by Mary Wesley
Calypso was startled to see that he had begun to weep. ‘It was so sad,’ he said. ‘She sneered at love; she thinks it disgusting. We came away blaming ourselves.’
To cheer him, Calypso said, ‘But you have befriended the woman, done what Henry asked. How could you be to blame?’ and she handed him a tissue, she being one of the first to give up the use of handkerchiefs and blow her nose on paper.
Jonathan said, ‘Oh! A tissue! What a sensible idea!’
Calypso said, ‘Saves laundry,’ and as he ceased to weep she said jokingly, ‘Come now, admit, you have had a lot of entertainment over the years. You arranged for her facials and massage as well as the redecorations. It’s not all gloom.’
‘Of course not,’ they agreed. The unravelling of Margaret’s past was a constant delight; she was such a liar. One week she would have been born in the Levant, the next it would be Bexhill-on-Sea. Her stories about her ex-husband were a joy. By then they had lost the temptation to bare their soul.
‘One day,’ they said, laughing, ‘this husband was a brute, a Hercules who wrested her from her family and ravished her. On another she was raised by nuns in an orphanage and found a situation as a servant to a priest. Or conversely the ex-husband was a mouse, or again a burly homosexual who only cared for the rough trade. She makes up her past as she goes along,’ they said, happy again, forgetting the tears.
It was all much more interesting than the truth, they told Calypso; they were almost sure from titbits she had let slip that she had been a manicurist at the Ghezira Palace Hotel, picked up by the German husband who needed a wife for cover.
When they had gone Calypso wondered why they had lost their nerve and not told her what they intended. Then, since gossip did not interest her, she forgot.
PART TWO 1954
THREE
JAMES MARTINEAU AND MATTHEW Stephenson, meeting in the Fulham Road and exchanging the time of day, discovered that they were both invited to Cotteshaw for the coming weekend.
‘Henry suggested I should bring a girl,’ said Matthew. ‘Wants to make it something of a house party. You bringing a girl?’
‘I was thinking of asking Barbara,’ said James. ‘Who shall you bring?’
‘I have asked Antonia,’ said Matthew, ‘but she’s being difficult. Says she wouldn’t know anybody, and that anyway she’s been invited by the Grants and would rather go there.’
‘That’s a tiny untruth,’ said James, a kind man unwilling to call a lie a lie. ‘Hector and Calypso are in Italy, I happen to know. Tell Antonia that if she comes, she will know Barbara.’
‘That might do the trick,’ said Matthew, ‘they are great chums. Naughty of her to lie,’ he said uneasily.
‘Oh, girls!’ said James indulgently. ‘Why don’t I give you a lift down? My car is roomier than yours.’
‘I think I’ll stick to mine, thanks all the same,’ said Matthew, who hoped to be alone with Antonia. ‘I like to be independent. If we find the atmosphere too difficult we might want to push off before you and Barbara.’
‘Oh, the atmosphere!’ said James.
‘What was it like when you were there last?’ asked Matthew. ‘Dire?’
‘I wouldn’t say dire,’ said James kindly, as he sought for another word, but failing to find one pursed his lips and said, ‘Not exactly.’
‘Is this house party of Henry’s supposed to jolly things up?’ Matthew enquired, grinning.
‘I gather it is. Henry’s father used to give dinner parties every June; Henry wants to revive them. Long tables on the grass, backed by tulip beds and yew hedges, lilac in bloom, good nosh and lots of booze. Candlelit, of course, and a full moon. Sounds fun.’
‘Supposing it rains?’ suggested Matthew.
‘It never rained for Henry’s parents.’
‘But that was before the war,’ said Matthew.
‘The war has changed much, but not the climate. Gosh, look at the time! I must fly, see you there—’ James broke into a run to catch a bus thundering towards the bus stop.
‘Hoffentlich,’ said Matthew, who had recently spent a week in Dusseldorf on business. ‘One must give old Henry full marks for trying,’ he shouted as James leapt on to his bus.
‘I hear you are coming to Henry Tillotson’s bash,’ said Antonia on the telephone.
‘Oh, so Matthew persuaded you.’ Barbara’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of marmalade and toast. ‘Look, I’m in the middle of breakfast—got up late.’
‘I was going to the Grants,’ said Antonia, ‘but—’
‘They are in Italy, darling.’ Barbara swallowed her toast and reached for her coffee cup. ‘You couldn’t go to the Grants. Are you playing hard to get?’ she asked, not expecting an answer. ‘They don’t ever seem worried by currency restrictions.’ She gulped her coffee. ‘Nice to be rich.’
‘I thought all that was over,’ said Antonia. ‘Anyway, a little thing like currency restrictions wouldn’t worry Calypso. My mother says she stuffs her bra with fivers. I admire her panache.’
‘She rather intimidates me,’ said Barbara. ‘Look, love, I must fly or I shall again be late at the grindstone. Oh! Do you suppose Matthew will make you change your mind?’
‘He might,’ said Antonia. ‘And what about James?’
‘Ah,’ said Barbara, ‘James—’
‘Their being such friends would be nice for us,’ said Antonia.
‘I am mulling it over,’ said Barbara.
‘Actually, between ourselves, I loathe earning my living,’ said Antonia.
‘Me too,’ said Barbara. ‘This early morning rush, coming home exhausted to unwashed breakfast things, ugh!’
‘It’s the parents who think independence and not marrying until we are mature will stop us messing up our lives. I can’t see any compensations in honest toil,’ said Antonia.
‘You’re going to be late. I’m going to be late,’ cried Barbara. ‘See you at the weekend, then. Oh! Do you suppose we shall be allowed to meet the mystery wife?’
‘I rather gathered that was the idea,’ said Antonia. ‘That’s why I’m coming. What shall you wear? Got anything new I can borrow? I’ll lend you my blue—’
‘We are late, we’ll get the sack—’ Barbara rang off.
Antonia Lowther checked the contents of her bag and, slamming the door, raced out into the street. Hurrying towards the tube she wondered, not for the first time since she had set up on her own in a one-room flatlet, whether earning her keep and indulging in independence was the rosy experience her parents had envisaged for her. One week in her job had undeceived her as to the interest of work; an occupation such as hers would be dull if her bosses dealt in diamonds or international art. The fact that the company of which she was a minute cog dealt in oil was of little import. Typing and filing was typing and filing, and making tea was exactly that; she was unqualified for anything better.
There was no question of returning to the comforts of home, much as she missed the automatic meals, free laundry, bath soap, shampoo, lavatory paper, postage stamps, and messages noted by her mother or the daily lady; there was no going back. Her mother, Antonia knew, had with the connivance of her father eased her out.
My mother, thought Antonia, descending the steps of South Kensington tube station, would make a far better secretary than I ever shall. My mother, she thought as she elbowed an old woman aside at the ticket office, has taught herself to be efficient. It is the only protection she has from Father. My mother, Antonia told herself as she scampered onto the platform in time to miss a departing train, should have left Father years ago. She does not stay with him for the sake of us children, but because she deludes herself that he loves her.
How can she? Antonia asked herself. I cannot bear, Antonia thought as she felt the warm draught of an oncoming train seep up her skirt, I cannot bear the way he treats her. Considerate and thoughtful in public, offensive and rude in private.
The train doors slid open and she squeezed in among the strap-hanging bodies
. Among the swaying bodies Antonia enumerated the remarks her father voiced in the privacy of home. His references to a crepey neck, greying hair, double chin, veiny legs and yellowing teeth make me sick, she thought. The remarks about teeth are particularly vile.
His teeth glisten whitely since the accident Mother is never allowed to forget, thought Antonia, as she swayed with the crowd. Mother would not have been driving if he had not had so many drinks; it is when he has had a few drinks that he says these hurtful things. I, Antonia swore to herself, shall never allow myself to have too many drinks and endanger my marital relations.
Curse this brute, she muttered to herself as she tried to edge away from a strap-hanging man, he smells of persp. When I marry, she thought, for she was a girl determined on marriage, I shall not allow my husband to smell, nor shall I be a doormat. My children, if I have children, will live to boast of the sweetness of connubial bliss; no child of mine will risk the snub I got from Mother when I complained of Father’s nastiness.
Antonia remembered her mother’s laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ her mother had said. ‘We love each other! He doesn’t mean it; family life gets on his nerves. He is working too hard. He will be much happier when you have all left home.’
Ruefully Antonia remembered those words. I have been ejected from the nest, she told herself. I must marry. Perhaps Matthew Stephenson will do? Why not? I don’t think he is all that exciting, but I would never want to be rude to him or unkind. I really think he might do quite well.
And Barbara? For Antonia always included her best friend in her plans. Barbara could do worse than James Martineau. He might lack the romantic zip Barbara yearned for, but by and large he would do. It was time Barbara grew up. Antonia, under the impression that she herself had reached that stage, decided for her friend. And both lots of parents will probably approve. She snorted with laughter as she skipped out of the tube and hurried towards her boring labours.
‘This is better than breaking my back planting trees in Hector Grant’s wood.’ Antonia sat beside Matthew.
‘Now then,’ said Matthew, his eyes on the road ahead, his hands tightening on the wheel.
‘Only joking,’ said Antonia, ‘trying it on, teasing. I am not a mythomaniac, promise.’
‘Better not be,’ said Matthew, glancing sideways at his passenger. Sleek fair hair hid half her face. He approved the pert nose and full mouth which, the evening before, he had kissed, sliding his tongue between the slightly irregular teeth, which had nipped quite sharply. Matthew felt a frisson of pleasurable recollection. He was glad he had confronted Antonia with her lie; she had had the grace to apologize. She had lunched once with the Grants, she explained, and she hoped to be invited again. Her father had known Hector in the war and Calypso was the sort of woman she would like to be herself in her thirties, a pretty futile sort of ambition, she had said modestly.
Matthew had said, ‘Rubbish, you underrate yourself absurdly,’ and kissed her. He was looking forward to the weekend.
‘What is Henry’s wife like?’ she asked.
‘I hardly know. I have been to Cotteshaw several times and she hasn’t appeared, or one hasn’t been invited up. One knows she’s there in her room but one rarely sees her.’
‘But you have seen her?’
‘Yes. Beautiful in a weird way.’
‘When did they marry?’
‘Some time in the war. It’s said they met in the Middle East. I suppose Henry told somebody about it, but he’s never told me. Her name, by the way, is Margaret. Towards the middle or end of the war they married, Henry brought her back to England and she went to bed.’
‘What was wrong with her?’
‘She wasn’t ill.’
‘Goodness! And she lives in bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t she bored?’
‘Perhaps, if you met her, you could ask her.’
‘I shall,’ said Antonia. ‘And if I don’t, Barbara can.’
‘I was joking,’ said Matthew hastily. ‘The whole situation is fraught. Not only does one not ask Henry’s wife why she lives in bed, one doesn’t ask Henry either. One just tries to behave naturally. I hope you will make it clear to Barbara, if James hasn’t, that one keeps mum.’
‘Ho!’ said Antonia. ‘I see. One is mum, is one.’
Not liking her tone, Matthew said, ‘Yes,’ and they drove in silence for several miles. Then Matthew said, ‘It’s more than probable that you won’t meet her at all. I only met her once for about five minutes.’
‘What was she wearing?’ asked Antonia, whose mind had divagated to what dress she would wear at the party; she had brought two dresses. The choice was further complicated by the possibility of borrowing one from Barbara.
Matthew said, ‘A nightdress, of course,’ and was irritated when Antonia laughed.
Regretting his irritation, Antonia said, ‘I really am looking forward to this party. I have never been to an outdoor dinner; if this weather lasts, it should be fun.’
Mollified by Antonia’s enthusiasm, Matthew said, ‘The forecast is propitious,’ and, sensing that she smiled, asked, ‘Do you find me a touch pompous?’
He was pleased when, laughingly, she answered, ‘I do, but I love it.’
Just before they reached Cotteshaw they caught up with James and Barbara, who had left their car and stood leaning over a gate into a hayfield. When they saw Antonia and Matthew they turned to greet them.
‘What are you two up to?’ called Antonia.
‘Stopped for a pee,’ said James sedately.
‘Good idea,’ said Matthew, getting out of his car.
‘Liar,’ said Barbara. ‘He stopped the car to ask me to marry him.’
‘And shall you?’ asked Matthew, vaulting the gate into the field.
‘Don’t piss on the hay,’ said James, ‘it’s Henry’s. No! She refused me.’
‘But it was a sweet hay-scented proposal,’ volunteered Barbara, smiling.
‘And I am not altogether discouraged,’ said James cheerfully.
‘Antonia?’ Matthew, returning from the field, caught her eye.
‘Hay makes me sneeze,’ said Antonia.
‘Then I shall wait to pick a more esoterically-scented location,’ said Matthew, ‘and one where we are not crowded by eavesdropping friends. Come on, my dears, let us arrive chez Henry en masse.’
James followed Matthew’s car. ‘What a nice house,’ said Barbara as they crunched up the drive. ‘Pity it’s so shabby.’
‘We seem to be expected, the front door is open.’ James braked to a halt behind Matthew.
While Matthew and James unloaded the luggage Antonia and Barbara wandered up to the front door and stood, hesitating, on the threshold. After the dazzling sunshine the interior of the house was dark; they sniffed the cool air of a flagstoned hall.
Barbara murmured, ‘Something smells delicious. Lilies?’
Antonia said, ‘Lilac, I think,’ in a low voice and groped childishly for her friend’s hand. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anybody here.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Should we ring?’
‘No need,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Bell’s out of order. Do come in. I am Henry; you must be Antonia and Barbara. So glad you could come. These are my dogs,’ he said as two shaggy animals, appearing from nowhere, began sniffing and nudging round the girls’ legs. ‘Don’t let them bother you,’ he said, but made no attempt to dissuade the creatures from their intrusive attentions.
‘It’s all right, we both like dogs,’ said Antonia, letting go of Barbara’s hand. ‘How do you do? I am Antonia.’
She held out her hand, hoping that Barbara’s grasp had not made it sticky, but instead of shaking Henry’s hand she had to push away one of the dogs who, venturing more boldly than the other, was thrusting his nose up her skirt. She stood beside Barbara, looking up at Henry.
Henry Tillotson was taller than either James or Matthew, both tall men; he towered above the girls, smiling down at their upturned face
s.
Eager faces, he thought, unmarked but not innocent, two determined little beauties. The one dark, the other fair, hungry but not avaricious, neither would be likely to commit an uncalculated folly. They were probably aware that, posed against the light in the doorway, their summer dresses transparently revealed their legs (excellent legs, both).
‘Ah,’ he said, looking past them, ‘James and Matthew. Good to see you.’ He went down the steps at a trot to relieve them of their loads. ‘Come along in,’ he said, ‘you must see your rooms. Then Pilar ordains that we should have tea on the terrace; she recently read that tea on the terrace of a country house is de rigueur in a Homes and Gardens magazine.’
The girls took note of Henry. Disproportionately long legs in corduroy trousers, a thin torso in a shabby sweater, long arms. ‘Needs a haircut,’ murmured Antonia.
‘But what hair!’ Barbara approved. ‘I like the colour, almost black.’
‘And gypsy eyes. Isn’t his nose too big?’ Antonia wondered.
Barbara opined that she liked large noses; James, too, had a large nose and Matthew’s was not small.
‘So he’s rather dishy,’ murmured Antonia as the men approached the house.
‘Pity he’s so old,’ whispered Barbara. ‘Must be middle thirties.’
‘I like older men,’ muttered Antonia.
‘Me too,’ said her friend.
‘Share?’ suggested Antonia slyly, and they laughed.
‘Share what?’ asked James, coming up the steps.
‘We were wondering whether we are to share a room,’ said Antonia smoothly.
‘There is no need unless you want to,’ said Henry. ‘Ah, here is Pilar. This is Pilar,’ he said to Barbara and Antonia. ‘James and Matthew know her, of course. Pilar, this is Antonia, and this is Barbara.’
Pilar shook hands with the girls, her black eyes taking them in. She smiled, showing her large teeth. ‘I show you your rooms,’ she said. ‘Come, please. No, Matthew, leave the bags, Ebro will bring.’ She turned towards the stairs and Barbara and Antonia followed.
As they mounted the stairs they exchanged a smile at Pilar’s remarkable shape. A tiny head on narrow shoulders sloped geometrically towards vast hips supported by very short legs which dwindled to tiny feet. Dressed in black, Pilar’s triangular shape merged into the darkness of the landing at the top of the stairs. The house was silent; their feet made no sound on the carpeted stair. Matthew and James had moved away from the hall with their host.
