The revue was wonderful; the most memorable bit, she thought, was the lovely Judy Campbell singing ‘A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square’.
Afterwards, he took her to Prunier’s and she had her first oysters. Then he told her more about his father. ‘He was a bit of a hero, so I feel I have a lot to live up to.’
She fell asleep in the car driving to the country, and he woke her by gently ruffling her hair. At the door of her bedroom, he kissed her again in the same way that he had greeted her in London, and said, ‘Sleep well. See you at breakfast.’
It wasn’t at all how Ernestine had envisaged.
One or two curious things happened during the week. His mother, Zee, had announced that Rowena was coming to luncheon the following day. Michael had seemed upset by this.
‘Oh, Mummy! Why?’
‘Darling, she wanted so much to see you on your leave. I hadn’t the heart to refuse her.’
Rowena turned out to be the beautiful girl in the painting. She arrived impeccably dressed as a country lady: tweed skirt, cashmere to match, well-polished shoes, and a velveteen jacket that suited the ensemble. Louise, in trousers and a Viyella shirt, felt uncouth beside her. Her natural pale blonde hair hung in a simple bob, she wore no make-up, and her face was colourless, so that her large, wide-apart pale eyes dominated it. She looked unhappy. Lunch was rather a tense affair: Zee made Michael talk about his ship – which, Louise noticed, he seemed very much to enjoy. His mother seemed to know a great deal about his naval life: when he mentioned Oerlikon guns, she immediately knew what they were. She and Rowena sat more or less in silence throughout the meal. After it, Zee suggested that Michael should show Rowena the stables, and settled herself with Louise in the library.
‘Poor little Rowena,’ she said as she matched some wool. ‘She is so in love with Michael. But really, it simply isn’t on.’ She looked up from her sewing at Louise, silent and pinned to the spot. ‘But I think she understands that now. Michael is a great breaker of hearts, I do hope you won’t let him break yours.’
After about an hour, they returned. Louise noticed that Rowena had been crying. She thanked Zee for the lunch, and said that she must be going.
‘I’m sure that Michael will see you to your car.’
As they left the room, after polite goodbyes, Louise caught Zee observing her. She smiled, and Louise found herself unable to return it.
Later, when they were up in the studio, and Michael was pinning paper to his board to make another drawing she said, ‘The portrait you did of Rowena is awfully good.’
‘Yes,’ he answered absently, ‘one of my better ones. Now, you sit in that chair – there.’ He drew up a small low stool and sat, so that he was slightly below her. ‘Now, turn your head a little to the right, and look at me. A little more – more, now stop. That’s perfect. Sorry. Relax, I’ve got to sharpen my pencil.’
But she felt she couldn’t leave it there. ‘Your mother said that she was very much in love with you.’
‘I’m afraid she is. Poor little Rowena. We did have a bit of a fling. She’s perfectly lovely, of course, and she has a remarkably sweet nature, but, as Mummy said, she isn’t the brightest. I’m afraid I should have got fearfully bored.’
‘You mean, if you’d married her?’
‘If I’d married her, yes.’ He was sharpening the pencil with a penknife very carefully, scraping the lead to a point. Then he said, ‘She realised when she saw you. So you don’t have to be jealous.’
‘I’m not jealous!’ She really meant it, she wasn’t; she was shocked. She imagined Rowena preserving her dignity in the face of what seemed to her almost vulgar humiliation, getting into her car and driving far enough down the drive before she broke down …
‘Darling Louise! You are looking quite fierce. But Mummy was quite right. It was high time I told her, and she said she knew the moment she walked into the room and saw you. Now, let’s get you back into position. Head to the right, no, that’s too far, that’s better. That’s perfect.’
Somehow or other, he soothed and charmed her into not thinking any more about it at the time, and indeed as the week continued, found herself so basking in the general approval that emanated from his mother and stepfather that she did not think about it at all. She was treated as though she was a precocious little genius, one of them – privileged, gifted, lucky in every imaginable way – and because of her youth, petted, admired, encouraged to entertain. Sir Peter shared her passion for Shakespeare and this time easily persuaded her to play some of the great set pieces to him: Viola, Juliet, Queen Katherine from Henry VIII and Ophelia, and talked to her about the plays, taking her opinions seriously and with a courteous approval. ‘Don’t you think that Katherine and Wolsey were the only two parts he wrote of that play?’ Why did she think that? Because their parts were written in iambic pentameter, whereas Henry and the others were not, and so on. When they played acting games in the evening, she was sufficiently encouraged by their admiration to shine, discovered, in fact, her talent for comedy. At home, nobody had been anything like so interested in what she did and who she was and these benign expectations went to her head. They were compounded also by the fact that the family seemed to consort so much with the great and famous. There seemed to be nobody whom they did not know, and usually intimately. She noticed this most with Zee, as she now confidently called her. It was impossible to mention a politician, a playwright, a conductor, whom she had not known or knew now. The visitor’s book was full of their names, together with actors, musicians, writers, painters and dancers of renown. They were predominantly men. Books in the library were inscribed by their authors in varying tones of homage and affection to her, and Louise concluded that someone who had clearly been – and still was – so much loved, must be a very wonderful and unusual person. One day at tea-time a telegram arrived for her, and Louise noticed that at once Peter, as she now called him, moved across the room to be near her while she opened it. She read it and handed it to him with a smile: ‘Winston,’ she said. ‘I sent him one telling him how well I thought he was doing.’
It was all a far cry from Stow House – or even from her own family. They asked her about her family and she described them as interestingly as she could: her mother dancing with the Ballets Russes, her father’s distinguished war record, the way they all lived together under her grandfather’s patriarchal roof. On Friday, her mother rang up, and she went to the small study called the telephone room.
‘I had no idea that you were not at Stow House,’ her mother began: she sounded very displeased.
‘Well, they didn’t want me for a week, and Michael asked me to stay here as he had a week’s leave.’
‘You should have rung to tell me your plans. You know that perfectly well.’
‘Sorry, Mummy. I would have if I’d been going anywhere new. It’s only a week, anyway.’
‘That isn’t the point. Daddy had a couple of days off, and he wanted us to go down to Devon to see you. We might have gone all that way, and then found that you were not there. We very nearly did, as a matter of fact. Daddy wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘Gosh! I am sorry. Well, I’m not in the play they’re doing at the moment, and I honestly didn’t think about you coming or anything.’
‘You are with the family, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, yes. They’re terribly kind to me. Michael’s mother used to go to parties with Diaghilev and people like that. She says she must have seen you dance.’
‘Really? Well, I hope you are not being a nuisance. And having a nice time,’ she added doubtfully, as though the two things were unlikely to go together.
‘Lovely. I’ve got to go back to Stow on Monday. Will you be able to come to my next play?’
‘I doubt it. Your father hardly ever gets a weekend off. Ring me up when you get back. Please don’t forget to do that.’
She said she wouldn’t. She asked after her grandmother, and was told that she was not very well. It was a relief when Villy said
she must ring off now as it was a long-distance call. It had not felt like a very friendly conversation.
She discovered on Saturday that it was the last day, as Michael had to report back at noon on the Monday. His mother was coming up to London with him to spend his last evening with him there. ‘You do understand, don’t you?’ he said. ‘She wants to have me to herself because the Lord knows when I’ll get any more leave.’
‘Of course I do,’ she answered mechanically, not thinking about it very much. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. This time he pressed his mouth to her lips; a warm and soothing kiss. ‘Oh, Louise,’ he said, ‘sometimes I selfishly wish that you were a little older.’
‘Now what are you going to do?’ he asked later in the morning. She hadn’t thought. Trains were looked up and it was found that she could not get to Devon on a Sunday – she would have to spend the Sunday evening in London. She rang up Stella, whose mother answered, saying that Stella was in Oxford with friends until Monday evening. She was afraid to ask whether she might stay at the Roses’ without Stella, so she said it didn’t matter, she would write to her. Then she remembered that Lansdowne Road, though more or less shut up, was still used by her parents for the odd night. She rang home, and asked whether she might go there, and how she could procure a key. Her mother went away to ask her father, and then he came on the telephone and said what a lovely idea, but he wouldn’t dream of her spending a night in London on her own, would come up and meet her at Paddington and take her out to dinner, what time was she arriving? This conversation took place in front of Michael who could hear her father’s loud and cheerful voice, and he instantly gave her the time, which, in a daze, she repeated. ‘Good-oh. See you then,’ her father said, and rang off.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Michael said. ‘Now, I shan’t worry about you.’
She said nothing. It wasn’t wonderful: she realised that she was actually dreading it, but she could see no way out.
She had avoided being alone with her father for so long now that the reasons for doing so had become faded and blurred: her skilful wariness had been successful and therefore the terror had resolved into a kind of distaste; it was like not thinking of something that made her feel sick; she could will herself never to think about it. Now she felt trapped and fear started to simmer inside her and could not be quenched.
The day went. At tea-time, his mother demanded that he bring down his drawings of Louise ‘so that we can see which is the best. And how you want them framed, darling.’
There were four drawings, two in pencil, and two in ink, one sepia and one black. The best was to go into his next show that his mother was organising for him. The compliments, the pleasure at being the centre of attention, was now alloyed: still she wanted to cling to them, to hold the day up for ever, to tell them to keep her safely, indulgently with them …
‘I think the black ink,’ his mother was saying consideringly.
‘They’re none of them quite right. I’ll do better next time,’ Michael said.
‘When will the next time be?’ she cried suddenly, and they all looked at her, and she realised from his mother’s face that she had said the wrong thing.
‘Not long, I expect,’ Michael said easily, and she realised that he was speaking to his mother.
The last evening – just the four of them for dinner – was a special meal with all Michael’s favourite dishes. ‘It’s like going back to school!’ he exclaimed when the treacle tart appeared, and his mother said, ‘Oh, darling! I wish you were!’ and for the first time Louise understood that she was afraid of Michael being killed which seemed to her both a horrible and an impossible idea, for did not this family live a charmed life where nothing bad happened? Afterwards, they sat in the library and there were coffee and Charbonnel and Walker chocolates, and he bit into one and said, ‘Oh no! Marzipan!’ and his mother said, ‘Give it to me then.’ They asked her to do Juliet and Ophelia for them once more, and she did and her own Ophelia made her weep which they seemed to think made it even better.
When they went upstairs to bed, Michael said very quietly, ‘May I come and say good night to you?’ and she nodded. She undressed, and wondered whether she ought to put on Ernestine’s nightdress, but when she looked at it, it seemed worse than ever, so she changed back into her old Viyella. She cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair and then sat on her bed and waited, beginning to feel nervous. But when he came, and sat on the bed beside her, he simply put his arms round her for a long time without saying anything. Then he held her a little away from him. ‘You’re so young, you stop me in my tracks.’
She stared back at him, disagreeing with this and wondering what was going to happen.
‘I just wanted to say goodbye to you. Tomorrow my mother and your father will be there. I should like to kiss you goodbye.’
She gave a little nod and he put his arms round her again and kissed her – this time trying to open her mouth and, not liking that but wanting to please him, she did not resist.
After what seemed quite a long time, he gave a little groan and let her go. ‘I must leave you,’ he said. ‘This is getting a bit dangerous. Sleep well. Write to me. Thank you for making it such a lovely leave.’
Lying awake in the dark, she felt deeply confused. Being in love seemed to involve rituals that she did not in the least understand: the very little that she had gleaned had been so obliquely and implicitly collected – mostly, she supposed, from her mother, and had been largely composed of what one should not do or say. The only injunction that came to her mind now was her mother telling her that she must not ‘be a strain on men’ – this had been on the beach at home, when she had taken off her shirt and sat in her bra in the sun for a few minutes. It had been incomprehensible to her at the time, she had only recognised her mother’s hostility and even there she had not been sure whether it had been directed at her particularly, or towards men in general. The implication, though, was that men felt differently from women, but there was also something else that was more frightening, because although she was certain that it existed, she did not know what it was. If people never talked about sex – women, at least – it must be because there was something pretty awful about it (little snatches of conversation between her mother and Aunt Jessica recurred, and the general message was that one’s body was rather disgusting and the less said about it the better). Perhaps being in love with someone simply meant that you were so fond of them that you could bear what they did to you. She had begun to think that she loved Michael, but now she felt that this couldn’t be true because she had started to mind his tongue the moment it came into her mouth … she had begun to feel frightened which must be wrong. There must be something wrong with me, she thought. Perhaps I am just what Stella said – vain and keen on being admired, which has nothing to do with loving someone. It must be my fault. This made her feel very sad.
The next day, Margaret packing for her, signing the visitor’s book (on the same page as Myra Hess and Anthony Eden) and, after lunch, Peter tucking Zee into the back of the car with a fur rug with Michael beside her, she was put in front with the chauffeur; the first class carriage to Paddington, and there, at the end of the platform, she could see her father waiting. His greeting her and her introducing her friends, and her father taking off his hat to Zee and saying, ‘I do hope my daughter has been behaving herself,’ and Zee answering, ‘Quite beautifully,’ and tucking her arm in his she led him down the platform talking to him as though he was an old friend, which left her and Michael to follow together. ‘Darling Mummy,’ he said, ‘the epitome of tact.’
Her father offered to give them a lift, but Zee said she and Michael were happy to take a taxi. She watched them get into one and be whirled away, with Michael waving to her from the open window. She felt a moment’s anguish, followed at once by desolation, a terrible flatness: she was going to her own home with her father, but this felt familiar without being reassuring.
Her father tucked her arm in his and walked h
er to his car.
‘Well, my sweetie, it’s a very long time indeed since I had you to myself. Did you have a lovely time?’
‘Lovely.’
‘What a charming woman Lady Zinnia is!’ he exclaimed, as he put her luggage in the boot. ‘I must say she doesn’t look as though she could have a son as old as that.’
‘Michael is thirty-two.’
‘That’s what I mean.’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘it being Sunday night, there’s not much we can do in the way of amusement. So I thought I’d take you out to a slap-up dinner. I’ve booked a table at the Savoy Grill for eight o’clock. Mummy said I wasn’t to keep you up too late because of your train tomorrow. But you’ve plenty of time to get changed.’
The dinner went all right. She got through it by asking news of everyone in the family she could think of. Mummy was very tired, because she felt she should visit Grania rather a lot as she was so miserable and, on top of that Aunt Syb was not really recovered, so she had to look after Wills as well as Roly quite a lot. What about Ellen? Ellen was getting very rheumaticky, and with Zoë’s baby there was a hell of a lot of laundry, all of which she did. And what about him? He was all right, longing to get back to the RAF, but Uncle Hugh had taken Syb away for a holiday in Scotland – damn cold in this weather he should have thought, but she wanted to go there – so he had the business on his shoulders, and what with organising the fire-watching at the wharves, he didn’t get home for many weekends. Teddy had won the squash tournament at his school, and was learning to box. His report otherwise had not been too good. Neville had run away from school but, luckily, he had told an old lady on the London train he had taken that he was an orphan on his way to Ireland and she had smelled a rat. His luggage had consisted of two pairs of socks, a bag of bull’s eyes and a white mouse that he had stolen from another boy. Anyway, the old lady had invited him to tea in her house in London, and had most intelligently looked up his surname in the London telephone directory. ‘I got a call at the office,’ her father said, ‘and went and fetched the little beggar, and Rach took him back to Home Place.’
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 87
