Octavia

by Beryl Kingston

  Octavia walked ahead of him into the crush in the drawing room, feeling cross. She’d handled that so badly. What was the use of planning to put him down if she just talked to him as if they were friends? But really he was impossible. She had tried to be cold and he should have noticed. He just wasn’t sensitive enough. That was the trouble.

  He was also impossibly persistent. She’d no sooner sat down at one of the long supper tables than he was drawing up a chair beside her, in exactly the same way as he’d done at Emmeline’s wedding.

  ‘Got moved out,’ he explained. ‘Shove up, Cyril. Make room for a littl’un.’

  And he was good company. Even allowing for the fact that she was mellowed by champagne. They talked and talked, about Oxford and University College, and the theatre, and universal suffrage.

  ‘Can’t for the life of me see why they don’t just give you the vote and have done with it,’ he said. ‘They’ll have to give in to you sooner or later. Stands to reason.’

  ‘You should be a politican,’ she told him. ‘We need people in the House with your opinion.’

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ he said, holding up his glass to a passing waiter for more champagne. ‘And more for the lady, there’s a good chap. No. My career’s mapped out, I’m sorry to say.’

  He’d spoken as though he was joking but there was more regret on his face than he knew and that intrigued her. ‘Why are you sorry about it?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t it what you want?’

  He shrugged his shoulders carelessly, as though it didn’t matter. ‘It’s what the pater wants,’ he said. ‘He’s had it planned since I was in prep school. I’m to follow him into the diplomatic corps. That’s why I’ve been travelling so much. Had to see the territory and all that.’

  ‘And I thought you were just gadding about.’

  ‘Oh, I was gadding about too,’ he admitted. ‘All work and no play and that sort of thing. Got to stop now though. He’s arranged my first post.’ And he grimaced.

  She admired his honesty. She couldn’t help herself. And she enjoyed the grimace. He doesn’t like having his life arranged for him, she thought, and he doesn’t know how to avoid it. ‘When do you start?’

  ‘Too soon,’ he said.

  Somebody was banging on the table. It was time for the speeches.

  They went on interminably but Octavia didn’t listen to them. She was too busy digesting what she’d just been told. Imagine having your life planned out for you, she thought, and not being able to refuse it or do anything about it. I should hate that. It made her see Tommy Meriton in quite a different way. Maybe he wasn’t quite as bad as she’d thought. He certainly had a lot to put up with. And he didn’t complain about it. She admired that in him. He’d been jolly unkind to her, there was no denying that, but maybe he hadn’t meant to. Sitting there beside her he didn’t strike her as someone who would be deliberately unkind. She looked across the table at her father, who gave her one of his lovely smiles, and she smiled back, glad he was allowing her the freedom to choose whatever career she wanted. Then she looked at Tommy again. And he winked at her and pretended to yawn. Oh, why do speeches take such a long time? she thought. There was so much more she wanted to ask him. But she had to sit politely and pretend to listen and then, to her disappointment, as soon as the last speech had been made, the tables were cleared to make way for dancing and the guests stood up and began to mingle and he was gone.

  It wasn’t until he came to claim the first waltz, bowing before her and saying, ‘My dance, I think,’ that she got the chance to talk to him again.

  ‘Haven’t you ever wanted to plan your own life?’ she asked.

  ‘Waste of time,’ he said lightly. ‘When the pater’s made up his mind to a thing, that’s that. This is a dashed fine party, don’tcher know.’

  His face was closing so she knew she had to let him change the subject. They talked theatre again and he told her he’d seen Arms and the Man and thought it was dashed good.

  After that they danced far more dances than was strictly proper and when they waltzed he held her so closely she was afraid he would feel how stupidly her heart was beating. It’s the champagne, she thought. It probably speeds up the heartbeat. But it was very pleasant just the same, even if she did feel dizzy.

  Towards midnight, when more champagne was being served and the dancers had tumbled into sofas and armchairs to rest, he appeared at her side with two flutes filled to the brim and signalled that she was to follow him. By that time, what with the fun of the party and all that good food and so much champagne, she was in the easiest of moods and followed him without demur. They eased past the sprawl of masculine legs and feminine skirts and slipped through the drawn curtains into the darkness of the conservatory.

  ‘Here’s to the cause, Miss Octavia Smith,’ he said, and he put one of the flutes into her hand and raised the other in salute. ‘May you march to victory.’

  ‘To the cause,’ she said, and drank, looking up at him across the rim of the glass.

  He drank too. Then he took her glass away from her and set it down on the little cane table with his own alongside. ‘They can wait for us,’ he said, and put his arms round her waist, just as he’d done so often in her dreams, bent his head towards her and kissed her full on the lips. She was so surprised it took her breath away. I’m dreaming, she thought. This can’t be happening. He can’t be… But he was and oh, so softly and tenderly. And it was delicious, making her lips tingle and her breasts tingle and sending currents of pleasure from the top of her head to her fingertips. Champagne and pleasurable sensation and amazed disbelief swirled together in her brain. And she kissed him back. She simply couldn’t help it.

  ‘I could love you very easily, little suffragette,’ he said, looking into her eyes. And kissed her again. This time she simply surrendered herself to the pleasure of it.

  Someone was scuffling and making an odd squeaking noise. She pulled away from him at once, alert and anxious. There’s someone here, she thought. What if they’ve seen us? And she turned her head to see her cousin sliding to the floor and pulling someone else down with him. She recognised Emma Henderson’s blue gown as it swirled about his legs and remembered how he wouldn’t go out to greet her. Well, he’s greeting her now, she thought, and no mistake. Then she realised that he was drunk and watched as Emma disentangled herself from his grip and struggled to stand up again.

  ‘Squiffy!’ Tommy said, striding over to hoist his friend to his feet. ‘Put your arm over my shoulder, old man. Steady as she goes!’

  Cyril was giggling and trying to speak but his words were so blurred that Octavia couldn’t understand him. ‘Too mush,’ he said thickly. ‘Wash a shtr…strah…lemme…’ And giggled again.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Emma said. ‘I didn’t think he was going to fall over. I thought we were going to sit out here and talk. Is he all right, do you think? Should I go and fetch someone?’

  There was no need. The door to the drawing room was opening, the curtain being pulled back. Loud male voices were demanding to know what was going on. There were hoots of raucous laughter and sardonic cheering as Cyril was hauled back to his party, legs trailing. ‘Superfluity of champers!’ they chortled, thumping him between his sagging shoulders. ‘Tight as a tick, damn if he ain’t.’

  It was an ignominious end to Octavia’s first love scene. Trust Squirrel to butt in, she thought. But it was a love scene just the same. He’d kissed her and told her he could love her. It wasn’t a dream. She shouldn’t have allowed it, of course. She knew that. But she had and she’d enjoyed it.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ Emmeline said, coming up to stand beside her. ‘Nobody fell over drunk at my party.’

  ‘And they won’t at mine,’ Octavia said, glad of the chance to be disapproving.

  It took a long time and a lot of black coffee to sober Cyril up and Tommy was in charge of the operation. It wasn’t until the party was breaking up and the guests were milling around in the hall saying goodbye that he had a moment to talk to Octa
via again.

  ‘Your cousin is a pest,’ he said. ‘No sense of timing. We never got to finish our champers. I suppose you wouldn’t like to come to the theatre with me? There are all sorts of things on and you wouldn’t have to worry about catching trams or anything. I could drive you there.’

  She was impressed but tried not to show it. ‘Could you?’ she said and teased, ‘What in?’

  ‘It’s only a tin lizzie,’ he said, with deliberate modesty. ‘The pater bought it for me. Cheap and cheerful sort of thing. It’s all right for starters. When I’m an ambassador I shall run a Silver Ghost. So what about it? Tomorrow maybe.’

  ‘Just you?’ she asked. ‘Or you and Cyril?’

  ‘It’s no good talking about Cyril,’ he said. ‘He’ll have a thick head for days. No, I thought just you and me. There are some good things on.’

  Which there were and over the next two weeks they saw most of them, travelling into London in the tin lizzie, which was great fun and made her feel very special even if it was bumpy over the tramlines, and driving home in the darkness when they had the suburban streets to themselves. She was impressed by the way Tommy drove and the care with which he tucked her into the passenger seat and shut the door beside her, ‘So’s you won’t fall out. Can’t have that.’ Their evenings quickly took on an easy pattern, stalls in the theatre or the music hall, supper wherever she fancied, a short drive home and a long time kissing goodnight. And on Sundays they ‘tootled off’ into the country and went for long circular walks, talking all the time and stopping for kisses when there was no one in sight. And oh, it was wonderful to be kissed so much and so often.

  At the end of the third week and on an unbidden impulse, she asked him if they were courting.

  He answered with a question: ‘Would you like us to be?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ she said. She spoke defensively because that wasn’t the answer she’d expected. ‘I like being unconventional. I don’t see why people should get married just because it’s expected of them. Only I thought that what we’re doing would probably be seen as courting. By other people, I mean. Our families for example. And I wondered what you thought about it. That’s all.’

  He cupped her face in his hands. ‘I could love you very easily,’ he said. ‘I told you that at the party. But the thing is I can’t ask you to marry me. Not yet, anyway. I’ve got to serve my apprenticeship. Juniors in the diplomatic corps aren’t expected to marry. They think we’re too young.’

  That accounts for why he hasn’t said anything, she thought. In Jane Austen the heroes never say anything to the heroines until they’re free to propose. It’s what drives the plot. She’d written an essay on that very thing less than a year ago: ‘Social conventions in the novels of Jane Austen’. She just hadn’t expected social conventions to drive her life too.

  ‘How long is this apprenticeship?’ she asked.

  ‘Three years, maybe more.’ He grimaced. ‘It scuppers a chap’s chances, I can tell you.’

  ‘It needn’t scupper ours,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want to get married. Not for ages, anyway.’

  ‘Then why did you ask?’

  ‘Curiosity, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Wanting to know what you thought. And yes, I know what you’re going to say. Curiosity killed the cat.’

  He put his arm round her waist, drew her towards him and kissed her. ‘You’re a brick, Tavy,’ he said. ‘An absolute brick.’

  Afterwards, lying awake in her quiet room, she pondered the wisdom of what she’d said to him. She’d told him she didn’t want to marry him because she’d felt she ought to comfort him. She’d responded to that odd grimace of his – which she understood just a little too well now – and without really considering what she was saying. She really didn’t know whether she wanted to marry him or not. She enjoyed going out with him and being kissed by him, and it was wonderful to think how unconventional they were being. But wanting to marry him was another matter. If she could be sure of a marriage as rich and trusting as her parents’, then maybe she did. But what if it were to turn out like Em’s? And how did you know what sort it would be? Em had been so happy on her wedding day, so sure that what she was doing was right, and now she was burdened with babies and hardly had a minute to herself. And then there was the cause. She could hardly pull out now. Not when the next demonstration was planned and she was committed to it. But if they were to marry she would have to go and live with him wherever he was – they could hardly be married and live in two different countries – and then she would have to pull out. It was all very difficult. And her next visit to the theatre made it worse.

  They were clapping the end of the second act and the stalls were astir with people getting ready to head off to the bar, so at first she wasn’t sure she’d heard what he said and she had to ask him to repeat it.

  ‘Sorry about that, old thing,’ he said. ‘Too much racket in here. I said I’m off to Belgrade.’

  It was what she’d thought he’d said, what she didn’t want to hear him say. But she kept calm and simply asked, ‘When?’

  The answer was a shock. ‘Next Thursday.’

  ‘But that’s a week tomorrow.’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he said, standing up and beginning to thread his way along the row.

  She followed him, her heart beating anxiously. ‘How long will you be away?’

  He waited until they’d reached the gangway and were standing side by side. It was as difficult as he’d feared it would be. She looked really stricken. He tried to speak lightly. ‘Two months, I’m afraid. I’ve got to apply for a job there and sit tests and have interviews and all sorts. The pater’s set it all up for me. Sorry about that.’

  She made a great effort and tried to be sensible. ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘it will give me a chance to visit Emmeline and get on with my work for the cause.’

  He put his hand under her elbow and steered her towards the bar. ‘I’ll write to you,’ he promised. ‘Every day.’ And when she gave him her most doubting look, added, ‘Honour bright. See it wet, see it dry,’ which made her laugh. But it was a horrible moment even so.

  They went out together every evening for the next seven days and stayed out late on every one of those evenings kissing until their lips were sore. And on the day he left, she was so unhappy she had to hide away in her room so that she could cry. But the next day she gave herself a talking-to and got on with her life.

  The first thing she did was to phone her cousin and ask what would be the most convenient day for her to come to visit.

  ‘Wednesday,’ Emmeline said at once. ‘He goes to his club on Wednesdays.’

  So Wednesday it was. It gave them a long stretch of time together without fear of interruption and meant that Emmeline could dress in comfortable clothes. If Ernest had been at home she’d have been required to dress in the latest style, pregnancy or no pregnancy, so the weekly informality was a treat. On their first afternoon together she chose an old cream-coloured blouse, softened by much washing, and a blue pinafore dress with a skirt that opened at the front to reveal her petticoat, and put carpet slippers on her feet to rest her swollen ankles.

  ‘Do try one of those macaroons,’ she said, pouring a second cup of tea for them both. ‘They’re cook’s speciality. Oh, it is so nice to have tea tête-à-tête. I never seem to get a chance to talk to people these days. Not at length, anyway. You can’t count dinner parties because nobody talks at dinner parties. They all just make noises, don’t they? It can be really trying sometimes.’

  Octavia attended all her father’s dinner parties now and was dazzled by the talk around his table, but she didn’t tell her cousin that. There was something about Emmeline’s expression that made her feel concerned and she sensed that an argument would be unkind.

  There was a diffident knock at the door and one of the nursemaids came in, carrying Eddie and leading Dora by the hand. ‘We’re just off to bed, Mrs Thompson,’ she said. ‘Come to say goodnight.’

  Emmeline took little
Eddie in her arms and shifted in her seat so that Dora could climb into what was left of her lap. Her face was transformed at the sight of them, rounding and softening and losing the peaky anxiety that had been disquieting her cousin. ‘Aren’t they just two little ducks?’ she said to Octavia. ‘Yes, you are, my poppets. Two dear little ducks. Give your mama a big, big kiss.’ The children put up their plump arms and clung about her neck to kiss her and she laughed and giggled and tried to disentangle Eddie’s fingers from her hair. ‘We will all go up together,’ she said to Octavia, ‘and you shall see them in their pretty nightgowns.’

  So they finished their tea and fed both babies morsels of macaroon and angel cake and let Dora take sips from her mother’s cup of milky tea, and presently they all trooped upstairs together, the nursemaid carrying Dora and Octavia carrying Eddie, and arrived in the night nursery, which was pink and white and rather claustrophobic and smelt of baby powder and starched linen. There was a little white crib for the baby set beside the night nurse’s white bedstead and a little white cot for Dora that had so many fluffy toys heaped up on its embroidered coverlet that there was barely room for her to lie down, and long frilled curtains to enclose them in their comfortable domain and to keep out the darkness of the world outside.

  Emmeline was quite girlish again, sitting in her nursing chair by the fire and kissing her babies as she washed their hands and faces. ‘What song shall we sing?’ she asked gaily.

  ‘Diddle Dum-ping,’ Dora said, clapping her hands.

  So it was ‘Diddle, diddle dumpling’ and ‘This little piggy went to market’ on all four sets of toes and much tumbling and cuddling until Dora had to be rocked to quietness on her mother’s lap while the baby was given his evening bottle. Then the gas was lowered and both children were settled under the covers, thumbs in mouths, and the cousins tiptoed out of the room.