by Caro Fraser
‘Pity Aunt Sonia invited him, in that case. It’s going to throw the numbers out for bridge.’
Diana put out her cigarette. ‘Well, hurrah for that. I loathe blood sports. The rest of you can play bridge and I’ll take myself off to the Gaumont in Malton. Have you seen any films there yet?’
‘Sonia and I went to The Petrified Forest last week. I do so adore Bette Davis.’
And they sat talking of films and film stars until it was time for Meg to go and take tea to Henry’s studio.
The atmosphere at dinner that evening was richer and rounder than hitherto, now that the gathering of guests was complete. Sonia was queenly and serene. Haddon was still in an affable temper, and was a jovial host. The younger guests, possibly in anticipation of escape and gaiety later on, behaved with charming deference to their elders, so that even Cunliffe, now equipped with his new hearing-aid, basked in their flattery and became expansive. Charles Asher did not share in the light-hearted chatter of the others, but seemed content to listen and observe. After dinner the Haddons and Cunliffes played a few rubbers of bridge while the younger guests took themselves off to the drawing room to talk and smoke and play gramophone records. Madeleine excused herself and went to bed.
Eve got Dan up to dance, and they glided around the room, talking and laughing in low voices. Meg watched them from the sofa, thinking how effortlessly elegant Eve looked, how slim and white her hand, with its crimson nails, was on Dan’s shoulder.
Diana coaxed a reluctant Charles into dancing, too, and she sang along to the record in a thin, sweet voice as they moved in a slow foxtrot around the rug. She gave Charles a teasing smile, and glanced towards the others. ‘I say, everyone, did you know that Charles is going off to Spain to fight the Fascists in a few weeks? He told me just before dinner.’
Charles looked faintly embarrassed at the attention this provoked.
‘Why on earth would you want to go and fight in Spain?’ asked Dan. ‘It’s not your war.’
The song came to an end, and they sat down on the sofa while Diana went to hunt for another record.
‘The war against oppression, against Fascism, is everyone’s war,’ said Charles. His tone was mild, but the expression in his dark eyes was fierce. ‘The International Brigade is a brotherhood. Every man of conscience should be engaged in the struggle to free the working classes from the oppression of totalitarianism.’
‘That’s sheer Communist cant,’ observed Paul.
‘I can’t imagine you learn a great deal about Communism from the pages of the Daily Telegraph, sitting in the comfort of your club in St James’s.’
Paul smiled. ‘I take it that you think there’s greater truth to be found in the Daily Worker? There’s nothing constructive in that rag, just the irresponsible carping of people who never have been in power and are unlikely to be. Thank God.’
Paul’s smile and his words seemed to infuriate Charles. ‘Face up to it,’ he retorted. ‘The usefulness of the British ruling class is at an end. The moneyed classes are nothing more than parasites. Perhaps if you worked for a living you’d have a better idea of the social injustice that exists in this country. But I imagine you’d rather cling to your privileges than see improvement in the life of the ordinary man.’
‘Ah, the voice from the third-class carriage! As it happens, I’d sooner see this country governed by people with some sense of duty and tradition, than by a load of Communists without an ounce of patriotic blood in their veins.’
‘Frankly,’ said Dan, ‘I think going off to kill other people for political reasons is insane. Why does every European nation seem to be itching for another dogfight?’
‘Well, I’m itching for another dance,’ said Diana, ‘and I don’t want to hear any more of this stupid talk about wars. I’m going to put on another record.’
Paul, bored with the argument, turned to Dan and said, ‘I say, I’ve just had a thought about those flying ants you were talking about earlier. You know what it means, don’t you? The trout will be feasting tonight. If we go to the lake with a couple of rods, we’ll catch any number.’
‘Then why don’t we?’ said Dan.
The idea of a night-time fishing expedition enthused everyone. The political disagreement forgotten, they all went to the garden room to hunt up fishing tackle. Meg and Eve and Diana slipped on coats to ward off the evening chill, and the party set off, laughing and chattering, across the moonlit garden and through the fields to the trout pool.
3
SONIA’S GUESTS SPENT the next few days in pleasant relaxation. They had the gardens, the tennis court, the croquet lawn, the library and the billiard room to keep them entertained, to say nothing of one another, and the sun shone every day. Towards the end of the week Sonia decided they should take advantage of the settled spell of weather and venture out to picnic in the surrounding countryside.
Meg and Diana were summoned after breakfast to Sonia’s small private sitting room to discuss the details. Sonia spent each morning here conducting the household business, discussing menus with Cook, paying tradesmen’s bills, issuing invitations and answering letters. It was a charming room, dedicated to Sonia’s sole use, the walls distempered in a dégradé style, pale rose at the top darkening to deep Venetian red at the bottom, and filled with tasteful items – a Sèvres bowl full of roses from the garden, a low divan scattered with silk cushions, a portrait of Sonia by Haddon on one wall, a pewter jug filled with poppies on a bleached wooden table by the long window. The individuality of the various items hinted at Bohemianism, but Sonia’s sense of style lent a distinct and beautiful unity to all.
When she had announced the picnic project, Sonia explained the arrangements to Diana and Meg.
‘I should like you two to give some thought to the kind of food we should bring along. I’m sure you can come up with something adventurous and delicious, more than mere sandwiches. Do you suppose quails’ eggs are to be had in August? And we shall have to ask the men to sort out which cars to take. I thought of asking the Davenports to come along – you remember Constance Davenport, don’t you, Diana?’
‘That girl with the face like a pig that Paul and Meg and I always had to play with during the holidays?’
‘She’s quite a pretty girl now – well, after a fashion. I thought if we motored over to the woods just beyond Cutbush Farm on the other side of Malton – there’s the loveliest clover field, with beautiful views over the Downs. Cook says the weather is set to hold for the week, and she’s always right.’
After some further discussion, the girls left Sonia to her menus and letters and wandered out into the summer sunshine. They found Dan lounging in a chair on the terrace, smoking a cigarette.
‘I hope you’ve come to relieve my tedium,’ he said when he saw the girls.
‘I’m all for tennis,’ said Meg.
‘Excellent idea.’ Dan glanced at Diana. ‘Can we persuade you and Paul to a game of doubles?’
‘Oh, no thanks,’ said Diana with a yawn. ‘Too warm for all that.’
Meg smiled at Dan and squeezed his shoulder lightly. ‘Just you and me, then.’
He returned the smile. ‘I’ll see you on court in ten minutes.’
As he went up to his room, he wondered whether Meg might not be as unattainable as he’d begun to think. Having set his sights on her at the beginning of the house party, he had lately abandoned any hope of bedding her, since in his experience the sweetly virginal ones required painstaking seduction, and time was not on his side. Besides, she seemed utterly enthralled by Paul, who behaved towards her with a cumbersome gallantry which Dan completely despised, to the point where he’d pretty much decided that if Paul was that keen, he was welcome. In the time left, it seemed easier to resume the promising dalliance that he and Eve had begun back in London. But the touch of Meg’s hand on his shoulder a moment ago, the look in her eyes – perhaps he should reconsider. It would be amusing to put Paul’s toffee nose out of joint by stealing his girl from under it, so to sp
eak. And Meg was a more interesting challenge than Eve, who, he guessed, was there for the taking. With these noble thoughts coursing through his mind, he changed and strolled down to the tennis court.
*
Meanwhile, Madeleine had been despatched by Mrs Goodall to collect raspberries from the kitchen garden. As she wandered among the canes, her flaxen plait of hair swinging over one shoulder, methodically filling the large, white pudding basin that Cook had given her, Henry Haddon came across the courtyard, heading in the direction of his studio, and caught sight of her. Remembering what Dan had said the other day about what a wonderful subject she would make for a picture, he paused to observe her. After a moment he changed tack and headed towards the kitchen garden. Madeleine looked up, holding the basin with fruit-stained fingers as he approached, feeling her heart flare in the strange way it did every time she saw him.
‘Raspberries for tea, eh?’ Haddon inspected her for a moment, then said, ‘Come with me.’ He took the bowl from her and set it on the ground. ‘Come along.’ He strode through the orchard to his studio, Madeleine following.
Once there, Haddon roamed around, selecting and discarding various props. In the end, he settled on a simple wooden chair with a cane seat, which he placed a few feet from his easel.
‘Now, sit yourself down here.’
‘You want to paint me?’
‘That is the general idea.’
Madeleine sat down awkwardly, not sure what was wanted of her.
‘No, no,’ said Haddon, ‘not like that. Put your ankles together, your feet on one side. Lift your chin.’ Madeleine made some ineffectual movements, failing to achieve what Haddon desired. ‘Look, like this,’ he said impatiently, rearranging her arms, moving her fingers and her feet until her pose was more graceful.
‘Let’s turn you to the light – so.’ He moved her around, then stood back. ‘A little further round – that’s right. I want you looking back.’ He moved her torso, his long fingers pushing her gently into position. ‘Now’ – he lifted her wrist – ‘one arm on the back of the chair, so. As though you were glancing over your shoulder. As though you were waiting for someone. Do you understand?’ Haddon continued to adjust her pose, all the while murmuring instructions in his deep voice. With the toe of his sandal he manoeuvred her feet so that one was tucked behind the other, then lifted Madeleine’s forearm from the back of the chair.
‘Put your hand beneath your chin. That’s it – but still leaning back. That’s excellent. Very good.’ He stared intently. She was wearing a yellow button-through cotton sundress, with narrow shoulder straps, and he realised how much better the effect would be if one of the straps were to fall a little way from her shoulder.
‘Unbutton the top two buttons of your dress,’ he ordered.
Madeleine stared at him.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t look so alarmed.’ He stepped forward and deftly unfastened the buttons, tweaking the straps back a little way from her pale shoulders. Although he was deeply struck by the translucence of her skin and the wonderful contours of her face and neck as she tilted her head towards the light, every touch and thought was entirely without sensuality. She was merely an object to be arranged.
How different the experience was for Madeleine. As his hands grasped her body, moving her gently into position, tugging and shifting the folds of her dress, she felt her skin and her senses begin to glow with the warmth of being handled and moved by him, each touch lighting a small, soft fire within her. She felt a delicious inertia as he casually arranged her limbs and body.
Haddon stood back to survey her. She was perfect. He had posed her so that she was sitting half-turned, as though listening for some sound, a note of music, or some approaching footfall, the expectancy of her attitude touched with a light despair. He gazed at her for a moment, then came forward and lifted the plait of blonde hair from her shoulder. ‘How does this unfasten?’
Wordlessly, without losing her pose, Madeleine pulled off the ribbon, and let Haddon unplait her hair and spread it loosely over her shoulders. Her scalp prickled deliciously, and her skin felt silvery with sensation. She half-closed her eyes.
Haddon stepped back. ‘No, open your eyes. Look away. That’s right. Now, stay still.’
He sat on a stool, sketchpad on knee, and began to sketch with swift strokes. After ten minutes she felt her back begin to ache a little from the position she held, but each time she tried to shift to ease it, he would command her not to move. So she stayed as still as she could. She would steal a look at him from time to time, a warmth burning within the pit of her stomach. She felt an odd sense of power, posed as she was, while he drew busily, glancing up at her from time to time with an eagerness that seemed like hunger.
At last he put down his pad. ‘There. Excellent. You may sit round.’
Madeleine moved her body out of its pose. ‘Now,’ said Haddon, ‘I want you to come here each day and pose for me. I am going to paint you. Are you flattered?’
Madeleine hesitated. ‘Shouldn’t I ask Mrs Haddon first?’
‘I shall speak to her.’ Madeleine took her ribbon from the pocket of her dress and began to replait her hair. ‘I want you here every day at half ten. Now, off you go. Go on. Oh,’ he added, as Madeleine stood up, ‘I want you in that same dress each day.’
*
Avril was playing by the fountain when she saw Madeleine walking through the orchard from the direction of the barn.
‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.
‘Nowhere in particular,’ replied Madeleine.
‘Have you been in the place where Papa paints?’ Avril, who was forbidden to go to the studio for fear of disturbing her father, seized jealously on the possibility that Madeleine had somehow received special favour. The more her father ignored her, the more Avril longed for his time and attention. ‘Have you?’
Madeleine went over to the raspberry canes and retrieved the bowl of raspberries she had been picking.
‘Come on,’ she said to Avril. ‘It’ll soon be time for lunch.’ She took Avril’s hand and led her towards the house, while the child tugged at her hand, demanding to know what she had been doing in the studio and why. But Madeleine would not tell her, and eventually Avril gave up.
*
Distracted as he was by the pleasure of watching Meg’s lithe figure as she darted round the tennis court, Dan beat her by four clear games, towards the end winning point after point with perhaps unnecessary decisiveness.
‘Did you have to make such utter mincemeat of me?’ she asked, as they strolled back through the trees to the house.
‘What? Would you rather I’d let you win?’
‘Paul does.’
‘And don’t you find that mildly irritating? Or is his tennis just not that good?’
They had stopped on the path.
‘His tennis is wonderful,’ said Meg spiritedly. ‘He’s a superb athlete. I don’t think there’s a thing he can’t do well.’
‘You don’t have to defend your hero quite so ferociously. I’m aware of Paul’s many virtues. I just thought you might find it a tad patronising, being allowed to win.’
‘Oh, he doesn’t do it in that way. He just believes in… well, treating women a certain way. And he’s not my hero.’
‘Fine, I’ll let you win every game we play from now on, if you like.’
Meg swiped at a dandelion clock with her tennis racquet. ‘I’m not sure there’s much point in our playing any more.’ If anything, she looked even more desirable in her mild sulk, her eyes dark and troubled, her mouth pouting slightly.
Dan reached out and broke off a spray of wild roses from a nearby bush. He handed it to her with a smile. ‘A peace offering. Please don’t stop playing tennis with me.’
She smiled and took the roses. Sensing his moment, Dan leaned forward and kissed her. She drew back at first, startled, but he persisted, and she gave in, melting into his arms with delightful enthusiasm.
In the long moment of th
eir kiss, the first proper kiss Meg had ever known, it seemed to her that the world had shrunk to the little patch of dappled sunlight in which they stood, and all sound to the rustle of leaves and sleepy call of the wood pigeons. She felt as though she could happily stay with his mouth on hers for ever. A fire that felt like more than happiness flooded her body. Then from the house came the muffled clamour of the luncheon gong. Dan lifted his head. Meg remained motionless, her eyes still closed. Dan smiled and touched her nose lightly with his finger; her eyes opened.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’m ravenous. Let’s go in.’
For the rest of the day, Dan could sense Meg hovering. She behaved entirely normally, not seeking him out, not letting her eyes stray too often in his direction – but he was aware that she was thinking about him, waiting and hoping for another moment of intimacy. What interesting fires he seemed to have lit within her.
Teatime was a fluid affair, with tables and chairs laid out in the shade of the big horse chestnut tree, and people coming and going, idling over tea and sandwiches and cake, pausing in groups of conversation, then fragmenting and drifting off to the next pleasurable activity. The day was hot and still, with barely a leaf stirring.
Diana, not feeling like teatime chatter, took herself off to a nearby hammock with a couple of cucumber sandwiches and her book, where she swayed in happy solitude in the dappled afternoon light.
After a while the Haddons and Cunliffes departed, and Dan, Charles, Eve and Meg remained together on the grass, chatting. Paul was nowhere to be seen. Eve left the group and crossed the lawn to sit down on the grass by Diana’s hammock.
‘Bored?’ asked Diana.
‘I came to escape the game-playing between Dan and your ingénue friend, Meg. It’s getting a mite tedious.’
‘You sound peeved.’
