Only that morning, when Evelyn had gone into the library to give instructions to Miss Strangward about not allowing the dogs upstairs and certainly not letting them sleep in Kingsley’s bed, Kingsley had screamed and hidden behind the sofa. He had bawled for Nanny Sparkle to come and save him from the wicked witch. I heard Miss Strangward tell Evelyn, not I thought without some satisfaction, that it would be better if she kept away.
Evelyn had come out of the library with a face of wrath but Rex had said, ‘Darling, it’s just that you represent everything precious that he’s lost, poor man, and there’s a part of his brain that doesn’t like to be reminded of it.’
Evelyn had been a little mollified. Besides, she and Rex were patently so happy in each other’s company that nothing upset her for long. They had flown home specially for the first night of Ilina and the Scarlet Riband, and when they had come backstage afterwards I had taken her on one side and told her I knew she was my benefactor and that it would be impossible for me adequately to express my undying gratitude.
‘It was naughty of Isobel to tell you.’ Evelyn had looked pleased. ‘But, darling, I don’t want thanks. I’ve had my reward in watching you tonight. You were wonderful.’
Evelyn had been infected by first-night excitement and told everyone who would listen that Golly and I were among her most intimate friends. Golly, like the kind-hearted old thing she was, had responded cordially to Evelyn’s unprecedented enthusiasm. Sebastian, who was trailing a weary looking Cynthia Kay behind him, had greeted Evelyn with charming gallantry. Thrilled to find herself rubbing shoulders with artists who might well be in the vanguard of a new movement, Evelyn had invited the entire cast to Shottestone for a celebration garden party.
She was not the only loyal friend to attend the first night. I had felt a hand on my arm and turned to see a lovely face framed by softly waving fair hair.
‘Bobbie! Oh, how marvellous! I’d no idea you were coming!’ Bobbie, who was responsible for my coming home and to whom therefore I owed all the good things that had happened to me since returning to Northumberland, embraced me as closely as she could, given that her stomach was rounded by several months’ pregnancy.
‘I read about the opera in the Irish Times, so of course I had to come to see you. And you were wonderful! You reduced me to tears and I try so hard not to cry at the moment because it upsets Finn.’
‘Is he here?’
Bobbie pointed to a tall man with greying hair and a square jaw who was hemmed into a crowd nearby. He looked in our direction and waved to us. We waved back.
‘Bobbie! Your baby’s going to be so handsome! He looks divine!’
‘He is divine. I saw him brush away a tear at the end too. Darling, I’m so proud of you! I want to cry all over again with happiness. I was worried about you, you know. In your last letter you sounded just a little troubled. Is Rafe here?’
‘That’s him over there, talking to the conductor. But I’m not going to marry him.’
Bobbie clutched my arm. ‘I’m so glad!’ This was quite a different reaction from the one I had come to expect. ‘No man who really loved you would want you to give up dancing for him. Remember that, if you meet someone else. It’ll be a useful diagnostic aid.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Heavens! We must go. The plane for Dublin leaves in an hour. Promise you’ll come and stay in November after we close Curraghcourt to the public? That’s if you can stand babies. Constance, my sister-in-law, has a three-week-old daughter and I’ll have had mine by then.’
‘I adore babies. I’d love to come.’
‘Excellent. You can meet Finn properly then.’ She embraced me again. ‘Bye, darling. I must just go and kiss Dimpsie and then we’ll dash. Take good care of yourself.’
‘Bobbie! What about your coat!’ But it was too late. She was pushing her way through the crowd towards her husband. I saw him encircle her protectively with his arm and then Rafe blocked my view of them. He and Isobel had flown down from Scotland that afternoon, but such had been the euphoria as paper cups of champagne were passed around and everyone assured everyone else that they had surpassed themselves in virtuosity that he and I had barely exchanged a word. He had kissed me passionately on the mouth, but as all the men present including Sebastian (no doubt intending to make Cynthia Kay jealous) had done the same, and half the women too, I was not made unduly anxious by this. But when Rafe said, with an affectionate squeeze, that he was looking forward to getting me to himself at Shottestone that night I became worried.
‘Don’t be silly, Marigold.’ Evelyn overheard my protestations. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow; there’s no performance and you can travel back in comfort with us.’ She added sotto voce, ‘And you will be able to help me get everything ready for the party.’
Of course I could refuse Evelyn nothing, though I had hoped to go to Hindleep with Orlando and Fritz. And Conrad, too of course, if he had been able to catch a plane from New York in time to see Ilina and the Scarlet Riband. I had looked for him in the fevered throng but there had been no sign of the elegant figure and the sharp black eyes. Orlando and Fritz had rushed off together the moment the curtain fell, so I could not ask them if Conrad had been there.
I had been driven away by Rafe in the family Daimler, with Evelyn in the front passenger seat and Isobel sitting in the back with me. The relief of the first night being over, combined with too much alcohol and the smooth motion of the big car as it swooshed round corners and down hills, made me irresistibly sleepy, and I dozed during the journey. I woke briefly when we stopped for Isobel to be sick … heard her say something about having eaten chicken in mayonnaise on the flight from Edinburgh … fell again into a dream in which I was trying to play Akratcheak but my shoes seemed to be nailed to the floor. I heard Isobel say, ‘She’s kicking the back of your seat but I think she’s asleep’ and Rafe say, ‘Never mind, poor little thing, it doesn’t matter. Don’t wake her …’ Then we were at Shottestone and Evelyn was helping me up the stairs.
‘I’ll sleep in my make-up,’ I murmured.
‘You will not. You’ll get spots. And lipstick all over the pillowcases.’
I might have been a child again. The next thing I knew it was morning. Over breakfast no other subject of conversation seemed possible but the triumph of Ilina and the Scarlet Riband and the forthcoming party. In a moment of exhilaration, Evelyn had invited the orchestra, the stage crew and the theatre staff as well. We calculated there would be between ninety to a hundred people.
Rafe was in charge of drinks. Isobel’s task was to deadhead the one hundred and fifty roses. Dimpsie was to help Mrs Capstick with the food. Evelyn railed against the ingratitude of her two daily helps, who had chosen to attend to their families rather than slave on the seventh day for an extra five pounds. The local butcher had been bribed with large sums to provide three baked hams. Rex had appointed himself chief vacuumer and, when everything was ready, attended to each fallen rose petal and crumb of dirt that had been trodden into the carpets by the helpers.
‘Rex is so marvellously considerate,’ Evelyn confided in me. ‘Poor Kingsley never once considered how dust is got up. I’m sure he thought I had only to wave a wand and the house would be clean.’ As she could not tell Rex how to turn the vacuum cleaner on, nor where any of the power points were, it seemed that Kingsley was not far off the mark.
‘Evelyn’s a phenomenon,’ said Rex a little later. ‘So bright, so elegant, so discriminating. I adore her way of looking at the world. Single-minded, even self-centred, you might say, but boy, does she deliver! And how much pleasure she gives us all!’
I could only agree.
Jode was to organize parking for those who had elected to drive themselves. Far from objecting to this lowly task, he seemed to enjoy pacing out the minimum space into which a car could fit, putting up tape barriers to keep them in line, raking the gravel drive to a perfect smoothness and pinning arrows to fences and gates to direct people into the field. For the other guests, Evelyn had organized buses. I had b
een appointed Evelyn’s liaison officer and pencil carrier. I trotted after her all day long, marvelling at her energy. Rebukes for my dreaminess and inefficiency had continually to be bitten back as she remembered in time that I was her most successful creation to date.
By half-past seven every glass had been polished, every limp bloom beheaded, every nut devilled, every asparagus spear rolled in brown bread and every egg stuffed. On the kitchen table, besides the hams, were four large chicken millefeuille and several bowls of strawberries in Muscat syrup. Mrs Capstick’s ankles had ballooned but she was triumphant.
We gathered in the drawing room in our best clothes, charged with the adrenalin that sustains a party-giver before the party becomes a reality. Consonant with our mood, the sky was very bright, almost yellow, and dark clouds outlined in gold hovered in the distance. It was hot and stuffy. Once I thought I heard a rumble of thunder. We exchanged opinions about the likelihood of rain for perhaps the fiftieth time, and again we agreed that if push came to shove everyone would just have to be asked indoors. Spendlove was sent to get out the drugget used on these occasions to protect the Aubusson from plebeian feet.
‘What’s the collective noun for guests?’ asked Rafe, who seemed more cheerful than I had seen him for ages. We had been too busy for anything like a proper conversation, so his good humour had nothing to do with me. ‘A gossip?’
‘A thirst of guests,’ suggested Rex.
‘A gush of guests,’ said Isobel, who was still pale. When I had taken her a mug of tea in the garden earlier, she had emerged from the rose bushes, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. ‘A plague on all chickens everywhere,’ she had said. ‘Or was it the mayonnaise, I wonder?’
‘A bus-full of guests,’ I said, hearing the crunch of gravel. ‘And here they come.’
Not only the guests but the rain came too, fortunately only in intermittent showers. This had no effect on the mood of the revellers, the rigours of their profession having inured them to much greater discomfort than a gentle wetting. They knocked back sparkling wine – champagne had been vetoed by Evelyn who said they would not be able to tell the difference – and devoured Mrs Capstick’s delicious food as fast as Dimpsie, Spendlove and I brought them out. When it rained, they partied in the conservatory, the stables, the summerhouse, the swimming-pool changing room, the temple and the grotto. When the sun came out they danced to the music of a jazz band called the Heavenly Bodies, the best Evelyn had been able to find at such short notice. The Bodies were five pensioners with white hair and paunches but, according to those who knew about jazz, they swung. People were drunk on wine, success, the beauty of their surroundings, the scent of roses. As a celebration it was a smash-hit.
There was one blot on the gaiety. Evelyn had invited several of her own friends, including the archdeacon and his wife, and Lady Pruefoy. This mistake I attributed to her desire to show off as patron of the avant-garde. They took one look at the effervescent roisterers and retreated indoors to the drawing room to sip disapprovingly at the sparkling wine, which they knew at once was not champagne, and to talk in undertones about what poor dear Kingsley might have said could he have seen his wife flirting in public with a Canadian. After a time even the gossip ran out, and when I walked past the drawing room on my way to the kitchen I heard Lady Pruefoy say into a depressed silence, ‘If this is what falling in love in one’s riper years does to one’s judgement, I thank heaven I am too old for that kind of thing.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ replied the archdeacon, with more truth than gallantry.
I reported the froideur within to Evelyn, who was sitting with Rex on the terrace in front of the summerhouse, talking to Sebastian and Cynthia Kay. Evelyn pulled a face and stood up, a little unsteadily. I was delighted to see that she had relaxed her rule of never more than two glasses. ‘Perhaps I’d better go …’
‘No!’ Rex took her hand and drew her down again. ‘The party’s out here. If they want to bubble and stew indoors, let them. I mean to enjoy myself and I can’t do that without you, my love.’
‘But I should at least see if they have everything they want …’
‘I’ll go and ask them, if you like,’ I said.
‘That would be angelic, darling.’ Evelyn turned to the others. ‘Isn’t Marigold an absolute angel?’
Clearly Rafe had still not told her that I was a traitor and a renegade.
‘A poppet.’ Rex winked at me.
‘I have always found Marigold far from angelic.’ Sebastian twirled the stem of his glass between his bony fingers. ‘In fact, I would have said she is quite amoral. There is nothing too depraved or degraded that she would not do to further her ambition.’ I expect my rage showed on my face. Sebastian was a brute, a sadist, a monster of cruelty and the worst tortures of hell were too good for him. ‘But she is the best dancer we’ve had in the company and the two things may not be unconnected.’ I modified my poor opinion of Sebastian somewhat. Did he mean he wanted to take me back? I reminded myself that I was now in a much stronger position to negotiate a contract and I was certainly going to exclude any hanky-panky in the director’s office, or anywhere else, for that matter. ‘By the way,’ Sebastian smiled maliciously, ‘Didelot is here. He wants to see you.’
‘Didelot?’ I yelled, and several people turned to look. ‘Here?’
‘Didn’t I just say so?’
‘He wants to see me?’
‘Apparently. He’s gone back to the house.’
‘Who is Didelot?’ asked Evelyn.
I did not stay to hear Sebastian’s reply. In a state of agitation I sped across the lawn. Didelot was strict about not fraternizing with anyone who had anything to do with ballet, particularly not dancers. I saw Orlando and Fritz in the distance, waltzing dreamily. They waved and beckoned but I shook my head and hurried on. All I could think of as I made my way through the frolicking guests was that perhaps Didelot had sent a searingly bad review of my performance to the Sentinel and then for some reason had been struck by remorse. Perhaps he wanted to explain to me in person just why he had effectively destroyed my career.
I ran into the hall. Someone was playing the piano. Chopin. Through the open door of the drawing room I saw a row of beatific smiles. The archdeacon, cradling a dish scattered with cocktail sticks and olive stones, was beating time inaccurately with his foot. Lady Pruefoy had rolled up her eyes to gaze at the ceiling in transports. I doubted if she had a tuneful bone in her body, but she knew she ought to like it. I could imagine her reporting the occasion. ‘A consummate musician, my dear. Just a select circle of Evelyn’s intimates. The riff-raff were entertained outside.’
I looked round the door. Across the polished mahogany of the Bechstein, Conrad looked up, saw me and smiled. My stomach did a hop-step-coupé. It had been two months and eighteen days since I had last seen him. I forgot entirely about Didelot and the ruin of my career.
‘Hello, Marigold.’ The sound of his voice did something volcanic to my insides. He continued to play the Grande Valse. ‘How are you?’
I skipped to his side. ‘Fine. Well, not fine all the time. Sometimes I’ve prayed for a rapid and painless death. But Ilina and the Scarlet Riband was a huge success.’
‘Indeed, it was masterly. A few rough edges, but they will be smoothed in time.’
‘You were there? You saw it?’
He frowned. ‘Don’t speak so loudly. My audience is being appreciative.’
I loved the way he pronounced it, soft yet precise and hissing. His voice ought to be recorded for posterity. And he ought to be photographed from every angle and enlargements put in an album. It was unfair to have so much beauty wasted on a man. He was playing from memory. I thought it was very clever of him to do that and carry on a conversation at the same time.
‘Why didn’t you come backstage?’ I whispered.
‘I had an appointment that could not be put off. Then I went to bed. I had flown the night before from New York to London … then another flight to Newcastle in the after
noon … I was exhausted.’
‘It was good of you to come. I wish I’d known you were there.’
He shot a glance at me. ‘What difference would it have made?’
‘Well, I would have liked it, that’s all. Though you don’t deserve the compliment. You never mentioned me in your letters or sent me any messages. I don’t believe you gave me a thought.’
‘I did think of you.’
‘Really? Did you, honestly?’
A cough from the archdeacon made me look round. He had commandeered a tray of canapés and gave me a reproving stare as he chewed.
Conrad looked amused. ‘How they all dislike you.’
‘Do they? How mean of them!’
‘Is not the feeling returned?’
‘Mm, yes, I suppose it is. But they started it. And why me particularly?’
‘Oh, they dislike me just as much. Probably more.’ He looked pleased. ‘I am a foreigner, a Jew and I am much richer than they are. It defies the natural order of things – as they would have it.’
I leaned on my elbow on the piano lid so that I could look into his face. ‘I don’t dislike you.’
He shot me another glance in which I read satisfaction. I waited for him to say that he liked me too, which any polite person would have done, but instead he said, ‘What was your own judgement of your performance last night?’
‘Six out of ten. I slightly lost concentration in the second act adagio. My feet were good but one of my attitudes was a bit wobbly … oh!’ I remembered with an unpleasant jolt. ‘Have you seen a small balding man with curly grey hair and a black moustache? Quite insignificant looking?”
‘Shhh!’ hissed Miranda Delaware.
‘No such person has been here.’
‘Sebastian said he was here. I wonder if he was having me on, to pay me out for agreeing to marry Rafe instead of him?’
‘Are you going to marry Rafe?’
‘Don’t be silly. You know I’m not.’
Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs Page 56
