by Angela Huth
She found herself much busier today. Orchestrating a party of this size, ensuring each element was perfect, meant dizzying mental somersaults in the unravelling of disparate last-minute problems. The woman in charge of the flowers needed Disprin for a nervous headache. Miss Hubbard, the dressmaker, who had obligingly made four dozen pink cloths for the tables, spilt a cup of coffee over one of them in her excitement, and became uncharacteristically helpless in the finding of cold water and an iron. There was a panic about ice: had enough been ordered? Where was the ribbon that had been bought to tie bows round the skinny trunks of the bay trees? More ladders were needed if lights were to be flung over the whole garden. Mrs Farthingoe? Mrs Farthingoe, a moment please. . . .
At some point Toby flashed by saying he and Fiona were off to lunch at the pub – the most helpful thing they could do would be to keep out of the way. Ant Cellar, in purple satin shirt and chamois leather jeans, arrived early afternoon with two helpers to set up seats and microphones. The girl prettifying the bandstand with pots of hydrangeas found herself in immediate conflict with the bandleader. Her flowers were taking up too much space, he said. She’d had her orders, she said. Mrs Farthingoe to arbitrate, please. . . .
Frances had no idea what time it was – sun high and hot -when she and Ant took a break in the shade of one of the cedars. They shared a can of Coke.
‘Looks like it’s going to be a proper event,’ observed the musician, lying back on his elbows, charming tendrils of hair falling over his eyes. ‘Fixed it all yourself, did you? Or did you get one of those party planning people in? We get a lot of hassle with some of them.’
‘I did it all.’ Frances tried to sound modest.
‘Terrific. Like I said, last night: terrific. You’ve obviously got a good eye, plenty of ideas.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
‘Believe me.’ Ant gave her ankle an encouraging squeeze.
‘But I’m glad you think so, because there’s something I wanted to ask you.’ Frances did not move her foot. ‘I’ve this idea I’d like to be some sort of designer, producer, whatever: in films, perhaps. I was wondering if you knew anybody in that world.’
Ant gave a deep sigh. He thought for a long time in silence.
‘Well, I do, and I don’t,’ he said. ‘My territory’s parties, as you know, and a few recordings. But, like, here’s an idea.’ He banged her knee. ‘Why not design parties professionally? Extravagance at someone else’s expense, and the more you charge the better they think you are, believe me.’
Frances kept quiet for a while, internally dealing with a small disappointment. She would have preferred Ant to consider her capable of designing greater things than parties.
‘That’s not a bad idea – it would be a start,’ she said at last.
‘Then of course there’s always the chance Spielberg or someone will be a guest, be knocked out by what you’ve done, and hey presto there’s a commission for a feature film.’ He was endearingly convincing. ‘You’ve got a lot going for you, Frances,’ Ant added. He sat up, dented the empty Coke can with his thumb. ‘Anyway, I think we should talk about this more. I could put you in touch with a lot of people who give expensive parties. I could flash your name about, say we liked working together.’
Frances smiled and felt herself blushing. She was glad of the shade.
‘That would be very kind,’ she said.
‘I could give you a buzz next week.’
‘Fine. Thanks.’
Then she heard her name being urgently called from within the marquee. She saw Ant’s visible sigh. But he leapt instantly to his feet and held out a hand to pull her up.
‘Be back later,’ he said with an intense look she could not quite define. ‘Looking forward to it.’
* * *
‘I’ve brought the works, darling,’ Rosie Cotterman told her son as she walked behind him up the garden path to his cottage. ‘I’ve brought Arnold’s emerald bracelet, Philip’s diamond necklace and Michael’s sapphire earrings.’
‘Good heavens, Mother. Where’s your bodyguard? It’s only a country dance, you know.’
‘Probably the last one I’ll ever go to. Then I’ll flog the lot. Serena doesn’t care a damn about jewellery.’ In Ralph’s forlorn kitchen she laid her dress of pansied satin over one end of the table, was pleased to see a pot of tea and two cups at the other end. ‘Oh, what a kind boy you are. The journey took so long, Mary’s anxious driving, and then her tiresome idea of having to stop for a picnic.’ She sat down, poured tea. ‘Unless – I’m back on to the jewellery now, you understand – unless you find a wife pretty quickly, while I can still afford the insurance, I’ll have to sell it, Ralphie. Any hope?’
‘Mother, please don’t let’s have this conversation again. As I keep telling you, I’m not getting married.’
‘Is that a final decision? You sound horribly final, Ralphie.’
‘Unless something unimaginable happens, yes.’
‘I’ll never get used to the idea. I so fancy half a dozen grandchildren.’
‘I’m sorry. You’ll have to rely on Serena.’
‘Serena! Thirty-one and not a steady man in sight, as far as I know.’
‘That’s how it is these days.’
‘Poor old you – all of your generation, darling. We seemed to have much more fun. So many men to open doors, and give one a good time. . . .’
‘In your case –’
‘I wasn’t particularly –’
‘I have it on very good evidence that you were. Irresistible and irrepressible.’
‘You always say that, Ralphie!’ Rosie laughed with great pleasure. ‘Well, tonight I’ve decided I shall make my last effort. I shall pull out all stops, be charming to any young men I may meet, then go back home for ever.’
Rosie flurried up from the table, swept her dress over her arm and dashed a tea-breath kiss on her son’s temple.
‘There’s enough water in the tank for one large bath. Why don’t you? I had mine this morning,’ he said.
‘Ralphie, you’re an angel.’
An hour later Ralph found her pulling up weeds from the roots of his hollyhocks. She stood up, dry earth on her hands, satin pansies lustrously clinging to her tiny body, stars bouncing blindly from the various diamonds, topaz tilted eyes unusually defined with mascara. Ralph was speechless for a moment, unnerved by the confusions of time. She looked just as he remembered as a child, when she would glide into his nursery before going out, to say goodnight: the most beautiful woman he knew.
‘Will I pass?’ she asked.
‘You look amazing.’
‘Just this side of sixty, Ralphie, you realise?’
‘Unbelievable. What about washing your hands?’
Rosie looked down at her earth-stained fingers and shrugged. She wiped them on the sides of her dress.
‘Let’s be off,’ she said, taking her son’s arm. ‘Now I’m here, I’m looking forward to it.’
He led her down the lavender-tangled path. When they reached his car, he opened the passenger door with a flourish of exaggerated gallantry, the sort of gesture she had been accustomed to in her wild youth, and which the prospects of this evening had encouraged her to remember.
* * *
In the Arkwrights’ bedroom, Thomas and Rachel stood looking at each other in the faintly amazed way of married couples who have watched each other dressing for a party. Thomas did up the jacket of his pristine dinner jacket, disliked the tightness round the stomach, and undid it again.
‘Shrunk at the cleaners,’ he said.
He fiddled with his cufflinks and bow tie.
He had surprised himself by surviving the traumas of yesterday. After a twelve-hour sleep last night at his club, a fragile calm had been restored. His present thought was simply that he must put on a good face this evening, despite his reluctance to go, and return to Norfolk again next week.
‘The funny thing is,’ Rachel was saying, ‘I remember the morning the Fa
rthingoes’ invitation came, and I felt really keen to go. Now, I don’t want to at all.’
‘Nor me,’ agreed Thomas. ‘I’d do anything for a quiet night.’
‘You do look quite tired.’
‘All the driving.’
Rachel surveyed her reflection in the mirror with scant interest. In her determination to abandon all signals of availability this evening – and for ever more – she had made little effort with her appearance. There was no new dress – she could trust her comfortable old black not to embarrass her with its independent life — and she had washed her own hair. She did put on the ruby earrings, because she had forgotten to return them to the bank, but no other jewellery.
‘We better be off.’
She stood, reluctantly. Thomas patted her shoulder.
‘You look rather good, old thing,’ he said.
Rachel touched the lustreless black stuff of her skirt. ‘Must be fifteen years old.’
‘I like it better than that gold.’
‘That was a mistake.’ They both smiled. ‘Come on.’
Thomas followed her downstairs, drifting in the slipstream of her hyacinth scent. She had worn it ever since he had known her. Its acute familiarity was comforting. He was lucky, he thought, that she had dismissed his silly suggestion to go her own way. . . . In the difficult months that lay ahead, securing Rosie, he would be glad of Rachel to return to. The truth was that he could not imagine ever being quite without his wife.
* * *
Mary Lutchins – with no notion of vanity, and to whom changing for a party was a tiresome business which should be executed in the least possible time – was ready long before Ursula and Martin. In their kitchen she washed up the tea things, careless of her old ruby velvet dress, and played with Sarah’s King Charles spaniel, Flapper, whose white hair soon made an ermine scattering over her skirt. When Martin came into the room, she rose from her position on the floor, where she had been tickling the puppy’s stomach, and made her pronouncement.
‘I’ve decided to take my own car,’ she said.
‘What?’ Martin was horrified at his mother-in-law’s suggestion. He was well acquainted with her driving.
‘I want to be absolutely independent, if you don’t mind. I may want to leave early. I want to know I can leave whenever I like without being a nuisance to anyone.’
‘We won’t stay late.’
‘You might. It might be a wonderful party. Anyhow, I insist.’
‘Well, if you insist. But at least let me drive you there. Ursula can follow in your car.’
‘All right. I’ll settle for that. In which case I could have a tiny drink now, nothing later.’
Martin fetched her a small glass of weak whisky. He thought how pretty she looked in the pinkish light of the kitchen: soft, smudged eyes, dimples, curly white hair. In a curious way, since Bill’s death, she seemed younger. The fine web of inexplicable strain, which for years had meshed her features, had vanished. Ursula said it was because she was released from her old, neurotic worry about dying before Bill, leaving him to fend hopelessly for himself. Martin had never been aware of any such preoccupation. Mary would naturally never talk about such things, even to Ursula.
‘Hope it’ll be fun,’ Mary said, taking the drink. ‘I almost backed out, you know. It was only because the Farthingoes’ party was one of the things we’d agreed about, and Bill believed plans should be stuck to . . . that I decided in the end to come with Rosie. I think it’s the last of the engagements we’d accepted together. After this, if there are any invitations, I’ll have to make up my own mind, no consultation. Quite odd, getting used to that.’ She laughed, glanced out of the window. ‘Look: there’s Ursula.’
Ursula was drifting back and forth across the garden, picking up cushions and books from the grass. Her white organza dress, dotted with large black spots, had a skirt of three tiered frills. When she turned, Martin and Mary, watching, saw the back was done up with huge black pom-pom buttons, in the fashion of a clown.
‘I shouldn’t say it about my own daughter,’ said Mary, ‘but, well. . . .’
‘I’ve reason to be a conceited husband,’ agreed Martin.
Ursula waved at them with her free hand. The sun dazzled behind her, fuzzying the clown dress and her rumbustious hair.
‘Coming,’ she shouted, and moved, shimmering, towards them.
‘I wish Bill could have been here to see her,’ said Mary. She finished her drink with swift distaste, like one who is obliged to take medicine.
* * *
In the end, despite her meticulous planning, Frances was called upon for so many last-minute decisions that she almost missed the moment she had been most eagerly awaiting: her entrance at the top of the stairs. She had to hurry more than she would have liked over her dressing, and the slight trembling of her fingers made her clumsy. At the dressing-table, stabbing an earring at each ear in turn, she felt grateful for Toby’s absence and for his tactful behaviour. He had kept out of the way, all day, had occupied Fiona. After changing early, he had left the bathroom unusually tidy, and was now downstairs ‘checking the drink’ with Luigi. She hoped that he would be in the hall as she came downstairs.
At last the earrings were in place – two waterfalls of glitter which, the observant eye might perceive, were faintly trout-shaped. (Such a lucky find: Frances had not been able to resist them.) She tossed back her hair, allowed herself a moment to appreciate the reflection. Then she crossed the peach carpet with tiny, hobbled steps forced by the tightness of the mermaid skirt. Last private moment before her last spectacular. . . .
Frances shimmied on to the landing, leaned over the bannisters to peer down into the hall. She had an aerial view of the enormous bowl of flowers on the table, daisy-centred spray chrysanthemums of the exact dusky pink she had wanted, finally located at a grower in Somerset. But nothing else. No Toby. Damn, damn. Where was he? Frances had not wanted to call. She had wanted him just to be there. But the grandfather clock said five-to-eight – call she must if they were to do a private tour before the guests arrived.
Toby appeared instantly, from the drawing room, holding Fiona’s hand. Frances had not reckoned on her daughter’s presence at this crucial moment: she tried to swallow her irritation.
‘Yes?’ Toby looked up.
Frances made her way down, negotiating each polished step with an elegant caution she hoped might disguise the difficulty of moving at all. She kept one hand on the bannister. Her skirt would not survive the slightest mistake in her footing. Halfway down the flight of stairs, she paused.
‘Well?’ she said.
Toby arranged his face. Backlit by the evening sky that dazzled through the intricacies of the half-landing windows, he saw his wife transformed into an absurd-looking fish. She seemed to be dressed in a skin of glittering scales, sequins, pearly stuff spattered over a chiffony froth of hem in the shape of a tail . . . could it be?
‘Mum, what on earth?’ Fiona asked.
Toby quickly squeezed her hand.
‘Darling,’ he said to Frances, searching for an adjective. ‘Amazing. Come on down. I want to be sure my eyes are not deceiving me.’
Frances smiled. Having held her breath so long, she let it expire in an uncomfortable shudder. She felt she had passed the test. Toby, of the understatement, man of few declarations except when fired by jealousy, approved. She thought: he really does. I can tell by his astounded face.
At the bottom of the stairs, eye to eye with his wife at last and not allowing himself to glance lower than her neck, Toby was affected by her wily, sharp-chinned beauty: the simple structure of her face set against the too-long hair which she refused to cut, the extraordinarily vulgar earrings that struck her cheek bones with tiny reflections, the ever-visible scar on the pale lobe. . . . He kissed her briefly on the forehead, guilty at his weeks of inward sneering, his lack of enthusiasm, his dread of this moment.
‘Think everything’s under control,’ he said.
Frances
, exuberant, felt a small finger poking her hip, digging between the fragile sequins.
‘Don’t!’ she snapped. ‘Fiona!’
Fiona whipped back her hand. Her milky cheeks turned scarlet.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just going to say I suppose my dress isn’t too bad after all.’
‘Good.’
Frances was brusque. After all the fuss, she had no intention of telling her daughter she looked lovely when she did not. Gloom had plainly set in the child’s bones, and would harden throughout the evening. Frances bent down to kiss her on the cheek – the stilted action of a bride whose gesture combines the preservation of her make-up with dutiful affection.
‘Let’s go and see everything before everyone arrives,’ she said, and took Toby’s arm.
The Farthingoes made their way into the drawing room – armchairs and sofas pushed back against the walls, longi florum lilies in stately clusters on every table, the precision of their stems softened by ruffles of old man’s beard – and through the open French windows to the covered terrace. There, white wicker chairs were placed among the rose beds (Maidens Blush and Felicité Perpetué had miraculously survived last night’s storm, only a few fallen petals decorated the flagstones). The bay trees, alert in their pristine white boxes and with pink bows tied round their skinny necks, stood like prim sentinels in various corners. This was the grandstand, the place, in the night to come, best to observe the scene below.
‘Look,’ urged Frances, squeezing Toby’s arm.
‘I am looking,’ said Toby.
‘It’s brill, Mum,’ said Fiona. ‘Though I can’t see everything terribly well without my glasses.’
Frances hobbled to the edge of the terrace and studied the culmination of her summer’s work. The polished lake of parquet floor, at her insistence and at great extra expense, had been made with various gaps, like beds in a lawn, so that columns could be rooted. These fine pillars soared to the high roof of the tent. They were almost completely garlanded with a density of small ivy leaves whose flowers were the bright nostalgic green of spring – within days they would turn black. At the top of the pillars, huge baskets overflowed with branches of blackberry (fruits purply gleaming) that trailed, with other greenery, on loops of pink ribbon to the next pillar. It had worked, thought Frances: the flower ceiling had been her most rash and ambitious plan. She had had to fight rampant pessimism among the florists: they had declared the idea impractical, impossible. But she had been right, as they admitted in the end. The guests at the Farthingoe ball would dance under a ceiling of ribboned foliage. Frances hoped some of them might notice.
