Not That Sort of Girl

by Mary Wesley

  Ned, recognising Emily, waved, waited for her to come up to him. ‘Hullo, Em. What are you doing here? Long time no …’

  ‘I was on my way to … what are you up to?’

  ‘Having fittings for lightweight uniforms. Come and have lunch.’ Ned surprised himself by his impulsive invitation. ‘You are not doing anything, are you?’

  ‘Just shopping,’ said Emily. ‘I’d love to. Thanks. Where shall we go?’

  ‘Quaglino’s? Why not?’

  ‘Why not indeed.’ Emily put her hand through Ned’s arm, giving it a familiar squeeze.

  They walked through the Burlington Arcade, crossed Piccadilly and descended into Jermyn Street.

  At Quaglino’s Ned was greeted with obsequious bows and scrapes. The maître d’hôtel enquired after Rose and watched Emily from the corner of his eye while he handed Ned the menu. ‘A drink while you wait?’

  They sat in the hall for a pre-lunch drink.

  ‘And how is Rose?’ asked Emily.

  ‘I have been buying her a present, six presents actually, she’s in great form.’

  ‘Oh, lucky Rose.’ Emily smiled at Ned as she sipped her drink; Ned regarded her with quizzical eye. He wondered vaguely why there had been no time to get in touch during the past months.

  ‘This is nice,’ Emily sipped, ‘isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Ned stretched his legs, drew them back to let a couple in naval uniform pass, the girl in WRNS uniform looked a trim little piece. He swallowed his drink, ordered another. Emily refused, still busy with her first. He felt pleased with his morning, pleased with his uniform; part of the charm of joining the Territorials had been the uniform; he felt a better, a different man in uniform.

  ‘Nice uniforms?’ asked Emily.

  ‘Mind reader. Yes, lightweight. I am posted overseas.’

  ‘Oh, Ned, are we to lose you?’

  ‘Not permanently, I am not gone yet.’

  ‘What will Rose do?’

  ‘She’s working full-time in the garden growing food, and on the farm too; it’s rum sort of war work but that’s what she wants, it keeps her safe.’

  ‘It will ruin her hands, but keep her out of mischief,’ said Emily, spreading her fingers, inspecting her red nails, neat cuticles.

  Ned laughed. What mischief could Rose get up to? ‘Let’s have lunch.’

  They moved into the restaurant, sat on a banquette facing the room.

  Emily scraped her nails on the white tablecloth, gritting her teeth at the thought of Rose’s nails splitting and full of grit. ‘What present did you buy her?’

  ‘I bought her underclothes at a shop I found called the White House.’

  ‘Underclothes!’ Emily crowed with laughter, tossing back her head. ‘Camiknickers, I bet.’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ said Ned stuffily. ‘Come on, what are you going to eat?’ He tapped the menu, bringing it to Emily’s attention. Brought to order, Emily chose. ‘And what are you and Nicholas up to these days; still the Ministry of Agriculture?’

  ‘Yup. Still the Min of Ag. It suits me, lets me travel, as you know.’ Emily slid a glance at Ned, who failed to respond. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘about Dunkirk. I haven’t seen you since. Everyone’s saying how brave you were, got a medal, didn’t you?’

  ‘The MC.’

  ‘Go on, tell me all about it, I really want to know. Rose told me about the gooseberries,’ said Emily. This was not strictly true. Rose had told Edith Malone about the gooseberries in the tin hat; the tale travelled from mouth to ear by telephone, finally reaching Nicholas who had told his sister. (Imagine old Ned in danger, whatever next.) ‘I should like to see you coolly reacting to danger,’ said Emily, distracting Ned from thoughts of Rose. If anyone mentioned Dunkirk, he remembered standing in the queue in the sea, the hot sun on his head, the feeling that his legs were shrinking, the noise of the bombs. He had prayed to get back to Slepe and Rose, of course. ‘I thought you never saw Rose,’ he said.

  ‘What makes you think that? I’m her neighbour, there’s the telephone. Come on, Ned, tell me about being in danger, you are the only person I know who was at Dunkirk.’

  ‘I’m in danger now,’ said Ned, grinning.

  ‘Ned, you are flirting.’ Emily turned towards him, pressing her knee against his leg.

  Ned put his hand on Emily’s thigh, digging his nails in. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Are you not going back to Slepe?’

  ‘Up north on the night train.’

  ‘I’m staying with a friend.’

  ‘Is the friend out?’

  ‘Away,’ said Emily.

  ‘Finish your lunch. I’ll ask for the bill.’

  ‘All right,’ said Emily.

  ‘I love Rose,’ said Ned.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Bill, please,’ said Ned to the waiter.

  They sat in silence waiting for the bill; when it came Ned put notes on the bill and the waiter took it away to get change.

  ‘I’ll just telephone Euston and check my train,’ said Ned.

  ‘All right,’ said Emily.

  Ned went away to telephone.

  The waiter brought the bill folded over Ned’s change on a plate.

  ‘He’ll be back in a minute, just gone to telephone,’ said Emily.

  The waiter went away.

  Since nobody was looking, Emily helped herself to some of Ned’s change, putting it in her bag.

  ‘Right,’ said Ned, returning. ‘We’ve got several hours before my train.’ He pocketed the change without looking at it except to leave a tip commensurate with the splendour of his present to Rose.

  Emily read this thoughts.

  ‘I wonder whether she’ll wear them gardening?’

  Ned laughed, following her out of the restaurant, waving a taxi to stop. He handed Emily in. Emily told the driver the address. Ned sat with his arm around Emily. ‘I wonder what it’s like in Vienna these days,’ he said.

  ‘Why ever Vienna?’

  ‘I was thinking of my Uncle Archie and his Viennese uncles.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They had quite a lot of fun, I gather.’

  29

  EMILY FOUND ROSE BREAKFASTING in her kitchen, Comrade at her feet.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Rose. The dog wagged her tail.

  ‘I am on my way to your farm to get some Min of Ag forms filled in,’ Emily said. ‘My word, Rose, you do get up late. I had breakfast hours ago,’ she said virtuously.

  ‘I help with the milking and feed the pigs, then after breakfast I work in the garden. I’m up before six,’ said Rose, matter of factly.

  ‘I apologise.’ Emily sat opposite Rose.

  ‘Let’s see the forms,’ said Rose.

  Emily put a protective hand on her briefcase. ‘They are for John Hadley.’

  ‘In Ned’s absence I’m his landlord.’ Rose held out her hand. ‘Give.’

  Reluctantly Emily brought a sheaf of forms out of her briefcase, put one back and handed the rest to Rose.

  ‘Help yourself to coffee.’ Rose perused the forms. ‘Not too tiresome,’ she said, ‘they want us to grow more wheat. We shall have to plough another meadow, otherwise it’s okay. Now show me the other.’

  ‘What other?’ Emily looked innocent.

  ‘The form you put back, the one you didn’t want me to see.’

  ‘You won’t like it.’ Emily hesitated, then produced the form.

  Rose read, eyebrows rising. ‘No,’ she said, angrily tearing up the form, ‘certainly not.’

  ‘You’ll only get sent another,’ said Emily with mock patience.

  ‘Tell them it’s not on,’ said Rose. ‘They can take me to court if they like. I am not having our rooks shot; they eat hardly any grain, they eat leather jackets and do a lot of good. You Min of Ag people are an ignorant lot. I love our rooks and so does Ned.’ (Has he ever said so?)

  ‘Tell that to my Ministry.’ Emily was patient.

  ‘I certainly will,’ said Rose
forcefully. ‘Who is your boss?’

  ‘Nicholas.’

  Rose burst out laughing. ‘Nicholas? Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ Emily was laughing too. ‘Tell you what, we’ll cook the books; nobody is going to check that you’ve complied with the order.’

  ‘Cheat?’

  ‘If you like. There’s a war on, we’re busy …’

  ‘A war within a war. Have some toast and marmalade, more coffee?’

  Emily refilled her cup. ‘Actually you are not the only one to protest. The Malones nearly shot me. Then dear Mr Malone promised me two brace of pheasants a month throughout the season.’ Emily drank her coffee, watching Rose over the rim of her cup.

  ‘H-m … and what bribe can I give you?’ Rose eyed Emily with suspicion.

  ‘Moral support,’ said Emily gravely.

  What’s her game? Rose wondered. ‘Me, give you moral support? Are you joking?’

  Emily said, ‘No joke. I’m pregnant.’

  Rose was silent, absorbing this news. Then she asked quietly, ‘Getting married?’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘Is he dead? Married already?’

  ‘It’s not a question of that …’

  ‘Then what? Oh, Em, you’re not …’

  ‘I had an abortion once. Two years ago. There’s a clinic in Munich. Nicholas came with me. We had a rather jolly time in the end. It cost the earth. We sold one of father’s teapots; he’s never missed it so don’t breathe, but now with the war one can’t get to Munich, can one?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Rose had an absurd vision of Emily and Nicholas infiltrating into Munich by parachute.

  ‘I’m not in favour of back streets and knitting needles. I’ve tried gin and hot baths to no avail. You know us. Nicholas helped, he nearly boiled me alive, nothing!’

  ‘There must be something, someone …’

  ‘I’ve decided to have it.’

  ‘Emily! How splendid!’

  ‘I don’t know what’s so splendid about it.’ The words were deprecating, but Emily looked pleased.

  Rose had never received a confidence from Emily; she was tempted to confide in return, to expose herself, but long association with the Thornbys prevented her. She told herself that she was still not absolutely certain of her own pregnancy; she might be six weeks late or something.

  ‘I notice you don’t ask who the father is,’ said Emily demurely.

  ‘It’s not my business, is it?’ said Rose.

  The two girls thoughtfully drank their coffee. Comrade stretched out on the floor and yawned. She was heavy with pup.

  ‘Do you feel sick?’ asked Rose cautiously.

  ‘Mornings,’ said Emily. ‘It’s not too bad.’

  ‘Does Nicholas know? Does he know you want to keep it, I mean?’

  ‘Of course Nicholas knows. He thinks it’s a great joke; he’s already making plans for its future.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose considered Emily. Emily with so many boy friends, Emily’s visits to London, her popularity at parties. Then she thought of the brother and sister’s closeness; was Nicholas perhaps pleased that Emily could not marry the baby’s father, that she would not be leaving him? It was a lot to take in all at once. ‘What shall you do?’ she asked. ‘Do you think Edith Malone would be helpful?’

  ‘I told you. No abortion. If I turned to Mrs Malone, she’d think I was fathering the child on George or Richard.’

  ‘Surely not, she’s so kind.’

  ‘It would be the first thing I’d think of in her shoes,’ said Emily. ‘No, no, we’ve decided to let people think and say what they please and have the baby. I shall ask my father for money. He can’t refuse, he’d disapprove of abortion and he won’t approve of the baby, but he isn’t mean. Good Lord, bishops are supposed to be Christian.’

  ‘I think you are most courageous, Nicholas too.’ (Nicholas will love the drama.)

  ‘Not really.’ Emily stirred her coffee, then helped herself to more sugar. ‘Sorry, I crave it, keep forgetting it’s rationed.’

  ‘Couldn’t you say the father was a fighter pilot, shot down and killed?’

  ‘Oh, Rose, how respectable you are,’ Emily shouted angrily, ‘the little soul of convention! I can’t be bothered to lie. If it bothers you and people ask, just say you don’t bloody know. I am not the first girl to get caught like this.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I’m lucky,’ Emily yelled, ‘to be living with Nicholas in our own house. We’ve both got jobs, nobody’s going to turn little Emily out into the snow. It will be a nine days’ wonder. With the war going on, people have more interesting things to talk about. I wish now,’ said Emily passionately, ‘that I hadn’t told you. You’re so bloody pure, there’s nothing disreputable about you, is there?’

  On the floor Comrade whimpered in her sleep, flapped her tail against the flagstones.

  ‘I’m glad you did tell me, didn’t wait for me to wonder whether somebody was pumping you up with a bicycle pump.’

  ‘Well, all right, let’s shut up about it, shall we?’

  ‘There’s no need to be touchy; of course I’ll shut up.’

  ‘I’m not touchy,’ shouted Emily, banging her cup on the table. ‘Oh, curse it, I’ve cracked it, was it one of Ned’s best?’

  ‘No.’ Rose fetched a fresh cup from the dresser, wiped the spillage, poured Emily fresh coffee and sat down to finish her breakfast.

  For a while neither girl spoke, then Emily said in her usual tone of voice, ‘When did Ned go?’

  ‘He sailed from Liverpool nearly three weeks ago. It was cold and wet. At least he’s gone to where the sun shines.’ (It’s funny how I miss him, that matter-of-fact voice.)

  ‘I saw him in London, we met in the street, he gave me lunch,’ said Emily.

  ‘He told me, said you were most amusing, he’s got a soft spot for you. Did he tell you,’ asked Rose, ‘that he’d gone bravely alone and bought me six pairs of camiknickers? From the White House, too, think of the cost!’

  ‘Yes, he did. It made me laugh.’

  ‘I would have thought him too shy and proper to do such a thing.’

  ‘Much too shy, but he’s brave, look what he did at Dunkirk; one would never have credited it. I made him talk. All that rearguard action before they got taken off must have been scary.’

  ‘The war seems to bring out fresh facets in people; have you heard about my mother? She’s settled herself in London, changed her appearance and become a bridge fiend. She’s so changed, Emily, that she might turn out to be somebody who would help you.’

  ‘I don’t want help. I thought I’d made that clear,’ snapped Emily.

  ‘Yes. Well. Sorry.’ Rose picked up her plate and cup and moved towards the sink.

  ‘Ned told me when I met him in London that he loves you.’ Emily reverted to Ned. Was the Ned she knew the same man who was Rose’s husband, inheritor of all this? Emily looked around the large rather dark kitchen with its stone floor, draughts and inconvenient clutter. She felt no envy of Rose.

  ‘I believe he does.’ Rose rinsed her cup under the tap, not wishing to discuss Ned or dissect his love with Emily.

  Emily watched Rose’s back, the baggy corduroy trousers, the plain shirt under the thick sweater; when would she find occasion to wear the camiknickers? Not while milking, feeding pigs or gardening. ‘Well,’ she said, gathering up her briefcase, snapping it shut, regaining her poise, ‘I must be on my way. Any chance,’ she asked as they walked towards the red M G, ‘of some extra butter now and again?’

  Rose laughed. ‘Blackmailer. Butter is rationed, pheasants are not. No chance.’

  ‘Worth a try,’ Emily said amiably. She kissed Rose’s cheek and got into the car. ‘The moral support will do.’ She drove away.

  Rose joined Farthing in the kitchen garden where he was trenching and manuring, preparing the ground for winter frosts. ‘Shall I help?’

  ‘You don’t want to do this. It’s too heavy. The cold frames need sorting ou
t, you do that. They are full of weeds.’

  ‘What’s in them?’

  ‘Parma violets and lilies of the valley. Come spring, you can post them up to Covent Garden or a posh shop like Constance Spry and make a packet.’

  ‘What a lot you know.’ Rose fetched a fork and trowel and began work, squatting by the frames. Does sly old Farthing guess that Emily is pregnant? Does he guess I am? He’s heading me away from heavy jobs. Did it occur to Emily, or is she too absorbed in herself? Was Emily hinting, wondered Rose, her thoughts still on her friend, that Ned might be the father? Ignoble thought, she tried to push it aside but it turned this way and that in her mind. Emily would, but would Ned? Rose pulled up handfuls of chickweed, dug deep to extract a dandelion. Would Emily, if Ned? Would Ned, if Emily? Emily would, but would Ned? She pulled hard on the dandelion root which snapped, leaving a residue of root in the soil, buried deep to pop up later as persistent as Rose’s suspicion of Emily. Would I mind? she asked herself. Mind much or mind a little? Not at all? The question does not arise, she scolded herself. Then she thought with surprise that Emily had looked vulnerable and then, even more surprised, she thought, I liked her this morning. I’ve never liked her before. ‘What do you think of Emily Thornby?’ she asked Farthing as he wheeled his barrow past her.

  Farthing stopped, smiled: ‘She’s got spunk. They both have.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Mind you, between ourselves, I wouldn’t trust either of ’em round a razor blade.’ Farthing gave his barrow a heave and moved on. Rose laughed, sitting back on her heels. ‘Not a very flattering observation.’

  ‘She’d be a bit of all right in a tight corner,’ Farthing called over his shoulder, ‘and her brother would too.’

  ‘Their father is a trustworthy bishop, Farthing.’

  ‘And who’s he descended from? There’s funny blood somewhere.’

  ‘Are you suggesting pirates?’ asked Rose, extracting a grub from among the weeds and throwing it in the direction of an attendant robin. ‘Or gipsies?’

  ‘I ain’t suggesting nothing.’ Farthing tipped the load of manure onto the ground by his trench.

  Rose, remembering Emily’s attack on herself, asked, ‘Would you describe me as bloody conventional, Farthing?’ rather cherishing Emily’s description of herself.