by Angela Huth
As for men in her daughter’s life – Mrs Hetherington’s speculations flailed about in a total void. No evidence of any kind to go on. Some weekends Alice would stare into the distance, sandy eyelashes (from David) fluttering thoughtfully, and make a point of answering the telephone first. When the call was for her she would speak in a low, unrecognisable voice: hard to hear from the other side of the door where Mrs Hetherington would hover – not out of curiosity, of course, but from natural anxiety about what was going on. If Alice had any boyfriends she never brought them home. Mrs Hetherington could not understand why. She had always made it clear she was eager to entertain any of Alice’s friends. ‘Do bring whoever you like to stay, darling,’ she would say every Sunday evening Alice was at home. But Alice would always reply she preferred her weekends alone.
Then, out of the blue, no warning, there had been the event of Alastair. Mrs Hetherington would never forget it. Glancing at the stained-glass windows above the altar, whose unkind colours recharged the tears in her eyes, she remembered the occasion once again. Alice had not acted in the most thoughtful way, it had to be admitted. Not a warning telephone call, even. Just, that Friday evening, arriving with him.
‘Thought you wouldn’t mind, Mum,’ she said, ‘if I brought Alastair Mead. We’re going to get married.’
David, bless him, had taken it very well. Fetched the last bottle of Krug from the cellar and was talking easily to Mr Mead, about mortgages, within moments. (Mr Mead, it seemed, was something to do with mortgages ‘for the bread and butter’, Alice said. In his spare time, his real vocation, he raised money for famine relief.) Their conversation gave Mrs Hetherington time to study her future son-in-law: she saw a shortish, chunky figure, head slightly too big for his body, the loose smile of lips not quite in control, falling socks. She sipped rapidly at her drink to conceal her disappointment. In her heart of hearts she had always hoped her son-in-law would cut something of a dash: the brutal truth about Mr Mead was that he would not turn a head in the most plebeian crowd. Still, he had been to Charterhouse, as he let drop with his second glass of champagne, and perhaps his charm lay in his mind. He must be given a fair chance, Mrs Hetherington told herself, and in time Alice might wean him off tweed ties. Dreadful to be so prejudiced by appearances, but Mrs Hetherington had always been like that. It was unfair that a stranger’s cast of nose or choice of shoe could breed in her such instant prejudice, but there it was. Suddenly Mrs Hetherington knew that she hated Alastair Mead, both for himself and for his proprietory talk about Alice. But she smiled bravely, and no one could have guessed her feelings.
Next morning the two of them appeared at breakfast blatantly haggard. Well, Mrs Hetherington and David had done a bit of passage-creeping in their time, but at least they had had the decency to disguise the effects of their naïve kisses next morning. With a shudder Mrs Hetherington handed Alastair a kipper. He should have known better than to lay hands on Alice the first night under her parents’ roof. Also, he had cut himself shaving and a thread of blood looped down his chin to join a clot of dried toothpaste in the corner of his mouth. All distasteful to her, poor man. In twenty-nine years David had never cut himself shaving: it wasn’t necessary. As for Alice, she could have combed her hair, surely, and done something to conceal her satiated state. It wasn’t that Mrs Hetherington disapproved of sex before marriage, naturally: everyone did it these days and Alice, she had no doubt, had relinquished her virginity some years ago. But up to now she had had the tact to protect her mother from evidence of her affairs. Would that she had not let matters slip just because she had an engagement ring – and a very minor pearl, at that – on her finger. Mrs Hetherington’s thoughts were only interrupted by Alastair’s irritating pecking at his kipper, and his boring remembrances of childhood kippers in Scotland, implying criticism of the Macfisheries’ pedigree of the present fish. In all, Mrs Hetherington found the whole weekend a trial. She could not deny the probity of Alastair’s character, but kept furiously to herself the disappointment at his lack of humour and style. Worst of all, he supported Alice in her desire for a quick register office wedding. But on that point Mrs Hetherington was adamant, unbudgeable. It was to be a white wedding with all the trimmings, for her sake if not for theirs.
The organ played Bach, swelling to greet Mrs Hetherington’s present feeling of satisfaction as she reflected on her efforts in the past months. She had tried, and she had triumphed. There was genuine love in her heart, now, for her son-in-law. Even admiration. The way he worked such long hours in his mortgage business and then gave up his weekends to famine relief. His solid principles: only live in the way you can afford (they were to start off in a small rented house in Twickenham) and put work before pleasure. He had planned with touching care a honeymoon trip around Inverness. Mrs Hetherington wouldn’t have cared for any such thing herself, of course: she and David had cruised to Panama. However, Alice seemed happy in general. And, in trying to see Alastair through her daughter’s eyes, Mrs Hetherington had almost certainly succeeded in discovering his charm – if devotion counts as a charm. She found it hard to forgive his dandruff and his anorak, a particularly nasty blue – but they were unimportant externals, weren’t they? It was his character that counted and, by God, by now, she loved that. She really did. The love had been flamed by others’ approval: his prospects, his solidity, his charity. But no matter how it had been come by, it was there. The real love of Mrs Hetherington for her son-in-law Alastair Mead.
She glanced at the gold watch embedded in her wrist. Only a minute to go. Very moving, the music, whatever it was. Half an hour ago she had witnessed the poignant sight of Alice struggling into her white satin. She looked – cliché or not – radiant. Alastair was a very lucky man. Mrs Hetherington let her eyes fall upon his back view. He had had a haircut, it seemed. And he looked a little taller in his morning suit. Rather endearing, the way he kept nervously whispering to the best man. Of course – and this was a wicked and secret thought – in Mrs Hetherington’s experience of weddings, Etonians undoubtedly made the least nervous bridegrooms. She’d noticed that over the years. (David, in the Guards Chapel, had been wonderfully untrembling, giving her courage.) But given the less noble training of Charterhouse, Alastair wasn’t doing too badly so far. Straight shoulders, almost as if he’d been in the army. Mrs Hetherington wished her brother, who was still in the army, could contain his asthmatic wheezing, irritating at such a solemn time. Still, the marguerite trees at the altar had been an inspiration. (Hers.) Oh dear God, where were they? A minute late and her left shoe was hurting.
She heard the hush that precedes a bride’s entrance. With a supreme effort of will Mrs Hetherington remained facing the altar. Alastair, weaker, turned. His face was pale, the jowls loosened by trepidation. Dear Alastair. Would he were just a few inches … But all right so long as Alice never wore stilettos. Had David ordered enough champagne? And Alice’s heart: was it beating like her own? Funny how such disparate thoughts topple over one another at such moments. What on earth could they be doing? Darling Alice, such a loving daughter.
Glorious things of Thee are spoken …
Ah, they must be on their way at last. Oh my Alice … the way she laughed in the bath so much at two; and how she cried that time she fell off her bicycle into the shrubbery at four. And all those things she had made at school: painted fircones and potato-cut calendars. No better presents in the whole world, were there? Impossible to think of her as a married woman. Oh dear, they must be halfway up the aisle by now. Well at least Alice wouldn’t be in fearful anticipation of It, as Mrs Hetherington herself had been. Rather a shame, really, that particular excitement already over. But it was awful to be thinking of her own daughter in such terms at all, wasn’t it? And here she was at last, misty faced under her veil. Pity about no posy of gardenias, as Mrs Hetherington would have liked, but Alice had insisted on the austerity of a prayer book. Anyway, she was beautiful. Well, almost. David’s handsome bones were a bit strong on a girl, perhaps: it h
ad to be said Alice’s face was not one of infinite delicacy. But today it was at its best, all for Alastair Mead.
‘Let us pray,’ said the vicar.
Navy patent bow dug less into her foot now she was on her knees. Thank God. Thank God for having given her a daughter like Alice. That time she had been so homesick at her finishing school in Paris – oh God forgive me for all my inadequacies as a mother. Darling Alice forgive me too and try to be happy. Try to keep those promises like Daddy and I have done. It may be awfully boring sometimes, but it’s worth trying. And don’t desert us. Why didn’t I put my handkerchief up my sleeve instead of in my bag – it would make too much noise, opening it. Mustn’t sniff … Come home whenever you want to and bring your friends. And I promise to be a good grandmother. Baby-sit at any time. Oh you were such an adorable baby, and so good. Mrs Alastair Mead. Well, who on earth would want their daughter to marry a flashy duke? Who’d really want their daughter to be a sudden duchess?
They were in their seats, now, listening to the address. It was a little hard to hear, even here in the front row: something about the importance of putting someone else first, for the rest of your life. Very moving. Pity those further back wouldn’t be able to hear the message. But then the servants of God were inclined to mumble too humbly. Putting Alastair Mead first: what a thought. Who on earth could want … ? Mrs Hetherington glanced at her husband, firm beside her, slight smile. Dear David: his handsome rugged face, the calm of a good colonel in all crises. Though naturally this wasn’t a crisis, was it? But a very happy day.
There was much kissing in-between signing the register. Alastair’s cheek was damp with nervous sweat. He smelt of the worst kind of after-shave. Alice glowed at him, brown mascara clotting her eyelashes. No words: what could Mrs Hetherington say? Thank goodness this part of it was nearly over. Called upon to be efficient at the reception, her role would come more easily. It was all this hovering about, second lead to the star, that caused the strain. Stiffly she followed David back to their pew, eyes down, aware of the blur of wedding hats and curious faces. Mean thought: mostly their friends. The Meads’ side was half empty …
Optimistic blast of the organ. Finale. Darling Alice. As she appeared on Alastair’s arm Mrs Hetherington briefly shut her eyes to protect the scalding balls. On opening them she felt them lashed with tears in spite of all the self-control. Perhaps she should have taken a pill after all.
Alice smiling, now. Alastair smiling. Stupid flaccid smile of triumph at his catch. For after all, Alice was something of a catch. Sparkle of dandruff on his shoulder. Wedding socks no doubt wrinkled. God forgive her, but Mrs Hetherington couldn’t love him any more. Her first instincts had been right. Nothing could alter the fact that he was a humourless dreary prig: there was not a single thing about him over which she could rejoice.
Still, sons-in-law are sent to try us, and she would battle on. She stepped into the aisle, let Alastair’s dreadful father, pink-eyed, take her arm. She gave a wonderful smile to the congregation at large, acknowledging the happiness of the day. And with eyes never leaving the distant white cloud that was her beloved daughter, refusing to limp in spite of the agony of her shoe, she made the kind of irreproachable journey down the aisle which can only cause the wedding guests to observe: what a perfect mother of the bride.
Ladies’ Race
On the third anniversary of the death of their friend, the chief mourners, perhaps the only mourners left, visited the graveyard with their customary bunch of daffodils. They wore black coats, signifying the formality that had insinuated itself into their lives – a thing they were both aware of, fought against, but seemed unable to change. The man, hands crossed, wore bright new leather gloves. The woman’s hands, also crossed, were bare: the nails bitten away, flaky, lustreless. They remained in uneasy silence for some moments, heads bowed, eyes on the simple headstone that was engraved with the two names of their friend, the date of her birth and the date of her death.
The man shifted. Relieved, the woman took his arm. She regarded this annual gesture of respect as pointless. Surely they should forget, not remember. But Gerald was insistent, and she had learned not to cross him on important matters. All the same, she could not resist observing how she felt: Gerald should know.
‘Anyone would think this was the most important anniversary of the year, to you,’ she said.
Gerald made no reply. They turned towards the path of pale sharp stones that ran stiffly between the graves. Leaning against each other, like people older than their years, they began to walk towards the gate. It was cold, in spite of the thickness of their coats. But, heavy with marriage, it was no time to hurry. These visits always bared their memories, troubled them for a few hours, or days, or even weeks.
Gerald met Lola first. She was tall, head above most women at the party. It was a cold house, and while others gathered shawls about their shoulders Lola was impressive for her long bare arms and the warm-looking flesh of her neck and half-exposed bosom. Gerald, who had had no lover for two years, partly for the good of his soul but mostly for the lack of suitable women, found himself inclining towards her. As he fetched her a glass of wine and another plate of haddock kedgeree – her third – he considered the possibility of breaking his vow of self-inflicted chastity. The thought was an unformed, uncoloured thing: the merest web that flung itself across his tired mind. But registered. Meantime, as a patient man, he was surprised to find himself annoyed by the queue at the buffet. He had left Lola alone in a corner and could see a gathering tide of men beginning to converge upon her.
But she greeted him on his return with the kind of quiet pleasure that evaporated her new admirers. Not that she had much to say to Gerald. She seemed quite content to sit silently by him, wolfing her kedgeree, apparently hungry. Gerald, dry with weariness from weeks of over-work, was grateful for her lack of demand: he was in no mood to bewitch, or even entertain. He felt at ease in her silence, and grateful for it.
Much later they walked down the frosty street to his car. Lola wore no coat, said she never felt cold. Gerald was briefly shot with the desire to feel her flesh, to prove her boastful warmth. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and kept his distance. The filmy stuff of her dress blew about as she walked, making her seem fragile, for all her height. In the seat of his old sports car she had to bunch up her long legs: Gerald found himself apologising. Sarah – what years ago she suddenly seemed – had always managed to stretch out her minuscule limbs with great comfort. Lola laughed, easing the nervousness Gerald always felt when a new woman entered the sanctity of his car. She lived, it turned out, quite near him.
Some days later, by the gas fire in his muddled sitting-room, Gerald discovered his first impression of Lola had been quite wrong. There was nothing frail about her. No: she was an athletic girl with calves of lively muscle and wrist bones that were handsome in their size. While she ate her way through his last supplies of Dundee cake and shortbread, she told him something of her outdoor life: she had played tennis one year at Junior Wimbledon; she skied each winter, sailed every summer, rode at weekends, jogged round Hyde Park three mornings a week before breakfast – hated her secret job at the Foreign Office. Gerald was momentarily alarmed by the thought of such outdoor energy: worlds that were far from his. But then she smiled, brushing crumbs from her chin with the back of her hand, and he felt relieved again.
‘I suppose you think just because of all that I’m very hearty, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I learned judo till I was fourteen and I could fling my older brother over my shoulder, easy as anything.’ Her eyes sparkled over Gerald’s weary body, hunched deep in his armchair. ‘As a matter of fact, I expect I could still…’
Gerald shifted. ‘I’m sure you could,’ he said.
‘Shall I try?’
She was both mischievous and serious. Gerald was torn between not wanting to disappoint her, and wishing to preserve some dignity.
‘Is this quite the place?’ he asked, glancing about the piles of books.<
br />
‘Oh, anywhere’ll do, won’t it?’
Lola was already up, enormous above him, smiling her enchanting smile as she pulled him to his feet. He sensed scaling up the side of her as if in a fast lift: flat stomach, mounds of bosom beneath wool, thin neck, pretty teeth. Just for a second his eyes were level with hers. Then, the crash. He was grovelling on his own Turkish carpet, the small square of ugly reds and blues that for years he had meant to change, and had never been forced to study so closely before. He heard the sound of falling books, felt pain in elbows and knees. Lola was laughing, helping him up again.
‘There … Honestly. I told you. You all right?’
‘Fine.’ Gerald had cupped his face in one hand, was pulling at the blue skin beneath his eyes. ‘You’re still very good,’ he said.
‘Well, it’s nice to know I can still do it. Self-defence is very important these days. Of course, you aren’t that heavy.’ Gerald returned to his chair to hide his affront. ‘And I was scarcely attacking you.’
‘No. But you might have been. Anyhow, you were very sporting.’
‘Thanks.’
Lola bent down and kissed him quickly on the temple. One bosom rubbed his nose. Her jersey smelt slightly of mixed herbs. He watched her, in her kneeling position on the ground again, pour more tea and finish the cake.
‘You should meet my friend Rose,’ she said. ‘She’s the real one for judo. Though you’d never guess her strength, just looking at her. She’s half my size.’
