‘I must say that seems frightfully good of you, Flora.’
‘I suppose I simply am frightfully good. What an affliction.’
‘We’ll have to try and find a cure.’
‘Going to church might do it.’
‘Yes. I’ll keep a watch. You actually mean to go on with it then, do you?’ He wasn’t laughing any more; he wasn’t even smiling.
‘It is a good way of recycling old clothes.’
‘Oh well in that case.’
‘That’s my feeling.’
Simon was in truth more reassured than not by the news about the jumble: Flora could hardly be contemplating an eventual withdrawal, with the objective of re-grouping in the Church of Rome, if she was not only contributing to, but actually helping with the sale of, the Anglican jumble. ‘You’re not making a cake as well, are you?’ he asked her.
‘They did mention the possibility, in a general sort of way,’ she said; ‘but I explained to Phoebe that I didn’t really have the time.’
‘Ah,’ said Simon, struggling to keep a straight face; ‘I hope she excused you willingly.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Flora hastily. ‘She understood perfectly. She’s a working mum too, you see.’
‘Oh really? You mean, as well as being Mrs Vicar?’
‘Oh yes. As she said, they need the loot.’
‘So what does she do?’ What did clergymen’s wives do—secretarial work? nursing?
‘She’s a theologian,’ said Flora. ‘She’s a don at King’s College London.’
‘Oh I see,’ said Simon. ‘Of course.’
‘Look!’ said Flora. ‘It’s finished!’ And she held up the piece of tapestry, one day to be a dining-chair seat-cover: a silent creamy mollusc shell before a stormy froth-fringed sea.
59
‘How’s your autonomy?’
‘It seems all right to me.’
‘As long as you’ve been remembering to look.’
‘I haven’t had time actually to look, but I’m sure if anything were amiss I’d know soon enough.’
‘I’ll leave it with you then.’
‘By definition.’
‘I’m going to be a bit tied up over the next few weeks or so. I suppose you are too.’
‘I hadn’t particularly looked at the next few weeks or so.’
‘Christmas, you see.’
‘Oh that.’
‘Major festival.’
‘Even the stockmarket pulls down the shutters.’
‘Had you any plans?’
‘Mother.’
‘Oh, right.’
She sat up and lit a cigarette. ‘Then there’s New Year,’ she said.
‘Always that.’
‘I’ll be away for a fortnight around then,’ she went on; ‘skiing.’
‘Another of Rupert’s shows, I suppose?’
‘Rupert et al. Chalet party.’
‘I can just picture it.’
She shrugged, as it were dismissively; ‘It’s nice up in the mountains,’ she said. ‘I love snow.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes. Will you miss me?’
‘No. I’ll be too busy. Will you miss me?’
‘No. I’ll be too busy too.’
‘That’s settled then. Shall we have another meal together, at the end of the week, say—for—’ ‘Yes, why not.’
‘We might go to that place of ours on Thursday night; can you manage that?’
‘Yes, I can manage that.’
Then they would come back here again, electrified by the particular charge that was built up only in these circumstances, of being in a public place together. There was so little scope for improvisation, so very little. Here they were, just the two of them, dancing their mystical dance together unwitnessed, unannounced. It had a certain purity, of course. It had an awful purity. It remained to be seen whether they were, whether the dance itself was, great enough for the circumstances; grand enough to sustain the glare of that awful purity.
60
Lydia and Louisa were in Soho again eating salt-beef sandwiches. ‘Although I shouldn’t,’ said Louisa. ‘I’m meant to be on a diet.’
‘A diet? Now?
’ ‘Saves going on one after. I always try to lose half a stone just before Christmas.’
‘I always try to lose half a stone, full stop.’
‘Idiot. Love the jacket, is it new?’
‘Yes—Flora’s jumble sale. Sort of early fifties, don’t you think? Look at this lining.’
‘Yes, I say, it’s your actual satin. Scrummy. Is there a label?’
‘Deréta.’
‘You were lucky.’
‘Was I not? Listen, Louisa, I have to tell you something.’
‘Tell away.’
‘You probably won’t thank me.’
‘Try me.’
‘I have to tell someone, you see.’
‘I’m right here.’
‘Remember how I saw Simon that time in Westbourne Grove?’
‘In the Volvo.’
‘Yeah. Well—the other night, I’m walking along one of those back streets off Queensway, because I’ve been visiting that photographer of mine whom I mentioned before.’
‘Yes, that one.’
‘And so I’m going to go down and hop on a number 36, which isn’t an awful lot of use but it’s better than nothing, which is the alternative.’
‘Yes, yes. You really need a car.’
‘I know, but I can’t face the bother just yet. Anyway, I’m walking along—’
‘Walking along, yes.’
‘In the night.’
‘Have to be careful.’
‘Are you kidding? And I just sort of vaguely notice this couple, several yards ahead of me, also walking along; and there’s just something about them—they’re not holding hands, or anything, but you can just tell—you know what I mean. They’re together. You could take a photograph, of this back view, and call it “lovers”; but you wouldn’t even have to label it for anyone to simply know, straightaway. Rather beautiful, really.’
‘Yes. Lovely. But?’ Louisa was all serious attention. The story had after all been flagged.
‘And so I was just vaguely thinking—you know how one does—well I suppose you don’t, as you’ve got Robert—’
‘Who’s a lover in a hundred—’
‘And witty with it: so I was vaguely thinking—ah, nice work if you can get it—the way a woman like me would—when they stopped walking along, and turned in at that brasserie there—which come to think of it you probably wouldn’t know of. There’s this newish brasserie just along there, rather nice. So in they went; but of course they were dithering in the doorway long enough for me to see that the chap was someone I actually knew. Simon, in fact. Simon Beaufort.’
‘And the chapess was not, I take it, Flora.’
‘Not even slightly.’
‘I see.’
The two women sat there, feeling horrible. ‘Actually,’ said Lydia, ‘I feel worse now I’ve told someone, not better.’
Louisa said nothing for a moment. ‘Still,’ she said, ‘one would have to tell someone. I do see that.’
‘And it really did have to be you,’ said Lydia. ‘I mean—’
‘Yes, I see that too,’ said Louisa. ‘Did this happen after the jumble sale, or before?’
‘Oh, after, thank God,’ said Lydia. ‘Thursday night, actually.
I mean, if it had been before—’
‘You might not be wearing that jacket.’
‘Possibly not.’
‘As it is—’
‘There’s absolutely nothing one can do,’ said Lydia. ‘Apart from sharing the burden of the knowledge, so to speak. I mean, there’s nothing practical one can do, nothing. I’ve thought and thought. It’s simply out of the question.’
Louisa thought too. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right. It is.’
‘Of course,’ said Lydia slowly, ‘you have only my word for it. They mig
ht not be lovers. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation.’
Louisa’s face brightened for a moment but then became serious again. ‘Let’s just say so, for the moment,’ she said. ‘Let’s suppose it was entirely innocent—shall we?’
‘I suppose we could,’ said Lydia. ‘I suppose I could say that I imagined their being lovers: a projection from the rich fantasy life of a celibate woman-of-a-certain-age, etcetera. That could certainly be a possibility. Shall we say that?’
‘She’s just some actress he’s sussing out for this new series he’s directing,’ said Louisa. ‘He took her in there to see how she’d look in a restaurant. Flora told me he’s being very particular about the women for this thing; he wants beauties. Hat faces, he said. So she told me. Did this woman have a hat face?’
‘I’m not sure…possibly, I suppose. Possibly.’ She hadn’t; not in Lydia’s estimation. But there was no need to say so categorically. It was a minor point. The revised interpretation held water just sufficiently without it.
‘So she’s an actress,’ said Louisa, ‘and you have a rich fantasy life, okay? Right so far?’
‘Right,’ said Lydia. ‘And Simon’s getting on with the job.’
‘Right,’ said Louisa. ‘So come back to the shop with me and help me choose something absolutely wonderful to give Flora, for looking after Fergus.’ Which they did.
61
Nell was definitely coming; Janey supposed she would; Thomas, getting wind of their plans, was ready to promise anything, even unto having a sleep in the afternoon beforehand, in order to come too. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Simon. ‘It’s hardly my sort of thing.’ But at the last moment he shrugged on his coat and started switching off the unstrategic lights. ‘I might as well,’ he said. ‘As long as you’re all going.’ And so they all went to the midnight mass on Christmas Eve.
‘We’ve never done this before,’ said Flora happily, a daughter on either arm—Nell all pleased excitement, Janey all mild curiosity.
‘That’s because I wasn’t old enough last year,’ said Thomas. ‘But now I am.’
‘That must be it,’ Flora agreed.
Of course, once they were actually in the candlelit church, and the nine-lessons-and-carols part of the program had begun, there was no doubting the propriety of the outing; not even Janey, not even Simon, could doubt it now. Nell was entranced; Thomas was awestruck; Janey’s curiosity, if it was not thoroughly aroused, ceased in any case to be merely mild. Simon, looking around at the singing congregation, acknowledged for a moment the presence of something more than harmless delusion—whether dangerous delusion, or harmless truth, or dangerous truth, he would not dare determine.
During the celebration of the Eucharist itself he began to think that if this were a representation of a truth, then this truth itself might indeed be dangerous in one sense or another: for see how it was represented! It won’t do, he thought. It must not do. He was quite sure about this. He glanced at Janey. She watched the proceedings, impassive: Janey won’t fall for it, he thought. And he needn’t worry about the younger children yet.
But as he was thinking these thoughts a bell once more rang and he saw that people were getting up and filing towards the sanctuary to receive the sacrament. He glanced along at Flora, who sat immobile, leaning slightly forward, merely watching. That’s something, he thought. But he was too hasty, for in the next second Flora, frowning slightly, spoke briefly to Thomas and then rose from her seat and went out into the aisle and took her place in the queue. Good God. She was going to commune: here, now, in front of them all. He glanced, appalled, at the children—Thomas, next to Flora’s vacant place, Nell beside him and then Janey.
As he did so, Thomas slithered off his seat and, having thwarted Nell’s attempt to detain him, went and stood behind his mother, whose sleeve he tugged at to announce his presence. There was a whispered argument which finished with Thomas’s remaining where he was; whereupon Nell followed him.
Janey now looked at her father, raised her eyebrows, shrugged, and followed her sister; and Simon could only sit there and watch while his wife and children slowly filed towards the front of the church. Well, he thought, the children can’t actually receive, they haven’t after all been confirmed. Of course they’d been baptised, solely to please their grandparents: ‘It’s the least one can do,’ as his mother had said: and in this matter Simon was all, as he had told her, for doing the least one could. But what on earth had possessed them to follow their mother like this? Why hadn’t they simply waited here with him? The thought of a hen and her chicks came to mind.
Flora now took her place in the row of communicants, Thomas before her and Nell and Janey either side. As far as Simon could make out, the celebrant had managed to comprehend their situation, and simply made the sign of the cross with the wafer over each child before giving it to Flora, but even this looked like a brush with danger to Simon. Suddenly he understood that for all its barminess and ineptitude, this church—even this—existed for the sake of a delusion, or a truth—whichever it might be—which was, in fact, dangerous: dangerous to the world as it was, as it so precariously was. It had changed the world-as-it-was before and it might, it just conceivably could, do so again; and the point is, thought Simon, things are dodgy enough as they are, without a revolution. The last thing we can deal with now is a revolution.
But then, he thought, after all, it’s hardly likely. Almost no one’s paying attention. How many people ever enter a church, even tonight—how many more stay away? There will be no revolution. Cheer up! It’s Christmas, after all! And he watched his family coming back up the aisle: Thomas, looking delighted with himself, Nell, looking pious, Janey, looking inscrutable, and Flora, looking—how? Well, Flora looked like Flora. Which in this transitory world was more, very much more, than one could ever have dared to ask.
62
On New Year’s Day the Beauforts were At Home. There was a huge ham, salads, bread, biscuits, cheese, trifle (made by Janey, with some assistance from Nell), Bucks Fizz and blanc de blancs; and the major part of the Christmas cake.
There were adults getting rather sloshed—‘Hair of the dog, old thing’—small children running and yelling, women nattering together, music playing much too loud in Janey’s room—where she and her friends Amaryllis and Katie were holed up conspiratorially— and Alex Maclise and like-minded cronies getting stoned, or so they hoped. Most of the actors were there, and their partners where applicable, and David and Sarah, and the designer. So was Lizzie, and Alfred, and their daughter, Henrietta, one of the chief runners and yellers; and also Louisa and Robert, sans the notorious Fergus, he having gone to stay with his grandparents as projected. So Louisa had plenty of time to attend to the Beauforts.
‘How’s everything going, Simon?’
‘Can’t complain, Louisa; can’t complain.’
‘How’s your new thing shaping up?’
‘Looking pretty good so far, touch wood.’
‘Are all these strange lovelies your female players?’
‘Some of them, some of them. See if you can pick them out. You want three.’
Louisa picked. Could one of these women actually be the female sighted by Lydia in the vicinity of Queensway that night? Impossible to tell. Did Simon have the indefinable air of the adulterer? Equally. How unfortunate that Lydia herself was absent.
‘Flora’s looking awfully well,’ she said.
‘Yes, isn’t she,’ Simon agreed.
‘I was afraid,’ Louisa went on, ‘I might find her in shreds. After two weeks of Fergus. Give or take.’
‘Oh, Flora’s made of strong stuff,’ said Simon. ‘Flora can cope. Flora is the cat’s whiskers.’ Was there just a hint of complacency in his tone? Not that that in itself was indicative, one way or the other.
‘Yes,’ Louisa said, ‘I believe you’re right.’
‘Damn sure I am,’ said Simon with finality.
Louisa cast around for another leading question, studying Simon’
s half-averted face the while for signs of duplicity or deceit, but had managed nothing better than to ask him whether it was in fact Auntie, or the other lot, who had had the privilege of buying in the new series, when there was a distraction.
Simon had been keeping half an eye on Thomas, who had fallen into conversation with some of the actors; he could now clearly be heard offering to show them his rendition of the hornpipe and almost immediately thereafter be seen donning his ballet shoes— which he had just happened to have with him—and providing the proferred entertainment.
This was bad enough, at least in his parents’ eyes, but before they could gracefully put an end to the performance one of the actors stood up and asked Thomas very nicely to show him how it was done.
‘Oh, me too!’ cried another; and within a few seconds Thomas had several large pupils all begging for instruction.
‘Oh no,’ Thomas told them. ‘You’ve got to do your pliés first.’
‘Oh, please, Thomas,’ they cried, ‘do let us off our pliés. We want to dance!’
Thomas looked very shocked, and altogether determined. ‘No,’ he said severely. ‘You’re not allowed to do anything before you do your pliés. It’s a rule.
’ ‘Oh dear. Then I suppose we’ll have to do our pliés. Shall we?’ They all agreed that they should do their pliés. Some were rather drunk and some were rather stoned but they all began, holding on to each other for support, to do their pliés, while Thomas on the sidelines criticised their hand positions.
‘Not like that,’ he said. ‘Like this. See my hand?’ Great play was made of the hand positions. ‘And your feet are wrong, too,’ said Thomas to another. They were no good at all. ‘Try to keep in time,’ he told them, singing the tune used for pliés at his class. There was much shrieking and groaning but he told them at last that they could stop.
‘Now for the hornpipe,’ they cried. ‘Show us, Thomas!’
‘Perhaps you should do some tendus as well,’ said Thomas uncertainly.
‘No, no tendus, not today,’ they begged, ‘we haven’t time. Show us the hornpipe.’
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