by Anne Weale
“Yes, I suppose so,” Rachel said doubtfully. “But there are exceptions, don’t you think? My father is very domesticated. When Mummy was alive, he often used to take her breakfast on a tray and even cook the Sunday lunch sometimes.”
“Well, your poor mother was never very robust, was she?” said Mrs. Harvey, as if this excused Doctor Burney’s idiosyncrasies. “I’m afraid I haven't brought Edward up to do any woman’s work. He can make a pot of tea, if need be, but I never like to see a man in the kitchen except in very special circumstances.”
“I hope he can clean his shoes,” Rachel said, laughing.
“Oh no, dear. I always clean both my men’s shoes,” Mrs. Harvey said seriously. “Herbert has done his own sometimes, but he leaves the lid off the polish tin and uses the wrong brushes, you know, so I prefer to do them myself and leave everything tidy.”
Rachel was a good deal shaken by this revelation of the extent to which Mrs. Harvey cosseted her ‘menfolk,’ as she archly called them. But she made no comment at the time. Later, she reflected that hundreds of men must have been spoilt by their mothers and subsequently reclaimed by wives.
The weekend passed without event. She was beginning to get used to finding the diamond ring on her finger and the first novelty of her new status was wearing off.
Then, on Monday evening, she ran to answer the door, expecting Edward, and found Daniel standing on the step.
“Good evening,” he said pleasantly. “May I come in?”
“Oh ... yes,” she said awkwardly. “I’m afraid my father is out.”
“Is Carola in?” he asked.
“Yes. She’s upstairs. Did you want to speak to her?”
“If I may.”
Conscious that her cheeks were growing hot, Rachel showed him into the sitting room and went to tell Carola.
Her sister was trying on a new blouse. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute, will you?” she said. “I’ll have to do my face.”
Rachel returned to the sitting room and passed on this message.
“Don’t run away,” Daniel said swiftly, as she moved to the door. “I haven’t offered you my good wishes.”
“Thank you,” she said coolly.
“When are you getting married?”
“We haven’t decided yet.”
“Don’t leave it too long. It’s surprising how quickly the first fever can wear off ,” he said, looking amused.
She opened her mouth to make a frosty retort, but before she could speak, he went on, “By the way, I met a man in London who’s looking for someone to illustrate a book about the country. Some kind of anthology of verse and prose extracts. I mentioned your work to him and he seemed very interested. I was wondering if I asked him down for a night, if you—and Harvey, of course, would like to meet him? It’s possible that you might get quite an interesting commission out of it.”
She swallowed, hating him for tossing the opportunity to her when he must know how she felt about him.
“It’s very good of you,” she said coldly. “But I have plenty of work at the moment. I couldn’t tackle anything else.”
He shrugged. “Just as you wish.”
Carola’s light footsteps sounded on the stairs and Rachel hastily excused herself. A few minutes later her sister came into the kitchen and announced that Daniel was taking her for a drive. When the front door had banged behind them, Rachel finished the washing up. Drying her hands, she took her ring from the window ledge and slipped it on, watching the stones glitter in the evening sunlight. She was still contemplating them when Suzy shouted down the stairs that Edward was coming across the green.
It was her lunch hour, and Carola was in Woolworths, buying plastic setting rollers and a card of pin-curl clips.
“Hello, Carola. Long time no see.” It was Peter Brooke.
“Oh, Peter ... how are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Hot,” Carola said briefly, frowning down the counter at the backs of the gossiping salesgirls.
“You certainly don’t look it,” Peter said appreciatively, taking in her crisp white overblouse and dark denim skirt.
Her hair was drawn back behind her ears to show the delicate contours of her cheeks, and a beaten silver bracelet accentuated the slenderness of her upper arm. Her lips and nails were painted a soft rose-pink, and she looked cool and fresh and pin-neat.
“How about an iced coffee at Battlers?” he suggested, a press of other shoppers pushing him closer to the counter, so that his arms brushed hers and he could smell the light flower scent of her toilet essence.
“Thanks, but I really haven’t time. I’ve such a mass of shopping to do,” Carola said casually. His elbow was still against hers, and she edged away slightly.
“You can spare ten minutes, can’t you? We’ll have Knickerbocker Glories,” Peter tempted her, with a grin.
A shopping bag thumped against her back, and there was a deafening blast of jangling, off-key music from the record counter. Somebody wasn’t using a deodorant, and a child was whining for sweets. Carola thought of the fan-cooled tables in Battlers, and of a tall fruit sundae topped with cream.
“All right—but I mustn’t stay too long,” she agreed, rather doubtfully.
The cafe was almost deserted because it was half-past two—Carola having a late lunch break after modelling clothes for the diners in Whiteways’ restaurant.
They sat at the table next to the lighted aquarium and watched the fish until their Glories arrived.
“Having trouble with your eyes?” Peter asked suddenly, as they dipped their spoons into the crests of ice-cold whipped cream.
“My eyes? What do you mean?” she said warily.
“You don’t seem to notice the Press table these days.”
She shrugged. “I had a lecture about talking to people who aren’t potential customers.”
“Is that why you’re always out when I ring up—even at eight in the morning?”
Carola flushed. “Actually I was in the bath that morning. Suzy probably told you I was out for a joke or something.”
His hand clamped down on her wrist. “Don’t lie, Carola. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Let go! You’re hurting me,” she said furiously.
“Sure—when you tell me why you’re avoiding me.”
She glared at him. “I should have thought that was fairly obvious.”
“You don’t like me?” he asked, his grey eyes grave and intent.
Carola floundered for a moment. “I—I don’t dislike you,” she muttered awkwardly. “I just happen to be busy at present.”
Peter let go of her wrist and leaned back in his chair. “That’s too bad,” he said slowly. “Because I was hoping we’d see a lot of each other. I think you’re a lovely girl.”
Carola stared at him in astonishment, oddly shaken by this direct and unexpected tribute. “But ... Peter ...” she began weakly.
“Still, if the thing isn’t mutual, there’s not much point in pursuing it,” he said, with a gesture of resignation. “I’m not the type to crawl after someone who isn’t interested.”
“I never expected you to crawl,” she retorted indignantly.
“You certainly play hard to get.”
“No, I don’t ... at least ... well, what do you expect? For me to crawl after you?”
“You could answer the telephone occasionally. And you wouldn’t get the sack for throwing me a smile at coffee time.”
“The last time I smiled at you at coffee, you seemed to have other interests,” Carola answered coolly.
Peter looked blank for a moment, then let out a loud crack of laughter. “Holy cow! So that’s what the trouble was. You’ve been jealous of poor little Poll. Oh really, Carola, of all the crazy—”
“I was not jealous,” Carola exclaimed angrily. “It was merely that I didn’t care to be described as ‘our Branford version of a professional fashion-plate.’ How would you like it if I introduced you to someone as ... as a
second-rate provincial hack?”
That made him laugh even louder. “Frankly, I wouldn’t give a damn. But then I don’t share your lofty aspirations. The Fleet Street rat-race leaves me cold.”
“You mean you’re going to spend the rest of your life on some two penny-halfpenny country rag?” Carola demanded scornfully.
“The News isn’t a rag. As a matter of fact, it’s considered one of the best provincial papers. It’s certainly good enough for me for the next thirty years.”
“Well, it isn’t good enough for me,” Carola said sharply. “I want to get somewhere, to be somebody.”
“What’s wrong with being somebody in Branford?” He grinned at her. “If you play your cards right, you might end up as the wife of the editor of the News.”
It was said so lightly, so mischievously, that for a second the implication was lost on her. Then she grasped what he meant—and swallowed the acid retort which she had been about to lash back at him.
Could he be serious? Was he asking her to marry him? Oh, idiot—of course not! Why, they hardly knew each other, and so far ... But what if he did mean it? If that grin was just a mask to save his pride in case she rebuffed him?
She was still staring at him, torn with uncertainty, when Peter shook his head.
“No ... maybe not,” he said negligently. “When girls set their sights on a career, they have to work it out of their systems. Otherwise the kitchen sink gets to be a kind of sacrificial altar. You stick to your plans, poppet. Get somewhere—be somebody. I only hope that success is as sweet as you think it will be.”
He fished in his pocket for loose change, slid a tip under his plate and put two half-crowns on the bill.
Carola sat bemused and bewildered.
Then, after taking his sports jacket from the spare chair, Peter leaned towards her. Very gently, not caring about the waitresses or the few other customers, he tipped up her chin and kissed her.
“That'll be something to remember when I see your picture in the glossies.” He got to his feet. “Perhaps you’ll remember it, too.”
With a casual flip of his hand, he walked out of the cafe. Carola saw him stop in the street to light a cigarette. Then he crossed the road and disappeared round a corner.
Midsummer passed in a flurry of gales and showers, and people said that the heat wave had been too good to last and the best of the summer was over. But July, after coming in with four lowering days of almost incessant rain, suddenly relented and the swollen goose beck subsided to a shallow rivulet once more.
Rachel loved July, perhaps because in childhood it had heralded the approach of the school holidays and the long hot afternoons spent splashing in the river, returning to find raspberries and cream for tea. Passing the churchyard on the way to the store, she would linger to breathe in the sweet scent of the limes and think regretfully of the fragrant American tulip trees in the gardens of the Hall, of elders spreading their foamy pancakes of blossom, and the copper-purple leaves of the beeches which made the green trees seem even greener.
At night, great moths fluttered in through the windows and blundered against the lamps. The scent of the white roses on the garden wall drifted upwards and made her toss restlessly under her single blanket until, knowing she could not sleep, she would creep out of bed and lean over the sill, an ache of nameless longing in her heart.
Carola had been going out with Daniel with more and more frequency, and it seemed to Rachel that, in a way which was hard to define and therefore more worrying, her sister was changing. She had always been carefree and flippant, but now there was a brittle quality about her, and while most of the time she was almost feverishly gay, there were periods when all the vitality seemed to ebb out of her and she would snap back an answer or sit about pretending to look at a magazine, her fingers drumming restively on the arm of her chair, her teeth biting into her full lower lip.
One night when she came home earlier than usual, her cheeks flushed and her eyes brilliant with suppressed emotion, Rachel said quietly, “Caro, do you think it’s wise to see so much of Daniel?”
Her sister flung her dress over a chair, lit a cigarette and lolled on the bed.
“Why not?” she said casually.
Too casually, Rachel thought. “Oh, no reason really, I suppose,” she said. Then, suddenly determined to have the matter out, she went on, “I just wondered if it might not become rather awkward—unless you’re in love with him.”
Carola slid an arm under her head and watched a tendril of smoke drift upwards to the ceiling. “No, I’m not in love with him,” she said carelessly. “But I wouldn’t mind marrying him—if he asks me.”
“I don’t understand,” Rachel said anxiously.
“It’s simple, sweetie. I think being Mrs. Daniel Elliot might be rather fun.”
“But you just said you didn’t love him.”
Carola laughed. “So? Thousands of girls marry without being in love. One can’t have everything.”
Rachel tossed aside the emery board with which she had been shaping her nails. “Oh, Caro, don’t be silly,” she said firmly. “You’re not that type. If you’ve fallen for him, why not admit it? It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she added amiably, thinking to herself that it was certainly something to be avoided, if that were still possible.
“There’s nothing to admit,” Carola said flatly. “He’s amusing and attractive and a wonderful escort. But I don’t shake at the knees when he looks at me, or die for his kisses.”
Rachel bit her lip. This was even worse than she had supposed.
“Does he ... kiss you?” she asked, flushing.
“Well, naturally. We don’t sit about discussing politics,” the younger girl said, with a hard laugh. “Anyway, I don’t mind it. There’s a happy medium between being stiff with revulsion and limp with ecstasy, you know. I’m not so keen on gracious living that I’d marry some ghastly old sugar-daddy.” Rachel hid the shock and distaste which this speech aroused in her.
“But any marriage is wrong without love,” she protested.
“Oh?” Carola said crisply. “How about yours?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t love Edward,” her sister said bluntly. “Not in the way that Mummy loved Daddy. Oh, I know you’re trying to convince yourself that you do. Jolly hard work it must be, I should think.”
“How dare you! That’s utterly untrue. I’m very fond of Edward, and I admire and respect him and mean to make him happy,” Rachel flared angrily.
“Fond ... admire ... respect,” Carola recited, ticking off the words on her fingers. “What about love, sister dear? Say you love him! Say you can’t live without him! Go on—say it!”
Rachel clenched her hands. She was trembling. “What’s the matter with you?” she cried bewilderedly. “How can you be like this? I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”
Carola sat up and crushed out her cigarette with quick nervous jabs. “I don’t want to hurt you either, Ray,” she said in a low voice. “But don’t try to interfere in my affairs. I don’t need a big sister to look after me any more. I—I’m sorry I said all that about you and Edward. I didn’t intend to—it just came out. But don’t start lecturing me. Please!”
Rachel pushed back her hair with a slow exhausted gesture.
“All right, Caro,” she said dully. “We’ll both mind our own business.”
For several days she tried to put the row with Carola out of her mind, but it was hard to forget her sister’s taunts and the razor-sharp nervous tension which must have caused her to make them. Now that she knew Carola’s state of mind, she was sick with anxiety and, inevitably the strain began to show.
“Rachel, can you spare a minute, puss?” her father called from his surgery one evening.
“Yes. What do you want, Daddy?” she asked, coming to the door.
He beckoned her inside and gestured for her to sit down in the patients’ chair. Then he closed the door and lit his pipe.
‘You’re not
looking too well,” he said, after a moment. “What’s the trouble? Feeling off color, or are you suffering from a lovers’ quarrel?”
She smiled and shook her head. “I feel fine—a bit tired, perhaps. Edward hasn’t been browbeating me.”
“Something’s the matter with you,” Doctor Burney said. “I’m not blind, you know, puss. Girls of your age don’t wilt for no reason. Come on— out with it.”
“Oh, really, Dad! Why not ask if I’m constipated and look at my tongue? You’re getting fussier than Aunt Flo,” she said, unable to keep a tinge of exasperation out of her voice.
“That’s precisely what I mean, my young crosspatch,” her father said. “It’s not like you to be so short-tempered. I want to know the reason.”
Rachel sighed and slumped in the chair. “It’s nothing to do with me,” she said wearily. “It’s really someone else’s problem.”
“Well, if it’s anyone in this house, it’s my problem,” her father said firmly. “Your aunt’s well enough, except for her usual aches and pains. Suzy’s flourishing. I suppose it’s Carola.”
Rachel nodded. “I thought you would have noticed it yourself,” she said.
“I’ve noticed that she’s been seeing a good deal of Elliot and getting to bed late,” he replied. “But that doesn’t seem a good reason why you should trudge about like a female Atlas, my dear.”
And so, realizing that it was futile to go on worrying alone and hoping her father might see a solution, she told him about the quarrel and about her fears for Carola’s safety with a man like Daniel.
“Hm, not very sensible of you to bottle it up, my dear,” her father said dryly, when she had finished. “I suppose you were afraid that I might play the heavy-handed papa and make things a damned sight worse, eh?”
“Yes, I was,” she admitted. “If she won’t listen to me, I don’t think she’ll listen to anyone—not even you, Dad. I suppose I didn’t tackle it very well. Anyway, she was furious. What on earth can we do? I’m sure he hasn't the slightest intention of marrying her. He’s just amusing himself.”
