Parlour Games

by Mavis Cheek

  This drawn out activity is relevant because while it is going on, Susie is attempting to telephone Celia from the Club, just before she and Tom set off back home. Twitching on the thread again, Susie is aware that Alex is away and thinks she will make sure Cee is all right – and thank her for the previous night. She will also apologise for Tom’s state, and as she dials Celia’s number she is looking at her husband’s somewhat drooping hungover outline as he takes the umpteenth Alka-Seltzer, and is feeling doubly glad that she never touches the stuff. Had Susie got through, of course, she would have learned that Celia was all alone and blue and would have instantly invited her down to Wiltshire with them. They are entertaining a motley selection of Americans and local dignitaries on Sunday and Celia would fit in very nicely. Ah well, and alas. Celia’s phone is engaged. ‘I’ll try again in a minute,’ says Susie.

  Tom, who feels that all he wants to do is to get home and go to bed, is peremptory. Not only because of his hangover, it should be said, but because – well – things that we do on the spur of the moment can sometimes seem very silly and puerile on the morrow – and he feels that perhaps he would rather not connect with Celia for the time being. The sense of silliness and puerility stem not from his behaviour towards Celia last night, nor from the flowers and the vase, but from the package that was placed in the washing machine. It is this which makes him uneasy about Susie telephoning Celia. So he says, ‘Just leave it and come on. I want to get home.’ He does not know, of course, that because of their flowers and Isabel’s books and the general convolutions of the morning, Celia stopped short of going into the kitchen and did not, therefore, remember that the washing machine houses a secret. Too many other things have crowded it out.

  Never fear, the rediscovery of the package will come – but later.

  Susie, quite versed in apparently capitulating while in reality not doing any such thing, says mildly, ‘You get the things put into the car and see to the lunch bill and what not and when you’ve done all that we’ll go.’ She calculates that this will take a good ten minutes, by which time whoever it is engaging Celia’s telephone will have disengaged themselves.

  But Susannah has not taken into account the newly computerised British Telecom. As a shareholder she should have something to say about that.

  For eight (rather than the ten she hoped for) minutes later she tries again and Celia’s telephone is still engaged. So much, then, for Susie’s little thread. How much Celia would have loved to be rung up by her friend just at that point and be invited away. That would have vindicated all this free time of hers perfectly. Gone would be the ‘don’t know what to do with myself’ blues, gone would be the residual sexual frustration, and it would have been hallo to a real, big, fat, social justification for her husband and her children leaving her in the lurch. She would have come back and been able to say, ‘Well – it was just too perfect – everything slotted into place nicely: the children at a farm, Alex working, and me in the country enjoying myself ...’ All her friends would have been suitably envious and life would have continued as before.

  But it was not to be. While Celia finally got the telephone number of the Queen’s Brough Hotel, Susie and Tom were driving homewards in the late afternoon sunshine – Susie already wondering if her Philippino housekeeper had remembered to get enough aspic made for the oeufs en gelée tomorrow – a favourite starter of Susie since it looks so pretty and has so few calories per portion ... Her thoughts are no longer remotely to do with Celia: an engaged telephone means activity. Cee is all right.

  Having finally got through to the Salisbury number, Susie’s prognosis is more or less correct.

  The hotel receptionist agreed that a Mr Alexander Crossland was staying at the hotel, and that Mr Crossland and his party had also availed themselves of the use of the Small Conference Facilities on the first floor. She said ’small’ in a way that made Celia want to say something rude, but she did not. Instead she asked the receptionist to try Mr Crossland’s room. This was done and there was no reply. She then asked the receptionist to try the Small Conference Facility but the receptionist said that this was impossible, the group was not to be disturbed. Messages could be left. It was on the tip of Celia’s tongue to say, ‘Here is my message. Have you got a pencil?’ and to wait until the woman said she had before continuing, ‘Please tell my husband that his wife called and that she fancies going to bed with him …’

  It was only the thought of Alex’s face, receiving the message, that stopped her.

  She was about to leave a few words saying something more suitable but still, if he was willing, able to catch Alex’s marital imagination (‘joining him in congress later’ was a possibility) when a thought came to her that was so nice, so amusing, that she forgave the receptionist everything. She, Celia, was free. Why should not she, Celia, go down to this hotel? The thought took her breath away with its audacity. No, no, she could not. The Brandreth lot would have their conference, dine together probably, with more of the same tomorrow and Monday – she would be an embarrassing appendage in all this. But why should she be? Alex would not need to entertain her during the daylight hours, not even for dinner if it was difficult. She could have a wonderful time getting to know Salisbury – she could drive out and about during the days and perhaps dine on her own in some local pub or something, or even in her room if he felt her presence in the restaurant would be off-putting. The only time they needed to get together would be at night, tucked up in bed – and the Brandreth people would hardly be there as well!

  She was about to ask if Alex had booked a double or single room but decided that if she went on asking too many questions the receptionist might spill the beans to Alex which would spoil the surprise (and, to be fair, give Alex a chance to Phone Home indeed and put her off). So – with great bravado and a sense that now she was forty she was entitled to be a real grown-up – she booked a double room for herself, in her maiden name of Wilde. She then rang the number of the farm at which Hazel, the wondrous nanny and the children were resident and to her relief (because she wanted no inroads on this adventure and the thought of Henry wailing down the phone that he wanted to come ho-o-me was too annoying to contemplate; not least because, as she knew from experience, once she’d brought him back from the party, the overnight stay with a schoolfriend, the cub camp, wherever it was, he invariably wanted to get back there again – it was only the sound of her voice that started him off) was told that they were all out with the horses. Hazel too. So that she just left the hotel telephone number in case there was a real emergency, winced a bit as the woman who ran the farm began saying in her Welsh lilt that she thought it was a Real Good Mother’s concern to think to do such a thing. And rang off.

  And then, where once she had yelled to the walls in cross-patch loneliness, now she whooped about the house, packing and prettifying herself, slipping into a cream linen culotte suit that really was Jaeger, fluffing up the peacock-blue highlight and drenching herself in Patou ‘Joy’ which Tom had once brought her back from a trip to the States. The most expensive perfume in the world, so they said, and it would have been if she had done what he whispered to her as he handed it over. It was out of a kind of loyalty to Alex that she never used it. But now, today, well, why not? It gave things a very nice edge to be desired by others yet to desire only her husband. And, what was more, free and self-assured enough to be doing something about it.

  Anyway, she thought, as she buckled on her seat belt, let’s be practical about this. My new car needs a good ride to run in the engine.

  She would say that to Alex as well as all the other frivolous, loving things – when she finally crept into his arms. He would like that. And it would make up, in part, for her grudging feelings about being given a car for her birthday. After all, she would never have seriously contemplated making this journey in the old one. And as for the Pansy – she made two vows, one to exonerate herself from such a connection in her husband’s mind, and the other to promise Alex, when she told him how s
he felt, that she would never try to play Parlour Games with him again. It was unfair to judge him by such yardsticks. After all, not everyone was good at such things.

  I will be grown-up now, she says, releasing the handbrake. Perfectly in control of the rest of my life. And this little jaunt is going to be Fun!

  2

  Good things were destined to happen. Celia could feel it in her bones. As she drove along she sang with the radio turned right up so that her disposition to go out of tune was indistinguishable. Irrationally, for after all she was going to meet her husband, she felt wicked. Something to do with the surprise and something to do with the anonymity of an hotel – and also (she congratulated herself) something to do with her and Alex having got life right somehow. She thinks that her husband’s face will be a picture when she arrives. It is a nice thought, for it is a picture of which she is extremely fond. Her marriage, her life. The social conformities with a touch of spice. Perfect. Here I am, she thinks, on the crest of a wave, as happy as any human being can be in a simple sort of a way. And despite the fact that she would most certainly have felt aggrieved if Isabel had said it, she does feel childlike. Like someone out for a treat. Which, of course, she is.

  The early evening sun bathes the countryside in a primrose and golden light and all around her as she drives she sees fulsome greenery marching into the heart of summer. It is intensely beautiful. The countryside is burgeoning, and so is Celia. Joy is a funny thing. We never in the least know when to expect it. It can come out of the most haphazard of circumstances, the most unlikely of situations. The sight of a full washing line billowing in the breeze, lit by the sunshine of a summer’s day can do it just as easily as the more predictable moments of a child’s first smile or a lover’s first touch. Sentimental, Celia feels joy now as she drives towards Salisbury. Perhaps the Patou helps? She laughs. Out of nowhere she feels a sudden, wonderful spasm of pleasure. For one shard of time, a millisecond, she thinks that if she died at this precise moment it would be the perfect time to leave the world. She slows down. There is no need for her to take that thought too literally. And she has no need to rush – she has no appointment to keep, she can savour these moments. From somewhere in the universe she has pinched two whole days. They are hers now and nobody else’s. She smiles and hums even more out of tune and eases her foot off the accelerator a little. Why eat it up too fast ...?

  On she goes quite happily, running in the engine in the inside lane, while the Porsches and the Lancias rush past her, their white-knuckled owners as far removed from joy as a mole from the sun. Milky cows munch lazily, foolish sheep stare blind, sparrowhawks lie on the air above her. She feels quite euphoric as she slips along, contemplating the stolen time ahead. Of course there is a light shadow thrown over all this by the fact that Alex will be working during the days and probably in the evenings, too, so she must spend a good deal of the time on her own. But she smiles at the thought. For she can easily fill those days with walking in such a beautiful landscape, or nosing around Salisbury which is bound to have all kinds of interesting shops – and there is the cathedral, of course, and old Sarum ... she goes on smiling ... Oh yes, and when she is not being active in an out-and-about sort of way there will be that lovely chunk of uninterrupted time left over for reading. And not Isabel’s books either. She has got a really soggy novel underway, one that she can’t wait to get down to. Yummy, yummy, yummy, she thinks smiling away at the prospect.

  And then the smile dies. Damn, blast – nay – sod it, she has forgotten to pack her book. Suppose it rains? Suppose she doesn’t feel like walking or shopping? Oh no, she pleads, not the Sunday papers! Please not that. Oh, how could she have forgotten? And just when she had started such a good one, too. That big, fat juicy novel is still sitting on her bedside table. Damn and blast and sod it again. And then the smile returns to her face. Silly Celia. There is a very simple solution. Buy another book. She frowns. This is not quite the answer. She has never been any good at running more than one novel at a time and she gets quite confused enough with all the names and characters without having to hold two completely different sets in her head. And then the frown eases, the smile returns. Such a simple solution that she starts to sing again. Buy a book of short stories! Perfect ... if only all of life’s difficulties were so simple to overcome.

  Celia’s horizon, untarnished by struggle, unshadowed by suffering, unstained by any creeping fears, is free now even of this small cloud. A book of short stories. Perfect ...

  After a while she indicates left and turns off the main road towards Stockbridge. There must be a bookshop in this place. And only after she has parked and begun to stroll along the deserted shopping street does that small cloud skiff back. It is ten past six. No shops are open, particularly no shops selling books. Nor, for that matter, shops selling magazines, newspapers, periodicals – anything that she could pass the time in reading. A vague hope comes to her that Alex might be able to lend her something – but Alex does not read novels. He reads law journals, political weeklies and – for real excitement when they are on holiday – travel books. Real travel books, as he points out, the last one being a perfect twinning for him of politics and travel – Alaska: The Geopolitical Wastelands. He read that when they were in the splendid heat of Corsica last year. When she said it was not to her taste (he would keep reading bits out of it) he laughed and said it was the only thing that was keeping him cool – all those icy wastes and the machinations of the Cold War. If he considered that to be holiday reading what would he have with him on a business trip? No, no – Alex will have nothing with him to see Celia through.

  Feeling very cross and very frustrated she goes up to the door of the bookshop. It has a big Gothic-lettered sign saying ‘We Are Closed’ to which she mouths, irritated, I know that you twerps, and peers in. It is dim and silent and does not even contain a bespectacled, carbuncular assistant tidying up. And across the divide of the glass door sit rows and rows of lovely books set out and ready for the needy. She makes a noise of vexation which comes out as a perfect comic strip ‘Grrr’ and shakes her fist at the empty shop, then she ‘Grrrs’ again. After this she is prepared to admit that she is being silly and turns away. She is somewhat thrown to hear what she takes to be a wanton piece of mimicry behind her growling a ‘Grrr’ back. Some little runt being cheeky, she thinks, and with a suitably disgusted look on her face, she turns around. Behind her a woman is walking a dog. The woman is large-boned, tall and stately, the perfect picture of the English/Elderly/Well-bred Countrydweller. Good tweeds, good brogues on solid feet and a complexion ruddily free of cosmetics. The very type which keeps Celia firmly living in London. Her dog makes an absurd contrast: a high-necked, aloof Afghan hound – of the two it has the most grace and is probably even better-bred than its owner. Also Celia is not altogether sure that it was the dog and not the woman that went ‘Grrr’.

  The woman looks at Celia as if she would like to sniff her – whereas the dog looks at Celia and immediately looks away, knowing it has no wish to.

  Celia gives a little fluttery motion with her hands, uncertain what to say: what does one say when one is caught growling at shop windows?

  ‘Closed,’ barks the woman.

  ‘I know,’ says Celia helplessly.

  The woman eyes her peacock-blue highlight with concern. Suddenly Celia realises that she is no longer in Bedford Park but in the country.

  ‘Bit of a mistake,’ she says wanly, flicking at it. ‘Hairdressers!’ She shrugs.

  The dog looks away, embarrassed. The woman unbends a little, her gaze going from the peacock-blue to the cream linen Jaeger. This mollifies her. She can recognise good taste when she sees it. The woman wearing it has quality, therefore, to her mind, she cannot be a lunatic and is merely distraught. Why else would she be peering so hopelessly into a bookshop?

  ‘Hairdressers,’ agrees the woman brightly.

  ‘Oh well,’ says Celia. ‘No book for me after all. I shall just have to grin and bear it.’ She giv
es a toss of her head as if to say she will be brave, and makes to move off.

  Courage is something the woman with the dog likes in a girl. She has seen many a female crumble in India when their silly husbands succumbed to breaking the yard-arm rule. Her own husband died of alcohol poisoning but she saw him through that. And got the pension. You had to have courage in this day and age.

  ‘If you want a book,’ she says, ‘I’ve got plenty. Have one of mine.’ There is no doubt that the woman barks far more heartily than the dog, which remains arch-necked and silent.

  Celia jumps.

  ‘Oh, no – really,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘I’m looking after boxes of them for the church jumble sale,’ says the woman. ‘You can take whatever you want and pay whatever you feel is right. Take a whole box if it’d make you feel better.’ She cocks a head at the doorway and says heartily, ‘They only have rubbish anyway.’

  Celia begins to back off. The dog regains its nerve and growls.

  ‘Steady, Rebecca,’ says the woman.

  ‘Rebecca?’ says Celia without thinking. ‘That’s my daughter’s name.’

  ‘Well,’ says the woman. ‘That settles it then. Come on.’

  And suddenly Celia is matching well-brogued stride with tottering high heel down Stockbridge High Street. And she is thinking, as they suddenly dive under the portico of a fine Georgian façade, that this is the kind of thing the White Slave Trade might be about. After all, its perpetrators would only have to drive her car off and tip it over a cliff somewhere, and Celia would no longer exist. They might at the very moment be lying in wait for her within this desirable brick and wisteria frontage; she might never come out; she might never see Alex again ...