by Mary Wesley
Hubert resolved to remove his affairs from Mr. Tait as soon as feasible, but now the man undermined his fury by asking, “Are you married?”
Hubert said, “No.”
Mr. Tait said, “Do you intend?”
Hubert said, “I—”
Mr. Tait said, “You should bear in mind that your property is entailed on a male heir but don’t, oh, Hubert, don’t. My wife left me this morning—the grief, the desolation, the despair.” The monkey eyes glistened, then in a choking voice he said, “The bloody, bloody bitch. I shall kill her.”
They had reached the cheese stage. Hubert swallowed his mouthful of Stilton, crunched a piece of celery and murmured, “Each man kills the thing he loves.”
Mr. Tait raised his head and voice. “But he was a queer.”
Several people looked round, then quickly away. Hubert said, “Maybe he was, but he screwed out a couple of sons. I say, Mr. Tait, I must go. I hadn’t realised the time. Thank you so much for your help and lunch,” and began shuffling to his feet.
Mr. Tait said, “It’s been a pleasure. Waiter, my bill.”
Shaking Mr. Tait’s hand, looking into the little monkey eyes in the clown’s face, Hubert said, “You won’t kill her, will you, not really?”
Mr. Tait finding his pocket book, looking embarrassed, murmured, “I shall think of something better—”
Escaped into the Strand, recovering his balance, Hubert decided that Mr. Tait was mad, but what did it matter? He had the keys of Pengappah in his pocket, the deeds in his hand, and the prospect of an interesting job. Cheered by his thoughts, he set off to borrow Cosmo’s car.
Cosmo, in shirt-sleeves, was packing a suitcase. “Borrow the car? Of course, here are the keys. Treat her kindly. Sorry, but I’m in rather a rush. I am catching the train with Father and he will skin me if I miss it.” He folded a coat, laid it in the case. “Shoes, socks, shirts, pants. Where are you going?”
“Pengappah.”
“So you’ve got it? It really exists?” He paused in his task.
Hubert shook the keys in the air. “Keys! Deeds!”
“After all these years, it’s yours. Congratulations. Lord of Pengappah, a landed gentleman. Shall you change your political mores?”
Ignoring the tease, Hubert said, “And I’ve got a job.”
“No!” Cosmo was delighted. “How splendid.”
“Germany, commissioned to write articles on the Nazis—”
Cosmo, mouth open, listened to details of the job. He said, “You will be so much happier than working in that bank.”
“Much.”
The friends stood smiling at one another, then Cosmo said, “I must get on; Father’s getting old, he fusses. I wish you were coming to Coppermalt for Christmas, but I quite see you can’t wait to see your house. Knowing you, you want to savour it alone.”
“Who is going to be at Copper—”
“Mabs and Nigel, Tash and Henry. Infants too, of course.”
“Joyce?”
“Gone to the Canaries with Ernest.”
“It’s over, then?”
Cosmo said, “Joyce is not a habit, she’s an incident. You should know.” He laid a pair of trousers in the suitcase and closed it. “Now, what have I forgotten?” He looked round the room. “I was tempted to hare after Flora when we saw her off. If you must know, I realised the thing with Joyce was on the wane. I wonder how she’s getting on?”
Hubert said, “I’m sure she’s all right. Well—many thanks for the car. I’ll leave it back here in a week,” and left.
Mounting the stairs to his own flat twenty minutes later with jubilant step, filled with pleasurable anticipation, Hubert called, “Flora?” The flat was empty, the bed they had lain in the night before cold. His stomach contracted in panic. Confidence evaporated, he was filled with manic rage. “Where the hell have you been?” he yelled, as Flora appeared in the doorway. “What have you been up to? Where have you been?”
“Out.”
“Where? Doing what?”
“Spending a sensible day.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “Why so cross?”
“I thought you had gone. I was bracing myself against disaster.” He held her close.
“Why should I go? How was the meeting with the lawyer?” Disturbed by his fury, she disengaged herself, kicked off her shoes and lay back in an armchair. “Don’t tell me there is no Pengappah? What was the old man like?”
“Not old, rather odd. Gave me the keys and so on, and insisted on giving me lunch. His wife has just left him. He wants to kill her.” Joyce had lain back in that chair in much the same attitude, but Joyce was aware of the effect. “I thought we could start at once, this afternoon.” He would not tell her yet about the job; he would keep the news as a treat.
She said, “Wonderful,” smiling. “Was the man deranged?”
“Drive through the night,” ignoring the question.
“Drive?”
“I’ve borrowed a car.”
“How splendid.”
“Have you had anything to eat? Are you starving?”
The habit of privacy wrapped her too close to tell him of her lunch with Angus. “I’ve been sensible.” She smiled up at him.
Joyce had smiled too. “You look very cocky,” he said, looking down at her.
She had learned why the men she had danced with on the ship grew lumps in their trousers. It had happened too at Coppermalt, but she had not then known the reason. “Goodness,” she said, as Hubert picked her up out of the chair, “not on the floor!” They fell onto the bed. “We seem to be doing rather a lot of this,” she said, as Hubert pulled off her knickers. “You smell nice,” she said. (Not a bit like my parents, she thought.) Then, while Hubert swooned, she thought of how she had been waiting all her childhood and seven interminable years at school for something to happen and now it had.
Hubert said, “I love you. I might even marry you some day.”
“If I don’t marry someone else.”
“Who, for instance?” He stroked her silky thigh.
“Felix?”
“He’s married.”
“His wife might die. Or Cosmo.”
“Can’t have that.” He felt a twinge of guilt. Should he not this afternoon have been more open—
“You may have to ‘have it’.”
“Come to think of it, I promised I would share you. We were pretty young at the time.” Hubert got off the bed. “But as St. Augustine said, ‘Not yet, oh Lord’.”
Flora said, “What cheek! Without asking me? Share?” She was shocked.
“You had gone, swept off by Miss Felicity Green. We had a fight.”
“Who won?”
“Nobody. I blacked his eye, he trod on my foot. Come on, get cracking. We should be on the road.”
Driving past Hammersmith Broadway, Flora said: “Is this car Cosmo’s?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Thought so.”
“How d’you guess?”
Flora said, “He came to see me off at Tilbury with Joyce. You must remember.”
“And?”
“It smells of Joyce.”
“A lot of things smell of Joyce; she wears scent which hangs around. Jolly girl, though, Joyce.” I should be grateful to Joyce, he thought; catching up with Flora at Marseilles wouldn’t have been much fun if Cosmo had made it too.
Flora did not want to think of Joyce, jolly or not. She was sorry she had brought her up; there had been faint unsettling traces in Hubert’s flat. She supposed they shared Joyce, as they had agreed to share her. She stared ahead as they drove past the suburbs towards the Great West Road.
They had left London far behind when Hubert said, “For the sake of propriety I shall tell people at Pengappah you are my cousin.”
“You did not bother about propriety in France.”
“Pengappah is different.”
“I am not your cousin. Why not pretend I am your sister? We are both dark. That would be much more proper.�
� She was contemptuous of his new respectability.
Ignoring the acidity in her tone, Hubert said serenely, “I could not marry a sister.”
Flora spaced her reply. “I—do—not—want—to—marry—you.”
Hubert was indulgent. “You will change your mind.”
Bearing in mind her phantom trio, Flora said, exasperated, “How could I?”
Hubert did not answer.
Presently Flora asked, “How long shall we stay?”
“Not long. You can stay on if you like it. I have to go to Germany.”
Flora turned towards him. “Germany? What for? What’s this about Germany?”
He told her about the job; she listened bleakly as he outlined the project. It was a wonderful chance, just the kind of life he wanted. He viewed his immediate prospects with enthusiasm. So he too could be secretive, she thought. She said, “How jolly for you,” keeping her tone neutral.
Ignoring her chill, Hubert said, “Far jollier than banking. I was going to tell you, but you were not there when I got in—” He could not tell her of his terror when he found the flat empty and thought her gone. He was glad that he could reproach her, conscious, too, that he had deceived Cosmo, and pleased when she said: “You are a selfish beast.” Driving on in silence he began to wonder why the hell he had brought her. Had he not looked forward in his dreams to the moment when he would at last acquire Pengappah, to doing it alone? There had never been anyone else when he put the key in the door and pushed. Was she in the way?
Flora thought, If he plans to leave, would I not do better to stop now, go back to London and get a job, any job? There must be some jobs I can do. Who do I know who could help me? She opened her mouth to say, “Stop the car, let me out,” but remained silent, afraid her voice would shake and betray her desolation.
She had been sleeping and woke when Hubert stopped the car to pore over a map by the light of a torch. She said, “Where are we?”
“Nearly there. I am memorising the way, it’s a very secret place. Like some chocolate?” He snapped a bar in half and handed it to her. “Now don’t talk, I must concentrate.”
Realising that she was painfully hungry, she ate the chocolate as Hubert drove down a lane which dipped into a valley and over a hill. Beside her, Hubert muttered, “Right, half-right, left, left again, cross over, turn right, left through the splash, right here, that’s right, here’s the clearing, aha, and there’s the gate. Could you hop out and open it?” There was excitement in his voice. She got out of the car, stiff from the journey, opened a gate and closed it when Hubert drove through. “Go on,” she said, “I’d like to walk.”
“But it’s still dark.”
“There’s a moon. Go on, it won’t be very far.”
“Really? D’you mean—”
“Yes, go on.” She waved him on and stood watching the car lights twist through trees as the track led downhill. If I had not been asleep, she thought, I would know how far I am from the nearest village. I could go now, turn round and go, but I can’t, my suitcase is in the car. She started to walk.
The house squatted black in the moonlight with silver eyes. Standing on the grass of an unkempt lawn, hearing the sea at the foot of the valley and the brush and creak of trees in the wood, she listened, hearing too the click of the car’s engine cool where Hubert had left it, its door swinging open in the quiet. The chocolate had made her thirsty but she was loath to disturb Hubert; she felt de trop. A stream trickling from a gravelled gully at the side of the house fell from pool to pool stepped down the slope into a wood. She squatted, cupped her hands in the reflection of her face and drank.
“Come with me.” Hubert took her hand, still wet from the pool, and led her in through a door which opened immediately into a stone-flagged room where she breathed in years of woodsmoke. “Look.” He pointed to a Regency mirror above the mantelshelf. Stuck round the trim was a collection of postcards arranged in order of date. “Expect me sooner or later,” read the messages in English, German, Italian, French, Dutch, and pasted in the middle one bearing a message in Russian. “And this,” Hubert whispered, shining the torch close to the glass. “Can you read it?” Traced in the dust on the glass Flora was able to make out the word “Welcome.”
“Makes me look a proper Charlie, a perfect fool,” said Hubert. “I thought I was being so funny; what possessed me to be so crass?”
Flora said, “The one in Russian says, ‘May you be happy and blest.’ Something like that. The spelling is all haywire, of course.”
Hubert shone the torch in her face. “So you cheated?” There was anger and relief in his voice. “You deceived me?”
Flora pushed the torch aside; it seemed to her then that there had always been an element of deception in their relationship. “We don’t need that,” she said, “it’s getting light.”
Hubert said, “I don’t think the welcome was for me, do you?”
Flora said, “I think it was for both of you.”
“I certainly hope so.” Hubert shook off remorse. “I should hate to think I contributed to his demise.”
“You wished him dead,” said Flora matter-of-factly, “and now he is.”
“Only,” Hubert prevaricated, “because he would not make friends. If he had, it would have been quite different.”
Flora said, “Might have been,” sceptically.
Hubert laughed. “To be honest, what I used to want was to be invited to stay, to bath in a bathroom with six baths. It sounded so exotic. But this morning, oh gosh it must be yesterday, the solicitor told me half the house had been burned down and the baths—”
“Five of them are dug into the slope, transformed into pools, I was looking at them when you came out just now—rather fun.”
For a moment Hubert felt he could throttle her for cheating him of part of his discovery. “Tait told me something—oh—”
“What? What did he tell you?”
Hubert began to laugh. “He reminded me that Pengappah is entailed on my male heir. Perhaps,” said Hubert, chuckling, “we’d better look sharp, get married and beget.”
Flora said, “You are a swine,” and hit him.
When the quarrel stopped Hubert held Flora in his arms, but she said, “I must get away. Where’s my suitcase? I should never have come, never!”
“Darling, I was joking.” He stroked her hair. “I’m sorry, so sorry. Don’t let’s quarrel, please. Look, it’s light, it’s Christmas. Happy Christmas.”
She said, “All right, but I can’t marry you. I can’t explain. I’m sorry about it, but Happy Christmas.”
Hubert said, “Come and explore the house with me,” and surprised himself wishing Cosmo was with them.
FORTY-TWO
COMING DOWN TO BREAKFAST Milly viewed the Christmas tree in the hall. Cosmo and Mabs, Nigel, Henry and Tashie had decorated it the previous day. It was beautiful, silver and gold with white candles, a far cry from the jolly but glaring arrangements that had been the genre of nursery and schooldays, when every colour of the rainbow had jumbled so thickly on the tree it had been almost impossible to see a pine needle. Their parcels under the tree were sophisticated, artful wrappings of pale blues and pinks tied with gold and silver ribbon. She could recognise her own contributions in the glaring reds, greens and yellows she was used to using. Perhaps, thought Milly with nostalgia, we shall revert to bumptious vulgarity as the grandchildren grow?
“Happy Christmas,” she said, opening the dining-room door. “Happy Christmas.” She kissed her husband. They had kissed already when Molly’s successor, Bridgid, brought their morning tea, a kiss rasped against Angus’ bristles. Now he was shaved her kiss lingered on his sweet-smelling weather-beaten skin. “Happy Christmas, my darlings.” She sat down. “Is this my post? What a heap of last-minute cards; people do cut things fine. I do enjoy Christmas.” She looked round the table at her family, and Tashie and Henry so close they almost counted as family, as did Hubert and Joyce, habitual visitors but absent this year. “I poppe
d into the nursery on my way, the Nannies are already trying to contain the times’ excitement.” Round the table Milly’s darlings gave her cheerful greetings as they opened their letters, or ate their breakfasts.
Cosmo brought his mother coffee. “What can I get you, Ma?” He kissed her cheek.
“I think I’ll look at my post first.” Milly sorted through letters. “What is this? And this?” she exclaimed, discovering two parcels tied with ribbons. “A mystery. No name on them.”
“Presents extra for an extra special wife.” Angus beamed as Milly flushed with pleasure. “Open them,” he said, pouting out his moustache. She was a fine woman, he thought, watching her untie the parcels, as fine as she had been at eighteen, the darling of his heart. He would have liked to voice this thought but was inhibited by the presence of his children, who were exchanging surreptitious smiles. Come to think of it, he had never actually called her the darling of his heart; would she laugh if he did?
Struggling with tight knots, Milly exclaimed, “Oh darling, you shouldn’t,” and “Floris, my absolute favourite,” and “Honestly, Angus, how could you? Fortnum’s chocolate truffles. What about my figure?”
Angus was delighted by the success of his parcels. “Your figure suits me as it is.”
Milly said, “What a cheat to spring such a surprise. My mingy contributions are under the tree. What a darling you are.” Nigel, catching Mabs’ eye, hoped that their union would be as affectionate in twenty years’ time; Henry, infected by the atmosphere, kissed Tashie; Cosmo, reaching for the toast rack, experienced a twinge of loss, wishing he had Hubert to keep him company.
Milly began opening her letters. “Cards, cards, there are always some from people I forget.” She sipped her coffee. “Ah, Rosa, and her good news! Felix has a son. I’d forgotten he was expecting when we were told last week.”
“Felix?” Mabs raised an eyebrow. “Felix?”
“His wife, silly. Oh dear, a card from Felicity Green, I never send her one. And look at this, from your dressmaker, Mabs. I don’t go to her these days.”
