Edith stood up in greeting. 'Adela, how lovely to meet you at last. I'm Edith Broughton.'
'But I'm thrilled to meet you too!'
The girls exchanged their guarded greetings. That they were guarded was for two principal reasons, neither of which meant that there was the smallest romantic rivalry between them. Edith was not then and never had been in the least interested in me in that way. No, on her side it was the annoyance of having to surrender a confidant who has done good service and who will never be quite so useful married as he has been single. If you marry late there are many who feel this, even if those that love you attempt to control it. Added to which, just as happily married friends drive us all mad by their insistence that the married state is the only possible one, so do one's unhappily married acquaintance see it as their mission to turn all and sundry back from the church door. This stance is often used, half jokingly, as a means of insulting their partner in public. 'Get married!
What on earth do you want to do that for?' one hears jocularly at a dinner party, and from further down the table comes a sour look from a lip-biting spouse. Ominously, this was a position that Edith, quite unconsciously I'm sure, was nudging into.
On Adela's side the guardedness was more subtle. She knew of course exactly who Edith was and, until meeting me, had been inclined to take the other point of view about the new Lady Broughton — that Charles, whom she had met a few times on the circuit, had been 'caught.' I had brought her at least to the point of suspending her judgement but in Edith's tone of greeting Adela had detected, with some justification, the faintest note of graciousness. Edith the Aristocrat welcoming this nice little actor's girlfriend. These things are hard to gauge correctly but it is true that Edith had developed a rather grand manner by this time so she may have been tempted into this dangerous area. Understandably, Adela, while previously prepared by me not to snub Edith, was damned if she was going to be patronised by her.
To make matters worse, just at this moment Charles arrived to see what was going on. He recognised Adela and I think in revenge (although she would have denied it) she lost no time in leading him into a conversation about several people that they both knew but Edith did not. In short she used Edith's dreaded Name Exchange against her. I suppose I should have felt indignant for one or the other of them but these things have a way of sorting themselves out without help from outsiders and anyway I could see that Adela had a point. I don't think I expected, even then, that she and Edith would ever be particularly close. Adela was too near what Edith wished to be (certainly so far as her past went) and while Adela was not a snob as a general rule, she was not above putting the likes of Edith in their place. I used to call it her 'Vicereine Mode.' All in all I could see that the best I might hope for was a kind of mutual tolerance. On this particular morning, before things could get sticky, Charles offered to show Adela the stables and with a nod towards me they set off. Edith watched them go.
'That's who should have married Charles.'
'Well, she's going to marry me.'
'No, I mean that's the kind of girl who would have made him happy. Giving out prizes, running the WVS. Can't you see it?'
'If that had been the kind of girl he wanted to marry, he would have married one. Lord knows there were plenty to choose from.'
'That doesn't sound very complimentary to your beloved.'
'You are talking of her obvious characteristics, which are, as you rightly observe, those of her time and her class. Her unusual qualities, of which you know nothing, are at the root of why she has chosen to marry an impoverished actor with a basement flat and not a rich earl.'
'Well, we'll have to watch our Ps and Qs around her.'
I wasn't having that. 'Don't make us into two teams, my dear. If you do, I warn you I'm on hers not yours.'
'Ouch.'
'Anyway, who says Charles should have married anyone but you?'
Edith said nothing but lay back and stared at the sky.
'You two look very intense.' Simon appeared, stripped of his embroidered coat, more romantic than ever in his flapping linen sleeves. He threw himself down on the bank next to Edith with a gay disregard of his costume. I could see his dresser sucking his teeth in the background but Simon was playing Byron to Edith's Caroline Lamb and he was not going to let a detail like grass stains deflect him. 'Where's Adela? Wasn't she here?'
'She's gone off to see the stables with Charles,' I said.
'To catch up on old times,' added Edith dryly.
Simon laughed. 'Lawks,' he said. 'We'd better be on our best behaviour when those two get together.'
'Don't start that,' said Edith. 'I've just been ticked off.'
Simon gave a comic guilty look in my direction but actually I was rather interested that his social confidence had grown sound enough to attempt this kind of joke. I suppose I was faintly annoyed that Adela was being equated with Charles under some kind of 'dull nob' label by them both, but when I saw Edith smile and mutter to Simon under her breath I realised at once what a clever flirt he was. For by including me in his observation he had contrived to take the threat out of what was nevertheless a deliberate complicity, a shared joke with Edith, which excluded Charles. I saw then that Adela and I were quite irrelevant to his purposes.
It transpired that this weekend, Edith, in a spirit of revenge as well as generosity, and quite against Charles's will, had invited the very Bob and Annette who had been staying with the Chases during the Mallorcin honeymoon. She had done this partly to see Annette again (who had, of course, kept up a lively correspondence with her new and eminent pal), partly to annoy Charles, partly to annoy Googie, and mainly to annoy Eric Chase who was down at Broughton with Caroline. She thought it would infuriate him to have this pair introduced to his parents-in-law as 'friends of Eric' as if they were typical of his crowd. She was correct. It did.
Simon, Adela and I had been asked for dinner, Bella having taken off for a few days in London, so at eight that night we found ourselves joining this motley throng in the family drawing room. The mismatched group promised a strangely disparate evening and in fact, Adela initially got the wrong end of the stick and spent the first hour assuming that Eric was something to do with the film and not the family. The more names he dropped the more she was confirmed in her opinion until finally he referred to 'my father-in-law, Tigger', in red-faced exasperation. Even then she looked over to me for a second opinion.
Lady Uckfield's responses on the other hand were calculatedly, and deliberately, disappointing to Edith. She made a great fuss of Bob and Annette all weekend and simultaneously managed to convey, with a sort of discreet gush, what a relief it was to her to find a kindred spirit in Adela, which was, I think, meant as a compliment to me.
It reassured her that, having taken an actor into her circle, he should turn out to be her sort after all. She found it fitting that her friends should marry people she had more or less heard of. As it happened she knew one of Adela's aunts quite well and had come out the same year as her mother, all of which was as it should be in her quaintly ordered world. Obviously, it was exactly this security blanket that Charles's choice of Edith had withheld and it was hard not to suspect a touch of spite towards her daughter-in-law in the liveliness with which Lady Uckfield took up my intended. Adela, naturally, blossomed under the attention, still only half aware of the games being played around her. I found Edith in one of the windows, staring grumpily at the ill-assorted party. She nodded at my beloved. 'What did I tell you? She's perfect.'
'I know.' I followed her gaze and saw that it had shifted from the cosy scene on the sofa to a far corner where Caroline Chase was listening absorbedly to Simon, apparently, as always, in full flow. Between the groups Charles wandered rather disconsolately, offering refills. 'Poor old Charles. Who's got him at dinner?' The question was more impertinent than I had meant but I suppose I wasn't thinking. At any rate, instead of reprimanding me as she should have, Edith shrugged.
'Who knows? We've got the most ghastly
evening ahead.' I looked enquiringly. 'Bob and Annette Watson are taking us all out.'
'That's very nice of them. Why on earth should they?'
Edith did not share my view of things. 'That's not all. They've booked us into Fairburn Hall. Googie's in fits. She's thrilled, of course. She's been dying to see what they've done with it since the de Marneys left and she's never dared admit it.'
Her lack of gratitude at the Watsons' invitation did not surprise me. The plan was, naturally, a frightful prospect to the Broughtons and their ilk. In England one of the saddest mistakes a social climber can make is excessive generosity. It's odd really for what could be more charming? To arrive with presents and treats, to gather up whole house-parties and take them out on the town — what could be nicer than this? And yet these courteous acts are as clear a signal to the Insiders that the would-be benefactor is a newcomer to their world as if they had worn a sign on their hat. Of all these solecisms, that of offering to take people 'out' in the country is perhaps the worst. The English upper-classes do not as a rule leave their houses in the country in the evening except to go to other people's houses. They might be tempted by a country house opera or even the occasional play with a picnic attached, but if they want to eat in a restaurant they do it in the week and in London. Nor do they ever go to 'country house hotels' unless it is on a pilgrimage of personal curiosity. They might visit one because 'I used to spend my summers here when it belonged to my Aunt Ursula', but they would never, on pain of death, book in for dinner or a weekend. One of the saddest aspects of these places is that the gentility promised in the brochures can never, by its very nature, be reflected in the guests.
The Watsons, anxious to ingratiate themselves with Lady Uckfield and to become Broughton 'regulars' had hit on the sure way to render themselves ridiculous to their hostess for ever, as well as providing her with a welcome new source of funny stories. For this privilege they would pay a great deal of money.
Fairburn Hall was a large and ugly house on the other side of Uckfield. It had belonged for several centuries to the ancient if low-achieving family of de Marney, who had finally managed a baronetcy by befriending, of all people, Lloyd George. The de Marney of a particularly unfortunate architectural period in the 1850s had encased a blameless Queen Anne manor house in a hideous, neo-gothic shell, studded with bas-reliefs of the family's triumphant, historical moments. These apparently were few and as a result rather nebulous and un-sourced scenes of 'Gerald de Marney welcoming Queen Eleanor to Fairburn', or 'Philip de Marney taking the colours at Edgehill' gave rise to great hilarity among the Broughtons. I need hardly say there was no love lost between the families and never had been. Technically the de Marneys were the older family and had consequently always tried to assume a lordly manner towards their neighbours. This was absurd of them as the Broughtons, whether the de Marneys liked it or not, were much richer and much grander as they had been for the previous three centuries. A couple of years before this, the current incumbent, Sir Robert de Marney, had given up the unequal struggle, sold Fairburn on a long lease to a large group of 'Leisure Hotels' and moved with his family into the dower house four miles away.
'Do you think we ought to be veiled?' whispered Lady Uckfield, as we climbed out of the cars. She turned to me. 'It was always the vilest house in the world. My mother-in-law used to swear they'd muddled up the plans with Lewes prison and got the wrong one.'
The entrance was through a wide semi-conservatory, with stone flags and odd, quasi-armorial grills at the window, like a rather grand bank. Through this one came into a cumbrous entrance hall. Thick, square Victorian columns stood everywhere, but the decision in the rebuilding not to raise the original ceiling height of the old house gave it the look of some central German under-vault, making one feel like a caryatid. The de Marney crest in loud colours was on every wall and an ornate family tree, framed in gilt, hung over the gas-log fire. Lady Uckfield stared at it. 'They've got the wrong branch,' she said happily.
An immensely important head waiter came towards us and mistaking Bob Watson's nervous enquiry about the reservation for the general tone of the party he attempted a very superior air as he ushered us into what he referred to as the 'withdrawing room'. He was soon disabused.
'What a horrid colour!' said Lady Uckfield, ignoring the chair he was indicating and plumping down onto a sofa instead.
'Too sad, as this was really the only room that was nice at all. It was the music room in the old days although they were tone deaf to a man!' She laughed pleasantly, as the crushed waiter tried to salvage his position by fawning over her for her choice of 'aperitif.
'I think Lady Uckfield would like some champagne,' said Bob loudly, and one or two lacquered heads in the corners of the room looked round. He, in his turn, wanted to get some mileage out of bringing such a distinguished group to this, as he imagined, smart venue and I can't say I blamed him. Heaven knows he was going to pay dearly for it. His tone further flattened the attendant who was sufficiently familiar with the area to realise by now the extent of his initial faux pas. The party was becoming uncomfortable and Charles and Caroline exchanged a quick, edgy look. I found myself longing to defend Bob and his kindness of spirit, but I knew I would be fighting insuperable odds and, coward-like, I seized one of the huge, leather-bound menus when they arrived and hid behind it until the wine was brought with a great flurry of silver and glass and linen. At this moment, to everyone's amazement except possibly Caroline's, Eric leaned forward, plucked a bottle out of its silver-plated, ice-lined nest and spoke, not to Bob but to the waiter:
'Haven't you got any of the ninety-two?'
The waiter shook his head with murmured apologies. Just as Bob's timorousness had at first made us all worthless so far as he was concerned, now Lady Uckfield's presence made us all fine folk indeed.
Eric glowed at his deference. 'Then you shouldn't say it's ninety-two, should you?' He dropped the bottle back into its holder and sat back as the waiter poured.
Across the group Edith caught my eyes and rolled hers.
Bob was fumbling. He knew he faced a bill of something in the region of seven or eight hundred pounds and already the mixture of suppressed giggles and secret smiles was telling him that, mysteriously, his treat was making him not eminent but ridiculous. This was doubly irritating to him as his wife had tried to talk him out of it and had suggested, instead, asking the Broughtons and the Uckfields to dinner at the Ivy in London (which would, of course, have been perfectly acceptable to them).
Charles came to his aid. 'This is delicious,' he said firmly, sipping his wine and looking towards the rest of us.
'Absolutely lovely,' said Adela, and I nodded away.
Actually, it was quite nice but too cold. However, Simon, on this dangerous evening, had clearly decided to go for broke.
Once and for all he was determined to shake off the concept that he was in any sense overawed by the present company.
'Would it be a great bore if I have a whisky?' he said.
'Good idea,' said Eric. 'Me, too.'
The careful cruelty of this was that Bob had already ordered three bottles opened, which the rest of us could not now possibly finish. He was foundering. His wine had been rejected, he had been insulted and yet somehow he had to go on as if everything was going swimmingly. 'Of course!' he smiled broadly. 'What about you, Edith?'
Edith sank back into the over-stuffed, chintz-covered chair and stared her pellucid stare. I could see her gaze trailing over Charles, who was giving her an admonishing look, imploring her to behave. Poor man. These were his wife's friends and yet it was he who was having to work to save the evening. Behind him, Simon stood beaming at her. 'I wouldn't mind some vodka,'
she said. Simon half winked, and they both caught in their smiles before they spilled over into impropriety.
'Fine,' said Bob in a lacklustre voice. He looked around for more trouble but Caroline, with a deliberate gesture, reached across Eric to help herself to a large glass of champagne. The
battle-lines were forming.
The food was predictably pretentious, with bonfires going at practically every table. Inadequate portions arranged like cocktail hats followed each other in blank, tasteless succession, fussed over by suspiciously French waiters. The maître d'
would not, by this time, leave us alone and kept dashing up for a review of the current course until Simon finally suggested he might like to take a seat to save himself the bother. Of course we all laughed and of course he was never seen again. In truth the dinner itself was the least awful part of the evening because of Simon. He certainly was on very funny form that night. He could match Annette's stories without challenging her and the pair of them did keep things going. Even Lady Uckfield gave in to the prevailing mood and chuckled away as she toyed with her unsatisfactory and costly dishes.
Charles, on the other hand, was more or less in hell the entire time. He was not quick enough to get the point of most of the anecdotes, let alone tell his own. These were not his kind of people and unusually for him (for he seldom risked the possibility) he was outnumbered. Unlike his father he was not a flirt, unlike his mother he had very little sense of humour.
Caroline tried to rescue him once or twice but she was in a dark mood of her own and in the end it was Adela who got him onto the business of improving the shoot at Feltham. He had apparently only restarted it three years before after a long gap and the topic released some of the pent-up flow within him, but even this had a limited success for when Simon was telling a story about some production he'd been in where the stage manager had filled the bath with boiling instead of cold water, he paused for the punch line and into the silence came Charles's voice: 'The great thing is to leave a wide enough headland of kale, which of course some of the farmers are reluctant to do…'
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