Waldo turned to John. ‘How about I kiss you now, John? You must be feeling so left out.’
Judy thanked God for Waldo’s wonderfully carefree manner.
‘No, I think I’ll pass, if you don’t mind, Waldo.’ John laughed. ‘There are many things that I will do to raise money for the Yacht Club, but kissing you is definitely not one of them.’
They all laughed, and Judy tried to make sure that she didn’t laugh more than anyone else, that she didn’t sound hysterical, that her eyes didn’t hold his too long. And it was all fine, and she was fine, until John and Mattie moved off, and Waldo offered her a cigarette and Judy took one, and her hand was shaking.
‘Waldo! Over here, please. Time for the speeches.’
Judy watched Waldo walking off, feeling immense relief that he had sounded so confident, that no one would know about them, and turned immediately to a couple of friends from her sailing days.
‘Wonderful to see the whole village united, isn’t it?’ she asked mechanically.
‘Yes, it is,’ they agreed enthusiastically. ‘We were saying it’s just like the war. All for one, and one for all. Best time of our lives, Graham and I always say, the war, strange but true.’
Judy hardly heard, which wasn’t surprising. All she knew now was that Waldo must feel just as she did, because as he was lighting her cigarette she couldn’t help noticing that his hand was shaking quite as much as hers.
After that she could hardly bear her life. It’s only natural that when something overwhelmingly exciting happens to you nothing else seems to matter, and things weren’t helped by Walter’s being called away on yet another case, telephoning her that he would not be able to get down to Bexham for some days.
‘Pains in your chest are not good,’ Dr Farthinghoe told him, when Walter struggled to his London surgery, despite the pain in his head which had seemed unwilling to leave him for the previous God only knew how many days. ‘I will send you on to a specialist. These we must not ignore.’
‘Not a word to my wife, will you, Dr Farthinghoe? I don’t want her worried. She’s had quite enough to take from me already.’
‘Understood.’
The doctor turned away, sighing inwardly. It was always the same with decent people, they always wanted to keep worry away from their loved ones, but the truth was they could only delay it, they couldn’t actually prevent them from knowing, not in the end, not finally.
‘Other people’s love affairs are always ludicrous,’ Lady Melton announced, as she lowered the newspaper and stared at Judy over the top of it. ‘I was telling Ellen only the other morning, it seems so sad, to me at any rate, that people nowadays are so eager to tell all, not reticent at all. They publish their diaries and their love letters, and while I’m quite sure that they’re utterly sincere, I’m also only too sure that by doing so they’re making complete asses of themselves. “I love you, my little gooseberry” written by a former prime minister to his mistress – and I know it’s not fair or logical – but it makes him seem just as silly as his little gooseberry. What we feel when we’re in love is overwhelming, I’m sure, but it has to be concealed from the outer world. Not to conceal it leads to ridicule, I’m afraid.’
Lady Melton stirred her coffee vigorously. Judy meanwhile lowered her eyes to her mother’s newspaper before raising her own cup of coffee to her lips.
‘Gracious, here’s Mathilda, trotting up the garden path, looking for all the world like Little Grey Rabbit with her basket of goodies.’
They were all meeting to make yet more plans to save Bexham from The Beast. Judy waved to Mattie as she started to pull on the brass bell pull to the side of the door. Mattie, fresh-faced and looking unfairly young for her age, waved back, and kissed her fingertips to Judy. Lady Melton had learned to love Mattie, despite her having had what her lady-ship always called ‘an unfortunate little baby’, but now the little baby was an adult she seemed to have forgotten all about Mattie’s little mistake.
Next came Rusty. Lady Melton and she were old friends, not just because of the war, but because Rusty had come to her for what they both jokingly called ‘speaking proper lessons’ when Peter had moved her to Churchester. Nowadays Rusty looked happy and relaxed. Judy couldn’t prevent herself from envying her. Rusty had taken a gamble with her boutiques, and as a consequence was now busy and fulfilled. By comparison what had Judy ever done?
As they all sat down to make new plans to help the village fund, Judy suddenly became aware that she was the odd one out, the only person in the room who seemed, in her own eyes, to have achieved little or nothing, except perhaps to help Kim, who it seemed had now become involved in some sort of animal sanctuary.
‘Kim finding herself again, I suppose?’ Walter would ask every now and then, lightly sarcastic.
Judy would turn away, knowing that Walter was missing his only daughter, and knowing that it was all Judy’s fault that he was, but insisting that Kim must be allowed to do as she wished, make her own life. People should be allowed to follow their bliss. Otherwise what was life about, for heaven’s sake?
She was so caught up in her own thoughts it was some time before she became aware that everyone was waiting for her to say something.
‘What do you think, Judy?’
‘Oh, I think, definitely.’
‘Good, well then, we’re all agreed. We’ll give a charity luncheon on the day of the Regatta, take over the Three Tuns for a luncheon buffet and drinks. Richards will be all for it, I know.’
Inwardly Judy sighed. They would do this, and they would do that, but at the end of the famous day what was she going to do?
Finally after some days it came to her. She would do something quite simple. She would go away, all by herself, and she would think. Away from all domestic ties, away from everything that reminded her of little grey areas of failure, and large black ones of even greater failure. Away somewhere quiet, where no one knew her, or cared about her in the least, in some place where she could, as she had been in London, be just anyone. There, in an oasis of anonymity, she might have a chance of finding her centre again.
As soon as everything was arranged Judy put all thoughts of home away from her, wishing only to recapture that intoxicating ozone of freedom she had enjoyed when she was with Waldo in London. But that was back there, and back there didn’t matter, couldn’t matter, at least not for the moment. Now, as she drove away from Bexham towards a small family hotel in the Cotswolds, it seemed to her as if she was young again, as she had been in London those last few months before the war. It seemed too that she was enjoying that particular state of mind which sees everything in a different way.
As she saw it, the pub where she stopped for lunch was filled not with red-faced farmers but with smiling locals, the sandwiches she ate were not just ham sandwiches, they were the best ham sandwiches she had ever eaten, the gin and tonic she drank was the most thirst-quenching. The view of the countryside from the bar window was the best view from any window. It was ridiculous. She was alone, quite alone, and yet she was happier than she had been for months. How could that be? More than anything she exulted in that feeling of freedom. Everything anyone had ever told her now appeared to her as having been wrong. You could run away from everything, you could throw your hat over the windmill, if only for a few days; you could leave behind the cares of a few hours before.
The small family hotel was run by a man of ancient lineage who came out to greet her personally, dogs around his feet, eyes calm. Everything about Robert de Gray spelt reassurance from his thatch of thick white hair to his old, much-mended cricketing shirt. The house, or hotel as it now was, was old, graceful, three-floored, Queen Anne, and covered with a patina that only comes with time. Judy was grateful for its air of inconsequential charm, its rows of tennis rackets clustered in the hall, its numbers of family portraits, some of which hung crooked around the stairs and halls. She didn’t want to stand out in some homely way among sophistication that would be too smart for her, among riches
that would laugh at her really rather worn clothes. Instead, as the staff took her luggage and showed her to her suite, she felt instantly at ease.
While she was taking in the rose-strewn chintzes in her bedroom, the large chintz-hung fourposter, appreciating everything about what seemed to be a perfect bedroom, what with the bowls of roses and the old leather-bound books, there was a knock on the door, and Robert de Gray stood in the entrance wondering if everything was to her liking?
‘It’s a beautiful room.’
‘It was my mother’s. Anyone coming here on their own, I try to arrange for them to stay in this one. It has such a lovely atmosphere, I always think.’
He smiled at her, all calm kindness, a little like a doctor, as if he knew that she had much to work out, and was not in need of too many words. After which he left her.
Judy laid out her clothes, ran a bath, and undressed. She stood in front of her mirror and studied herself. She was still slim, she was still quite pretty, even in her own eyes. What she was not was young again.
‘You are not Cleopatra,’ she told herself, and, turning away from her image, went to put the radio on.
The dress she had chosen to wear for dinner was new, navy blue silk, three-quarter length, with a boat-shaped neck and short sleeves. She fastened a string of pearls round her neck, for some reason remembering, as she did so, that Meggie had used to say that as soon as you wore a new dress the waiters always felt compelled to spill cream down your back. She smiled. Meggie was always so funny.
As she walked down the stairs she couldn’t help imagining what it might be like if there was someone waiting for her at the bottom.
‘You look stunning,’ she hoped he might say.
He might take a step back as she reached the bottom step, admiring her, holding her hand lightly as if they might be about to dance. And Judy would float towards the drawing room and the drinks, towards the whole evening, as if it was her birthday, or as if she had never felt quite so pretty before, and might never again. She still bought so few clothes, the fact that her dress was new was exotic enough. It all came from the war. She, and Rusty this time, had laughed so much about that.
‘Times they are-a-changing, Judy. Nowadays clothes are for wearing, and then chucking away. Thank God! I mean thank God if you’re in the rag trade like me, that is.’
But a new dress was still so novel to Judy that once she arrived home she’d spent the whole evening taking the dress out of her cupboard and putting it back again. Now she was actually wearing it, not just holding it up to the light, but she knew, far from ever chucking it away, she would always treasure it. She knew that from the way she was trying to imagine him looking at her, as if she’d never looked quite so pretty before, as if perhaps he hadn’t quite appreciated her before, which of course he might have done, but only as a friend. Now, though, he wouldn’t have to pretend to be an old friend. Now he could be her lover, and she his.
Dinner was by candlelight, naturally, little tables set about what had once been the library, discreet couples dining. Every now and then Judy’s eyes slid round the rest of the room, wondering if they were all about to embark on an affair, or whether they were safely married to the people they were with, and if they were, if they still felt the same about the people they were meant to love?
A part of her really rather wanted them all to be having affairs, a quite large part of her wanted them to be about to tear up their pasts, and yet another part of her hoped that they were all safely in harbour. She inched her slender hand across the table until she imagined it resting against his hand, and then she left it there. It would be so comforting, so real, to feel the side of his hand resting against hers. Perhaps he might now be telling her all about his life in America, or about his war, about all those things that she’d never had time to ask him?
‘Liqueur and coffee in the drawing room?’
She followed the waiter through, choosing to sit in a dark corner away from the main part of the room, hoping to be left alone.
‘Come over here, my dear. You play the piano, don’t you?’
Robert de Gray was already seated at an old Steinway grand, beckoning to her, inviting her over, as he started to play a medley of old tunes.
‘You do play? You look as if you play,’ he told her over the sound of the music.
‘Only a little.’
‘Like me to play anything special for you?’
It would have taken a less kind personality than Judy possessed to refuse.
‘I . . .’ Of a sudden she couldn’t think of a thing. ‘How about . . .’ Her mind blanked.
‘How about “The Nearness of You”?’
‘Of course, of course, that would be lovely.’
‘You sing, don’t you?’
Judy shook her head. No, she didn’t sing, at least not in public.
‘I’ll turn for you, but I won’t sing,’ she murmured, smiling.
She stood by the piano as Robert de Gray played a host of favourite numbers, and one or two of the guests started to drift over, determined on joining in, and then, inevitably, demands started to be made, and requests had to be met, and one or two of the guests turned out to have awfully jolly voices, the sort that make up very good church choirs everywhere. And so all the guests started to give their all, and drinks having been ordered, and consumed, the evening crept towards midnight, and after midnight and on; until had it been summer it would have still been light enough for them all to go for a swim, but since it wasn’t, and they were all reluctant to give in to the early hours, the party around the piano remained around it, with Robert finally sitting happily in front of a closed piano lid, his private concert at an end, happy to be talking and laughing with all his guests.
‘I think it’s such fun, don’t you?’ The young woman next to Judy smiled enchantingly at her. ‘Robert’s so clever, never lets anyone in he doesn’t know, so it always sashays into a house party at this time of night, so un-hotel-like, don’t you think?’
She raised her chilled glass of wine to her flushed cheeks, pressing it against them.
They were all leaning, one way or another, against the piano, which had myriad silver-framed photographs scattered over it. In company with everyone else, Judy had long ago forgotten to mind about the time. The young woman next to her picked up one of the silver frames from the old mahogany lid.
‘Gracious, I know that face,’ she said, frowning. ‘And it’s not the wine speaking, no. Yes, I know that face.’ She turned the photograph towards Judy. ‘This is the face of the famous beauty of her day, Elinor Gore-Stewart.’
Judy stared at the photo, convinced that she was wrong. It wasn’t Elinor Gore-Stewart, it was Meggie Gore-Stewart. She took the old sepia-tinted photograph from the young woman, who had already moved on to others, picking them up and putting them down in swift sequence, murmuring to Judy as she did so.
‘Queen Mary. Of course she was Robert’s godmother, wasn’t she? Oh, and look, a house party before the war with Lady D. Cooper. Was there ever a house party without her, one wonders?’
Judy held the photograph closer. In the event it actually wasn’t Meggie, but it might as well have been. There was Meggie’s cool look, there was Meggie’s aloofness, and there the way that she stared out at the world, as if challenging it to be a great deal more entertaining than it wanted to be. No wonder Madame Gran had loved her granddaughter. Meggie had been Elinor Gore-Stewart born again, from the top of her blond head to the bottom of her elegant feet. Meggie – the love of Waldo’s life, the woman he still missed.
‘She was the grandmother of my best friend,’ she heard herself say to the young woman, who was already turning away, calling to her husband.
‘Vigo! Dear! It is way past our beddy byes. This stay was meant – I say was – meant to be a rest we were having!’
The gaiety of the party gradually fractured, as guest after guest finally filtered away, reluctant to leave, but too tired to stay, leaving only Robert, now playing once more, an
d Judy watching him.
‘One last one for the road?’ he suggested.
‘You choose.’
‘Only one song does for this time of night—’
Robert sorted through his music, and beckoned to Judy to sit down on the double piano stool beside him.
‘Come on now, both together.’
‘The party’s over,’ they sang. ‘It’s time to call it a day . . .’
Robert stared at the music, smiling occasionally.
‘You have a very sweet voice – shouldn’t be so shy.’ He stopped. ‘Now, once more with feeling.’
There was no need for him to call for it. He knew from the expression on Judy’s face that it was there anyway.
‘Such a beautifully sad song.’ He closed the piano lid, and stood up. ‘Goodnight, my dear.’
He turned to look back at Judy, who was still lingering by the piano.
‘And don’t worry, everything will work out. It always does.’
‘You know my mother’s asked us for drinks at lunchtime,’ Judy groaned from her bed.
‘Yes?’ Walter replied without much interest, once again, following the failure of yet another defence case, this time in London, having retreated back behind his psychological guard. ‘So?’
‘I have the most awful migraine, Walter. I’m sorry, but I don’t really think I can go.’
‘You’re getting a lot of these migraines lately,’ Walter observed, slipping a tie under his collar and beginning to knot it. ‘Don’t you think you ought to see someone?’
‘I’ve seen the doctor two or three times about them,’ Judy muttered, closing her eyes and pressing the icepack she had fetched herself even harder to her temples. ‘He’s given me some pills, but they don’t make a jot of difference.’
‘I’ll go and ring your mother,’ Walter volunteered, looking at the reflection of his wife lying supine on their bed through his dressing glass. ‘Give her our apologies.’
The Moon At Midnight Page 27
