by Mary Wesley
James said, ‘Oh God, I might have come in and found you gone. What an awful thought. I should have been totally suicidal, thought you’d left me.’
‘I haven’t left you.’
‘No, thanks be. And let’s stay here, have the weekend—Unless you want to go down, then of course we—’
She said, ‘No, no. All I want is to be more wonderful and loving and fun in bed than Valerie.’
James said, ‘I can’t think what I saw in Valerie. She chucked me, you know. I never told you, did I? But she was already going off, I mean her looks, like soft fruit. And she went right off me and she had such a sharp tongue. Oh, darling, let’s forget about Valerie.’
Barbara said, ‘Willingly.’
James said, ‘Then later on we will go and have a super tremendous dinner. I’ll think of a restaurant. Did you have any lunch?’
Barbara said, ‘I had a sort of snack,’ and kissed him.
As she drifted off to sleep Barbara remembered Henry’s socks. Handknitted and longer than the socks James wore, Henry’s socks reached to just below the knee. They were cable-stitched in brilliant scarlet silk and the braces which supported his trousers were scarlet, too. I must get some for James, she thought; blue would be nice.
While Barbara slept, James felt an immense tenderness and an absurd, it must be absurd, gratitude to Valerie for bringing this about. He realized that he had fallen in love with his wife and was filled with inordinate desire and lust. Valerie was nothing. Barbara was no longer second best.
TWENTY-ONE
FOUR YEARS AFTER THE June dinner party Antonia still had to nerve herself to visit Margaret on her own. ‘She gives me the creeps,’ she would say to Barbara, ‘but I quite enjoy it if you are with me.’ Since their marriage Matthew left social duties he wished to avoid to his wife. ‘Antonia does these things so well,’ he would mutter, edging away from embarrassment or boredom. ‘Women are naturally good at them.’
So she nerved herself. ‘I have brought you some flowers.’ Antonia swept into Margaret’s room. ‘To cheer you up,’ she added, closing the door with a swish.
Margaret said, ‘Put them where I can’t see them.’
‘What a terror you are,’ said Antonia with false bravado; she set the vase on the dressing table where the mirror would reflect it in triplicate. ‘These are the first sweet peas,’ she said, ‘not many, but lovely.’ She sat in one of the golden chairs and tried to grin cheerfully at Henry’s wife. She wished, as she grinned, that she were able to develop some rapport with the woman by pitting obstinate and optimistic cheer against Margaret’s negative destruction.
Margaret said, ‘The way you behave one would think you lot owned this house.’
‘We pay rent. Help with repairs, take turns with the cooking; Matthew has painted the front door.’
‘The front door.’
‘Yes.’
‘You fill the house with squawking babies.’
‘Only one baby.’
‘You won’t stop at one.’ Margaret shuddered.
‘No,’ said Antonia bravely, ‘we won’t. Matthew wants a son.’
Margaret said, ‘Gertch!’
Antonia laughed.
‘Where’s the other girl?’
‘Couldn’t come this weekend. James is sailing.’
‘She does not like sailing. I used to sail on the Nile with my lover.’
If one was to believe her, Margaret had had a posse of lovers. ‘Which one was that?’ Antonia leaned forward to tweak a sweet pea into a better position. She and Barbara doubted whether Margaret was capable of love, yet she must have inspired it, otherwise Henry—
Margaret sneered. ‘Lady of the manor.’
‘What?’
‘This act you and your friend put on, picking my flowers, helping yourselves to fruits of my earth. Little so-called ladies.’
‘Fruits of the Jonathans’ hard work and Henry’s earth.’
‘Dumping that disgusting infant on my servant.’
‘Pilar is not a servant and Susie is not disgusting.’ (Oh, why do I rise to these jibes?) ‘You are jealous,’ said Antonia, ‘poor barren woman, of our youth and fertility. You crouch in bed wallowing in your agoraphobia. You are agoraphobic,’ she said, marvelling at her nastiness. ‘Agora means—’
‘I know what it means,’ said Margaret. ‘Do you? I bet you don’t. Agora is Greek for market-place. In Greece with my lover we ate sucking pig and drank retsina in the marketplace.’
‘The same lover or another lover?’
‘I am not afraid of any market.’ Margaret ignored Antonia’s question.
Feeling cheap, Antonia persisted, ‘Then why do you never go out?’
‘I prefer to stay in.’
‘But aren’t you terribly bored?’
‘As to boredom,’ said Margaret, ‘look who’s talking.’
‘Me?’ Antonia was startled. ‘Me?’
‘If it hasn’t dawned on you yet—as they say in the cinema, FORTHCOMING ATTRACTION COMING SOON: marital tedium, boredom, ennui, one big yawn,’ said Margaret.
Antonia turned the vase of sweet peas slightly to the right and, switching the subject a little, she said, ‘Henry has gone to London. I wonder what he will bring you? He always brings you a present,’ she said. Margaret watched with her silvery eyes. ‘Why do you throw his presents in his teeth? It seems—’ She hesitated to use the word perverse in case Margaret should use it against her.
‘He once threw something at me,’ said Margaret.
Disbelieving, Antonia said, ‘Oh?’
‘I had a knife,’ said Margaret. ‘He threw a bottle of ink.’
‘Had he given you the knife? Had you given him the ink? Was this what’s known as an exchange of presents?’
‘He missed,’ said Margaret. ‘He had been trying to rape me.’
Antonia gaped; she remembered the stain on Henry’s bedroom wall.
Margaret repeated, ‘He was trying to rape me.’
Antonia rose to go. ‘You used to tell us that Henry was homosexual and went in for bestiality; now you suggest rape and that he is brutal. He can’t be all that versatile,’ said Antonia, moving towards the door. ‘Henry can be very kind. He is kind to us and wonderfully kind to Susie.’
‘In your shoes I should be watchful in that quarter.’ Margaret smiled at Antonia, calculating and malicious.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Antonia’s hand was on the door knob.
‘Paedophile derives from the Greek as does agora.’ Margaret chuckled as Antonia sped from the room.
In the rooms she and Matthew shared with their child, Antonia bathed her face and rinsed her mouth to expunge Margaret’s insinuations. Pressing her face into a towel she muttered, ‘Poor Henry, oh poor Henry.’ In the bathroom she heard Pilar exclaim as Susie splashed and chuckled in the warm water. She opened the door and looked in. ‘Mama!’ said Pilar. ‘Look, Susie. Mama!’ The baby gurgled and slopped her flannel about in the water.
‘All right?’ asked Antonia, ‘Happy, darling? I’ll be up later with Daddy. Thank you so much, Pilar, thank you.’
Pilar called out, ‘’Appy, yes!’
‘I’m going down to cook the supper,’ Antonia told Pilar, ‘see you later.’ And, bubbling with good intentions, she ran down to the kitchen. ‘I must be nice to Henry,’ she said aloud as she wrapped an apron round her waist. And extra nice to Matthew, she thought as she tied the tape tight. And, how does she know how I feel about Matthew? She never sees us together. ‘Trask,’ she said as Trask came in from the garden, ‘does Margaret ever get out of bed these days?’
‘She took premature to her eternal rest when Henry brought her home as a bride.’
‘I know that,’ said Antonia, ‘and I remember the dinner party, but does she—’
‘Walks,’ said Trask.
‘Walks?’
‘And watches and listens. You wouldn’t see her. Ain’t much she misses.’
‘You mean she spies on us?’
‘Could call it that.’
‘But when?’
‘Any time as spirit moves her.’
‘How creepy.’ Antonia flinched, ‘Why?’
‘Likes to get under people’s skin,’ said Trask.
‘You don’t seem to mind.’
‘When your skin’s as thick as mine it ain’t worrying.’
‘My skin is not very thick.’
‘’T will thicken in time,’ said Trask reassuringly. ‘Where’s Matthew?’
‘He went for a walk rather than visit Margaret.’
Trask smiled and Antonia wished she had not said this about Matthew, not in that tone of voice. I love Matthew, she told herself; I really should not let Margaret upset me. ‘Does Margaret like anybody?’ she asked Trask.
‘We gets on so-so and she likes the two boys.’
‘Boys?’
‘Jonathan and John. She talks to them.’
Antonia was still uneasy. ‘Would she, would she—I mean, she is so horrid about Susie, would she—er—’
‘No,’ said Trask. ‘That’s all talk.’
‘You sure?’ (Was it safe to leave Susie asleep, as she would be tonight while they ate supper? Was it safe?) ‘Are you sure?’ she repeated.
Trask laughed. ‘Your Susie ain’t no parrot.’
‘I am not reassured,’ said Antonia. ‘I wish Barbara was here. Oh Lord, I must get cracking and cook the supper, pull myself together.’
I am making myself ridiculous in Trask’s eyes, she thought. Margaret scared me; I should be used to her fantasies. She is an unfortunate, she gets her kicks in strange ways, that’s all. I wish Trask hadn’t told me she walks and spies.
‘Sharp tongues don’t cut babies,’ said Trask with intent to reassure.
Antonia said, ‘Oh, Trask.’ She laughed, ‘You wouldn’t know what paedophilic means, would you?’ she said.
‘No. No more than them dogs.’ Trask gestured out of the window to where Henry’s dogs crouched, noses on paws, patient, expectant, listening for the sound of Henry’s car. ‘He will be home shortly,’ said Trask. ‘They know that and I know that and when Henry’s been to London he comes home hungry.’
When Henry arrived he kissed Antonia’s cheek and chirupped to the dogs. Antonia said, ‘You are nicely in time for supper. What did you buy Margaret?’ She watched Henry stack parcels on the dresser. ‘Books,’ he said, ‘for me and shoes for me.’
‘And Margaret?’ Henry put a small packet on top of the books, reaching across the dogs, who leaned against him whimpering with pleasure, lashing their tails. ‘Not caviar, I hope. Remember when you did bring caviar, she threw it and her room was braided with globules of sturgeon; it took even Humble and Cringe an age to waffle it up.’
Henry said, ‘Hector and Lysander, please. They may not care for what I brought this time.’
‘What? Oh, not scent!’ Antonia threw up her hands in protest.
‘Yes.’
‘Even the best scent smells dreadful, spilled and stale.’ Antonia looked longingly at the parcel.
‘Get Matthew to buy you a bottle.’
‘He will demur. He demurs a lot these days; he has the expenses of paternity. Besides, he is saving up for a son.’
Henry asked, ‘Where is Pilar?’
‘Putting Susie to bed. I said I would cook supper.’
‘Matthew?’
‘Gone for a walk.’
‘He might have taken the dogs.’ Henry stroked Lysander’s throat.
‘They wouldn’t go, they were expecting you home,’ said Antonia loyally. Matthew had refused, shut the dogs in with her.
Henry said, ‘So what’s for supper?’
‘Wonderful spring veg from the Jonathans, and delicious tender lamb cutlets, and for pudding strawberries and cream.’
Laughing, Henry asked, ‘No smoked trout?’
‘We can’t get smoked trout round here.’
‘Crême brulée?’
‘I don’t know how to make it. Are you teasing me? If you wanted smoked trout, you should have thought of it in Fortnum’s. Are you criticizing my efforts?’
‘Are there green and ruby jellies to eat with the cutlets?’
‘Of course there are,’ said Antonia huffily. ‘I may not be as expert as Pilar, but I try, and if you want exotica you should go to a restaurant.’
Henry said, ‘Of course. A restaurant,’ amused.
Antonia eyed him as he sat in the window, his dogs adoring at his feet. ‘I’ll go and fetch some claret from the cellar,’ he said, still laughing.
Antonia flushed. ‘Actually, Matthew’s done that, because of the temperature, and he, we thought you wouldn’t mind—um, as we share—sort of share—so much—he—’
Henry said, ‘I am in favour of sharing.’
‘I wish you’d share the joke,’ Antonia said rather crossly, for Henry was smiling still.
Henry said, ‘Some day, perhaps. You look fine,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Brown.’
‘We swam, lay in the sun. Susie paddled.’
Henry said, ‘Good,’ stifling a yawn. ‘Good.’
‘I telephoned Barbara,’ said Antonia. ‘She’s on her own. James is sailing. Bloody selfish. I said, Come down, be with us, don’t be lonely. She said she had a migraine.’
Henry said, ‘A migraine?’
‘She doesn’t have migraines,’ said Antonia. ‘I guessed, of course, but keep it quiet; she will want to tell us herself. What she’s got is morning sickness.’ Antonia lowered her voice.
Henry said, ‘Oh.’
‘I haven’t told Matthew or anybody. I can’t think what took her so long to get started. She’s pregnant.’
Henry pursed his mouth in a whistle.
Antonia said, ‘Could you move your legs? I want to lay the table.’
Henry moved his legs. Antonia was looking very pretty, he thought. Maternity had improved her; she had lost the last bit of puppy fat. Having a child had honed her features.
‘Are you going to change your clothes?’ Antonia asked. (Barbara will be furious with me for letting on, she thought.) ‘I only ask,’ she said, ‘because if Margaret throws that scent over you, no cleaner will get it out.’
Henry said, ‘Thanks for your concern. There have been presents she did not throw.’
Antonia said, ‘Name one.’
‘A box of comfits which got lost in the post.’
Something was amusing Henry. Antonia hated to be laughed at. ‘And the decapitated cockatoo,’ she said. Then, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—I’m sorry. But your suit, it’s such a good one. Forget my lack of tact, consider your suit. I was brought up,’ she joked, ‘to believe no gentleman would be seen dead in a brown suit in London, and look at you! Oh, do stop laughing, Henry!’
Entering the kitchen at that moment, Matthew said, ‘Has my wife uttered a witticism? Might one share the joke?’
‘She is making fun of my suit.’
‘Looks all right to me,’ said Matthew. ‘Can’t see anything laughable. Actually, it’s a jolly unusual piece of gent’s suiting,’ and he leaned past Antonia to finger Henry’s sleeve.
‘In a moment,’ said Antonia, ‘you will be asking what it cost.’
Matthew said, ‘And suppose I do?’
‘More than your boring pin-stripes.’
Henry said, ‘It’s some material my father chose and never had made up. I inherited it. One of my happier inheritances.’
Matthew said, ‘I like these little flecks of colour. Look, darling, red and blue and green, just here and there. What a dandy you are, Henry. No one else would get away with it. Look at your socks. And that tie! You would never let me wear a tie like that, would you, darling?’
‘You dress extra dull,’ said Antonia.
‘Dear me, snappy snappy.’ Matthew blinked.
She had been snappy, she remembered years later when, wandering through an exhibition, she came upon an Augustus John of a man of gypsy appearance with very dark hair and a red scarf
round his neck and was reminded of Henry and of how she had compared his appearance with that of her husband. It had been Matthew, she remembered with remorse, who had noticed the flecks of colour, Matthew who had said, ‘I wish I had the nerve to wear red socks.’ But at the time Matthew had asked, ‘And what is my wife giving us for dinner?’ She, in a surly way hoping to embarrass him, had answered, ‘Lamb cutlets, as you well know. You asked so that you could fetch up the wine.’ Matthew, maddeningly sweet-tempered, had said, ‘Whatever she has cooked, it will be delicious. I speak as a fond husband.’ She, turning back to the stove, had prayed that Matthew’s host-like attitude in Henry’s house did not get up Henry’s nose as painfully as it did hers. She remembered that evening well.
Matthew had said, ‘I must go up and say good night to my daughter,’ and while he was out of the room she had been silent. Henry had kept silent, too, sitting in the window stroking Hector’s and Lysander’s ears.
They were joined at the meal by Trask and Pilar. Ebro was absent or not noticeably present; she could not remember as she walked round the gallery on a harsh winter’s day. But she remembered Matthew saying, ‘I was thinking this afternoon on my solitary walk of how it is time for me to have a son.’ He had popped more peas in his mouth and another piece of cutlet pasted with jelly, and none of them round the table had spoken. She had watched him swallow and gulp some wine and heard him say, ‘Yes, Antonia and I will be having a son before long, so I have been thinking—’
She had said, ‘You have been thinking—’
And Matthew had answered, ‘Well, yes, in the first place—’
And she, bristling, ‘And in the second?’
And he, ‘Darling, don’t keep interrupting. I need to tell Henry.’
Henry, refilling their glasses, had said, ‘Congratulations. When is he due?’
Mathew said, ‘Oh well, as to that, I am a spot premature planning ahead; I haven’t actually set the mechanics in motion. But what I am building up to, Henry, is this: when we have a son, we shall need more room. How would it be if I got Ebro to decorate another room for him? The one next to Susie’s beyond the bathroom would do very well. I will pay for the work, of course.’
