Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs

by Clayton, Victoria

  ‘Really? Like Ruby Slipper and the Slipperettes?’

  ‘No. Ballet.’

  Her enthusiasm waned. ‘Fancy.’

  I took the sock and shoe I had brought with me from my bag and put them on. ‘Thank you so much.’ I picked up my coat. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘You can’t go till the doctor’s seen you. He’ll want to X-ray it and then you’ll have to make an appointment to see a physio … You’ll need your crutches until you get used to it …’

  But I was walking away from her, concentrating on not limping, on distributing my weight equally between my feet, teaching myself to trust my newly restored leg. Had the crutches belonged to me I would have taken them to the nearest bridge and hurled the hateful things into the River Eden. As they belonged to the NHS, I left them propped against the wall in outpatients.

  ‘Darling!’ Dimpsie was walking down the corridor towards me. I had left her parking the car as we were, inevitably, a little late for my appointment. ‘Sorry I wasn’t there for the disrobing. I ran into someone I knew – literally, I’m afraid. Luckily he’s one of your father’s patients. He said he’d tell the insurance people he backed into a wall. As he was being so kind, I had to ask about his hernia … how is it?’

  ‘I feel like a slave who’s had her fetters taken off. I’m free!’ I threw my arms around her, attracting the curious glances of those trudging up and down the corridor. ‘I’ve got rid of that foul bloody cast and I shall never be unhappy again. Look!’ I did an experimental, very poor pirouette in slow motion. ‘Seriously,’ I said later as we were driving home after a celebratory sausage and chips, ambrosia after an exclusive diet of eggs, ‘I do think it might be going to be all right if I absolutely devote every waking hour to exercising it. A couple of months ought to do it.’

  ‘Oh, darling, really? I’m so thrilled!’ In her excitement, Dimpsie wandered into the path of a car transporter. The driver could not have been attending, because he had to slam on his brakes. Together with his burden of cars, he did a loop round the traffic lights. I looked over my shoulder to see a van collide with the transporter’s tail. ‘I was so afraid you’d be leaving the minute you got the cast off. And I wasn’t going to say anything but I can tell you now: I was simply dreading you going. Two more months! That’s absolutely wonderful!’

  I had serious misgivings when I heard this. How to tell her that I intended to spend those two months in London attending classes? Having seen an old lady on a bicycle career into the crashed van, I turned my eyes to the front and wrestled with my conscience. Most immediately, ought I to tell Dimpsie of the mayhem she had left behind her? Her only crime had been to swerve into the wrong lane. If the driver of the transporter had been concentrating, nothing would have happened. But Dimpsie, I knew, would insist on going back and shouldering the blame. What good could that possibly do the old lady or anyone else? We were on the ring road now and leaving the scene of destruction behind. My anxiety about the old lady took the edge off my exultation at becoming a biped once more. I decided to ring the police station anonymously when we got home to find out if anyone had been injured.

  But as we went in through the front door, the telephone started to trill and, as things turned out, it was several hours later before I thought about the old lady again.

  ‘Marigold? It’s Rafe. How did it go at the hospital?’

  ‘Very well. How sweet of you to remember.’

  ‘Of course I knew how important it must be for you.’

  I felt a rush of gratitude. ‘It is rather. How are you?’

  ‘At something of a loose end. Evelyn’s taken my father to Newcastle and Isobel’s gone to London with Conrad. I’ve been painting all day and it won’t go right. Would you be angelic and come and cheer me up? Mrs Capstick’s made an orange cake.’

  ‘That does sound tempting. Hang on a second, would you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, do go,’ said Dimpsie when I consulted her. ‘I must ring some of my weavers and whittlers to see if they’ve survived the winter.’

  ‘I’ll be back in time for supper.’

  ‘Don’t worry if you get a better offer. It’ll only be scrambled eggs again.’ Dimpsie’s face folded into familiar lines of anxiety. I had had to pay the electricity bill with the last of my savings. I intended to send the gas bill to my father, but I had no idea what we would do if he didn’t pay it. Also, the washing machine had broken down halfway through a cycle and was still full of soapy water. And we would soon become egg-bound. I had to think of a plan of action, but what?

  I picked up the telephone again. ‘I’ve got some shopping to do. I’ll meet you in the Market Square in an hour.’

  The walk down to the town was a time of purest happiness. For the first time for months I was able to enjoy the luxury of stepping briskly out – fairly briskly – in solitude, listening to the birds, admiring the trees, the clouds and patches of livid green grass that were beginning to appear through the snow. It was as though blinkers had been removed from my eyes and muffs from my ears now I no longer had to concentrate on the crutches and not falling over or banging my leg. It was officially spring and, though the temperature was chilly, a silvery shimmer behind a grey cloud curtain revealed the whereabouts of the sun. I snuffed up the smell of cold earth and last autumn’s decaying leaves, intoxicating after the stuffiness of houses and cars. A man cycled past without giving me a second glance. I was no longer an object of interest and pity, separated from the rudely healthy by plaster and crutches.

  Rafe’s car was already parked in the square, though I had arrived ten minutes early. He jumped out and came to meet me.

  ‘My goodness, what a transformation! You look marvellous without your props!’ Did I imagine it, or was his customary kiss more lingering, less of a peck? ‘But you haven’t walked all the way? Surely that’s overdoing it for the first day?’

  ‘Dancing’s all about overdoing it. You have to push yourself until you’ve reached the end of your physical and mental tether and then you have to do it all again but much better.’

  ‘Good Lord! Can it be worth it?’

  ‘It is to me.’

  ‘Well, you’re the most interesting girl I’ve ever met. Now what about that shopping?’

  ‘I’ve got to call at Miniver’s. They save the vegetables that aren’t fresh enough to sell for my rabbit.’

  ‘You’ve got a pet rabbit?’ Rafe laughed and squeezed my arm. ‘How utterly charming and like you!’ He opened the passenger door for me. ‘Get into the car and I’ll go to Miniver’s for you. No, I insist.’

  Being told I looked marvellous and was interesting and charming was irresistible. I slid into the seat to be greeted exuberantly by Buster. My leg muscles throbbed and tingled with the unaccustomed strain of walking. Rafe returned after a few minutes with two carrier bags which he put on the back seat before getting in behind the wheel.

  ‘She’d only got some yellow-looking cabbage leaves and some green potatoes put by. Surely rabbits don’t eat potatoes?’

  ‘Not unless starving.’ Pride prevented me from explaining that the potatoes were for Dimpsie and me.

  ‘That’s what I thought, so I got him some nice fresh carrots and cabbages and apples and things.’

  ‘That was so kind. I must give you the money—’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It hardly amounted to anything. Besides, this is a celebration, isn’t it? What’s your rabbit called?’

  ‘Siegfried. Siggy for short.’

  ‘I like that.’ He started the car and pulled away from the kerb. I thought it was sweet of him to be interested. But he was the kindest, most agreeable man I had ever known.

  ‘Another unexpected thing about you,’ Rafe continued, ‘although you’re so ethereal and elf-like and look as though you ought to spend all day in a hammock of cobwebs sipping nectar, you’ve got a definite way with animals. Buster’s been a hell-fiend all afternoon, barking at every bird and leaf. The moment he sees you he’s as good as gold.’

  ‘I
t’s simple really. I just hold his paw.’

  ‘What?’ For a moment I thought he was going to be angry with me for undermining all his careful training. To my relief he burst into laughter and laughed all the way to the outskirts of the town. He seemed to be in a marvellously good mood.

  ‘You really are quite unlike other girls.’

  ‘If you knew any other dancers, you’d find we were all boringly the same. Same hopes and fears. Same grumbles.’

  ‘No, but truthfully I’ve never met a woman before who really wanted to do or be anything. Except of course to be told they were desirable to men.’

  ‘Isn’t that the message Nature intends men to pick up?’ I said. ‘Actually, I think most women want far more than that. We want success and recognition if we can get it.’

  ‘Really?’ Rafe changed down smoothly to take the road that led up to Shottestone. He had a splendid jaw line that would have looked good on the side of an Etruscan vase. ‘Then it’s very good of you all not to let on so we poor blokes don’t get rattled. It’s fortunate they aren’t all as beautiful as you or we’d be completely emasculated.’

  I could not prevent a feeling of gratification on hearing this, though I told myself that Rafe was just being polite.

  Spendlove was taking the tea tray into the morning room as we arrived.

  ‘How are you, Miss Marigold? It’s good to see you back on your old form. Mrs Capstick’ll be pleased when I tell her. You’ll be spinning about again as good as new, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘I hope so. Please give Mrs Capstick my love and thank her for the cake.’

  Spendlove winked. ‘It always was your favourite, I remember.’

  Rafe threw another log on the fire. ‘Thank you, Spendlove. We shan’t be wanting you again until drinks.’

  Spendlove winked again at me and withdrew.

  ‘He’s such a dear.’ I looked hungrily at the cake.

  ‘Mm. He seems to have developed an annoying habit of winking all the time. How do you like your tea?’

  ‘Very weak, no milk or sugar, please.’ I looked around appreciatively. ‘Such a lovely room. Evelyn has the most wonderful taste. Thank goodness, now my plaster’s off I’ll be able to do more at home. I’m afraid everywhere’s got into a bit of a state.’

  ‘Really?’ Rafe looked as though he was paying me polite attention while thinking of something else, and I couldn’t blame him. We had fallen into an easy sort of intimacy in the last few weeks, but that didn’t mean that he would be interested in the boring minutiae of my life.

  ‘Did the painting go better after we spoke on the phone?’

  ‘What? Oh, no. I gave it up for today. I had other things on my mind. Marigold …’

  ‘Yes?’ I had just raised a piece of cake to my lips, but I hesitated to take a bite because a tone of portent had entered his voice.

  ‘Marigold.’ He came to sit next to me on the sofa. ‘All these weeks I’ve been wanting to say something but I decided, in the circumstances, it would be … ill-judged.’

  ‘Oh? What was it?’ I could no longer resist and took a large bite. It was superb, sweet and tart at the same time, moist with ground almonds and syrupy on top. I took a second bite. Rafe was looking at me with a serious expression, as though troubled, so I swallowed it quickly. ‘Is it about Isobel and Conrad?’ I resisted the temptation to lick my lips, which would have looked greedy. ‘I wish I knew what to think. One minute he seems eminently sane and the next—’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about them. Occasionally my thoughts stray from fraternal cares, you know.’

  ‘Of course. But you get ten out of ten for being a good brother in my book.’ My eyes veered to the cake but I brought them back and trained them on his, while pressing my lips together in an attempt to rid them of their sticky coating.

  ‘Surely you can guess what I’m trying to tell you?’

  I shook my head dumbly.

  Rafe leaned forward to look directly into my eyes. ‘You adorable creature. Don’t you know I’m in love with you?’

  He bent forward swiftly and pressed his mouth to mine. I was taken completely by surprise. After so many meetings during which he had conducted himself with the probity of a newly appointed curate, I had more or less accepted that anything of a romantic nature between us was not to be. Naturally I hid my astonishment and kissed him back.

  ‘Oh, how delicious your kisses are,’ he said when he had taken his lips away. ‘Darling, you’ll never know how much I’ve wanted to do that.’

  ‘Well … why didn’t you?’

  He smiled. ‘I was afraid of arousing desires that perforce had to be denied. I mean my own, of course. While there was no possibility of taking them to any sort of satisfactory conclusion, I didn’t dare to risk it.’

  ‘What do you mean, no possibility?’

  ‘Your leg, sweetheart.’ He touched my newly peeled left leg and smiled. ‘You can’t have forgotten already.’

  ‘No … only … I see, of course.’

  I remembered how uncomfortable it had been making love with Sebastian with one leg in a cast and was grateful to Rafe for his gentlemanly forbearance.

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m going on much too fast and I don’t want to frighten you, but you might be able to imagine a little of my frustration.’

  My predominant emotion was not fear but confusion. He had behaved so little like a man in love. Or in lust either. He held both my hands between his. I was conscious that mine were extremely sticky.

  ‘Dearest Marigold,’ he continued, ‘do you trust me?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said at once. ‘More than anyone I know.’

  He lifted my fingers to kiss them. A little blob of orange syrup adhered to his upper lip. ‘Oh, darling, I don’t deserve you. But I want … I want so badly … Sweetheart, will you come upstairs with me?’ He kissed my brow, presumably returning the syrup to my hair. ‘To my room?’

  Well, he wasn’t wasting any time now he had begun. I debated internally, fast. It could not be said that I felt any violent physical desire to go to bed with him. The truth was that, in my previous lovemakings, it had all been over before I had a chance to get anything more than mildly interested. I was practically certain I had never had an orgasm. If I had not been constantly anxious about my balletic performances, I might have had time and energy to worry that my response to sex was so lukewarm. Perhaps tepid would be more accurate. But Rafe wanted to. And he was the stuff of dreams. Besides, if I said no he would be disappointed and angry.

  ‘All right,’ I said. Then, feeling this sounded a little cool, ‘I’ve never been in your room before.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s not a particularly exciting place. But I don’t think we’re going to worry about that. Not for the next couple of hours, anyway.’ He stood up, still holding one of my hands. ‘Come on, darling.’

  A couple of hours! Gosh! No one in the company, wherein lay all my sexual experience, had ever taken more than twenty minutes, start to finish. I allowed my eyes to stray discreetly to the clock on Evelyn’s chimneypiece. That would take us up to six o’clock, which would leave plenty of time to get back and make sure that Dimpsie had something to eat. These days she tended not to bother unless I insisted, and she was losing weight alarmingly fast.

  We had to tiptoe up the stairs because of Spendlove, and it was bliss to be able to, though the results of the afternoon’s walk were beginning to make themselves felt with a steady ache in my calf muscle. I did a rapid inventory of my underwear and remembered with annoyance that I was wearing a pair of my father’s old socks as all my tights were stuck in the broken washing machine. Luckily I had had a bath that morning. I knew where Rafe’s room was, of course, and occasionally during the period of my youthful infatuation I had peeked round the door to refresh my spirits with a glimpse of the beloved one’s cricket bat and rugby boots, but Isobel had once told me that he used to lay booby traps to keep her out so I had never dared to venture in.

  ‘Here we are, darling.�
��

  Rafe locked the door behind us. At last, after so many years of wistful daydreaming, I found myself within the tabernacle, the sanctum sanctorum, the holy of holies. It was disappointingly austere. The planes made from plastic kits that once dangled from the ceiling had been banished, along with the cricket bats and Rolling Stones posters. The walls were papered with grey and white stripes and the windows were hung with dark red linen curtains. It was smart and masculine.

  A plain brass bedstead stood in the middle of the room, with two electric fires directed at it, every bar ablaze. I considered myself to be the least demanding of women when it came to the vocabulary of wooing. Dancers are perpetually in a hungry, exhausted and highly strung condition, and romance is saved for the tulle and sequins of the stage. But those fires suggested a presumption that grated. I acknowledged at once that this was silly of me. The room would have been arctic without the heaters and it had been considerate of Rafe to install them. Anyway, with my record of sexual opportunism, I had not a leg to stand on.

  I became aware that I was being observed. Rafe stood with his hands on his hips, smiling. Almost the tallest man I knew, he seemed to have grown a couple of inches since we were downstairs. I felt a quiver of something – I hoped it was lust but it might have been apprehension. He went over to the bed and sat down, patting the space beside him.

  ‘Come here, sweetheart.’

  I did as I was told.

  ‘Now.’ He put one arm round me and with his other hand stroked my cheek, and then let his hand run down my neck to my breast. ‘Don’t be afraid, my darling. We’ll go as slowly as you like.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, hoping that it would not be too slow as I had to get back.

  ‘Don’t thank me, darling. It’s I who should be thanking you.’

  He pulled my jersey off over my head and we exchanged a fervent kiss. I put my hands up behind me to unhook my bra but he said, ‘Not yet. Just leave it to me. I know this is your first time and I want it to be just what you’ve always dreamed of.’