“But it’s always nice to have moral support.”
“Cousin Sarah certainly enjoys an argument.”
“Yes, she does.”
That was all we said but then we started to laugh. There was no knowing what scandalous abuses we might not have committed if Mrs Sheldon hadn’t at that moment come into the dining room.
“Good morning, John. You both seem to be having a good joke!”
But we didn’t explain it to her and she didn’t insist. She had come to collect her daughter for a walk in the woods—her husband was already waiting in the drive, in the sunshine—and assured me I’d be most welcome to join them. But I said that Mr Cam … that Oliver had spoken of taking me into Guildford during the morning to buy some Armagnac, and I asked for a rain check. This caused Elizabeth to say it wasn’t kind of me to poke fun. I told her I wasn’t poking fun at all—that I was only trying to make them feel at home. Whereupon Mrs Sheldon said she had guessed from the start I had a lovely nature—and I felt like suggesting she should run off posthaste to inform Mrs Cambourne about this … and maybe one or two others. And on that happy note we parted.
In fact we didn’t go into Guildford. Cambourne didn’t make his appearance until well after eleven and some of his guests were expected before lunch. I spent most of the morning in the library, reading about Christopher Wren and his plans for the rebuilding of London—and finding this totally absorbing; when Oliver at last came down he found me a volume of paintings by Canaletto, which added still further to my enjoyment. To my relief he didn’t ask what Mrs Cambourne had wanted to say to me. (I’d been afraid of sounding arch: “Oh, your mother made me promise not to tell. You wouldn’t wish me to renege?”) Tranch brought us coffee in the library and sitting there before the crackling fire, even on a crisp autumnal morning when it must have been good to be out in the woods, I still had the feeling I was probably in the right place.
The first guests arrived while we were looking at these books: a husband and wife in their early forties who were both interior decorators—it was they who had done up the London flat. And Sylvia Renshaw had worked in Hollywood immediately after the war. At lunch she had some scurrilous tales to tell about the stars, probably quite untrue but certainly amusing. I was somewhat surprised Mrs Cambourne didn’t shudder at her every utterance; but Mrs Cambourne seemed as entertained by her as the rest of us did.
No. Most likely I was the only one Mrs Cambourne wasn’t entertained by.
Not that our encounters were as awkward as I’d anticipated; mercifully we were never alone, and we needed to exchange little more than the barest courtesies. Nevertheless I was aware she was watching me—not so much at table perhaps as in the library or the drawing room—and I was glad when a party of us went strolling about the grounds for an hour or so before tea. And what grounds! Cambourne said to me, “Just wait until you come here in the summer!”, which was a kindly and reassuring remark whether or not he actually meant it, but even in November I considered the place well-nigh perfect, a paradise, with its walks and its vistas, its blending of formality and wilderness. On our return we passed a swimming pool tucked away behind an orchard. Also, a tennis court. He asked me if I played. “We’ll have a match in the morning, then.”
“Before or after church?”
He answered with a straight face.
“My mother will no doubt be going at half-past-ten should you care to accompany her.”
“Are you two talking of having a game?” cried Sylvia Renshaw, catching up. “Splendid! When? I can’t wait to see you in your shorts.”
She gave her usual exaggerated laugh.
“You can’t either, can you, Rachel?”
Rachel Millwood was another of the guests I particularly liked, an older woman who owned a gallery off Bond Street, was a capital light pianist and—following our ramble—read all our fortunes in the teacups. (I should soon be travelling in foreign parts! A great windfall lay ahead of me! Eventually I’d write a book which would turn out to be a real bestseller!) When I forcibly objected, she withdrew that ‘eventually’; said she didn’t know how on earth it had slipped in. Oliver called her Sybil and claimed he was disappointed all her prophecies weren’t in verse but she told him she had enough of a problem getting them out in prose, thank you very much, and that she now asked no more than to be a source of poetic inspiration to others. And considering there were twelve of us drinking tea, excluding Mrs Millwood herself, and that she had found something a little different to say about each of us, she hadn’t done so badly (as Elizabeth was the first to point out) even in prose.
Indeed, when we sat down to dinner, Mrs Cambourne apologized for this little oversight, as she called it, our being thirteen, and hoped that none of us was superstitious. She certainly didn’t say so but I suddenly realized, from the way her glance—perhaps involuntarily—flicked over to me, that the oversight wasn’t due to any careless planning on her own part. It was caused by an unexpected and last-minute invitation on her son’s.
The spectre at the feast, I thought.
But nobody seemed to mind. It gave rise to a half-hearted discussion on walking under ladders, tossing spilt salt over your left shoulder—and reading fortunes in tealeaves. From there the talk somehow progressed to what was happening in Cyprus. But then Oliver made a plea for no politics during meals and I wondered (presumptuously?) if this was partly because he feared I might feel at a disadvantage. For a while we spoke on a subject I’d heard debated in the sixth form—a hoary old chestnut which yet retained its interest: had human nature changed in the past couple of thousand years? Oliver maintained it hadn’t; if there were still gladiatorial games or burnings at the stake—if there were still guillotinings or hangings in the public square—people would flock as they always had, bringing their children and their sandwiches. I asked if he would. He said not. I suggested that he was being a little holier-than-thou, in that case, attributing to the populace at large a thirst for cruelty which neither he nor anyone present admitted to sharing. He thanked me and replied that I had absolutely proven his point. For he now discovered he had changed his mind and would with the greatest of pleasure come to witness my own execution.
The phrase ‘born to be hanged’ then led straight into an argument on fatalism; and the unanimous conclusion was that if there was no God how could there be predestination, whereas if there was a God he would be more like the Devil if any man was truly born to be hanged. (“Except for that tiresome fellow over there,” repeated Oliver. “We could all understand that.” Only his mother didn’t appear to be amused.)
But after dinner we stopped being quite so intellectual. A bridge table was formed in the drawing room, while another group played canasta and Mrs Millwood sat at the Bechstein Grand for over an hour, running expertly through Gershwin and Porter and Kern. For much of that time I was happy just to lean against the piano and request some of my favourite numbers—“in the best tradition of all those admiringly draped Technicolor cuties,” called out Sylvia Renshaw—an observation which perhaps I could have done without, but which I acknowledged with a merry smile and a wave, like the unfailingly good sport I clearly was. Yet it was also during this period that Elizabeth, to whom I hadn’t spoken on her own since breakfast, asked me if I’d enjoyed my trip into Guildford. When I told her we hadn’t been, she immediately answered I should have to go round to the Savoy one evening and learn about Armagnac there, with my after-dinner coffee. That’s where the Sheldons were staying while in London. They had a suite. I asked when they’d moved in. On hearing her reply I emitted a soft whistle.
“Two weeks at the Savoy already and another five or six before you set out on your little jaunt round Europe! You must be stinkingly rich!”
“Up to now, then, had you imagined we were paupers?” She smiled, beguilingly.
“What, purely because I’d seen you busking a couple of times in Leicester Square? Remind me: wasn’t it one Sunday afternoon in that passageway next to the Warner, then the foll
owing weekend outside the Empire?”
“I can tell you like the movies!”
“Oh, yes, and I even like the buskers! I can picture you all so vividly. You were the strong man bursting out of heavy chains; your mother was the one who made a doll’s house from paper; and—well, let me see now—”
“No, no,” she interrupted, “you’ve got it wrong! The house-builder was Daddy. Mother was the strong man. I was doing the tap dance.”
“Anyway, there’s only one thing I really care about. Was that invitation on the level? Armagnac with my after-dinner coffee?”
“Yes, of course! Are you suggesting we Americans are insincere? And it even includes the dinner which precedes the after-dinner coffee. How about that?”
A strange thing happened at around this point. By the time that we separated I was no longer thinking her plain. I remembered how I’d wondered if Mrs Cambourne’s face were the kind to alter under variable conditions. There could be some enchantment on the house. Attractive women became beauties; plain ones grew almost pretty. Elizabeth Sheldon had grace and delicacy and charm—intelligence, a sense of humour. Such things all bordered on prettiness.
Therefore, it wasn’t just the money. And, anyway, I had assuredly realized last night how wealthy they were. QED. Not guilty!
Having taken my leave of Elizabeth, I didn’t go to wish anybody else goodnight, nor issue a general proclamation. I didn’t want to make a big thing out of it and maybe break up the party.
But, afterwards, I hoped that Oliver hadn’t thought me rude.
This worried me while I was getting ready for bed—and even whilst reading my book. Then common sense prevailed. The following day I could explain.
But, as it turned out, I didn’t have to wait until the following day.
Soon after one there came a tap upon my door.
6
“I saw your light on. Can’t you sleep?” He spoke from the doorway—a bit offhandedly, I thought.
“I haven’t even tried.” I held up ‘The Long Goodbye’.
“I’m afraid it must have been dull for you tonight. You clearly don’t care for card games.”
“I don’t know how to play them. I had a good time, though, listening to Mrs Millwood.”
“Bridge can be useful—besides, I think you might enjoy it.” He paused. “I saw you talking to Elizabeth Sheldon. I wondered if you needed rescuing.”
“No. It was fine. She’s not difficult to get away from.”
He had now folded his arms and was leaning against the doorjamb. He looked dashing in his dinner jacket; several times during the evening I had wished that I possessed one. “Did you know she was adopted?” he asked, with a yawn.
I shook my head. “Another little orphan Annie, then, who’s found her Daddy Warbucks.”
“Yes. Not that I go for Sheldon in a big way. Unpleasant type, I’d think, if you should ever cross him.”
This hadn’t occurred to me. He went on: “Well, I’d better leave you. It’s late. But I was wandering in the garden and, as I say, I saw your light and I suddenly wondered…”
“Wondered what?”
“Whether you weren’t feeling well.”
“You mean—you noticed the quantities of salmon I tucked away at dinner?”
“No, I don’t mean anything of the kind.”
“Anyway, it was a nice thought. Considerate.”
“Yes, wasn’t it?”
We smiled at one another. I said, “By the way, I’m worried. “You weren’t affronted, were you, when I didn’t come over to say goodnight?”
“Affronted? No, why in the world…?”
“It might have seemed I’d been neglecting you. We don’t appear to have spoken very much since this morning.”
“And did that bother you?”
“Well, let’s say I’d have had an even better time if there’d been more chance to chat. Possibly the best part of the day was when we were sitting together in the library. Just you and me and Canaletto.”
I could see him trying to conceal his pleasure.
“That’s nice,” he answered. “Besides being a tactful reply to a tactless question.”
“A truthful reply, too—although disturbingly selfish. Or should that be, truthful because disturbingly selfish? How in God’s name could I expect exclusive possession, at a time when you had a whole houseful of guests? Talk about arrogant!”
But apparently he didn’t choose to debate the philosophy. “Well, at least you’ve exclusive possession right now.”
“Ah, yes! So I have! And I’m not tired. So if you’d like to come in properly to have that chat—ideally, you see, one which is local, rather than long-distance…?” I gave him a broad smile. “Save waking up the neighbours?”
“No immediate neighbours,” he said. “It’s a big house.” But he closed the door and came to sit on the side of the bed. As usual, I thought how pleasant was his aftershave.
“Good. In that case I’ll be able to sing in the shower again.”
We were quiet for a moment.
“You know, I feel like your mother. Sitting up in bed and graciously receiving. Though—again, how presumptuous!—she was far better dressed than me.”
“Wearing her diamonds?”
“Well, naturally—if you’re referring to her necklace and tiara?”
I couldn’t stop myself.
“Or was it her crown?”
He gave a smile but made no comment. He only asked, “What did she want you for?” Patently, his tact of the previous morning hadn’t survived into the small hours of the current one. In a way I liked him all the better for it.
“Oh, nothing much. I think that—like us—she just felt like a little chat. ‘Getting to know you, getting to know all about you…’” I raised my hands and let them undulate as though conducting.
“I saw Gertrude Lawrence do that, in New York.”
“And no doubt found it excruciating. I saw Deborah Kerr do it in Folkestone—and found it enchanting.”
He nodded. “That figures.”
“What’s more, my mother and great-aunt also found it enchanting!”
“Then I retire, defeated.”
“What made you go to see it, anyway? Oh, come to that, what made you see ‘My Fair Lady’?”
“Well, I like to think I’m open-minded. And if everybody raves over something … Besides, I’m very fond of opera; there ought to be a kinship.”
“‘Porgy and Bess?’” I queried.
“Yes—absolutely! I suppose I’m always hoping for another ‘Porgy and Bess’.”
“‘Carmen Jones’?”
“I’m not sure whether, in this context, ‘Carmen Jones’ can count.”
He reached across and took my hand. We neither of us commented. I gave his own a gentle squeeze.
“Would you mind,” he asked, “if I undressed?”
“No. On the contrary. Revenge is sweet.”
“Revenge?”
“For what you did to me on Thursday. I felt such an idiot when James walked in and saw me naked.”
As he didn’t respond immediately, I added, “I’m not claiming it was altogether your fault.”
“Actually, it may have been,” he conceded—unexpectedly—bending to untie a shoelace. “It wasn’t strictly necessary to have you undress. Not at that point. And I can’t even put it down to prurience … which might have been a shade more acceptable. No, to tell you the truth, I was being cussed.”
“Cussed?”
“Yes. I realize this doesn’t absolve me, but at the time I was brooding over a suspicion that you might have lied to me. I repeatedly tried to bury it—and think I succeeded fairly well, especially in the restaurant—but it would keep on resurfacing. Rankling. About your having been to my exhibition.”
I hesitated.
“Oh, Christ. Was it as easy to see through as that?”
“For someone supposed to be interested in art,” he observed, “you weren’t evincing much desire to
talk about it. That’s all. It wasn’t until last night, though, that I knew for sure. By then, I might add, it wasn’t so important.”
“Trick question as we left the car?”
“Move over now,” he said.
I did so. We slipped down in the bed and he put his arms about me. I laid my head on his chest and it was amazingly comfortable.
“I’m sorry for that lie. It was completely stupid. But I wanted to attract your attention and couldn’t think how else to do it.”
He was running his finger over one of my ears. “Well, looking at it in perspective, I suppose that it was hardly such a crime.”
“No—and, looking at it in perspective too, it wasn’t completely stupid, either. In fact, it was pretty astute. It succeeded.”
“Why did you want to attract my attention?”
“Because I thought you looked nice. Handsome, sexy, sympathetic.” He stretched over to switch out the lamp. “Which only goes to show what a perceptive nature I have—how right your mother was! But why do you work so hard at seeming bored, and giving the less perceptive among us such a false impression?”
“Is that what I do?”
“Yes—even she told me it was a total sham. The world-weary Mr Cambourne. At heart, she said, you’re still a baby.”
“I shall speak to my mother about that.”
“Yes—and so you should!” I had no fear of repercussions.
“But for the moment,” he said, “tell me a little about yours. So she actually enjoyed ‘The King and I’…?”
He encouraged me to talk even before discovering this was my first time in bed with a man … or, indeed, with anyone. I told him silly things—like about my mother’s working in a café on the seafront and getting bullied by the manageress. Like about how disappointed she’d been when I had turned down my place at university. I told him about my father’s aunt who had lived with us since long before his death and about my mother’s anxiety that she, Aunt Clara, whom I loved perhaps more than anyone in the world, might be going senile. I told him about my fear of the bomb. About my exemption from National Service on account of being deaf in one ear. About my tiny flat in Gloucester Place and how hard I had worked on this. And through it all I could hear my voice going on and on and I kept telling myself I ought to stop, find out more about him, but I felt there had never been anyone to whom I could speak so freely—and, frankly, I relished it. That isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy the rest of what was going on, but for much of the time it was gentle and unhurried, and might have been little more than a background to conversation. Or to monologue! Certainly it seemed like that at the beginning—say, for the first hour—while we were getting used to the experience; or, at least, while I was; coming to accept the feel of him, the slight roughness of him, as something wholly natural. He stayed with me about two hours … the bed wasn’t a wide one and if he’d spent the night in it, neither of us would have had much rest. “And don’t forget,” he said, “that in the morning we’ve a date on the tennis court—bright and early!”
The Man on the Bridge Page 4
