Sensible Life

by Mary Wesley

  Several people sitting nearby on the verandah laughed as Vita, lashing out at the bird, upset her drink so that brown foam ran down her legs. Denys exclaimed: “It’s scratched your face, you’re bleeding,” in a high anxious voice. “Come home, sweetie, we must get some disinfectant on it; they are scavengers.”

  Vita put her hand to her face and brought it away covered in blood. “It might have blinded me.” She began to sob. “Oh, Denys, my face.”

  “Come on, let’s get you home.” He put his arms round her. “Here’s my handkerchief.”

  Vita held it to her face.

  “Wasn’t that bird neat! Do they do that often?” The dumpy girl had finished playing tennis.

  “I say, Denys,” a man shouted after Denys as he led Vita to their cars, “the Colonel’s Kraut has got your bitch in a clinch. Is she on heat?”

  “Not due yet, but must be. Damn and blast, could somebody bring her back for me? I must get Vita home.”

  “You would think he’d have the sense to know when his dog’s on heat,” said the woman who had doubted the oysters.

  “With a wife who’s in that state en permanence? Not Denys,” said her friend.

  “They are stuck together, you won’t pry them apart,” said the dumpy girl. “I know about dogs. The bitch lay down for him.”

  “Really! Some people,” said the oyster-doubter.

  The Governor’s A.D.C. uttered orders in Urdu and disapproving Club servants brought buckets of water to douse the dogs. “Puts one off one’s lunch,” said a woman who had not spoken before.

  Denys bathed Vita’s face. She was crying now from shock. “It’s all right now, darling, don’t cry.” He held her tenderly, stroked her hair.

  “Shall I have a scar?”

  “No, no, of course you won’t. Keep still while I put this dressing on.”

  “I was trying to tell you when that thing hit me that there is no need for you to be jealous. Nothing happened that summer, nothing. I had beastly rows with Flora. She was impossible. I never told you because I felt guilty. I should have done what you wanted and come back to India with you, left her at the school instead of paying attention to what other people said. As it was, I was bored to tears and made to feel guilty by people like that Leigh woman. Look what I’ve done to my dress; it’s ruined.”

  “I’ll give it to the servants to give to the dhobi. Let me help you out of it.” Denys lifted the dress over Vita’s head. “Mind your face.”

  Vita wrapped herself in a dressing-gown. “There’s someone arriving.”

  “Lie down, sweetie, rest for a bit. It will be some kind fellow with Tara. I will see she is shut in the stables.”

  “You said we should be grateful to the Colonel.” Vita began to laugh. “Ha-ha-ha. Oh, my God, she will have the most ghastly puppies.” She stopped laughing. “Bang goes her pedigree.”

  “They will be drowned,” said Denys. “Now rest.”

  Vita lay back on her bed. She could hear Denys being polite, a sharp yelp from Tara, Denys giving orders to have her shut away, men’s voices, then the sound of a tonga driving off. The horse, like so many tonga horses, was lame.

  How had that dreadful row with the child started?

  “Is he in love with you?” Flora had asked in July 1926 in the flat at Dinard.

  She had snapped the child’s head off. “Why on earth should you ask that?”

  “He looks at you as Jules looks at Madame Jules, that’s all. Jules is in love. I only wondered.”

  She should have made a joke of it, but she had said, “Don’t be idiotic,” and “Who may Jules be?”

  The child had said, “He’s a friend. He keeps a café in St. Malo.”

  “You cannot be friends with people of that sort.”

  Flora had shouted, surprisingly and very loudly, “He is my friend. There is nobody left except Tonton.”

  Unwisely she saw now, she had said, “And who may he be?”

  “A dog,” the child had yelled. “A dog I meet on the beach. I suppose,” she had shouted, “I cannot have a dog friend while you are friends with someone you met on the train from Marseilles when my father had gone away in the ship.”

  She had smacked Flora’s face and Flora had yelled, “I wish I had drowned,” her mouth ugly with passion.

  She had yelled back, “I wish you had,” with equal passion though, thinking of it now years later, she couldn’t see how the subject of drowning had arisen,

  It had jolted her, though. She had sent the young man on his way and nothing whatever that anybody, even Denys, could take exception to had happened. She had not even seen him off on the launch to St. Malo. She had not mentioned meeting this amusing man to Denys in her letters. I can’t even remember what he looked like, she thought, as gingerly she touched her cheek which was throbbing less, thank God.

  But that summer! The boredom. The child out all the time supposedly doing her lessons—Italian conversation, maths and Russian—with the dressmaker. Vita remembered long weeks wandering about the town looking at the shops, lying on the sofa reading novels, writing to Denys and counting the days when she could get shot of the child and back to India. She had taken to thinking of Flora as “the awful warning,” which was exactly what Flora was; a reminder of an evening spent with a traveller passing through the hill station en route to the Himalayas, someone she had never seen again. Too much to drink when she was not used to it, heavy petting which went too far, and the discovery some weeks after Denys had joined her for his leave that she was pregnant. There had never been a whisper of gossip. When Flora was born and Denys suggested adoption she had vigorously refused, fearing that if she agreed, as she longed to, Denys would suspect, if not immediately then at some later date. That summer in France she had often wished she had taken the risk. How the days had dragged and the company of the child had sickened her, reminding her of that one slip which she had not even enjoyed. The man had been rough and selfish, not in the least like Denys. Vita called out, “Darling, are you there? I need you.”

  Denys came into the room. “What is it, sweetie?”

  “Is poor Tara all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Must you drown—”

  “The only thing to do; we can’t be lumbered with a pack of mongrels. We’d be a laughing stock. We’d never be rid of them. You are too softhearted.”

  “I’m silly, I know. That stupid letter upset me, although I suppose she meant well.”

  “To mean well can prove fatal,” said Denys. “It’s not a state of mind I condone.” He sat on the side of the bed and took her hand. “How is the poor face?”

  “Miles better.”

  “Well enough for a stiff drink and some lunch?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. I trust that bloody kite hasn’t put paid to our Sunday siesta.”

  “Certainly not,” said Vita, “it would take more than that.”

  Alec, the Governor’s A.D.C., and the captain in the Gurkhas who had brought Tara back discussed the girls they had played tennis with as they drove away. “The smaller one played a good game,” said the Gurkha captain.

  “I am sure that ball was in,” said Alec.

  “So you didn’t find her attractive?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Ah.”

  “I am handicapped vis-a-vis girls,” said Alec. “I measure them against Vita Trevelyan.”

  “Really?” The Gurkha captain expressed intrigue.

  “Theirs is a perfect marriage,” said Alec. “She is beautiful; they are inseparable. She never leaves him to go home. They adore each other.”

  “Not all that popular with other women, I note.”

  “Jealous, I expect. They’d probably like a crack at Denys.”

  “You have such high standards,” said the Gurkha captain. “I am not against a spot of separation. I shall ask the cheater to the next Club dance. I like a trace of fallibility.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE CHILL WH
ICH STRUCK Flora with Cosmo by the river and made her run was the realisation that her visit was almost over; she was due back at school in three days. When Cosmo and Hubert were in Perthshire she would be back in the ambience she detested. Still, there were three more days.

  “Hi, stop,” said Nigel, who had watched her running towards the house. “Come here a minute, spare me a mo.” He caught her wrist.

  Nigel was sitting on the terrace in the evening sun with The Times newspaper on his lap, a half-empty glass of whisky on the table beside him. He looked glum. “Sit down.” He pulled her down onto the seat. “I want to show you something.”

  “What?” She was impatient to go up to her room and change into evening dress, wallowing first in a hot bath. Too soon this luxury would be lost; she would be forced to share a bath with another girl, have only three a week. She tried to jerk her wrist free. Nigel held on.

  “Wait a minute, this is important.” He held her with his left hand, the tumbler of whisky in his right. The smell of whisky mingled with the scent of jasmine growing against the house. “Watched you run,” Nigel said. “Good legs, not knock-kneed like Mabs. Mabs is knock-kneed, have you noticed?”

  “No.” She twisted her wrist in his grip.

  “Look,” said Nigel. “I’ve got The Times newspaper here.”

  “So?”

  “So I am going to do you a kindness, teach you how to read it. No, don’t run away. This is important, young Flora. If you want to understand what makes people tick, you read this paper.”

  “What people?”

  “The Leighs, stupid, and their ilk. You are not of their ilk so you had better understand them.”

  “Are you of their ilk?” she asked on a rising note.

  “I am. The ‘ilk’ is financial, dear girl. I am also a bit drunk. Where was I? Oh yes, you had better take this opportunity while it lasts, as they say in the advertisements. Are you ready?”

  “If it doesn’t take too long.” She was grudging.

  “The rudiments won’t take long, the actual experience takes a lifetime. Right. Don’t run away, promise?”

  “I promise.” (Whose dress shall I borrow tonight, Mabs’ green or Tashie’s blue?)

  “Right, then.” Nigel released her hand and picked up the paper. “Here we are, pay attention. This is the hatch, match and despatch column. Births, deaths, marriages, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Imagine you are pleased to read here that, let’s see, Admiral Bowing has died. He may be your uncle, see, and with luck he has left you a packet in his will. Always look at the deaths first, they can cheer you up no end. Got that? Now the births. Some foolish friend has started a family, or added to one. You write and congratulate or condone, must do that, that’s what friends are for. You with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, turn over to the Court page, engagements. Miss Mabs Leigh is engaged to, oh dear,” Nigel drained his glass, “Nigel Foukes. And from time to time the engagement is broken off. You keep a weather eye on that little lot otherwise you may drop a social brick and nobody, Flora, forgets a social brick. It hangs around your neck like a—oh dear, no more whisky.” Nigel put his glass carefully onto the table. “Where was I? Yes. Note, here are reports of the weddings which come off, bloody lists of all the people who went to the ceremony. They like to see their names sandwiched between a Lord and a General, for instance. Makes them feel they exist, poor sods.”

  “Shall I read about you and Mabs?”

  “Who knows? It’s possible.” Nigel squinted into the middle distance. “Who bloody knows?” He sighed gustily. Flora flinched from his whiskied breath. “Sometimes you read the joyful news that a marriage has been dissolved. Well, it’s joyful for some, presumably. Aah—” Nigel sighed again.

  “Is that the lot?” She was anxious to get to the lovely steamy water with bath salts.

  “No. It—is—not. You must read the leaders here and here; this one, the third, is witty quite often. Then read the letters; they tell you what the current obsession may be. You get a grip on opinion. Now here are the parliamentary reports; once you’ve found out who is who in government, you’ll pick it up as you go. You’ll follow those with glee. Racing page? Interested in racing? You may marry a racing man. Then, for light relief, this page: murder and murder trials. You’ll enjoy those. By now, Flora, you are au fait with what’s going on in the world, however garbled the report may be. You don’t have to believe it, but it looks good if you can pretend to hold an opinion. Look at Hubert, everybody thinks he’s clever and deluded because he talks socialist. He maddens people, makes them talk; they love it. Think you can manage?”

  “I’ll have a bash.”

  Nigel laughed. “You do that, Flora, and I swear you will begin to understand what makes the Leighs of Coppermalt tick.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “And again you may not.” Nigel stared at her, then said, “Well, it’s a start. If half the parents of people like yourself persuaded their daughters to read The Times, they’d save a lot on school fees, finishing schools in particular.” Nigel belched. “Sorry.” He lurched to his feet. “I must change for dinner. Mustn’t blot my copybook by being late. Need another drink first, though.”

  Flora said, “Thank you very much. I shall remember what you say.”

  “And act on it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You are an intelligent girl. Contrary to general belief, chaps like a girl with brains.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I might even ask you to marry me.” Nigel had hold of her hand again. “You’ve got jolly decent legs and the rest of you’s a bit of all right; how about it?”

  “You are marrying Mabs,” said Flora, laughing.

  “That’s what you think.” Nigel shambled away into the house, carrying his empty glass. As he went he pulled a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. If it had been anyone else, Flora would have thought he was crying.

  Entering the house through the French windows in the drawing-room, Flora heard voices in the hall.

  “Ah, Flora,” said Milly, “here you are. You remember Miss Green? She is here for the night on her way south. And Joyce, you remember Joyce?”

  “I remember Flora.” Joyce came forward. “A silent and mysterious child, a watcher.”

  Flora said, “Hello.” Joyce with straightened teeth was not at all like a horse; she shook hands with Miss Green who said, “H-how d’you do,” in a quasi-whisper. She looked into Flora’s eyes as she shook hands; she had a small dry hand which clasped Flora’s as though pleased to. Flora returned the smile. Nigel’s hand, clasping her wrist, had been damp.

  Milly was speaking. “As Miss Green is motoring south tomorrow, Flora, we thought you would like to go with her. I was worried, thinking of you travelling so far alone in the train. Miss Green lives only twenty miles from your school. Isn’t that a piece of luck? She will be glad of your company.”

  “V-v-very glad,” said Miss Green. “F-fortunate coincidence.”

  Flora heard herself saying, “How terribly kind, that will be absolutely marvellous,” in a steady voice. Part of her congratulated herself on the response of a lifelong Times reader, while the other part felt she had been hit in the solar plexus. “I must change for dinner,” she said, “or I shall be late.”

  The visit, which had started as a sort of joyous balloon when the girls had met her at the station, had begun to shrivel while talking to Cosmo by the river, and made a small spurt upwards while sitting with Nigel, was now almost burst. But Joyce was speaking. “Back to school, you poor thing. It would have been such fun if you could have come on to Scotland with us, wouldn’t it, Mrs. Leigh?”

  Milly said, “Well—” smiling, and, “Of course, it would have—”

  And Miss Green said, “G-g-goodness, is that the time? I must change. And I s-say, w-what apart from the L-League of Nations and p-politics do I avoid at dinner?”

  Milly, laughing, said, “The old disgrace
—”

  “Steer clear of religion,” said Joyce, “and sex.”

  “Hush, Joyce,” said Milly. “Really, dear!”

  Miss Green murmured, “That doesn’t leave us much,” and set off up the stairs.

  “It’s lovely to see you, you naughty thing.” Milly put her arm round Joyce. “You are a breath of fresh air.”

  “I shall try not to cause a draught.” Joyce followed Miss Green upstairs.

  “Well, then,” Milly turned smiling to Flora. “Isn’t that a happy arrangement? Now, what shall you wear tonight? Make yourself pretty.”

  Lying in the bath, Flora looked at her legs, glad that they passed muster. She stretched to manipulate the hot tap with her toe. The baths at Coppermalt were sized generously for tall men; school baths, she thought resentfully, were economically short. She soaped her neck and armpits, scrubbed her back with a loofah and bathed her face. Whenever she bathed her face she heard her mother’s sneer, “Blackheads.” Shaking off the memory, she stood up and soaped her bush.

  Tashie shouted outside the door, “Which dress would you like tonight? Joyce has a gorgeous red job; would you like my little blue number or Mabs’ green? You could try the yellow tomorrow.”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “Miss Green is giving me a lift back to school.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” Flora got out of the bath and wrapped herself in a towel. School towels, she thought, were skimpy beyond belief. Outside the door Tashie called, “Can I come in?” Flora unbolted the door. “Who arranged this lift?”

  “Mrs. Leigh.”

  “The cow.”

  “Tashie.”

  “Well, she is.”

  “Not really, I am sure she—”

  “So which dress will you wear? Blue? Green? Yellow?”

  “I’d like to wear black,” said Flora.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “D’YOU THINK IT KIND to send the girl away?” Angus came into Milly’s room from his dressing-room. “Tie my tie.” He stood in front of his wife in dinner jacket and trousers, black tie dangling. “You do it much better than I can.”