Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs

by Clayton, Victoria

  Conrad’s face remained impassive. ‘An exacting stipulation.’ Though his accent was noticeably foreign, his command of the English language was better than that of many of its native speakers.

  ‘Come along,’ Evelyn sounded rattled. ‘Everyone’s starving. We’ll get the introductions over with as fast as we can.’

  If Conrad was unnerved to find himself the object of frankly curious stares, he hid it well. At least half the guests instinctively offered their hands only to snatch them back when they remembered the skin contagion. I watched this little pantomime with amusement. After two or three such incidents, Conrad kept his hands clasped behind his back and responded to introductions by drawing himself up and bowing from the neck, which looked dignified and rather glamorous.

  ‘Well?’ said Rafe in my ear. ‘Not quite what we were led to expect. Isobel is a minx. No sign of a squint as far as I can see. And I’d hardly call those jug-handle ears.’

  ‘Is that what she told you? No, I’d say he was remarkably handsome.’

  ‘He seems to have the usual complement of features. What’s remarkable about him?’

  ‘Those eyes, most of all. You can’t tell what he’s thinking. But you can be sure he is.’

  ‘Is what?’

  ‘Thinking something.’

  ‘So I should hope, unless the man’s a moron.’

  ‘Whatever he is, it’s a relief to know that if Isobel does marry him she won’t be condemned to go to bed with a tiny Mr Punch whose feet rip holes in the sheets whenever he turns over.’

  Rafe laughed and tugged at a strand of my hair in a brotherly way. ‘He’s a gentleman anyway, which is more than I’d hoped for.’

  I looked again at Conrad, who was listening to Lady Pruefroy, a big woman in brown velvet with a bossy manner who tapped his chest with her finger as she talked, like a woodpecker hammering at the bark of a tree. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something about his manner, his self-confidence perhaps … It’s impossible to describe but it’s unmistakable.’

  ‘Not to me. Would you say all the men in this room are gentlemen?’

  Rafe’s eyes wandered round the room, examining the little groups of conversing guests.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rafe. ‘Not Spendlove, of course.’

  ‘Is the archdeacon a gentleman? He’s awfully greedy. I’ve just seen him eat the last two vol-au-vents.’

  ‘Nonetheless, he is a gentleman.’

  ‘His eyes are cold and mean. And he was catty about Isobel.’

  ‘Gentlemen are sometimes greedy and catty. It’s more a question of style than of virtue.’

  ‘Actually I like Spendlove better than anyone. Except you. And Kingsley, of course.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a wild young bohemian, Lorna Doone.’ Rafe stared at me in a way that was not quite brotherly. ‘And very fetching, too.’

  I suspected, but could not be absolutely certain, that he was flirting with me. Before I could think of a suitably wild reply, dinner was announced.

  The moment we sat down a maid came in with a jug of water. Isobel, who was sitting next to the archdeacon, played her part very prettily, tapping his arm to draw his attention to the fact that his glass had been filled with the baleful substance. His face became consternated, he sprang up and whispered something in the girl’s ear. She looked surprised but left the room, taking the water jug with her. Isobel pointed to the archdeacon’s glass. Manfully he picked it up and drank off the whole tumbler without pause, only panting a little when he put it down.

  I turned to Ronald on my right. ‘I feel sorry for the soldiers in the Falklands.’ I had read a long and rather boring newspaper article about the Falklands War over lunch, with the selfless intention of entertaining my neighbours at dinner. ‘Apparently the weather’s awful. Mr Galtieri shouldn’t have put up his flag in South Georgia, but I don’t think we should have colonized the islands in the first place.’

  ‘Eh?’ Ronald wrinkled his nose. ‘Good thing, the war. Teach those dagos what to expect when they trespass on British territory.’

  ‘But whose land was it before we claimed it in 1833?’

  Ronald looked at me with something like distaste. ‘Haven’t the foggiest.’

  ‘Apparently a lot of the Argentinian bombs are no good and don’t go off, which is lucky for us.’ Ronald was noisily sucking up soup and didn’t seem to have heard. ‘I can hardly believe,’ I went on, ‘that the whole thing started because of a whale slaughterhouse that employed Argentinians instead of English people. It seems too silly for words.’

  Ronald gobbled down a piece of Melba toast.

  ‘Actually,’ I was provoked by Ronald’s lacklustre response, ‘I think all war is stupid and wicked whichever side you’re on.’

  He paused mid-suck to look at me in a startled way. ‘Steady on. This is damned good soup. What is it?’

  I picked up one of the menus written in Evelyn’s elegant hand. ‘Potage de Crevettes. That’s shrimps, isn’t it?’

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ Ronald buttered another piece of toast.

  The Falklands had proved a damp squid – or was it squib? – conversationally. ‘Do you know what inspissated means?’

  ‘Eh?’ He blinked his sandy lashes and stuck out the end of his tongue. ‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ There was a pause. ‘Nasty blizzard,’ he announced when he’d got down his toast.

  ‘I agree it makes getting about difficult, but it’s so beautiful. This morning there was an icicle a foot long hanging from the eaves above my bedroom window. It’s supposed to be the perfect murder weapon. But not terribly convenient. What are the chances of the murderer, the victim and the icicle all being in the same place at once?’

  Ronald looked at me as though he doubted my sanity. ‘M’father’s in a bate on account of the weather.’

  ‘Is he?’ I leaned forward so I could see Lord Dunderave, who was sitting on Evelyn’s right. He was slumped sideways with one arm on the table, his hand curled round a whisky glass. His lower lip was thrust out and his forehead was crumpled over his eyes. He looked about as furious as anyone could look without actually shouting and banging their fists. ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cause he can’t hunt, of course,’ explained Ronald. ‘That’s all m’father likes doing. Last season he killed twenty-four foxes and two horses. Bung me another bit of toast, would you?’

  I removed the silver bread basket from beneath the archdeacon’s outstretched fingers.

  ‘You mean he shot the horses?’ I knew little of country pursuits, but I had an idea that horse shooting was not comme il faut, as Evelyn would say. However Lord Dunderave looked so horrible I was prepared to believe anything of him.

  ‘Oh no. Rode one into a ditch and the brute broke its neck. And the other into a plough some fool had left the other side of a hedge. I’m not that keen on hunting myself.’

  I felt thoroughly disgusted. ‘I should think not!’

  ‘It’s expensive. M’father’s tight with my allowance. If I got married he’d have to stump up.’ Ronald looked across the table at Isobel, who was sitting between Conrad and the archdeacon. ‘I like shooting better than hunting. Does Isobel go out with the guns, d’you know?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘A girl can be useful. Picking up, holding the cartridges, that sort of thing. These days some of ’em actually shoot but I don’t like to see that. A girl ought to stay behind the line. I read in s’morning’s paper some of ’em even want to be vicars. Perish the thought! Vicars in knickers, the headline was,’ Ronald snorted with amusement. ‘Damn good, eh? Vicars in – ha-ha – knickers.’

  Ronald lifted his upper lip and whickered like a horse. Evelyn sent me an approving glance. The soup was taken away and replaced by slices of very rare beef with braised celery and roast potatoes. I glanced timidly at my right-hand neighbour, Conrad’s man of business. I remembered that his name was Fritz. He was staring at the silver candlestick in front of him, his pink and white
forehead wrinkled in thought.

  ‘Is this your first visit to Northumberland?’ I began.

  ‘No.’ He turned his eyes slowly to meet mine. They were large with curly eyelashes. He made a noise like tsk and looked quite alarmed. ‘That is, I desire to say – yes. Forgif me. My English is not good.’

  ‘It has an interesting history. For a long time it was a battleground between England and Scotland and they fought each other and stole each other’s cattle and Hadrian built a wall.’

  ‘Ah yes, I haf much about it read. Zo I do not English vell speak I can it read.’

  I decided to give up the intellectual pose. ‘In that case you know much more about it than I do. We hardly did any history at school, only the Tudors and Stuarts about four hundred times. I’m a complete ignoramus really.’

  ‘Vat? You haf the English history of sixteen and seventeen centuries studied four hundred times? You must be most wise. And what is ignoramus? This word I do not know.’

  ‘Oh, it just means someone who doesn’t know anything. I expect it’s slang.’

  ‘Ah, das ist sehr gut.’ He brought out from his trousers pocket a notepad and a pencil. ‘Please, gracious miss, to spell it for me. I am most interesting in ze dialects of Englant.’

  I spelt it for him and he solemnly wrote it down. ‘And it means Unwissende? I am sure zat zis is not true of you.’ His mouth curled into a smile, dimpling his plump cheeks attractively. ‘May I ask it zat you me tell of ze English kings zat you haf so much studied? I like wery much King Charles II. A most witty and laughable man. I haf read soon ago about the Treaty of Breda vich as you vill know ended ze Second Dutch War. Vat zink you of zis policy?’

  I laughed. ‘Honestly, Fritz, I can’t tell you anything. I’m a dancer. Ballet. That’s all I know about.’

  ‘Ho! Das Ballett? I love ze ballet. And you it dance? Wunderbar! Please, tell me about you.’

  So I did, and Fritz listened and questioned and looked fascinated and for once I was a genuine social success, but only because Fritz was the most stimulating audience. I remembered just in time that I was supposed to be encouraging him to talk as well.

  ‘Do you know what “inspissated” means?’

  ‘I am sorry not. Vat is ze situation you find it, gracious miss?’

  ‘Do call me Marigold. It’s in the preface to a famous book called Ulysses by James Joyce. Inspissated obscurities.’

  ‘I know ze book, of course. But I haf it read only in German, I regret. It is remarkable for – excuse me, Conrad.’ Conrad broke off a conversation with Isobel to look at him enquiringly. ‘Marigold and I talk of James Joyce. How you say in English der Bewußtseinsstrom?’

  ‘Stream of consciousness,’ said Conrad.

  ‘Ah yes.’ Fritz scribbled this on a page in his notebook. ‘And vat means inspissated obscurities?’

  Conrad drew his black brows together in thought. ‘In general inspissated means something that thickens. By process of evaporation, for example. Like salt crystals. In the context of James Joyce I take it to mean that the complexities and riddles of the novel pile up one upon another.’

  The guests at our end of the table looked both alarmed and disgusted by the highbrow tone of our conversation, but Evelyn sanctioned it with a smile of approval. I was sorry that Rafe was sitting too far away to witness my triumph. The archdeacon was holding forth to Lady Pruefoy and did not see Isobel point to his water glass. Obediently the maid brought back the jug and filled it. Isobel tapped his arm. Bravely he gulped it down. Perhaps it would do his dandruff some good.

  ‘I say,’ Ronald paused in the rapid consumption of his chestnut ice, ‘that fellow of Isobel’s.’ He cast an unfriendly glance across the table at Conrad. ‘Can’t believe she really likes him. He’s a Jew, isn’t he? D’you think if the weather improves Isobel might like a day out next week picking up?’

  ‘I’m absolutely certain she’d hate it.’

  I disliked Ronald too much to talk to him. I stole a look at Rafe who had Bunty as his neighbour. He said something to her which made her eyes light up with pleasure. I felt a pang of something suspiciously like jealousy shoot through the melange of soup, beef and ice in my stomach. Could it be … was I actually in love with him? My eyes wandered to Isobel and Conrad. He was listening as she talked earnestly. It was not difficult to see what had persuaded Isobel to agree to his proposal. By comparison with the other men at the table, Conrad was as a pomegranate among potatoes. You cannot sustain large peasant populations with pomegranates, but Conrad’s mysterious and exotic air made the others seem stodgy and colourless.

  And the mystery was more than a combination of foreign looks and an enigmatic gaze. What had he been doing on that train from Newcastle to Carlisle? Why had he kept his presence in the neighbourhood a secret from Isobel? I smiled as I thought of the surprise it must have given him to find a witness to his deceit turning up in the heart of the citadel he was set to conquer.

  The savoury, cornes de jambon, was brought in, little cornucopias of golden pastry filled with finely chopped ham in a pale green sauce. I saw Evelyn beckon to the maid, point to her own and then Conrad’s water glass. Conrad sipped the water as calmly as though it were mother’s milk. The archdeacon was talking over Lady Pruefoy’s head to her other neighbour and did not notice. Heartlessly Isobel instructed the girl to fill his glass.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Lady Pruefoy of Evelyn as soon as we women – except Isobel, who had gone to the lavatory – were gathered in the drawing room. ‘What d’you think of him? I must say he’s not at all what I expected.’

  ‘I have to admit,’ Evelyn leaned over the tray to pour the coffee, ‘I’m agreeably surprised. He knows a great deal about furniture. And porcelain. He seems intelligent. Though I dislike the idea of my daughter marrying someone whose background is so different from her own, at least he is not a blockhead.’

  ‘He’s so very black in his looks, though,’ said Lady Pruefoy. ‘Not his skin, I don’t mean – that’s so sallow as to be positively unhealthy; perhaps it’s that nasty disease you rang to tell me of this morning – but his hair and eyes. You’d never guess he was European, would you? I suppose it’s the –’ she lowered her voice – ‘Jewish blood. Dear Evelyn, I feel for you,. One hardly wants one’s grandchildren to look like little gypsies.’

  Lady Pruefoy had silver hair piled up into a cone, like a Norman helmet, only without the nose-piece, of course, and a snow-white moustache. Some small allowance had to be made for the nastiness of her remarks, for she had spent a dull evening sitting between the archdeacon and a man who had lectured her about Common Market agricultural policies until her chin had sunk on to her brown velvet bosom and her eyes had rolled upwards.

  Evelyn frowned. ‘Dark, yes, but handsome. And he has good teeth and bones.’

  ‘Teeth can be corrected. But one can do nothing about bad blood.’

  Evelyn smiled. ‘Fortunately Isobel will move in international circles where racism is considered extremely provincial.’

  I looked with interest at Lady Pruefoy to see how she was taking that. She inflated an already large bosom to say, ‘I wonder how a delicately nurtured girl like Isobel will like the society of greasy Greek shipping magnates and Sicilian mafioso.’

  ‘Mafiosi,’ said Evelyn, mimicking astonishment rather well. ‘But I forgot, dear Poppy, you have never learned Italian.’

  Isobel returned just then, so that conversation was halted.

  ‘Evelyn’s so cosmopolitan.’ Bunty perched next to me on the sofa, her dress caught up on her large knees, exposing enormous feet in black suede court shoes that had seen better days. ‘I do so admire her.’

  ‘So do I,’ I said truthfully.

  ‘And Kingsley is such a sweet old man and Isobel is so … so original.’ Bunty’s already pink face darkened a shade and her eyes became dewy. ‘Rafe is … perfectly charming.’

  ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘I know you and he are just like brother and sister. Evelyn’s told me ho
w you came every day to play with her children and I do envy you.’ Bunty’s slightly bulging eyes grew wistful. ‘Being an only child the hols were awfully lonely. My pony, Raffles, was my best friend.’

  ‘Lucky you to have a pony!’ I gushed.

  ‘Yes. He was lovely – a bay with a blaze and white socks – but my relationship with Raffles wasn’t much of a preparation for adult life.’ She laughed self-deprecatingly. There was something attractive about this gangling girl that had nothing to do with looks. Probably it was her honesty. ‘Often I find it quite difficult to talk to men. Usually I’m looking down on the tops of their heads, which doesn’t help. But Rafe’s so tall … and he’s so good at putting one at ease.’ She leaned a little closer and I saw the edge of a woollen vest above the neck of her dress. ‘We used to meet at tennis parties and sometimes he came to Lumbe Hall to shoot. You won’t tell him, will you?’ Bunty’s eyes were softly appealing. ‘I used to call him Prince Charming. Only to Raffles, of course. I’d shut my eyes and pretend I was waltzing with him in a beautiful dress … me wearing the dress, I mean … oh, it was all too silly. Promise you won’t tell?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Oh, here they are.’ Bunty stood up as Rafe, with his arm through Kingsley’s, led the men into the drawing room. ‘Will you excuse me, Marigold? I promised Evelyn I’d help take round the cups.’

  I watched her as she went to the tray. Several inches of yellowish petticoat hung down beneath the hem of her dress. Evelyn saw it too and frowned, instantly changing the frown for a smile of encouragement as Bunty looked up. Spendlove came in with a decanter of brandy and a soda-water siphon. The archdeacon tried to make him take it away, but Evelyn gave him an angry look and summoned it back. I felt almost sorry for the archdeacon. He did not seem to have had a moment’s relaxation all evening.

  ‘Hello,’ said a voice at my elbow. It was Kingsley. One of his shirt studs had popped, revealing a diamond-shaped section of chest, sparsely whiskered. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ He plumped himself down on the sofa beside me. ‘Phew! It’s a relief to take the weight off my feet. I’m not as young as I was and these late nights don’t suit me.’ He put his face close to mine. His sagging lower eyelids and trembling lips were sad to see. An old soldier whose battles were all fought now, save the last and most fearful battle of all. ‘But not past it, you know. I can still do it.’ He contorted his face into a satyric leer. ‘Oh, yes. The brave lad still stands to attention.’ He took hold of my hand and tried to guide it towards his crotch. ‘Out in Egypt it was hot – by gum, the beggars and the dirt and the flies made you sick to your stomach, but those dusky little girls were so beautiful, it gives me an ache in my belly to think of them. Your hair’s the colour of flames. I’d like to dive naked into them.’