Love Always

by Harriet Evans

  ‘You could do both, you know,’ Guy said. Louisa looked at him blankly.

  ‘What about you?’ she said, gently nudging Frank. ‘Where do you think you’ll be in ten years’ time? What will you be doing?’

  ‘Oh. Um.’ Frank looked uncomfortable. ‘Don’t know.’ He picked at the embroidered logo on his polo shirt. ‘Sounds rather boring, if you say it out loud.’

  ‘Say it,’ Guy said quietly. ‘It’s not boring, old man, not if you really want it.’

  Frank stretched his arms above his head, faux-nonchalantly, and said, ‘Well, it’s not much, really. Think about having a nice house somewhere. With a little drive, some hedges.’

  ‘Hedges?’ Cecily said, almost in disbelief. ‘Why—’ Guy nudged her.

  ‘And you know – I’d have qualified as a chartered surveyor. Be working at a good company. I’d get the train into town every day. Work with some nice chaps. I suppose, I never thought about it much. And – and well,’ he said, getting into his stride. ‘There’d be a . . . a family at home for me when I got back.’

  ‘You really are the last of the great romantics, Bowler Hat,’ Cecily said. ‘Who is this family, a load of gypsies you’ve welcomed into your home?’

  Frank took Louisa’s hand. ‘No,’ he said, squeezing her fingers. ‘My own family. My wife, and our children.’

  There was a silence as the others digested this and Louisa’s eyes shone.

  ‘If she’s back from work, of course,’ added Frank, breaking in again. ‘Er – she might still be working, of course. Perhaps we’d even get the train back together,’ he said, really into his stride now.

  Cecily got up. ‘I’ll buy you both matching bowler hats for the wedding,’ she said. ‘Goodness, I got you quite wrong, didn’t I?’ She stretched herself out, languorously. ‘What about you, Archie?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Archie said simply. His eyes roamed round. ‘Here’s Miranda.’ He called out to his approaching sister, ‘You going for a swim?’

  ‘I thought so, yes. I’m boiling. Come in?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Archie. ‘Miranda’s a brilliant swimmer.’

  ‘She’s pretty amazing, actually,’ Cecily told Guy. ‘She can do a somersault in the air off the diving board at school. She swims like a fish. It’s—’ She stopped as Miranda reached them.

  ‘Are you talking about me?’ Miranda said suspiciously. ‘Yes,’ Cecily said. ‘Just saying what a great swimmer you are.’

  ‘Don’t lie,’ Miranda said. ‘We were! Weren’t we?’ Cecily said, turning to Guy. ‘What about you, Miranda?’ Guy asked. ‘Where do you think you’ll be in ten years’ time? What will you be doing?’

  Miranda looked taken aback. ‘I’m going to be running the UN,’ Louisa said. ‘Guy’s going to be living on the Left Bank wearing a beret, Frank’s going to be wearing a bowler hat and going into the City every day and Jeremy, we didn’t do you, or you, Cec.’

  ‘Oh, I’m boring,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ll be a doctor. I know what I want to be.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ Cecily looked at him with adoration. ‘Archie, what about you?’ Miranda asked her brother quickly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Archie helplessly. ‘I’d like to live in a hotel. You know, Monte Carlo or somewhere. Drive a fast car, see a bit of life.’ He crossed his arms. ‘But I’d be successful. Have my own business, selling cars or something. Studying’s a waste of time.’

  ‘But you’re going to Oxford, I thought,’ Cecily said. ‘No, I’m not.’ Archie shrugged. ‘Don’t see the point. Whole world out there full of fun and excitement, I’m not going to moulder away in some old building for three years studying things people don’t care about any more.’

  ‘But—’ Cecily’s mouth dropped open. ‘Did you know that, Miranda?’

  ‘He can do what he wants,’ Miranda said. ‘But have you told Mummy and Dad?’

  ‘Cross that bridge when I come to it,’ Archie said, turning his face to the sun and closing his eyes.

  ‘So that’s the plan,’ Cecily said, nodding at him. She looked at her brother and sister, from one to the other. ‘Right. Well, it’s none of my business.’

  Louisa, ignoring this exchange, said, ‘What about you, Miranda?’

  Miranda shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Never really thought about it,’ she said, adjusting the rubber strap around her goggles which were on her head.

  ‘You don’t know what you want to do yet?’ Louisa said. Miranda turned on her, and said vehemently, ‘Oh, shut up, Louisa. Just because you’re perfect and know exactly what’s going on with your stupid boring life. Leave me out of it. I don’t know, I tell you. I’m not good at anything, and that makes it rather hard.’

  ‘You must be good at something,’ Guy said, not unkindly. ‘Well, I’m not,’ Miranda said flatly. ‘I’m ugly. I’m too thin, too hairy, too stupid to go to university. The only things I like doing are buying clothes, and sunbathing and swimming, and last time I checked you couldn’t do that as a job. I’m the lame duck of the family, and I know you all despise me. So – so just . . . just fuck off.’

  She spat out the last three words and stalked off towards the sea, leaving Archie to run after her.

  ‘Poor girl,’ Frank said, watching her costume-clad figure as she slid into the blue-green sea.

  ‘Oh, she’ll be fine,’ Cecily said, with a sister’s impatience. ‘She just wants to go to finishing school and learn how to get out of cars properly and she’s furious Mum and Dad won’t let her.’

  ‘How do you get out of cars properly?’ Guy asked, intrigued. ‘No idea but we’re all doing it wrong apparently,’ Cecily said. ‘She’ll learn, and teach us, and then she can marry a rich husband and spend all day in Harrods buying all the dresses she wants. I suppose that might make her happy.’ But she didn’t sound sure.

  Jeremy nodded. Louisa was silent. The little group was still, for a moment, watching the twins as they bobbed in and out of the clear water.

  ‘What about you?’ Guy asked Cecily. ‘What will you be doing in ten years?’

  ‘Thank you for finally asking, Guy.’ Cecily pointed one foot delicately in front of her. ‘Working on the script of the film of my best-selling novel about Mary Queen of Scots,’ she said. ‘Living in Hollywood with Stewart Granger. Buying my second silver Rolls Royce because the first one will be worn out with driving me to film premieres and parties. And eating all the cream eclairs I want.’ She stood up. ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Guy, taken aback. ‘You’ve worked it out, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ Cecily said pragmatically. ‘But I’ll have time to go to India with you before, if you want. Come on, let’s swim.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  That night, at dinner, a party atmosphere set in. Perhaps it was because of the sun but it became clear, when they gathered on the terrace that evening, that there was something in the air. The holiday was real, it was happening. It was theirs to enjoy.

  Yes, they were all on good form that evening. Louisa, like Grace Kelly in a blue Grecian dress, shyly touching Frank’s hand; Frank, tall and more assured dressed for dinner in a jacket, shirt and trousers than he ever was in shorts, dutifully meeting Louisa’s smiles. Miranda, the last one down, eventually appeared modelling another of her recent purchases, a crisp cotton black and white gingham shift, with a sash tie behind, her hair pushed back with a black silk Alice band.

  Her mother stared at her, Frank and Guy swallowed, and Cecily whistled.

  ‘Wow, you look great, Miranda,’ Jeremy said. He stared at her with admiration. ‘You look like a film star. Doesn’t she, Franty?’

  Frances nodded. ‘Absolutely. You’re like a swan, darling.’ Guy whistled. ‘Why, Miss Kapoor, you’re ravishing,’ he said, in a terrible American accent.

  ‘Thank you so very much, darling,’ Miranda said, in a husky film-star voice. There was a little throb in her throat, almost as if she was nervous. ‘So very kind of you. So kind.’ She accepted a drink from Jeremy.
‘You look lovely tonight, Louisa,’ she said in a loud voice.

  Louisa, visibly touched, still looked startled. ‘Oh, Miranda . . . thank you.’

  ‘No one has complimented me on my dress,’ said Arvind, who was sitting in a chair on the edge of the terrace, admiring the sunset. ‘No one has said, How nice you look today, Arvind.’

  ‘Daddy, you look ravishing,’ Miranda said, wanting to bestow compliments on everyone now. ‘Mummy, you too.’

  ‘Very heartfelt, Miranda,’ Frances said drily. ‘I’m not quite ready for the bath chair and the nursing home yet, you know.’

  ‘Mother,’ said Miranda, in a wheedling tone. ‘Can I ask you a huge favour, please?’

  ‘Er—’ Frances said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can we put on the Beatles? Please? Your record player’s so much better than the one upstairs.’

  Louisa clapped her hands. ‘Oh, Aunt Frances, please. I think you’d really like it,’ she said. It was so far the only thing Miranda and Louisa had found they had in common.

  ‘I know it very well,’ Frances said drily. ‘I’ve heard that dratted album wafting down the stairs about ten times a day for the past week. And over Easter. I’m sick of it.’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Miranda pleaded. She drank some more of her gin and tonic. ‘Listen to it properly. Please. Please Please Me!’ she said, and Frances laughed, and unbent.

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  So they ate supper to the strains of ‘Please Please Me’ playing on the old gramophone from the sitting room, and Louisa sang ‘Love Me Do’ softly in Frank’s direction, and even Cecily (who was secretly rather keen on John Lennon), sang along to ‘Twist and Shout’. ‘Because they didn’t write this one,’ she explained, when Miranda looked at her coolly and asked why she was singing, if she hated them so much?

  Arvind and Frances were not censorious parents, and they allowed wine at the table, though Cecily was only allowed a glass. This night, perhaps because of the wine, or the heat coming off their sun-kissed skin, or the heady, late summer smell of lavender and sea and sun oil, the wine disappeared faster than it might have done.

  ‘Another bottle?’ said Mary, when she came in to put down the peach melba.

  ‘Oh—’ Frances, who had been working in her studio all day, was tired and rather drained. She waved her hand. ‘Yes, a couple more, please,’ she said. ‘My glass is empty.’ She looked around the table. ‘I do feel old,’ she said, to no one in particular.

  It was still very hot outside, humid and still, and Frances went to bed after supper, pleading a headache, followed by Arvind. The younger generation moved out onto the terrace where they sat for a while, too tired to move, not really saying much. Frank and Louisa stood at the edge of the group, he with one arm round her waist, a glass of wine in the other. He was rather drunk.

  ‘This time next week, your parents will be here,’ Cecily said into the silence. She smoothed a hand over her brow, to the scarf she had tied back her hair with, and stood up. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, as if realising she was not in the right frame of mind for the party. ‘Goodnight, everyone.’

  With her departure, it was as if the spell had been broken, and the party was deflating.

  ‘I’m actually quite tired,’ Louisa said, moving Frank’s arm which was creeping up around her waist towards her breast. He drained his glass, and she moved away from him. ‘It must be all that sun.’

  ‘Well, I’m off,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ll take the glasses through.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Louisa said. She turned to Frank, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Night, Frank. See you – tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh.’ Frank blinked. ‘Yes, tomorrow. You’re – going.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Louisa said.

  Frank’s lips drooped. ‘Oh, right then. I suppose I’d better be off soon as well. Night, Louisa.’

  He stayed on the terrace as, one by one, the others filed into the house, saying goodnight. He was swaying slightly, but after a minute he shook his head and looked around him, as if noticing for the first time that the party was over. He stared contemplatively into the darkness.

  Someone appeared around the corner, making him jump. ‘Mrs Ka— Frances, hello,’ Frank said, his eyes widening. ‘I thought you’d gone to bed.’

  Frances leaned against the wooden table, her eyes dancing. ‘I was having a cigarette down by the gazebo. It’s such a beautiful night, I couldn’t quite bear to go inside just yet.’

  She hugged herself, wrapping her slim, bare arms round her black-silk-clad body. Frank stared at her.

  ‘Do you have a cigarette, Frank?’ she said, and held out her hand.

  Befuddled by wine, but mesmerised by her, Frank gave his hostess a cigarette. She put it to her mouth and watched as he lit it.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Frances said, her voice rich with amusement. ‘I won’t bite you.’

  ‘We’re having such a jolly holiday, Frances,’ he told her. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ she said, smiling in the darkness. ‘I hope there’s more to come.’ She rolled her head from side to side, listening to the vertebrae crunch slightly. ‘Ouch,’ she said.

  ‘You all right?’ Frank asked. ‘Just – it’s been a long day,’ she said. ‘My back’s stiff. You’re lucky, you lot. You’re young. You sleep well, you eat well, you have fun . . . And then you become a proper grown-up. And it’s different.’

  Frank, holding his glass at an angle, appeared to have realised he was a little too drunk for this conversation. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ Frances bit her lip, sat down on the terrace and was silent for a moment. ‘But that’s for another day. I don’t want to puncture the golden dreams of youth.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Ah, when I was younger, we used to come to this part of the coast for picnics, to swim. Pamela and I, and our friends. I’d see this house, up on the hill, and wonder about it.’ She brought her legs up so her chin was resting on her knees. ‘I always wanted to live here. And now I do.’

  ‘That’s great, isn’t it?’ Frank sat heavily down next to her. ‘Yes,’ Frances said softly. ‘Yes, it is. I’m very lucky. I have to tell myself that. It’s just sometimes I wish I was anywhere . . . anywhere but here.’

  He was silent, as was she. Upstairs, a window opened quietly, but otherwise the house was completely still.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Over a week passed, but it could have been a year: time seemed to stop, wrapping them in a cocoon. The days were filled with warm weather, fresh cold seas, lazing, reading, listening to music. By night they watched each other on the terrace or over dinner, watched as they grew more tanned, more at ease, knew each other, for better and for worse. It felt as if it had always been like this, a kind of heightened reality where everything was more exciting, colours were sharper, people were more beautiful, life was there to be taken. But of course, it wasn’t really like that. Perhaps it was the summer wind, blowing off the sea and through the house, sweeping them up in its path. But none of them was un affected by it.

  They left Summercove, too. Frances got them tickets to the Minack Theatre and they saw Julius Caesar: sitting out in the refreshing night breeze on the theatre at the edge of the sea. They ate pasties in Marazion, and Cecily and Guy walked across the glittering silver causeway to the beautiful fortress castle of St Michael’s Mount.

  Some of them went surfing in Sennen Cove; one morning the others stayed behind while Guy, Louisa and Cecily went with Frances to St Ives to see her dealer and talk about the London show. As they were leaving, Frances stumbled and stepped on Frank, who was kissing Louisa goodbye; she pierced his foot with her stiletto heel, and was horrified as he sank to the ground in agony. They bought him sickly pink sticks of rock from St Ives to say sorry, the sweet candy already stuck to the striped paper bags by the time Frank returned that afternoon from the beach, hobbling and supported by Miranda and Jeremy. One evening, they went into Penzance, to see Doctor in Distress playing at the Savoy. Guy took pho
tos with his old box Brownie: Cecily on the beach, standing on a rock, her bobbed hair blowing about her face like a glossy brown halo; games of cricket, the ball flying into the sea; Frances at her easel (after he’d asked permission, of course); Frank (by now recovered, no more than an angry red stigma on his foot) snoring on the lawn like a slumbering blond god, the view of the path down to the sea blinding white in the midday sun.

  It would seem from the outside as if they were in a blissful, untroubled holiday bubble. It would seem, too, as if the Leightons fitted in perfectly with the household, though of course it was their very outsider status which gave the summer its frisson of excitement, of fun, of them – all of them – feeling as if they were watching themselves in a film, that it was unreal.

  The longer their stay the hotter the weather became, night and day. Frank was happiest when he was outside, playing sports with Jeremy and Archie, trying to flirt with Miranda and Frances, and trying also – it would seem unsuccessfully – to seduce his girlfriend. His wandering hands became something of a feature, the fingers creeping across Louisa’s well-upholstered, neat figure, only to be pushed briskly away, much to his dis appointment. Guy, on the other hand, just seemed to get on with everyone. Everyone except Miranda.

  ‘He’s so damned pleased with himself,’ she said to Cecily one Friday, a week after the Leightons had arrived.

  Cecily had just returned from sitting for her mother upstairs and was in a bad mood; she disliked being still for so long. She was slumped in one of the worn-out damask armchairs in the cool of the living room, flicking through a recent Country Life. ‘Look at this girl,’ she said, slapping the back of her hand in annoyance onto the page. ‘“Lady Melissa Bligh”. Why do they always have these photos of boring English girls with awful teeth?’ She gazed longingly at Lady Melissa’s black lace dress and swanlike neck. ‘Anyway, Guy’s not pleased with himself,’ she added after a moment.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Miranda said, also flicking through a magazine. ‘He thinks he knows it all. What’s wrong and right. He’s very pleased with himself, if you ask me.’ She looked out through the French windows onto the lawn, where Guy was playing cricket with Frank and Jeremy, practising his bowling action. ‘I don’t like the way he acts as if he knows us all so well.’