Sensible Life

by Mary Wesley

  “Your shoes? Yes, I do.”

  “Darling, they were one of those fatal buys, a size too small. Sheer vanity, I’m always doing it. Here we are.” She put her latchkey into the lock. “Safe home. Hello, Molly.”

  “Look at your feet,” said Molly. “Whatever happened?”

  “I took them off. They are on the pavement across the square. You remember Flora, Molly?”

  “Oh,” said Molly, “yes, I thought—my sister takes that size, I’ll just—” Molly scooted down the steps.

  Tashie called after her. “Will you get us tea when you come back?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Not an utterly wasted buy, after all. She loves my clothes, does Molly. Come upstairs to the drawing-room and tell all. One of the arts of keeping servants is to wear clothes of the same size.”

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “With the dog, of course.”

  “Oh, the dog. It was my father’s, an Airedale bitch. I believe he was very fond of her.”

  “But a dog of taste and discernment even when her wits were affected.” Tashie sat on her sofa and massaged her feet.

  “My mother might have died,” said Flora.

  “You mean she hasn’t? Oh Lord, what a disappointment. I thought from what you—”

  “No.”

  “The dog?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.”

  Molly brought in tea which she put on a low table beside Tashie. “Exactly my sister’s size,” she said. “She will be pleased. I thought you’d like crumpets.”

  “Thank you, Molly. Delicious. Please remind me next time I set off to buy shoes what size I really take.”

  “It would be against my nature, ma’am.” Molly left the room.

  “Isn’t she killing?” Tashie poured tea. “She’s in love with Jim. D’you remember the butler at Coppermalt? He’s got a job in London now; he takes her to Communist meetings in King’s Cross. He’s joined the Party. Sugar?”

  “One, please.”

  Flora perched on a chair facing Tashie. Tashie looked smarter, more sophisticated and harder than when last seen; it had been folly to give in to the impulse to visit her. She sipped her tea. “You’ve got a baby,” she said.

  “Yes. Upstairs with Nanny. I’ll take you to see him presently. How did you know?”

  “I read it in The Times. I take it at school.”

  “Nigel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Funny old Nigel. They are very happy, you know.”

  “Good.” Flora put her cup aside, it tinkled in the saucer.

  Tashie thought, This isn’t a joke, I am at a loss. How long is it since we saw her? What’s been going on? She’s very pretty. Why has she come to me? She said: “Please tell me what’s the matter, Flora.”

  Flora flushed. “I don’t want to be a bore.”

  “Does this accident to your mother mean that India is off? Is that it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “I sail from Tilbury on Tuesday.”

  (Tuesday. Tuesday. We won’t be back from the week in Norfolk for the partridge shooting, thought Tashie.) She said: “By P & O all the way?”

  Flora nodded. “I have the clothes my mother told me to get. Madame Tarasova made them.”

  “That’s nice. You should have let Mabs and me help you shop.” (Why should she?) “But you are not all that keen on going, is that it?”

  “Never was.”

  Of course she wasn’t. “But now, do you have to?”

  “Yes.” Flora opened her bag. “This may explain better than I can.” She took her father’s letter and handed it to Tashie. “It came by the same post as the letter to the headmistress about my mother.” She handed the letter to Tashie.

  Tashie began to read. “‘Twelve pairs of silk stockings, get advice as to colour, two pairs riding gloves (pigskin) size seven, six camiknickers satin or crepe-de-chine white, from White House bust thirty-six, four thin nightdresses, white, box sandalwood soap Floris, two pairs tan shoes size four and a half Rayne, large bottle Mitsuko Fortnum’s and her usual order at Elizabeth Arden.’ Gosh, this isn’t a letter. What about dresses and a mink coat, while we’re about it? Are you supposed, oh yes,” she said, reading. “I see you are supposed to bring all these out with you. Do you want me to help you shop, is that it?”

  “No. I’ve done the shopping.” How to explain that she just wanted to see, to catch a glimpse, to get some news perhaps, before she left. “My father arranged about paying,” she said. “It’s over the page.”

  Tashie looked over the page. “Yes,” she said. “I see.” She handed the letter back. “I remember your parents,” she said soberly.

  “He does adore her.” Flora folded the letter and put it back in her bag. “I really ought to go,” she said. “There’s a train at—”

  “But you must see my baby and wait until Henry gets in. He’d love to see you.”

  “I’d love to see the baby; what’s he called?”

  “John. We nearly called him Hubert, but there are too many Huberts and Cosmo, who is a godfather, well, Henry doesn’t like Cosmo, not the person, just the name, so he’s John, you can’t go wrong with John. Come on up to the nursery and see him.” Tashie led the way out of the room.

  Flora let John hold her finger; he looked quite an ordinary baby in Tashie’s arms. John’s Nanny shook hands when Tashie introduced her and said, “We’d better wrap up warm this weekend, hadn’t we, Mummy?” And Tashie said:

  “Yes, we had, it’s a very cold house.”

  Flora felt John’s Nanny was in no way interested in her. She made this clear when she said, “And what time does Mr. March want to leave tomorrow? I hope we start in good time so that baby’s feeds are not interfered with.”

  Tashie handed the baby back to the nurse. “She’s a fearful dragon but a wonderful nanny. She thinks I’m a hopeless mother,” she said as they went back to the drawing-room. “The nanny where we are spending the week snobs her. She’s nervous that John will cry if he doesn’t get his feeds on time or if we arrive late and disgrace her.”

  “I really should go,” said Flora uneasily.

  “Won’t you wait for Henry?”

  “My train—”

  “Oh.”

  “Could I go to the lavatory first?”

  “Of course.”

  In the lavatory Flora shredded her father’s shopping list and dropped the bits into the bowl. When she pulled the plug a lot were not washed away; she was tempted to retrieve a piece of the envelope with a stamp on it to give to the school gardener for his little boy’s collection, but thinking the retrieval disgusting left matters as they were.

  Tashie, who still had not put any shoes on, came with her to the door and kissed her. Flora walked away quickly. She had not asked for news of Mabs or Cosmo or Hubert; she had not even hinted that she remembered Felix. She could quite well have waited to see Henry, there was masses of time. Oh, why did I go? she muttered as she walked along. “There was nothing for me there, nothing.”

  Later Henry complained to Tashie that some fool had been putting letters down the lavatory and Tashie burst out crying. Henry took her in his arms and said: “What is it, darling, what’s upset you?”

  And Tashie said: “It’s Flora. There was a moment when I thought she was going to talk. I wanted to help but she clammed up. Oh, Henry, we should have done more for her. We should have had her to stay or something. We’ve never bothered.”

  “Or Mabs should.”

  “But we never have. I was dreadfully flippant about her ghastly mother, sorry she hadn’t died and so on. I joked. I should have done something. Oh, God, I feel so bloody inadequate, a selfish tactless fool.”

  “I don’t see what you could have done,” said Henry. “We are going away for the week.” A little later he said: “Darling, you can’t go interfering with other people’s lives.”

  “Whyever not? It wouldn’t be interfering, it would be helpi
ng. We could—”

  “She’s under age,” said Henry reasonably. “She’s only seventeen. What she does is her parents’ business, not ours. You really must stop crying; if you don’t you’ll look awful. You seem to forget we have the Meads coming to dinner.”

  Tashie said, “Damn the Meads,” but she stopped crying.

  In the train Flora thought of all the things she had bought her mother. She had not, as her father asked, taken advice about the colour of the silk stockings, but used her own judgment. She would have to buy another suitcase for the day’s shopping. She had enjoyed the shopping; it had gone to her head. She had fantasised that she was shopping for herself, that she might meet Mabs or Tashie in one of the shops, that they would be glad to see her. This had led to her calling on Tashie. As the train clattered through the suburbs Flora thought Tashie would have helped her if it had been easy and enjoyable, as it had been to lend her clothes on her visit to Coppermalt, when she and Mabs made a game of it. They had got a lot of fun out of it, especially so on the last night when the game got out of hand. Older, married, and mother of a baby, Tashie had lost none of her generosity; look at the way she ceded her shoes to Molly, the maid. Flora thought with disgust of how she had sat tongue-tied and mum in Tashie’s drawing-room. She had not even eaten a delicious buttery crumpet. There will be no crumpets in India, she thought morosely.

  In London Tashie, telephoning Mabs, said: “I just thought I would tell you.”

  “What did she say, apart from the rabies and the shopping list? Look, Tash, I’m in my bath. Can’t you ring me back?”

  “No, we’ve got people coming to dinner—”

  “Hurry up, then. I’m all wet. Ring me in the morning.”

  “Can’t. We are off early for the partridge shoot. Henry’s friends in Norfolk, the Moberleys.”

  “Do bring me back a brace or two. What did she say, then, Flora?”

  “Hardly anything, that’s what upset me. It was clear as mud she was unhappy, doesn’t want to go to India—”

  “She never did. Wasn’t there something funny about her parents? Don’t you remember them in Dinard? But gosh, she’ll like it when she gets there. My cousin Rachel had a hell of a good time in Delhi.”

  “I daresay she did. Oh, God, Mabs, I felt I should have given her asylum. I felt so inadequate.”

  “But she’s in the charge of the school and you are going away. You just said so.”

  “You sound like Henry.”

  “She’s under age. You can’t interfere.”

  “Henry said that, too. Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I am. But look, Tashie, I’m all wet, I’ve got to change; we are going to a play.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Noel Coward.”

  “You’ll love it. Henry and I went last week.”

  “What do you propose to do about Flora, apart from telling me how rotten you feel?”

  “I don’t see what I can do. We shouldn’t have been nice to her at Coppermalt. Or, if we were, we should have kept it up. It’s like buying a puppy for Christmas and then neglecting it. That’s why I feel so frightful, Mabs.”

  “It was Felix’s mother started it all, made my mother invite her—” said Mabs.

  “Your mother thought she was carrying on with Cosmo, don’t you remember?”

  “I thought it was Hubert,” said Mabs.

  “Or both! Oh Mabs, do you think she really—”

  “She can’t have, she was only fifteen. Not with both together. My ma was having one of her menopausal fits.”

  “So what shall we do?” cried Tashie.

  Mabs said: “Knowing us, Tashie darling, we will do what comes easiest. I don’t suppose we shall do anything. Sorry, love, I’ve got to go.” Mabs replaced the receiver and got back into her bath to find that the water had gone cold.

  “You are looking very pleased with yourself.” Hubert joined Cosmo at the bar of their local pub.

  “Am I? What shall you drink? Your usual? Shall we sit over there?”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess.” Hubert watched Cosmo drink his beer. “A married woman,” he suggested. “You are not in love with her and she’s not in love with you. You have fun in bed when her husband is away. It’s extremely light-hearted and enjoyable and does nobody any harm. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Cosmo laughed. “Don’t be absurd. How is life treating you? What is it like working in a merchant bank?”

  “So we don’t discuss, we are discreet. My merchant bank, you ask. God, Cosmo, how can Nigel and Henry revel in it so? It’s unbelievable. I hate it. I won’t last, there are so many more appealing things to do in life.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I intend to find out. And you, eating your dinners, do you still see yourself as a successful barrister?”

  “Eventually.” Cosmo swallowed some beer.

  “Did I tell you,” said Hubert, “that after all the hooha about no money with it, a little has come with Pengappah?”

  “No! How much is a little?”

  “I have yet to find out. You know how solicitors are, very very slow, but apparently Cousin Thing felt some sort of remorse about the roof. He left enough to keep the rain out.”

  “Have you been to see it yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s been a myth for so long, I feel hesitant now I own it. To be honest, I don’t want to be disappointed.”

  “If it were mine,” said Cosmo, “I’d rush—”

  “Taking the married woman with you—” There was a hint of a sneer in Hubert’s voice.

  “Well—”

  “She would not be the right person. Just think of the risk of taking Joyce. I speak metaphorically, of course. She’d prance and be jolly. She’d shatter the atmosphere.”

  “How did you guess it was Joyce?” Cosmo looked ruffled.

  “I saw you together,” said Hubert, which was untrue. Loving his friend, he was not going to divulge that he had smelled Joyce. Being married to a rich man Joyce had scent specially made for her in Paris. Its fragrance had lingered in Cosmo’s flat, just as it had lingered in his own rooms during his last year at Oxford; he had sniffed it too in the rooms of other men of his acquaintance. Joyce was a girl who got around. “Joyce has the knack of making life joyful,” he said.

  “Oh, she has,” agreed Cosmo. “Which is more than can be said for my sister Mabs and her chum Tashie.”

  “What have they been up to? Those two have the makings of society matrons; in no time they will be presenting their daughters at court.”

  “Oh, come,” said Cosmo, laughing. “Their babies are boys.”

  “They’ll have girls next, just you wait. But what’s troubling them?”

  “They have seen, or Tashie has seen, Flora. The version I heard gar bled by Mabs is that her mother has rabies and her father has made her buy up the contents of Fortnum’s as consolation presents, which Flora has to escort to India where she sails by P & O.”

  “When?” Hubert put down his glass, spilling some beer.

  “Soon, I think. Mabs and Tashie feel they should have kept up with her, had her to stay and so on. They feel remorse at having let her slip from their busy little lives. In other words it’s pangs of guilt.”

  “Which we should have too,” said Hubert.

  “What?”

  “You seem to forget there was a time we both wanted Flora. We agreed to share her.”

  “So we did. Bloody silly idea. One couldn’t share a girl, could one? I mean, I can’t see myself doing it.” (Hubert raised an eyebrow.) “Of course, I saw her first,” said Cosmo.

  “And I fished her out of the sea.”

  “We sent her postcards, didn’t we? I remember we sent postcards from—”

  “Postcards!”

  “The person she loved was Felix. Heavens, Blanco, d’you remember Felix at Dinard? How all the girls flocked—”

  “Honeypot Joyce among them, snag
gle teeth in those days, a little chrysalis of fun.” Hubert smiled in recollection of those infatuated months at Oxford. But for Joyce he would have got a first. “Felix was adept at keeping disentangled; one couldn’t help admiring him.”

  “He’s tangled now,” said Cosmo. “Joke’s over.”

  “Has anyone seen him since his wedding?”

  “It was a good party,” said Cosmo. “Father had a great time, reminiscences and so on. You know how he is. Why weren’t you there?”

  “I was asked but couldn’t make it. I wonder whether Flora knows. Was Joyce at the wedding?”

  “Yes. That was where I—yes-er-um—where we—”

  “Oh, all right, no need to be so discreet. But back to Flora; I think one of us should see her off.” Hubert felt obscurely that this would annoy Cosmo, whose sexual satisfaction was aggravating him.

  “All right, let’s all see her off. I’ll bring Joyce. I’ll ask her to find out the P & O sailings, check the passenger list. She’s fearfully competent.” Cosmo, basking in his affair with Joyce, was in no way annoyed. “Joyce has a good brain,” he said complacently.

  “Not as active as her cunt,” said Hubert. “Don’t hit me,” he said, “you did once and it hurt.”

  “So I did,” said Cosmo. “Over Flora. Your nose bled and I hurt my knuckles.”

  Hubert resented Cosmo’s laughter and his easy suggestion that they should all see Flora off. He was surprised to feel the hot rage he had felt once before. I can’t be jealous, he thought, not of Flora and certainly not of Joyce.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  MISS GILLESPIE, ESCORTING FLORA from school to ship, had had enough. On former occasions with other girls she had sympathised with their eagerness to be off, down channel through the Bay of Biscay, into the Mediterranean, heading east to India and the delights of the Raj. Miss Gillespie was a romantic; she watched her charges note the young men boarding the ship with them: army officers, Political Officers, Indian police officers, officers returning from home leave, with straight backs, sunburned faces and trim moustaches. Potential husbands. Miss Gillespie, in her late, wistful and maiden thirties, envied the girls their chance.