by Angela Huth
* * *
In truth, the matter of the earring troubled Frances less than Toby imagined. Once the first shock of his violence had subsided, and the ear had healed, she did not find it hard to cast the event from her mind. She could understand the force of Toby’s jealousy and even such rough flattery eased forgiveness for his one, uncharacteristic outburst. Thoughts of vengeance did not occur to Frances, nor did the grip of bitterness take a hold. And the fact that her love for Ralph grew stronger did not impair her love for Toby. The feelings ran easily in harness: it was just a question of responding to them differently. So, if anything, she was more demonstratively loving to her husband than she had been before he split her ear, and less flirtatious with Ralph. But still, in occasional moments of weakness, when she and Ralph were alone together, she would sometimes signal violently – to no avail. For years now Ralph, friendly as ever, seemed not to notice her messages. He appeared deliberately to misunderstand her overt gestures, or to ignore them as politely as possible. Such immunity to her powers of charm exasperated Frances. The challenge of re-seducing Ralph was far greater than the challenge of winning him in the first place.
On the summer evening that he was coming to dinner – as he so often did, alone – Frances found herself unexpectedly re-inspired. By now Ralph was such a part of the household – the ear incident long forgotten, and relations between him and Toby as affectionate as ever – that opportunities to entice were frequently there. Toby, to assuage his guilt at so often deserting Frances for his computers, positively encouraged her to invite Ralph to keep her company on long evenings. They would all dine together: Ralph and Frances would later watch television, or talk, while Toby returned upstairs.
Ralph, as Frances knew, felt at home at the vicarage. While he would not go so far as to open a bottle of Toby’s precious wine without permission, if he arrived early (which he always did) he would not hesitate to go up to the bedroom and chatter to Frances while she completed the niceties of her make-up and hair. Toby knew of these innocent visitations and often joined them. Many an evening had begun with the three of them in the bedroom, wine and glasses on the dressing-table. By now, Frances would be surprised only if Ralph had not come bounding up the stairs, tapped on the door, and rewarded her careful dressing with a smile of approbation.
Her new inspiration was, on brief reflection, tempered by impatience. It was time, she thought, to make some kind of a stand at last, present an ultimatum. She realised such an act was rash: there was risk of losing Ralph completely, though it was unlikely. For she could never believe her feelings were unreciprocated – it was just that Ralph was too much a gentleman to reveal them.
Firm of purpose, Frances spent longer than usual in the bath. The first part of her plan depended on accurate timing.
* * *
Ralph Cotterman could never happily accustom himself to the permanent dusk of the Farthingoes’ house. Having let himself in through the open front door, he hurried noiselessly up the stairs, determined to avoid the Italian butler, whose suspicious smile he had no wish to bump into. He opened the bedroom door. There were a few seconds in which he was able to contemplate Frances before she realised he was there. Back to him, she was easing a narrow dress up over her hips, regarding the essential wiggling with some satisfaction in the mirror.
Then she saw Ralph’s reflection, turned. The dress had only reached her waist. Ralph was faced by a very white bra bulging with suntanned breasts. The picture merged with one from the past: Frances standing Biblically in summer corn, an identical white bra thrown away before the same suntanned body crashed to the earth, flattening the corn into a haphazard nest. Ralph had eagerly joined her. Fifteen years ago, was it, that afternoon? How swiftly changing are the objects of our desires, he thought. Frances, this evening, for all her provocation, was wholly unalluring. After the incident in the corn field, wild, spiky, slippery with sweat, he had never fancied her again, although their affair had continued for a few months.
‘Pull it up,’ he said, annoyed.
‘Oh, Ralphie, I’m sorry,’ Frances giggled.
She dragged the dress over the offending breasts, slid her arms into tight sleeves. Its stuff was covered in splodgy flowers: flowers that had been bashed by storms, crushed, and turned to the colour of bruises. Not Ralph’s sort of thing at all.
‘It isn’t as if. . . .’ Frances giggled.
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Tobes is engrossed in his computers. We’re quite safe.’
‘That’s not the point, either.’
Frances, seeing his seriousness, changed her tone.
‘Would it be in order to ask you to do up my zip?’
She shimmied over to him, turned so that he was challenged by the deep bronzed V of her back. He pulled up the long zip, businesslike.
‘Thank you.’ Frances swivelled round again, hair tumbling. ‘And am I allowed a kiss?’ She arranged her lips into a kissable pout.
Ralph scarcely touched her cheek with his mouth. Her silly mood, her baby voice – which she used only when they were alone – irritated him profoundly. He went to sit on the bed, thinking about Ursula and the cat. Frances returned to the dressing-table. She began sifting through handfuls of pearls, amethysts, moonstones, in search of the right necklace.
‘Coming to the party?’ she asked.
‘Course.’
‘A lot of people have rung up already. It should be fun.’
‘I’m sure it will. Your parties always are.’
‘I hope Ursi and Mart will be able to make it.’
‘Ursula and Martin will definitely be coming,’ said Ralph. ‘I’ve just seen them. At least, Ursula. Martin was out.’
Frances was running a necklace from hand to hand, letting the pearls trickle through her fingers.
‘You seem to see so much of Ursi,’ she said, ‘always calling in. Lucky old her, living so near you.’
‘I gave her a cat,’ said Ralph, wondering why he should bother with an explanation. ‘I’m pretty sure that was a mistake, even though it was meant to be for Sarah.’
‘Is that what’s put you in such a jumpy mood?’
‘Could be.’
‘I know you so well.’
‘You don’t, actually.’
Ralph got up, went to the window. The shadows under the cedars were very dark, the shaven lawn a strong yellow-green.
‘I know this: you’re only nice to me, you only flirt with me, when you’re in a good mood.’ Frances was petulant.
‘I don’t ever flirt with you.’
‘That’s a matter of interpretation.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I agree you keep your distance in front of Tobes. Quite rightly.’
‘I always keep my distance.’
‘No: sometimes when we’re alone, I get the distinct impression that this . . . ridiculous thing I feel for you isn’t entirely one-sided. You just repress things. There’s no need for that.’
Frances’s voice had risen. Ralph watched her. He stood with arms folded, leaning against the window sill. It was crowded with pots of African violets and small silver photograph frames filled with miniature pictures of her wedding to Toby. He dragged his thoughts from Ursula and the cat.
‘I’ve told you a thousand times, you misinterpret my feelings. Since our short affair came to an end – fifteen years ago, Frances – I’ve never given the slightest indication of feeling anything for you other than friendship. Friendship is what I feel. That’s what I’d like to go on feeling. We’re old friends. But if that’s not good enough for you, then the friendship will have to come to an end, because it’s all I can offer.’
‘I wouldn’t want that.’
‘Nor would I. In which case, don’t let’s have any more of these tiresome conversations. They don’t get us anywhere. They make me jumpy, reluctant to come here.’
‘We don’t have them very often.’
‘Too often, lately. And if you really feel for me as you say you
do, then you should try to believe me. I love your company, your gaiety, your energy, your generosity – all sorts of things about you. You know that. But we’re never going to be lovers again. You should have given up all such hopes years ago. If you were more practical, less romantic, you’d have realised ages ago. . . . Apart from anything else, Toby’s my friend.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Frances smiled brightly up at Ralph.
‘What a speech, Ralphie!’ Tears glittered halfway up her eyes. She blinked them back again before they could brim over.
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m all right most of the time.’
‘I know. I was being too harsh.’
‘No: just honest. It’s just that sometimes I get caught unawares. I get weak. I get stabbed, thinking what might have been, and seeing you.’
She sniffed, and reached for a peach paper handkerchief. This she took a long time to fold into a small neat square before employing it to dab each glistening nostril.
‘I suppose the truth of the matter is . . . you don’t fancy me any more.’
She began to unfold the handkerchief, now creased into symmetrical squares, two of which were darkened with a tiny spot of damp. Fascinated by the precision of her movements, Ralph thought again of Ursula and the cat.
‘No,’ he said. Gently.
Frances gave a small, resigned sigh, and let the handkerchief flutter into the wastepaper basket.
‘That must be a terribly hard thing to tell someone. My own fault for asking. Still, it’s cleared things up for once and for all. I suppose I was silly to have supposed, all these years. . . . Anyway, with this new party, there won’t be much time for sad reflections.’
‘Exactly. You’ve always had an instinct for deflection. It’s one of your many skills. And apart from that there’s Toby. You should never underrate the good things in your marriage.’
‘Oh, I don’t, I don’t. I adore Tobes, you know perfectly well. He’s a most marvellous husband.’
She gave a small laugh and finally fastened the clasp of the pearl necklace behind her neck.
‘Much better than you could ever have been. In fact, I chose the right man.’
‘You certainly did.’
Ralph refrained from observing that there had never been a choice. Sometimes he wondered if Frances had actually forgotten the truth: the evening she had proposed marriage, and he had turned her down. But allowing a woman her conceits was the kind of generosity he believed in.
‘There should be some Pimm’s down on the terrace,’ said Frances, apparently in control now. ‘Go down and help yourself.’
As Ralph left the room he saw that she was fingering the bruised flowers of her dress, tight over the bosom, completely absorbed in locating the ideal place for a diamond brooch.
Later, at dinner in the melancholy dining room – windows darkened by the vast trunks of two cedars outside – Frances toyed unhungrily with her food. She contemplated her husband and her old lover – her old friend – either side of her. They were engaged in a technical conversation concerning the Rusisans’ space programme versus the Americans’. Frances scarcely listened. Such subjects were so far beyond her understanding or, indeed, interest, that it would have been pointless to make any attempts towards enlightenment.
Instead, she weighed up the relative attractions of a yellow and white striped marquee versus pink and white. On the whole, she thought, marquee makers dealt in more handsome yellows than pinks. On the other hand, there would be so many pink flowers in the garden in September. . . . And how thin Ralph’s hair was becoming, she observed. Curious she had not noticed this before. Perhaps she was too used to him to take in slow changes. Absence spurs the shock of change. In middle age, if you do not see a friend for three months, you are surprised by new lines, more grey hairs, the swift progress of decay. To perpetuate the illusion of youth among contemporaries, it is necessary to see them constantly, thought Frances. As she saw Ralph. Why, then, suddenly tonight, did the sadness of his thinning hair strike her? She glanced quickly at her husband. Had she missed anything about him, too, knowing him so well? No: Toby’s hair was still as thick and dark as when she had first known him, though his eyebrows, curiously, had turned an independent silvery grey. But his hand. . . . As he pushed a bottle of claret towards Ralph, Frances saw the veins standing high, a complicated pattern of blue-green streams, and the pale fingers trembled slightly. This was something recent, some new intimation of the ageing process. Frances shivered and purposefully turned her thoughts to a less haunting worry – the size of the dance floor.
After dinner, coffee on the terrace. The three of them sat on an iron bench. Behind them, wisteria dangled in a thousand fading earrings from the wall of the house. Toby put an arm round his wife.
‘Think I’ll be off to the woods, if you’ll forgive me, Ralph. Breath of air before bed.’
‘But it’s not dark enough,’ protested Frances.
They all stood.
‘It will be by the time I get there. You two go in. It’s getting cold. Bye, Ralph.’ Toby was off across the lawn, soon lost in the deep shadows.
‘Tobes goes badger watching almost every night we’re here now,’ Frances said. ‘Think he’s becoming obsessed. Shall we go in?’
‘Think I’ll be on my way. Have an early night for once.’
‘Very well,’ Frances replied lightly, for she did not mind.
‘Thanks for a lovely dinner. Delicious food as usual.’
Frances was still looking at the place where her husband had disappeared into the shadows.
‘If your life isn’t engaged in some major pursuit, then it’s not very difficult to organise good food,’ she said.
Ralph turned to her, cut by the bleakness of her voice.
‘I suppose not.’ He kissed her on the forehead.
‘Come again soon.’
‘I will.’
When he had gone, Frances remained for a while outside, quite cold. Clouds moved across the moon, but it was dark enough for badgers, now. A curious lightness of heart seemed to possess her, an indefinable sense of relief. This was the evening, she realised, that she had conceded defeat, released the fantasy she had lived with for so long. Ralph with his thinning hair was never going to be won, and she no longer had any desire to fight for him. She would not embarrass him again. Very quickly he would realise that she, too, was offering nothing more than friendship.
Meantime, unusually, she felt impatient for Toby’s return. He had been preoccupied, these last few months, too much by the badgers. They had kept him from her at night. Now it was time to woo him away from them, back to bed at a reasonable hour. Funny, the fluctuations in marriage, she thought, and decided to make a list headed Suggestions for Food while she waited for Toby to return.
Later, propped up in her decorative bed, wearing satin pyjamas Toby had once said he liked, she concentrated on possibilities for the party supper. At midnight, perplexed by her own disappointment when Toby still had not returned, she put out the light and continued to wait, thinking, in the dark.
But for Toby, sitting on his jacket beneath an oak tree in the woods, the night had scarcely begun. There had been no sign of a badger so far, but the two hours of waiting had been full of pleasures: the snuffling of unseen creatures, an exuberant song of nightingales, moonlight like shattered glass splintered over bramble and leaf, the smell of wild honeysuckle. One night, Toby thought, he would sleep out here. He had loved sleeping in the open, as a boy. He would find his old sleeping bag, build a small fire and grill himself sausages at dawn. . . . Enjoying such plans, he patiently waited, unmoving.
When eventually Toby returned home the birds were singing and the sky was pale as a young pigeon. He found Frances asleep under a confetti of lists. Her face, even in sleep, was animated: dreams of the party, Toby supposed. He sat down, scattering the lists, undressed quickly. About to get into bed, he noticed his wife’s pyjamas – satiny things she had not produced for years. Unease flut
tered within him. The calm induced by the solitary, untroubled night, was instantly destroyed by an old and nameless anxiety. Sleep, he knew, would be impossible. He decided to take his chance – go through the paraphernalia in the attic, and find his old tent.
Toby put on his dressing gown quietly as a figure in a silent film. He gave one last, puzzled glance at the seductive position of his sleeping wife, and left the room.
* * *
In Oxford, Ursula and Martin Knox were awake in bed. Both lay on their backs, opened books on their chests. Martin was thinking about the lecture he had to give tomorrow, Ursula was thinking about the cat.
‘It was so stupid of Ralph,’ she said eventually.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Sarah’s over the moon. She’ll look after it.’
‘Sarah’s not here all day. She doesn’t have to be alone in the house with it spooking around. I shall hate coming back not knowing where it is, not knowing where it’s going to jump out from.’
‘If it haunts you too much, we’ll give it back to Ralph.’
‘We bloody well will.’
Martin turned towards Ursula, pulled her towards him.
‘Stop thinking about the wretched cat.’
Ursula bent her head into the familiar crook between Martin’s neck and shoulder. He smelt faintly of ginger. She shut her eyes, suddenly drowsy.
‘Do you remember those long mornings, before the children were born?’ she asked.
‘Course.’
‘I wish they still existed, sometimes.’ Because since they had had Ben and Sarah, days would go by when Martin was no more than a presence, morning and evening, whose mind was elsewhere. Their marriage ticked over agreeably enough but time, now, was against them – time to wonder, to explore, to keep in touch with the other’s days and thoughts, as they had done in the beginning.
Martin kissed her closed eyes, tickled her jaw with one finger. ‘Don’t go to sleep,’ he said.
Ursula opened her eyes. Her vision was completely filled with the close-up of the fine, familiar face she loved so much. His eyes were wholly concentrated upon her, loving. So often they were preoccupied.
