The Purple Swamp Hen and Other Stories

by Penelope Lively

  Immy and Bruce were married in Exford church, with a small gathering after in the village hall. Frances smiled and endured. Pam and Clare attended; and their husbands, visibly uncomfortable.

  So that was that. In due course, Frances would enjoy her grandchildren; some more than others—Immy’s children were, well, brought up rather differently. The 50s arrived, and the 60s; Devon still slumbered, perhaps, but elsewhere things were on the move. Girls were now women, and had their own ideas. Marriage held out, but as a choice, not a given. And so the century proceeded, to a time when the shade of Mrs. Bennet would be laid to rest, except perhaps in some moribund enclave of the upper classes.

  And from somewhere, many decades ahead, in a further century, a sensitive ear might have been able to pick up a clarion call, the emphatic tone of Immy’s great-great-great-granddaughter, Britain’s second woman prime minister.

  Lorna and Tom

  They were on the seat above the rose garden, with the view over to the lawns beyond, and then Oxfordshire rolling away into hazy distance. Lunch was over, served by the Portuguese couple, Carlos and Maria—just them, Lorna and Tom, and Lorna’s parents—and Lorna felt it had gone well. Now Tom seemed rather quiet.

  She was on edge. She knew she was falling in love with him.

  He said, “I hadn’t quite realized . . .”

  “Realized what?”

  He gestured. At the view, back toward the house. “That you live like this.”

  She was taken aback. “Oh . . . I’m sorry.”

  He laughed. “You can’t help it. It’s hardly your fault.”

  Then he kissed her.

  It was 1956, when the world was young. When she was young, so the world was too—new-minted, just for her. Full of surprises, and he was the best one yet. The young man here with her today, first time at her home. Tom. Tom Clark.

  She had met him at her school friend Eleanor’s twenty-first birthday party. Eleanor’s brother was at London University, and had brought along a bunch of his friends, one of whom was Tom. Lorna had noticed him at once—nice-looking, those brown eyes (noticing her, too, she saw), always smiling and laughing. He asked her to dance, once, twice, and then again and again—smoochy dancing to the radiogram in Eleanor’s parents’ drawing room, with the carpets rolled back. He was reading English at the university, though he’d rather wanted to go to art college, but his parents weren’t keen on that; he lived in Enfield. That was about all she learned that night; he asked for her phone number. A week or so later, they went to a film together, with tea at a Kardomah before. A few days later, a walk by the river, in the evening, with London glittering all around them. His father was a primary school teacher, she now knew; Tom would probably go into teaching himself. They held hands, and both knew that this was the beginning.

  And now he was here, at her home, for the weekend. Her mother had already murmured that he seemed a nice boy. Daddy hadn’t said anything.

  Her father made washing powder. His factory made it—Braithwaites. Factories—the other one too that made bleach and stuff like that. Lorna was never sure exactly what they did; it was all a bit of a joke—“Daddy’s cleaning things.” But the cleaning things that, yes, sort of paid for everything—the lovely home outside Henley with the huge garden and the tennis court and the swimming pool, and her ponies that she was long since bored with, and her boarding school and the finishing school in Switzerland and now her car, a super cream-colored Ford Consul.

  *

  Somewhere else, in another time, she waits for him. Lunch. The Criterion in Piccadilly. Later, she will meet a friend at the Royal Academy, to see the exhibition there. She always needs to do something, after. Be busy.

  *

  He was quite quiet, that weekend. On best behavior, she knew. Among his friends he was different. She had seen him now with others, established as his girl, and saw him as popular, gregarious, always up for some fun. But it was his third year at the university, and he was working hard. They couldn’t see each other all that often. She would come up to London and they’d have an hour or two together, or she would drive up and they’d go out to Epping Forest or somewhere. A few of his friends might come on these jaunts, piling in, girls sitting on someone’s knee. None of them had a car; they called Lorna’s “the jalopy”: “So where are we going in the jalopy this evening?”

  She was never entirely at ease with these university friends. Especially the girls, though there weren’t that many—far more men than girls. But the few that Tom knew were a coterie, and Lorna knew she could never be part of it. They talked about getting jobs at the BBC, or on newspapers. Lorna was wise enough not to mention the Domestic Science course that she was doing—a couple of days a week. Those girls were polite enough to her, but with a politeness that was not particularly welcoming. She felt tolerated, merely, by all Tom’s friends, because she was his girl, and her car was a convenience. She said as much to him once. He protested that no, no, they really like you, it’s just that we’ve all known each other ages now and you’re . . . different.

  But it was about to finish, his immersion in that comfortable camaraderie. The term ended, and with it Tom’s time at the university. Now they could meet frequently, in town, or driving out into the country somewhere. Tom got a part-time job at a market garden; in the autumn he would start his PGCE—teacher training course. And during that long idyllic summer everything firmed up between them. For Lorna, it was an ecstatic today, but she saw tomorrow unreeling ahead, unthinkable yet imaginable. Being with him all the time, a home of their own, perhaps one day children.

  She explained to him that he would have to speak to her father. Ask him. They couldn’t just tell Daddy that they were going to get married. So, on another weekend at her home, Tom went to Harold Braithwaite’s study and had this conversation with him.

  Lorna wanted to know every word. “And then what did he say?”

  “He said that for obvious reasons he wasn’t going to ask me if I was in a position to be able to support you.” Tom laughed—an uneasy laugh. Lorna understood that he had had a hard time. Well, Daddy was like that. People said that was why he was so successful in business.

  “I’m trying to work that out. Meaning—he sees my earning potential as not so great, or, you can perfectly well be self-supporting?”

  “But was he . . . pleased?” She was anxious, now.

  “Well, he didn’t say no.”

  “But what else?”

  “He said: I must assume that Lorna knows what she wants.”

  Oh, she did, she did. She wanted Tom, now and for always, his smile, his laugh, his capacity for fun, his energy, the way he looked at her, as no one had ever looked before.

  It was a big wedding. Both she and Tom would have preferred something on a lesser scale, but for Lorna’s mother it was a once-in-a-lifetime event, and her father needed to invite a fair number of his business friends. So there was the wedding in St. James’s Piccadilly, with a flock of small relatives as bridesmaids, and the reception for two hundred at the Savoy. Lorna was in a daze, but alert enough to keep an eye out for Tom’s parents, who were going to find the occasion a bit of an ordeal. She had met them several times now, taken by Tom to the little house in Enfield.

  It had seemed very small, the first time she went. It occurred to her that she had never before been inside one of those semidetacheds you see everywhere, lining every suburban road. The sitting-room almost filled up by the three-piece suite; the dining room with the hatch through to the kitchen; the rectangle of garden beyond. She sat there awkwardly, that first time, aware that her own home was of a different order—the size, the furnishings, its emphatic footprint—and uneasily conscious that Tom must have told his parents this. But they were really nice—his father rather like Tom, warm and funny, you could tell what a good teacher he must be. And she saw at once that these were people entirely comfortable with their lives—settled, p
ositive, engaged with a world she did not know. Tom’s mother was welcoming, talkative—quite direct, she could be. On another occasion, when Lorna was helping her with the washing-up, she said, “You and Tom, you’ve known very different circumstances. Is that going to be a problem?” Then at once she laughed, and patted Lorna’s arm: “Silly question. You can rise above that, both of you. Glasses go in the top cupboard, Lorna, and that jug lives on the dresser.” She was small and quick; she worked in a Citizens Advice Bureau—you knew she would be briskly efficient. Lorna knew also that she would seem entirely alien to her own mother, for whom a busy day was a visit to the hairdresser and lunch with a friend.

  Eventually, after the engagement and with the wedding plans in full swing, his parents came to lunch at Willow Court. Lorna was on edge, conscious as never before of the trappings, the insidious presence of Maria and Carlos, the yawning space of the drawing room, the parquet floor, the Persian rugs, the old oil paintings on the walls, her mother’s flower arrangements, the sense of comfort and largesse. She had never thought of her home like this before; it had redefined itself, at the same time familiar and disconcertingly alternative.

  But the Clarks did not seem disconcerted. They made no comments (later, Lorna’s mother said, “She didn’t seem really to notice the rose garden”), talked easily, listened in attentive silence to the account of the wedding arrangements (“I’d thought they’d be rather thrilled at the idea of the Savoy, but they didn’t say anything”). After, Lorna asked Tom if he thought it had gone off all right.

  He smiled. “My parents tend to take things in their stride.” All the same, Lorna had felt a bit apprehensive, where the wedding was concerned. So many people they wouldn’t know—wouldn’t get on with, really. She saw to it that they were seated with Tom’s friends, sought out her godmother to talk to them, a person who wouldn’t—well, be heavy-handed, patronizing.

  *

  In that other time, another world, she takes out her phone to check there is no message, then sneaks a glance in her mirror. When she looks up, she sees him at the far end of the restaurant, handing his coat to an attendant. She straightens, firms up a smile.

  *

  The house in Chelsea was the wedding present from her father. When eventually one day Lorna looked at the deeds, putting them away in a safe place, she saw that they were in her name only. She hadn’t ever thought about that, and made sure that Tom did not see them.

  Tom had intended to continue with his teacher training course, which would have meant a seriously curtailed honeymoon in Italy (present from Lorna’s godmother). Lorna had quite a job to persuade him to postpone starting it, but eventually he agreed, and that was good because it meant he was around to help when they settled into the house and also that he had time to do his own thing. Tom was quite talented artistically; he could draw and paint well, and now he found a place locally where you could learn to pot, and he was getting rather good at that. He joined the Chelsea Arts Club, and met up with a group of congenial people there.

  They were good years, those first two, three, married years. Lorna was, quite simply, happy. She had not been unhappy before—home was fine, her parents were fine, mostly—but this was contentment of another dimension. Tom’s enhancing presence, all the time, his love, the sense of being, now, the two of them, the house that it was such fun to furnish and furbish. Her father had made new arrangements; the allowance that she had had since she was sixteen was replaced with a trust fund. He explained the income that this would produce, briskly, in one of those conversations in his study. She had said: “It seems such a lot, Daddy.”

  Harold Braithwaite’s reply was terse: “I think you’ll find you need it.”

  She knew that Tom felt awkward that he was contributing nothing. She had set up a joint bank account on which he could draw for any needs; he was frugal to a degree with this, resisting buying new clothes, having to be chivied into getting the art materials he wanted, into paying for the pottery course. Gradually, it seemed that he got more used to the situation and their little arguments about it stopped. Once, she had said: “It’s only money, Tom. Just money. It doesn’t matter.” And he had put his arms round her, rubbed his cheek against hers—a bristly cheek, it was, he was experimenting with a beard: “You’re such an innocent, sweetie, and I love you for it.”

  The 1950s became 1960, bringing some sort of new dawn, Lorna felt, the new decade in which she was still young, but a young mother, because she was pregnant now, waiting serenely in the Chelsea house for this confirmation of married life. Tom was waiting too, conveniently to hand most of the time because the top floor of the house had been converted into a studio for him; he had his easels there, his painting equipment. The teacher training course hadn’t worked out; the place was right out at Enfield, near his parents’ home, a terrible slog to get there day after day. Lorna had felt it was such a pity he had so little time to do what he really liked doing, now that he had the studio . . . “And were you so absolutely sure about teaching, anyway?” Tom had reflected, staring out of the studio window at the rooftops of Chelsea, expensive rooftops even now, and due to become even more so. He had said that maybe not, you’ve got a point, maybe not . . . But that all this—he gestured at the paints and brushes, the canvases, the paraphernalia of the studio—all this can seem a touch self-indulgent.

  “Oh, no,” she had cried. “Oh, no, darling, you’re so good at it.”

  He frowned, then laughed. “Quite good. Just quite good.”

  She admired what he did. The swirly landscapes, lovely strong colors—quite like Graham Sutherland. And the portraits—sort of impressionist, but he really caught the person. One of his landscapes hung now at Willow Court; her mother had loved it—insisted on buying it though of course Tom wanted it to be a present.

  His parents had one too. They had gone on at him rather about the teacher training course, at first, but seemed to have given up now. They did not often visit the Chelsea house, both of them so busy, of course, but Lorna’s mother was often there, and even more so after Christine was born. She thought Lorna was so amazing to be managing without any sort of help, not even an au pair.

  Lorna had found that a baby was something she could do, rather to her surprise. She didn’t mind the broken nights, the disruption, the constrictions on her own life. She loved the new status; she wore Christine like some kind of badge of honor.

  Two years later, Christine was joined by Charles. Lorna had been determined that Christine should not be an only, as she herself had been. And one more . . . she thought privately, not mentioning this to Tom. Tom had taken easily to fatherhood, relished the children, showed them off to his friends at the Arts Club. He spent quite a lot of evenings there, but did not so much bring people to the house. Lorna always found herself at a loss with the Arts Club lot; they weren’t all artists, not real artists, but did creative things, in advertising, publishing. The girls—well, young women they all were now—had glitzy jobs, hectic lives. It was clear that they saw Christine and Charles not so much as status symbols, badges of honor, but as albatrosses round Lorna’s neck. “Poor you,” they said. “But you’re so marvelous with them.”

  The 1960s were well and truly launched. People like this—the Arts Club lot, everyone in Chelsea, indeed—were nicely in tune with the Zeitgeist, but Lorna was not. She wore miniskirts—of course, you had to; she had her hair cut short, but those mascara-drenched eyes were not for her. She never had worn much make-up. As for clothes—she conformed, up to a point; once, in a fit of nostalgia, she put on a Pringle twin-set and a tweed skirt she found lurking at the back of a cupboard. Tom laughed and laughed; she hadn’t really meant it as a joke.

  He was painting and drawing a fair amount, but was also involved now with a craft co-operative, helping to promote the work, arrange exhibitions. Lorna was quite glad of this, although it meant he was away from time to time; it gave him a purpose, she could see. He had had one small ex
hibition of his own work, and quite a few things had sold. When she had been celebratory about this he had pulled a face: “Yes, and all bought by friends or relatives.”

  She took the children a lot to Willow Court; they needed the space, the garden, the swimming pool. The Chelsea house was beginning to feel quite small, especially when there was a new baby—Paula—and Lorna finally had to give in and take on an au pair girl. After that, girls came and went—the Biancas and Ingrids and Solanges; toddlers morphed into children, there was exponential growth of their requirements, schools and dancing and swimming and music and football, and it was all fine, Lorna found. She could do this too, like she had found she could do babies. And she had an occupation; she was necessary, essential.

  In 1968 Lorna’s mother died: a treacherous unnoticed tumor, inoperable. Lorna was desolate, and then anxiously protective of her father. But he was plunged ever more into work; he had recently taken over another business, there were now two more factories, and he was forever on the move between them, or in his London office. Willow Court remained a base, and available, manned by the Portuguese couple, but somehow lifeless. Harold Braithwaite used his London flat more and more. He visited the Chelsea house occasionally.

  “This won’t do, really,” he said, one day, looking round.

  Lorna was surprised. “But we love it, Daddy. Though I suppose we are filling it up rather, now.”

  The Gloucestershire house, when all was signed and sealed, and the building work completed, had a studio for Tom at the end of the garden. He had joined Lorna in the house-hunting, rather silent, sometimes. Lorna explained that naturally they’d still be in the London house, this was just for weekends and school holidays. She couldn’t account for what seemed not exactly lack of enthusiasm on his part, but some kind of detachment, as though it were not really his concern.