Virginia Fly is Drowning

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Virginia Fly is Drowning Page 12

by Angela Huth


  The return walk was not half such a pleasure. For as soon as she was out of the spinney and descending the dip – you couldn’t call it a valley – there was the view of the back of Acacia Avenue’s ugly houses, fluttering their little strips of garden behind them, nestling up to their gloomy bushes of laurel and rhododendron. Going for the walk you could almost imagine you were in the country. Returning, the illusion was impossible.

  Every day of the holidays Virginia dreaded lunch alone with Mrs Fly. The meal left her vulnerable to all her mother’s wildest suspicions, suppositions and speculations. To-day, Ulick Brand was on her mind.

  ‘What did you say was the name of the Chinaman you went out with a couple of weeks ago?’ She helped Virgina to the crustiest part of the potato to soften the inquiry.

  ‘I didn’t say he was Chinese. I said we went to a Chinese restaurant.’

  ‘Well, not that I’d mind of course. You know me, broad-minded to a fault – as long as you don’t bring home a Chinaman as a husband.’

  ‘I don’t know any Chinamen, so that’s not likely.’

  ‘And anyhow, I’ve never been able to see the attraction of all that chop-suey food, myself.’

  Irritated by her mother’s stubborn train of thought, Virginia broke the ensuing silence.

  ‘I said the man I had dinner with that night was a friend of Mrs Thompson.’

  ‘Oh, blow me! So you did. What a memory. I get so muddled with all your friends.’ She dug at the corner of her mouth with a tiny corner of her napkin, wiping away flecks of mince meat which had gathered there. The refinement of the familiar gesture drove Virginia to such fury that over the years she had trained herself to look away as soon as her mother picked up her napkin from her lap. ‘Talking of Mrs Thompson,’ Mrs Fly went on, then paused. She picked up her glass of water and took a sip so small that, poured out, it wouldn’t have filled half a thimble. To add weight to the importance of her news Mrs Fly continued her silence for some moments.

  ‘Talking of Mrs Thompson,’ she said again, at last, ‘she rang up this morning. You were on your walk.’ She waited for some reaction from Virginia, but it didn’t come.

  ‘She asked how you were, of course, and wondered if you would be up in London again soon. She wanted you to go round for a meal. We had quite a little chat.’ She paused. Virginia took a long time to lever an apricot out of its custardy bed.

  ‘Oh? I’ll ring her back this evening.’

  ‘No need,’ said Mrs Fly. ‘She’s coming down here Sunday for the day. I asked her. I mean, I thought you’d be pleased, and your father and I would like to meet her. We like to meet your friends.’

  Virginia said nothing, but looked straight at her mother. This time there was custard in the corners of her mouth.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t make arrangements with my friends,’ she said, finally.

  ‘But I thought you’d be so pleased. I was only doing what I thought best –’

  ‘Quite. You always do what you think best.’

  ‘I shall enjoy meeting Mrs Thompson. There must be something very good-hearted about a person who writes to someone they’ve seen on television and asks them out.’

  ‘You may not like her. She’s not exactly your kind of friend.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Her appearance is a bit flamboyant for you. And she talks a lot.’

  ‘Just because I’m not an extrovert dresser myself, that doesn’t mean to say I don’t admire it in other people.’ Mrs Fly searched out the two remaining clean corners of her napkin to deal with the custard. ‘Well, we shall see.’

  Far from being daunted by Virginia’s warnings, Mrs Fly was more determined than ever to like her daughter’s friend. Prejudice set in. By Saturday it would have congealed to the point that, whatever kind of character Mrs Thompson turned out to be, she could be assured of a great welcome from Mrs Fly.

  Most of the week Mrs Thompson spent in a dither of happy anticipation. She rang her friend Mrs Baxter almost hourly to discuss finer points of the outing, and on Tuesday night, their regular night together, could talk of nothing else. Mrs Baxter, for her part, was unusually tolerant. She was jealous of Mrs Thompson’s coloured wine glasses, old ermine cloak and signed book of war memoirs by her employer the General. But she was not jealous of a day in Surrey: it was something she’d go out of her way to avoid. Anything beyond Barnes was a wilderness to her: she couldn’t be sure unless she had a solid pavement under her feet. However, if the idea of a day with the Flys, whoever they may be, gave Mrs Thompson any pleasure – and indeed she did seem to be unusually flushed with excitement – then she Mrs Baxter wasn’t one to damp her spirits. Besides, it made a nice change of conversation.

  By instinct Mrs Thompson was no more a country lover than Mrs Baxter. She had little experience of the country: the odd roadside picnic with Bill on Bank Holidays, a couple of weekends with a farmer uncle in Worcestershire, a terrible tour of the Lake District with her elderly mother – none of these occasions she remembered with pleasure. Her present worry, faced with a rural day, was what to wear. Her wardrobe didn’t include any tweeds or brogues which, she felt, would have been appropriate. And Mrs Baxter was hardly a constructive help.

  ‘You don’t want to stand out too much against all those greens,’ she advised. Surrey was a jungle in her mind. ‘And you don’t want to wear a feathered hat. It frightens the birds.’

  ‘How about my rust jersey?’ Mrs Thompson held a dying dress against herself, posing in front of her long mirror. ‘I could dress it up with my coral spray.’

  ‘You don’t want to dress it up with anything, dear,’ said Mrs Baxter. ‘They dress down in the country, not up, I’m telling you.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Mrs Thompson. This was a big concession on her part. The zest in her relationship with Mrs Baxter was always to ask advice, but never to accept it. ‘You’re quite right. I’ll dispense with jewellery for the day.’ Mrs Baxter was made almost speechless by the rare event of her friend agreeing with her. Her voice went quite weak:

  ‘Well, you are right, dear. Like I said, it wouldn’t do anything for you, jewellery wouldn’t, in the country.’

  It was one of the best evenings they had ever spent together.

  Later, Mrs Thompson hung the rust jersey outside her cupboard, ironed it several times, polished her brown shoes, renewed the solid powder in her compact, set her hair and didn’t complain when Jo the lodger turned up his hi-fi too loudly. She wouldn’t admit it, even to Mrs Baxter, but for some reason she felt excited as a child.

  Sunday morning Ted Fly finally broke to his wife something he had been feeling all week: that to-day was a good day to go down to a place he knew in Hastings to look for a second-hand mowing-machine. Mrs Fly was incensed.

  ‘But Mrs Thompson’s coming.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘To-day of all days to choose to see a mower. She’s coming down from London, you know.’

  ‘I’ll fetch her at the station. Just go off for a bit once she’s settled.’

  ‘Haven’t we been talking about her coming all week?’

  ‘You have.’

  ‘Well, then. Really. What will she think?’

  ‘She’ll think I’ve got to go and see a mower.’ Mrs Fly sniffed. Some instinct told her husband not to weaken. ‘There’s a lovely machine going there for £10. It would be silly to miss it …’ He wouldn’t give in, but his wife’s face troubled him, all the same. ‘I’ll be back in time to take her back to the station, don’t worry.’

  ‘I should think so too.’ Mrs Fly slammed her knitting down on to her wide-slung knees. She found it difficult to lose battles graciously. But once Ted had become obstinate about something she knew there was nothing further she could do to make him change his mind. Well, more fool him, if he wanted to miss such a pleasant day.

  As soon as she had got into his car, Mr Fly put his case to Mrs Thompson. He made it abundantly clear to her that, sad though it was, his jo
urney to Hastings was imperative. The price of gardening equipment was going up all the time, and he’d be an idiot to miss such a snip, wouldn’t he? Mrs Thompson agreed he would. He was so charming, so concerned, Virginia’s father – probably the one from whom she’d inherited her nice quiet ways. Not for one moment would it have occurred to Mrs Thompson that her host’s urgent journey might have any suspect motives. He seemed the perfect gentleman.

  In fact, by going away for the best part of the day, Mr Fly was only trying to make things easier for everyone. He had learnt from experience that, when his wife had a friend in for the day, his own day became a thing not to be considered. His presence seemed to annoy. His views, if asked for, were automatically contradicted. Even his offers of help – washing up, making tea, anything – were spurned. As soon as the friend left, of course, things returned to normal. Mrs Fly nagged and soliloquised, but was warm again. It never occurred to her that she had been in any way different while she entertained. Generous in his solutions, Mr Fly put down her strange behaviour to nerves. She didn’t know what she was doing. Still, it was confusing and, in the old days, hurting. So he had found the answer: make an infallible excuse to go out, and stick to it. In fact, as far as he could judge on the journey from the station, Mrs Thompson was a nice woman. Understanding. Must have been rather good-looking, once, too. For a moment he felt regretful about having been so insistent about the mowing-machine. But as soon as his wife met Mrs Thompson and guided her, touching her arm, into the sitting-room, that moment passed. No one said good-bye to him. He hurried away.

  Mrs Fly had planned everything with customary precision. Presuming that the train wouldn’t be late, and guessing that her husband’s speed back from the station would be average, she managed to have the coffee percolator boiling just as the car drew up at the gate. She sped with her beautifully laid tray (frilly napkins, Dresden china, iced shortbread biscuits, little forks just in case – a credit to any butler) to the sitting-room, then arrived calmly at the front door just as Mrs Thompson came through the gate.

  Although she knew that her guest lived in Ealing, Mrs Fly had convictions, based on no factual evidence, that Mrs Thompson was born, bred and used to a better part of London. Somewhere near Belgrave Square or Buckingham Palace, she imagined. Of course, a lot of people were moving out of the centre nowadays: it was understandable. And Mrs Thompson, being a widow, was probably not as well off as she had once been. Still, wherever she lived now, Mrs Thompson – you could tell just from the way she walked up the path – was a woman of breeding. Mrs Fly pursed her lips ready to break into a smile of welcome. She would see to it that Mrs Thompson felt at home.

  Mrs Thompson, for her part, was finding pleasure in every moment. Both Mr and Mrs Fly, and their house, exceeded her expectations. Everything was warm and neat. The atmosphere filled her with well-being. What’s more, the choice of the rust dress had been right: Mrs Fly herself was also in a jersey dress, olive green, with a small opal brooch at the neck. This caused Mrs Thompson’s only regret: she shouldn’t have listened to Mrs Baxter about the coral spray. She should have worn it. But still. It was a small thing.

  The two women sat side by side on the tweed-covered sofa, the sun shone on the Dresden and there was a strong smell of carnation scent that came from Mrs Thompson. Virginia, opposite them in an arm chair, could not help smiling at the contrast they made. If she half shut her eyes their heads were two strange balloons hanging from the ceiling – one, with a blurred, indistinguished sort of face, powdery round the mouth, brown hair rolled up at the ends like a document. The other, a bright, clinical face, hardened rather than softened by its careful make-up, downward lines round the mouth, a yellow puff of fibre-glass hair, a crumpled neck. The heads bobbed about smiling at each other: Mrs Fly’s smile was of melon pink gums frilled with pearly false teeth. Mrs Thompson’s was more rugged. Her plum lipstick made her own teeth seem less ochre than they really were, and when she laughed a flash of gold fillings and bridges revealed the precarious state into which they had fallen.

  ‘Isn’t this funny, how it all came about?’ she was saying. ‘You never know, do you?’

  ‘You never know,’ agreed Mrs Fly.

  ‘And what’s become of – I’ve been dying to ask – what’s become of Virginia and Ulick?’ Mrs Thompson addressed the question to Mrs Fly, not looking at Virginia.

  ‘Ulick? Ah yes. The Mr Brand. I get so muddled with her friends, don’t I Ginny? What’s become of Ulick? – They went to a Chinese restaurant, you know. Ginny chose it, she said. I don’t know how anybody finds those little helpings satisfying.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Mrs Thompson. She turned to Virginia. ‘Come along, Ginny. You’re being a dark horse. What games are you and Ulick up to?’ She winked, with the eye farthest from Mrs Fly. A wink that explained whatever they were up to she understood and would support.

  ‘I haven’t heard from him any more,’ said Virginia. ‘There was no reason why I should have done.’ Mrs Thompson looked deflated.

  ‘Well, I expect he’ll follow up the meeting. They’re so unpredictable, these days, the young. That’s their trouble.’

  Already Mrs Fly was beginning to sense that she and Mrs Thompson were getting on quite extraordinarily well. They understood each other. They felt the same. In appreciation of these feelings Mrs Fly’s blood rose in temperature – she could feel it like an incoming tide – all round her body, and her normally ashy cheeks slowly changed to the colour of a foggy plum. Hands shaking a little, she offered Mrs Thompson a cigarette. The tips of her fingers were quite red. She lowered her voice a little: she had been conscious of it rising since Mrs Thompson’s arrival.

  ‘The thing about Ginny is, she never exerts herself, do you Ginny? She never puts herself over, if you know what I mean.’

  With a slight incline of her head which in no way indicated that she was taking sides against Virginia, Mrs Thompson conveyed that she knew very well what Mrs Fly meant.

  An hour later they were calling each other Ruth and Rita, and Virginia was still listening. To break the monotony, she got up and poured them small glasses of medium-dry sherry.

  ‘Ah,’ exclaimed Mrs Thompson, ‘the very brand Ulick always buys me when I turn down the offer of a gin.’ She drank the whole glass in one. This degree of sophistication unnerved Mrs Fly who, as usual, was pecking at her drink with ridiculous little sips. Not to be outdone, she sipped a little faster.

  Virginia, predicting that the subject of Ulick Brand would now be dwelt upon once more, decided to leave. Ulick’s house, tree, piano, dressing-room, face, gold cufflinks and crinkly smile had all been on her mind too much lately. She had tried to banish the thoughts, but they had persisted. Last night she had dreamt of him. They had played a duet on his piano together, kissing at the end of every bar. Still, now, at midday, she could remember his lips on hers. She had no wish to hear him discussed again. Quietly she left the room and went upstairs to fetch her purse. A wicked plan had come to her which would, perhaps, add a little spice to the tedious day.

  When she arrived back at lunch time half the bottle of sherry had gone. Her mother and Mrs Thompson were in the kitchen, Mrs Fly draining the peas, Mrs Thompson sitting at the table smoking, chipping her ash on to the floor – a habit which, in the majority of people, Mrs Fly could not abide.

  Virginia unwrapped her parcel.

  ‘I’ve bought a bottle,’ she said, gaily, ‘to celebrate.’ She put a bottle of Mateus Rosé on the table.

  ‘Ooh!’ Her mother gave a little whoop. ‘My favourite. How kind of you, dear.’

  Mrs Thompson fingered the label on the bottle. ‘I suppose, Rita, that with your life, you enjoy a little glass of wine for lunch every day?’

  Mrs Thompson hesitated.

  ‘Well, sometimes I do and I sometimes don’t,’ she admitted. ‘Depends. Of course, in the old days, with Bill, we’d crack half a bottle of champagne every Sunday morning at eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Really?’ This time Mrs Fly w
as suitably impressed.

  At lunch, Virginia had one glass of wine. The others had several. But still a quarter of the bottle remained. Mrs Fly suggested they should finish it with their coffee.

  By this time both she and Mrs Thompson were in good spirits. They drew chairs up into the french windows in the sitting-room, and opened them. A warm breeze came into the room. The sky was cloudless, grey-blue; the Surrey hillocks turning to light spring green – but still depressing, Virginia thought.

  ‘Lovely, lovely, lovely,’ said Mrs Thompson, plumping herself down into an armchair. ‘The softness of the air – it reminds me of Monte Carlo.’

  If Mrs Fly felt that her new friend might be exaggerating, she did not show it.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, as the two things connected in her mind, ‘you must have been a débutante.’

  Mrs Thompson smiled widely, her eyes very bright.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘in those days, you know, débutantes were débutantes.’

  ‘Indeed they were!’ Mrs Fly clapped her hands, but the clap went wrong. The fingers of one hand slipped into the palm of the other, scarcely making a noise. ‘Why, I remember I used to cut out pictures of all the beautiful girls in their ostrich feathers going to be presented.’

  ‘Ostrich feathers, such ostrich feathers,’ murmured Mrs Thompson. She stretched out her legs in front of her. Her stockings puckered over her knees.

  Virginia broke the nostalgic silence.

  ‘Mrs Thompson used to have tea at the Ritz,’ she said to her mother.

  ‘The Ritz Piccadilly?’ Mrs Fly felt another rush of warm blood round her body, and was grateful for the breeze. Funny, she thought, how sometimes words just slid out all in one, before you had time to divide them up.

  Mrs Thompson managed a modest voice.

  ‘Well, you know, the Ritz was the place to have tea. Always has been. I loved the Ritz. I loved theatre-going, too. Going to theatres. All the velvets, all the buttonholes. And supper afterwards somewhere you could dance.’

 

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