A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Well, I’ll be there I hope,’ said Saul, and Dickon said of course he would, they’d need his horses to ride.

  ‘Yeah, and anyway, you’ll have to drive the horse box,’ added Fergie.

  ‘Great,’ said Saul, ‘I’m glad my role is to be so major.’

  They both smiled at him tolerantly.

  Tea at McDonald’s proved unnecessary; protesting, Saul was dragged to the funfair, where the boys ate copiously from every burger and hot dog stall, in between taking hair-raising rides; Saul refused to go on any of them until Fergie finally persuaded him on to the old-fashioned carousel and, sitting on a red and gold horse, its nostrils flaring, the honky-tonk music playing, and looking at the sun shining on the course and the crowds below him, and grinning back at Fergie and Dickon riding behind him, he felt a flash of pure happiness.

  He was unused to emotion of any sort, particularly of a positive nature – the last time he had experienced it was when he had been in New York with Bianca – and he tried to savour this one, make it last. Perhaps it was a good omen for the future. And Janey’s visit.

  Only it wasn’t.

  She arrived, looking flustered, first refused, then accepted his offer of a glass of wine. He poured himself a beer.

  ‘So? This is about Australia, I would hazard a guess.’

  ‘It is, Saul, yes.’

  ‘And, guessing again, you’ve absolutely decided to go?’

  ‘I – I have, Saul, yes. If – well, if you agree.’

  ‘Well, of course I don’t agree,’ he said. ‘Why would I? It’ll be terribly disruptive to Dickon, ghastly for me. I’ll fight it every step of the way . . .’

  ‘My solicitor says you can’t possibly win.’

  ‘Oh really? Funny that, mine says you can’t.’

  This wasn’t quite true, but he wanted to rattle her.

  ‘And I think it would be nicer for Dickon if we went with your blessing. Rather than had a sordid court battle.’

  ‘Well, that’s a view.’

  ‘Yes, it is. A very valid one.’

  She waited, looking at him; he didn’t respond for a while. Then he said, ‘Well, Janey, I have a plan of my own.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you go – and I agree about the court battle, very bad for Dickon, and I don’t propose to initiate one – if you go, I have a plan of my own.’

  ‘Oh?’ She looked at him suspiciously, then saw he was entirely serious.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I shall open an office in Sydney.’

  ‘What? You’ll what?’ She was staring at him, clearly horrified.

  ‘I’m glad you like the idea. Yes, I like the place, and I like what Australians I’ve met. With one exception. And no doubt your new husband will make two – I gather he’s an Australian heading for home again.’

  ‘But Saul, your entire working life is based in London. All your contacts, your staff – surely, surely you need to be here?’

  ‘Not all the time, no I don’t. I’ve thought about it a lot. The terrible flight that people make such a fuss about doesn’t bother me – I find the plane a perfect place to work, and I have no idea what this thing called jet lag is about. I actually think it’s been invented by a load of hypochondriacs. Of course I’ll keep the office here and spend a great deal of time here, but I want a base near Dickon. I shall miss him . . .’ His voice shook and he stopped talking for a moment, took a gulp of his beer, then said, ‘I really don’t know how you can do this, Janey, take him away from his friends, his school, me . . .’

  She was silent.

  ‘Anyway, you’re not taking him away from me entirely, this way. We can still spend plenty of time together: all the school holidays, of course – I know the Australian schools have four terms a year – and plenty of weekends, and it’s wonderful sailing out of Sydney harbour . . . No, no, my mind is made up . . .’

  She left soon afterwards, visibly shaken. Saul went to join the boys and found them playing what seemed to him a most unsuitable game. He switched the console off.

  ‘Oh Da-ad!’

  ‘No, no, it’ll give you nightmares. How about a game of snooker?’

  Then, when they had gone to bed, he went downstairs and poured himself another beer. It had been amusing, seeing Janey’s reaction. God, she must hate him. Well, he’d given her a very hard time; and she would no doubt see his remaining in her life as a continuation of it. He wondered if her decision to move to Australia had been a bid for freedom from him; if so, she’d failed.

  He was aware that when the lawyers heard of his new plan it would weaken his case, strengthen hers, but he didn’t care. As long as he remained in Dickon’s life, he had discovered, he didn’t care about anything much. Besides it wouldn’t be such a hardship because it was true, he had liked what he had seen of Australia – liked it a lot. And – of course – it would solve another problem he had. Very neatly.

  Susie and Jonjo were to watch the river pageant from an apartment on the Thames, just upriver from Waterloo Bridge. It belonged to a friend of Jonjo’s, and the great sheets of window opened on to a balcony; it was, like the rest of her life Susie thought happily as she tried to decide what to wear, too good to be true. Would red, white and blue be corny – she had a new white sweater from Joseph, a pair of very narrow red jeans, and a blue jacket, just for instance, or just the white sweater and blue jeans, and possibly a red decoration in her hair? Or should she play it cool and wear – well, green, or a new cream dress she’d bought from Reiss – very Mrs Cambridge. She settled on that, thinking she could put a red cardigan into her bag. The friend’s wife, Hester, was lovely, but a bit of an airhead, and very much a fashion plate, and she didn’t want to let Jonjo down. There were to be about twenty of them, most of whom Susie didn’t know, and she was a little intimidated by them, they were all so bloody rich – they’d been to a wedding the week before with over three hundred guests in some massive country pile which she honestly hadn’t enjoyed very much; it was so impersonal, and she never even got to speak to the bride and groom. She was a bit afraid Jonjo would want something similar. In fact, she was almost certain he would. He had clearly been impressed by the wedding, and had said at least twice that it would give them lots of ideas for their own. It was her one anxiety at the moment. A perfect wedding to her was a party, with family and friends, not a blatant display of extravagance. But if that was what Jonjo wanted . . .

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ said Jonjo, coming over to her and giving her a hug as she stood at the window, staring out at the cold grey day. The Greater Power seemed to have lost interest in the Queen of England’s Jubilee and left the weather to its own devices . . .

  ‘How much I love you,’ she said truthfully.

  ‘And I was thinking how much I loved you. So there’s a thing. Now buck up, we can’t be long; they’re closing the roads at midday.’

  ‘And what time do they get to us?’

  ‘About three thirty, I think. I thought we’d go to the Savoy and have a drink on the river terrace before we go to the party. And then walk across the bridge, get a bit of atmosphere. How’s that?’

  ‘Lovely idea. Oh my God, I’m so excited. Do you know there’s a thousand boats in the procession. I know I’m going to cry.’

  ‘Cry! Whatever for?’

  ‘I always cry at occasions like this. They’re such emotional occasions – everyone joining in together, everyone wishing the Queen well, and loving her – oh dear, I’ve started already!’

  She blinked her tears away, gave him a watery smile.

  ‘Heavens,’ said Jonjo. ‘I seem to be in love with a lunatic.’

  It was amazing on Waterloo Bridge; a sea of flags and people smiling and a huge wave of affection and pride that was tangible. Nobody seemed to mind being jostled or held up, nobody seemed to mind anything. They had been standing there for hours and many of them had camped out in the freezing cold; the fact that there were hours still to go seemed not to bother anybody. Susie h
alf wished they could stay there and watch it. Leaning over the parapet, just a few feet above the water, she felt part of it, part of this huge, loyal crowd, so many nationalities, all proud of the Queen and her day, wishing her well. It was a bit like the small, friendly wedding as opposed to the flashy one . . .

  ‘Come on,’ said Jonjo, ‘it’s bloody freezing – you’ll get pneumonia and then what will I do?’

  ‘Marry someone else, maybe?’ said Susie, reaching up to kiss him.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘never, ever, not in a million years. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Susie, don’t start crying. It’s much too early.’

  The party was fun: and warm. And dry – it was beginning to rain. They watched the start of the pageant from Chelsea Pier, saw the royal guests go on board, ferried out in the launch from the royal yacht Britannia, the Queen at her best in white, the Duke still handsome in his full naval uniform, the princes in theirs (although Harry’s blue beret was generally felt to be less than flattering). The girls all admired Kate’s red dress, the men all admired Kate. Hester’s mother who was there admired Prince Charles, and they all gasped at the incredible royal barge, all red and gold, as she set sail and led the procession of a thousand boats, large and small, down what had become, for a few amazing hours, a royal highway. And as it passed beneath each bridge the church bells in the surrounding area all rang out and mingled with the cheers. Susie, watching the television, surreptitiously mopped her eyes and saw the uber-cool Hester doing the same thing.

  ‘I’m so glad you cry too,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t stop today,’ said Susie.

  ‘Me neither. And – tell me, you work for Farrell’s cosmetics, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I do.’

  ‘Were you anything to do with that amazing event the other day? I logged on because I follow them on Facebook a bit and I’ve bought a few things from them occasionally. Anyway, I watched that global launch thing. So clever . . .’

  Susie said modestly she had been a bit to do with it. ‘But only the PR, that’s what I do.’

  ‘Oh, really? What fun. Anyway, I’m going to go to the shop in the Berkeley Arcade next week, and then we’re off to Paris at the weekend, so I thought I’d go and see the one there. Such a good idea.’

  There was no doubt it had made its mark. Susie felt a pang of intense pride and then Jonjo sat down beside her.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine thank you.’

  ‘Good. Budge up, I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ll leave you,’ said Hester. ‘Susie and I have been crying together.’

  ‘No, no need.’

  But she went anyway.

  ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ He picked up her hand and studied her ring. ‘You still pleased with that?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘I’m thinking of giving it back. Of course I am, you idiot! I adore it.’

  ‘Good. Well, all this pageantry has got me thinking. About weddings and so forth.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like it to be quite soon, Susie, I don’t want to hang about – I thought maybe early autumn.’

  ‘But, Jonjo, that’s only three months off!’

  ‘I know. Does it matter?’

  ‘Well – there’s a lot to organise.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well yes. I mean, think of that one we went to the other day.’

  ‘Yes, I imagined that was the sort of thing you’d want. It was rather splendid. Would that take so much organisation?’

  ‘Fraid so. Look, I know about functions, they’re a big part of my job. Venues, dates, catering, flowers . . .’

  ‘OK. Well, it can be a bit later on. Just as long as it takes.’

  She took a deep breath. Even if he was disappointed, it seemed very important suddenly.

  ‘Honestly,’ she said, ‘I’d rather it wasn’t like that.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Really? But it’s your big day, you want something to remember, so—’

  ‘It’ll be my big day,’ she said, ‘because I’m marrying you. Even if there was no one there, I wouldn’t care.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘oh, I see. Are you – are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said smiling, ‘I’m absolutely sure.’

  ‘Good God! I thought – I mean – well, in that case maybe I should tell you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Patrick and Bianca have offered their house for our wedding, the one in the country. But I turned it down.’

  ‘Why?’ said Susie. ‘I’ve seen pictures of it, it’s lovely.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really very big. Or grand or anything.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well – well . . .’ He seemed to be waking up after a big sleep. ‘I see. Well, it is terribly pretty. And we could have a marquee in their paddock, Patrick said.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful to me,’ said Susie.

  ‘Really? Well, it did to me too.’

  ‘So why didn’t you at least consult me about it?’

  ‘Well, because of all the things I just said. I thought you’d want a big number.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No. No. I don’t. Not really. I hated that thing the other day to be honest. I’d like family – well, I’d like some of them, my sister and her husband and her children and my mum—’

  ‘You have to have your dad too.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘And my stepmother?’

  ‘Fraid so.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, all right, family. And then just a few special friends. Say about – I don’t know – fifty each. Altogether I mean. That’s my idea of a wedding. I just didn’t want you disappointed.’

  ‘Jonjo,’ said Susie, putting her arms round him and kissing him, ‘I will not be disappointed. And,’ she added severely, ‘this is not a good omen for our marriage.’

  ‘Why?’ He looked alarmed.

  ‘You mustn’t go assuming things about what I want.’

  ‘You were assuming them too.’

  ‘That’s true. OK. Sorry. Is it too late to have it at their house?’

  ‘Of course not. They’ll be well chuffed.’

  ‘Wonderful. Then let’s.’

  He kissed her, then sat back, studying her face. ‘Oh God,’ he said.

  ‘What? Do I look awful? Has my mascara run?’

  ‘A bit. But that’s not what I was thinking. I love you so much, Susie Harding. So very much.’

  ‘And I love you, Jonjo Bartlett. So very, very much.’

  At which point the procession reached them. They went over to the window holding hands. Teeming rain had set in.

  ‘So mean of it,’ said Susie – and insisted on going out into it, out on to the balcony, and waving and shouting and getting completely soaked; the others all teased her and then most of them joined her. Including Jonjo. And it was truly incredible: big boats, small boats, tugs, barges, small row-boats (they made her cry the most), the armada of sea cadets, with their guttering flags, the Maori canoes and a group of what looked like old fishing trawlers.

  ‘They were the ones who went across to Dunkirk and rescued our troops,’ Hester’s mother said, wiping her own eyes, ‘some even smaller than those.’

  And then: ‘Oh my God, look at them,’ said Susie as a final barge went past carrying the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra or some of it, and singers from the Royal College of Music, voices uplifted, undaunted by the rain. And she looked up at Jonjo and saw that his face was wet.

  ‘You’re crying!’ she said.

  ‘No I’m not,’ he said, ‘it’s the rain.’

  But Susie knew differently. And whether it was the singers, the occasion or simply on account of their recent conversation, she absolutely didn’t care.

  Bertie and Lara watched the pageant for a while on television, and then went out to a party that was being held in the str
eet. Flags were in practically every window, red, white and blue baskets of flowers hung from every lamp post, sat on every table, and tables and benches lined the entire length of the street for the children to sit at, and some enterprising person had found canopies to shelter them from the rain. Lara, who seemed to know almost everybody there, had made dozens of sausage rolls and a cake as her contribution to the party, and wandered up and down, chatting to everyone, including the children, occasionally leaning over to take a handful of crisps or one of her sausage rolls; most of the adults were doing the same, while drinking a great deal of what was on offer. The conversation was almost entirely limited to platitudes: admiring remarks about the Queen, cheerful moaning about the weather, usually ending in ‘well, it makes us what we are, doesn’t it?’ and saying how wonderful it was to see the country all united in the celebrations.

  Someone had hired a small roundabout which was at one end of the street, and someone else a mini-bouncy castle which was at the other; an obliging ice-cream vendor had parked in someone’s front garden, and his signature tune mixed with the shrieks and the laughter, and frequent wails as balloons blew away.

  Bertie, who had never been even remotely involved in such a thing, both his mother and Priscilla considering themselves far above local affairs, was enchanted; he could have stayed there for ever, downing lager and Lara’s sausage rolls, teasing the children that he was going to eat all their food, blowing up balloons to replace the ones that were constantly blowing away, and chatting up the mothers. It was only when one of them, a busty girl wearing a great deal of make up, invited him to ‘come into the warm’ that he took fright and fled to Lara’s side. She said she’d been watching him and she should have warned him. ‘You take Sasha Timpson on at your peril. She sees saying “hello” as an invitation to bed.’

  ‘Blimey. I didn’t think I was going to get away alive!’

  Lara laughed, then looked at him thoughtfully and said, ‘I don’t think you should be exposed to the hazard any longer. Come on, Bertie, time to go inside. I’m bloody freezing and they’re packing up anyway. I wouldn’t mind you coming into the warm with me. If you fancy the idea . . .’