Not That Sort of Girl

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Oh, poor girl …’

  ‘It casts a cloud. She’s such a splendid girl.’

  A splendid girl, a splendid girl, a splendid …

  ‘Is there anything one can do?’ she said.

  ‘You could ask her down for the weekend or something, if your house isn’t too full.’

  ‘I’ll ask her to dinner next time I’m in London.’ (I could not bear those eyes at Slepe.)

  ‘She’d probably like that,’ he said.

  ‘Is she fond of that French friend of yours?’

  ‘Picot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s not keen on him. I believe he made a pass and got rebuffed …’

  How ungenerous I am, she had thought. ‘What a horrible war this is,’ she had exclaimed.

  ‘But today is not horrible, is it? We haven’t spoiled it insuperably, have we?’

  ‘No, no.’

  But it was spoiled. Victoria’s sorrow intruded on their day and as she drove over the rise and could see Mount’s Bay she matched Victoria’s grief with her own, told Mylo about her miscarriage.

  What a time to choose; Mylo had gone quite green.

  That night they lay in an hotel bed clutching each other, unable to sleep, unable to comfort, unable to make love. In the morning she had driven him to Newlyn. ‘Wait a moment,’ he had said. He had gone through the gate onto the quay, returned carrying a box of live lobsters and crawfish. ‘Take these home with you. They are off a Belgian boat.’ He put the box on the back seat with Comrade who sniffed, recoiled, jumped into the front of the car in alarm. ‘Go now, darling, don’t look back.’ He had taken her face between his hands and kissed her fast—eyes, nose, forehead, mouth. ‘Go, go, go.’

  Walking back down the hill by the way she had come Rose remembered those kisses, his hands salty from the box of lobsters, his mouth salty from her tears. She had driven as far as Truro before noticing where she was; for the rest of the drive she tormented herself with visions of Mylo crossing to France on a trawler or a submarine or a motor-torpedo boat; getting drowned, shot, disappearing for ever.

  Ned had been at Slepe when she got back. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he had shouted. ‘Where have you put my corkscrew? I can’t find it. I’ve a bottle of decent wine and I can’t find …’

  ‘It’s there, under your nose,’ she had said and it had been there under his nose, giving her a shot of one-upmanship (what silly things one remembers) and ‘Lobsters for dinner,’ she had said. Ned, seeing the lobsters and hearing where she had been and how much petrol she had used, had said admiringly, ‘You must be out of your tiny mind.’

  After the invasion of Normandy a year later, she lay in Mylo’s arms in a small flat he had been lent in Chelsea. A new and sinister noise disturbed their copulation. They stood on the balcony and watched the first V I rocket doodling its noisy way across London to explode in Harrow.

  That summer of 1944 he brought her Aragon’s poems from Paris, told of the explosion of talent from people bottled up under the Germans, talked to her of Sartre and Anouilh. Growing restless in the country she came often to London, drawn by the fear and excitement of the bombing, the feeling that the end of the war was in sight, the need to walk recklessly on the broken glass in the gutters. Then Mylo was off again, to Northern Italy she was to learn later, where he spent the winter with the Partisans and she, with no news of him, grew melancholy, pacing in the park with Comrade where German prisoners of war swept the dead leaves of the plane trees in a grey drizzle, in their grey uniforms, with long grey sweeps of their reluctant brooms, watched by indifferent guards while the wet heavy air pressed the smoke of aromatic bonfires down to nose level.

  She went back to Slepe for the coldest winter of the war yet, where she was for once without visitors, they naturally preferring warmer London. Ned, who was by this time in France, complained of the cold, wrote frequently asking for comforts from Fortnums, cigars and coffee. He gloried in his staff job, his authority and the power he dared not use as he was unable to sort collaborator from Resistance fighter when working with the French. He could not speak the language. He was happily moved to Paris to liaise with the Americans, among whom he made contacts useful to him later in peacetime business.

  At Slepe the pipes froze. Rose fetched drinking and cooking water from a well; Christopher caught measles, Farthing slipped on ice and broke his leg, Edwina fell ill with shingles, and Emily, sensing that she might be asked to come and help, dumped Laura at Slepe (‘It would be a good thing if she could get measles, save an awful lot of trouble later.’) and moved to London to live with an American colonel who had a centrally heated flat off Grosvenor Square. Nicholas sulked, closed the Rectory and moved into a pub close to the Min of Ag.

  Struggling with the children, the farm, the shortages and the cold, Rose should have had little energy to pine for Mylo, yet still she watched for the postman, ran whenever the telephone rang, dreamed of a time when worries would evaporate and they would be together.

  It was during that horrible winter, Rose remembered as she retraced her steps downhill, that Ned, coming home on leave, extracted yet another renewal of her promise. Finding Horizon and the New Statesman in the house he accused her of having a ‘Pinko lover’. She would not, he reasoned, have discovered such reading matter for herself, thus insulting her intelligence. ‘It will be that bugger J P Sartre next or the cad Kafka …’ He had raised his voice (he had not in fact said the cad Kafka, Rose added it later to make a better story), made a scene in front of Christopher and Laura. There had been other indications of infidelity listed but Rose forgot them. She remembered, though, doing something she had never thought to do: she hit Ned, made his nose bleed. Poor Ned. She realised later that he was shaken by Emily’s deviation from her norm of availability and infected by a malaise rife among his associates who, returning from the war, found their marriage ties loosened, in some cases bust. While applying ice to his nose she had apologised; by hitting him she was diminished, weakened, more closely tied to him and he, putting his arms around her, had said, ‘Of course you have no lover. How could I suggest such a thing? You are not that sort of girl. You promised never to leave me; to suggest you sleep around is idiotic. A girl like you would not dream of it.’

  Instead of being uplifted by Ned’s estimate she had been irritated. What did he know of her dreams? Did he take her for gormless, dreamless? (In this mood of irritation, having run out of clothes coupons, she helped herself to his dinner jacket suit and had it cut down by her own tailor into a coat and skirt which she wore with white hat and blouse at George Malone’s wedding and later at Richard’s.) That she was too meek to be suspect rankled, put ideas into her head which had not been there before, ideas which she was later to put into effect.

  Remembering that period, Rose chuckled as she walked downhill. The wind was freshening, stirring the treetops, making her eyes water. In tandem with her irritation she had developed a fondness for Ned and he for his part stopped his nervous requests that she renew the promise. She reviewed life as it might be without him and shied away.

  About that time Emily parted with her American colonel, returned to live with Nicholas. Thinking about it in old age, Rose wondered whether her decision to grow up, shut up and stick to Ned was arrived at partly to thwart Emily taking over her husband and home (the idea was there in Emily’s mind; one could not be certain whether, given the chance, she would have acted upon it) or had she been daunted, just as minutes ago she had turned away from the unknown, retraced her steps to the known path she had climbed that morning rather than explore new country?

  Dogs in the manger are presumably lying comfortably.

  45

  LEAVING THE OPEN GROUND Rose re-entered the wood, treading now on beech mast which split crisply under her shoes. Often in woods similar to this she had stood with Ned whistling, then listening for the sound of Comrade hunting with her pup, for the betraying yelp which would signal their whereabouts, their ineffectual effort to capture
rabbit, fox or badger. Ned, his patience matched by his admirable labrador’s, would stand beside her. ‘They will find their way home,’ he would say. ‘They always do.’

  ‘They may get trapped or shot,’ she would answer. Never once did Ned say, ‘Serve them right, if they do,’ although he must have felt it. She remembered his tolerance; her dogs were always naughty, his well behaved.

  It was easier to remember the Ned of the early days of marriage than of later years. Her memory of him in youth was much clearer than that of the middle past when time concertinaed into old age until finally death reduced him to ash, releasing her from her promise.

  She could see him on those occasions when at last she found her dogs. He would grin, take off his glasses, polish them with his handkerchief, ask, ‘Satisfied now?’ and they would walk home to an enjoyable tea by the fire with Christopher. But if Laura had come to spend the day, to be fetched by Emily at dinnertime, Ned would watch Laura uneasily, hasten when Emily arrived to offer her a drink, help himself to whisky to keep her company, chatter, laugh a particular laugh, glance towards Rose for reassurance. It was years before Ned was convinced she would not allow him to be gobbled up by Emily.

  For her part Emily was content with the role of part-time mistress, that was what she enjoyed. If she extracted the occasional hand-out towards Laura’s upkeep, Ned could afford it. Rose knew about it, nobody suffered. When the time came for Cheltenham Ladies’ College fees and Ned moaned, he received no sympathy. Rose never fully believed Laura to be Ned’s child. At first Ned fostered the myth himself, partly from guilty panic, partly from a liking to be thought a bit of a dog. But, Oh my, thought Rose as she threaded her way through the trees, that promise still meant something in 1948.

  Half-way through dinner with Harold Rhys and his new wife and her mother who was visiting for the weekend, Edwina Farthing put her head round the door and said, ‘The pup’s back,’ but there was no sign of Comrade. Two days later the water bailiff found Comrade where she had become entangled in brambles at the river’s edge, been trapped and, when the water rose in flood, drowned. Fond of Rose, the bailiff brought Comrade’s body himself, stood awkwardly watching her white face while Ned thanked him for his trouble, offered him a drink. When the telephone rang Rose picked up the receiver, said, ‘Hullo?’

  Mylo asked from long distance, ‘Does that bloody promise you made to Ned still hold?’ And she, watching Ned standing a yard away, said, ‘Yes, it bloody does.’

  ‘That’s it, then.’ Mylo rang off abruptly and she, she remembered as she walked, had broken into terrible weeping. Ned had been kind. He had not offered to buy her a pedigree dog, he had continued to put up with the puppy, and later the puppy’s puppy. If he thought her grief exaggerated, he did not say so. He presently took her on trips to Bath and Edinburgh (the exchange control precluding travel abroad), to theatres in London. He stopped quibbling about the expense and installed central heating. He sold his London flat which Rose had always rather looked on as Emily’s preserve, and together they chose a cheerful little house in South Kensington which was to be their London base, a London home for Christopher as he grew up. For more than a year he hardly saw Emily. And I, thought Rose looking back, was grateful; I put away thoughts of Mylo; it was as though with Comrade’s drowning love for Mylo waned. When a year later she heard by chance from Richard Malone that Mylo had married Victoria, she too said, ‘That’s that, then.’

  What a lot Emily contributed to the keeping of that promise, thought Rose, treading carefully now down the steep hill; it was a triumph that to this day she was unaware of her hold. But she was not alone; Mrs Freeling also fuelled Ned’s discomfort, kept Rose determined to defend him.

  While Christopher was an infant and for as long as he looked in any way baby-like, Mrs Freeling eyed her grandchild with distaste. Any baby reminded her of the horrors of procreation and child-bearing she was persuaded she had suffered. But when Christopher grew into what she termed a human being she enjoyed her status of grandparent and looked on Ned with a kindly eye. ‘Christopher is exactly like his father,’ she would say. ‘One can see he takes after you, Ned, he has your eyes, your nose. I can see nothing of Rose in him,’ and Ned would preen. By contrast when Laura was at Slepe, which she constantly was, playing or fighting with Christopher, Mrs Freeling would stare at the child, draw her son-in-law’s attention to her: ‘Look at little Laura, one would hardly credit that child had a father. She’s exactly like her mother, has no resemblance to anyone but Emily, Nicholas of course, but he is Emily’s twin. It’s odd, don’t you think, Ned? Children take after their fathers; Christopher looks like you; Rose looks like her father.’

  ‘That’s your theory,’ Rose would say.

  ‘It’s a fact.’ Mrs Freeling clung to her opinion. ‘I’d say that child might not have had a father. What do you think, Ned?’

  (Did she or did she not do this on purpose? Surely she was not clever enough to invent such a tease?) And Ned would flush, say, ‘Ah, well—I don’t know,’ try and change the subject, while Rose, aware of his distress, suggested an immaculate conception or on one occasion, ‘Perhaps Emily siphoned up someone’s spunk in the bath,’ disgusting her mother, earning a scandalised but grateful glance from Ned. (‘You went too far there, dear.’ He was never cured of the word ‘dear’.) And Laura, who liked being discussed, would stand close to Ned staring up at him with her mother’s bright and wicked eyes. Then Ned, his guilt fuelled by his mother-in-law, would soon be reminding Rose of her promise, if not outright, by hints. Small wonder, thought Rose, descending the hill, that there were no false pretences when Mother died. But let me be honest now, thought Rose grimly, while to thwart Emily was fun, a good motive in its way, that wasn’t what kept me with Ned all those years. His insecurity was matched by my need for security.

  46

  AT THE FESTIVAL OF Britain in 1951, early for a rendezvous with Ned and Christopher up for the day from his prep school, Rose watched the crowds enjoying the gaiety, the atmosphere of optimism. Coming up behind her Mylo said, ‘Why did you hang up on me three years ago?’

  Rose span round: ‘It was you who hung up. Why did you marry Victoria?’

  ‘Because we hung up, perhaps …’

  ‘Ned was beside me. I had just heard Comrade was dead, she was drowned, her body …’

  ‘Our little friend! So that was it!’

  ‘You need not have rushed off and married Victoria …’

  ‘There was no exact rush. You were stuck with Ned, and your child, living in that house. You love that house, I know you do. Getting used to it all. It seemed the thing to do. You didn’t expect me to hang around indefinitely.’ (She had.)

  She searched his face: ‘You have several new lines, more grey hairs.’

  ‘I see birds’ feet … Your eyes …’

  ‘Oh, Mylo.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I am meeting Ned and Christopher for lunch.’

  ‘How are they?’ He grinned at her.

  ‘Very well. Ned and Christopher have been to the dentist, we are meeting here.’

  ‘I love you, darling.’ He did not bother to lower his voice.

  ‘Have you any children?’ She fended him off.

  ‘Victoria has a daughter.’

  ‘A daughter. How lovely for you.’ She stiffened.

  ‘She’s not mine …’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She’s Picot’s.’

  ‘But she didn’t like Picot.’

  ‘You didn’t like Ned.’

  ‘What a stickler you are for truth.’

  ‘No need to be bitter.’

  ‘Is that why you married Victoria?’

  Mylo said, ‘Cut the lunch. Come and spend the afternoon with me. Please.’

  ‘If I did …’

  ‘I haven’t changed and nor have you. I want to hold you … come on, just a little fuck for old time’s sake.’

  Weakening, Rose giggled. ‘What about Victoria?’

  ‘W
hat about Ned?’

  ‘It wouldn’t help. It would only make things worse.’ She fumbled for her resolve.

  ‘Are things bad, then?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. I’ve got everything I …’

  ‘Except me.’

  ‘Except you.’

  ‘We used to think having each other would be enough for eternity …’

  ‘There they are, I can see Ned and Christopher.’

  ‘Nice-looking boy.’

  ‘Victoria has lovely eyes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mylo …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘All right, I won’t.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She felt desolate.

  ‘Perhaps you would explode if I touched you.’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Good. Some day I will telephone and you will come.’

  ‘Here they are …’

  ‘Who was that you were talking to, Ma?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘Um … he’s called … I think he’s called, er …’

  ‘I’ve booked a table.’ Ned pecked her cheek, took her arm. ‘All the restaurants are terribly crowded, we don’t want to lose it, come on.’ (If Mylo had touched me, I would have gone with him.)

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m coming. How sensible to book a table.’ They started walking. Mylo was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What does that man do, Ma? Where does he live?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling. What part of the Exhibition do you want to see?’

  ‘I’d really rather go to the Fun Fair. Who was he, Ma?’

  ‘Who was who?’

  ‘That man …’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How funny, it looked as though you knew him well.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’ (I don’t know where he lives or what he does, only that he’s with Victoria. Those eyes!) ‘He was only asking me something I don’t know the answer to.’

  ‘This is such an easy place to get lost,’ said Ned. ‘This way, I think, ah, here we are, here’s the restaurant. I hope they’ve kept our table. In spite of the signposts.’