by Angela Huth
‘This is all very . . . peculiar,’ Rachel whispered at some indefinable moment. ‘Between two people who have scarcely met.’
‘Don’t you think Frances would be very pleased, after all her trouble, to know that at least one extraordinary thing had happened between two guests?’ he answered. ‘Now, if you could move over just a few inches, I can get in too.’
Rachel threw back the bedclothes. The opal light of almost full dawn drenched her pale skin. Ralph, full of awe, took her slowly.
* * *
Frances stopped dancing at last. Skilfully shedding her latest partner, she shook her head at the next one and left the marquee. She wanted a single moment on her own, before it was all over, to store in her memory. Outside she found the sky, whose paleness had been pushing through the sides of the marquee, was striped with quicksilver clouds that dulled flames and lights that had been so bright in the darkness. Still, she thought, the effect of an invasion of fireflies was still there. She wondered if this had occurred to anyone else. Probably not. People were so unobservant, so uninspired by connections. She had had to tell many friends her dress was based on a mermaid: not one of them had had the vision to guess. Very odd.
Still, it had been a good party. An unforgettable party, actually. And still was. At least two dozen couples continued to dance, showing no signs of fatigue. Frances returned through the French window to the tent, her picture of the garden intact. She had a feeling the moment had come.
Her instinct was right. As soon as he saw her, Ant, who had been so wonderfully patient, came down from the bandstand and hurried towards her.
‘Bandleader’s perks,’ he said. ‘Time for. No?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled, a little afraid. He took her hand. His skin was curiously rough.
‘Any special tune you want?’
‘No.’
‘Dare say I could arrange it, you know.’ They both laughed. ‘Enjoying your own party?’ Frances nodded. ‘I’d say it’s been one of the great parties of the summer,’ said Ant. He held her a little away from him, eyes faintly intrusive on her body. She gave a shy wiggle, thinking it was what he waited for.
‘Ant,’ she said, ‘could you really help me? Put me on to people, like you said? I want serious employment. I mean, I think I could organise this sort of thing quite well, don’t you?’
Ant nodded briefly. His keenness to help her, so apparent yesterday under the tree, seemed a little faded.
‘Do my best, I promise,’ he said. ‘Let’s get together next week, go through my contacts. You ever free to come up to London? We could, I dunno, have a bite of dinner, something . . .’ His voice petered out; he seemed slightly breathless. Then he pulled her towards him, quite roughly. ‘No more talking,’ he said. ‘I want to concentrate.’
Frances obeyed. What is it, she thought, that causes such havoc with my desires? I loved Ralphie, I love Toby – I will always love Toby. And, yet, here I am now, desperately wanting this awful, irresistible musician. . . . What will happen when the party’s over?
No answer came to mind. Frances felt Ant Cellar crush her sequins so tightly to him she knew many of them would rip from their fragile backing of silk, and leave a trail of guilt sparkling on the floor behind her.
* * *
Toby, pleased by his couple of hours’ work – another important brick in place – returned to the marquee to assess how things were progressing. Among the dozen couples moving slowly to Dancing Cheek to Cheek, he saw his wife and the rotten little sod of the bandleader clasped more closely together than it might be thought prudent in public, and he did not care. Far from wanting to tear her ridiculous earrings down through her lobes tonight, it occurred to him that Mr Cellar’s dubious help over ‘a job’ might be just the answer for Frances’s future occupation.
He hurried out into the garden, surveyed the guests who braved the clammy mists of early morning. Dresses that had benefited from candlelight, he noticed, were now unkindly lit by dawn. Hems were deeply coloured from their trail through the grass. Dinner jackets were flung over pale shoulders. Women’s faces were in need of repair: men’s jowls were darkening.
Toby reached an unoccupied seat, sat down, rubbed his own cold hands over the brazier’s dying flames. Frances had indeed thought of everything. He appreciated that, would tell her properly one day. And it was almost over. This time tomorrow, things would be more or less back to normal. Then it would be back to work, routine. . . . What else? Toby looked about him. By now, he observed, most husbands and wives were reunited, if only bound by the practicalities of getting home together. He supposed he should claim Frances, suggest they have breakfast, stand about together so that people could say goodbye to both of them at once. But his desire not to break up her dance with the appalling Mr Cellar was stronger than his feeling of social practicality, and he stayed where he was.
* * *
For Ralph and Rachel the last hours of the party went so swiftly they had no time to plot an innocent return. They crossed the terrace together, amazed that no-one looked surprised that they should be walking side by side, to the almost empty dance floor. Neither had any inclination to join the couples clutching their way through The Nearness of You. There was no need.
There was dew on the lawns, and indeterminate ground mist. It rose high enough to obscure the holders of the fiery torches, so their flames appeared to rise straight from the mist. They stood looking about for a while, silent, stranded in their reluctance to face searching for Rosie and Thomas, saying goodbye, parting.
‘I live not far from Oxford,’ Ralph said at last. ‘Would you ever come down one day and see me?’
Rachel, holding her skirt above the dew, turned a little from him so that he should not see her face.
‘I could,’ she said. ‘I could come down for lunch. Day return.’
Ralph smiled. ‘I think we should make our way over there. That’s where I saw my mother dancing with your husband.’
They began to walk, a few feet apart, towards the rose garden.
In the silvery light, Rachel could see the thin electric wires that joined the lights in trees and bushes: illusion of fireflies over. She hurried to keep up with the man who, having begun by disturbing her sleep, was likely in future to disturb her life.
‘I’ve this nostalgic longing to go for a picnic on the Cherwell one day,’ she said. ‘Silly, I know. All commercial and spoilt these days, I expect. But I’d like to try.’
‘We could do anything,’ said Ralph. ‘Anything.’ He saw that a frill of dew had stained her satin shoes, and there was a panda-like smudge of mascara round one eye. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘There they are at last. God, I don’t want you to go.’ ‘I’ll come on Monday, promise,’ she said.
* * *
‘My wife must be looking everywhere,’ said Thomas, who had not spoken for a very long time. ‘Perhaps we should. . . .’
‘Ralphie, too. He’ll be wanting to go home,’ said Rosie.
They unclasped themselves. Thomas had no idea for how much time they had been dancing. (Dancing! Scarcely moving, pressed so closely together Thomas had been able to feel the brush of satin on his stomach, where his shirt had finally come apart.) Soft tunes had come and gone, miles away from outer space. They may have been alone, there may have been other dancers. He did not know or care. And now it was only his ruddy sense of duty that forced him, at last, to break away from the woman he loved with a passion so great that it felt almost like humility.
Rosie tapped him on the nose with her fan once more. In the increasing light he saw her topaz eyes were mischievous.
‘I do believe I’m slightly intrigued, after all, Mr Arkwright. Thomas,’ she said. ‘My darling man, we’ve had a lovely evening. Will you come to Norfolk again one day, perhaps? Buy some more pictures?’
‘I’ll buy everything you paint from now on. Everything.’
The idea seemed to please Rosie, whose commercial instincts were no less keen than her romantic ones.
‘There’
s an extravagant promise! But I’ll keep you to it.’
‘You won’t keep me away,’ Thomas assured her.
‘And now, my darling, we must go in search of Ralphie. I don’t suppose he’s enjoyed the evening one bit. He’s not at all a party man.’
Thomas took her arm. In a moment of swift calculation, he felt it quite in order to do so. If they came upon Rachel and Ralph, both would naturally think he was being polite to an older lady. Nothing else would cross their minds. Deception is so easy.
They left the sanctuary of the rose garden, and the soft thump of the music that had engaged them for so long. In the cool wide spaces of the lawn, no longer pressed to Thomas’s fiery body, Rosie shivered.
‘I do believe I see Serena,’ she said, ‘sitting under the cedar. What on earth has she been doing all night, the silly girl? My children. . . .’
Thomas followed her gaze. He, too, saw the scraggy little shape of the girl with the amber hair, huddled on the earth beneath a vast black bough. He smiled to himself, wondering what madness had once induced him to mind so much when a glass door had come between them. Very strange, the acute lack of interest you feel when looking on a woman you once, but no longer, desired. His eyes progressed to the marquee, its glamour in the darkness now dispelled in near-daylight. Music still thumped forth, a sound nostalgic as the scent of flowers. Thomas found it almost unbearably evocative, moving. Or were his feelings inspired by the fact that within moments Rosie Cotterman would be gone?
‘Why, there’s Ralphie,’ she was saying, ‘my devoted son.’
‘With my wife, as a matter of fact.’
‘What a coincidence, isn’t that, now, Mr Arkwright – Thomas?’
Rosie stopped fanning herself and waved.
* * *
Toby, from his half-obscured garden seat, watched the two couples approaching each other. All four stopped, as if obeying some unseen signal, a couple of yards apart. Thomas gave a sort of half bow, a vague attempt at comedy, perhaps, towards Rachel. She stood holding up her skirt over slightly parted legs. Rosie fanned her face very fast, as if suffering from a hot afternoon. Ralph just stood, arms dangling, hands heavy at their ends. What different kinds of evening had they come from, Toby wondered, without much interest. He rose, intending to join their tense quadrangle. Strange how even after a long night’s dancing the act of leaving made people awkward again. He would say goodbye. Encourage them on their way.
* * *
Thomas looked at Rachel. The familiarity of her stance seared him inexplicably: toes turned in, make-up rather battered – a bit skew-whiff, somehow. Well, she’d probably had a jolly good time dancing away the night with Rosie’s son, various people. He was glad.
Rachel’s eyes flicked from Thomas’s dishevelled hair, to his bow tie (askew again) to the shirt that had finally shed two buttons. She could see the skin of his stomach through the gap, and was surprised by her lack of irritation or shame. Poor old Thomas: he didn’t have enough fun, really. She’d seen him dancing with Mary, and now obviously he’d been doing his bit for Ralph’s wild-looking mother. Kind-hearted, Thomas: hopeless, but kind. And in no condition to drive.
Ralph inwardly sighed. He knew so well his mother’s end-of-a-party look: she’d been flattered, as always, no doubt, by Rachel’s husband and other men much younger than herself. Flattery and wine always raised her adrenalin to fever pitch. But now she seemed a trifle bored, impatient. He need not have feared her dancing with the wretched-looking Thomas: absolutely not her type. Nice of him, though, to have looked after her. Ralph found his gaze attracted to the large slice of Thomas’s stomach, and wondered, if, in time to come, Rachel would explain. . . .
Rosie prickled with impatience. Once again, silly Ralphie had not found even a possibility of a wife among the guests. He’d plainly wasted his time on Mr Arkwright’s motherly wife, doing his duty as always. She’d have plenty to say on the journey back. . . . As for Serena, what was the girl up to? Breaking the silence between the four of them, Rosie called to her daughter under the tree. Thomas moved to stand by Rachel.
‘Time to go, old thing?’ He patted her cold shoulder.
‘Right.’
Ralph stepped over to take his mother’s arm. ‘We’re going, too,’ he said.
‘Of course we are, Ralphie. Couldn’t find you anywhere. Where’ve you been?’
‘Looking for you.’
‘Is Serena coming with us?’
‘No, she’s got her own car.’
* * *
Toby watched the muted movements of this strange minuet in the dew. When he reached them, they all shuffled about again, making way for him, crowding him with thanks and compliments, and apologies for leaving. He turned, from kissing Rachel’s cheek, to Rosie. A thin, pale girl with long amber hair was suddenly standing by her. Where had she come from, and when?
‘My daughter, Toby darling,’ Rosie was saying. ‘I don’t think you’ve met.’
‘We haven’t, no.’
Serena gave him a limp, cold hand to shake. She turned her eyes to Thomas.
‘Er, we . . .’ he said. ‘The Gallery?’
Serena nodded. ‘Hello,’ she said quietly to everyone in general.
‘Come on, Rachel, home.’
Thomas bedded a hand in his wife’s arm, turned her towards the house.
Rosie and Ralph followed them.
‘You’re hopeless, darling,’ Rosie whispered, unable to wait until they were out of earshot. ‘You’ve gone and missed your chance again.’
In the field that had been made into a carpark, Thomas and Rachel made their way towards their marital Mercedes, one of the few cars left, covered in a sheen of dew. Rachel, forgetting she had intended to drive, allowed Thomas to open the passenger door for her, sank back into the familiar support of the seat. Her feet were icy, her shoes ruined. Thomas switched on the engine, began to turn the leather steering wheel.
‘Pretty good thrash, that,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you think?’
‘Pretty good,’ Rachel agreed, after some thought. ‘I’m glad we decided to go.’
* * *
Toby was left a few paces from Serena on the lawn. She wore a very simple silk chemise, much the same colour as the sky. A navy wool cardigan hung over one arm, and she carried an empty wine glass. Toby saw that its side was stamped with a small fan of fractured lipstick. He moved his eyes from its reddish imprint to the girl’s pale, unmade-up lips, and felt curious. Her amber hair hung down over her shoulders, but did not hide her fragile collarbones, underlined with shadows.
‘Would you like,’ he asked, ‘to see the garden?’
Serena shrugged. ‘Not really. I’ve been wandering round most of the night.’
Toby turned towards the marquee. Frances and her bandleader, in a close meeting of sequins and white flannel, moved across the dance floor by the French windows to a slow Gershwin tune.
‘Breakfast, then? Are you hungry?’
Serena shook her head. ‘Not really. Slightly cold.’
She handed him the empty glass, and he helped her pull on the cardigan. Its sleeves all but covered her hands.
‘I was thinking,’ said Toby, who had not been thinking at all, ‘of going up to the woods to see the badgers. Would you like to come?’
Serena nodded. Politeness or interest? He could not tell.
They made their way through trails that crossed in the dew, past the last of the torches that flamed through the ground mist, to the end of the garden. Toby opened a gate into the field that rose up to the distant woods.
In silence they reached the path that led to the place he had visited so often this summer, not far from the badgers’ sett. When they arrived at his especial oak tree, he took off his dinner jacket, laid it on the ground. Serena sat on it without a word. She curved her arms round her legs, placed her chin on raised knees. Small points of white fingers just showed beneath the long navy sleeves. Toby chose his own place, the flattened root of a nearby tree, half-covered in moss a
nd last year’s leaves. Despite the luminous sky, here in the woods it was still semi-dark. Shadows fluttered.
They waited a long time, listening to the distant thread of music from the party, the occasional crackle of branches. Toby had never known a girl who sat so still. He thought there was little chance of seeing a badger – too late, now, but he could not bring himself to spoil Serena’s hope. She seemed happy in her expectation. He decided to say nothing, and to remain unmoving.
For
Simone
and
Fred
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Copyright © 1991 by Angela Huth
First published in Great Britain in 1991 by Sinclair-Stevenson Ltd
The moral right of author has been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication
(or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital,
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ISBN: 9781448200153
eISBN: 9781448201471
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