One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  I couldn’t breathe. Was she talking about me?

  ‘Don’t you think these are terribly attractive?’ Letty was appealing to me now, rustling the tissue paper down around the lamp, the better for me to see: almost as if I were an old friend from her past, not someone she might justifiably never want to see again in her life, or indeed cosh on the head with her new glass purchase.

  ‘Very,’ I agreed.

  ‘I couldn’t resist them. I bought them for Hal, for his wedding present. But actually, I think I might have to keep them. Put them on the mantel at home.’ She held the lamp out at a distance eyeing it critically. Then her eyes widened back at me. ‘Did you know Hal was getting married?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ I licked my lips. ‘Congratulations.’ I couldn’t avoid looking at him now. I found his gaze was already on me.

  ‘Thank you.’

  His face was older, obviously, but improved, actually. Much better-looking. He’d grown into his nose and those hooded eyes. Guarded eyes now. I couldn’t read them as I had a second ago.

  ‘How marvellous – where’s it going to be?’ The irrepressible Maggie again. ‘The wedding?’

  ‘In Provence.’

  ‘Oh! Why France?’

  ‘Because my fiancée’s French.’

  ‘Oh, really? So am I, actually. French. Well, half.’

  Hal smiled politely.

  ‘Whereabouts?’ Maggie again. ‘Only Hattie and I go to Provence a lot, don’t we, Hatts? There’s a fabulous antique fair we go to down at Aix. I’m Hattie’s partner, by the way.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘So whereabouts?’ she persisted.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Not far from Aix, actually. A little further north. It’s a market town, called Fayence.’

  ‘Fayence? Fayence? Oh my God, that’s a heavenly little town. Remember, Hatts, it’s the one we stop at when we’re nearly there, nearly at Aix, but simply can’t go on any further. We lurch into it gasping for a glass of rosé. It’s the one with the cobbled market square, and the dear little church you always like, with the blue clock.’ She turned back to him. ‘Don’t tell me that’s the one you’re getting married in?’

  ‘It is, actually.’

  ‘Oh… my… God.’ She clutched my arm. ‘Remember, Hattie, we saw a bride going in with her father? That beautiful lace dress? And you made me sit and have another glass of wine in the square until she came out again with her groom? Went all misty-eyed and said if you were going to come out of any church, on any man’s arm, it might just as well be that one, remember?’

  ‘No,’ I growled.

  ‘And will you live out there? When you’re married?’

  I could hardly breathe.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  My eyes were on Hal’s shoes. As if I were thoroughly absorbed in the way he’d tied the laces.

  ‘We haven’t really decided.’

  ‘They’ll probably live in my house!’ cut in Letty with another shrill, unnatural laugh. ‘They’re trying to chuck me out of it!’

  This was beyond embarrassing.

  ‘Come on, Mum,’ said Cassie quickly, taking her arm.

  ‘We’d better be going,’ agreed Hal, taking the lamp from her. They said their goodbyes and, between them, helped Letty away.

  ‘It was lovely to meet you,’ called Cassie over her shoulder, as we watched them go up the lane.

  ‘Well,’ Maggie declared after a moment, still shading her eyes. ‘So that’s Hal. You didn’t tell me he looked like that! Hattie? Hattie!’

  But whatever else she said was lost in the wind. I’d turned on my heel and stalked away from her, in the equal and opposite direction.

  13

  ‘Don’t be silly, you’re exaggerating. I wasn’t interrogating him, I was just being polite.’ Maggie was trotting to keep up with me, but I was setting quite a pace as I stalked up the hill towards the woods, taking the short cut.

  ‘Polite? I’m surprised you didn’t ask to see a photo of her! Reach for his wallet and thumb through it!’

  ‘Oh, you’re being absurd. I was merely showing an interest. And it was a coincidence, him getting married at that church that you said yourself, in your wildest dreams, if you and Dominic—’

  ‘Me and Dominic.’ I stopped and spun round to face her, fists clenched. ‘Wildest dreams, a confidence to a friend, certainly not one to be shared with his brother or his widow! Christ, any minute now I thought you’d give that an airing. Don’t you see how awkward it was?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to mention that, was I? The fantasy groom. I’m not a complete fool.’

  We plunged into the woods in silence, following a dry rutted track through avenues of dark pines, our eyes taking a moment to accustom to the gloom. I was fuming with her but angry with everything. Seeing them all like that had completely thrown me. I’d carefully avoided meeting any of them individually for years: having them turn up together in one bumper package was certainly not in the script. Released from having to behave and make polite conversation, I gave in to the shock, let it rock me. My breathing was shallow now and I subjected Maggie to complete silence as she stumbled to catch up with me in her highly inappropriate wedged heels. I strode mercilessly on, snapping twigs and pine needles underfoot, feeling sharp stones through my thin ballet pumps, punishing my body as my mind reeled away down some dark and ancient abyss.

  After a while we found ourselves walking up the back drive. My heart rate had come down a bit and I was breathing more steadily. Self-preservation dictated I rationalize the last half-hour as quickly as possible: square it away and recover. And I was surely a past master of such disciplines. I would be calm. In the distance, behind the parterre and the rose garden was the tennis court. Seffy and Biba were playing languidly in jeans and bare feet. They saw us and raised their rackets from afar. I waved; gave a tight smile back.

  ‘Is Hal very like Dominic?’ Maggie asked, pleasantly enough, and no doubt trying to embark on a cordial subject. But she was unaccustomed to making placatory opening gambits and could have chosen better.

  I shrugged. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘I mean, I saw Dominic’s pictures in the papers, obviously, and it strikes me Hal’s a sort of darker version? Bit sallower, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Terribly attractive, don’t you think?’

  I ignored her and walked on across the lawn.

  ‘Well, I thought he was gorgeous. Not surprised some French girl’s snapped him up. I bet she’s a looker. Although he’s left it late, I must say. He must be nearly forty, but perhaps he’s been busy playing the field. Getting it all out of his system. And he’s obviously a bit of a cad if he’s tipping his sister-in-law out. Poor thing, she didn’t look quite with it. Very shaky paws.’

  ‘She drinks.’

  ‘Ah. I wondered. Lovely daughter, though. And she clearly remembers Seffy.’

  ‘Who does?’ The tennis duo had left the court and come up behind us. Daisy was trailing them, holding a hen in her arms.

  ‘Oh – sweet!’ cooed Maggie. ‘Is it real?’

  ‘Course she’s real. You can stroke her, if you want.’ She proffered the bundle of golden feathers. Maggie reached out a tentative fingernail and almost touched its head.

  ‘Who remembers me?’ repeated Seffy.

  ‘Letty Forbes’s daughter,’ I said shortly. ‘Who won the match?’

  ‘Seffy, as usual,’ complained Biba. ‘It’s so unfair, he should be made to serve underarm.’

  ‘Apparently you met her at a social?’ prompted Maggie.

  ‘Oh, yeah. I remember. She was nice. Where d’you see her?’

  ‘Just now, in the village.’

  ‘She’s at St Hilda’s,’ said Biba, throwing up an imaginary ball and serving it with her racket. ‘I’ve played lax against her. She’s really pretty.’

  ‘Who is?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Cassie Forbes? Her dad’s dead and her mum’s an alchy. It’s really tragic. I feel really sorr
y for her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being tragic,’ remarked Daisy. ‘Everyone’s always really nice to you and feels sorry for you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Daisy,’ I snapped, then regretted it instantly. Daisy’s pale blue eyes widened in shock.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered quickly. ‘Seffy, we should get going straight after lunch. You’ve got a play rehearsal this evening.’

  ‘I’m going back with the girls.’

  ‘What – on the train?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s madness. You’ve got a hell of a walk from Newbury station. I can take you to the door!’

  ‘I like walking.’

  ‘But I wanted to pop in and see your housemaster.’

  Seffy was already walking, though, off towards the back of the house, where the summerhouse was, and where the rackets were kept: ignoring me.

  ‘Seff!’

  He turned; continued walking backwards. Widened his eyes. ‘I’m going back with the girls, OK?’

  Biba and Daisy trailed after him. I watched for a moment, then, tight-lipped, turned and followed Maggie, who, unused to country ways was heading resolutely for the front door. Well, it was wide open and actually, I decided, trying to breathe, trying to calm down, it was probably best I didn’t follow him; say something I regretted later.

  The entrance hall at the Abbey was about the size of the tennis court the children had just vacated, complete with vaulted ceiling and domed skylight. A grand staircase to our right divided in two halfway up, then ran around the first floor as a gallery. Laura had rather sensibly put comfy armchairs down the far end of the hall under a window that caught the morning sun, and where Dad was installed even now, working his way through the rest of the newspapers, as was his wont. Meanwhile, in the main, echoing, and rather gloomy body of the hall, with its terracotta and blue Victorian tiled floor, were gathered other members of my family. We’d clearly interrupted a master class. Mum and Laura were listening, rapt, to their mentor.

  ‘Now this is where I’d like to see some real drama!’ Ralph was saying, twirling around, arms aloft. ‘You’ve got space… use it! Emphasize it, don’t clutter it! I’d clear all those chairs away.’ He waved an imperious hand at the offending items, which included my father. ‘Get rid of them all. And I’m thinking conch.’

  ‘Conch?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Yes, a conch.’

  Laura and Mum looked bewildered, as well they might. They willed themselves to understand.

  ‘Like… a couch?’ Mum asked tentatively.

  ‘No, no, dear lady, not at all!’ Ralph was horrified. ‘It’s a shell, you know. But gigantic.’ He demonstrated its vastness with huge sweeping arms.

  ‘Oh, a shell!’ said Mum, as if all was revealed and every home should have one. ‘I see.’ She nodded emphatically.

  ‘A tropical marine gastropod.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Mum shut her eyes, palms up, as if no further explanation were necessary.

  ‘I can get one sent straight from Peru, with a great gaping mouth, like this –’ Ralph opened his jaws wide; Mum stepped back in alarm – ‘suggestive of birth and renewal. A new family in situ, see? And we’ll put it at the far end of the hall, so that once we’ve passed the stairs,’ he tripped prettily past them, ‘we encounter, it here… voilà.’ He stopped and unfolded his palms towards Dad.

  ‘Oh!’ My mother clasped her hands. ‘Yes, I see. A sort of symbolism, Laura.’ She turned to her daughter.

  ‘But… won’t it be terribly uncomfortable?’ Laura looked confused. ‘I mean, is it to sit on? Or—’

  ‘No, no, it’s to walk around, to admire. To wonder at, to marvel. It’s living art.’

  ‘Expensive?’ put in Hugh, who just happened to be listening behind a door.

  ‘My dear Lord Pelham, it’s coming from darkest Peru, like Paddington. It’s rare, it’s ancient, it won’t be cheap. But you’ll have it for ever, and no one, absolutely no one, wherever you go, will have one. You will never see it again.’

  ‘With good reason,’ murmured Dad into his Tribune.

  ‘I see.’ Laura liked this. ‘And, around it…?’ She made a helpless gesture with her hands, walking to where Dad and the chairs were.

  ‘Rien,’ Ralphie said firmly, following her. ‘No clutter, no furniture, no pictures on the walls. Just one, very good, very important piece.’ He held on to the ‘c’ in piece for longer than was absolutely necessary.

  ‘Mollusc,’ put in Dad.

  Ralph inclined his head enquiringly, eyelids flickering.

  ‘It’s a mollusc,’ Dad explained. ‘A shellfish.’

  Ralph smiled thinly, in grudging assent.

  ‘Well, we’ll think about it,’ breathed Laura. ‘And the floor?’

  ‘Will have to go.’

  ‘Go?’ She looked down at the tiles.

  Ralph shuddered. ‘Hideous. Turn of the century. No age. Arts and Crafts revival at its very worst. I’m thinking French limestone throughout.’

  Hugh yelped and disappeared. Laura, aware that she was in the grip of a formidable talent, but that she’d soon be in the grip of a divorce if she didn’t watch out, looked flustered.

  ‘Oh, um, look,’ she faltered, scratching her leg. ‘The thing is, the floor might have to stay. Only, you know, it’s a family thing. Hugh’s parents would be dreadfully upset.’

  Ralph looked as if he’d sucked a lemon.

  ‘But the um, shell – conch – I’m sure, is a very good idea,’ she enthused.

  ‘Along with the statue of Saint Somebody-or-other in the dining room, and the vessel in the drawing room,’ remarked my father.

  ‘Vessel?’ asked Maggie, who’d heroically held her tongue up until now.

  ‘Frightfully symbolic,’ Mum whispered to her. ‘And Mr de Granville firmly believes one should have one Good Piece,’ she too held on to the ‘c’, ‘in each room.’

  ‘Oh, me too,’ agreed Dad, folding up his paper. ‘Give me a Cézanne or a Gauguin and I’m a happy man.’

  ‘And it’s just so wonderful that he can simply look at a room and tell right away,’ Mum told Maggie, all sparkly eyed. ‘He walked straight into the morning room and said, baroque. Early seventeenth century. Harpsichord in the corner. And then in the dining room we’re going all North American Indian.’

  My father made a choking sound.

  ‘Naïve, indigenous art,’ Ralph explained.

  ‘Take a look upstairs, laddie,’ said my father, ‘on Charlie’s bedroom walls. Plenty of naïve indigenous art up there. In point of fact, Laura’s kept all the kids’ paintings.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ Ralph smiled politely.

  Dad blinked. ‘Is it not?’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Oh, OK.’

  ‘But I think that’s probably enough for one day,’ Ralph said, looking rather tired suddenly. He half closed weary lids: plucked a fawn, kidskin attaché bag from a table and tucked it neatly under his arm. Maggie eyed it beadily. ‘One wouldn’t want to overdo it.’

  ‘No, one wouldn’t,’ agreed Mum warmly. ‘And it must be so exhausting, creating on the spot like that. I don’t know how you do it. You’ve been wonderful, hasn’t he, Laura?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Laura agreed, trotting after him as he made for the door. ‘And so kind of you to come, when you’re just off to Italy.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do hope the trip goes well,’ agreed Mum.

  ‘Thank you. And will I order the slab of black Tuscan marble while I’m there, Lady Pelham?’ he enquired, turning at the threshold.

  ‘Um, d’you know, I might have to check with Hugh first. Can I ring you?’

  ‘Of course, no pressure. But don’t leave it too late. I’m only there a couple of days, and Tuscan marble goes,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘like that.’

  And with that he sashayed down the steps and off to his car, shoulders back, bottom tucked in, one hand swinging behind his back, the other clutching his bag. Mum and Laura hastened to wave him off.
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br />   ‘That’s… a three-metre slab of black marble to put on a plinth and make into a dining room table,’ Dad informed Maggie and me over his glasses. ‘To replace Hugh’s folks’ fine old mahogany one. Apparently it’s not Georgian. And if it’s not Georgian, it’s gotta go. Nothing under two hundred and fifty years old can stay. Of course, in fifty years’ time it’ll be a full-up card-carrying antique, but this guy can’t wait. By then it’ll be firewood.’

  ‘He was rather rude about some of the furniture,’ agreed Laura, coming back in and biting her thumbnail nervously. ‘Apparently there’s a lot of repro.’

  ‘Apparently!’ hooted Dad. ‘You see you didn’t know that. You were blissfully unaware. It looked nice, you thought it was good – what difference does it make?’

  ‘Well, except now I do know. And I’ll know everyone else knows.’ She turned to Mum, worried. ‘I think he’s right, don’t you? If it’s not antique – I mean antique enough – we’ll go modern. Cutting-edge contemporary.’

  ‘Definitely,’ agreed my mother.

  ‘I’ll talk to Hugh.’

  A slightly fraught lunch ensued a while later, with Hugh yelping things like: ‘Harpsichord? But no one plays!’ Or: ‘A saint? What, like a shrine? We’re not effing left-footers!’ He was cheered by the vessel, though. ‘A bowl? Some sort of potpourri thing?’

  ‘Except it’s six feet in diameter and carved from three-hundred-year-old wood,’ Dad told him. ‘You’d get an awful lot of dried lavender in it.’

  ‘So… what do we do with it?’ Hugh looked horrified.

  ‘Oh, I guess you could always get in it of an evening. Rock about a bit. Sing row-row your boat.’

  The children giggled.

  ‘It’s a talking piece,’ announced my mother grandly.

  ‘Maybe it could be like one of those hot-tub things? Where you take all your clothes off?’ suggested Charlie.

  ‘Now wouldn’t that be grand?’ agreed Dad with a smile at his grandson. ‘Really get the party going. Give the neighbourhood something to talk about too.’