Not That Sort of Girl

by Mary Wesley

  Ned flushed. ‘You know I …’

  ‘Should the war stop procreation?’ Rose’s voice was suddenly harsh, shouting at her husband.

  ‘It’s hardly the moment—with this battle going on—there’s another plane, is it in trouble?—to my mind there is still danger of invasion …’

  ‘Churchill is saying the battle is won …’

  ‘So many pilots lost. I wish I had learned to fly.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’

  ‘I am too old.’

  ‘Are you too old to have a child?’ Rose snapped.

  ‘Don’t let’s squabble my last evening.’

  ‘All right.’ Partly she regretted her impulse of the previous night (perhaps nothing would happen). ‘You will be on leave again soon.’

  ‘I didn’t want to spoil our time together so I did not tell you that I am on embarkation leave.’ Ned stared at the dahlias, orange and red.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We are under orders for the Middle East.’

  ‘Another one who does not trust me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. When do you go?’

  ‘We don’t know; it may not be for weeks, but tomorrow in London I must kit myself out with light uniform, visit my lawyer …’

  ‘Lawyer, what for?’

  ‘To check my will.’

  ‘Oh, God, you could have trusted me not to spoil your leave,’ she was bitter, ‘you treat me like a child, a thing …’

  ‘I am sorry …’

  ‘I should bloody well hope so …’ A future without Mylo and now Ned. ‘I like you, Ned,’ she said ruefully.

  ‘And I love you.’

  ‘I said like, not love.’ Rose was sharp.

  ‘I heard you. It’s important to like the person you love. I both love and like you, dear.’

  Rose breathed in, let speech out in a rush: ‘I know it’s silly, I know I should have told you before, but I cannot bear being called dear, Ned, it makes me feel quite sick.’

  Ned looked at Rose astonished; in a secret crevice of his mind there wriggled the suspicion that she did not love him. Rose went on, flushing as she spoke, ‘Dear is what nurses call their patients, dear is what my parents called each other in hatred, dear to my ear is horrible. I’m sorry, Ned, but I simply can’t stand being called dear.’

  Across the garden the dahlias glowed orange and blood-red. ‘I’d better get a move on,’ said Ned, ‘or I shall miss my train. I had not realised …’

  Rose stood up, ashamed. (What a moment to choose.)

  Ned went to fetch his luggage, his mind full of doubt. He had assumed that his feeling for Rose was reciprocated. Not usually given to introspection, he nevertheless thought as he drove Rose’s car to the station that liking lasted longer than love, which to hear people like Uncle Archie talk was a flash-in-the-pan business. He was glad that Rose liked him, the thought amused him, and he laughed out loud. Rose forbore to ask, What’s the joke? The train was puffing into the station; they had to run to catch it, Ned scrambling aboard with barely time to kiss goodbye.

  When Rose went back to the car she had to adjust the driving seat which Ned had moved to suit himself. Manoeuvring it, Rose thought, Give him credit, if he had had time, not had to run for the train, he would have put the seat back without being asked, he was that kind of man; he would move car seats for her, but when it came to starting a family, he would only consider himself. Driving back to Slepe, Rose in her turn laughed, pleased to have stolen a march.

  27

  RESTLESS IN THE HOTEL bed, listening to the chirrup of dawn birds, Rose was undecided whether to read her paperback until breakfast or opt for an early walk.

  She thought, I miss the routine which formed life at Slepe. It had begun working with Farthing, digging, weeding, sowing, gathering. Increased with work on the farm, with its closeness to animals, the smell of cows at milking, the cluck of hens, grown with her gradual interest in the house, sharing Ned’s pleasure in the pictures, furniture, porcelain, silver, and even rugs, as she evolved from ignorant girl into wife and mother. All the multiplicity of small jobs, recurring responsibilities, interests and irritations which added up to security and contentment snatched away by Ned’s death.

  But this is what I have looked forward to, she mocked herself, eventual freedom.

  She got up, dressed in jeans and sweater, let herself out onto grass drenched with dew.

  A brisk walk to ‘stimulate the faggocites’, her father’s expression used in turn by herself, passed on to Christopher. What on earth are faggocites? She questioned the word as she set off along the creek. ‘I hope,’ she said to the hotel cat returning from its night foray, ‘to walk off my gloom.’ The cat dodged the hand she stretched to stroke it, proceeding indifferent on its way. ‘So much for hope.’

  As she walked she considered hope and what its loss let one in for.

  Christopher, for instance?

  Was Christopher the result of loss of hope? Probably. Blame him on Mylo? A plug against loss of spirit, fear, anger, jealousy, loneliness, or the result of a fondness for Ned and a maternal instinct stronger than herself?

  Not that. She had never pretended to be excessively maternal, but how had Christopher, that lovely roly-poly baby, that delightful little boy, grown into the man chosen by Helen as husband. (‘Let me take charge of that; I can see it upsets you. I will deal with it,’ taking the urn with Ned’s ashes which she had put momentarily next to the sandwiches on the dining-room table while she fumbled for a handkerchief to blow her nose. Interference or kindness? Don’t think of Helen; she cannot help being like that; Christopher loves her; enjoy your walk.)

  It had never been easy to unravel the skein of motive and emotion which resulted in the advent of Christopher.

  Had it been something to do with the dog Comrade?

  This is ridiculous, dogs are sympathetic to humans, not the other way about. And yet when she had realised that Comrade was in pup, must have been in pup when she followed Mylo across France, running by the bicycle, leaping to catch the departing boat when he might or might not have meant to abandon her. There had been fellow-feeling between herself and the dog when, Christopher little more than a pinhead in her womb, Comrade gave birth to puppies, one of which survived to sire the first of a long line of engaging mongrels which terminated abruptly when Christopher, squabbling with Helen, let them get squashed by a juggernaut on the main road.

  First the dogs, then the urn.

  Will this make Christopher feel guilty towards me, as I always felt towards my mother, my father?

  ‘One hopes not,’ Rose said out loud as she followed the path which led now through a wood.

  There was the little matter of Mrs Freeling’s ashes. (The official at the Crematorium had called them Mrs Freeling’s ashes, not your mother’s or your parent’s ashes, handing her the parcel.) Ned would not have understood her feelings of guilt towards her parents. In his book, the dear uncomplex fellow, you loved your parents, even loved in-laws. Neither Ned nor Helen would have understood why she had tipped her mother’s urn into the Serpentine, watching the ash drift down like a sash towards the water. It was done to placate Mrs Freeling’s spirit, to keep her happy in death, separate from the husband she had outlived so cheerfully. Rose spared a breath to laugh as she puffed up the path as it turned uphill away from the water. It had done no harm to let Ned and Christopher bury the empty urn beside Mr Freeling. Not expecting her to lie, they had taken it that Mrs Freeling’s wish had been not to have her urn opened. Christopher, taking the urn without much reverence, had said, ‘Funny old Granny.’

  She can’t have been more than forty-five when I discovered just how funny she was, thought Rose. Forty-five and she had seemed so old!

  She had discovered her mother’s funniness when, on impulse the day after Ned’s embarkation leave, she went up to London and took her mother out to lunch. It had certainly distracted her mind from harping on Mylo. Across the table she had seen
a new Mrs Freeling. She no longer looked downtrodden, saintly, patient and forbearing, she looked lively; being widowed suited her.

  As they ordered lunch, Rose observed her mother. She had had her hair properly cut; her hands were cared for; she wore new clothes. There was a rumour, she told Rose, that the government would ration clothes. ‘I am stocking up,’ she said. ‘You should do the same.’

  ‘I don’t need much in the country, just lots of warm things. Slepe is pretty chilly.’

  ‘I hope you won’t let yourself get stuck in the country all your life as I did.’

  ‘I thought …’

  ‘You should get yourself something to do, like me. I have made a lot of new friends in the Red Cross. What are all your neighbours up to?’

  ‘Mrs Malone has filled their house with evacuee children.’

  ‘God help her, but perhaps she likes children? Have you noticed how delightful London is without them? I enjoy the quiet of the park without perambulators when I walk across it in the mornings.’

  ‘What about air raids?’

  ‘I have not much time for them, too busy by day and I sleep like a top at night. First time for years.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I get tired. There’s the Red Cross, and I am still furnishing my flat. Did I tell you I have a lodger?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘A major who works in the War Office. He is mostly out, no bother, he pays his rent and keeps out of my way.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You should come up oftener, I can put you up when I’m finally settled. There is plenty going on, concerts and now the theatres are open again, plays—you mustn’t let your brain atrophy.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘And I have taken up bridge, formed a regular four. My major plays when he’s in, should one of us fail.’

  ‘You seem to be having an interesting time.’ Rose assessed this new parent who dressed smartly, went to concerts, played bridge.

  ‘About time,’ said Mrs Freeling with force, ‘after all I endured with your father.’ Rose had sat open-mouthed as there followed a diatribe against her defunct parent. His failure, his selfishness, his boringness; he was picked over bit by bit, no facet left unpecked. Once started her mother could not stop: she tabulated a lifetime of resentments. Her father’s table manners, mean economies, treachery to friends, his assumption of gentlemanly Christianity, his sucking up to social superiors, his bitterly resented illness, the wasteful cost of the treatment for non-existent cancer, his snores, his impecuniosity.

  ‘Mother …’

  But Mrs Freeling had not finished, out came her horror of sex, her husband’s insistence on his marital rights—brutal rapes.

  ‘Mother, please …’

  ‘And then,’ Mrs Freeling made no effort to lower her voice, ‘the unspeakable process of procreation!’

  ‘I thought marriage, the Bible …’

  ‘Written by men.’ Mrs Freeling swept the Bible aside. ‘Sensitive women like me should not be subjected to such—fortunately for you the process of childbirth is academic.’

  ‘Is it?’ Rose was astonished.

  ‘Of course. A nice man like Ned would never …’

  ‘Mother …’

  Her mother’s voice was clear; people at neighbouring tables munched with ears pricked. ‘It’s beyond my comprehension that women still put up with it,’ said Mrs Freeling.

  ‘The human race,’ suggested Rose bravely.

  ‘It’s men who want it to go on. Sheer vanity. Give me one reason why it should.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘If it must,’ said Mrs Freeling, ‘the people who in earlier times had wet nurses should have gone the whole hog and let the husband couple with the wet nurse.’

  Is she drunk? Rose looked surreptitiously round at masticating jaws.

  ‘I trust you are not proposing to let yourself be hoodwinked by Ned into enduring the agony and humiliation of having a child? My dear Rose, the thing jumps about inside you, you have no control; your body is not your own, you cannot escape, it heaves!’ Mrs Freeling’s voice rose in disgusted recollection.

  Crimson-faced, Rose muttered, ‘Sorry, Mother, so sorry,’ in apology for her foetal antics.

  ‘Take my advice and make a stand.’ The peroration was over. Mrs Freeling ate her pudding while her daughter wondered whether the exhilaration of widowhood had affected her brain. ‘You must think I have changed.’ Mrs Freeling put down her spoon, wiped her mouth with her napkin.

  ‘A bit,’ she had murmured cautiously.

  ‘I have been bottled up all these years.’

  ‘I wish I’d known.’

  ‘What could you have done?’ her mother asked sharply. ‘You are just like him, you only think of yourself.’

  ‘I could have …’

  ‘You can do one thing for me. When I die, I do not want to be buried with him. Have me cremated and scatter me over water. I would like that. Can I count on you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Right. Is that the bill? Let’s go Dutch.’

  Mrs Freeling had never referred to the conversation. Rose sometimes wondered whether she had imagined it. The outburst had been cathartic; she remembered her mother’s serene expression when they parted.

  How grateful I am now, thought Rose, panting as she climbed the hill, that she refrained during my childhood and adolescence from alerting me to the horror of sex as she saw it and left me to make my discoveries with Mylo. (And of course Ned.) There had been an air raid, she remembered, as she left London and she had hastened to get back to Slepe where now, as she looked back over the years, she realised she had just spent a happy week with Ned.

  28

  NED LEFT HIS LAWYER’S chambers and set off on foot towards his tailor. There was an air raid alert; he had listened to the siren while discussing his will. His solicitor, already blasé, had said, ‘You don’t want to pop down to the shelter, I take it, it’s the most fearful waste of one’s time.’

  ‘No, no thanks.’ (He would charge me for time wasted in the shelter, knowing him, he’s fly.)

  ‘Good, then let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Your family trust makes it pretty plain sailing; it doesn’t leave you much chance to settle old scores.’ The solicitor had laughed.

  As he walked Ned ruminated resentfully on the terms of the trust which had brought him Slepe. Thanks to the laws of primogeniture and entail he had inherited Slepe from a distant cousin, so far so good. But should he die without a son, Slepe would pass to another cousin. Perhaps, thought Ned as he strode along, he had been wrong in his approach to starting a family. Suppose one had a quiverful of girls, didn’t manage a boy first shot? Rose had been angry, had not been easily mollified; he was not sure why she had been angry, but it made him feel guilty. When the war is over and she does produce my son, I will give her a jewel, he thought. Then he thought, turning into Bond Street, why wait, why not give her a present now? As he walked he glanced in at the jewellers’ displays. If he bought her a jewel, she would at least have something to sell, should he get killed before she bore a son. He had practically no savings apart from monies tied up in Slepe. Rose had no money of her own. (The damn solicitor had tut-tutted about this at the time of his marriage.) All the jewels seemed tremendously expensive, but wouldn’t their value increase? To buy or not to buy? Ned batted the idea back and forth. The principal snag in the family trust was that every penny, as well as the house, passed on his death to this imaginary son. Until this morning Ned had not taken much account of this clause. How would Rose manage? he had asked. ‘The usual thing is that your son makes your widow an allowance.’

  ‘But suppose they don’t get on?’

  The solicitor had said, ‘They’d better,’ his voice crisp and legal.

  Poor little Rose, thought Ned tenderly, why don’t I buy her a jewel now? Give her pleasure, something she can flog if I leave her a widow; she doesn’t get on with her mother, not liking parent
s may be hereditary. Ned idled along, coming to a stop outside Cartier. (My God, I can’t afford any of that! Our engagement ring was too pricey, one pays for the bloody name.) Ned walked on. Yet, he thought, I would like to give her something to remember me by. But suppose I did and she flogged it for no particular reason? Better to give her jewels when she’s had my son, a reward, a thanksgiving. She hasn’t done the job yet; it would be silly to give her jewellery now, especially if there were all those girls first and one had to keep at it.

  And yet some sort of present? She likes pretty things, she has a good eye, she picked up that Bonnard she has hung in our bedroom, said she acquired it for love, to give it a good home. He had said, ‘Like the dog?’, joking, and she’d laughed. The dog was a pretty awful mongrel, but the Bonnard might easily turn into a canny investment. All the same I don’t want to give her jewellery and have her flog it to buy pictures, you can come a cropper with pictures. The Bonnard might be just a lucky fluke.

  He had arrived half-way up Bond Street and stared sightlessly at the window of the White House. ‘God!’ he focused, ‘that’s what the girl in her picture is wearing. Rose has no exciting underclothes, perhaps she bought that picture as a hint; my problem is solved.’

  Ned went into the shop and chose six pairs of cream satin camiknickers, arranged to have them sent to Rose, writing, ‘With all my love, Ned’, on a card provided by the saleslady. He came out into the street relieved and generous. As he walked the All Clear sounded. He put thoughts of Rose aside and concentrated on his lightweight uniform. Should he go to Huntsman or Gieves? Just as he was in the habit of patronising two barbers, so it was with tailors, favouring now the one, now the other. His feet led him through Burlington Street to the corner of Savile Row and Vigo Street, and up the steps into Huntsman, the euphoria of his generosity making him decide on the more snob of the tailors.

  Emily, sauntering down Savile Row, spied Ned emerging from the portals of his tailor, pausing to draw a satisfied breath, then running down the steps to the street with springing step.

  ‘Ned, hi, Ned,’ Emily shouted, breaking into a trot. ‘Ned!’