I read and reread Constance’s letters until I knew them by heart. But afterwards I felt so unsettled and miserable that I accused myself of masochism. I found it difficult to reply because it was essential that she should think I was too busy enjoying myself to return to Ireland. Every word I wrote, therefore, was a lie. Occasionally I was tempted to unburden myself to Sarah for the pleasure of speaking about the one person who was always present in my mind though I tried so hard never to think of him. Later I was always thankful I had resisted the impulse to confide. What good could it possibly do? I must get myself over it as best I could.
At first I was reluctant to go out. The effort of putting on a good face and being an amusing companion seemed more than I was capable of. But as time passed, as we moved from a cool windy spring into a hot airless summer, I forced myself to behave with circumspection and at least to look as though I was cheerful. We gave dinner parties, went to other people’s, attended first nights, private views, drinks parties: the usual enjoyments of town life. My heart felt like a stone.
The months passed. I was given a salary increase and greater responsibility. Sometimes I went out with Sarah and the jolly bachelor barrister. I joined groups from work in restaurants and wine bars. Harriet Byng, who had been responsible for my going to Curraghcourt in the first place, telephoned to ask me to meet her new husband, who turned out to be artistic director of the English Opera House, and exceptionally handsome and clever. It became my chief pleasure to go with them to sit in soothing darkness in that lovely auditorium, to listen to sublime singing and watch the playing out of other people’s dramas and tragedies. I refused all invitations from men who I suspected might have ideas about extending the evening beyond talking and eating. There are not many men who are satisfied with conversation and the sight of one stuffing one’s face at their expense. For my twenty-eighth birthday ten of us went to see Così Fan Tutte and afterwards to Annabel’s. I danced with everyone and went home alone.
Gradually I became inured to unhappiness. There were days when I hardly noticed the pain in the region of my heart that was grief. I tried to put back the weight I had lost since leaving Ireland. I cut back on the drinking; I stopped taking headache pills. I began to sleep longer and deeper. Encouraged by Sarah I replanted the tiny garden of Paradise Row and redecorated the sitting room. This gave me real pleasure. But when I heard an Irish accent in the street I was immediately transported back to that other world and I could not read or listen to news about Dublin, Belfast, Stormont or the activities of the IRA without a wholly inappropriate feeling of nostalgia.
Constance, who had remained a loyal correspondent despite the fact that it took me weeks to reply with letters that were short and unsatisfactory, wrote to say that she and Eugene were getting married. Now, Bobbie, I know it’s a long way and you’re busy now with your job and your gay life in London but you must know that the day won’t be the same if you aren’t there to see me off. As for going away, we’re having one night at the Grand Hotel in Williamsbridge because we have to be back for the visitors but we won’t mind that. We’re so lucky to be together. But I must have you in the congregation. It’s a lot to ask, I know, but it means so MUCH to me. This was underlined several times. There was more about wedding arrangements. Eugene’s watercolours, displayed in the tea-room, merited an entire page to themselves. An American had bought the lot and ordered another set of Irish beauty spots.
The Galway Poets had moved their headquarters to Curraghcourt and last week they had had an inspiring reading from a visiting Russian. No one had understood a word but they were all used to extracting meaning from the sounds and rhythms of Gaelic so this hadn’t really mattered. A local newspaper had referred to Curraghcourt as a new centre of Irish culture, reminiscent of the great days of Coole Park and Renvyle.
Maud had reduced to trembling wrecks a couple she had found sitting on her bed, eating biscuits out of the tin. Liddy was working hard for her exams and driving everyone quite mad by lecturing them continually about the wrongs of Ireland. Flurry’s railway was progressing well. It would be ready to take passengers by the start of next season. Flavia had begun to read David Copperfield and was crazy about it. She carried it with her everywhere and was planning to write a novel herself with Agnes Wickfield as the first person narrator.
Finn and Violet were going to stay for a week with old friends in Kildare.
Violet is so looking forward to it that she’s been as good as gold, practising her walking and talking all day long. You would not believe the improvement. Yesterday she managed ten steps with only one stick. It gives me real pleasure to see them together. He’s remarkably patient and good with her. Once or twice I’ve seen him angry because, you know, she’s not the brightest star in the sky, but he tries very hard to suppress sarcastic remarks. He must feel grateful for this second chance. As for her, I have no doubt that she will do everything she can to make him a good wife. She adores him and always has done. The past ought not to be remembered by anyone. They were equally to blame, you know, for I must say that Finn neglected her and she, poor thing … Well, as I say, they have forgiven each other and that’s all that matters. I’m secretly hoping they will have another baby. Wouldn’t that be just perfect? That’s if Violet’s strong enough. I suppose they will consult doctors in Dublin first. God is very bountiful and forgiving, one can only feel, though I must admit to doubts about the way we’ve interpreted His intentions. Father Deglan is bullying me about taking Communion before the wedding and I’ve an idea he’s twigged what my problem is. It will be a relief to be married and have a clear conscience. But I can’t be quite happy until I’ve had it in writing that you’re definitely coming. I’ve so much to tell you, dearest Bobbie.
I sent back an apologetic note, explaining that because of the pressure of work I could not spare the time to see her married. I knew my words lacked warmth though I tried to infuse them with enthusiasm for the ceremony to come. I sent a first edition of Samuel Ferguson’s poetry, which I could ill afford. After that Constance wrote less often and more briefly. I knew she was hurt and I was truly sorry for it. But I had come to dread the pain that her letters unwittingly inflicted. They disturbed the smooth surface of common sense and prudence I was spreading over my sensibilities, like dead leaves over freezing soil.
Jazzy and Kit’s wedding was a different matter altogether. To our relief Sarah and I were not asked to be bridesmaids. At the ages of twenty-nine and twenty-eight respectively we considered ourselves too old and Kit had more than enough female relations who were willing. The marriage took place in Norfolk as Jazzy’s parents were between wives and husbands and never in one place for more than a few months at a time.
Random Hall was a magnificent pile of Tudor red brick surrounded by acres of parkland. Kit’s father, Lord Random, was a tired old roué who was now reaping what he had had such a good time sowing. He was appallingly rude to the woman who was apparently his mistress, who in her turn behaved with offensive arrogance to any woman under fifty, in case they tried to steal her winnings. Lady Random did not trouble to hide her conviction that her son’s marriage was a mistake. She spoke of Jasmine as “the bride”, never looking at her without an intake of breath and a lifting of eyebrows. Nevertheless Lady Random intended to make the most of this opportunity to put on an impressive show. Elaborate marquees stretched over baronial lawns, everything was served on ice, including the wedding cake: a confection of pistachio and persimmon, which had been flown over from Maxim’s. The flowers were green euphorbias and dark red roses that dripped like blood from every swag and pole and across every table.
Jazzy became tearful beforehand but not as tearful as her mother, an English rose whose petals had crumpled and who had stopped on her way to Norfolk for a fortifying drink or two. She must have had a flask in her bag for after the service she had to be supported down the aisle by Kit’s father and one of the ushers. Jazzy’s Chinese father seemed determined to pander to the reputation of his race for inscrutab
ility. He was immaculately kitted out in morning coat and accessories and retained his top hat squarely on his head for the entire day. He sat alone, refusing to eat or drink or talk to anyone. He disappeared after the speeches and was discovered hours later meditating cross-legged in a grove in the baronial woods, naked to the waist, still wearing the top hat.
Jazzy looked extraordinarily beautiful and Kit delivered the responses in ringing tones, but I was disturbed by the way he looked at the chief bridesmaid, a buxom girl of eighteen. By the end of the day Lady Random was only slightly less drunk than Jazzy’s mother. She seemed to gravitate towards Sarah and me, perhaps because we were the only sober guests. We had tried to become intoxicated (weddings are only supportable when braced by a large intake of alcohol) but our spirits were low and we were victims of that hideous clarity of vision which is the result of the combination.
‘The worst thing is,’ protested Lady Random, ‘the girl is a slut. You can see it in those slitty eyes. My grandchildren will all be baskets. Any passing fishmonger or knife-grinder that fakes her tancy. I’ve always hated the Japs. Ever since the last war.’
Sarah and I, who were standing on either side of her, held grimly to an arm each as Lady Random tried to sink into a gilt chair that someone had removed five minutes ago. In vain we assured her that Jazzy’s father was Chinese and probably hated the Japanese even more than she did.
‘Why couldn’t my darling boy have fallen for one of you?’ whimpered Lady Random. ‘Anything would have been better than that half-caste. Life is too cruel. I’m going to die lown upstairs. I may be tome sime.’
There is no saying what Lady Random’s feelings might have been had I been her daughter-in-law. I suspected that any woman, even a princess of the blood royal, would have been resented.
Not long after this nadir Sarah’s and my fortunes revived. Sarah became engaged to her jolly bachelor and he moved into Paradise Row. I was head-hunted for a job at twice my current salary as assistant to a rich art dealer. I accepted his offer because I was aware that two bright, competent people were before me in the queue for career advancement at the museum and because I longed for change of any kind. The rich art dealer travelled the world in search of ever rarer and more beautiful paintings and antiques and he needed someone reasonably knowledgeable to keep his business running in England. The job was fascinating, never the same two days running, always challenging, sometimes rule-breaking.
The best thing about the new job was that I was now paid enough to begin a collection of my own. The house at Paradise Row began to fill with my purchases. I decided to specialize in Irish silver and Irish Chippendale. I justified this to myself on the grounds that these were still undervalued and would therefore be a good investment.
Time passed. I spent Christmas at Cutham. Ruby was thrilled to see me. She was knitting matinee coats by the dozen as Oliver was about to become a father. He complained to me several times sotto voce that Sherilee seemed to have gone off sex. She wore black leather dungarees over her distended stomach, ate pickled walnuts compulsively and called me ‘Auntie Bobs’.
As spring came round once more I felt a resurgence of that egoism which is the kernel of survival. I enjoyed my job. The rich art dealer, whose name was Myles Boughton, was attractive, intelligent and appreciative of my efforts. He had an excellent sense of humour and an Irish grandmother. And a wife. He asked me to have dinner with him. I refused. When he asked me to go over the accounts with him after hours, this also I refused. I would not even share sandwiches and tomato juice with him at lunchtime when the office was empty. After a while I found it necessary to explain that I had made it a rule never to go out with married men, even in circumstances when I could be perfectly sure that nothing more than the purest friendship was offered. He confessed, then, that he remembered reading about Burgo and me a couple of years before. He said now he knew me it had made him thoroughly glad to be a champagne Socialist.
Despite my determination to keep a distance between us he continued to be a generous employer and found several pieces of silver and furniture for my collection at giveaway prices. When I became suspicious that he was subsidizing these bargains, he laughed and told me not to be an idiot. After he discovered that Sarah and I also had champagne tastes but insufficient incomes to indulge them he sent round cases at regular intervals. He claimed that they were presents from grateful clients and as he only drank Louis Roederer Cristal himself he would be grateful if we would take them off his hands.
I had learned my lesson. I felt proud of my own sagacity. Sarah thought I was taking things too far. She liked Lord Bountiful – as she always called him, even to his face. Luckily he was tolerant and was amused by her. Sarah said (not to his face) that anyway his marriage was on the rocks. This was probably true, I had to agree. I had met Mrs Boughton once. She was suffering from religious mania, had joined a cult and was attempting to give it pots of Lord Bountiful’s money. Sarah told me at least once a day, in unsparing terms, that I was a fool to turn my back on this chance for happiness.
‘You’ve been bloody miserable for so long, Bobbie,’ she said to me one evening. ‘Now you’ve got to seize this gift from the gods.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I was – justifiably I thought, after all my efforts – annoyed. In my own opinion I had come close to rivalling the Spartan boy, famous for concealing a fox within his shirt and not letting on, though it was gnawing at his entrails. Quite why he had done such a thing I could not remember.
‘All right, you’ve gone through the motions,’ said Sarah, ‘but anyone with half a brain can see your heart isn’t in it.’
‘Isn’t in what?’ I asked, perhaps waspishly.
‘In this life you’ve constructed so carefully. Being a single woman, independent, successful, hard-working, self-sufficient. Like an iceberg that’s put out into the chilliest part of the Arctic Ocean.’
‘I enjoy my work. My brain is pulsating with newly acquired wisdom. I have a circle of friends. Engagements almost every night of the week. I bind up the paws of any limping creature I meet. This house is filling up with beautiful things. Why does everyone think happiness always has to involve love and sex?’
‘Because, my dear sweet simple girl,’ said Sarah with great emphasis, ‘it just bloody does. That’s all I can say. You need a companion. Someone whose happiness is more important to you than your own. Well, of course, that’s utterly unrealistic, but at least someone whose happiness matters nearly as much. You can’t live alone and be happy. You ought to be able to, I freely admit, but you just bloody well can’t.’
I acknowledged Sarah’s common sense. Lord Bountiful – Myles – became pressing. I withstood the pressure, which made him more eager.
‘What more do you want?’ cried Sarah in exasperation. ‘You’re nearly twenty-nine. You’re no longer a timid ingénue. He’s good-looking, intelligent, well educated, kind to animals and likes gardening. For heaven’s sake, let whatever happened in Ireland go the way of all flesh!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All right. You want it in plain language. Jazzy says there must have been something between you and the master of Curry-what’sit. That place you lived in. It’s the only thing we can think of that’s made you into a wraith imprisoned behind a glass wall, condemned to watch life pass you by. We haven’t dared say anything because you’ve been so strung up we were terrified of precipitating something worse. I’ve deliberately let the knives go blunt and stopped buying paracetamol just in case.’
I laughed. ‘Honestly, Sarah! You and Jazz are hopeless romantics! Your fevered imaginations are running away with you. You’re both in the toils of love and naturally you think everyone else should be, too. I just happen to like running my own life in my own way. I like Myles very much but …’
‘But what?’
‘I burned my fingers badly and naturally I’m reluctant to put my hand back into the flame.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! You’re not s
till thinking of that bloody old minister! He’s probably got a paunch and bouncing twins by now.’
‘I’m not still thinking of him.’
‘Well, then! Are you going to make yourself a martyr to men’s failings or are you going to seize life by the scruff of the neck like an intelligent woman and make of it what you want? You’ve got to think what your future’s going to be. Do you want to be a lonely, embittered spinster or a paid-up member of the human race?’
I sighed. ‘Put like that, there’s only one answer.’
I began to go out with Lord Bountiful – Myles. We attended operas, plays and concerts. We went for walks, exchanged books, talked about beautiful things. We enjoyed each other’s company, laughed a lot. A few weeks after our first dinner he separated from his wife. I hoped it was nothing to do with me. Myles and I were happy together. I had to admit that his companionship added something to my life that had been sorely missed. I felt much more cheerful. Until it was time to say goodnight when I refused to let him into my bed and he departed, disgruntled.
‘For crying out loud!’ yelled Sarah. ‘What more will you demand of the poor man? He must have the patience of a saint! If I’d treated Bryn’ – this was the jolly Welsh bachelor barrister – ‘like that for a week he’d have been off. This poor man’s been held at arm’s length for months. Have a heart, Bobbie! Think of the future.’
Moonshine Page 79
