by Mary Wesley
‘I suppose one could keep them on a lead,’ said Matthew. ‘No, I’m not put off, just doubly conscious of the risks.’
‘We shall start a baby at once,’ said James cheerfully.
Matthew said, ‘Is that what Barbara wants?’
‘I haven’t discussed it yet. But I think, don’t you, that it’s best to get the breeding bit over, establish the ties—?’
‘And have fun later,’ Matthew slewed round to look at James, ‘when you’ve pegged her down?’
James said, ‘Do keep your eye on the road. I don’t know about you but I want a family while I’m young. Then, when I’ve got it, we can travel, have fun, dump the children somewhere if we don’t want them with us.’
Matthew said astutely, ‘Is that what you would have done with Valerie?’
James said, ‘Oh, Valerie. Valerie was different.’
Matthew thought, I shouldn’t kick him in the balls, he’s not really over Valerie and I can’t imagine Valerie settling down to breed little Martineaux.
James stared at the road ahead. Caught unaware, he could still get a catch in the throat. Married to Valerie one would not have bothered to have children; one would not have wanted them taking up Valerie’s time and attention. One had been head over heels, obsessed. Valerie’s defection had been a bitter blow, the kind of blow which left one cautious, but marriage with Barbara was a whole new ball game; one would have the upper hand.
‘I think you and Barbara are wonderfully suited,’ said Matthew, sensing James’s pain. ‘She’s a very attractive girl.’ James said, ‘Oh yes, she is, absolutely.’ With Barbara one would not be risking odious comparisons; would he ever forget the list Valerie had given him of men with better accoutrements, that had been the word she had chosen, than his? Barbara had no previous experience, thank God. ‘Of course she is very young and inexperienced,’ he said.
‘So is Antonia,’ said Matthew. ‘I think it is to the good.’
‘And you are in love with her.’
Matthew said, ‘Yes, I am. I fell for her the first time I saw her. We met at her brother’s house.’
‘Not the brother who was at school with us?’
‘That’s the one, Richard Lowther. There was another younger brother in another house, but he was dark,’ said Matthew.
‘I remember,’ said James, ‘yes. Come to think of it, Antonia is like Richard.’
Matthew said, ‘Yes.’
James said, ‘Wasn’t—’ and, remembering Matthew’s and Richard’s friendship, stopped short. It had nearly got them into trouble. It had been a bit more than friendship; whoever it was who had written that Englishmen liked androgynous girls, and that their taste was formed at their public schools, had it right in Matthew’s case. Substituting for what he had been about to say—‘Wasn’t Antonia’s brother your tart?’—James said, ‘Wasn’t it about here Henry told us to turn off?’
Matthew said, ‘A bit further on, I think. I am keeping an eye—’
James said, ‘Antonia is a smashing girl. I think you are very lucky.’
‘I think so too,’ said Matthew, ‘and my parents will be pleased,’ and, recollecting various parental hints about it being ‘time to look round’, he said, ‘My father has been saying that he is looking forward to a grandson and using a French expression I can’t get the hang of about parking the car.’
‘Il faut ranger ta voiture,’ James supplied. ‘Dad uses it too, his first love was French. I’ve seen photographs, may well have been your father’s as well. They were friends. Just think, we might have been brothers.’
‘A horrific idea!’ exclaimed Matthew, laughing. ‘But of course they are right, there comes a time when being a bachelor palls. One needs a hostess, well, I do with foreign contacts to entertain, and someone to—er—well—’
‘Fuck,’ suggested James. Valerie’s vocabulary had been explicit; he had found it sexually exciting.
‘I was going to say share one’s bed,’ said Matthew, ‘fall seriously in love with. Of course it’s different for you, you are on the rebound from Valerie,’ he said with a hint of malice.
‘Oh, all that’s long past,’ said James. ‘I am very much in love with Barbara.’ Then, feeling that he sounded insufficiently sure, he said, ‘Nobody in their senses marries their first love,’ and, remembering Antonia’s brother Richard in adolescence, gave a yelp of laughter.
Surprised by James’s laugh, Matthew said generously, ‘One thing I am happy about is that my Antonia and your Barbara are such friends.’
James said, ‘It is indeed a bonus.’
Then Matthew said, ‘I think this is the turning Henry described; he said turn left at the fork by the blasted oak.’
James said, ‘You are right. Poor old Henry, he obviously lacked a wise papa.’
TEN
STANDING IN THE STONE-FLAGGED kitchen, Pilar listened. She tilted her head on its sturdy neck and sniffed like a cat, expanding her nostrils as though the warm air coming in from the yard might bring some message other than the hum of insects and scent of summer. There was the sound of splashing and the clatter of a bucket and Trask’s voice—‘Stand still can’t ’ee, soon be over’—as he bathed the dogs. The dogs, unwashed, would disgrace the party, she had said, and Trask, obliging, had said, ‘Anything for you, Pilar girl,’ and patted her rump.
Pilar moved to close the outer door in case a dog should charge in, shake itself and drench the kitchen.
In the house a stair creaked, water gurgled in the pipes, the sound of jackdaws discussing on the stack filtered down the chimney, coke shifted in the Aga, a door whined somewhere in a weak draught.
Resting her weight on her hands, Pilar leaned over the table to scrutinize the list she had written of all that must be done, and alongside it the menu. Henry had praised the menu, had expressed gratitude for her trouble; he had asked whether it was not all too much for her, whether she could not simplify. No, she had said, no, the party must be just so; it must resemble as closely as possible the parties given by his parents. She had not commented, as he stood looking at her, how closely he resembled his father, whom she had revered from the moment he had stopped in his peregrination through the camp in southern France. Towering above her, as Henry did now, he had asked the man who was his guide, ‘And these two? Who have they got?’ And the man, exhausted by the size of his job and inured to the refugees’ pain, had answered, ‘Personne,’ closing his mind to her insoluble dilemma. Left much longer squatting on the cold ground, clutching her dying baby to breasts where her milk was failing and hope with it, Pilar would have died; without her young husband there was nothing to live for. But Henry’s father had said, ‘Je m’en charge,’ and after a time she had found herself at Cotteshaw with a miraculously revived Ebro.
The party must be as close to perfection as she could make it. As far as Pilar was concerned, the party was a celebration in memory of her benefactor. Pilar stared at the menu with unfocused eyes as she remembered Henry’s father.
Henry had been away at the war when his father died. He had not been ill long. She had nursed him devotedly, begged him to get better. ‘What shall I do, señor, without you?’ She reproached herself now for her selfishness.
‘You must care for Henry. Stay until General Franco dies, then you can go home and spit on his grave.’
She had said, ‘What if Henry brings home a wife?’
Henry’s father had been silent, then, ‘Ah yes, I wrote to him. He may get married. There is a letter; d’you see it on the table? Please post it, Pilar.’ He had lain quiet for a while; breathing was increasingly hard. Then he had said, on a note of query, ‘You will post it?’
She had said, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘And tell him of my death?’
She had said, ‘And that, too,’ and then, ‘I will pray.’
He had said, ‘By all means pray if it helps.’ He was a considerate man, Pilar thought, as she moved to put her list and the menu on the dresser.
Opening the do
or into the hall, she listened. Margaret, who was not a considerate woman, had not rung her bell for quite a while. As she stood in the silence Pilar remembered the old man had heard her praying. She had known that he was awake and leaned close, in case he wanted to say something. He had said, ‘Don’t forget to spit,’ and died. She had closed his eyes, kissed him for the first and last time and gone out to post the letter before telephoning the doctor.
Now Pilar wished that she had had the sense not to post that letter. I spit on consideration, she thought, as Margaret’s bell jangled above the dresser. She started sturdily up the stairs.
Margaret was out of bed watching from her window, standing back so that anyone looking up from the lawn would be unlikely to see her. She wore a pale gold dressing-gown over her nightdress and her apricot hair hung down her back.
Pilar said, ‘What do you want?’, pausing by the door, her hand on the knob.
‘My bed is uncomfortable.’ Margaret did not turn round.
‘You are able to smooth sheets yourself,’ said Pilar, but she came into the room and began smoothing the sheets. ‘And puff pillows,’ she said, punching and slapping the pillows. ‘I am busy.’
‘You always say that. Why don’t you get those girls to give you a hand?’
‘Too young.’ Pilar folded back the bedclothes for Margaret’s re-entry.
‘Ach!’ said Margaret, ‘Look at that!’
Pilar left the bed and stood by Margaret. ‘My husband’s “familiars”,’ said Margaret. On the lawn below the window the dogs circled in mad abandon, running and leaping, pausing to shake themselves, spraying the grass with a mist of droplets. There was a whistle and they careered away as Antonia and Barbara came in sight. ‘Which girl is James Martineau’s?’ asked Margaret.
‘The one with brown hair. Let me open the window, it is stifling in here.’
‘No, leave it. She is not as pretty as the one who was called Valerie.’ Margaret turned away from the window. ‘He was in love with that one; how does he feel for this one?’
‘Now you are up, shall you have a bath?’ Pilar heaved up the sash window, letting in the summer air.
‘Is the water hot? Will you scrub my back?’ Margaret turned towards the bathroom.
‘It is always hot. You must scrub your own back. I am busy.’
‘How cruel you are.’ Margaret spoke without feeling; she habitually called Pilar cruel. ‘You did not answer me about James Martineau’s love or not love.’
‘I do not know,’ said Pilar.
‘Of course you don’t. How could a peasant like you know about love?’
Used to Margaret, Pilar said, ‘I leave you to bath,’ but she chuckled as she descended the stairs.
At the foot of the stairs she stopped. Antonia and Barbara were approaching. They appeared to have picked every flower in the garden. Pilar marvelled at their greed. So they would help themselves to life, she thought with sudden fury, and it was not she, Pilar, who knew nothing about love but these innocents. In the darkness of the hall, Pilar remembered the intensity of her love for her young husband and was shaken with hopeless desire for his long dead body.
Antonia and Barbara passed, chattering, into the pantry where she could hear their high young voices consulting as to which vase to use for which flowers.
‘This for my high arrangement.’ Antonia sounded confident.
‘And this, I think, for your great-aunt’s cache-mari. What else did she teach you? What other invaluable tips?’ asked Barbara.
‘One tip I remember, and looking at some of my cousins I wonder sometimes whether she—’
‘She what?’
‘Whether she acted on it.’ Antonia giggled. ‘It must be wonderful to have that sort of assurance.’
‘Explain,’ said Barbara.
‘My great-aunt,’ said Antonia, ‘told me that people who lived on her social echelon had lovers when they were married, and that sometimes their children were not their husband’s.’
Barbara said, ‘No birth control, of course. Goodness!’ She pursed her mouth.
‘Apparently,’ said Antonia, ‘they made sure the eldest was the husband’s, but after that it didn’t matter so much.’
‘Sounds relaxed,’ said Barbara. ‘Pass me the scissors so that I can snip these stalks.’
In Catalonia, thought Pilar, women would get themselves murdered for such behaviour whereas here in England, if Henry’s father had known that she had steamed open the letter before posting it, he would never have forgiven her. On her way back to the kitchen Pilar hoped that in heaven, where he surely resided, Henry’s father did not know. Nor would he know, she thought inconsolably, that she here on earth could not forgive herself for posting it.
ELEVEN
THE GIRLS CARRIED THEIR arrangements to the tables in the garden. Ebro spread starched white cloths so that they could set the flowers in place; he exclaimed in praise at their efforts and then began unpacking glasses from a basket and setting them on the bar. Preceded by damp, soap-smelling dogs, Henry came round the side of the house; he was laughing. ‘Trask has set his heart on dressing up as a butler,’ he said to Ebro.
‘Me too. We shall make a pretty pair.’ Ebro joined in the merriment. ‘We are pandering to Margaret’s desire for servants.’
Henry said, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I can’t stop you.’
Ebro said, ‘He deserves a reward for bathing the dogs, my mother insisted.’ Then he said to Barbara, ‘Is not my English impeccable?’ He swept her a bow.
Henry said, ‘Oh I say! The flowers, lovely. Will they topple over?’
Antonia said, ‘Of course not.’
Ebro said, ‘Drop some stones in the vase to weight it.’
Barbara said, ‘This is my effort, this, on the dining table. I hope you like it? I kept it low so that none of our views of each other are impeded.’
Henry said, ‘Wonderful, all these yellow roses, very very pretty,’ and made a resolution to impound the secateurs. Then he said, ‘Thank you both for all your trouble.’ Looking kindly at their upturned faces, he said, ‘What about that dress? Shall I show it to you? It comes from Dior. Perhaps you can persuade her, one never knows. I have it in my room.’
Antonia and Barbara said, ‘Dior!’ and ‘Goodness!’ Of course they were anxious to see it; they would each bring a dress, then there would be an element of choice. Though naturally Margaret would choose the Dior, it stood to reason.
‘Reason is something she stands on its head,’ said Henry wryly, ‘but it’s worth a bash. Meet you at the top of the stairs?’
The girls ran ahead and Henry followed more slowly with his dogs.
As he waited at the head of the stairs, the cockatoo crept under the sash of an open window. When it saw Henry it raised its crest and twisted its neck, glinting at him with one eye. Henry said, ‘Aha! I want you. You will be safer shut up.’ But as he reached for the bird it dodged out of the window and flew away, squawking. Henry said, ‘Damn you.’
‘Damn who?’ Barbara and Antonia came along the corridor empty-handed; they had decided to see the Dior before deciding on their own dresses. The comparison would be too odious.
‘The cockatoo. I missed. I don’t want him to bother people at the party, he’s been known to nip.’
Antonia said, ‘Catch him later. We’ve not brought our dresses. Where’s the Dior? Is it really from Dior?’
‘Come. I’ll show you.’ Henry led the way. ‘I live in this wing,’ he said. ‘The room was my father’s. My mother’s, too, when she was alive.’
‘A separate wing.’ Barbara hurried to keep pace. ‘Well away from the rest of the house and visitors.’ And well away from your wife, she thought.
Henry said, ‘Here we are.’ He opened a door and stood aside for the girls to pass.
It was a large room, full of sun. Facing the open window was a four-poster, against one wall a kneehole desk; there were armchairs and a sofa; the boards were carpeted with worn Persian rugs, the wall
s papered in a faded, indistinguishable pattern; there were no pictures, only an inkstain, as though a bottle had been thrown. There was a bookshelf, but no mirrors. The chairs and sofa were covered in a material which, once red, had faded with washing to coral pink. One could see why, thought Barbara, as Henry’s dogs climbed each to its habitual place to curl up but remain watchful.
Antonia said, ‘Some person threw an ink bottle.’
Henry said, ‘Some person did,’ but did not explain. Barbara walked to the window to look out and Henry followed her.
Antonia focused on the bed, impressed by its height and width, its beautiful but tattered hangings. From that bed, she thought, Henry can see across the fields to the hills; what an admirable bed. She wished fiercely for a similar bed for herself but Matthew, she was sure, would never put up with it. He would like modern divans. Staring at the bed, Antonia imagined being in it with Henry, who stood with his back to her. Barbara was pointing at something in the garden, standing close to him. Her hair brushed his sleeve; her head barely came up to his shoulder.
In Henry’s arms love would be very different to love with Matthew, Antonia thought; she was not sure she cared for Matthew’s legs. He had a footballer’s muscular thighs. She could see that Henry’s legs were not thick, even in those shapeless trousers. They had none of the springy energy she found daunting in Matthew’s; they were so long and thin they looked as if they would snap if he played football. So Henry slept in that bed. And who with, she wondered? Not Margaret, that was plain, even if one did not believe half Margaret’s hints.
Antonia said, ‘What a wonderful bed. I would love to sleep in it.’
Turning from the window, Henry said, ‘You would?’ It was not an invitation; rather she had the impression that she would sleep there at her peril.
Perhaps after all it would be best to stick to Matthew. She would get used to his thighs; they were not as bulgy as some people’s, her brother Richard’s, for instance.
She said, ‘Just a thought,’ and looked away from the bed at the faded wallpaper tempered with dark patches where once had hung mirrors. For heaven’s sake, she told herself, I am in love with Matthew.
