‘Oh, Locustville is only temporary,’ Barbara said.
‘But you love the house, don’t you, Barb?’
‘It’s all right, I suppose. But some day we want a bigger house—and not ranch-style like this but colonial, with fireplaces, with a big dining room, and a big, sweeping staircase.’
‘I know just what you mean,’ Nancy said. ‘You mean a place like your father’s farm, don’t you?’
‘Well, not quite as big as that,’ Barbara said.
Nancy turned to Carson. ‘Don’t you adore that place?’ she asked. ‘The Woodcocks’ farm? I remember, before I ever went there, Barbara used to talk about the farm and I thought—oh, you know, barns and cows and chickens and things. I never dreamed what it would be like. Such a beautiful old house and those beautiful gardens, and Mrs. Woodcock’s beautiful things—such perfect taste. And the pool, and the lake, and the little guesthouse, and the boats on the lake—’
‘Daddy sold the boats,’ Barbara said.
‘Did he? Why?’
‘No one used them any more.’
‘But the little guesthouse is still there, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Oh, that place! So isolated, miles from anything. Even I could be happy on that farm!’
Barbara looked at Carson. It was hard now, in the dark, to see the expression on his face. ‘I think you’d have a little trouble getting Carson to move back to the farm,’ she said.
‘I like the farm,’ Carson said.
‘Your sister and her husband are living there, aren’t they?’ Nancy asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, goodness knows, the place is big enough for all of you—if you wanted to.’
‘If I wanted to work the the Woodcock Paper Company, you mean,’ Carson said.
‘Which you probably don’t want to do,’ Nancy said.
‘Not particularly,’ Carson said.
‘Though your sister’s husband does, doesn’t he, Barb? Doesn’t Peggy’s husband work for the paper company?’
‘Yes,’ Barbara said.
‘Well,’ Nancy said, ‘chacun à son gout!’
There was another short silence. Then Nancy spoke again. ‘Speaking of the farm and the Woodcocks,’ she said, ‘there ought to be some Woodcock male that would be good for me. Don’t you have any unmarried cousins or nephews or something, Barb? So that I could live at the farm?’
Barbara laughed. ‘Well, let’s see,’ she said. ‘There’s my cousin Jeff. He might be a little young for you, though. He’s twenty-two. He just graduated from Yale, and I think he’s practically engaged already. Then there’s Woody, of course—’
‘Perfect!’ Nancy said. ‘Ideal! Oh, I’d adore to be Mrs. Woody deWinter—so much better than Mrs. Sidney Klein! And Woody’s just about the handsomest thing I ever laid eyes on,’ she smiled at Carson, ‘present company excepted! Woody’s not engaged or anything, is he?’
‘No.’
Nancy leaned forward, holding her now empty cocktail glass, smiling. ‘You know, Barb, I’m only half-kidding about this. How can we arrange it—to get Woody for me. Why he’d be perfect. That’s what I need for a husband—somebody who’s exactly like Woody. Oh, I do think a girl ought to marry somebody who’s got some money, too, don’t you? And all the Woodcocks are rich as Croesus, aren’t they? What is Woody—your first or second cousin?’
‘Second,’ Barbara said. ‘His mother is Daddy’s first cousin.’
‘No, but seriously,’ Nancy said, ‘I mean it. Can you get me a date with Woody, Barb?’
Carson put down his glass on the table. ‘Is dinner nearly ready, Barb?’ he asked.
‘Yes—almost. I’ve just got to—’
‘Well, I’m going to be a piggy and have another one of these,’ Nancy said. ‘Is there a drop more in that extremely handsome pitcher?’ She held out her glass.
Carson filled her glass. ‘Taste it,’ he said without a hint of sarcasm. ‘And see if it’s strong enough for you. It may have got diluted—’
Nancy took a sip. ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘One hundred per cent. Are you afraid I’m having tee many Martoonies, Carson?’ She laughed gaily, swinging her glass so that some of the contents spilled and trickled down the stem, across her fingers. ‘Now I’d like a cigarette,’ she said, looking around for one.
Carson offered her a pack and she extracted a cigarette. She held it in her hand for a moment, contemplating it, her lips frozen in a smile. ‘No, but seriously,’ she said. ‘Woody would be perfect.’
Carson struck a match and held it out toward her. She placed the cigarette between her lips.
‘You’re going to light the wrong end,’ Carson said.
Quickly, and in some confusion, Nancy Rafferty reversed the cigarette, placing the filter end in her mouth. She reached out, clipping her hand around the lighted match that Carson offered, shielding the flame from the wind. Her hand began to tremble. ‘Thank you, Carson,’ she breathed, when she had the cigarette going. She sat back. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Perhaps I have had too many.’
‘I’ll put dinner on,’ Barbara said. She stood up and went into the kitchen.
They had dinner on the terrace.
Later, as they sipped their coffee, the night grew even cooler and Barbara and Nancy threw, sweaters over their shoulders; still, it was pleasanter on the terrace than in the house. The candle in the hurricane lamps on the table where they had eaten spluttered out and they went back to their original semi-circle of chairs with the full moon behind them, casting shadows in front of them, talking about Locustville. ‘Let’s keep our voices down,’ Barbara cautioned. ‘It’s amazing the way sounds travel across these back yards at night.’
‘But you can’t really mean that you hate Locustville,’ Nancy whispered.
‘Well, hate may be a little strong,’ Barbara said. ‘But really it’s such a stuffy town. And everybody’s terribly old. Do you know what I mean? I don’t mean that there are no young people—there are. But even the young people have this funny, old attitude. And it’s terrible to have to live in the same town with the main office of Carson’s company. That’s really the worst thing. We have to have all these company friends. And if we entertain one person from the Locustville Chemical Company, we always have to have about three others. It’s all organised.’
‘Well, it’s really not that bad,’ Carson said.
‘Oh, it is!’ Barbara insisted. ‘Now you’ve got two supervisors. We can’t invite one supervisor to dinner without inviting the other one, can we? That’s what I mean.’
‘Well, there’s a reason for all that,’ Carson said.
‘What reason?’ Barbara said. ‘I can’t see any reason for it except—oh, I know what you mean. The company comes first. First, last and always. You don’t think of yourself. You think of yourself in relation to the company.’ She smiled. ‘But it will be different as soon as we’re transferred.’
‘Where will you go?’ Nancy said.
‘Well, the company has seven sales offices,’ Barbara said. ‘New York, Boston, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee, San Francisco and Los Angeles.’
‘Which would you pick if you had your choice?’
‘New York, Boston, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee, San Francisco or Los Angeles,’ Barbara said. ‘Any place but Locustville. Isn’t that right, darling?’ she smiled at Carson.
Carson looked at her steadily. Then he said, ‘That’s right. Any place but Locustville, darling.’
‘Of course I meant—eventually,’ Barbara said quickly.
‘How simple!’ Nancy laughed. ‘How simple to have only seven cities to choose from! You don’t even have to consider Paris … London … Rome … Madrid … Istanbul! That’s why I envy you two. My problem is so much more complex.’ She laughed, her shoulders shaking; she put down her coffee cup noisily in the saucer, bent forward, still laughing, clutching her sides. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ she sobbed, ‘Oh isn’t it funny! Isn’t it!
‘Nancy, dear!’ Barbara said. ‘T
he neighbours.’
‘Oh, I can’t, I can’t!’ Nancy said. But, gradually, her laughter subsided. She sat forward in her chair, her hands over her eyes, rocking backward and forward. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I get—I guess I get sort of hysterical sometimes. I guess—oh, God!’ she said, removing her hands from her face. Her eyes shone with tears. ‘Carson, fix me a little drink, will you? Scotch?’
‘Nancy, do you really think you should?’ Barbara asked.
‘Please. I—I guess I’m tired. I’m sorry. What I need is a drink. May I?’
Carson stood up and went into the house.
Nancy suddenly reached for Barbara’s hand and gripped it tightly in her own. ‘I’m sorry, Barb,’ she said. ‘You understand, don’t you? Oh, Barb, you’re the only friend I’ve got in the world! The only one! Oh, Barbara! It’s just that all of a sudden I’m thirty! I’m thirty!’
‘So am I, Nancy,’ Barbara said softly.
‘It’s no fun, is it? It’s not a fun age, is it! It’s a terrible age to be, Barbara, isn’t it?’
‘I know, I know,’ Barbara said.
Carson returned with a drink in his hand.
‘Oh, Carson, thank you!’ Nancy cried. ‘You’re an absolute angel, Carson, you really are!’
A little later, Carson yawned. ‘I’ve really got to turn in,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to be up pretty early—I’m catching an eight o’clock plane.’
‘Oh, poor Carson,’ Nancy said, ‘I’m afraid I’ve intruded tonight. I told Barb I didn’t want to intrude. I knew it would be your last night home. Where is it you’re going?’
‘London first,’ Carson said. ‘Then a week in Paris, a week in Zurich, a week in Brussels, back to London and home again.’
‘Oh, how I envy you. Just going to any one of those places.’
‘Well, it’s pretty much all business. Calling on distributors. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.’
‘And Locustville salesmen do not take their wives on trips,’ Barbara said. ‘That’s one of the rules.’
Carson stood up. ‘So,’ he said a little lamely, ‘I’ve got to get to bed.’
‘Poor Carson!’ Nancy said again. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed. I’ve kept you up too late, haven’t I?’
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Not at all. It’s been wonderful seeing you, Nancy.’
‘Would you mind terribly, Carson, if I kept your wife up a wee bit longer?’ Nancy asked. ‘So we can have a bit more of a girly-girly visit? We see each other so seldomly any more. Seldomly? Is that a word?’ she laughed.
Carson looked briefly at Barbara.
‘I’ll be in in just a minute,’ Barbara said.
‘All right. Good night then,’ Carson said.
‘Good night, Carson!’ Nancy said. She raised her hand to her lips and blew him a kiss. ‘Good night!’
After Carson left, the two women sat alone on the terrace smoking cigarettes. Finally, Barbara said, ‘Do you think it’s getting a little chilly?’
‘It is, yes,’ Nancy said. ‘Why don’t we sit in the living room?’ She picked up her empty glass.
They went into the house, through the kitchen, through the dining alcove, into the living room that was quite large and had a tall glass window that faced east. Barbara turned on lights as she went.
Nancy went to the window and looked out. In the distance the lights of Locustville glittered. ‘What a fabulous room,’ Nancy said. ‘I absolutely adore this room.’
‘The view is prettier at night than it is in the daytime,’ Barbara said. ‘In fact, at night, I sometimes find myself liking Locustville. It seems so quiet and peaceful.’
Nancy turned to her. ‘Where does he keep his stuff?’ she asked.
‘What stuff?’
‘His liquor, naturally! Don’t you think we ought to have a little nightcap?’
Barbara frowned at her. ‘Haven’t you had enough already, dear?’ she asked.
‘Oh, Barbara!’ Nancy said. ‘What’s the matter with you? Why have you suddenly got so—so moralistic? I’ve only had one drink since dinner, for goodness’ sake!’
‘Give me your glass, I’ll fix it,’ Barbara said.
‘I’ll come with you. Where is it?’
‘In the kitchen.’
Nancy followed Barbara into the kitchen. The whisky was in the cupboard beneath the sink; Barbara removed the Scotch bottle and went to the refrigerator for ice cubes.
‘Aren’t you going to have one?’ Nancy asked.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Barbara said.
‘Well, you’ve certainly got very—very Locustville-ish. So proper!’
‘All right, I’ll have one,’ Barbara said.
‘Are you afraid I’m becoming an alcoholic?’ Nancy asked. She had taken over the drink-mixing and was pouring a generous amount of Scotch over the ice cubes in her glass and Barbara’s. ‘Well, don’t be, honestly. Weeks, months go by without me having a single drink. It’s just—’ She handed one glass to Barbara with a little nervous laugh. ‘—It’s just that I guess I’m a little upset tonight. Telling you what I told you this afternoon—that upset me,’ she said.
‘I understand,’ Barbara said.
They walked back into the living room.
‘I’m sorry I got so—sort of hysterical a while ago,’ Nancy said. ‘But that was part of it, too. Barbara,’ she said, ‘do you think I ought to see someone? An analyst or something?’
‘I don’t know,’ Barbara said quietly. ‘Why?’
‘I get so—so darned depressed sometimes!’ She laughed. ‘But not now. Not tonight. I don’t feel depressed. I feel—terrific!’ She lifted her glass. ‘Here’s mud in your eye!’ she said. ‘Remember, Barb, in Hawaii, when you and I always used to toast each other that way? It was what one of the lieutenants—one of the gold-dust twins—always used to say: “Here’s mud in your eye”!’
‘Yes, I remember that.’
‘You and I were both rather naughty little girls, weren’t we back in Hawaii? Not that I’d tell Carson of course, but we were, weren’t we? Remember that funny little apartment we had, and how we used to take turns—’
‘Oh, let’s not go into all that!’ Barbara said. ‘Do you realise how long ago that was? That was almost seven years ago, Nancy. We’ve both grown up a little bit since then.’
‘Yes, but I only mentioned it because, well, you are suddenly being so moralistic about having a little nightcap,’ she said. She took a sip of her drink, and then sat down at one end of the long green sofa, tucking one foot underneath her. ‘I didn’t mean to bring back unpleasant memories, Barb,’ she said.
‘But it was so long ago,’ Barbara said.
‘And you did write Carson every day, you really did.’
‘Of course I did.’
‘You aren’t sore at me, are you, Barb?’ Nancy asked, and her face, all at once, was crossed with anxiety. ‘Are you?’
‘No, of course not. You’re like my own sister, Nancy.’
‘I think Carson was a little sore at me tonight,’ she said. ‘When I was talking about Woody. I don’t think he liked that.’
‘Why should he mind that?’
‘No, but actually,’ Nancy said, ‘why don’t you—oh, you know, sort of remind Woody of me the next time you go up to the farm? Couldn’t you do that? I don’t mean make a specific date for me or anything like that, but sort of remind him of me. Tell him that I am—well, unattached at the moment, and that I could always come up to New York or something, if he could come down.’
‘I’ll mention it,’ Barbara said, ‘But I’m really afraid Woody is a confirmed bachelor. He’s got that apartment of his now, you know—everything just so, the way he wants it. The family’s sort of given up on Woody getting married.’
‘I don’t mean imply to him that I’m—well, that I’m round-heeled or whatever the expression is! Because that’s the trouble. That’s the reputation I’ve got. That’s the trouble with this Sidney Klein. He seems to think that
if he’s asked a girl to marry him, then she ought to be willing to go to bed with him.’
‘And you haven’t done this, I take it.’
Nancy was silent for several moments. ‘Well, to be perfectly frank,’ she said, then she took another swallow of her drink. ‘But what can I do, Barbara?’ she asked suddenly. ‘What can I do? Is there any other way? How can I keep a man if I say no! There isn’t any other way, no other way! I’ve had to—to submit. Even with Sidney! Oh God!’ All at once tears were streaming down her face. She raised her hand and wiped them away. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know,’ Nancy said. ‘That’s why sometimes I think I need an analyst. Only the trouble is I’m afraid an analyst will tell me what’s wrong with me—and I don’t want to know. What I told you this afternoon—that’s only part of the trouble.’
Barbara came and sat down beside her on the sofa. She put her hand on Nancy’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps you ought to go to bed, Nancy,’ she said.
Nancy straightened up. ‘You’re so darned motherly!’ she said, and laughed. ‘Don’t forget Hawaii, Barb. Don’t ever forget Hawaii. You weren’t always so pure.’
‘I know, I know,’ Barbara said.
Nancy reached for her glass and took a swallow of her drink that seemed endless. When she put it down the glass was empty. ‘There!’ she said triumphantly, ‘There! Now I feel better.’ She lay back heavily across the sofa cushions and closed her eyes.
Barbara stood up and walked across the room. She didn’t know, precisely, where she was going or what she was going to do. She went to the coffee table and arranged the two silver ash trays, shaped like maple leaves—wedding presents—on either side of the glass bowl in which she had placed, just that morning, a bunch of scarlet zinnias. She turned and looked at the room. It seemed empty, cool, antiseptic. Even the zinnias on the coffee table, even the other vase, the taller vase, of red climbing roses on the desk against the wall, seemed rigid and artificial. The arrangement of the furniture in the room, chairs set at angles, facing this way and that, seemed arbitrary—as arbitrary as the rooster weather-vane, she thought, that even in the northern gale pointed resolutely east. It was like a hospital. And the girl in the linen dress who lay across the green sofa, stockings twisted, her body at a slanting angle, looking as though any minute she might slide to the floor in a heap, did not look like Nancy Rafferty any more, or anyone she had ever known, but looked instead like a patient in a hospital. A memory of hospital smells assailed her, overpowering the other fragrances—perfume, furniture polish, roses, cigarette smoke, that the room contained. And the irony of it was that Nancy was studying to be a nurse. Now she was being required to nurse Nancy. She felt angry and confused. What was she expected to do? She wondered if she should wake Carson, tell him to come. She felt as if she, like Nancy’s outstretched body, were perched uncertainly over some abyss. It was like a feeling she had had earlier on the terrace, when she had suddenly wished that Nancy Rafferty was thousands of miles away. It was an unkind wish, certainly, because Nancy was one of the very few old friends whom she saw with any frequency any more. She crossed the room to where Nancy lay. ‘Nancy!’ she said loudly, ‘Nancy!’
Barbara Greer Page 3
