‘Mother,’ said Grace laughing, ‘who told you all this?’
‘Well everyone knows, dear. It’s common knowledge. And of course Charles isn’t married. A bachelor gay. And rich.’
‘Mother, I really don’t think I’m very likely to marry Charles Bennett, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Grace. ‘I wouldn’t get too hopeful, if I were you—’
At which point the phone rang.
Betty Marchant went to answer it. They could hear her voice from the hall, moving into its gracious extra-well-modulated mode. Frank raised his eyebrows at Grace; then Betty came in. She was flushed, and her eyes were very bright.
‘It’s him,’ she said. Triumphant would not have been too strong a word to describe her tones.
‘Who?’
‘Charles Bennett of course. He’s rung you up, Grace. Well, go along, dear, quickly, don’t keep him waiting.’
Grace was still smiling when she picked up the phone. ‘How did you get my number?’ she said.
‘From Mrs Boscombe of course.’
‘Oh of course.’
Mrs Boscombe was the lady on the local telephone exchange. Not only did she supply anyone she approved of (a hugely necessary qualification) with anyone else’s telephone number, she would deliver messages (‘Your sister said to tell you she’ll be here on the three o’clock bus’) and pass on the information she gleaned from a devoted listening-in (‘No point ringing her now, dear. She’s gone for a walk and then on to see the vicar about Mrs Babbage’s sister’).
‘I phoned to see how you were,’ said Charles.
‘I’m fine, thank you. And thank you for your great kindness this morning.’
‘My pleasure. Look, there was something else. If your knees aren’t too sore, that is. How would you like to come over on Sunday afternoon, have a game of tennis?’
‘Oh,’ said Grace, mild panic gripping her heart. ‘Oh, well, I don’t know – that is, I’m not very good I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, good heavens, nor are any of us. My sister and her husband are coming down for the weekend. They’re Londoners, so fright fully out of practice. But it would be nice. Do come.’
‘Well, thank you,’ said Grace. ‘It sounds lovely.’
‘Good. About three then?’
Grace walked back into the dining room and with great reluctance, trying to sound casual, told her parents what Charles had said. From that very moment she knew, until he was officially engaged to someone else, her mother would be planning the wedding.
Grace was nineteen years old. She had been educated at a small girls’ day school near Salisbury, done well in her Higher School Certificate and gone on to do a secretarial course at her parents’ insistence, despite having a hankering to pursue a musical career. She was a talented pianist, she sang very nicely, and she also played the violin rather beautifully; but it was a hopeless field to find work in, her parents had pointed out, and anyway she was a girl, she would be getting married before she knew it, and she could always perhaps join an amateur orchestra or operatic group. Grace hated the idea of amateur anything, she wanted to do it properly or not at all; but she also knew that if she wanted to be a musician she would have to be extremely tough and single-minded, and the fact that she had fallen at the first hurdle, that of her parents’ opposition, undoubtedly meant she lacked both those qualities, and quite possibly the talent as well.
Frank Marchant was a bank manager in Shaftesbury; modestly well-off, but devoid of the kind of ambition that might have taken him much higher up his own particular ladder. This was a source of some anguish to Betty, who was very ambitious – not for herself naturally, but, as women were supposed to be, for her husband. She had worked very hard on Frank for a great many years, urging him to apply for this and that job, entertaining and being charming to his more important customers, having a considerable yearning for a bigger and grander house than the overgrown cottage in Westhorne where they lived; a slightly more impressive domestic help than Mrs Hobbs who came in daily and Mr Hobbs who helped in the garden, a husband she could boast about more, and an entrée into the kind of society where she felt (on no stronger basis than a rather ill-informed instinct) she truly belonged. She yearned to give and go to large dinner and tennis parties and be invited to the kind of dances that found their way into the pages of Tatler, partly on her own account and partly so that her daughter might then marry into that class and enjoy its privileges in her turn.
As it was, while being a highly respected and active member of the village, the chairwoman of countless worthy causes and having an undoubted cachet of her own as the bank manager’s wife, she knew she hadn’t made it, and never would now: that the best she could hope for in the way of a social life was the black-tie suppers she and Frank gave and went to, with Mrs Hobbs in a black dress and white apron waiting at table, dances at the tennis club and of course the Round Table and, her ultimate social achievement, an annual very grand dinner dance in London at the Savoy given by the bank for their more successful managers.
But she still had hopes for Grace.
Grace had a job working as junior secretary to the managing director of Stubbingtons, a haulage contractor based near Shaftesbury; she didn’t like it, in fact she hated it, and so far the prospect of the escape her parents had pointed out to her in the form of marriage seemed to be nowhere in sight; but she was only nineteen, and even if three of her closest friends from school were already engaged, and one actually married, she and the rest still clearly had a little time in hand. In spite of marriage (and mother hood) being the one unarguable career for any girl, it didn’t as yet appeal greatly to Grace; wifedom, as far as she could make out from observing her mother, consisted largely of performing a great many rather tedious tasks and making sure that her father’s every wish and instruction was carried out.
Frank Marchant was actually a very sweet man, not in the least like some of her friends’ fathers, who seemed to have their entire household in a state of feverish anxiety and expected unthinking obedience and respect, simply by virtue of being the breadwinner. Nevertheless he still got the paper to read if he wanted it, even if Grace or Betty were in the middle of it, the programme he wanted to listen to on the radio even if they were listening to something else, the last slice of cake, the best cut of meat; it was an unquestioning process, had always been thus and always surely had to be. Grace had occasionally wondered in her idler moments whether, if a wife went out to work and helped to win the bread, she would perhaps be entitled to at least the suggestion that she might like to hear the end of a concert before it was switched over to the news, and even a little help with clearing the table after supper, or her views on the rising crisis in Europe listened to, but she knew there was no point in voicing such thoughts to her mother, and even most of her own generation regarded them as verging on sacrilegious. Some of the more intellectual girls at school had put such points to the debating society and had even argued them vigorously, but they were always beaten soundly. Had Grace been educated in a more intellectually vigorous environment, rather than at what was little better than a finishing school with a nod in the direction of higher education, her whole life might have turned out very differently.
Grace was extremely pretty; she had reddish-gold hair (although a little too wildly curly for her choice, and requiring a great deal of determination with the setting lotion), dark blue eyes, a straight little nose and a perfect (and fashionable) cupid’s bow of a mouth. She was quite tall (almost five foot seven) and very slim, although a small bosom caused her some anguish, with nice legs and very pretty hands; she had charming manners, a sweet, biddable disposition and, beneath her shyness, a certain sharp-sightedness about both herself and others.
She was an only child; her parents were inordinately proud of her and, although they would have liked a son, ‘he never came along’ her mother would say with sigh, adding more cheerfully that a daughter was yours for life and that you had the great joy of grand children. And now Grace was we
ll into her twentieth year and not a serious boyfriend, let alone a father for the grand children, in sight; and Betty Marchant was, although she would have died rather than admit it even to herself, growing a little worried.
Frank Marchant insisted on driving her over to the Bennetts’ house on Sunday; Grace was perfectly happy to go on her bike, she said, but Mrs Marchant had been horrified and said whatever would the Bennetts think, that they might even assume they didn’t have a car, and that of course Frank must take her.
‘I wish you’d teach me to drive,’ said Grace, ‘then I could take myself about.’ But her father answered time enough when she was twenty-one, that was the age to start driving, certainly for girls, and the roads were getting so crowded these days he’d never know a moment’s peace and he never minded taking her anywhere, in fact it was a good opportunity for them to talk in peace. Grace and her father greatly enjoyed talking to each other; when Betty was present, it was rare for either of them to be able to complete a sentence.
The Priory (which had never actually been a priory but was christened thus in the mid nineteenth century by the socially ambitious businessman who had bought it) was an exquisite Queen Anne house set on the outskirts of Thorpe Magna, behind a very high, curving brick wall.
Frank Marchant pulled up his Morris outside the gates, which were hung on tall, stone posts, and Grace got out, holding her tennis racket and feeling suddenly and helplessly shy.
She walked up the curving drive, studying the tall windows, the wide doorway, the wisteria growing beside it that drooped over the upper part of the house, looked warily at the black labrador that was loping towards her, barking half-heartedly, at the three cars parked to the side of the house, Charles’s green MG, a rather dashing red Morris Tourer (presumably the town-dwelling sister’s) and a heavily imposing Daimler, and at the figure bent over the flowerbed beyond the drive, presumably the gardener.
‘Afternoon,’ he called to her, and she nodded just slightly distantly (as one would to a gardener, she thought, especially in a house like this one, thinking too that it was hard for him to have to work on a Sunday, that the Bennetts must be very tough employers).
She tugged the bell pull, heard it jangle through the house, and he called out to her. ‘They’re all at the back, on the courts, they won’t hear you, go on round this way.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grace, and started in his direction, a little worried still by the dog who was clearly not going to let her out of his sight; but the front door opened suddenly and Charles hailed her.
‘Hallo! Sorry, didn’t hear you. We were just having a knock-up. Magnus, come here at once. Get down. Get down I said. Bloody dog. Where’s your car?’
‘I came with my father,’ said Grace awkwardly. ‘He dropped me off.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He looked awkward too, anxious not to seem surprised. She liked him for it, and at the same time felt shyer still. ‘Right then, follow me.’
‘I was going round that way. Your gardener was just telling me—’
‘Who? Not here today – Oh, you mean Dad. Come and meet him.’ He laughed, slightly awkwardly again, led her over to the stooping figure.
‘Father, this is Grace Marchant.’
Clifford Bennett stood up, smiling; he was very tall, taller than his son, white-haired, with the same piercing blue eyes.
‘You must be the damsel in distress we’ve heard so much about,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Clifford Bennett. How do you do.’
‘How do you do,’ said Grace, flushing, appalled to think how nearly she had walked past him, dismissing him totally, praying Charles wouldn’t say anything that would reveal her lack of sophistication.
He didn’t. ‘You joining us, Father?’
‘No, no, got to get these beds sorted out. Dreadful time of year in the garden, weeds outpace flowers ten to one. You like gardens, my dear?’
‘I love them,’ said Grace, ‘really love them. One day I want to have a walled garden of my very own, filled with roses and wonderful climbing things –’
She flushed again, surprised at her willingness to talk to him, hoping he wouldn’t find her foolish. He didn’t seem to. ‘We’ve got one here, although I don’t know if it would be wonderful enough for you, bit neglected, I’m afraid. Get Charles to show it to you later. No, on second thoughts I’ll show you, it’s my favourite too. Come and find me when you’ve finished your game. Enjoy it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grace.
‘Right,’ said Charles. ‘Come and meet the folks.’
Folks didn’t seem quite the right word, having a rather cosy, warm sound to it. Charles’s mother, tall, thin, ‘iron-grey all over,’ Grace said later to her father, with a low-slung voice reeking of generations of upper-class breeding, greeted her as if she was interviewing her for a job – as hired help, thought Grace desperately, trying to hang onto her sense of humour. Where exactly did she live, what did her father do? On receiving the answer to her second question, she nodded briefly and turned to her daughter as if to indicate that the interview was over.
The daughter, Florence, was marginally worse: equally tall, dark-haired, with the same gauntly good-looking face, the same good long legs and identical voice. Her nails were long and red, her mouth wide and full, painted the same brilliant colour. She clearly didn’t think Grace was worth talking to at all, merely smiled at her fleetingly and began on a long description to her mother of a house she and her husband were in the process of buying near what sounded like Sloane Squaw. Only her husband seemed friendly and interested in making Grace feel welcome; his name was Robert and he was very tall and heavily built, with slicked-back dark hair, surprisingly pale skin and eyes, and a long and imposing nose which he was inclined to look down quite literally. But he seemed very nice, smiled at her warmly and was, he told her, an absolute ass at tennis – ‘So I hope you are too.’
‘Don’t be beastly, Robert,’ said Florence, her glance at Grace’s just slightly worn grey tennis shoes – despite being desperately whitened by her mother that morning – making it plain that she assumed Grace must indeed be exactly that. ‘Girls who live in the country are always marvellous at tennis. Play every day, I expect. Or are you a golfer, Miss Marchant?’
‘Please call me Grace,’ said Grace. ‘And no, I don’t play golf. And I’m not marvellous at tennis either, certainly don’t play every day. I don’t have time.’
‘Oh no, of course,’ said Florence. ‘I forgot, Charles said you had a job.’ She made it sound as if a job was a rather nasty disease.
There was a silence, then Charles said, ‘Well, come on then, let’s have a knock-up, shall we? Grace, are you brave enough to play with me?’
Much to her surprise she was as good a player as Florence, and a great deal better than Robert, who was indeed an absolute ass. She got the impression he was not prepared to try very hard in any case, that he saw the whole thing as mildly silly, which comforted her. She and Charles, who was really quite good and very enthusiastic, won the first set, and then Charles suggested she played with Robert. Florence, clearly irritated, started playing very hard indeed and doing some sneakily down-the-line serves; twice the ball was out when she called it in very firmly, and no one either dared or wished to contradict her. Even so, Grace and Robert only just lost.
‘You’re really very good,’ said Charles, leading her back to the chairs by the court. ‘I don’t believe you don’t practise lots.’
‘I played a lot at school,’ said Grace. That was a mistake.
‘And where did you go to school?’ asked Mrs Bennett. ‘I think it’s so wonderful the way girls go to school these days. I would have adored to go but of course I was educated at home, and actually a lot of our friends still don’t believe in girls going away, although I insisted on it for Florence. So broadening to the mind, I think.’
‘I went to – to St Catherine’s, near Salisbury,’ said Grace. ‘It’s only very small. Very cosy. You won’t have heard of it.’
‘No
, I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Bennett carefully. ‘I’m not very familiar with any of the local schools. Florence went to St Mary’s Wantage, which wasn’t terribly cosy. A little too academic I thought. Perhaps she would have been better at a place like yours—’ Her voice tailed off; she clearly didn’t think Florence would have been anything of the sort.
‘Let’s have tea,’ said Charles, rather too heartily.
After tea, which they ate on the terrace at the back of the house, served by the kind of properly uniformed maid Betty Marchant had fantasies about, Mr Bennett, who had clearly taken a fancy to Grace, insisted on showing her the walled garden. It was enchanting, a little closed-off world, the air filled with birdsong, climbing hydrangea pushing into flower on the walls, the beds filled with tangly shrubs, great massing clouds of dark and pale blue lobelia tumbling over onto the brick-laid paths and, set in the centre, a wonderful old stone seat.
‘Oh it’s lovely!’ said Grace. ‘So perfectly set away, a little world all of its own.’
‘That’s exactly why I like it,’ he said, ‘and I tell you what I like to do; I bring a large glass of whisky out here in the evening, and the paper, and I feel quite safe from everyone and everything.’
Grace thought that if she had to live with Muriel Bennett she would do something much the same, and she’d fit a lock on the gate as well.
Not that that was very likely. Thank God.
‘Do stay for supper if you would like,’ said Muriel Bennett when they returned from the walled garden. ‘There isn’t much, of course, it being Sunday evening, but—’
‘No, really, it’s very kind,’ said Grace, ‘but my parents are expecting me. In fact, I wonder if I might ring my father and ask him to come and collect me—’
‘What a ridiculous idea,’ said Charles. He had been rather quiet ever since the game of tennis had finished. ‘Of course I’ll take you home. Would you like to ring anyway? So they aren’t worried?’
Forbidden Places Page 2
