Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs

by Clayton, Victoria

  ‘Not missish at all,’ I said innocently.

  ‘But not entirely unfeminine.’ Evelyn’s voice sharpened and Balfour lifted his golden eyes to her face. ‘With more becoming clothes and a better haircut I think she could be quite pretty.’ ‘Oh, yes.’

  Evelyn frowned. ‘I wonder if I might give her a hint or two. Her mother has no idea – looks like the wrath of God – though she is one of my best friends.’

  ‘I should think Bunty would be eternally grateful if you suggested ways in which she could improve her appearance.’

  Oh, Marigold, I admonished myself, how wicked and devious you are.

  ‘Mm.’ Evelyn stopped looking forceful and looked reflective instead. There was nothing she liked better than transforming dull houses or gardens or people into something aesthetically pleasing. She put her head on one side and looked at me, the beady expression replaced by an approving smile. ‘What a good little thing you are, Marigold. Really, you’ve turned out to be so steady and sensible. I shall ask Bunty to tea tomorrow. We’ll have it upstairs in my sitting room so we can be sure of not being interrupted.’

  Probably Bunty would not realize how great was the honour about to be done her. Not even Kingsley was allowed in Evelyn’s sitting room. Years ago, at Isobel’s instigation, we had trespassed on the sacred ground while her mother was out and had spent an uncomfortable hour perched on pale blue Louis Quinze chairs reading Evelyn’s diaries, which was the naughtiest thing Isobel could think of doing. The entries were cryptic and not very interesting, except when they referred to us – and even then they were mostly memos to do something about Isobel’s posture or to speak to Dimpsie about my habit of chewing my hair which was not only bad for my health but repulsive.

  Isobel had hoped to discover evidence of an illicit and passionate relationship so she could blackmail her mother into allowing her to wear make-up and letting her leave school early. But somehow, little though I knew about these things, I had been sure that Evelyn would not look at a man other than her husband. Instinctively I understood that sexiness had no place in Evelyn’s character. For one thing, she mistrusted strong emotions. And gardening was the only activity she thought it worth getting untidy for. She was impatient of things that had no obvious results, that did not contribute to the perfect world she had constructed, in which everything was beautiful and where she reigned supreme. I guessed that she would put up with sex in order to procreate and to keep Kingsley happy, as long as he was quick about it, but while he gasped and groaned her mind would be busy choosing colour schemes for the new bit of garden or planning who and what to have for dinner when the lord lieutenant came.

  ‘I don’t think brown is Bunty’s colour,’ I said demurely. ‘Perhaps black would suit her better.’

  ‘Yes, and it would slim down that bottom. Black or navy. Though we want to emphasize her youthfulness.’ I reckoned Bunty was thirty if a day. Evelyn looked thoughtful while straightening the magazines on the stool that had got a little crooked. ‘I wonder about red. Or coral?’

  ‘Mm … do you think? With that complexion?’

  ‘Her colour is a little high. Green powder might do something.’

  ‘I expect it’s all that galloping about in cold winds and standing up to her waist in rivers for long periods.’

  ‘Yes, yes, all that must stop at once.’ The shared interests seemed to have been summarily discarded from the list of attractions. ‘I shall give her a pot of Elizabeth Arden’s Eight Hour Cream tomorrow.’ I wondered if Bunty would take this present in good part. ‘At least the riding must be responsible for her posture, which is excellent,’ Evelyn continued. ‘And you, Marigold, walk like a queen these days. It’s wonderful what a little dancing can do. Though I’ve noticed you turn your feet out in a way that reminds one slightly of a fish standing on its tail. But better that than the languid slouch Isobel affects. After all I’ve said on the subject.’ Evelyn sighed. ‘Sometimes I think Isobel deliberately tries to wound me. This engagement.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘Sometimes I think it must be a cruel joke. What sort of man engages himself to a young girl of good family and then makes no effort whatsoever to make himself known to them? He hasn’t written to her. I know that because I’ve instructed Spendlove to let me know at once if a letter with a German stamp arrives. And he’s supposed to pick up the telephone as soon as it rings. He keeps a list for me to see but there hasn’t been anyone called –’ she sucked in her breath sharply as though the very name was an affront – ‘Conrad Lerner. He can’t be very much in earnest if he’s content to stay away for weeks without making contact, can he?’

  ‘It does sound a little cool,’ I said obligingly. At that moment I heard the telephone ring in the hall. It rang twice then stopped, presumably because dear old Spendlove had picked up the kitchen extension.

  ‘And Isobel herself is on edge all the time. I’ve caught her hanging around the back door waiting for the postman. She’s strung up. Irritable. Hardly the behaviour of a girl whose dreams have all come true.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ve quarrelled.’

  Evelyn said in a voice fervent with hope. ‘Do you think they may have? Of course Isobel tells me nothing. But she’s so fond of you.’

  I felt guilty. Evelyn saw me as a confidante and perhaps Isobel did too. I must be careful not to betray either of them. ‘She seems very fond of him. She says he’s very clever.’

  ‘I hope to God she hasn’t already been to bed with him.’ Evelyn made a moue of distaste. ‘These days, if one can believe what people say, girls think no more of sleeping with a man than of buying a new pair of shoes. Less perhaps.’

  ‘I don’t know. We haven’t discussed it.’

  Evelyn gave me a searching look. ‘I hope you’ve had the sense to refrain from tumbling into bed with every Tom, Dick and Harry who flourishes an engagement ring and pretends to be desperately in love.’

  ‘Well …’ I did not like to say that it had never occurred to me to demand even this degree of commitment. ‘Of course in artistic circles people are inclined to be, ah … impulsive—’

  ‘Tush! Artistic! What rubbish!’ Evelyn stood up to reposition the ornaments on the chimneypiece that were not arranged to her satisfaction. The high-minded tone was distinctly absent now and she appeared to have forgotten our alliance as fellow practitioners of the creative arts. ‘All men are sexually obsessed. And they only despise you for giving them what they want.’

  I could offer no evidence to the contrary. But I could not bring myself to throw in the sponge without a fight. ‘But perhaps women … some women anyway … feel the same. These days, with the pill, sex doesn’t have to be taken quite so seriously. Dancers are under great pressure with each performance to achieve perfection. It’s quite natural that they use lovemaking as a means of letting off steam—’

  ‘Oh, Marigold!’ I saw in the glass above the fireplace that Evelyn was frowning. ‘What a silly girl you are! No!’ She held up an admonitory forefinger. ‘You needn’t tell me about impulses and pressures and so forth. It’s quite clear you’ve been allowing some man to take advantage of you. I hope it’s only one.’ She sat down beside me and took my hand. ‘Now, darling, you’re not to think I’m angry with you, because I understand how difficult it’s been. You’ve been thrown upon the world with no advice or protection and it’s no wonder if you’ve made a few mistakes.’ I felt grateful for this dispensation until I remembered that in my own eyes I had done nothing wrong, particularly. ‘We all make mistakes.’ Evelyn poured us both another cup of tea and continued in a quieter, confidential tone. ‘I did myself. He was Canadian … a student, working his way round the world. I met him at a lunch party.’ Her eyes softened and her voice took on a different timbre, lighter, younger, almost fluting. ‘His name was Rex Campion. I was your age. Twenty-two. He sent me flowers afterwards. White roses. They were so lovely.’ Evelyn looked down and spread her hands, as though the flowers lay on her lap. ‘Then he telephoned to ask if we could meet. We had tea in
a hotel in Chipping Campden. He made me laugh so much.’

  Now I thought about it, I realized I had seldom heard Evelyn laugh.

  ‘We had lunch the next day. Suddenly neither of us could eat anything. We’d fallen hopelessly in love. His parents weren’t well off. He had no expectations. But we were both young and foolish and we thought we could live on love. My father had other ideas.’ I remembered the mill-owning parent Isobel had told me about, and imagined him standing with a thumb through his braces and a cigar in his other hand before a gigantic, humming factory. ‘Rex begged me to give myself to him,’ Evelyn went on. ‘I wanted to make him happy. My father sent for Rex and told him that in England it was considered bad form for poor men to pursue girls who had money. He was insulting. I was waiting outside and I overheard it all. Poor Rex. He was almost crying when he came out. I told him I’d run away with him but he said I mustn’t quarrel with my parents and that he’d write. I waited with, oh! so much longing, for a letter.’ I saw Evelyn as a girl, her hair Isobel’s colour, dressed in tennis clothes perhaps, with a short pleated skirt and long brown legs, saw her running down the stairs to intercept the postman. ‘I waited and waited … But I never heard from him again.’

  I felt tremendously flattered to be confided in. I wondered how many other people knew the story of Rex Campion.

  ‘How awfully sad, Evelyn. I suppose he was too proud to write after what your father had said.’

  She smiled rather coldly. ‘He got what he wanted too easily so he didn’t value it.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t that—’

  Evelyn shook her head. ‘Anyway, soon after that I met Kingsley and I forgot all about Rex. Now, darling.’ She handed me the plate of sandwiches. ‘Tell me all about your young man. Is he very good looking?’

  I intended to give her only the vaguest sketch but, due to a feeling that one ought to return a confidence for one received, and moral weakness under the pressure of relentless questioning, Evelyn managed to coax more or less the whole story of Sebastian out of me.

  ‘I must say, Marigold, I’m shocked that you should think of paying for career advancement with your body. Because,’ she held up a forefinger as I opened my mouth to protest, ‘that is exactly what you have been doing. You don’t seem at all in love with this man and, if what you say is true, he isn’t in love with you. I’m sorry to say it sounds … well, sordid is the word that comes to mind, exchanging sexual favours for profit.’

  The sweet, flute-like note had gone from her voice. I was about to reply with some indignation that marrying people for land (I was thinking of the two thousand acres) and social position (Kingsley) seemed to me equally sordid, yet it was done every day of the week and looked upon as only common sense. But just then Isobel came in.

  ‘What are you two talking about? You look as though you’re plotting something.’

  ‘We were talking about Bunty, darling.’

  I was impressed by Evelyn’s single-mindedness, for I had quite forgotten the original purport of our conversation.

  ‘I was telling Marigold how glad I am that your brother seems so fond of her.’ Evelyn smiled indulgently at Isobel. ‘Another new dress? A charming colour.’

  Isobel looked down as though she had forgotten she was still wearing the pale lilac dress. ‘What? Oh yes, I bought it this morning. Of course Rafe isn’t going to marry that stupid old Bunty. She looks exactly like a Shire horse. She ought to have a cart to pull about.’

  Evelyn stopped looking indulgent.

  ‘It really is a lovely dress,’ I said quickly.

  ‘You can have it,’ said Isobel. ‘I’ve gone off it. It’d suit you much better, anyway. I’m going to London tomorrow to buy some decent things. Newcastle’s just too provincial for words. I’ll be back on Monday.’

  I could see that something had happened to excite Isobel. There were red spots on her cheeks and she fidgeted with the scarf fringe as though nervous.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ Evelyn looked annoyed. ‘Ronald Dunderave’s coming to dinner on Saturday and I particularly wanted you to help me entertain him.’

  ‘Ask Marigold instead. He’ll like her much better. As long as you don’t get too intellectual, darling,’ she smiled at me. ‘Ronald has the brain of a woodlouse. Better still, Mummy, put him off until I get back. Then we can have a lovely big party to celebrate.’

  ‘What is there to celebrate?’ asked Evelyn sharply.

  Isobel took a deep breath and announced with an air of nonchalance that failed to conceal her elation. ‘That was Conrad on the telephone. He’s in England. And on Tuesday he’s coming here.’

  14

  Tuesday, the day of Evelyn’s party, came at last. Time had dragged a little. Isobel had been in London and Dimpsie had been preoccupied by the craft-shop accounts. Rafe had not telephoned. I had managed to keep myself more or less busy. During Saturday morning surgery, which was emergencies only, I had finished off the filing. I had sorted the contents of the drawers and got rid of the glue. I had tidied the mountain of ragged Woman’s Realm and Knitting Weekly and thrown away the ones without covers and with more than half their contents missing. They were so ancient that all the crosswords had been filled in and the quizzes disfigured by rows of ticks. I started to do one myself entitled ‘How Good at Housework Are You?’ Do you sweep under the beds a) once a week b) once a month c) once a year d) never. Everyone had mendaciously ticked a). If I were being truthful I would have had to answer d) to every question so the interest quickly palled.

  I hobbled down to the craft shop to find Dimpsie fastening baby clothes on to a piece of pegboard.

  ‘Hand me those drawing pins, would you, darling? I can’t get these bootees to stick on.’

  The bootees were knitted in emerald and puce wool. ‘Aren’t they rather strange colours? Don’t people usually dress babies in pink or pale blue?’

  ‘Oh, I know. Mrs Gribbling makes them. She unpicks her husband’s old jerseys – he’s been dead for years so he doesn’t mind – and they’re all the most awful colours. The last lot were khaki and rust. Quite hideous. And she knits day and night so I’ve boxes full.’

  ‘Does she ever sell any?’

  ‘Never. From time to time, to save her feelings, I pretend someone’s bought something and give her a tenner.’

  ‘You’ll never make a business woman.’ I bent down to kiss her. ‘But I’m glad.’

  ‘I’m not. I’d simply love to make some money.’

  ‘What would you do with it?’

  ‘I’d buy a nice old house and do it up for artists to come and live in rent free so they could concentrate on their work without worldly distractions. And I’d send tractors to Africa, clothes to Indian earthquake victims, that sort of thing.’

  I looked sadly at the contents of the craft shop, at the crocheted shawls, the felt egg cosies, the dolls with crinoline skirts designed to disguise spare rolls of lav paper, the macramé plant hammocks, the donkey made of fur fabric with buttons for eyes. None of this seemed the raw material from which international philanthropy might spring.

  ‘Let me do that.’ I took the bootees from Dimpsie. ‘You go and do some more accounting, then we’ll go to the Singing Swan and have lunch.’

  ‘That would be nice.’ Dimpsie raised wistful eyes to mine. ‘You can’t think what a treat it is for me to have you home. Of course I couldn’t be sorrier about your leg, but I do feel grateful to have this little time together. We’ve always got on so well, darling, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes … always.’ I don’t believe she intended to pierce my heart with sorrow and guilt.

  It was more difficult to fill the hours of Sunday. Dimpsie sat at the kitchen table, her head spinning with figures that refused to add up. As I was bad at arithmetic myself, I couldn’t help, so I wrote to Bobbie, thanking her for her help and bringing her up to date with family news. Then I wrote a longer letter to Lizzie, mostly about Evelyn, Isobel and Rafe. In the early years of our friendship she had listen
ed sympathetically while I raved for hours about his masculine beauty, devastating sophistication and sporting prowess. I described working at the surgery, hoping to amuse, and touched briefly on the sad state of my parents’ marriage.

  I didn’t mention Dimpsie’s drinking, though it had become part of our daily lives. She took secret little nips throughout the day. By about seven o’clock she was slurring her words and dropping things and weeping. Usually I succeeded in persuading her to go to bed before she lost consciousness. My father came home after hospital or evening surgery to change his clothes before driving off without saying where he was going and returning long after midnight. He seemed invigorated by this new regime. While he crackled with energy, Dimpsie spent more and more time in bed and looked puffy-eyed and grey. None of this would have made edifying reading for Lizzie.

  Having finished my letter, I decided to tackle another book on my self-improvement list. I thought I would save On the Origin of Species and Gombrich’s The Story of Art for later. A snowbound afternoon suggested the easier option of a novel. I found my second-hand copy of Ulysses by James Joyce and took it into my boat bed with a sense of reprieve from intellectual labour. It seemed a good idea to begin with the preface, so I could be sure I was getting every nuance intended by the author. After a paragraph or two under the tutelage of Professor Zubloch-Weizman my head was spinning with sentences as intricately woven as the macramé plant hammocks. What was neologistic wordplay, I wondered? What an exegesis? A somatic scheme? When it came to inspissated obscurities, I drifted into a gentle doze. I was woken by Dimpsie tapping on my door.