Sensible Life

by Mary Wesley

  “A hint that you should?” suggested Tashie.

  Angus, looking up from bacon and egg, said, “Touting.”

  Milly said, “Hum, well, perhaps. Who do we know in India? I don’t recognise the writing.”

  “Try opening it.” Cosmo reached for the marmalade. “Pass the butter, Nigel.”

  Milly slit the envelope. “Vita Trevelyan. Who is Vita Trevelyan?”

  “Flora’s mother,” said Tashie.

  “You must remember her,” said Mabs. “You couldn’t stand her.”

  “What can she want? Difficult writing.” Milly looked at the letter askance.

  “Try reading it,” said Henry, who was enjoying his grilled kidneys and deplored conversation at breakfast. Tashie kicked his shin to remind him that he was not in his own house.

  Nigel got up to help himself to kedgeree.

  “You’ll get frightfully fat if you eat so much,” said Mabs with wifely disapproval.

  “Fortifying myself against Christmas lunch,” said Nigel amiably. “The more I eat, the more I can.”

  Pursing her lips as she read the letter, Milly said, “My goodness, how peculiar.”

  “Out loud, Ma,” suggested Cosmo.

  Milly read: “‘Dear Mrs. Leigh, Forgive me for bothering you but I remember you were kind enough to have Flora to stay’” (but I did not invite her again when I should have, oh dear, oh dear, how can I have been so mean?). “‘She was to have joined us here’—here must be, yes, it’s postmarked and addressed Peshawar. Where’s that?”

  “North-West Frontier,” said Angus. “No pigsticking. They hunt jackals. Good fun, I’m told.”

  “Father,” said Mabs, “you digress.”

  Milly read on, her voice rising on a tide of incredulity. “‘She sailed from Tilbury in early October, seen off by one of the mistresses from her school, but when our bearer met the ship at Bombay there was only her trunk with all the lovely clothes I had had made for her by the little dressmaker we all went to in Dinard that year’—I’d quite forgotten how she monopolised her—”

  “Go on, Mother,” urged Mabs.

  “‘We wrote to the school thinking she might have returned there’—why should she do that?—‘but they were as surprised as we are and had received no news.’—Why do tiresome people receive not get?”

  “Mother—”

  “‘—a letter arrived here in early December to say she does not want to come to India, she will earn her own living’—from the girl?”

  “Bravo,” said Nigel. “Spunk.”

  “Nigel dear, she goes on. ‘Not unnaturally, since she is only seventeen, we are concerned and would like to get in touch—we wondered whether you or any of your family had been contacted—apologies for troubling you.’ What a peculiar letter. What a strange way, oh, here she says in a postscript, even more peculiar, she seems to have left the ship in Marseilles. Good heavens, what an extraordinary—”

  “White-slavers.” Nigel forked kedgeree into his mouth. “They drug and kidnap.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Mabs. “Idiot.”

  “She came to see me,” wailed Tashie. “She seemed—we were just going away for a week’s shooting. I told you, Mabs, d’you remember? I telephoned. You were in your bath.”

  “She didn’t want to go to India and we did absolutely bloody nothing,” said Mabs. “Oh, God.”

  “Don’t swear, Mabs, it’s ugly,” said Milly.

  “Hubert, Joyce and I saw her off,” said Cosmo, “at Tilbury.”

  “How did she seem?” asked Henry.

  “All right.” But had she been all right?

  “We were all rather jolly, cracked a bottle of champagne to wish her well. Joyce’s idea, actually.” I was drunk, thought Cosmo, and Joyce seemed to have charge of me. I was sleeping with her, wasn’t I? Why didn’t I latch on? Why didn’t I help?

  “When she stayed here,” said Milly, examining Vita’s letter for nonexistent clues, “I thought she was rather—it strikes me that—well, she was quite—” (Quite what? A danger? A girl one couldn’t ask to come again in case one’s son or husband found her attractive? Which she was. Oh God, I am belittled.) “Well, my goodness, to step off the ship just like that and disappear seems strange, if not actually disreputable.”

  Angus said, “Is that the telephone? It’s all right, I’ll answer it. I’m expecting a call. She seemed a sensible girl to me,” he said as he left the room.

  “Nothing wrong with Father’s hearing,” said Mabs. Or mine, thought Cosmo. Listening to his father in the hall, he heard:

  “Yes, my dear fellow, yes, of course, I’ll see about it, yes. Happy Chris—Goodbye.” Angus replaced the receiver. His heart was beating uncomfortably; he went to sit in the library. Why, he asked himself, had he not told Milly at the time? Nothing had happened, no need to feel guilty; since when was it wrong to give a pretty girl lunch? Nothing wrong in that. Then the second chance to tell her had come just now when Milly opened her presents. He could have made a joke of it, told her how he had been extravagant in Hardy’s—those salmon flies, the lures—told her how Flora had suggested Floris, suggested Fortnum’s, been charming at lunch, been in her own words “sensible.” Oh yes, thought Angus, the girl was sensible, sensible in the French sense. I am sixty-six, old enough to be her grandfather, but not, he thought ruefully, too old to think how beautiful it would be to get her into bed. One wouldn’t try, of course, it was only an idea, but try explaining that to Milly. “Oh bugger,” said Angus out loud. “Bugger, bugger, bugger.” He walked to the window and stared out at the winter sky.

  Coming into the room Cosmo said, “Father, there’s an argument. The girls want to bring their babies to church; Mother wants you to decide.”

  Re-focusing his thoughts, Angus said, “Let infant shrieks drown the Christmas message, slew the carols off course? Bloody good idea, all hell let loose, whyever not?”

  His father’s tone was so belligerent Cosmo took a step backwards, but in the doorway he said, “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

  Angus said, “Who? Certainly not. No idea.”

  Cosmo said, “Thanks,” and retreated into the hall, convinced that the telephone had not rung.

  FORTY-THREE

  FINDING THE DOOR OPEN Cosmo peered in; Hubert knelt with his back to him, puffing with a pair of bellows at a recalcitrant fire. The wood was damp and his measure of success small, for each time a spark crackled and pale flames licked a down draught billowed smoke in his face, making him rock back on his heels cursing. Then, suddenly, flames took hold with a hungry crackle and purred sweetly up.

  Cosmo said, “Eureka. Bravely done.”

  Hubert swung round. “What brings you here? How did you find the way?”

  “There are such things as ordnance maps, trains, taxis and so on. I walked from the village.” Cosmo stepped inside. “Shall you not be hospitable and ask me in? I brought you a bottle of whisky. Nice,” he said, looking round. “Is Pengappah what you expected? Dreams come true? Will you show me round your estate?”

  “I thought you were spending Christmas at Coppermalt,” said Hubert ungraciously.

  “I was. I did. Your presence was sadly missed.” Cosmo sauntered round the room and peered out of the window. “Is that the sea down there through the trees? What an idyllic situation; sheltered, secret and remote.” He turned back into the room. “I say, nice books. I see your cousin Thing was quite erudite. Furniture not to be sniffed at, either. Some decent pictures, too; do show me round.”

  “I had rather intended to be alone, but as you are here, shut the door, It’s only open to let the smoke out.”

  “And not uninvited guests. Do I gather I am not welcome?”

  “I have rather a lot to do—I hoped—”

  “A solitary gloat is understandable,” said Cosmo amiably, “but since I am here, welcome or not, why don’t we have a drink?” He unscrewed the bottle of whisky. “In those nice rummers on the mantelshelf, or are they sacred? A quick tot to d
rink your health and wish you luck.”

  Hubert reached for the rummers. “I’ll get some water,” he said.

  Cosmo watched as Hubert went into the kitchen, noted a pile of groceries; fruit, a bottle of wine, another of whisky on a deal table, a loaf, butter and cheese. Hubert brought water. “Perhaps I need a drink, I’ve had a surprise.”

  “Oh? Nasty?”

  “Yes.” Hubert watched Cosmo pour the drinks, took his, gulped, looked at his watch and then at Cosmo. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “Thanks.”

  They sat in armchairs by the fire. Cosmo said, “What was the surprise?”

  “My cousin’s—my solicitor hanged himself.”

  “Why?”

  “What a thing to do! I saw him in London. He gave me the keys, read me my cousin’s will and gave me lunch. The thing is, he said his wife had left him, and that he’d like to kill her. I didn’t expect him to kill himself. It seems all wrong for a solicitor—”

  “I suppose they are human.”

  “I thought he was a bore. I felt awful. I telephoned from the village when I was doing the shopping to ask him to do various things for me, and his clerk told me.”

  “I suppose he has a partner.”

  “God, you are callous.”

  “He bored you; you didn’t like him. You are not really upset. What’s upsetting you is that you don’t want me here, you want me to leave. You keep looking at your watch.”

  “I only looked at it once,” Hubert exclaimed. “I’m upset, I tell you.”

  “So will I please leave? Tell you what,” said Cosmo, “show me round first, a lightning tour for old time’s sake. I did bring you a bottle,” he wheedled. “Would it be permitted to see the famous bathroom, for instance? The six baths? Come on, be hospitable. Don’t let your new status affect your manners. One hopes, too, that now you are a man of property it won’t affect your democratic tendencies.” Cosmo sniffed his whisky and drank.

  Hubert said, “All right, but it’s got to be quick. These are the stairs—” He led the way.

  “So I see,” Cosmo murmured. “The stairs.”

  “The landing,” said Hubert. “Bedrooms.” He walked past, opening and shutting doors before Cosmo could see in. “A loft up there full of junk, a lot of it scorched.”

  “Scorched?”

  “There was a fire; half the house went. Cousin Thing did not rebuild but made a walled garden in the ruined wing. It’s rather effective.” Hubert gulped whisky as he walked. “The bathroom.” He opened a door, gesturing with his glass. “La salle de bain.”

  “But only one bath.” Cosmo’s eyes darted about, taking in a large but solitary bath and, on a wooden bathrack, sponges, soap and flannel.

  Hubert closed the door. “He took out the extra five. Come down, I’ll show you the kitchen. He dug the extra five into the slope of the garden so that the stream runs through them, a sort of waterfall. I—, I found them all green with moss. You’d never guess they were porcelain pools.”

  “Fascinating,” said Cosmo. “I must see them. Goldfish?” He followed Hubert down the stairs.

  “Trout. This is the kitchen, w—, I—er—eat in here.”

  “Most democratic,” said Cosmo gravely.

  “And that’s the lot,” said Hubert briskly. “As you see, there is no electricity, candles and oil lamps, no telephone, spring water. Sorry I can’t offer you lunch. I’m only camping. I leave tomorrow for Germany. It’s been a quick dash, that’s all.” He moved towards the door. “I have these letters—a lot of business—”

  Cosmo did not follow him. “Since you came in my car,” he said, helping himself to whisky, “I imagined we could go back to London together.” His tone was amiable, his expression obtuse.

  Hubert said, “Oh no! I mean, well, it’s not—”

  “Where are you hiding her?” asked Cosmo quietly.

  “Hiding? Hiding who?”

  “Flora.” Cosmo sat in an armchair, stretched his legs towards the fire and set his glass beside him.

  “What makes you think she’s here?” Hubert blessed the whisky for the amazement in his voice. “Why should—? What an extraordinary idea.”

  Cosmo said, “Since when have you used a pink bath flannel?”

  “Joyce—”

  “As we both know, Joyce’s bath flannels are always mauve and Joyce has gone to the Canaries with husband Ernest.” Cosmo leaned forward and replenished Hubert’s glass. “Where is Flora?”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “—I am talking about. Sit down,” said Cosmo. “You are as bad at lying as my father.”

  “What has your father got to—” Hubert gulped his drink and sat down.

  “I’ll tell you. Flora’s mother, that pestilential woman, wrote to my mother.”

  “What would she do that for?”

  “It appears Flora knows no one in England except us Coppermalt lot and her school. Mrs. Trevelyan wrote to Mother to ask whether by any chance she had news of Flora. It appears she jumped ship at Marseilles and has not been heard of since. White-slavery is suspected by the gullible, but I remembered that you came with Joyce and me to see her off at Tilbury, and that you, curiously enough, have been in France for a couple of months. Two and two seemed to me to make Flora. Where is she?”

  Hubert said, “This is ridiculous,” and leaned forward to throw logs on the fire.

  “I seem to remember,” said Cosmo, “that we made a pact to go shares.”

  “As boys.” Hubert demurred.

  “We have not changed gender; we were both in good working order with Joyce.”

  “Oh,” said Hubert. “Joyce.”

  Cosmo asked, “Have you married Flora?”

  “Married? Good Lord, no.” (She had refused, had she not?) “I can’t afford to marry.”

  “I have a strong suspicion that my father is in touch with her,” said Cosmo slyly.

  Hubert burst into spontaneous laughter. “Your father! How massively comical.”

  “Mother does not think it comical,” said Cosmo rather stiffly. “I say, should we not dilute this a bit before we get squiffed?”

  Hubert dribbled water with a careful hand. “Tell me how your father comes into things.” He sat back, smiling. “Your honoured Pa, the General.”

  Cosmo said, “There has been one hell of a row over Christmas, a fullblown menopausal eruption, starting at breakfast on Christmas morning, carried on through Boxing Day: low-voiced queries, muttered asides, hints, all behind a bright Christmas-spirity front. Mustn’t spoil Christmas. Mabs and I became quite wretched. Oh, do stop grinning. You are as bad as Nigel and Henry.”

  “But it is funny,” giggled Hubert. “Your aged Pa, how could—”

  “Would you still laugh if I told you there is something in it?”

  “There couldn’t be.”

  “But there is. Neither Mabs nor I have seen him like it, hangdog, guilty. We’ve seen so many of Mother’s suspicious attacks, but this—”

  “But he must be about sixty.”

  “Sixty-six.”

  “Well—”

  “I tell you, when my mother accused him he looked sheepish. It began with Father giving her extra presents, not the son of thing he would choose himself. Then she got Mrs. Trevelyan’s letter and began thinking of Flora, remembering her when she came to Coppermalt.”

  “She was only fifteen.”

  “She remembered that. When she read the letter she began thinking of Flora’s last evening, when the girls dressed her up as a femme fatale. Mother managed to say, without using the word, that Flora was a tart—disreputable was the word used—and Father left the room pretending he heard the telephone.”

  “Oh!”

  “During Christmas church—Mabs and Tash brought their infants to counter the carols—Mother was distrait; she whispered at Father and Father’s neck went red. I was in the pew behind them. He said, ‘Milly, be quiet,’ and ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up.’ Jolly unchristmas spirit. But s
he wouldn’t let well enough alone. She niggled through Christmas Day and he made a mess of his answers. He did not, as he’s always done, laugh at her. She kept coming back to the letter and Flora. ‘Thrust on us by your girl-friend, Rosa.’ ‘I never had any affair with Rosa.’ ‘It’s not Rosa we are discussing,’ and then later worrying like Bootsie at a bone. ‘When I had her to stay that summer I didn’t think she was really that sort of girl, and yet when Mabs and Tashie dressed her up she looked very, very tarty.’ By night she was really needling him. None of us could stop her. Father drank far more than he usually does and punished the whisky decanter after dinner. Then, as we drifted thankfully to bed, we heard her shout: ‘You met her in London. Stop lying, I know you did.’”

  “And?” Hubert’s mouth hung open.

  “Father said, ‘If you must know, yes I did,’ in tones of ice.”

  “And?”

  “Slept in his dressing-room. He never does unless one of them is ill. He adores her. Boxing Day was arctic, they were not on speakers. They both looked wretched. And I remember what a hurry you were in when you borrowed my car, not a bit like you, and set off to find you and check up.”

  Hubert said, “The silly old man, he made it up,” and helped Cosmo and himself to whisky.

  “If he made it up,” said Cosmo, “you must have got Flora hidden somewhere. Where is she? Up in the loft among the scorched junk?”

  “No,” said Hubert. “No. She’s gone out, said she wanted to think.” He lay back and closed his eyes.

  “You bastard,” said Cosmo. “When will she be back?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been gone hours.”

  “Why should she want to think? Have you hurt her?”

  “Why should I hurt her?” said Hubert violently. “I love her.”

  “I love her,” said Cosmo.

  “Not that again. What we should be asking is, Who does she love?”

  FORTY-FOUR

  THE SAND ON THE tide line was frozen. Flora’s feet imprinted the crust as she walked across the cove to the water. The sea was the colour of pewter and flat.