He laughed a little sarcastically, which Miranda did not understand.
‘It is not something of which you must become too aware, I think, but I promise you – and I really do know about this business – I promise you that you are one of those rare human beings who have the capacity to make clothes what we call in the trade take off. That is what all those women would tell you, if they spoke better English. It is not that the clothes wear you, far from it. You wear them, and make them enviable. That is what a great mannequin can do. She can lift the clothes to a great dizzying height of desire, so that every photographer wants to snap them, and every painter wants to paint them, and every duchess to wear them. It is truly a brilliant quality. You act your clothes, and that is perfect.’
‘I shall have to ask my guardian if it’s all right for me to go to Paris with you.’
‘Of course you will. But first, my dear, I am here to tell you that you have to have lessons. In walking. You really must learn to walk.’
Miranda started to laugh. ‘And to think I thought that at least was something I knew how to do!’
‘You stand very well, but you don’t walk at all well. I send all my young ladies to Mrs Kelso in Farthing Street. She has rooms above the fruiterers there. By the time she has finished with you, believe me, you will not be walking in your clothes, you will be floating in them, and they with you.’
Bobbie had quite forgotten one of Beatrice’s most famous but least appealing habits. She either arrived hours and sometimes days late, or – which was really much worse – she arrived hours and sometimes days early. She was so notorious for this that it had even been written about in the newspapers and magazines like Vogue. Bobbie remembered the nurses at the sanatorium showing her little clippings about her guardian just after the war. They had seemed most amused about the famous Beatrice Harper, about her penchant for large French poodles, about her ability to arrive anywhere at any time, but never on time.
Tomorrow, she had just announced to Bobbie, she was arriving early, but since tomorrow was the day that Bobbie and Julian and the Major had decided was the best possible moment for the Major to elope with Miss Moncrieff, her decision was, in their joint opinion, less than welcome. In fact it was really very unwelcome, so that a positive gloom had settled over everyone involved in the elopement plans.
‘You will just have to go early, Major. Leave it to me. I will help Miss M pack, and Julian will help you to make all the other arrangements. We have bought lots and lots of extra petrol coupons from a spiv that we met on the beach of all places. We did not realize at first that he was a spiv, because he had no clothes on, not to speak of that is. But then when he offered me some nylon stockings, of course we realized at once what was what. And we managed to buy practically a sackful of petrol coupons from him, so I think you can get to Gretna Green and back now without any trouble at all. And we managed to buy some dress coupons too, so Miss M could have a white dress and a bit of veiling, and here it is, bought from Mrs Brewster. She is the mother of the hairdresser in Baileys Green, you know – Rene of Paris and London – and she has altered it for Miss M, and here it all is. I borrowed one of Miss M’s summer frocks for the measurements and so on, so it should all fit all right. Of course it’s not quite up to the mark as far as fashion goes, but very pretty.’
Bobbie handed the Major his box, and she and Julian stared in pride and wonder at the Major’s face as he took it.
‘Shan’t take a peek at it because I have always gathered it’s bad luck, isn’t it, to see a girl’s frock before the big day?’ He cleared his throat, and looked down at the box, at which he continued to stare. ‘But, at any rate. But at any rate. You dear old beans, really; you have been so kind.’ He gripped Bobbie’s hand. ‘You have been more than kind, and do you know – I truly feel it is rather more than a chap like me deserves.’ He cleared his throat again and turned away. ‘You dear, dear old bean,’ he went on, walking off.
Bobbie said later, ‘Do you know, when we gave him all that – you know, all those coupons and the dress we found – I really think it must have been his best moment since the gates of the prisoner of war camp opened and he saw our chaps marching through. His whole face lit up. Like a torch … like a beacon …’
‘Too big. I have always thought a beacon far too big to light up a face. A beacon would flood it.’ Julian stuck his nose in the air, and squinted down at Bobbie. ‘A face, a human face, is about right to light up like a torch.’
Bobbie frowned, suddenly feeling past caring, really. ‘Still, he was pleased, wasn’t he? And let’s face it, it’s a miracle we got them off the way we did, don’t you think? I actually thought Miss M would funk it, that she would put off the evil moment, or the glorious day, whichever you like to think of it as, and just stay dithering, but far from it – it was the Major who went white as a napkin and had to be pushed into his car.’
‘I just hope Boy isn’t sick before they reach Scotland.’
It had been exhausting, the whole excitement of it, the planning of it, the execution of it, getting the middle-aged lovers off before Beatrice arrived. And now Bobbie and Julian were walking along the Sussex road feeling rather as if they had actually been to the wedding of those two old biddies, had just thrown the rice after the departing car, and laughed at the old boot banging along behind the old Riley, and the truth was they were now feeling rather flat, as if they had drunk too much champagne or eaten too much cake, neither of them quite knowing what to do now that they had actually brought off this big adventure for their elders.
In fact they both felt so flat that Bobbie found herself wishing they could go through it all again, just for something exciting to do. But if she was feeling flat now, it was not as flat as she would be feeling two hours later when Beatrice arrived, too early even for her, and certainly for her ward’s peace of mind, or, worse, presence of mind.
The truth was that, ever since she had arrived at Baileys Court and found Julian using it for his own purposes, Bobbie had kept Julian firmly hidden from Beatrice. Now, faced with the formidable sight of the Rolls-Royce containing her guardian advancing up the broken-fenced, potholed drive to the front of the former monastery, she had no idea why she had actually kept his presence a secret from her guardian.
Why had she not told Beatrice about this strange young friend of hers with his tall slender figure, bright blond hair and permanent cough? It would have been much easier to tell Beatrice before she came down than once she was down, Bobbie realized of a sudden, and far, far too late.
But of course, faced with the sudden apparition of the chauffeur, with his jumping out of the car, and the sight of his hand reaching into the car interior so that the lead of Beatrice’s huge white French poodle could be handed out first, all at once it came to Bobbie that the reason why she had not told Beatrice about Julian, why she had put the whole matter to the back of her mind, was because Beatrice was a hypochondriac.
Now Bobbie remembered that Beatrice had a quite famous fear of disease, a fear which was so all-embracing that she took care never to actually touch money, and not just money. She never touched public door handles, or people’s hands; she never even embraced anyone, unless she was quite, quite sure that she knew them so well that they would have told her if they had a cold coming on. By way of greeting she would either crook one gloved index finger, or nod her head, briefly, in acknowledgement. It had even been rumoured by Miss Moncrieff that Mrs Harper wore white gloves at all times, whether or not she was actually in company, and kept dozens for her use in her houses and cars; and that she wore a mask if any of the staff presented themselves to her in what she suspected to be less than a fit state. Just the sound of a sneeze was terrifying to her.
All this came back to Bobbie with prismatic clarity as she watched the bright white poodle, the maid, and of course Beatrice, being decanted from the sumptuous motor car. Bad enough for Beatrice to know that Bobbie had been unwell. Bad enough having a ward with ‘poison on the lung’ as Bobbie’s tu
berculosis was always tactfully called. Indeed, as far as she could remember – and those endless days at Hazel Hill seemed so far off now as to be ridiculous – Bobbie could not recall ever really seeing Beatrice at all except from afar. She visited the sanatorium but she did not do much more than wave from the ground to Bobbie, standing high above at the balcony of her private room.
Perhaps realizing that the child might eventually notice this she had written to Bobbie quite clearly on the subject.
I will do my duty by you, and my dear, dear late friend your mother, but I cannot also be intimate with you, Roberta. My own health has always been somewhat frail, and now, with the war, so many dead, it is not at all strong, not what I could wish, really it is not.
Of course Bobbie had quite understood, as children always understand that they have to accept a grown-up’s wishes with good grace. Indeed, she had not just understood, she had actually sympathized with her. Even at the age of twelve or thirteen, Bobbie was quite capable of seeing that her beautiful, elegant guardian could not be expected to visit a sanatorium, however large the gardens, however far from infection she was placed, except very, very briefly, if at all.
‘My dear, dear Bobbie.’
Beatrice, full of a kind of awe-inspiring authority, despite her use of Bobbie’s nickname, held out her gloved hand to her ward, and shook the small brown paw held out in return. But she did not kiss her, and they both knew why. The dreadful fear of disease, the fear of contagion, still haunted her, and despite Bobbie’s being really so well, for some years now, Beatrice still managed to look openly nervous of her ward. Her brown eyes were worried and narrowed behind the veil of her hat, as if she was waiting for Bobbie to cough, or look hot and feverish.
As Bobbie stared at her, smiling in admiration at the stunning sight she presented compared to Bobbie herself in her grey flannel shorts and her old gym shoes, one of Julian’s old shirts and a home-knitted sleeveless waistcoat made for her by Miss Moncrieff, Beatrice’s large diamond brooch flashed and caught the sunlight. It was all that Bobbie could do not to gasp at the extraordinary glowing muted light that was reflecting from it, the sun seeming to pick out all the secret lights hidden in its depths.
But even as Bobbie admired it, after weeks of being outside, of never really seeing anyone except Julian and Major Saxby, the brooch suddenly appealed to her as being not brilliant and beautiful, but hard and useless. Beside a rose a diamond was just a piece of rock. So it was that, with a strange sense of disappointment, Bobbie realized, of a sudden, that really diamonds were made for dark rooms and jewellers’ windows, not for sunlit gardens.
‘My dear, dear Bobbie,’ Beatrice said again, her eyes swivelling helplessly back to her chauffeur, her maid and her poodle. ‘What a lovely thing to see you again after all this time, all these years. I mean I know we have talked,’ she continued, turning back to her ward, ‘but that is not the same thing. You are much …’ She hesitated. ‘You are much taller than I remember. Well, I suppose you would be, considering that you are a great deal older than you were when I became your guardian. And you’re very brown, fashionably brown, Chanel brown,’ she went on, her eyes suddenly seeming to seize on Bobbie’s slender, sandalled legs and become fixated by them. She continued to stare at the colour as if they were part of a piece of fine furniture she was considering acquiring. ‘Very brown, indeed. Your legs are very brown.’
She must have seen the chauffeur too staring at Bobbie’s legs, because she suddenly turned and snapped at him, ‘Start unpacking the luggage and taking it to the front hall, would you, Davis? And Ward, you take Piaf for a toddle to tinkle round the bushes down there, would you?’ She stopped once more before stepping into the hall, turning back to Bobbie as if it had only just occurred to her that she was one short of her usual retinue of personal staff. ‘Oh, and by the way, Roberta dear, where is Miss Moncrieff, please?’
Bobbie had practised the lines. She had actually practised them over and over again, after having of course first tried them out on Julian. She had a choice of three versions of the same news to break to her guardian, and it had all seemed perfectly simple, until she started to try them out.
The first version was, ‘Miss Moncrieff has had to leave in a hurry.’ The second was, ‘Miss Moncrieff has run off to Scotland with Major Saxby whom you haven’t met, but he is very nice and they are probably now married.’ The third was, ‘I am sorry to tell you that Miss Moncrieff has run away with Major Saxby to Gretna Green before her mother could find out.’
Both Bobbie and Julian had managed to agree, while wiping away tears of laughter, that the last was probably the neatest and best, but now the time to speak the lines had arrived all Bobbie could do was stare at Beatrice, her brain quite numb.
For the truth was that Beatrice, in common with so many rich people, came fitted with an especially powerful personality, a personality which, alas, neither Bobbie nor Julian had taken into account while Bobbie had been rehearsing how to break the news to her. After all that time spent trying out various ways to tell her frighteningly beautiful, dark-haired guardian that her secretary had eloped without asking her employer of fifteen years for permission, Bobbie now heard herself saying in a stammering, footling little voice, ‘I, er, don’t know, really. I don’t know exactly where Miss Moncrieff is, exactly, I am afraid. That is. No, I don’t know, I really don’t.’
‘I am sorry, what did you say?’
‘I said I – er – don’t know. I don’t know where Miss Moncrieff is, exactly, I am afraid, that is.’
It was actually not quite a lie, not really. In fact it was a kind of half-truth, because Bobbie really did not know, and could not possibly know, where Miss Moncrieff was precisely. As far as Bobbie knew she might be halfway to Scotland, she might be actually at Gretna Green; or she might have changed her mind and stopped off in Pinner with her mother, or decided to live in sin with Major Saxby in Ebury Street. So, it was true, at that moment Bobbie did have absolutely no idea at all where Miss Moncrieff might be.
‘You don’t know, Roberta, you don’t know where Miss Moncrieff is?’
Bobbie shook her head. ‘She left the Sheds …’ Bobbie was about to say this morning when another truth dawned: if she said Miss Moncrieff had only left this morning Beatrice might well think that they could all catch up with her. ‘She left the Sheds two days ago, in the company of Major Saxby.’
Beatrice practically seized Bobbie’s arm and marched her into the suddenly chill, stone-flagged hall, out of earshot of her chauffeur and her maid, and well out of the way of Julian, who was, Bobbie knew, hidden in some bush or shrub somewhere nearby.
Inwardly Bobbie sighed at the humour she knew that Julian would be finding in the situation. At how he would laugh at her, and not with her. He would split his sides at Bobbie’s awkwardness, at her inability to come out with the lines required of her, lines that they had so carefully rehearsed together.
‘What did you say, Roberta? Where has Miss Moncrieff gone? With whom did you say the wretched woman has absconded?’
Suddenly, staring into her guardian’s narrowed eyes as they bored into her from under Beatrice’s hat, Bobbie could not stand it any more. She was actually fed up with the whole business, if the truth were known. Fed up with Miss Moncrieff, with the Major, with Julian, with herself, with Beatrice, with the chauffeur, with the maid, even with the poodle, but most of all with life.
Why were people so difficult? Why could they not just be happy that some poor spinster in lisle stockings and a home-knitted cardigan had fallen in love and run off with the Major? Why was Beatrice looking like the wrath of God and taking off her hat and sticking her hatpin through it with such fury and force that for a second Bobbie had a sense of the hat’s squealing in pain?
‘Miss Moncrieff has gone off with the Major. Major Saxby, of the Pines, that is. It’s a large house in the village with about half an acre of garden.’
‘It’s of no interest to me where the stupid man lives. He is obviously some fra
ud who has turned her head.’
‘No, no, that’s not it at all. You see, he lost his wife, do you see …’
‘Stop saying do you see, Roberta. It’s appallingly slovenly.’
‘Well, he lost his wife, just before he got home from being a prisoner of war, and then he came here, to help in the garden, and you know Miss M was here and they were always having lunch together and listening to Mrs Dale’s Diary and they, you know, they realized that they rather liked each other and as a result they, er, decided to – well, they decided to get married in a bit of a hurry, before they changed their minds, I expect.’
‘And why, pray, did you not tell me before?’
‘It’s only just happened, really. You see, as I say, Major Saxby was helping with the garden. He was very useful actually, because he knew people on the council, and in the village, and he was able to get us sand and cement for the walls. Wait till you see them, I think you will be pleased. And then he was very, very sad, you see, because his wife had died, just as he came home from the Burma railway, and so gardening and building walls, or rather rebuilding them, well, they really cheered him up. And so he used to go and have lunch with Miss Moncrieff, because he didn’t like being on the beach, we realized. And they ran off the day before yesterday, to Gretna Green, where they will be married, I suppose, very soon, and really it’s very nice, because, I mean, they could marry. I mean neither of them are divorced or anything, so they could. Marry. I think Miss Moncrieff meant to tell you, but it was all so sudden, she probably forgot. Yes, that was it, she did forget, I think she said that. She forgot. And so did I, until just now. It didn’t seem to matter, really. I mean they are getting married, and he is nice.’
‘Nice!’ Beatrice snorted the word. ‘Nice? Miss Moncrieff would not know a spiv from a member of the Salvation Army. The woman is a complete and utter nincompoop! But that is not the point. The point is that staff are all, to a person, perfidious sneaks. After all this time to do as she has done, to skulk off without a say so, or a say why. After, it must be fifteen years? I think it is perfectly, utterly perfidious. She is a two-faced, perfidious sneak.’
The Blue Note Page 19
