by Clare Curzon
‘Damn Aidan’s plans; what about your own? You must get yourself a life, Leila. It’s more than time.’
‘Well, I have the shop. I’m really grateful to Uncle Charles for setting me up with that.’
Janey grimaced. ‘It wasn’t what I’d hoped he would pick on, but you know Charles: two years ago the lease was up for grabs and property hereabouts gets more valuable every year. He felt it was too good to pass up. But running a shop doesn’t exactly stretch you, does it?’
Leila smiled. ‘It’s a bit like that fully-stocked doll’s-house he gave me when I was ten.’
‘And you should have been five. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been around then, my dear.’
Leila laughed. ‘You certainly know how to work on him.’
‘I don’t manipulate, Leila. I simply tell him what I’d prefer. Like that dress account he opened for me. I really didn’t need it, so once I’d explained he cancelled it and gave me carte blanche at the bookshop instead. Much more sensible. I’m sorry I can’t take you for a new swish outfit again, but do let me have a list of what you fancy reading.’
By now Janey had slid off the table, seized some tongs and was arranging roast potatoes for her in a ceramic dish. ‘These are crisped perfectly, Leila. Oh, I do enjoy eating what someone else has cooked.’
Leila reached out and hugged her. This plain-faced little woman dressed as a middle-aged flowerchild was one of the most comfortable people she knew.
At lunch Janey left the men to do the talking, only piping up during the dessert with a question to Leila about picking up her studies again. It had the effect of halting the others’ conversation.
‘I should hardly think she’d want to do that,’ Aidan decided.
‘She needn’t do it at your college. Why not the Open University?’
‘Yes,’ Charles agreed wickedly. ‘If she keeps it dark you won’t lose face, old man. How about it, Leila? I was sorry you never went on to get your degree. Whatever happened to your early thirst for history?’
The truth was it had got crowded out. Her special fascination was with pre-colonial Africa, and she’d hoped to spend a few years out there in research. Aidan and marriage had put paid to that.
‘Maybe it wasn’t all that pressing,’ she offered. ‘I hadn’t actually fixed my options for if I graduated.’
‘Not if: when,’ her uncle said staunchly.
‘A piece of paper!’ Aidan cried scornfully. ‘One advantage of passing through the entire academic process is learning that degrees and diplomas aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. But of course you must acquire them to dare point out the fact.’
As Janey mumbled into her plate Leila thought she caught ‘ …pissing from a great height.’
When they had consigned the china and cutlery to the dishwasher the two women rejoined the men who had decided on a local stroll. ‘We’ll see what your new neighbourhood’s like,’ said Charles benignly.
‘Beech woods and farmland in that direction,’ Aidan offered at the foot of the drive, squire-like and waving a fancy walking-stick. ‘The village is over to your right. Though village or town, we haven’t quite decided yet. Anyway there are shops and dwellings, pubs and churches, bus and train stations. That sort of thing. Leila tells me there’s even a Tuesday market.’
By common consent they turned left where the road began to twist and narrow, descending between over-arching beech trees.
‘Deer? You really get wild deer?’ Janey cried in delight, pointing to the roadside warning.
Leila nodded. ‘Now and again. They don’t gallop about as the sign shows. A lone one will just stalk across the road, very dignified and snooty. That’s why motorists need to cut speed. Let’s go through that gate and strike off into the woods, then we can work back in a circle.’
The roundabout route took a good hour and a half, including a twenty-minute lounge on the sunbaked grass of a large clearing. Then they climbed steeply between silver birches and oaks to a wicket gate in a barbed wire fence. Beyond it were signs of a community presence. An asphalt path, shaded to one side by an avenue of tall lime trees, opened on the other to a sports field where a cricket match was in progress.
‘Bless my soul!’ declared Charles as a fielder came streaking towards their boundary, hands cupped for a catch. ‘Surely that’s a …’
‘A woman,’ Janey completed. ‘They’ve picked a mixed team. I wonder how well she bats.’
‘We’ll never know. According to the scoreboard this is the second side in.’
They strolled around two sides of the field to bring them close to a tiny pavilion. About twenty relatives and friends were sprawled in deck chairs or on the grass to cheer on what were clearly scratch teams kitted out in a wide variety of whites. On folding tables among the spectators were scattered the remains of a picnic lunch.
The scoreboard, a clumsy, wheeled affair with slots for figured cards was being managed by a plump girl rising on tiptoes to record the runs. ‘Nineteen required to win,’ she shouted and the little crowd ad libbed with cheers or groans.
‘Theess,’ said a tall, rangy young man in a battered panama, carefully placing tongue between teeth to achieve the unnatural Anglo-Saxon double consonant, ‘ees a crehzy ghem.’
Leila smiled at him. He had a long, droll, sad-clown face with a hint of crescent-moon to the profile. When he was older, she imagined, nose-tip and chin would grow closer, with the wide, loopy grin trapped in between. A humorous Mr Punch with an Inspector Clouseau accent, almost too Gallic to be true.
He rolled his eyes at the newcomers, waving an arm towards the field. ‘Can sohmwohn explehn to me pleess ow it works? I think per’aps there are some roools about the weather. But today it as not rhenned and so the ghem goes on forever.’
‘It just feels like that, Pascal,’ said the plump girl briskly, and as a shout went up from the field, ‘Oh Lord, was that a four or a six?’
Flat-bellied, in baggy cream flannels of ancient vintage stopping two inches short of his ankles, and topped by an immaculate white silk shirt, the Frenchman must surely be dressed for play. ‘How many did you make?’ Leila enquired of him.
‘Do not ask. I just ‘it at the ball when I see eet and I nearly knock out the uhmpire.’
‘He got forty-seven,’ said the plump girl kindly. ‘He went in as number five and he may have saved their day.’
But he hadn’t. As they watched, his team’s score rose bravely by singles and a couple of fours until with a howl from the watchers the heroic schoolboy batsman was run out.
Their last man stomped in. He must have been eighty but he squared his shoulders, hit out low and took a single, leaving the other batsman to lose the match with an easy catch to square leg.
‘So who is playing?’ Charles demanded amid the applause and cheerful commiserations.
‘Acrefield Way,’ said the plump girl. ‘We have this match every year in June, and a return one in September. One side of the road plays the other; the odds against the evens.’
‘And which has won?’
‘We did,’ she said, total partisan. ‘Evens, of course.’ Stumps were being drawn as batsmen and fielders came streaming back to surround them.
Charles was grinning as he poked Aidan in the ribs. ‘Go on, admit to everyone that Acrefield’s where you live. Next year we’ll see you out there with your pads strapped on, showing what a Blue can do.’
‘You know I detest all sports,’ Aidan muttered. ‘And anyway our house has a name, not a number.’
‘You really are -’ the plump girl asked, ‘the new folks at Knollhurst?’
‘Yes,’ Leila admitted happily. ‘And now we can meet our neighbours.’
‘Wohnderfoool,’ said Pascal, savouring the word. ‘You leeve on the sehm side of the road as myself. Welcohm to the loozairs.’
They were toasted with flat lager, plied with leftover sausage rolls and the offer of sandwiches drily curling under the scorching sun.
‘A true villa
ge community,’ boomed Charles, enjoying Aidan’s embarrassment at being surrounded by locals he’d had every intention of staying aloof from.
‘Look, we have to get back. I’ve things to do,’ Aidan reminded Leila tetchily.
Charles beamed back at him. ‘If you must. I think I’ll stay on for a bit; circulate and get to meet folks, don’t y’know. So thanks for a great lunch, and we’ll pick you both up Tuesday at eleven on the dot. Best bibs and tuckers, eh? Cheerio then.’
‘Tuesday,’ Leila agreed, kissed them both warmly and followed in her husband’s wake. Tuesday would be fun. Tuesday meant the thrill of Ascot, and forecasts promised that the good weather would continue unbroken.
“Swish” was what the fashion-blind Janey had called the expensive suit. Three years old now, it was still Leila’s favourite, folded away in tissue paper between the rare special occasions when she graced it. And now, with the invitation to Ascot, already she’d be wearing it twice in four days.
Its pale shade was the same “apricot creme” that filled the hand-made Belgian chocolates at the shop. The jacket was long and beneath it the short, floaty skirt’s handkerchief points drew attention to slim legs and delicate matching sandals.
The fine straw hat, however, was new this year, wide-brimmed and translucent. A classic: nothing idiotic or eye-catching.
Anyway it was Janey who would turn heads, with her strange assembly of charity shop cast-offs. One sure bet was that she and her outfit would later feature in some glossy colour magazine, falsely attributed to one of the famous way-out designers.
Owning one leg of a horse that was running in the three o’clock, Charles was persona grata in the saddling enclosure, chatting almost knowledgeably with jockey and trainer. Although the syndicate’s newest member he was the only one present that day. The chestnut gelding, satin-coated and inclined to prance, was drawn number four.
‘It won’t win,’ Charles forecast breezily, ‘but we should back it as encouragement. Good lad, that jockey. He’ll give it what it takes. Meanwhile let’s get back to our box for some strawberries and bubbly.’
On the way they encountered a knot of Charles’s City friends, then the crowd opened as the royal party came through.
‘Ello,’ said a voice above Leila’s hat and she looked up to recognize Pascal of the cricket field. Today, elegance personified, he was escorting two exquisite young women, one on each arm. He detached them and reached for Leila’s hand.
‘Oh, hello. We were admiring my uncle’s horse. Number four,’ she gabbled, for some reason feeling shy at the encounter.
‘Then we mohst certainly back eet.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that.’ She felt her face flushing, caught at a loss among these sophisticates. Now they would imagine Charles owned the whole horse.
‘Yoor ohncle?’
‘Yes, he —’ She looked around, discovered his party had moved on and that she was stranded alone. ‘Look, I’m so sorry. I have to catch them up.’
His eyes were laughing at her. ‘We shall meet again.’
‘I hope so.’ Now why did she say that? A smile would have sufficed. She nodded to the women, turned and fled.
The rest of the day was enthralling. Quincunx, their number 4, appropriately came in fourth, to Charles’s great delight.
‘Why Quincunx?’ she asked him as their car slowed, manoeuvring through the homegoing throng. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It’s a pattern,’ he explained. ‘Five dots: four arranged in a square with one at the centre. Like a five in dice or dominoes. But he’s called that because he was by White Domino out of Queen Mab. Quin for queen: sort of pun, d’you see?’
‘He should have drawn number 5 then,’ Janey suggested airily. ‘Maybe the 4 confused him.’
‘If he’s that numerate,’ Charles said damningly, ‘he’d’ve likely seen fit to come in fifth. As it is, I’m well pleased for a start.’
But Pascal won’t be, Leila thought. I wonder how much he lost? Why on earth did I allow him to bet on Charles’s latest fad?
Chapter 6
Two days later Leila was expecting a grocery delivery, but when she opened the back door it was to Pascal nonchalantly leaning there, a bone-china teacup held out like a begging bowl. ‘I do not recall,’ he said, his brow furrowed, ‘eef eet ees flour or sugar I am supposed to run short of. These British social nuances are a leetle difficult to pick ohp.’
She found herself responding to the laughter dancing in his eyes.
‘According to the TV commercials you’re hoping to share my instant coffee. Anyway, do come in.’
She was aware of Hetty Chadwick’s vigorous vacuuming upstairs suddenly hushed and suspected that the twice-weekly cleaner was leaning over the banisters to listen. It was unfortunate that he had chosen one of her days to call, but at least his arrival offered Leila the chance to apologise for her gauche retreat at Ascot.
He heard her out and nodded. ‘I could forgeeve your horry on one condition,’ he told her sombrely. ‘Eef you will please accept a spare ticket for Wimbledohn next week, Friday on Centre Court. I know it ees ard on the neck, but the strawberry cream teas mehk up for eet.’
She couldn’t accept, of course. One spare ticket meant that he didn’t pretend to invite Aidan too. ‘Why me?” she asked. ‘I’m sure you have lots of friends who would love to take you up on it.’
‘But I wish to know you better, Leila. I may call you that, I ope? We could share my big ohmbrella when it rehns.’
‘It’s going to be fine and sunny all next week.’
‘But Wimbledohn, sooner or lehter, eet alwehs rehns.’
‘It’s a very kind offer, but I really don’t know. There’s still so much to be done here, unpacking. Come through and see what a mess we’re in.’
He followed her into the drawing-room from which open patio doors led to the large conservatory and a panorama of half-emptied crates. A trestle table held several trays piled with china, linen and kitchen equipment.
‘Isn’t it grim? I didn’t know we’d accumulated so much junk.’
Pascal surveyed the scene. ‘You must ave been a collector from birth.’
‘Most of it’s from Aidan’s old home. He was married before I came along. I’ve two stepchildren and they’re pretty acquisitive too. But once they’d sorted their best stuff into their rooms they went off for the summer, leaving me to dispose of the rest.’
She knew she was talking too much because his presence challenged her: he so urbane, while she, the housewife, had never been anywhere, never made anything of her life. He didn’ t want to hear all this trivia. He’d think her a fool.
‘Theess eez your stepdaughter weeth you?’ He had picked the photograph off a side table and regarded it with interest. ‘She could be your own. You are so alike, particularly since you ave changed your air colour since theess.’
Leila touched her head nervously. ‘Mine’s really dark brown. It was Chloe’s suggestion I should try tinting it like hers. In this photo she was only eight; it was taken seven years ago and she’s not so ginger now. Really dark red.’
‘And you ave been married to the Professor ow long?”
‘Just over nine years.’
Pascal smiled: a melon-slice of white teeth. ‘The child bride.’
‘I was a student,’ she said shortly, remembering. Aidan, though she hadn’t guessed it then, had an ongoing predilection for nubile eighteen-year-olds. But that was information she had no intention of sharing with this stranger.
Perhaps by accepting the chair at the University of London Aidan really would change and cut free from his current entanglement at Reading. It seemed a vain hope, but he had managed to imply something like that, without actually admitting he was still in the throes of an amorous adventure.
Not that amorous was quite the right word. Sexual, she supposed; love and romance being foreign to his nature. But in extramural sexual research the Professor was well qualified. It made her own situation the more hollow. She som
etimes thought that if it hadn’t been for Eddie and Chloe …
If. How bitterly ironic that she was reduced to a life of recurrent ‘If Onlys’.
‘Leila,’ Pascal cooed. ‘Cohm back. You are miles a-weh.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She waved towards the carrier’s crates. ‘There’s such a lot to be done.’
‘But by a week tomorrow all will be streht and you will be looking for an escape from duty. See, I will leave my card. Ring me at any time before then and say you accept. Oo knows, we may even see the admirable Mr ’enman in action.’
He gave her a jaunty salute with the empty teacup. ‘Coffee another time per’aps. I will see myself out.’
She knew she wouldn’t take him up on the offer, because it wasn’t the sort of thing she did. Quite outside one’s wifely remit, she told herself.
But why not accept? There’d be no harm in it. God knows, Aidan was never slow in picking up on an invitation to something he fancied. And if anyone else had invited her she’d probably have accepted like a shot. So was it because of Pascal himself that she hesitated?
He was personable, amusingly eccentric, and she’d admit she found his easy familiarity attractive. Not handsome. Handsome men always left her rather uneasy. They had such an opinion of themselves, and since childhood she’d had this fear of being looked down on.
She went back to unwrapping and washing the surplus china.
So - Wimbledon. She would be glued to the television for the entire fortnight if she had the chance. But to be actually there, feeling the atmosphere, being a part of that involved crowd - that was something she’d never had the chance to aspire to.
So it was a great pity - she told herself as she tore tissue paper off a quite hideous dinner service - that she had to turn down the offer.
She had prepared a fricassé of chicken in a sauce of liquidised pineapple, red pepper and mango for dinner, but twenty minutes after Aidan was due back he rang in to say he was tied up with some finals students. They were panicking over a paper they’d already taken and wanted to conduct an inquest. It could go on quite late. If so he’d stay there overnight, be back tomorrow evening.
