The Summer House Party

by Caro Fraser

  She stared at him. ‘How incredibly rude! There is absolutely no need to swear at me.’

  ‘There is every need. You are hell-bent on being so utterly, tediously conventional – but maybe that’s all you’re capable of.’

  ‘How can you pretend to love me and say that kind of thing?’

  ‘Because it’s the truth, and that is what love is about – something you have yet to discover.’

  ‘What would someone like you know about love?’ Meg got up. ‘You’ve turned into something unforgivable, Dan – a bore.’

  ‘I suppose you think that’s a smart, grown-up thing to say – like all the other smart, grown-up things you’ve been practising lately.’

  This was too close to the truth. ‘Now you’re just being nasty.’ She got to her feet. ‘I think I’ll drop in to see my aunt another time. Goodbye.’

  He watched her as she walked away. She was right. He was boring – boring and bitter. And it was all pointless, because no words he could use would change what she was going to do. He’d have been better off following his urges and trying to kiss some sense into her. But she had taken herself to a place beyond his reach.

  4

  ON THE DAY that Madeleine was to leave Woodbourne House, she waited until she knew that Miss Bissett and Avril were safely out of the nursery, and that Laura would be alone in her cot. She opened the door and went in, and approached the cot and looked down at Laura, lying fast asleep. From the day the baby was born – no, months before that – she had trained herself to feel nothing, to leave her care to others, and so for an instant Laura looked nothing more than another indifferent scrap of life. It was a good thing she’d never permitted herself to have any feelings for her, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to leave, as she was doing now. Yet the knowledge that this was her daughter, an ineradicable part of her, filled her with a painful sense of loss. She put out a hand and rested it on the blanket. Laura stirred, and Madeleine slipped her finger into the baby’s hand and felt the tiny fingers curl tight. All she had to do was pick her up and take her with her. Laura was hers. No one could stop her. The impulse was intense. But she was going to Yorkshire, to a job, to a life where she had no daughter, where she could be free to pretend all this had never happened. And that was just as well.

  She drew her hand away. What Dan had said was right. There was no better place for Laura than here. It was where she belonged, though no one would ever know why. She gazed at the baby, her sense of dispassion returning, then left the nursery and went downstairs to say goodbye to Mrs Haddon, and to leave Woodbourne House for good.

  *

  The news that Madeleine had agreed to leave Laura with Sonia, rather than have her put up for adoption, met with mixed reactions in the rest of the family. Meg thought it a wonderful arrangement, but Helen disapproved.

  ‘Sonia has allowed herself to get far too fond of the child,’ she told Meg. ‘What if Madeleine changes her mind in a few years?’

  ‘I hardly think that’s likely. As far as I know, she wanted to get away and make an entirely new life for herself.’

  ‘You can never be sure about these things. Besides, Avril won’t like having a rival for her mother’s affections. You may not know this, Meg, but after Avril was born, your aunt was terribly ill – not in a physical way, you understand. Henry tried all kinds of doctors, but none of them could help. It was months before Sonia would have anything to do with Avril. It did untold damage, of course. They’re not close in the way a mother and daughter should be. Avril is a difficult child, I grant you, but seeing her mother dote on this baby is hardly going to help. You mark my words.’

  *

  Helen’s presentiments turned out to be correct. Two weeks later, when Helen was staying at Woodbourne House, Paul and Meg were invited to lunch. It turned out that Avril had not taken kindly to the news that baby Laura was now to be a permanent presence in her life.

  ‘Effie actually found her putting stones into the pram the other day,’ Sonia told them. ‘Not large ones, of course, but large enough. And I’ve caught her pinching Laura. I really don’t know why she behaves so badly.’

  ‘She’s jealous,’ said Helen. ‘One can see why. Her position as the only child in the household has been usurped.’

  Meg glanced at Paul, who had been displaying signs of mild boredom ever since the subject of Laura had been introduced.

  ‘Anyway,’ Sonia continued, ‘I’ve decided to send Avril away to school. She’ll be seven this autumn, quite old enough. She needs to be with children of her own age, and to learn to socialise. It will be a wrench, of course, and I shall miss her dreadfully, but I am sure it will be good for her.’

  ‘Frankly, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Helen. ‘You may find that sending her away only makes things worse.’

  ‘Well, my mind is made up,’ replied Sonia firmly. ‘There have been times when I’ve thought Laura was hardly safe around Avril. I can’t have that.’

  *

  ‘I think my mother’s right,’ said Meg, as she and Paul drove back to London. ‘I’m not sure it’s wise of Aunt Sonia to be thinking of sending Avril away. It’s bound to make her even more resentful of Laura.’

  ‘What I do not understand,’ replied Paul, ‘is why that brat is afforded any recognition at all by Sonia, or by anyone else. It’s utterly beyond me.’

  Meg sighed. ‘She’s a baby, not a brat. Just because she was unfortunate enough to be born out of wedlock—’

  ‘It’s not a matter of misfortune. It’s a matter of loose morals.’

  ‘Babies don’t have morals.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. You know perfectly well I’m talking about her mother.’

  ‘Madeleine is not the first unmarried girl in the world to become pregnant. People do have sex, you know.’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about these things, but if we must, we must. Having sex outside marriage is simply wrong. That is a matter of Christian teaching.’

  ‘So that’s why we never have?’

  Paul was so astonished by this that he swerved into the side of the road and stopped the car. He turned to her. ‘I can’t believe you would contemplate such a thing. Would you really want to degrade yourself in that way, bring yourself down to her level?’

  Meg hesitated. This conversation had turned into the nearest thing they had ever had to a row, and while she was a little frightened of where it was going, she was also, in a clumsy way, quite sure of what she meant.

  ‘Would it really be so degrading? We love each other, and we’re going to get married, so why would it be wrong?’

  ‘Because sex belongs within marriage. Being able to wait for that sacrament, that day, is a measure of our restraint. We’re not animals, we don’t slavishly give in to our impulses.’

  Meg gazed at him. Never at any time, when he had kissed her, when they had lain curled up together on the sofa in his flat, had she felt the slightest danger of any uncontrollable impulses surging within him.

  ‘What impulses are you talking about?’ she asked.

  Paul looked away, turning the key in the ignition. ‘The normal kind. The ones men have.’

  ‘Men have?’

  The engine coughed heavily, then wheezed into silence. Paul turned the key again, and the engine coughed and laboured again. ‘Damn and blast!’ He gritted his teeth, turning the key over and over.

  ‘Women have impulses, too, as you call them. You know, Paul’ – she had to raise her voice above the labouring of the engine – ‘I sometimes wish you would stop being so jolly honourable and… and… Christian about everything! I wish you would just tear my clothes off and make love to me, right here and now! I wish you even wanted to!’

  ‘For God’s sake, I simply cannot have this ridiculous conversation now! I have to start the car!’ He got out and slammed the door, then rummaged in the boot for the starting handle. It had begun to rain. Paul inserted the starting handle and began to crank it. After a couple of turns h
e stood back, and the engine gave a promising chug, then died. Swearing, Paul cranked again, and after ten minutes in the rain and several more abortive attempts, the engine fired into life. Meg felt the tension in her body relax. Paul threw the starting handle into the boot and got back in. They sat in silence, the engine thrumming, rain pattering on the windscreen. Paul let the choke in, then turned on the windscreen wipers. Meg watched them as they swished back and forth. He put an arm around her shoulders, speaking gently.

  ‘My darling, this isn’t something we should quarrel about. I can wait for you. We will both be better people for having waited. I don’t want anything to spoil our marriage. I want it to be perfect.’

  He leaned across and kissed her. She returned the kiss, which was the usual pleasant, but decorous affair. The one time when she had sought to kiss Paul as Dan had once kissed her, his response had felt like a faint withdrawal, almost a reproach, and she had not persisted. If only he would show just one flicker of ardour, of genuine desire. She wanted so much to be wanted. But perhaps he meant what he said. He was a man of such genuine decency that for him, desire was probably not a thing he would allow himself to feel until their wedding night. This prompted another thought.

  She pulled away from him, looking candidly into his eyes. ‘I know a bit about life, Paul, and about men. Hasn’t there been anyone before me?’

  Paul let go of her. Without looking at her, he said, ‘Please, Meg, have some delicacy.’ Then he put the car in gear, glanced in the rear-view mirror, and pulled away from the side of the road. Nothing was said for the remainder of the drive to London.

  *

  Meg and Paul were married in early June at Chelsea Old Church, not far from Meg’s home in Cheyne Walk. Meg wore a dress of white silk, with a long veil falling from a headband of tiny rosebuds, and carried a bouquet of mixed white and pink roses and lily-of-the-valley. Her bridesmaids – Diana, Avril and two other cousins – continued the theme in dresses of rose silk. Avril threw a tantrum outside the church just before the service, which caused a delay of several minutes. After that, the service, with Guy Hitchens in attendance as best man, and Meg’s uncle to give the bride away, proceeded without a hitch. Dan did not attend.

  Paul and Meg were to travel to Scotland for their honeymoon, to spend a week at a Perthshire castle owned by a friend of Paul’s, so the wedding night was spent at the flat in Kensington. Diana had tactfully absented herself, but had ordered a few things in from Harrods and seen to it that the maid had prepared and left in the pantry a delicious cold supper and a bottle of wine.

  It was a relief for both of them, after the pressures and rituals of the wedding, to sit at the kitchen table in intimate solitude, eating supper and toasting their own happiness. They talked over the day, reflecting on its challenges, its absurdities, its pleasures. Both were glad it was behind them.

  ‘Heaven knows how Di got hold of this Semillon,’ said Paul, holding his glass up to the light. ‘It’s outstanding. I wouldn’t expect my sister to know one vintage from another.’

  Meg stirred the contents of the ice bucket. ‘The ice is melting already. It’s going to be a hot night.’

  This inadvertent reference to the hours that lay before them, freighted with the weight of sexual expectation, brought a brief silence, which both pretended not to notice. Paul reached out and caught Meg’s hand in his, rubbing the new wedding ring lightly with his thumb. ‘Mrs Latimer.’

  Meg smiled. ‘Mr Latimer.’ She reached across and kissed him, then sat back, studying his face. Such a serious, kind face. She had married a man of utter dependability, a man who could never commit a cruel deed or think a dishonourable thought. He would be a wonderful husband and father. In her mind, the future spread itself out like a sunny landscape, with Hazelhurst at its heart.

  ‘We should go to bed soon,’ remarked Paul, pouring the remainder of the wine into their glasses.

  Meg’s thoughts returned to the here and now, and she felt a little tinge of fear. She so wanted tonight to be perfect. If only she knew what Paul expected – or what she herself expected. No doubt Paul was experienced to some degree, which would make up for her own ignorance. She had often wondered at the anachronism which required that women should remain virginal until their wedding night, whereas men were expected somehow, somewhere, to have acquired sexual experience. It seemed to Meg that this gave men a somewhat unfair advantage.

  Paul stroked her hand again. ‘Meg?’

  ‘Mmm?’ She roused herself and smiled at him. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to go ahead of me. My dressing room is somewhat masculine, I’m afraid, but I hope it will do for tonight. Shall I take your case through?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Meg thought about the mysterious, unbroached sanctum of Paul’s bedroom, and suddenly wished that all this was happening somewhere, anywhere else.

  He leaned across and kissed her, then left the kitchen.

  Meg rose and went through to the drawing room. In the beautiful emptiness of the room, lit by the evening sun, she felt an unexpected sense of possession – not just of Paul, but of everything that came with him. This room, this spacious flat, a whole world beyond it, was now hers. But of course, it was as much Diana’s. For the first time, she weighed her position against Diana’s. She knew that Diana was entirely dependent on Paul. Their father, a man of antiquated views, had left his entire estate – which was a considerable fortune – on his death to Paul. Until such time as she married, Diana looked to Paul for a home, clothes, an allowance, all of which Paul gave generously and freely. These thoughts dwelt idly in Meg’s mind as she crossed the room and opened the long windows which looked out on to the garden square, letting in the warm summer air.

  Paul came into the drawing room and saw her at the window. He came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, stroking his thumbs lightly across the nape of her neck. She dipped her head, inviting further caresses; in the same instant she retrieved and put away the memory of Dan. But Paul merely patted her shoulders, dropped an affectionate kiss on her head, and said, ‘Give me a call when you’ve finished.’ He crossed the room and sat down on one of the sofas, picked up a copy of the Telegraph, and began to read. Meg gazed at him for a moment, then left the room.

  Paul’s dressing room was, as he had said, very masculine. On one wall was a closet full of suits, both town and country, with hats, scarves and gloves on a shelf above. Shoes were neatly ranged on a rail at the bottom, and cravats and ties hung on another rail inside the closet door. The tallboy, into which she also peeped, held shirts, underwear and socks, and on top of it sat a leather box containing studs and cufflinks, a pair of ivory-backed brushes, and a wooden rack of pipes. On the walls hung prints depicting the interiors of various London clubs.

  Meg opened her suitcase and took out her nightdress. It was of palest lemon chiffon, trimmed with lace, with a matching peignoir. She laid both garments across a nearby chair, and fished her toilet bag from the suitcase. She took off her going-away dress and hung it on a spare hanger in the closet, making space among the suits and overcoats. She paused there for a moment to inhale the tweedy fragrance of Paul’s clothes, and smiled. Then she kicked off her shoes and padded to the basin in her slip, where she washed her face, cleaned her teeth, and unpinned and brushed her long, dark curls. A feeling of excitement and nervousness lay in the pit of her stomach. Something about the size of the basin and taps reminded her of boarding school, and getting ready for bed on her first night there. She hesitated over face cream. She hated her skin to feel dry, but she didn’t want to go to bed with a greasy face. Not the best look for a wedding night. She made do with putting a couple of small dabs lightly on her forehead and cheeks and rubbing them well in.

  She gazed in the mirror at her reflection. Paul’s shaving brush and razor stood on the glass shelf beneath, part of the picture. They helped to make her look like someone’s wife, she thought. She looked down at her wedding and engagement rings, twisting them on her finger
s, then shrugged off her slip, took off her underwear, unfastened her stockings and suspenders, and stood naked. The air was warm enough for her to feel no chill, and the feeling of nakedness was delicious. She smoothed her fingers down over her hips, closing her eyes and relishing the sensation. She thought for a moment of going now, as she was, down the corridor and into the drawing room, offering herself to Paul. But in the same instant she could imagine him lowering his newspaper, and looking at her with an expression of quizzical surprise. No. Maybe some other time, when they had got to know one another in that way. But not tonight.

  She slipped on her nightdress, and the kiss of chiffon on her skin was almost as delightful as being naked. The folds of the nightdress floated about her as she turned, and she felt both sexual and graceful at the same time. This was better. She opened the closet door to admire her reflection full length. She knew she looked very lovely. She was not ashamed of enjoying the moment; she might never look this lovely again, might never be so intensely, physically aware as she was tonight.

  She slipped on the peignoir and went into Paul’s bedroom. It was spacious, carpeted in dark green, with a desk against one wall and a tall Chinese lacquer cabinet against another. The bed was a large four-poster with no canopy. At its foot stood a blanket box. Next to the desk was a bookcase; two of its shelves were entirely lined with copies of Wisden, and a series of hunting scenes decorated the walls. On the desk itself stood two framed photographs. One was of a handsome couple in Edwardian garb – Paul’s late mother and father, she guessed – and the other was of a group of young rowers on a jetty, some standing, some sitting, laughing in the sunshine. Paul was among them, his arm slung affectionately around the shoulders of a dark-haired young man. On the wall above hung a number of framed photographs of sporting teams from school and university. Meg studied these with interest. Paul appeared in them all, more often than not as captain, either holding a rugby ball, muddy and muscular, or looking dashing in cricket whites with a bat planted between his feet. Dan was in one of the cricket photos, standing in the back row looking diffident. Meg studied his features with interest, then realised what she was doing, and glanced away.