by Angela Huth
‘He seems a bit frantic. Look: he’s over there, barging about. He must be escaping from something or someone.’
‘Or searching,’ said Martin. ‘He looks like a man in a panic.’
* * *
Thomas was in a panic. Rosie was nowhere to be found. Nowhere. He’d searched the supper room, dance floor, bar, terrace, and downstairs sitting-out rooms in the house. How on earth could he have missed her? In his desperation, on his third visit to the bar, Thomas’s earlier resolve disappeared: he had two quick glasses of champagne. Energy restored, his plan was now the garden. He knew it was a large one, very confusing with hedges and corners and secret places, but he was determined to search every inch till he found her. Very hot, shirt damp, steps a little unsteady, he blundered round the edge of the dance floor aiming for one of the French windows that was let into the side of the marquee. These structures – first observed while Marina Folks was droning on about her husband’s uncanny knowledge of hops – intrigued him: for all their solid structure, they appeared not quite authentic, like stage scenery. On reaching one of the open glass doors he could not refrain from testing the wooden frame with a finger. As he had supposed, the wood was of poor quality, thin. It was not a door that would give any support in a crisis. In the event of the guy ropes snapping, and the whole elaborate edifice of the marquee toppling, then these bloody doors would smash down, useless as matchwood. . . . Surely a symbol of something there, somewhere. Where, oh where was Rosie? Thomas tripped over the low step and plunged into the garden.
* * *
Mary Lutchins sat in a corner at the back of the terrace. As promised, she had secured a small table with two chairs. The unoccupied one awaited Rosie, who had béen gone for some time now. Mary sipped a glass of iced coffee. (Such a good idea.) People filtered past her, in and out of the house, backwards and forwards across the terrace on the way to the dance floor. Some gave a vague smile. Most did not notice her. So this is what it’s like to be old, she thought. You can become almost invisible at a party, when you’re old, and peacefully enjoy your part as a spectator. She was enjoying her uninterrupted observations: such glorious flowers, such a beautiful marquee, such nostalgic music. She was glad she had come. It would have been much better, of course, if Bill had been there, but Mary was surprisingly happy on her own. She saw Martin climbing the steps, hands outstretched towards her. So thoughtful, Martin, always: she could not have asked for more in a son-in-law. And yes, well, as there was still no sign of Rosie, of course she would love just one little dance, next time there was something not too fast. Then she would go in search of Rosie. She had a feeling she knew exactly where she would find her.
‘Yes, I’d love to, just a short one,’ she said to Martin, taking his hand.
* * *
Toby shut the door of his room, switched on a single light. Up here, windows shut, he could hear nothing. The party below did not exist. Blessed white silence. Half-moon in the centre of only skylight, clean-edged in its bed of darkness.
Toby sat at his desk. The familiar leather seat of his chair was cool beneath his thighs. He switched on his machine, pressed a button. The accounts for the party, if it existed, leapt on to the screen. The ridiculous figure of the total was underlined twice. Toby stared at it: preposterous figures. But they did not matter. They made no sense.
He pressed another button. A familiar geometric flower replaced the accounts. It had occurred to him – suddenly, amazingly. . . . He pressed more buttons. Figures danced. Excited now, his fingers moved fast over the keyboard. Inspiration had to be acted upon – matter of moments, ten minutes, perhaps. Imperative. Besides, he would not be missed.
* * *
Thomas was glad of the air. He gasped, patted his chest, stumbled towards the low, spreading branches of a bloody great black cedar tree. On reaching its trunk, he paused and looked back: he was aware of a faint, resinous smell – tremendous relief, its freshness, after all that cloying lily and jasmine and whatnot. Before him spread a daft kind of fairyland: minuscule Christmas lights flung over hedges and branches, flaming torches at the corners of paths, small braziers placed beside garden seats. Frances had thought of bloody everything, he’d grant her that. Must have cost Toby an absolute fortune, but then Toby was a very rich man.
The marquee itself, from here, was a vast glowing hump of prehistoric size from which the music, thank goodness, expired very quickly. A few couples – always blooming couples – oozed out of the pretend French windows. None was drawn by the lugubrious shadows of the cedar tree. Thomas kept his place to himself. He struggled to make a coherent plan, but was overcome by renewed panic. There was a chance Rosie would actually leave before he had found her. He decided to continue in his search.
After a while, he found himself on a cinder path lit only by the moon. Here, the hedges were unadorned by fairy lights, indicating this was not a visitable part of the corner. Turning the corner, Thomas saw why: he was in the vegetable garden. It was surrounded on three sides by a high brick wall.
He hurried about between rows of cabbages and pale lettuces, admiring the neatness of the knee-high box hedges and the weedless earth. Some instinct urged him towards fruit cages at the far end of the garden. Voices?
He stopped, listened. Cool air, soft as kid gloves, stroked his forehead. The music was still audible, but just a thin murmur miles away. Voices, indeed! Oh Lord: had he stumbled upon some middle-aged coupling?
‘Rosie?’ he called.
Silence.
Then there was movement in the raspberry canes: a thrashing and bulging, and the noise of laughter. Girlish giggles, to be precise. What on earth – ?
Thomas watched the flimsy door of the cage open. Rosie came out first, fan in one hand, small cluster of raspberries in the other. She was followed by the white-haired woman Thomas had met on the beach, and seen in the car at the roundabout – Rosie’s friend.
‘I do believe it’s Mr Arkwright,’ cried Rosie. ‘Thomas, my darling, you’ve caught us in the act. Just one or two left, and we found them. Mary, here: this is Thomas the picture man. We’ve been discovered.’
More sweet laughter, two pretty faces in the moonlight. Thomas felt short of breath.
‘Have a raspberry, won’t you?’
Rosie was right beside him now, tipping one into his mouth, kissing him on the ear, or was it the neck – he couldn’t be sure, the small damp moment was so fast – laughing all the time.
‘There, now. You’ll like that, that’s for sure. You won’t tell on us, will you? You won’t tell the Farthingoes? Now, why don’t we make our way to the alcove and sit ourselves down on the bench?’
‘Not me, if you don’t mind, Rosie,’ said Mary. ‘It’s getting a little chilly. I’ll go back to the terrace, keep you a chair.’
‘Then, very well, Mary, you do that. Mr Arkwright -Thomas, here – and I will perhaps have a word about business matters, then I’ll be right behind you.’
Mary glanced up at the unmoving form of Thomas, smiled. Released by her look from his state of strange rigidity, he found himself giving her a small bow like an awed courtier. Then he watched her hurry back the way he himself had so recently come, clutching at her shawl.
Rosie reached for Thomas’s hand. ‘We’ll be sitting down for just a moment, I promise you that. Isn’t this a nice place I’ve found, so secret? Say it’s a good place, if you like to be away from the crowd?’
She darted away from him, a few paces ahead, whirled about like a young child. Her satin skirts flashed with stained glass colours, a pattern of flowers Thomas could not name.
‘And do you like my dress, Mr Arkwright? Do you like my pansies? It’s so old you’d never believe, but who knows? It may well be my last party.’
She was back again, clinging to his arm, fanning her face. The path made sugary noises beneath their feet: there was a smell of peach and lavender, and the raspberries on Rosie’s breath. Thomas, helpless, weightless, allowed himself to be guided to the upright shell of stone carved into the wa
ll. He allowed himself to be lowered on to the stone seat, whose grittiness pressed through his trousers, itching his thighs. He allowed his useless hand to be lifted on to the satin thigh, and the beautiful head to rest against his shoulder.
‘Glory be to God, Mr Arkwright – Thomas, why, you’re so silent tonight.’
Thomas made the effort of a lifetime. He must speak before he cried.
‘There’s so much to say,’ he replied after a while. ‘Where can I begin?’
* * *
Frances found herself dancing without cease. No sooner had she left the floor with one partner, than another came to claim her hand. From the warmth of her body, she supposed, her dress had stretched a little, and movement became easier. She was able to wiggle her hips with more abandon, inspiring laughter, admiration. Well: she must take all that was offered in these few last hours, for she could never go through such efforts again. It was definitely the last party.
Ralph’s turn again: he was waiting for her. She fancied his look was one of admiration mixed with regret. Poor old Ralphie. For all his claims, earlier in the summer, that she meant nothing to him, she knew that was not the whole truth. He had loved her, loved her still, would probably always regret he had not married her.
As the two of them moved towards the bandstand, Frances became aware for the hundredth time that Ant’s eyes were on her. There was something cheap, almost frightening, in his glance. Several times he had winked at her, and given a small secret nod of his head: signal that he was looking forward to the promised dance. Frances waved and smiled in return. The thought of the dance with him was strangely disturbing. Anticipating it as she danced with others, the thoughts of her better marriage with Toby, so recently overwhelming, seemed slightly to fade. An exciting ache gripped her stomach that had nothing to do with the closeness of Ralph. She sensed a madness in the air, this extravagant night, and dreaded its ending.
* * *
Ralph’s time had come. He had seen, in his lone wandering between dancing with his mother, Mary, and the sweet Rachel, that breakfast was being laid. Ursula, always hungry at parties, would be bound for eggs and bacon with Martin soon, and would not want to be disturbed.
When he had finished this second dance with Frances – who seemed to be gripped by some kind of dotty exuberance that is the privilege of a hostess – he would find Ursula. He slowed his pace, stopped. Frances kissed him on the cheek. She had distributed dozens of such prize kisses on her partners, he had noticed, and he did not kiss her back. Once again, he carefully set his expression so that she would think it one of admiration. Concealed behind this mask was the incredulous horror that was his true reaction to her appearance.
‘Did you realise, Ralphie? I’m a mermaid.’
‘I didn’t.’ Further disbelief to be concealed.
‘Promise another dance before the end?’
She was gone before he could make any such promise. Turning in the opposite direction, to leave the floor, he found a familiar arm was flung round his neck.
‘Ralph, you’ve been positively avoiding me!’
Ursula did not sound at all cross. They hurled themselves into a wild Charleston. The wonderful clown-like dress, flipping about as Ursula bounced expertly, seemed the essence of humour in clothes. Its owner had never looked so irresistible.
The Charleston turned into Dancing on the Ceiling. They flung themselves together like old friends hugging at a station. Split-second of wild hair in Ralph’s face, hay smell of skin, echo of heart that beat as fast as his for different reasons – then Ursula pulled cruelly back with some comment about the party.
‘I’m famished,’ she said suddenly. ‘Let’s join Martin for breakfast. He’s at a table over there.’
‘Don’t think I will for the moment. Not hungry, really. Think I’ll explore the garden.’
‘We’ll keep you a place. Come over later.’
All over so fast, the dance might never have been. She would be with Martin for the rest of the evening, now. What was the point in staying? Who else was there to dance with? Where was his mother?
Ralph, longing to go home, made his way into the garden.
* * *
‘I’m in love with you, Rosie, that’s the crux of the matter,’ Thomas heard himself saying. She gave him a slight tap on the nose with her fan.
‘Nonsense, my darling man. It’s my painting you’re in love with. Admit it, now. I saw that the moment we met.’
‘I admire your painting, it’s you I’m in love with. Hopelessly, helplessly, in love with – tortured for weeks, you know, not seeing you, not knowing what to do.’
‘Now, now. Calm down.’ Rose spoke patiently as a nurse to a child. ‘It’s the moon, you know. I do believe that. People say mad things under a half moon.’
‘It’s not the moon, my love.’
‘Very well, then, I’ll believe you if you like. It may be the truth in your heart, but there’s not very much we can do about it, is there?’
‘Not very much,’ said Thomas, ‘no.’ He looked straight ahead at the cabbages, silver globes of matched size. There was another tap of the fan on his nose. ‘We could just . . .’
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘We could not act recklessly. I’m over all that. That’s all in the past.’
‘You’re right,’ said Thomas.
They were silent for a while.
‘You can keep on visiting me, though,’ said Rosie, at last. ‘Of course you can.’
‘Of course I can.’
‘Buy more pictures.’
‘Buy more pictures.’
‘But I’d never change my life, now, Thomas. Not for anyone. Besides, you’ve got a very good wife, I’m thinking.’
Thomas stiffened. ‘How do you know? But yes, you’re right. She’s a good woman.’
‘You’d be foolish to leave a good wife.’
‘Oh, Rosie, you can’t possibly know how much I love you, how much I can’t bear being away from you.’
He turned from the cabbages to look at her. She was regarding him curiously, kindly. He felt a choking in his chest, tears pouring from his eyes. Then a soft mouth was on his cheeks, curbing their course: a gentle palm on his temples.
‘You’re a good man, Thomas,’ Rosie observed in a smudged whisper. ‘You must never love a woman flighty as a butterfly, now, who would never change. . . . Here, don’t be crying.’
There was a confusion of handkerchiefs, dabbing. Mouths met for an infinitesimal kiss. Thomas feared a heart attack, death. Now more than ever . . . time ripe to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain and all that.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he groaned. ‘I love you, Rosie. I love you, I love you, woman.’
Having kissed her, he would gladly die. He opened his eyes to tell her this and saw, at the far end of the secret garden, a spectre-like figure with long amber hair.
‘My daughter,’ cried Rosie, suddenly bright. ‘Serena! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
Mother and daughter waved. Thomas closed his eyes again, unable to face such interruption. He heard the scrunch of Rosie standing up, preparing to leave him. But she would not succeed, she would not succeed. He would pursue her for ever, chase her to the ends of . . .
‘Come on, Mr Arkwright, my darling Thomas,’ she was saying. ‘I can’t be waiting for you all night, now, can I?’
* * *
Soothed by her inspiration, Rachel lingered for a while longer in her place on the terrace. She looked down on the dancers with a mixture of sympathy, scorn, amusement. She found herself wondering, as did Thomas the day the Farthingoes’ invitation had arrived, why the middle-aged go to all the bother and expense to give such parties. What were they for? In Frances’s case, perhaps, the months of brilliant planning were rewarding occupation in an empty life. But there was a certain pointlessness, was there not, in the end result?
In youth, Rachel reflected, the unspoken plan of every guest was to search for – perhaps to find – a partner. Thus the meanest
gathering of party-goers was endowed with a certain excitement, anticipation. In middle age, though cheap wine and scant food may have given way to the sort of extravagance of tonight, the days of the hunt were mostly over. Guests were now married, remarried, divorced. The point of such gatherings was to be reunited with old friends rather than to meet new ones: there is wistfulness in such an occasion, rather than expectancy. As for the idea of signalling availability at a party like this . . . it was laughable. No-one to notice, no-one Rachel would care to be noticed by.
She smiled to herself, observing the dancers. They included a scattering of people she had known vaguely for years, contemporaries at Oxford, the odd school friend. Their various ways had parted, their common interests divided, probably floundered. Rachel had no desire to restrike up acquaintance with any of them: bridging wide gaps is a tiring business – better just to wave in friendly fashion from opposite banks, as she did to a few people who passed her by. She was struck by their general metamorphosis. The unkind truth is that, in middle age, if you don’t see your contemporaries with strict regularity, you are faced by the shock of change after even a short space of time. These old acquaintances were all balder, fatter, greyer, saggier and, judging by much cupping of hands round ears, deafer. Their style of dancing, in the intervening years, had changed too. No matter how wildly they had rocked and rolled in their youth, now, with few exceptions, they plumped for just two basic movements: the piston arms, and, just off the beat, a kind of yanking up of one leg in the manner of an undecided dog. Sometimes, to be fair, the men did provide a little variation by arching their backs and twinkling down their double chins at another man’s wife. And the women sportingly jiggled about like lampshades in a breeze, careless of their shape and size. A love of puffy skirts was almost ubiquitous among them, while gold edging ran amok round milkmaid bodices and sleeves. Rachel smiled to herself again, enjoying the Englishwoman’s complete indifference to the superficialities of fashion: she was one of their band. She, too, had different priorities: she understood the familiar comfort of an old dress.
