Coronet Among the Weeds

by Charlotte Bingham

  I was too.

  3

  My cousin said that being fat wasn’t so bad as having spots but I didn’t believe her. My mother said that she’d got fat when she’d lived in France, and my aunt told me to go and buy a girdle. I drew some money from my savings and went along to a shop in Knightsbridge. A woman with a face like a chamber-pot showed me into a cubicle.

  ‘Madam’s measurements?’

  I told her, but she didn’t believe me. You could see that. She came back with a tape-measure. I took off my coat, and she put the tape-measure round me. She gave little low whistles as she moved down my figure, and they weren’t admiration, I can tell you.

  ‘I think Madam has altered a little since she was last measured,’ she said, giving me a sarky little smile. Then she came back with a great bundle of these corset things. They were horrible. Monsters with millions of straps and suspenders everywhere. She went out and I put one on. It took some doing, I can tell you, because they had lacing everywhere. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. It was horrible. The suspenders swung round my ankles, and yards of pink caging reached down to my knees. I turned sideways; I felt like suicide. I just thought I’d spend the rest of my life getting into pink cages. I would have jumped out of the window except that woman would have been so thrilled.

  The awful thing about being fat is you can’t get away from it. Everywhere you go, there it is, all round you: hanging and swinging, yards and yards of it under your arms, everywhere. And everyone else is so thin. When I got out of that shop, everyone in Knightsbridge was thin. You’ve never seen so many thin people. Everyone on the bus was thin, and the girl I went to tea with looked as if she’d had mange. She tried on my belt and pulled it in five holes.

  ‘It’s a bit big for me but then I’ve got a very small waist,’ she said comfortingly. I hated her thin bottomless figure. Anyway, my dog made a pool on her carpet, which was strangely comforting.

  I got asked to a Hunt Ball after Christmas. Christmas time, as every girl worth her weight in horseflesh knows, is Hunt Ball time. The weediest weed you’ve ever seen asked me to one. I accepted because my mother said, you never knew who you were going to meet, and he might have friends. She always says that about weeds. Either he might have friends or he’s a UP (Useful Person). My mother knows lots of UPs. She doesn’t particularly like them, they’re just useful.

  This weed was a small long-haired thing with suede shoes. When I met him at the station he was wearing one of those Tyrolean hats with feathers and badges stuck round the band. With his silly chinless face underneath he made me panic, he really did. I was quite polite to him to begin with, but he went to sleep after a bit and snored with his mouth open. It was a nice day so I hummed a bit and felt quite happy.

  When we arrived at the other end the weed woke up, and a scarfed lady in trousers met us at the barrier. She looked quite human for a horse.

  ‘I’m glad you managed to catch that bloody train,’ she said, and while the weed was putting the suitcases in the boot she said, ‘Has he been a bore?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes, he always is,’ she said, and winked. Quite a jokey lady really.

  This Horse had a very beautiful house. It was Tudor with a super long drive, and smelling like an antique shop inside: lots of uncleaned ancestors and medieval toothpicks on the walls, and huge cold bedrooms. We had tea in the drawing-room, sitting miles apart from each other and balancing scones on our knees. The Horse talked away in a loud voice with her feet apart, and ate sandwiches in one swallow. There was another boy besides the weed, a tall fair-haired type called Michael, in an expensive suit and a watch-chain. The Ball was being held in a place called Elkerthley Castle. Pronounced Elly. It’s a game all that stuff. Churpoughlin equals Chulin; Smith spelt Smiffe. You can’t win.

  I changed, jumping up and down, dressing with one hand and rubbing myself to keep warm with the other. The Horse came and fetched me to go downstairs. She was wearing horse harness, or regulation pink for lady horses at Hunt Balls: halter neck, scraggy bodice and skirt hanging saggy from the waist down. She told me a bit about who was coming.

  ‘The Boddington Smyths, very well known in the County, some very good hunters, the Scudderburns, no stable to speak of. But quite nice. Sir Henry and Lady Piltwhistle, Jane and Miranda; and Nigel Denthead to make up the numbers.’

  Michael and the weed were in the drawing-room when we went in. The Horse gave us all drinks, and I talked to Michael who wasn’t swoony but better than the weed any day. Weeds get frightfully possessive when they take you to dances. They go on as if you’re engaged to them or something. Always looking at you or passing you peanuts and getting absolutely furious if you dance with someone else. I think they think that when they pay for your ticket they’ve bought you for the evening. It makes me nervous. I keep thinking everyone else is thinking I mean to be dancing with a weed, when I don’t at all. It’s just my mother’s hoping he’ll have some useful friends.

  Sir Henry and Lady Piltwhistle arrived with Jane and Miranda. The Horse introduced everyone, Nigel Denthead was announced, and we went into dinner.

  I sat between Sir Henry and Nigel Denthead.

  ‘Do you hunt?’ Sir Henry asked as he sucked at his soup.

  ‘Occasionally,’ I said, because you couldn’t be too careful.

  ‘You’ll be at the meet tomorrow?’

  I grunted into my spoon. I wasn’t going to be if I could help it.

  ‘I’m following on foot. My mare’s thrown a spavin.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, but I’m not with it spavin-wise, so he turned to Mrs Boddington Smyth and started discussing spavins with her.

  I listened to everyone else during the fish. Mrs Scudderburn was being enthusiastic to Mr Boddington Smyth. She had a funny face. Not the sort that would be enthusiastic to everyone. And throwing her bosom all over the place as if no one else had one. Nigel Denthead was talking to Lady Piltwhistle, poor woman. If horses had their own saints she’d be Saint Piltwhistle first class. I bet when she was pregnant she knitted four bootees instead of two.

  ‘Where do you live?’ Nigel Denthead turned his great shining face towards me.

  ‘In London.’

  ‘Not at the weekends too?’

  ‘Why not, I live there.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Tell me - what does one do at the weekends in London? I’ve always wondered.’

  I looked at him. Damn flunkey. My grandmother always says damn flunkey, especially about bank managers. I gave him what she calls a ‘look’.

  He didn’t look flattened by my look. He just went on being shiny and eating his chicken.

  I turned back to old Sir Henry. He was discussing the price of manure with Mrs Boddington Smyth. There was a man who knew which side his dung was buttered on. On the other side of the table the weed was talking to Miranda Piltwhistle and giving those chinless wuffs weeds always give when larfing. I turned back to Nigel again and asked him where he lived. It was that or manure.

  After the coffee the girls stomped upstairs to powder their noses. I went up to Miranda Piltwhistle in the loo. She was doing her hair. She had this fuzzy fair hair and small eyes. I can’t stand fuzzy hair and small eyes. One or the other, but not both.

  ‘I love your dress,’ I said, ‘I’ve always wanted a net dress.’

  She put on her lipstick in the mirror.

  ‘You should get one.’

  That was the end of that conversation. I didn’t care. I hated her dress, not even a horse would have been seen dead in blue net.

  Elkerthley Castle stood on top of a hill. It was pouring with rain so you left your car at the bottom and there were Land-Rovers to take you up. Everyone brought wellingtons to change into before getting in the Land-Rovers. Jane Piltwhistle got left at the bottom because she couldn’t find her wellingtons. Not surprising really, because I had them on.

  The beginning of a Hunt Ball always follows the same routine. All the ladies troop off and leave their coats in the loo,
and on coming back spend a pleasant half-hour searching (nose to wind) for the gentlemen who have hidden themselves in the bar. My luck was way out that night. I bumped straight into old Nigel Denthead. Was he pleased! He beamed at me and grasping my arm with one wet hand steered me on to the dance-floor.

  Dancing with a weed is worse than talking to one. That’s what hell is going to be like. It won’t be torture and groaning, it’ll be dancing with a weed for ever and ever. I bet the devil won’t be tall and evil, I bet he’ll just be a complete weed with wet hands. And when you jive with a weed he just stands throwing you about, and looking smug while you kill yourself. That’s another thing about Hunt Balls. There you are in long dresses and tiaras and you’re supposed to dance like a beatnik. The band plays away at all these Charlestons and things, and you dance like a fiend looking a nit with all these petticoats and things on.

  I’d only been dancing with Nigel for about a quarter of an hour when Michael came up and asked me to dance. I was so grateful to get away I practically burst being charming to him. We went to look for some orange juice, then he took me down to this night club they’d made in the dungeons. It was meant to be terribly sexy with candles and a crooner groaning away at the microphone. Actually it wasn’t at all sexy. Just pitch-black, so you couldn’t see if you were dancing with the right weed or not, and damn cold. I jumped up and down to begin with, but after a bit I couldn’t even feel I had any legs, so I stopped. I think Michael was probably cold too actually, because we went upstairs after half an hour.

  The Horse had hired a private room for the evening. When we found it Nigel and the weed were getting drunk there. Not funny drunk, just boring drunk. Michael went upstairs for some more champagne, and I sat on the sofa. When he came back, he said the cabaret was about to start. Nigel stopped being drunk and straightened his white tie. This was his big moment. He was in the cabaret. He was going to do a super solo playing the bagpipes. We all followed him downstairs to the main hall.

  I didn’t take much interest in the cabaret until old Nigel’s turn came. With a big smile to all of us he put the pipe-thing to his lips. Good old Nigel! Sweat poured off him. We waited for a wail, but not a squeak. Then like a balloon deflating he sank slowly to his knees in a dead faint, and the bagpipes with him. He was revived with a soda-siphon, and I gave him a glass of brandy to cheer him up. He was the only amusing thing that evening, he really was. The Horse was disgusted. Didn’t speak to him again that night. Said he’d let the Scots down.

  The rest of the evening was pretty boring. Just dancing away with one weed or another, to keep warm more than anything. Then it was bacon-and-egg time. That’s the only thing that’s good about Hunt Balls, the bacon and eggs at five o’clock. I suppose it’s psychological really, because it means no more weeds for that evening.

  Nigel and the weed had a duel on the way home – with champagne corks. They had proper seconds and everything, but neither got hurt, unfortunately. Nigel only gave the weed a small black eye, and the weed missed, so it wasn’t much fun. The two Piltwhistle girls came back and had coffee. Nigel kissed Jane in the back of the car; even she didn’t look too thrilled.

  We didn’t get to bed till about six o’clock. Then I was practically sick when I saw hunting stuff laid out in my bedroom for me. I used to be madly brave on a horse when I was about thirteen, but since I’d been going to dances I’d given up horses in favour of weeds. Less dangerous really. And a weed will at least take you to the movies, which is more than you can say for a horse. However, I couldn’t think of a good excuse not to hunt, so I just thought, if you’ve got to, you’ve got to, and there’s nothing you can do about it, and got into bed – with my fur stole pinned round my legs.

  A nice maid woke me up at nine o’clock. She was a bit surprised to see me wearing my coat and fur stole. But she agreed it was the only way to keep warm. She helped me into breeches and boots and tied my stock for me. The boots were a bit big for me, so I stuffed them with tissue paper. I don’t mind telling you I was shaking up and down when I stomped into the stable yard. The first look between you and a horse is the important one. A horse can size you up in a minute.

  Everyone else was mounted and ready to move off towards the meet.

  ‘Your animal’s tacked up, we’ll start off slowly if you’d like to follow,’ shouted the Horse.

  I looked into all the boxes till I found a rather small square cob. I led it out into the yard looking it squarely in the eyes. It wouldn’t stand still while I mounted so I had to hop on one leg half-way down the road before I could get the other one over. That’s the trouble with being small: you always get put on small horses, and they’re much more energetic.

  The meet was being held at the local pub. They handed round steaming punch, and everyone looked happy except me. I chewed a piece of chocolate and did up my girths. The Horse came up.

  ‘Shorten your reins and stick behind me, and you’ll be all right,’ she said, ‘and if you must come off for heaven’s bloody sake come off after old Denthead.’

  The field moved off and I followed Mr Boddington Smyth. He was a coward, thank goodness, and went through a gate when he thought no one was looking. Then the hounds lost the scent so we sat around and munched sandwiches and talked to a few of these nutcases that follow on foot. They’re potty. No honestly, I think they’re really nuts, people who follow hunts on foot. They stomp all over the countryside just to see a few horses’ behinds disappearing over the other side of a hedge. Then they go home quite happy. That’s all they want out of life, just to see a few horses’ behinds. Then they die quite happy. Some of them even do it twice a week: not only on Saturdays; they sometimes do it on Thursdays too. Just stomp, stomp, after these horses’ behinds.

  We moved off again, and we were going really rather well when old Boddington Smyth pulled up suddenly.

  ‘There he is!’ he shouted. ‘After the bastard!’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Bloody anti-blood sports snoop! Taking filthy photographs again! Bloody Socialist. After the brute, we’ll have his blood!’

  He plunged his spurs into his horse’s sides and I followed him.

  The little anti-blood weed saw us coming and started running towards the road, his camera bouncing up and down. Then he fished a bicycle out of the hedge and peddled furiously up the road, his mac flapping in the breeze. We would have lost him if his mac hadn’t caught in his wheel and practically strangled him. I thought it was jolly bad luck. I didn’t think it was fair to throw his camera in the pond after that. But Boddington Smyth wouldn’t listen, and he wouldn’t let me help the poor thing unstrangle himself. He said he was to be left there to rot. I don’t know if he’s still there, I really don’t. It was quite a deserted bit of country so he might be.

  The Horse was thrilled when I told her. She said it was the nicest thing she’d heard for ages. Made her day. When I said it was a bit unfair to leave him to rot, she said what did I want to do, tuck him up in bed with a kiss?

  4

  Migo and I were quite glad to get back to Paris. Migo hadn’t met a superman during the holidays. She’d collected a few new weeds but nothing much to speak of. I hadn’t either actually. I went to see my old actor once in his dressing-room. Migo came with me. We took quite a long time trying to decide whether it was chasing someone to go and see them in their dressing-room, but in the end we decided it wasn’t. I wanted to look frightfully femme fatale, so I wore a black dress and a black ribbon round my neck. The bodice of the dress was rather big for me, so I stuffed one or two of my father’s socks down my bra to make me look bosomy. Sort of earth-mother appeal I thought. Migo said she thought sixteen was a bit young to develop earth-mother appeal. But I said the Italians were like that when they were sixteen. She said I wasn’t Italian.

  I was hell’s nervous in spite of those socks to boost my bust. It was all right during the play, and in the intervals I had a few vodkas, but when it came to actually walking round I kept on thinking of why I shouldn’
t go. The stage door man looked very leery when we asked to see him.

  ‘You needn’t look like that,’ I said in a sort of bored voice, ‘He’s a friend of my parent’s.’ But he was unimpressed.

  I couldn’t bring myself to knock on his door. I kept on dashing towards the fire escape. So Migo did it for me.

  He looked very sweet, this actor. He really did. With holes in his vest. I think holes in a vest can be very endearing. There was this other woman there too. I think she was in love with him too. But I wasn’t jealous. I bet she loved him because he was amusing and handsome. I bet she didn’t think once about him having an innocent smile. She probably didn’t think like that at all.

  Anyway, he talked more to me than he did to her. I’m not really a bitch, but I couldn’t help feeling triumphant, because she was at least twenty-five. She kept on giving me great looks, really as if she could have killed me. It was a good thing she didn’t know about my father’s socks, she wouldn’t half have mocked me, honestly she would.

  I made a big resolution not to think about him in Paris. It’s perfectly feeble to go swooning round the place about someone who isn’t there, and anyway isn’t swooning over you. Besides being very boring. I did keep a small bottle of scent he gave me when he was in Paris though. It was one of those samples you get given sometimes. I asked Migo and she said it wouldn’t be cheating to keep it. So I did. Every now and then I had a look at it, but mostly I was quite good.

  We found Paris just the same when we got back. A bit more beautiful, because it was beginning to be summer. There were tons of bronzed Scandinavian types at the Sorbonne. Marvellously blond and healthy and shining white teeth. Funny thing though, because someone told me that if you actually go to Scandinavia none of the people who actually live there look like that. It’s just a front they put up when they’re abroad.

  My mother said I had to learn to cook. She’s keen on cooking and things, as I’ve told you. I asked around where the best place to go was, and someone suggested a cooking-school just off the Boul’ Mich. Migo and I went along and enrolled for ten lessons, every Monday and Wednesday. There were about six other girls doing it with us. Well, at least they weren’t all girls. Some of them were quite old and married. There was one American woman whose husband was going to divorce her unless her cooking improved. She was very sad about it. He was in the army, stationed just outside Paris, and she said he preferred eating with the men to eating at home. She had pebble glasses and enormous feet and gym-shoes, so I don’t think her cooking was the only reason.