by Mary Wesley
And Joyce, searching round the tree with Tashie for her clothes, said: “I can’t find my things anywhere. This is worse than the January sales. Let’s get back and find something to eat, I’m starving. Oh there they are, my poor dear knickers.” And Mabs again, laughing, calling over her shoulders as she left, “But should you need a chaperone, Flora, we can stay.”
Turning the pages of the magazine Flora was retrospectively rueful. She had not fornicated (she had since learnt the meaning of the word from her English mistress’s OED); such an act was impossible with Hubert with Cosmo present and vice versa. They had dressed and, on the way up to the house, one of them said: “You don’t know what Mabs and Nigel mean to do, do you?”
Barefoot, rather chilled now, holding up her skirt to avoid the dew, she had protested that of course she knew.
“No, you don’t. You are still at the stage when you think the chap in the Old Testament who spilled his seed on the ground was a butter-fingered gardener.”
They had yelped with laughter, laughed so much they staggered about, gone off into hoots and toots.
There was no need for Milly Leigh to be so horrible the next day.
“Mr. Smart is ready for you,” said the receptionist.
Flora lay back in the chair. “I won’t be coming to you any more, Mr. Smart.”
“Leaving school? Joining your parents in India? Open, please. I’ll just have a little look round. You must be counting the days.”
“Arrgh.”
“Nothing wrong that I can see. No doubt it will be wedding bells in no time.”
“Arrgh.”
“There we are. Remember to brush well round that little bit. Jolly good. Rinse.”
Flora spat. “I shall miss your magazines.”
“Oh?”
“Source of information complementary to The Times.”
“Come again?”
“I look at the photographs.”
“Ah.”
They shook hands. “Goodbye,” they said. “Goodbye.”
“I shall be attending to your children’s teeth in ten years. It happens, you know.”
Flora said, “God forbid,” before she could stop herself.
She ran out into the wind. The tide was smashing at the stony beach, hurling cobbles high onto the prom; she wished she could cast off the prospect of India with similar power. She had learned little from her study of the dentist’s magazines. There had been photographs of Mabs’ wedding. They had all been there: Angus, Milly, Cosmo. Then Cosmo in a group at an Oxford ball with a girl; nothing of Hubert. Tashie’s wedding, similar photographs, smaller bridesmaids and a back view of Cosmo, a front view of Hubert scowling. A letter in The Field about mayfly by Angus. A photograph of Milly at a point-to-point with Bootsie on a lead. Announcements in The Times of Mabs’ baby, a bare eight months after the wedding, and Tashie, a son, a year after hers. Joyce had announced her engagement to a Hungarian, only to cancel it six weeks later. Once in The Sketch there had been a photograph of her own father at a shoot, wearing a topee, holding a rifle, standing by a dead tiger. It was a far cry from Coppermalt.
It would have been sensible to forget Coppermalt. She received no invitation to Mabs’ wedding, nor had Milly written. Flora had not expected her to, not after Felicity Green had taken the trouble to deviate from her route across London to call in at Irena Tarasova’s in Beauchamp Place to order a party dress for which Milly would pay.
Dodging the spray on the prom, Flora thought of her first sight of la Tarasova’s London establishment. Less homely than the crowded room at Dinard, it smelt rich. Irena, become smart, had lost her timidity. There was no lingering whiff of Imperial Russia, no crystal ball, no backgammon, no cards, no Prince Igor. Instead a photograph by Lenare of an English duchess, lady-in-waiting to the Queen.
She had refused point blank to have the dress.
Flora recollected Irena’s consternation with satisfaction and Felicity Green’s irritation with glee. She had been so angry she had decanted her with her suitcase at Waterloo to finish her trek to school by train. There had since been a derogatory review of Felicity’s novel in The Times. Perhaps the chief benison of Coppermalt had been Nigel’s suggestion? While waiting for her train, after being dumped by Felicity, she had brought her first copy of the paper.
After this initial chill there was renewed contact with Irena. Allowed on day trips to London in the holidays to visit museums, she called instead of the V and A on Irena, in the hope of titbits of news which Mabs and Tashie might let drop, when they came for their fittings, of Hubert and Cosmo. And since Dolly, formerly Shovehalfpenny, also had clothes made by Irena, might there not be news of Felix? She was not proud of these visits; it would have been better to forget Coppermalt, as its denizens had forgotten her. A few picture postcards casually sent could not be considered remembering in any serious sense.
There had been cards from Venice and Kitzbuhl from Mabs and Tashie’s honeymoons. A random card from Joyce from New York. A card from Paris signed “love Hubert and Cosmo.” “We remembered you wanted A. Tarasov’s address; here it is.” And months later several cards in quick succession from Athens, Rome, Budapest, Berlin and Istanbul, always signed “Cosmo and Hubert” or “Hubert and Cosmo with love.” Love on a picture postcard was as worthless as a heart worn on a sleeve; people on holiday sat writing postcards while waiting for the waiter to bring them their espresso. She had seen her Italian governess do it. Her own cards sent in reply, picturing the pier or the downs behind the town, were of monumental insignificance. She would have liked to send some of the louche cards on sale in the summer season, full of double-entendres, but the mistresses watched what one bought and confiscated the unsuitable.
But now, with India inevitable and looming, her mother had written to Irena listing the clothes Flora must have. Three evening dresses, three day, one garden party, two tennis. She had chosen the colours, stipulating that each must be of different design so that they could be copied by cheap Indian fingers. Flora had not been consulted. She picked up a stone and hurled it at the sea. “I hate my mother,” she shouted into the wind, and remembered Tashie that first day at Coppermalt wishing that something awful would happen to her mother.
Amazing, Irena had remarked during the fittings as she pinned and hitched, amazing that Flora’s and Vita’s measurements were so similar. “Stand still, Flora, hold yourself up. Your posture is not as good as your mother’s. You slouch.”
Flora had sneered, “Posture,” filling the word with contempt. “She wants the clothes for herself; in no time I shall be wearing the copies.”
“What a dreadful idea!” exclaimed Irena, to whom it had already occurred. “What a mind you have.”
Flora had snorted. “You know I’m right.”
“I made a dress like this for Mabs; she always asks after you. Turn round and stand still. I want to pin the hem.”
Flora was not deceived. Mabs knew her address. My address is “out of sight, out of mind,” she had thought, cruelly balancing it against the love and kindness of Coppermalt.
Gripping the cold rail of the promenade above the ugly sea, she wished with all her heart that she had never been to Coppermalt, never fallen in love with Felix, Cosmo and Hubert. If none of that part of her existed, she could face the trip to India to join her parents and conform to their mores; as it was she felt lost, alien, unnatural. Gripping the iron rail she yelled into the wind, “I am unnatural,” and added for good effect, “I am lost,” before breaking into a run along the prom, up the hill and past the playing fields to the school, where tomorrow the other girls who loved their parents and longed to rejoin them and get married to suitable people would be arriving back from their holidays.
She was sent for by the headmistress in her study.
“Sit down, Flora. I have a letter from your father.” (He writes such dry and boring letters. I have great difficulty answering them. And my mother’s are worse, all about parties at the Club and people I don’t know; she ca
n’t find mine very fascinating about Latin, maths and hockey scores.) “Flora, are you listening?”
“Yes, I am.”
“It is bad news, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?”
“Rather dreadful—”
“?”
“There is a letter for you, too.”
“Thanks.” Flora took the letter. (The stamps are nice, though Blanco would doubtless sneer at the Emperor’s crown; why do I call him Blanco? He’s Hubert.) “What’s—” The headmistress looked distressed. (A nice woman, I’ve always quite liked her. Well, like is a strong word, let’s say she’s a lot better than some.) “What is it, Miss—” She gripped her father’s letter.
“Your mother has been bitten by a rabid dog.” The headmistress leaned forward, kind myopic eyes full of sympathy. “The dog had rabies.” She underlined the point as though Flora was stupid.
But I am not stupid, Flora thought, as she felt her throat constrict and blood thunder in her ears. I am not. She held her father’s letter tightly between her fingers. “The poor dog,” she whispered.
“Of course your mother will recover,” said the headmistress. “I believe the treatment is rather awful, but—”
“Stomach injections.” Flora stared at the headmistress. Was this the sort of ignoble awfulness Tashie had visualised? “Not the sort of thing one would wish on one’s worst enemy.” She had begun to shout. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was shouting.”
“It’s understandable,” said the headmistress, who prided herself on this particular gift. “I understand.” But she didn’t understand Flora’s expression at all; she had an air of pleasure, relief. Whatever next? I must not be so imaginative.
THIRTY-THREE
ON THE MAIDAN THE Governor’s A.D.C. reined his pony in beside Denys. “How is Vita?”
Denys’ mare laid back her ears. “A lot better.” Denys pulled the mare’s head up; she had been known to bite. “One more injection and then it’s over,” he said. “Magnificent sunset.” He did not wish to discuss Vita’s plight; it was an intrusion into their particular privacy.
“Dust in the atmosphere. Would Vita like a visit? Is she up to it?” Alec watched a blue jay streak across the improbable sunset.
“She’s up to it.” Denys tilted his topee over his nose, reducing his view of the other man. “Why don’t you come and see her? She’s pretty bored these days.” His tone implied that almost anyone would alleviate the boredom.
“I’ll send my bearer with a chit to ask when it would be convenient. I have some books she might enjoy from the autumn list, sent out by Hatchards.” The Governor’s A.D.C. was not easily deterred and quite able to upstage.
“You do that.” Denys turned his horse and headed towards his bungalow.
The other man called after him good-naturedly, “Surly bugger.” If Vita had died, he thought, old Denys would have gone off his rocker.
As he dismounted and handed the reins to his saice Denys missed the greeting his dog Tara would have given him and felt a fresh pang. Why did it have to be his dog who caught rabies? In the bungalow it was quiet and still; he helped himself to whisky and thought of the Governor’s A.D.C. Wasn’t it time the fellow got married? Denys gulped his whisky. And time he stopped worshipping Vita? He was used to Vita’s admirers, indeed he rather liked them; but some, worshipping longer than others, became a bore. He topped up his drink with soda water and carried it with him into the bedroom.
Vita was asleep on her back. Denys sat in a chair by the bed and observed her. Without make-up she looked young. He could count the crow’s-feet at the corner of her eyes and the thin lines running from nose to mouth. He loved these tiny imperfections wrought by their joint lives, but knew that she, resenting any flaw in her looks, imagined he did too. She could not understand the distinction he made between the crow’s-feet and the stretch marks on her stomach. Sipping his drink, he remembered with partial shame the occasion when he had chalked those traitorous lines in green. He had been drunk. He had said: “I am jealous of who is responsible for these,” scoring the marks, pressing hard with the chalk. She had been afraid. She tried to laugh and called him kinky.
Since Tara had bitten her the line between nose and mouth was more pronounced; she had suffered, he thought tenderly, as much from the undignified treatment as from its pain. Hallucinating one night from the drugs the doctor had given her she had suddenly sat up, stared at him and said: “I don’t even know your name,” and, covering her face with her hands, turned away, thus proving, he thought wryly, something he had long suspected. Dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s, as it were.
It would be interesting to know, he thought, who the fellow was—one knew fairly well who he wasn’t—although, after so long, the interest was academic. In this country with its interlocking society it was possible, indeed quite likely, that one had been introduced to the man. The idea amused Denys, as he sipped his drink and watched his sleeping wife; it consoled him a little for the loss of his dog, who would normally have been sitting beside him with her jaw pressed on his knee trying to catch his eye. Tara had been jealous of Vita. She had bitten one of the soldiers at the barracks before they caught up with her and shot her, but she had gone for Vita first. Denys sighed, mourning his dog.
In the bed Vita stirred and turned on her side. She had been reading Vogue when she fell asleep; her finger still marked a page. He leaned forward to take her hand in his so that when she woke she would be reassured to know that he loved her, would give his love and all he possessed to make her happy.
At the height of his anxiety, when she was bitten, he had written to the girl; he had sent money and a list of luxuries to buck Vita up after this ghastly experience. Denys wondered what she looked like now; dreary school groups were no indication. Would he perhaps see a likeness? Catch a glimpse? Or was all this fruit of his imagination?
Vita opened her eyes. “I was asleep. Have you been back long?” She smiled as he squeezed her hand. “Nice.”
“Not long.” He bent to kiss her. “Like a drink?”
“Not allowed.”
“A—”
“Not allowed!”
“Drink, then. Fruit juice? Tea?”
“Fruit juice.”
“I met your tame A.D.C.,” he said, bringing the drink. “I thought he might do worse than marry your daughter.”
He always said “your daughter.”
Vita smiled. “What a suggestion.”
Denys lit a cigarette. “Many men marry the daughters of mothers they lust after; I could quote you a dozen straight off.”
“Are you serious?”
“Why not? The fellow’s got prospects.”
Vita sat up and propped her back with pillows. “I don’t care for the idea at all.”
“If you are going to discount all the men who want to sleep with you, sweetie, you rather narrow the girl’s field.”
Vita had long since stopped reminding him that Flora had a name. “And you,” she said, “what about you?” She drank her fruit juice, meeting his eye over the rim of the glass.
“What about me?” Denys teased. “Jealous?”
“Of course. You will want to sleep with her if they do. It’s logical,” she teased in turn.
Denys drained his glass. The thought of sleeping with Flora had not occurred to him. “Don’t put ideas into my head,” he said, watching her. They had always voiced their fears and thoughts—or Vita had. That was part of their charm for each other. “Would that not be incest?” He was amused. “I look forward to meeting her,” he said.
“It would be a very cruel thing to do to me, darling,” she said seriously.
Denys said, “Yes, yes, it would. Perhaps after all I won’t, but should I be tempted please remember it was you who planted the idea.”
THIRTY-FOUR
ROUNDING THE CORNER OF the square, Tashie saw that there was someone on her doorstep. Whoever it was had rung the bell and was waiting for the door to be opened. Anxious to get hom
e, kick off shoes which pinched, relax on her sofa and have tea, Tashie slowed her pace; if she kept out of sight her maid would answer the bell and say she was out, and the caller would go away.
To make sure she was not seen Tashie took the right-hand pavement, putting the square garden between herself and the house; she could watch between the square railings.
As expected her maid opened the door, shook her head in answer to the caller, and closed it. The caller, a girl, went down the steps and walked away while Tashie complacently watched. Then she let out a yell and began running after the girl, shouting: “Stop! Wait! I’m here! Wait, blast you, wait!”
The girl did not hear Tashie above the sound of traffic and walked on. In a moment she would round the corner into the busy street and be gone. Tashie kicked off her high-heeled shoes, put on a spurt and caught up as she was stepping onto a bus. “Flora!”
Flora said: “Oh, Tashie—your feet.”
Tashie said: “You were coming to see me?”
“Yes.”
“Then come along, how lovely. What’s the matter?” Something looked very much the matter.
“Do you remember you wished something really sordid would happen to my mother?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, it has.”
“Oh good, what?”
“She’s been bitten by a dog with rabies.”
“How splendid.”
“If you ladies are not getting on the bus, perhaps you’d allow other people to,” said a man who had been queueing.
“Oh do, do get on, oh please get onto the bus.” Tashie drew Flora aside.
“Your feet, Tashie—”
“I left my shoes on the pavement—”
“Wits, more like,” said the man, climbing onto the bus. “I said wits.”
“Very witty,” said Tashie. “Immensely humorous.” She had hold of Flora’s arm. “They pinched like blue murder. Oh, Flora, I haven’t seen you for years. Come along, stockings laddered to shreds, we’ll ask Molly to get us tea.” She led Flora back into the square. “You remember Molly, she was under-housemaid at Coppermalt.”
