this depression?” “Oh, yes, Doctor! I think my dainty breasts have now begun to sag.”)
I reached for the nail polish. “ Red-Letter Day...for that extra glow of excitement, that extra bit of colour in your life.” And I certainly had that. I somehow felt no doubt that he too approved of it, this more exciting shade.
I looked up sharply; thought for a moment I had caught a glimpse of him in my dressing-table mirror and—as befitted such zaniness—wagged my finger at him, playfully. “No, not in the bedroom, please!”
But then it crossed my mind: And yet, why not?
This is, isn’t it, the latter half of the twentieth century?
When my fingers were dry I started on my toes. Was that the wrong way round? Well, never mind. I was such a beginner. In all things. I would simply have to learn.
Oh, pretty feet, I said. Pretty feet. I sounded like a parrot.
Did varicose veins ever move down to your feet? Oh no! Quite out of the question! Definitely not permissible!
“Stay young and beautiful;
It’s your duty to be beautiful.
Stay young and beautiful...
If you want to be loved!”
Young and beautiful and with a Marcelle wave in your hair. No, on this occasion I might just do without that—forgive me. But how do I look? Let me pirouette! Have you considered your verdict yet? Do I look almost as if I could possibly be... just possibly... one day... (not everybody has to think me so)... When you go dancing you look so entrancing they call you the belle of the ball...Do I?
Well, do I?
Thank you, Roger and Celia, thank you both so much—thank you for inviting me to your son’s christening. For inviting me to be his godmother. For inviting me to stand by the font and cuddle the baby and be practically the star of the whole show.
Practically its leading lady.
Practically the belle of the ball.
Oh, my! How scary!
33
After the church service, we all went back to Celia’s parents’ house. Indeed, I had the place of honour, in Colonel Tiverton’s own car. “Isn’t he angelic?” exclaimed Mrs. Tiverton—she meant her grandson, not her husband. “And wasn’t he such a good baby?” (Even during our five-minute journey she asked me this three times; it was as though she had no other conversation whatsoever—couldn’t even comment on the lack of fashion in the front pews. She seemed a bit perplexed.) “And that lovely way he gurgled at the font!”
There was one slightly embarrassing moment when I was standing near her in the lounge and somebody said, “You must be feeling very proud!”
Well, I was holding the baby when he said it. It seemed only natural that his words were meant for me.
“Oh, I am,” I answered—with a lot more conviction, actually, than Mrs. Tiverton herself, who was a half-second behind me and must have worked off some of her enthusiasm by telling me what a good baby he had been and what a lovely gurgler at the font.
We all laughed but I did feel a little foolish and even Mrs. Tiverton didn’t look enormously amused. The only way I could fully recover my composure was by thinking in what a lively manner I’d be able to retell the incident at home, along with a few witty character sketches and a full account of what we’d eaten.
Celia’s family was a bit stodgy. Does it seem a little rude to say so? And even Roger’s wasn’t a great deal better. How did someone so very much alive—and wicked—and amusing—spring out of such a thoroughly conventional background? Was he outrageous only in order to shock: I mean, to shock his and Celia’s relations: retired military, stiff Civil Servants, even a rather stuffy younger generation? (It appeared almost as if they were mounting a demonstration of block solidarity... to keep outsiders out; initiated babies in.) Roger shone golden through the midst of them. His very vitality seemed almost an affront.
Perhaps, I thoug
ht, this was a takeover bid from outer space and he and I would be the world’s joint saviours.
But then of course there were his friends, his and Celia’s—I mustn’t lump them in with the rest—although surprisingly they weren’t quite so easy to distinguish as I’d assumed that they were going to be.
“Friend or foe?” I asked a tall and rather handsome young man whom I considered to be one of the likelier contenders. “In place of a Masonic handshake,” I genially explained.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, friend or... ?” “Family,” I had nearly said. Luckily at the eleventh hour I remembered my diplomacy. “Well, let me propound it to you in another way: if this were an invasion of the body snatchers would you be one of the bodies or one of the snatchers?” I laid my hand on his sleeve. At parties—well, especially at parties—it was always one’s duty to be as entertaining as one could. “Of course, it does occur to me I’ll have to examine your answer very carefully! For would a snatcher admit to being a snatcher? Wouldn’t he try instead to palm himself off as a body?”
“Er—I’m sorry—I don’t quite... ”
I nodded. “It is rather a conundrum! Oh, what am I to do? And who is there to save me?”
“... understand,” he said.
I took my hand off his sleeve. Despite his nice face and reasonable build he clearly wasn’t one of us. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Please don’t worry. Allow me to recommend one of these surprisingly tasty vol-au-vents.”
He wandered off with a vague smile and a slight shake of his head (perhaps he didn’t care for savouries) and I was glad that at least I hadn’t put my foot in it. A moment later I was casting around for another contestant. Or did I mean—candidate?
But before I could greet one I myself was greeted.
“Good afternoon, Miss Waring. What an unexpected pleasure!”
“Why, it’s... it’s Mr. Wymark!” I was so pleased I had been able to recollect his name.
“I’d no idea you were related to the Allsops,” he said.
“Oh, I’m not. I’m not. I’m just a friend.” I tried to keep my tone casual. I laid no stress upon that final word.
“Ah... I see.” He nodded amiably and—much to my relief—didn’t look surprised.
“And Thomas’s godmother,” I added, realizing he must have missed the service. “Well, actually, I don’t know if that does make me a relation of some kind. But are you... are you a member of the family?”
“No, no,” he said.
“And I can’t really claim relationship either!” He might have thought I was being serious.
“Then from now on, Miss Waring, you and I will always know how it feels to belong to a most seriously outnumbered minority group!”
We laughed. I felt we shouldn’t have but we did. We laughed with gathering momentum. I hadn’t suspected he had this naughty side to him.
“Mr. Wymark,” I said, “I think you’re being a touch wicked.”
Now this was something a bit more like it!
“Heaven forfend,” he answered, “yet friends, in this situation, are a little like those orphans who brag that they had to have you but that they really wanted us!”
I had heard this joke before, though it seemed to make no difference—it must have been the champagne. “Oh dear. Please don’t. You’ll make my mascara run.”
He reassured me. “At the moment it looks most perfectly in place. In fact, may I take the liberty of saying, Miss Waring... ?”
“Rachel.”
“... that you look extremely nice? By far the best-dressed woman here.”
“Belle of the ball, might one put it?”
“Oh, definitely.”
I didn’t do anything to try to hide my pleasure. I felt his compliment was extravagant but perhaps not so completely wide of the mark. And it was certainly a very pretty shade of green. It occurred to me that Roger should have a shirt made up in precisely this colour.
Green and gold. Gold and green. I wondered whether I stood out as strikingly as he did. Well... the best-dressed woman here! Was I at last worthy, then, to take my place beside him: saviours of the world from large-scale planetary invasion?
Damp golden curls across the chest. And running down from chest to navel. And probably beyond.
What was sure though... if they could only read my mind... they’d undoubtedly find me every bit as shocking. Did I too shine with expectation? With a refusal to look dulled and muted and resigned?
Oh, I hoped so. I did so hope so.
But such a deal of nonsense! What need had I, any longer, to take my place beside him? That wish would now be on the other foot. I saw him looking at me and I turned away.
Oh dear. Should I have done it? I wouldn’t want him to think me coquettish. He didn’t know yet about Horatio; I hadn’t told him I was unavailable.
Rachel—you—are—quite—a—girl!
“Well, thank ’ee kindly, Mr. Wymark. Thank ’ee kindly, sir.” I treated him to my usual graceful curtsy; then instantly decided I had better not mention that when I got home.
He accepted the tribute with a grin. (Yes, he was certainly well qualified to be a member of the company: the fun-group, the life-enhancers, the anti-stodge.) He said: “Well, you know—among friends—if you’re Rachel I’m Mark.”
“What! Mark Wymark! Oh, no, I can’t accept that!” If I’d had my fan I would have rapped his knuckles (raps whose sweetness, this time, would not have been wasted on the desert air). “In future I shan’t believe a single word you say!”
“But I’m afraid it’s true. You’ve only got to ask Roger or Celia.”
“No, I think you’re all co- conspirators; I think you’re all in this plot together!”
“You see, it must have been some misguided little joke on the part of my parents. Silly people! Or perhaps they—just—never noticed!”
My mascara was in jeopardy again.
“But have you never asked them?”
“And if you like I’ll tell you something else they say about friends! They’re God’s way of recompensing you.” He paused. “For families.”
I said, “I wish I’d known that you were like this on the day we first met! We’d have had a so much jollier time.”
“I wish I’d known that you were like this!”
“You wouldn’t come for coffee.”
“That can only be a source of immeasurable regret.”
He was a clown. He had a charming personality. He hadn’t the looks of either Roger or Horatio but he was certainly a clown.
“Did you know,” I asked, “that Petula Clark got a fifteen-minute ovation last month for The Sound of Music?”
“Really? I shouldn’t have thought that she could spare the time. After all, she’s already a bit long in the tooth for it, isn’t she?”
He was a gem.
“I say, you must let us in on some of this merriment! We’ve been dying to know what’s going on.” Family.
“Oh,” I cried gaily, “just a series of absurd but entertaining jests. Little things please little minds. You must know what I mean.”
“Such fun!”
“Godmother’s Follies,” I explained.
Obviously the eyes of the whole room had been upon us.
“ Not Grandmother’s Footsteps,” I hurriedly pointed out—having suddenly realized that I could conceivably have been misheard. “Grandmothers are sweet doddery old things. Whereas godmothers... ”
Briefly I thought about it.
“Godmothers can still be full of Eastern promise!”
But unfortunately Mark Wymark had now been taken over. (By the body snatchers!) I later caught his eye and he raised his hand in salutation from a group across the room just as Mrs. Tiverton, a most conscientious hostess, was purposefully approaching me once more. I’m afraid I got the giggles.
It was no reflection on my godson. He was indeed a remarkably good baby—and had continued to be so throughout the party.
But... “ Mark Wymark
,” I said to her. “Can we permit ourselves to be so taken in? Shouldn’t we start a ladies-not-for-the-fooling-of society? With you, dear Mrs. Tiverton, as our duly elected Member?” (I had thought she would be flattered.)
“Pardon?”
“Or do I mean... chairwoman? You see, I’ve even had letters from him; oh, two or three times—chiefly, though, before I came to Bristol—so wouldn’t you think I might have noticed? Yet possibly he never signed his Christian name, only its initial. Yes, I feel satisfied by that.”
“Oh! I think I can see my husband trying to attract my attention,” she said.
“The mark of Zorro!” I replied. “The mark of Wymart!” That was an American superstore I’d heard about; but my good hostess, apparently, knew neither solicitor nor superstore.
I was probably confusing her. Afterwards I learned that the place was actually called Walmart.
Oh, well!
34
And then something rather awful happened. It had all been so extremely nice, with Roger and Celia so charming, so very pleased to have me there.
Yet—suddenly—it all just sort of fizzled out.
Up in the air one minute; nose-diving the next.
Roger came over to me and put his arm around my shoulders (I was bad: I still felt the electricity zooming straight through me) and said, “Well, Rachel, it’s been great!” Then, with appealing timidity, as if almost seeking reassurance: “It has been, hasn’t it?”
“No other word for it,” I answered happily.
“Thank you for making it so swell.”
All these Americanisms!
“Swell?”
“Yes—swell.”
I joyously concurred.
“Celia and I are awfully grateful. And so’s young Thomas of course.”
“And so he should be. I shall expect nothing but gratitude for the next half-century.”
“Fine. A deal. Look—what I wanted to say—is it all right if my father-in-law sees you home? Celia would quite like to get back to the flat—after all this excitement, you know—to have young master into his jimjams and into bed.”
Wish Her Safe At Home Page 16
