by Angela Huth
Her thoughts were broken by the bang of the front door: Thomas. What was he doing? Rachel realised she had no time to dress and make the bed before he came looking for her. She dreaded his finding her, and his disapprobation. She heard him hurry up the stairs, past the door, and on up to the studio. (Relief.) Bang of another door. Then, impatient steps, a curious crashing and thumping. What was going on?
Rachel took her chance. She quickly dressed, drew back the curtains, straightened the bed. Then she just stood, listening to her husband’s puzzling antics overhead.
When at last she heard him on the stairs again she opened the bedroom door. Thomas was making his way down, slowly, hampered by a huge cardboard box.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Throwing away the painting things,’ he said.
In the moment that he paused to answer, head peering round the box, Rachel saw a desperate tiredness in his eyes. Sweat poured from his temples. She had never seen him look so sad.
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ she said.
The relief that he had not discovered her in bed turned easily to benevolence. She poured him a large glass of malt whisky and waited for him to join her in the kitchen after his journeys up and down to the studio. She would keep her silence, Rachel decided, and Thomas, goaded by her lack of curiosity, might explain.
She took great care preparing dinner, and noticed that Thomas, though obviously hungry, ate little. He told her briefly about his day in Norfolk, and his purchase of more pictures. But he made no further mention of his strange earlier statement about his painting things, and Rachel, knowing her husband, deemed it wise still not to ask.
At breakfast next day, Thomas observed another Bonnard morning: backlit wife in grubby bathrobe, half-dead Mermaid roses slumped over vase. Again, the butter hurt his eyes and the newsprint, even with his glasses, was unclear. He had had another restless night and risen at dawn to pace his studio. There, he had made another decision, almost as momentous as the one yesterday. Now he was exhausted by decisions, but kept his faith in strong coffee. When he had finished the third cup, he put down his paper and looked Rachel in the eye.
‘I’ve been thinking: perhaps we should go our separate ways,’ he said.
He saw the slight lift of his wife’s shoulders as she sighed. There was a moment’s silence.
‘I’ve no separate way to go,’ said Rachel.
It was Thomas’s turn to pause. Her unexpected answer relieved him of explanations.
‘Very well, then,’ he heard himself reply. ‘It was just an idea.’
He picked up the paper, folded it untidily as always, and left the room.
The idea of a separation scarcely touched Rachel before it vanished from her mind. She thought only how tired Thomas looked, how unusually grim. Thank God the holiday in Portugal was only a few weeks off. For her part she dreaded it, but knew how the children, for all their perversity, seemed to inspire Thomas with a certain joviality when they were abroad. He needed the sun: he worked too hard, all the dashing up and down to Nottingham, and now Norfolk seemed to be becoming a regular visiting place. Ridiculous.
Rachel continued to sit at the table. Her thoughts turned to the day ahead. Nothing much to do. Perhaps she would take Thomas’s dinner jacket to the cleaners. The Farthingoes’ ball wasn’t that far away – the Farthingoes’ ball where she would be quite, quite unavailable, and give not the smallest signal.
Smiling to herself, Rachel then thought of the luxury to follow. After her mission to the cleaners, she would shut herself in her room, draw the curtains, burrow into the cool darkness of linen sheets, and sleep away the afternoon.
Part Two
The
Party
On An evening in September, Toby Farthingoe walked in the garden clutching at his last hours of peace. In the sky above swifts gathered in ponderous flight, wondering when to leave. The shadows of the cedars, he fancied, were a little deeper than a week ago, and some of the roses had scattered their petals on the ground. Intimations of autumn were visible. It was the time of year he most loved, and he wished he could have the first few days of tentative change to himself. Instead, they were to be blasted by the party.
Tomorrow at dawn lorries would begin to arrive, and for the next two days havoc was expected. Toby knew Frances’s elaborate plans – he had avoided hearing too much detail – meant elaborate preparations. She had warned him there would be a certain amount of men ‘doing things’. ‘And to be honest,’ she had added, ‘a certain amount of upheaval.’ Toby dreaded the very thought of this upheaval, longed for it all to be over. Why, he wondered for the hundredth time, had he ever agreed to pay out a fortune to entertain three hundred middle-aged guests, only half a dozen of whom were real friends? The answer, he supposed, had been to furnish Frances with an occupation for the summer – to keep her happy so that he could concentrate with an easier heart on his computers and badgers. Never again would he agree to such folly. His indulgence, he realised, had been inspired by self-protection rather than love. Not only was it a high price to pay for a quiet summer, but, in the present economic climate, an extravagant party was morally suspect. To be host to such profligacy was embarrassing. In future, Frances would have to devote her energies to more worthwhile and less expensive projects. She was constantly in need of activities to fulfil her days, and each of her whims had cost him a great deal of money. He would be a richer man, he reflected with a grim little smile, if she were to take a lover.
That thought, it struck Toby this evening, caused him no jealousy. How curious! How very curious. Here he was, actually contemplating the idea of his wife taking a lover, and feeling no jealousy. Instead, he was suffused with a certain longing for that to happen. A well-mannered lover (who knew his place, of course) would free him of his obligations concerning Frances’s tedious chatter, her well-meant but silly observations. A lover who took over the part of Frances’s life that held no interest to Toby would be of great service. Funny he had not thought of it before. For his own part, it was inconceivable that he should desire another woman – look for one, or find one. Work was his lover. Apart from work, he needed nothing except the comfort of his dark house, the privacy of the garden and woods and – the new thought – someone to satisfy Frances in a way he found impossible.
Toby sat on a garden bench. The party, he now realised, held real promise. The guests must surely include some suitable man. . . . Warm with the thought, he tipped back his head to watch the swifts again as their curves scythed gently across the sky.
Frances stood in Fiona’s room, arms crossed, trying to control her increasing irritation. She had enough on her mind without the ungrateful child kicking up a ridiculous fuss at the last moment. Fiona sat on the bed, arms crossed also, staring sulkily at the floor. A plain child, Frances thought, guilty at the meanness of the admission. A heavier version of Toby’s face. Absolutely nothing of her own. The outline might fine down in a few years, but nothing would ever improve the closeness of her eyes.
‘Fiona: I took a great deal of trouble to find you the right dress,’ she said – the third time she had made this observation in a variety of ways.
‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘I tell you, it’s lovely.’
‘Well, I’m not going to wear it, so there. It’s babyish.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ Frances patted the bunchy skirt: graded frills of spotted organza. ‘It’s the sort of thing Spanish gypsies wear. Grown-up Spanish gypsies.’
‘Well, I’m not a Spanish gypsy, am I? I’ll just look a real prat.’
‘You won’t.’
‘I will.’
‘You won’t. And, anyway, I’m not going to argue with you any more. I’ve a million more important things to do –’
‘I might have known getting me something decent to wear wouldn’t be on that list –’
‘Fiona! You’re behaving like a monstrous, spoilt child. That dress cost a fortune. It’s very pretty, and
there’s no time to get anything else. So you either stop grumbling and wear it, or don’t come to the party.’
There was a long silence. Fiona continued to look at the floor. Finally she shrugged.
‘I don’t care if I don’t come to your stupid old party. And, anyhow, even if I did, what would I do? Who would I talk to? Everyone will be about a hundred.’
What her daughter would actually do at the party was not a problem, Frances had to admit, to which she had given much attention. She had some vague picture in mind of the child wandering about with plates of mini-éclairs, being polite to godparents.
‘Darling: how do I know what you’d do? You’d know lots of people. One or two might dance with you –’
‘Very funny.’
‘Well, I mean, it might not be that much fun for you. But it was your decision to come, and I think it’d be an experience worth not missing. Just seeing it all.’
Frances glanced at her watch. She had to ring the caterers before dinner, and check that Luigi had bought enough cloakroom tickets.
‘Huh.’
‘Well, it’s up to you. But Papa and I will be sad if you don’t come. We’d like you to be there.’
Fiona looked up. ‘You won’t have a single moment for me. You should have let me ask a friend. May I ask a friend?’
‘For heaven’s sake: it’s a bit late to arrange anything now. I haven’t time to start ringing round —’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll ring Jess.’
‘Jess lives fifty miles away, you idiot.’ Frances’s voice was rising, her exasperation almost beyond control. ‘If you think I’ve got time to start worrying about how Jess gets here –’
‘I’ll ring her.’
‘You won’t! I forbid you to ring her. Besides, I need the telephone non-stop.’
‘Oh, go away, Mum, and get on with your telephoning. Leave me alone.’ Fiona’s voice had risen, too. She was on the verge of tears. Her glasses were steamed up.
‘Right! Sometimes you’re the most inconsiderate child I ever -’
Frances, shouting, left the room, slamming the door behind her.
She hurried away, not wanting to hear the chord of tears. Up until half-an-hour ago she had been excited, in control, happy knowing that all her plans, her work of months, were about to crystallise beautifully. . . . Now she was inflicted with the irritation of a spoilt child. Toby would have to deal with her.
Frances snapped open a window. Toby was at the far end of the garden, slumped on a bench, back to her, head in the air, probably asleep. She shouted at him. He did not stir, probably could not hear. Further annoyed, and time running out, Frances stomped across the grass to wake him. He was always good with Fiona, patient. He could bloody well hurry up to her room, and make her see sense before dinner. It would be one of his practical contributions to the party.
* * *
Despite the warmth of the evening, Mary Lutchins had lit a fire. The balsam logs – Jack Yacksley had finished sawing and had carted them to the shed – burned merrily, and she looked forward to another conversation, from the comfort of her chair, with Rosie Cotterman. Rosie had promised many times to come to the party with her: they had made elaborate plans for the journey, and Mary believed Rosie would not let her down. But you could never be sure: Rosie sometimes suffered radical changes of mind, and many an arrangement had been known to collapse. Before going to bed tonight, Mary wanted to reassure herself: if Rosie refused to come there would have to be hurried new plans. Mary did not want to drive all that way alone.
‘Rosie?’
‘Mary, my darling.’
‘I was just ringing to make sure.’
‘What about?’
‘The party. Your coming. I just wanted to make sure you’re not changing your mind at the last moment.’
‘What an idea! Of course I’m not.’
‘Good. I’ll pick you up at eleven, then, as arranged.’
‘Wonderful. Ralph’s just rung. Seemed doubtful of me as you, the silly man.’ She laughed. ‘We’ll have fun, the journey together. Two old things.’
‘Two old things, indeed,’ said Mary gaily. ‘I’m going to bring a wonderful picnic.’
‘Now, there is a change of plan, I think. We won’t have a picnic, it occurred to me. We’ll stop at some delicious road-house, have a good bottle of wine for our lunch, then potter along slowly.’
‘I’m not sure there are many such places between Norfolk and Oxford,’ answered Mary, as she had done several times before. The tussle of picnic versus ‘roadhouse’ had been going on for days.
‘And we’ll arrive at Ralphie’s in time for tea. I’ve told him to get in scones and Lapsang. He’s such a vague housekeeper – needs a wife. After that, you can be going off in your own time to the children. All lovely plans, don’t you think?’
The lovely plans had been gone over so many times that repetition was causing them to sag, thought Mary. But she was reluctant to let Rosie go. She could hear a barn owl outside. Trust growled, half asleep. She still did not like going up to bed alone.
‘Another thing, Rosie,’ she said. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask: what are you going to wear?’
There was a long silence.
‘To be honest,’ said Rosie at last, ‘I hadn’t given the matter a moment’s thought. But I do believe I still have my old pansies in the back of the cupboard.’
‘Pansies?’
‘You’ll see. Exquisite they were, once. Thank you for reminding me. Ralphie would’ve been furious if I turned up with nothing to wear. “You’re so hopeless, Mother,” he says, when I forget the sort of things he minds about.’
Both women laughed. They wished each other goodnight. Mary, curled up in the chair, returned to listening to the barn owl, and the twitching of the fire. She knew Rosie was coming to the ball only for her sake, and was grateful. Mary would have gone anyhow, to please Bill (’Death needn’t change old plans and habits’) but with less enthusiasm. As it was, she was quite looking forward to it: Martin and Ralph would give her a polite whirl round the floor no doubt, and she had always enjoyed the role of spectator. It would be odd not to have Bill by her side, but people were kind to new widows. She would find herself a corner, pull her shawl round her shoulders -mustn’t forget her shawl. . . .
Mary fell asleep in the chair.
* * *
At breakfast Thomas told Rachel of his plan to be away for the night: late meetings in Nottingham, early meetings the following morning. No point in coming back.
In truth, he had decided he could bear Rosie’s curious silence no longer. He had sent her a light and witty postcard every other day from Portugal (acts which required devious planning but were necessary to his sanity) and was finally demolished by her complete lack of response. His plan was to ring her at lunchtime today, when she returned from painting, and to propose a visit in the afternoon. He would book into a nearby hotel as a precaution, but had an instinctive feeling there would be no need to use it.
‘As long as you’re back in time for us to leave for the Farthingoes.’
‘Goddammit! Their bloody ball. I’d forgotten all about it. I’ll be back by seven, I promise.’ In which case there would be but one evening and one whole morning with Rosie. ‘Are the children coming with us?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know yet?’
‘I’m not sure they’ve made up their minds. Helen says she thinks she’ll come. Frances said it was fine to bring Jasper. Jeremy said it was unlikely he’d show up.’
‘Bloody marvellous!’ Thomas slammed down his paper. ‘The manners of my children are deplorable, do you realise? Why didn’t you force them into some decision, get them to write, get them to commit themselves one way or another like any civilised person invited to a party?’
‘Thomas, please. They’re grown-up. I can’t dictate to them.’
‘You could have brought them up to have better manners.’
‘Do stop
shouting. You could have shared the responsibility.’
Thomas stood up, banging and crumpling the paper as if he was preparing to light a fire.
‘I can tell you this: if they condescend to come, and are wanting us to give them a lift, I shall tell them in no uncertain terms what I think of their appalling rudeness–’
‘That should make for a very merry journey.’
Rachel reached across the table for the mess of paper and patiently began to smooth it out. Thomas barged out of the room, sweating heavily.
In a small show of contrition, he made a great effort to shout goodbye from the front door in a normal, friendly voice. Rachel, reading the crumpled paper at the table, did not bother to reply.
* * *
The marquee men arrived first. Frances heard the clatter of their poles on the drive soon after seven. She looked out of the bedroom window to see them carrying huge slabs of neatly folded canvas across the lawn. She was impatient for the tent to be up, to see the hundreds of yards of grey and white stuff she had triumphantly procured in place. Toby was asleep, unaware of the excitements. She shouted to him to come and look. His response was to burrow further down the bed, pulling the sheets well over his ears. For a moment, Frances looked sadly at the impervious huddle. She was almost, but not quite, used to surviving his lack of enthusiasm.
At breakfast, she consulted her list of prospective arrival times. Today, the marquee, the floor, the bandstand and filigree partitions (designed by her, made by the local carpenter) were all to be established, and the electricians had promised to be through by the evening. Frances had ordered an extravagance of lights both for the marquee and the garden: hundreds of minuscule bulbs would trail through trees and over hedges outside, and round pillars inside. Her idea was that it would look as if the place had been invaded by a million fireflies. Bloody nightmare to organise, the electrician had warned her, but not impossible, and yes, he wouldn’t mind the challenge. Apart from checking that everything was put in the right place, and organising a constant supply of tea for the workmen, Frances realised there was little else she could do today. Tomorrow, with the arrival of the flowers, food and drink, tables and chairs, she could be of more practical help.
