First Friends

by Marcia Willett

  ‘Oh, well. It just is, darling.’

  Cass was longing to know what, if anything, had happened in Lee. Since that weekend Tom had not been home and she had heard nothing from Harriet, not even her usual bread-and-butter letter or telephone call to thank Cass for the weekend. That in itself was significant. Cass could well imagine the difficulty of composing such a letter in the circumstances. Since her own wonderful Sunday afternoon with Nick in the Mallinsons’ cottage she was even more obsessed by him. Never before had Cass conducted an affair with a very experienced man who was a great deal older than she was. Her previous lovers were all naval officers, all men of her own age and all much of a type. A few months of knowing Nick had shown her that, although to begin with, military life tended to make young men grow up quickly, give them responsibility and mature them faster than their peers outside, it also protected them from ordinary life. Many of them found it difficult to cope without a book of rules and without the safety of the hierarchical parameters. To help them to deal with non-military situations they often tried to categorise civilians into senior officers, junior officers and lower ranks and then treated them accordingly which often caused resentment. They were used to a social life and a working environment which encouraged them to drink too much and often behave in a childish and irresponsible way when they were off duty. All this to Cass—having been brought up with the Army and having married into the Navy—was the norm and Nick was an overwhelmingly new experience. He fascinated her. His very differences made him interesting and, because they were new to her, the more acceptable and desirable. She was like a child with a new and absorbing toy and nobody was going to take it away from her.

  To know that Tom and Harriet were having an affair would ease her conscience. It would also keep Tom occupied. But how on earth was she to find out? She felt fairly confident that Harriet would give the show away quite quickly but she wasn’t so sure about Tom. It occurred to her that if she saw them both together, especially if they weren’t expecting to meet each other, she’d know at once. ‘Love and a cough cannot be hid.’ She’d read that in a book and it was probably true. She looked again at the postcard and realised that she had the means to hand. It seemed a bit cruel but at least she’d know where she stood. Nick, whom she had found to be a tender, exciting lover, had suggested a few days away together and Cass longed to go. Everything would be that much easier if she knew that Harriet and Tom were involved with each other. She turned the postcard thoughtfully in her hands. She would invite Harriet for tea on Sunday, by which time Tom would be home. Neither would know whether Tom’s telephone call or Harriet’s postcard had come first so she could pretend that it was all a great surprise. With luck, they’d be too shocked to think it through properly. Cass couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’

  ‘Nothing. Take your arm out of the butter and go and get dressed. It’s nearly eleven o’clock and Daddy will be home for lunch. Someone’s dropping him off. Have you got any plans for the weekend, darling?’

  ‘Nope!’ Oliver hauled himself out of his chair and wandered to the door. ‘I shall sleep and watch television.’

  ‘Honestly, Ollie! Anyone would think you were fifty. A good long walk with Gus would be much better for you. Children these days are so lazy. When I was your age . . . ’

  ‘Oh, Ma, don’t start on that! I bet at my age you were wearing a mini-skirt and lying about smoking pot. “If you go to San Francisco,” he sang, in a ghastly falsetto, whilst swaying his hips and rolling his eyes, ‘ “Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.” Were you a hippie, Ma?’ He vanished into the hall and Cass burst out laughing. She was pleased with her little plan. She studied the postcard again. Harriet had put a telephone number at the top and Cass decided to telephone now before Tom arrived.

  She dialled the number and waited. A man’s voice spoke in her ear, a lovely deep warm voice.

  ‘Oh, hello. Have I got the right number? I want to speak to Harriet Masters.’

  ‘Yes, she’s here. Who’s calling please?’ He made no effort to cover the receiver. ‘Harriet, it’s Cassandra Wivenhoe for you.’ There were fumbling noises and then Harriet’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Cass. You got my card then?’

  ‘Yes. It was a lovely surprise. Are you staying long and are we going to see you?’

  ‘Well, I shall be here for a week or so . . .

  ‘Splendid. We’re hoping that you’ll come and have tea tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh. Tomorrow? When you say “we,” do you mean . . . ? Have you . . . ?’

  ‘Well, the boys are home for the weekend, but you know what it’s like here, lovey, anything could happen. Oh, and do bring your friend, he sounds rather nice.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I’d have to ask him. Hang on a minute.’ Silence. ‘Hello Cass? Yes, thank you. We’d both love to come. About three, then?’

  ‘Lovely. See you tomorrow. ‘Bye.’

  Cass stood in the hall for a moment. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she might be opening Pandora’s box. Then she thought of Nick and her doubts fled.

  TOM, JOLTING ALONG IN Lieutenant Harrap’s Citroen Diane, was barely listening to the stream of chatter issuing from the lips of Angela Harrap who was driving them home. She and Peter were obviously delighted to have the Captain travelling with them and Angela was doing her best to play the part of a loyal naval wife whilst indicating, subtly, that she was an attractive woman in her own right and found him just as attractive. Shifting in the uncomfortable passenger seat, Tom reflected that he’d seen it done better. Anyway, he preferred a different approach. He remembered a woman at a cocktail party telling him that she considered that his job as Captain was purely an ego trip and that it disgusted her to see all his young officers, who did all the real work, fawning over him and treating him like some sort of deity. He’d taken her out to dinner afterwards, and later . . .

  Tom smiled reminiscently and glanced sideways at Angela: slight, dark, long legs stretched out to the pedals. Not unlike Harriet, he thought and his heart contracted. He’d tried to phone her last night from the Mess and at regular intervals thereafter and, finally, had assumed her to be away and given up. Certainly Cass had been right. When the first nervous moments had passed, Harriet had displayed a depth of feeling that Tom would never have guessed at. How well she had hidden it from him all this time. It had been rather touching and terribly flattering and it would have taken a stronger character than Tom’s to resist such an opportunity. After all, Harriet was a widow now and a free woman and was quite old enough to take responsibility for her actions. She knew that he was a married man and must realise that there was no future to it; nevertheless, it would be pleasant to have a compliant eager mistress living not too far away. Harriet was an old friend and there would be plenty of reasons for going to see her. He’d been tempted to rush off to Lee this morning but it was probably sensible to stay close to the boat. The First Lieutenant had been left on board but, nevertheless, Tom could be recalled at any time and, with the boat in his home port, it would be odd if he asked to be contacted anywhere else but at his own home and embarrassing if Cass discovered that the boat was in. He wondered when he would see Harriet again—they had agreed not to write to each other—and turned to smile at Angela. Dammit! He’d probably have to invite them in for drinks.

  AS THE VOLVO, WITH Michael driving, climbed up from Meavy on Sunday afternoon Harriet had a presentiment that the afternoon was going to prove a disaster. How could she face Cass now? It was one thing to tell oneself that Cass deserved some of the same treatment that she’d served out but quite another to feel justified in being the one redressing the balance when one was a mile or two from her front door. She remembered all Cass’s kindnesses of the past years: the hospitality, the support after Ralph’s death, and her spirit writhed within her. It didn’t help that she was now pretty sure that Tom was not the poor wronged husband that she had always believed him to be. He was taking it all too calmly, too natur
ally for that to be the case. During the years of blind infatuation she had talked herself into believing that it was almost her duty to rescue him from Cass, that she had a perfect right to show him what real love and loyalty was all about. When her conscience had pointed out that it was to Ralph and not to another woman’s husband that these admirable qualities should be displayed, she excused herself on the grounds that she had never really been in love with Ralph nor he with her and so it wasn’t the same. How easily we delude ourselves, rationalising and excusing our own failings, whilst seeing the weaknesses of others in such a clear, harsh and unforgiving light.

  She had told herself that the reason she had sent a postcard to Cass and put a telephone number on it was because she knew that Cass’s feelings would be hurt if she found out that Harriet was in the area without having let her know but the truth was that she hoped that Tom might find it and get in touch. Why had she promised not to write or ring? Surely a letter to the submarine would have been quite safe? Tom had been adamant, disquietingly so. It was another pointer that he knew quite well the rules of this particular game and had no intention of breaking them. Realising that she was being a very poor companion, Harriet pulled herself together and looked about her. Almost there: her heart jumped with nervousness.

  ‘It’s off to the right here,’ she said, hoping that her nerves didn’t show in her voice. ‘Just up past the church here and it’s those big gates. Just drive straight in. Oh, God. There’s Cass in the garden.’

  ‘Harriet. How lovely.’ Cass, who had been waiting to intercept them, hurried to the car and hugged Harriet as she climbed out.

  Would she be hugging me like this, wondered Harriet, if she knew that Tom and I had slept together? Everything has changed and I’m not going to be able to behave as I have done in the past. I shouldn’t have come.

  Michael was shaking Cass firmly by the hand and they were moving towards the house. Cass was wearing a blue twill skirt with a crisp white shirt and Harriet had never seen her look so well. She seemed to glow with superabundant health and well-being. Beside her, Harriet, in jeans and a sweater, felt positively dowdy, though Michael, in brown cords and a Guernsey, seemed totally unmoved. It was apparent that Cass approved of him and, as they went through the front door, she took an arm of each and guided them towards the sitting room.

  ‘Darling!’ she exclaimed, pausing in the doorway. ‘Look who’s here!’

  She felt Harriet’s arm stiffen beneath her fingers as Tom, who had been half asleep, rose from the sofa, the Sunday paper falling from his hands.

  ‘Harriet!’ He croaked rather than spoke her name and his face told Cass all that she needed to know.

  To Harriet the shock was total and she could neither move nor speak.

  ‘Isn’t this a lovely surprise?’ Cass smoothly bridged the awkward moment. ‘Tom phoned just after I spoke to you yesterday morning. He behaved so badly last time that I was afraid to tell him you were coming. But I know he always likes to see you, Harriet. And how nice to meet Michael. This is my husband Tom. Harriet’s staying with Michael at Tavistock, darling.’ She let this sink in, whilst Tom and Michael shook hands. ‘And now, what about some tea?’

  ON MONDAY MORNING TOM, having watched Cass out of the house, came quietly downstairs and into the kitchen. Where was that postcard? He must, absolutely must, contact Harriet. It had been the worst afternoon Tom could ever remember, with Cass playing the role of the devoted wife, Harriet brittle and unapproachable, the friend Michael, detached, observant—and how close a friend was he, dammit?—even the children had conspired to make it hell. Gemma, conscious, as always, of an audience had clung to him, sat on his lap, kissed him repeatedly instead of ignoring him as she usually did. And Oliver . . . well, to be fair, Oliver hadn’t been too bad. He had played the dutiful son entertaining his parents’ fuddy-duddy old friends and it was he who had mentioned the postcard. It had, apparently, a Victorian reproduction picture for which Oliver had invented a rather amusing caption. He had told Harriet about it and how he liked doing the same thing with the cartoons at the back of Punch. The postcard had been fetched to prove his point and Harriet’s address remarked on. Now where the hell was it? Not on the hall table at any event. And then Charlotte, who was so moody lately one hardly dared speak to her . . . At the recollection Tom shook his head in disbelief. She had breezed in, face wreathed in smiles, positively bubbling over, helped people to cakes and tea, chatted brightly. They couldn’t have presented a more united family front if they’d been practising all year.

  Tom reached up to the high shelf above the Aga, a favourite place for bits and pieces.

  ‘Are you lookin’ for somethin’, sir?’

  Tom jumped, barked his knuckles and swore. Mrs Hampton stood behind him looking concerned.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Hampton. I didn’t hear you.’ He nursed his bruised hand. Damn the woman, creeping about instead of getting on with her work. ‘Don’t let me interrupt you.’ He left the kitchen quickly to resume the search elsewhere.

  Mrs Hampton watched him go and then took from her apron pocket the postcard she had found whilst turning out the drawing-room. Halfway down the side of the sofa it had been. She studied the picture thoughtfully and then reversing it read the message. After a moment she placed it where Cass always stood postcards and the like—on the high shelf above the Aga.

  UPSTAIRS IN HER BEDROOM Charlotte, who had a day off to revise for her O levels, moved to and fro sorting out her clothes. Since Hugh’s telephone call yesterday morning to invite her to a school fête next weekend followed by a party she had been overflowing with joy. She was not to know that she was being invited because Lucinda couldn’t go, and she was happier than she had been for many months. She had allowed herself to be taken to look at several schools—including Blundells—and had agreed to think seriously about boarding. Her name was down provisionally, her place dependent on the result of her exams in a few weeks’ time. She had decided that sulks and moods were getting her nowhere and that, at present, it was best to be compliant. She was waiting for Tom’s leave, for an opportunity to talk to him seriously about how she felt. Slowly Hugh was making her feel that to take her A levels and go to university was a sensible, adult thing to do and she longed to do and be all the things he would want. She knew that she’d behaved badly at his sister’s party and wanted to prove to him that it had just been a bad moment and that she was perfectly capable of being sensible. She was still unhappy at the idea of being away from home but Guy and Giles would be starting in the sixth form at the same time and Hugh had suggested that she might like to visit him in Bristol and altogether it seemed about time that she considered her future carefully. She was still concerned about Cass, sure that she was up to something, although she wasn’t quite sure what and she was keeping an eye on her. Meanwhile there was Hugh and next weekend and the long summer holiday to look forward to.

  So Charlotte sang to herself as she planned what to wear in five days’ time when she saw Hugh.

  HARRIET LAY IN BED gazing sightlessly at the ceiling. She had heard Michael leave and even now, several hours later, couldn’t summon up the energy to get up. What was the point? She felt sick with horror every time she thought about yesterday’s tea-party, re-living it over and over again, as if it were a film being projected on to the ceiling above her. What had seemed so romantic all these years and had been so delightful an idyll for those few days in her own home in Lee, had rather a different guise when looked at in the cold light of day. Cass, surrounded by her family, had made her feel cheap, grubby. And Tom’s face . . . Harriet groaned aloud and pulled the sheet over her head in an effort to shut out the pictures. She jumped violently as the shriek of the doorbell tore through the cottage followed by the barking of Michael’s dog. She found that she was trembling as she pulled on her dressing-gown, thrust her feet into slippers and hurried down the stairs. Maybe Cass had come to confront her, or ma
ybe Tom himself. She dragged open the front door and gazed in bewilderment at the postman.

  ‘Parcel to sign for.’

  Silently Harriet took the proffered pencil in nerveless fingers and signed shakily, aware of the postman’s interested gaze.

  ‘Sorry to get you up, missis.’ He was smiling openly now. Oh, God. He must think that she and Michael . . .

  ‘No, no. I was up, actually. Mr Barrett-Thompson isn’t here at the moment. I’ll give it to him when he gets back.’ She could see that he didn’t believe a word of it. Well, who cared?

  She shut the door, put the parcel on the hall table and went into the kitchen. Max, the huge Newfoundland, emerged from the utility room off the kitchen and looked at her. His tail waved languidly in greeting before he sat down with a deep sigh, resting against the door jamb. Max never stood when he could sit, or sat without leaning against something.

  ‘Oh, Max.’ Harriet looked at the great dog with his benevolent expression and kindly eye and her misery seemed to overwhelm her. Kneeling beside him she threw her arms round his neck and, burying her face in his abundant coat, burst into tears. Max was quite equal to this sort of thing. People were always hugging and stroking him, exclaiming at his size, remarking on his coat and admiring his general demeanour. He found the burden of being so wonderful very tiring and he sighed again deeply.

  Harriet stood up, wiping her eyes on a tea-towel, and Max, worn out by his output, lay down with his head between his paws.

  ‘I must pull myself together,’ Harriet told him and he cocked an eye at her. Was she moving towards the biscuit tin? No, merely toward the kettle. He rolled on his side and prepared to sleep. Barking at the postman always exhausted him.

  Harriet made coffee wondering how Max, even while unconscious, managed to exude comfort. Whilst she was drinking her third mug of coffee the doorbell shrieked again causing her to start and bang the mug against her teeth.