Coral Glynn

by Peter Cameron

  She was not sure how long the Major was gone, because as soon as he and Mrs Prence left her alone in the drawing room, she sank into a sort of trance, and sat in dumb stillness on her chair, one more petrified object among all the others in the room. She seemed to be fascinated by one particular object, for she stared intently at it: on the occasional table between the two French doors stood a large glass dome, sheltering a tree branch, upon which six tiny stuffed hummingbirds were affixed. Something about the stillness and permanence with which the iridescent birds clung to the branch entranced Coral. Frozen within their glass dome, their wings flared to suggest flight either imminent or recently accomplished, they were eternally poised in that second between the past and the future.

  When the Major did return to the drawing room, he found it necessary to cough several times in order to rouse Coral from her reverie. She stood up quickly from her chair as if she had been caught doing something naughty and said, “Oh!”

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” said Major Hart.

  “Oh, you didn’t,” said Coral, ridiculously. “I was just—thinking about something…”

  “Of course you were,” said the Major, as if that could not possibly be the truth. “Well, I have just had an interesting chat with Mrs Prence.”

  “Oh?”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” asked Major Hart. “Come sit here, beside me, on the sofa.”

  Coral looked at him as if he had asked her to join him in the bathtub. There seemed to her to be something unbearably intimate about sitting on the same cushion with him: it symbolised a closeness they had not yet achieved. But since she was engaged to be married to him, she could hardly refuse.

  She sat on the sofa and he sat beside her, leaving a bit of a no-man’s-land between them. She had never been this close to him; she could feel the warmth of his large body and realised he wore a scent, something clean and bracing, almost antiseptic but not: somewhere within it was a piney, earthy musk that reminded her of the stilled air inside the holly copse.

  “Mrs Prence has very kindly alerted me to a situation that requires our immediate attention,” he began. “She was sure it would have occurred to you, had you not been so excited by our engagement.”

  “Oh,” said Coral. “What is that?

  “It is very simple, really: now that we are engaged to be married, it is—well, it isn’t proper for us to live here together, under the same roof. You must understand how people talk.”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “I do.”

  “Then you understand why we must live apart until we are married?”

  “I was only waiting for you to suggest something,” said Coral. “Of course I understand.” She thought: But I don’t understand anything. It was like waking up in a foreign country.

  “I knew you would. I don’t give a damn for what people think of me, but Mrs Prence knew that you would want to be careful with your reputation, as you are something of a stranger in our midst. So I’ve booked a room for you at The Black Swan and will drive you there now. Mrs Prence has kindly offered to pack your things.”

  Why is she packing my things? wondered Coral. Why does she want me out of the house in this sudden way? What is her plan? No, she thought: He wants me gone, he’s realised I’m a dolt, regrets it all, and wants me gone, so he can plan an escape.

  “I know this is all rather sudden, but we thought it best to get you safely settled in the Swan before tongues began to wag.”

  “But no one knows,” she said, “so how could anyone possibly talk?”

  “You have no idea of how quickly news—especially of this sort—travels in a small town like Harrington.”

  “But none of us has left the house—”

  Mrs Prence entered the drawing room holding Coral’s small battered suitcase. She held it out in front of her, at arm’s length, as if there was something distasteful about it. “I managed to get everything in here,” she said, “and if I’ve missed anything you can get it later.”

  “I’d like to go up to my room for a moment,” Coral said.

  “I’m sure I got everything,” said Mrs Prence. “I turned out all the drawers.”

  “I’m sure you did, but please excuse me. I’d like to lie down for a moment.”

  “But I’ve stripped the bed—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Coral. “I’m not feeling well.” She turned to Major Hart, who stood rather vacantly in the centre of the room. “I’ll come down in a little while,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said. “Take all the time you need.”

  * * *

  On the wall above the bed in her little room at The Black Swan was a painting of a bulldog wearing a fez gazing down at a frog wearing a pince-nez and a mortarboard. The dog had his head cocked to one side and the frog extended his curlicued tongue. Beneath the two creatures was the title Best of Friends.

  Coral had expected Mrs Prence to have higgledy-piggledy packed her case and was surprised to find just the opposite: everything clean and carefully folded and packed with care. She wondered whether she had been wrong about Mrs Prence.

  She stowed her meagre wardrobe in the armoire that crowded the small room, like a fat person who takes up too much space in the lift. In one of its drawers she found a shrivelled prophylactic. For a moment she mistook it for giant grub of some sort, and such was her horror of insects that she felt relief, rather than disgust, upon realizing what it was.

  She remembered the father of the children with scarlet fever, the husband of the woman who had given her the second-hand peony scarf, calling it a rubber Johnny when he had slid it over his erect penis before he had done what he did to her. She closed that drawer and opened the one beneath it, which was mercifully empty.

  * * *

  There were two dress shops in the town and Coral went to the better one, proclaimed so even by its name: Dalrymple’s Better Dresses. Two mannequins in the window stared implacably out onto the High Street. A sign at their feet announced THE NEW LOOK.

  She had never bought a better dress before and she did not know how to go about it. She entered the shop, setting a bell on the jamb to pealing, and stood just inside the door.

  The beaded curtains that separated the shop from a back room were janglingly parted and a woman, in a dress similar to the ones the mannequins wore, strode forwards.

  “Good morning!” she cried. “So lovely to see you! Come in, come in!”

  The friendliness of this greeting upset Coral, as she was braced to be ignored or even humiliated, and did not know how to respond to this woman’s aggressive good cheer. “Good morning,” she managed to say.

  “Come in, come in,” the woman repeated. “I don’t bite. Are you looking for something special?”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Coral said. “A dress.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Day or evening?”

  “What?”

  “What kind of dress are you looking for? A day dress or an evening dress?”

  “Oh,” said Coral. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, is there an occasion?”

  “An occasion?”

  “Yes. A party or something. A christening, or a dance. Somewhere special you’ll wear the dress.”

  “Oh, yes. A wedding.”

  “A day wedding?”

  “Yes,” said Coral. Although they had not selected a time, she could not imagine their being married after dark.

  “A church wedding?”

  “Oh, no. At the magistrate’s.”

  “Well, in that case a lovely day dress would do nicely. Is there a particular colour you like?”

  “It must be black.”

  “Black? You’re joking! You can’t wear black to a wedding.”

  “But you see, his mother has died,” Coral said. “Quite recently. He’s in mourning.”

  “The groom, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that doesn’t mean you have to wear black, my dear. Unless you’re f
amily. Are you family?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you family? Are you related to the groom?”

  “Oh, no. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Well, it all seems very odd. Are you sure he’s mourning? He oughtn’t be getting married if he is.”

  “Oughtn’t he?”

  “No, he oughtn’t. Unless there are mitigating factors.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Coral.

  “Well, I don’t think you need wear black. In fact, I think it would be in poor taste. Surely the bride won’t be wearing black.”

  “Oh, but I am the bride,” said Coral.

  “You’re the bride!”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “I am.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand. I beg your pardon.”

  Coral felt it safest to say nothing at this point.

  The woman peered at her. “This isn’t perhaps Mrs Hart we’re speaking of?”

  “Yes,” said Coral.

  “Ah—then you must be the girl set to marry Major Hart.”

  Coral did not deny this.

  “I have sold Mrs Hart many a dress over the years,” the woman said. “Was it Major Hart who sent you here?”

  “Yes,” said Coral. “He suggested here or—”

  “Tiddlywinks? I don’t think you’ll find anything remotely suitable there. I’ve got a lavender silk that would look beautiful on you. Take off your coat and hat and let me get a good look at you.”

  Coral removed her hat and coat.

  “Just throw them on the pouf, my dear,” the woman said.

  Coral was bewildered.

  “The pouf! The tuffet!” The woman pointed to this so-called piece of furniture and watched as Coral lay her shabby coat and tired hat upon its elegant tufted surface.

  “All right, now turn around. All the way round. Lovely. You have a very nice figure—a bit of a tummy, but a girdle will take care of that. And your chestnut hair is just right for the lavender. It will bring out the sheen. Add an egg to your shampoo for sheen. It comes in fawn, too, but I think the lavender is better for you. And nicer for a wedding.”

  * * *

  Major Hart stood up abruptly when Coral entered the dining room of The Black Swan. Having not seen him for several days, she was struck again by how handsome he was; as if to make up for his imperfect body, he always dressed and groomed himself with almost excruciating attention. She could not help smiling as she made her way across the room. Everyone watched her, and she felt happy and safe, but then there was an awkward panicked moment as she approached the table when they both realised they must greet each other publicly in some physical way, but he seemed to recover his wits before she and reached out for her hand and leant forwards and kissed her cheek.

  “Hello, hello,” he said. “What have we got here?” He nodded at the silver box she carried.

  “I bought a dress for the wedding,” she said. “At Dalrymple’s.”

  “Splendid! I hope you like it.”

  “Oh, I do. It’s lovely.”

  “Good,” he said. “Sit down, sit down. I’ll find someone to take the box away for you.” He reached out his arms and she handed him the box. “Sit down,” he said again, almost tersely.

  She sat down. She realised she should not have carried the box into the dining room. Now she knew why everyone had been looking at her: it was with derision, not admiration, that they had stared.

  He handed the box off to a passing waiter. “Perhaps you can find a place for this in the cloakroom,” he said. He sat across from her at the table. “Well, well,” he said. There was a small dish of radishes on the table and he held it out to her.

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “I love a good radish,” he said. He selected one and bit it in half. There was something almost savage in this action that took her aback for a second. “What colour is it?”

  She was thinking about the radish so the question perplexed her. “The radish?” she asked. It was an odd colour—almost pink but still red.

  “No, no—your dress. What colour is it?”

  “Oh,” she said. “It’s lavender.”

  “Lavender?” He seemed suspicious.

  “Yes,” she said. “But not really—it’s more a grey. A dove grey.”

  The waiter who had taken away the box returned and handed them both menus. “Would you like something from the bar?” he asked.

  “Would you like a sherry?” Major Hart suggested.

  She said that, yes, she should like a sherry.

  “Dry or sweet?” the waiter asked.

  “Sweet, please.”

  Major Hart ordered a pint of bitter.

  The waiter left them, and they both studied their menus. They held them in front of their faces, like masks. Like shields. The waiter returned with their drinks, placed them on the table, and then stood, waiting. Major Hart lowered his menu. “Do you know what you’d like?”

  She lowered her own and said, “I will have the plaice.”

  “And to begin?” asked the waiter.

  “Melon,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” said the waiter, “but we have no melon. It isn’t in season. We do have a fruit salad.”

  “Is it tinned?” asked Major Hart.

  “I’m afraid it is,” said the waiter.

  “How about the prawns?” asked Major Hart.

  She had never eaten a prawn and did not think this was the time to begin. “I’ll have soup,” she said.

  “Consommé madrilène or Scotch broth?”

  “Scotch broth, please.”

  “I’ll have the prawns,” said the man. “And the chop. Well done.”

  The waiter collected the menus and hastened away.

  Major Hart drummed the table with both his hands and looked about the dining room. After a moment he stopped his drumming and raised his beer. “To us,” he said.

  She lifted her glass of sherry and sipped. It was unpleasantly sweet and as thick as syrup. It was an odd colour, too: an almost orange robin red.

  “Mrs Prence sends her regards,” the Major said.

  Coral found this difficult to believe. “Did she?”

  “Yes,” said Major Hart. “She did.”

  “When will she be leaving?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs Prence.”

  “Leaving?”

  “Yes. She won’t be staying, will she, now that we’re to be married?”

  “Of course she will,” he said. “Why would she leave?”

  “I just thought—I mean, we won’t need her, will we? It’s only the two of us. We don’t need a cook.”

  “Can you cook?”

  “A bit,” she said. “And I can learn. I’d like to. I’ve often cooked for myself—simple things.”

  “Well, of course you can cook if you’d like—Mother sometimes did—but that doesn’t mean Mrs Prence will be leaving. Hart House is her home. She’s lived there longer than I. Where would she go?”

  The waiter returned and carefully lowered a bowl of soup at her place and a silver parfait glass of tiny foetal prawns at his.

  A sheen of grease adorned her Scotch broth. She watched it wavering, recovering from its disturbing journey from kitchen to table. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “What don’t you understand?” Major Hart asked, when the waiter had left them.

  “Everything!” Coral said. “Why Mrs Prence—”

  “I don’t see what’s so difficult to understand.” He pierced one of the prawns with his fork and dandled it in the catsup. Then he lifted his fork and thrust forwards his head and swallowed it.

  She said nothing. She rowed her spoon through the greasily iridescent soup.

  He eliminated another prawn from the glass in the same savage manner. There was something barbaric about him, she realised. He ate as if the battle had not already been won and the food might bite back at him. He looked at her. “You haven’t tasted your soup. Is it as hot as all that?”r />
  “Yes,” she said. “It is.” One of the tears that were sliding down her face fell in the Scotch broth.

  “Coral! You’re crying,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  She laid her soup spoon beside the bowl and stood. “Excuse me,” she said.

  * * *

  When she emerged from the ladies’ he was in the hallway.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said. “I sometimes don’t know how to behave about certain things. Many things. You must forgive me.” He extended his arm to touch hers, but something about the way she stood there, her arms folded across her breast, prevented him from completing the action, so that his arm hung in the air between them for a moment, his fingers extended. Then he curled them into a fist and let his hand drop.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just upset.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course. Shall we return to our meal?”

  She nodded and followed him back into the dining room. Once again everyone watched her, but their glances were covert, and she felt ashamed. Their soup and prawns had been cleared away. She was glad to see the soup gone; it was good to have the white blank tablecloth between them: a new beginning.

  “Is it about Mrs Prence that you are upset?”

  “Yes,” she said. “She has been unkind to me. She doesn’t like me.”

  “Mrs Prence? That’s very odd. I have always known her to be a very kind woman. And I know my mother felt the same about her. Are you sure? Perhaps you mistook her meaning.”

  “I am sure. She has said very unkind things to me.”

  “Well, I will speak with her. I am sure there is some misunderstanding between you. Women often misunderstand one another, I am told.”

  “I don’t think there is any misunderstanding between us.”

  “Of course you don’t,” said the Major. “It is not your fault. Nor hers, I am sure. That is the nature of misunderstanding, isn’t it?”

  She was saved from answering him by the appearance of the waiter with their food. When he had left them, Major Hart said, “Have you really got no family?”

  For a moment the question confused her, as if there was a trick in it: Could you have none of something? “Yes,” she said. “Well, only my aunt. The one I mentioned.”

  “A shame,” he said. “I ask because we’ll need witnesses, of course. I thought there might a relative that could stand up for you.”