The Golden Cup
Page 16
It was a typical seaside hotel, with a tiny orchestra playing behind the potted palms and the guests rather staid and polite, so that quite suddenly I felt a terrible desire to giggle and behave badly. I knew that Simon felt the same and he kept catching my eye and daring me to laugh. It made me feel young again – do you remember how we used to get a fit of the giggles in the most unsuitable places? – and I felt a huge affection for him. I told him how clever he’d been over the kittens, and how Bruno wanted to call them Pipsqueak and Wilfred. Pip, Squeak and Wilfred are characters in a comic strip and Bruno loves them. Then we began to think of names and we got sillier and sillier.
The thing was that just for a short time we’d both forgotten that I was the grief-stricken Honor Trevannion and I could just be me, Madeleine. Oh, the glorious relief of it. He’d begun to call me Mutt, catching it from the children, and it was wonderful to be there, just firmly in the present, enjoying ourselves.
And then we got up to dance. A week later and still I sit here not knowing what to write. I don’t know how to describe the sensations I had when he put his arms round me. He’s one of those dancers that hold you very close but not in any way suggestively. He stooped slightly above me so that his cheek was almost touching my hair and I could hear him humming just below his breath. Beside those other terribly formal men – chins held high, eyes on the far distance, hands planted firmly in the middle of their partners’ shoulder-blades – he had a very sophisticated kind of shuffle, which was both intimate and relaxing, and it was impossible to put a foot wrong. I felt terribly feminine and sexy and I wanted the music to go on for ever. It was ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ and just out of the blue I remembered dancing to it with Johnny at a party in Lahore.
When we sat down I was very quiet and he looked a bit anxious and asked if I was OK. I said lightly, ‘Oh, just memories,’ and his expression changed as if he’d suddenly recalled that I was Honor Trevannion, a grieving widow of just a few months. But that wasn’t what I wanted and I didn’t know how to recreate the atmosphere we’d shared without seeming like some hard-faced bitch. After all, Hubert was his friend. I wondered what he was thinking about me, I couldn’t bear to think he was suddenly despising me, and I just blurted out, ‘I can’t tell you what it means simply to enjoy myself again.’
Of course, the minute I’d said the words I realized that they could have been misunderstood but, bless him, he didn’t react like that at all.
‘You’ve had a terrible time,’ he said, ‘and there’s no harm in trying to forget it for an hour or two.’
I was so grateful that I wanted to burst into tears. Crazy, isn’t it? I think it’s the strain beginning to tell.
‘This has been such fun,’ I told him. ‘It’s heaven here in Cornwall, and it’s such a relief to feel safe again after the riots and the killing, but there’s so much I miss.’
I stopped then, Vivi, because I’d been going to say that I missed my work, and that particular camaraderie I’d had with Honor and Hubert, and I could see myself getting into difficulties. I miss all sorts of things about India: the Hindu spring festival of Holi, when people threw coloured dyes over each other in celebration of love and fertility, and Diwali, their October festival of lights; and the Muslims’ great feast, id ul-fitr, after the fasting of Ramadan. So much, Vivi, I try to deny because remembering is dangerous – and painful. Johnny and I used to travel to Kashmir when we went on leave; a long train journey from Lahore to Rawalpindi, to begin with, and then on by taxi to Srinagar. We’d hire a shikara – a huge house-boat complete with servants – on the Nagin Bagh. It was so beautiful, Vivi; the gardens full of tangled roses, the lake fringed with willows and the water reflecting the pink and white of the orchards of plum and cherry and almond trees: we saw bulbuls and kingfishers and hoopoes and, breathtaking in the distance, the Himalayas with their highest peaks covered in snow. We had such fun.
Looking at Simon across the table I knew that there was so little I could tell him – or anyone, apart from you – about those years. He put my hesitation down to a different kind of confusion.
‘You must remember that you’ve had a terrible shock in very frightening circumstances,’ he said, ‘but you’re still a young woman and you must think of that too. Give yourself the chance to be happy now and again.’
‘Oh, I am happy,’ I reassured him – and then could have bit my tongue out again. ‘As happy as I can be, anyway, in the circumstances,’ I added quickly. ‘Everyone’s so kind to me.’
He smiled at me, then – oh, such a smile, Vivi – and said, ‘I’m sure they are.’
I felt myself blushing, right up into the roots of my hair, and he stood up and held out his hand to me and I followed him back onto the dance floor without another word. They were playing ‘Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye’ and dancing with him was different this time; he held me just the same as before but there was an electrifying sense of awareness and I was convinced that he could hear my heart hammering away. If he did then he gave no sign of it, and when we went back to our table because the food had arrived – we had fish again, it’s always fish! – he began to talk about some research he’s working on and to describe an elderly patient who’s allowing himself to be used as a bit of a guinea-pig. It restored us both to normality – well, nearly – and I blessed his social sense.
Afterwards, I wondered how Honor would have behaved. She was great fun, very warm-hearted, but there was something left out; a lightness of touch. I’ve put that badly, haven’t I? By saying that something was ‘left out’ I’m implying that she lacked something good or important. Actually, it’s quite the reverse. Even before we were married, when we were training together, men were always very respectful towards her; they never went too far with her. She had a deep-down goodness, which held them naturally at arm’s length. My trouble is that I’ve always loved men, loved to be in their company.
Anyway, I tried to think of how Honor would have reacted to Simon and exactly how much Hubert had told his old friend about her. Somehow, I simply couldn’t imagine the Hubert I knew sitting down for long enough to write lengthy letters to anyone – though I have to remember that he did do just that occasionally for Mousie – and if Honor ever wrote to his family then no-one has told me about it so far and she certainly didn’t mention it to me.
This is the problem, Vivi; this waiting for the unexpected to jump out at you. That brief time with Simon, when both of us forgot everything except our two selves, was the most wonderful relief. The trouble is, I daren’t forget that I’m not myself. I’m not Madeleine Grosjean, not even Madeleine Uttworth: I’m Honor Trevannion.
We said goodnight sensibly – he just lightly touched my cheek with his lips – and we had a nightcap with James, all very friendly. And that’s that.
Love, darling,
Madeleine
Joss got up from the desk. She felt stiff and tired and she was aware of an inclination to weep. She’d given up all attempts to assess the rights and wrongs of Mutt’s actions and had given herself wholly to the narrative of the letters. The little scene by the stream, described with such tenderness, had touched Joss deeply. How often she’d longed for that very kind of intimacy with George that Mutt described: ‘… the company and the jokes … knowing he’s your person … dancing all close and romantic … watching him sleeping.’ Oh, how often she’d imagined the luxury of such a relationship with George, knowing that it must be denied whilst every instinct cried out that it was right. How well she could imagine that light brushing of Simon’s warm bare skin against Mutt’s cheek and the mad, wild heartbeat; and how comforting to be able to hold the damp, wriggling body of your small child in your arms so as to give yourself a chance to recover.
Poor Mutt had lost her husband and her closest friends yet something was giving her the courage to hold on despite her terrors.
Faith is the conviction of things unseen.
Even though she’d hidden the roots of her faith it had continued to uphold her.
Joss made some coffee, thinking now of the young Mutt upstairs dressing for the dance: turning before the looking-glass, assessing herself in Honor’s made-over frock. She imagined Mutt, filled with apprehension, humming to herself as she picked up the black velvet bag whilst Simon waited downstairs in the drawing-room, tall and handsome in his dinner jacket. She could identify with that breathless excitement, forbidden yet irresistible; the delicious shyness breaking out into giggling and wild, foolish happiness.
And then we got up to dance …
Joss shivered, hugging herself. ‘George,’ she muttered with wistful despair. ‘Oh, George. I do love you.’
The kettle was boiling. She made some coffee and carried it back to the parlour.
2nd October
How you would have laughed, Vivi, if you could have seen us today. It would have taken you back to our childhood: Indian summer days in the hot, dusty Wiltshire lanes, picking blackberries for Mother. Out we went with baskets, Emma and Dolly riding in an antiquated push-chair that once was Hubert’s, with Aunt Julia in command. The juicy fruit, each one like a cluster of shiny black pin-heads, was picked with care; even Emma was allowed to help, although she invariably squashed the fruit between her small fingers and her mouth was stained purple by the time we’d finished. Honeysuckle is still flowering in the hedges and I picked a crown, delicate and pale, and threaded it through the buttonhole of my shirt. Bruno pressed on faithfully with Aunt Julia but Emma soon wearied of gleaning and began to wrench the last few blooms of summer from the dry ditches, running to and fro until she was exhausted and glad to climb back into the push-chair with Dolly and her booty.
Aunt Julia would have made a splendid general: no spray was too high, she simply hooked the poor things down with a walking stick, and no effort was too great. Bruno was not allowed to miss a single berry; each one was pointed out to him, spotted by her eagle eye. He has a great fondness for her and they worked together very companionably whilst I brought up the rear, encouraging Emma onwards and pushing the little chair. Julia’s very sweet to me – after all, she too lost her husband during the war – but she has James’s horror of any display of emotion. They both have ways of showing their sympathy – a brisk pat on the arm, a murmured ‘well done’ of approval – but I can’t tell you, Vivi, how much I sometimes long for a hug. Hubert was good at hugs. ‘Daft old thing,’ he’d say, ‘You are a Mutt,’ and Honor would smile, but they were both affectionate, loving people. Having our babies brought me and Honor particularly close and I miss that closeness with people of my own age. That’s why it was so good with Simon.
We were allowed a little treat for our labours: a picnic by the Saint’s Well. Aunt Julia had managed some little fairy cakes, milk for Bruno and Emma, and a Thermos of tea. I think that she and Jessie and Dot save all their fat and sugar rations to make these things for the children, who loved the little party, although Emma had to be forcibly restrained from paddling in her shoes and socks.
We left Aunt Julia at The Row and crossed the little bridge to Paradise. Bruno always likes to visit The Lookout. It’s more like a lighthouse with its great bowed window curving out over the sea. The boatyard manager lived in it before the war and it’s quite sound, though rather damp. For some reason it fires Bruno’s vivid imagination and he uses it as a kind of playhouse. I must admit that it’s a wonderful setting for make-believe games. We didn’t have the key with us so he had to content himself with running up the rocky path to peer in at the kitchen window while we waited in the lane.
Coming home across the meadow, clouds of tiny white moths fluttered up from the long damp grass: Emma reached for them, trying to catch them, chuckling with delight. I sometimes have ideas of getting a pony for the children – Hubert had one when he was a small boy – but I don’t know how expensive it might be to feed.
I’ve had a letter from Simon. It was simply to thank me for the weekend, saying how lovely it was for him to spend some time away from his work in a family atmosphere. Right at the end he suggested that I might accompany him to the wedding of a friend of his: he makes it very clear that he’ll be staying with this friend – Simon’s to be the best man – and points out that, whilst I might not like the idea of being left to my own devices whilst he’s doing his duty, the rest of the time could be rather fun. He says he’d book a hotel for me, organize the travelling, and wonders – this is in a PS – if we might go to the theatre.
It’s rather sweet of him to think of me, isn’t it?
Anyway, a good day here in Paradise. I wonder if I will ever show it to you. Oh, what joy to imagine you here, if only I could see you face to face, Vivi, and explain it all properly. You would understand. I know you would.
God bless you, darling.
All my love, Madeleine.
23rd October
Knowing how clear-eyed and practical you are, Vivi, it will surprise you to read that I actually spent several days considering Simon’s invitation. You would have said at once, ‘You can’t possibly go,’ having seen the complications immediately. I think I knew too, deep down out of sight, but I wouldn’t acknowledge it; I wanted to go so much, Vivi. I could imagine it all so clearly: the opportunity to dress up a little, the fun, the company of people of my own age. I’d had that moment with him, you see; that moment of stepping apart and being simply us – Simon and Madeleine – with none of the responsibilities we all carry with us. For that moment I wasn’t anyone’s mother or wife or widow, I wasn’t pretending to be another woman, I was just me – and it was wonderfully releasing. I’ve tasted the goblin fruit, Vivi, and I want more of it. Do you remember?
‘I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
Tomorrow night I will
Buy more:’
Except that I didn’t eat my fill, it was just a little taste, and Simon’s invitation offered more. I did actually believe that I could go to London. I went into my bedroom to look at a tussore silk costume – Honor’s, of course – which might be pressed and tweaked into respectability, and wondered if I might have enough clothing coupons for a pretty hat or a new blouse to freshen it up a little. I think that the suit must have been a little tight for her because it’s practically unworn and I won’t need to alter it, except that the skirt is a tiny bit short. I was trying it on, humming ‘Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye’, when Bruno suddenly came through the doorway behind me.
I didn’t turn round. We simply stared at each other through the glass and I could see that he was looking at the suit. Do you know, Vivi, I was simply unable to speak: I couldn’t think what to say to him. I felt so cheap, planning my little outing in his dead mother’s clothes, and I could think of no words to explain the situation to a small boy of not quite five years old.
He disappeared as silently and quickly as he’d arrived and I sat down on the edge of the bed, still in the costume, and faced the fact that I wouldn’t be going anywhere. As I sat there, the horror of what I’d been contemplating made me shiver: after all, Simon’s friend is a doctor too, and it’s possible that there might have been someone at his wedding we’d trained with who might still remember me or Honor. It occurred to me that, outside Paradise, I am very vulnerable and in that bleak moment I felt the bars closing round me.
I changed out of the suit and went straight downstairs to reply to Simon’s letter. I wrote things like, ‘It’s rather too soon to trust myself on such an emotional occasion’ and, ‘I think I might feel a little out of my depth amongst so many strangers’ and then I went to look for Bruno.
I could he
ar Dot in the kitchen talking to Emma who loves to ‘help’ her cook; this means licking spoons and running her tiny fingers round the mixing bowls to catch any remains of the delicious cake-mix. There was no sound of Bruno’s voice and, not wanting to disturb them, I passed through the hall and out into the porch. It was a quiet, still afternoon, after a week of wild gales from the west, and the garden had that peaceful, waiting atmosphere of late autumn. It’s such a different kind of waiting from the breathless expectancy of spring; that is a yearning, restless time when you can feel the tremendous energy that is about to be released. There’s a pulsating violence about the early spring, isn’t there, Vivi? Shoots – delicate but tough – force their way upwards through the cold, heavy earth, whilst tender new buds are breaking open their armour casing so that they can burst into leaf. Birds, which have spent the winter months peaceably together in flocks, will fight their erstwhile companions over a mate. Then, a wild urgency possesses the countryside so that the waiting seems almost intolerable.
Now, with the last showers of gold still waiting to fall from the beeches at the bottom of the drive, and smoky-blue drifts of Michaelmas daisies in the border under the wall, this autumnal waiting is a growing, contented detachment from things achieved: a serene acceptance of the much-needed fallow time ahead.
I saw Bruno at once. He was riding Hubert’s old tricycle down the drive: elbows akimbo, feet pedalling furiously, he was really pushing it along. At the gate he turned the handle-bars sharply, so that the gravel flew beneath the rubber tyres, and then he stopped: head on one side, legs straddling, he held a long, earnest conversation with nobody I could see. Presently he took hold of the handlebars again and came back up the drive. His head was down and he was muttering furiously but, halfway along, he paused again to shout to his invisible companion and I caught the word ‘Badmash’. With a great sigh – as if at someone’s incompetence – he slid from the saddle, opened the little hatch at the back of the tricycle, brought out a small catapult and loosed off a pebble into the shrubbery. Leaping back onto the tricycle, he came on at great speed and I quickly stepped out of view, reappearing as he reached the house as if I had only just arrived in the porch.