Adrian had been to enough Caledonian Society gatherings overseas to know the Dashing White Sergeant, Eightsome Reel, all the dances, and Laura had been given instruction at school. Probably to curb teenage hormones, they had been taught every kind of country dancing – Russian, Scottish, even, she told Adrian, how to dance correctly round a maypole.
‘And were you Queen of the May, Laura?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was.’
He pushed back her hair and whispered,
‘You must rise and wake me early,
Wake me early, mother dear.
For I’m to be Queen of the May, mother.
I’m to be Queen of the May.’
Oh, thought Laura, it was all going swimmingly. She really felt on the crest of an exhilarating wave.
The wave carried them headily through supper. And then, afterwards, the mood of the party changed. The rooms emptied. From the terrace, Laura saw that beyond the tennis court, in the meadow, couples were lying down, embracing. The bedrooms of course, were strictly off limits.
Adrian, standing beside her, smoking one of her cigarettes, appeared not to notice the steamy scene in the meadow. She wondered if there was anything wrong with his eyesight.
‘Just look,’ she said lightly. ‘They’re having a rest. Being flung round the room in the dancing must have fagged those girls out.’
He turned her by the shoulders and, to her chagrin, led her back into the house.
‘I couldn’t possibly let you lie down in that lovely dress. It’s white. You’d get grass stains all over it.’
His cousin rushed up. All the young people in The Beeches were in awe of him. He was only twenty-three and he was already earning a thousand pounds a year. Imagine!
‘Hey, I’ve found a Dorothy Provine record. Come on, let’s form a chain.’
Laura could do the Charleston. She’d taught herself years ago, wearing tap shoes and hanging on to the mantelpiece of her parents’ tiled fireplace. Her father had heard her clacking away and gone mad.
‘Don’t Bring Lulu.’ ‘Bye, bye Blackbird.’ It was fun, but it wasn’t what Laura wanted. Grass stains to blazes, she just yearned to lie in the buttercup meadow with Adrian on top of her.
All too soon, the lights of a parental car flashed in the drive. The party was over. On cue, the girls in the meadow staggered upright and brushed down their dresses, preparing to walk home or cadge a lift with a boy who had fortunate access to a car.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ said Adrian.
But her house was just next door! She wished they had miles and miles to go, strolling in the moonlight, she carrying her dancing shoes.
Firmly, she led him past the laurels into the Roadnights front porch. There, she slipped her hands underneath his jacket, pulled him to her and kissed him. For a long time.
Thanks to friendly instruction from the builder, Laura was no novice in the art of driving a man wild. She heard Adrian’s ragged breathing, felt the heat pulsing through him as his hands disarranged her dress, seeking her bare skin.
I’ve got you, she thought. I’ve got you, Adrian.
‘Listen,’ she stilled him. ‘I’d better go in. My father…’
He groaned.
‘Laura.’
‘Yes? Yes?’
‘Well, can I write to you? Can I?’
Four years he’d be in Glasgow. There’d be vacs, of course, but he’d have to go and see his parents. So. Love letters. That’s what they’d do.
As, stealthily, she closed the front door, she heard furtive noises coming from the kitchen. It was Richard, her older brother, making himself a midnight snack. He taught at a boarding school in Norfolk and had been let off the marital leash this weekend to join an extensive pub crawl with some old cronies. He was still friendly with the crowd he’d grown up with. Horrid, smelly boys, Laura recalled them, in scratchy grey short trousers held up by elastic green and red striped belts snapped with a snake clip.
‘Christ, I’m done in,’ Richard said cheerfully. ‘The Red Lion, Three Horseshoes, White Heart, The Ship.’
‘Well do try and make it down in good time for lunch tomorrow. Don’t come skidding in at the last minute.’
He grinned. ‘Ah, the virtuous daughter of the house. Dressed, I see, in virginal white. I know what you’ve been up to. When I got back, Ma and Pa were finishing their Horlicks and discussing your latest beau.’
‘And?’
‘Pa said he was a better bet than the last one.’
Laura smiled. The builder. Teaching her about sex in the field the Girl Guides sometimes pitched their beastly tents in.
‘What did Mummy say?’
‘She said she thought Adrian was a very nice boy.’ He smirked. ‘Because I didn’t want to disturb you, I considerately came in through the French windows, so I didn’t tell Mummy what that nice boy was doing on the front porch, getting his hand down your knickers. Have you still got them on, by the way, or has he taken them as a souvenir?’
Laura ignored him. ‘What’s that you’re eating?’
‘Haslet. Ma brought it back from the farm. There’s sausages, bacon, all the pig stuff.’
‘Give me some haslet.’ It was a great family favourite.
‘No. I’m taking it back for my kids.’
It was hateful, Laura thought, creeping up the stairs, hateful having a brother. He’d always resented having to share anything with her. Pinched her arm so hard when their mother cut the Mars bar in two, Laura had retaliated by throwing all his Meccano into the rockery.
A sister would have been so much better. They could have shared things, swapped clothes –
Still, now she had Adrian. He was crazy about her, she was sure of that. She wondered when he would write.
He had warned her, that as a Fresher, he must ‘report for duty’ at the university early in September. His first letter arrived on September 23rd, the day after her twenty-second birthday. Laura fell on it like a ravenous wolf.
The letter was disappointingly sketchy. Pen portraits of his fellow students in Hall. Kel, a Rhodes scholar, hell of a nice guy. Sven, chemical engineer, Swedish, wore blue all the time. Logan, Adrian’s room-mate, a taciturn Scot studying something alarmingly avant garde called Business Management.
‘It means he sits over breakfast frowning over books like I AM, I DO, I WIN and THE BUSINESS DYNAMIC OF THE STRAIGHT CUCUMBER THEORY. I kid you not. And you never saw anyone less dynamic than Logan.’
About his lectures Adrian said little, though as far as Laura could judge, much of the students’ expensive time was devoted to winging paper darts at one another.
And what about me, Laura wailed. This was supposed to be a love letter. Apart from ‘Missing you like mad, must dash, love Adrian,’ she didn’t feature at all.
Laura wrote by return. She did two drafts. It was vital to get this right, to kick-start the heart he’d obviously forgotten he had.
‘Darling Adrian,
I’m so glad you’ve settled in well and are making friends. It was wonderful meeting you and I so enjoyed our time together. Sitting with you on the terrace, sharing our secrets, I felt as if I’d known you forever. And when you kissed me goodnight (oh alright, she’d kissed him but Laura let it stand) I never wanted to let you go, never wanted the night to end.
I am kissing you now. Can you guess where I want to kiss you? Think of me kissing you.’
She signed it, ‘Sincerely, your Laura.’
But his next letters were even worse than the first. Rambling accounts of how he and Sven had got ‘rat-arsed’ in drinking holes all over the city. For an aspiring novelist, Laura thought, the letters were pathetic.
And her letter had had no effect whatsoever. Had she overdone it? Driven him away?
There was only one thing to do. She must go after him. She must follow her man.
Laura caught the airport bus from Renfrew, which dropped her centrally in George Square, where she picked up a taxi. She gave the driver an address on the West
Side, not far from Adrian’s Hall. The South Side and the West Side, he had told her, were the places to live.
‘There’s more to Glasgow than the Gorbals, and people getting bottled in Sauchiehall Street. There’s a big snobbish element too, often worse than Edinburgh.’
The West Side, Laura learned on her drive, was dominated by vast Victorian houses and mansions. Arundell House, where the driver dropped Laura and her luggage, was a five-storey building with worn stone steps, weathered paint on its columns and, discreetly, a brass sign announcing what the advert in the Glasgow Herald had told Laura: A Residence for the Daughters of Gentlefolk.
It was a hostel.
She pressed the polished doorbell and after some time the door was opened by a middle-aged woman of impressive bulk, dressed in upholstered black. Laura introduced herself, and was admitted.
‘I am Miss Speddie,’ the woman announced. ‘I am charged with the smooth running of Arundell House. Now if you will wait here, Miss James, I shall fetch your room key.’
She ascended a wide staircase, carpeted in scarlet and forest green. The hall was enormous, dominated by a heavy mahogany sideboard where today’s second post had already been laid out for the girls. Laura was intrigued to see a phone box, directly opposite an oak door marked Drawing Room.
Abruptly, the phone began to ring. After three trills, the Drawing Room door was wrenched open and an elfin girl with short, blonde, curly hair raced to answer it. A moment later she positioned herself at the bottom of the stairs and yelled, ‘Fee-oh-nah! Pho-own! Fee-oh-nah!’
A voice came rasping down. ‘Who is it?’
‘How do I know? A man.’
‘Oh good. Did he sound rich?’
The owner of the grating voice was coming into view. She was also the owner of the tattiest candlewick dressing gown Laura had ever seen.
Fiona disappeared into the phone box and the blonde girl, after another struggle with the door, returned to the Drawing Room. Seconds later, Arundell House was suffused with the lilting melody of ‘La Mer’ being played, very well, on the piano. Laura was tempted to start humming along, but Fiona had shot out of the phone box, thrust herself into the Drawing Room and was shouting,
‘For God’s sake, Lol! That was my boss on the phone. How was I supposed to hear him when you’re making all that racket?’
Miss Speddie returned. ‘Will you follow me, Miss James.’
Climbing the stairs, neither Miss Speddie nor Fiona offered to help with Laura’s suitcase, the tin of Dundee cake or the carrier bag of last-minute bits and pieces. Laura counted ninety stairs. Thank heavens for all that tennis, all that energetic country dancing.
On a wide landing, Miss Speddie unlocked a door. ‘I have put you in Room Nine, along with Miss King, who is also English.’ She swept into the room.
Laura clambered along behind, with her luggage. The room was just big enough for two single beds, two chests of deal drawers, and a wash-hand basin.
Miss Speddie drew aside a flowered curtain, revealing an alcove. ‘This is for your clothes. Your bed is the one by the door. Will you be going out tonight?’
‘Yes, Miss Speddie. There’s a dance at Livingstone Hall.’
The fifty-year old face looked pained. ‘I see. Students. Well kindly remember while you are there, Miss James, that Arundell House girls are expected to behave with decorum. And when you come in, be sure not to disturb Miss King. She will have been working. She will need her rest.’ She tapped a written notice on the door. ‘These are the House Rules. Have the courtesy to read and digest. If there is anything you do not understand, come and ask. My office is on the first floor.’
‘Yes, Miss Speddie. Thank you, Miss Speddie.’
Left alone, Laura took it all in. A huge, almost floor-length window limply hung with unlined sage-green curtains. A speckled, serviceable carpet. A gas fire with a meter. The room was freezing, but Laura had never encountered a gas meter before and had no idea what coins to feed it with.
She thought of her bedroom at home, recently redecorated in pretty shades of blue. Her frilled dressing table with the triple mirror. Her study area with its table and the white-painted bookcase her father gave her when she passed to grammar school. And the cosy gas fire, leaping into life at the turn of a knob. Her ginger cat used to come and sit by it while she did her homework.
It was all too much. She sank down on the bed, and wept.
The scenes at Roadnights, when she announced her plans, had been horrific.
‘I just don’t understand,’ Laura overheard her confused mother say, when finally she was allowed to leave the sitting room. ‘She has a lovely home. I’ve just had her bedroom done up.’
‘I’ve had a word with Richard,’ Mr James said. ‘He gave me a bit of a steer. He said all Laura’s friends went off to gritty universities. Places like Leeds. Laura’s grown out of Surrey. She needs a change of scene.’
‘But Glasgow! It sounds, well, rough.’
‘I think a lot of it is really rough. It’s all very disappointing, I know. But we can’t stop her. She’s over twenty-one.’
‘Well I just hope that nice boy looks after her properly.’
Upstairs, Laura had flung herself on the refuge of her bed. Disappointing, her father had said. It didn’t take much to disappoint Mr James. The weather, the government, the neighbours, Saturday night TV, most sport, the pilgrimage to Aunty Hilda’s farm…and now, his daughter.
His daughter, who had passed exams and played tennis for the county. All right, there’d been one or two dodgy boyfriends and missed curfews, resulting in Laura being greeted by Mr James in pyjamas and dressing gown demanding, ‘What sort of time do you call this?’ She was now, officially, a disappointment. Richard had been consulted.
Richard hadn’t been entirely wrong, Laura reflected. She was sick of Surrey. She felt stifled. She had to get out. She needed a change.
In Arundell House Laura dried her eyes and crossed to the door. She supposed she’d better read The Rules.
No Men may be admitted beyond the Front Hall. The Drawing Room and of course the bedrooms are out of bounds to Men.
No smoking anywhere in the House.
No alcohol anywhere in the House.
Lights out at 11pm except Fri/Sat when an extension is permitted.
Baths. One a week. (written in) Room 9 may use the bathroom on Saturdays.
There is a scullery in the basement. Washboards are provided but you must buy your own soap.
Rent to be paid prompt to Miss Speddie before supper on Fridays. £6 for single rooms, £4 for double rooms and £3 for the Dorm, to include breakfast and supper. Upon payment, fresh sheets will be issued. You will make up your own beds and provide your own towels.
Breakfast is from 7.30 – 8.30. Supper 7 – 8. Sunday lunch at 1pm sharp.
You will be expected to be out at business on weekdays between 9 – 5. If you are unwell, please report to Miss Speddie.
Saturday, apparently, was bathroom day for Room Nine, so Laura decided to take advantage of it. Most of the bathroom was taken up by a massive roll-topped bath, cast iron and in need of re-enamelling. The floor was lino. Predictably, the room felt like an icebox.
Shivering in her towel, Laura felt overwhelmed with despair. How was she going to stand it?
She had to stand it. She couldn’t admit defeat to her family. And she had to be with Adrian. He would make everything all right.
As she was leaving the bathroom, a tiny woman with a sweetly dessicated face hurried up to her ‘I am Miss May. I am the cook. You are new. Did Miss Speddie tell you that you can always make tea downstairs?’
‘No, Miss May.’
‘There is a Butler’s Pantry just along the corridor from the phone box. You’ll have it to yourself just now. Most of the girls are along at the theatre. Some free show. Oh, there’s coffee as well down there but it’s not very nice. Chicory.’
As she scuttled away and disappeared into Room Ten, Laura was conscious of a faint, famil
iar scent drifting after the little cook. She identified it at once. It was Coty face powder, just like her mother used, seated at her dressing table with a big pink puff.
At seven o’clock Laura was walking the short distance to Livingstone Hall. Under her new emerald green coat she was wearing the same white dress that Adrian would remember, with an angora bolero.
Livingstone Hall was twice the size of Arundell. A truly imposing Victorian mansion. The mahogany front door was ajar and she followed the sound of music and laughter, dumping her coat in the heap in the hall.
She walked into a Common Room big enough to hold a dance in, which was what was happening tonight. She glanced around. Couldn’t see him.
But of course, he didn’t know. Because she hadn’t told him she was coming.
He might have tried to put her off. Hell, he might have bolted to a rival university.
‘You look a bit lost.’
The speaker was a strapping blond guy in a blue sweater. Laura guessed he was Sven.
‘I was looking for Adrian Fry. He’s not expecting me. I thought I’d give him a surprise.’
Sven appeared alarmed and turned to a sensitive-looking young man who was sorting out some records. ‘Kel, Adrian is – er – where is Adrian, Kel?’
‘Down the pub in the Byres Road. Where else would he be?’
‘Oh sure! I’ll go and get him.’ Sven rushed off.
Kel had a pleasant smile, she thought, as he said, ‘You must be Laura. Adrian’s told us about you.’
Well that’s something, Laura thought. I haven’t been completely sidelined then. She was feeling increasingly nervous. He would be glad to see her, wouldn’t he?
As if sensing her anxiety, Kel said, ‘Let me give you a tour.’
He guided her to a dining room decorated in smog yellow, already laid for breakfast. Then he led the way up a sweeping staircase and showed her the library, stuffed with paperbacks and magazines.
‘No technical tomes. Not practical as we’re all doing different subjects.’
Strangers in a Garden Page 2
