by Angela Huth
‘The Savoy?’ Mrs Fly had read about dancing at the Savoy, and the question was nice and short.
‘Places like that,’ said Mrs Thompson. She stared down the length of undernourished lawn, her eyes glazed with remembrance of those glamorous days. ‘And then my escort would escort me home,’ (she pronounced both words the same), ‘and we’d have a small drink and turn on the gramophone.’ She paused, then added: ‘Ah, the things I could tell you.’
Mrs Fly pressed her a little.
‘You mean you had your own flat?’
‘I had my own flat.’
‘That means you must have been very well off.’ Mrs Thompson considered. Then she said:
‘I managed to support myself in fine style, I will admit.’ The breeze was so soft, her face so warm, her mind so plastic, at that moment it would have been easy to admit anything.
‘But I thought débutantes in those days didn’t work?’ Mrs Fly, pouring the last of the Mateus Rosé into her own glass, was confused.
‘Ah.’
‘What did you work at?’ Mrs Fly persisted.
‘Ah.’ Again Mrs Thompson paused. ‘I suppose you could have called me an entertainer.’
‘Show business? I’ve always longed to know someone in show business. It must be such a world apart, I’ve always thought.’ Mrs Fly felt her eyelids drifting downwards. She snapped them up. ‘Stage door Johnnies,’ she said. ‘You must have been besieged by stage door Johnnies.’
‘There were men interested,’ agreed Mrs Thompson.
‘And you let them come back to your flat? You must have been very before-your-time.’ A mixture of shock and awe in Mrs Fly’s voice. Mrs Thompson drained her glass. She could never remember feeling like this on gin. It was all according to what you were used to, she supposed.
‘My dear Ruth. In my line of business, escorts have been escorting pretty young girls back to their flats for thousands of years.’
There. She had said it. After all these years of silence, it had slipped out. She turned to Mrs Fly, waiting to be struck, to be turned out of the house. But at the same time an immeasurable weight rolled away from her: her limbs, her mind felt lighter. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry, to dance, to sing, to shout out loud: Forgive me, Bill.
But it was Mrs Fly who began to giggle.
‘Oh, you’ll be the death of me, Rita! No wonder my mother disapproved of débutantes! Presented at Court then giving the chaperon the slip – such carryings on.’ She rocked back and forth in her arm chair. ‘You’ll be telling me next you – let them make advances!’ Then suddenly she was quiet. ‘To think what I missed,’ she said. ‘Ted came to tea every Sunday and we were only allowed to walk to church and back alone. He was the only man who ever courted me.’
‘What you missed, dear.’ Mrs Thompson let the giggles burst forth now. The irony of the situation was too much for her. ‘What you missed! The stories I could tell … You’d never believe.’
Both women squirmed in their seats with laughter, their hands sprawling over the wide chair arms, their legs sliding apart to reveal wedges of white thigh above stocking tops. Tears spurted from their cloudy eyes.
‘Oh, dear me.’
‘Oh, deary, deary me.’
Virginia crept away. They didn’t notice her going, or hear her laughter. Upstairs, she took out her diary. She wrote in it spasmodically, only noting things she thought worth recording. Nothing sad, or to do with herself. To-day, unbeknown to her, my mother befriended an old tart, she wrote. And then she felt foolish, laughing out loud to herself, and the joke, as is often the nature of unshared jokes, began to pall.
Mr Fly arrived home, as he promised, punctually at four. He unloaded his lawn mower into the garage slowly. If he timed things right he’d only have to be with the two of them for twenty minutes before setting off for the station again.
In spite of the breeze, the afternoon was muggy, the sky had turned quite grey. After the long drive Mr Fly was sweaty and tired. Thirsty. Mrs Thompson or not, he wanted his tea.
He went to the kitchen, washed his hands and patted his neck with water. It seemed to him that the place wasn’t its usual tidy self. But then he remembered and understood. His wife would naturally want to leave the washing up till Mrs Thompson had gone.
He went to the dining-room – it was always dining-room tea for visitors. But there, a far from average sight met his eyes. The table was still covered with congealed plates from lunch: chairs askew, nothing stacked, a nasty smell of cold vegetables.
Worried, now, Mr Fly ran to the sitting-room.
A few moments later Virginia heard him calling. She ran downstairs.
‘Ginny – whatever …?’
‘What are they doing?’
‘Asleep. I can’t wake them.’
They went to the sitting-room. It was getting dark. The two women, both with their mouths open, slept in their separate chairs. On the floor lay the upturned bottle of wine, and a few cigarette stubs that had fallen from the ash tray.
‘A most unusual sight,’ said Mr Fly. He put his arm round his daughter.
‘They’re friends for life,’ Virginia giggled.
‘Heaven forbid, Ginny.’
‘Well, at least I won’t have her after me any more.’
‘Nor you will – So untidy,’ he added, turning away from the scene.
They went to the kitchen. Virginia put on the kettle, fetched scones from the larder, strawberry jam and cream, which Mrs Fly considered bad for her husband and would not allow. Mr Fly watched his daughter, happily, rubbing together his hands.
‘We’d better let them sleep it off. Better not be there when they wake up, either. Funny, your mother, like this, you know. You wouldn’t call her even an average drinker, would you? She hardly touches a drop. Perhaps that Mrs Thompson is a bad influence, though she seemed a nice enough woman. Perhaps she has a dark past.’
‘She has,’ said Virginia. This made Mr Fly laugh. His daughter had a fine sense of humour. Must have got it from him. He stretched out a hand towards her.
‘Selfish though it may be, Ginny,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
Chapter 8
Mrs Thompson spent the night with the Flys. After a peaceful supper Virginia and her father, peeping round the kitchen door, had watched Mrs Fly and her friend negotiate the stairs in some confusion, still giving the odd weak giggle, and leaning upon one another for support.
The next morning, for the first time for years, Virginia was up before her mother and cooked her father’s breakfast. He went off to work with a happy wink.
‘She’s not going to be able to get at me for a while, now, is she? After this. Tell her I recommend a raw egg mixed with milk and aspirin.’
As soon as he had gone, the telephone rang. Virginia answered it in the hall. She was unaccustomed to telephone conversations. She found them nerve-racking.
‘Virginia Fly?’
‘Yes?’ At the sound of a strange man’s voice her heart beat faster.
‘This is Ulick Brand. I thought I was bound to get on to your mother.’
‘Oh, Ulick – Mr Brand. She’s in bed.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Ill, you mean?’
‘No, no. She – you remember Mrs Thompson?’
‘Indeed.’
‘She came here yesterday and I think there must have been something in their sherry. Mrs Thompson had to spend the night. She’s not awake yet, either.’ Ulick laughed.
‘I can hardly hear you,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to wake them up.’
‘Quite.’ He paused. ‘I wondered if you were free tonight?’ Virginia wondered if he could hear her heart. She traced a pencil round the picture on the telephone message book: an icy mountain rising into a brilliant blue sky, and reflecting into an equally unlikely lake.
‘It’s almost the end of the holidays,’ she said at last.
‘Does that stop you being free?’
‘Not really.’
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bsp; ‘Would you like to see a film and have dinner?’
‘Yes, I would. Thank you,’ she added. The mountain multiplied into four, with four reflections.
‘Because funnily enough,’ Ulick was saying, ‘I have some business to do, God help me, in Guildford on Tuesday morning. So if you like to spend the night in my dressing-room again, you could cook me breakfast and I’d drive you back. What do you think of that as a plan?’
‘Fine,’ said Virginia. ‘How did you get my number?’
‘Simple detective work. Come to the house at about seven-thirty, then, O.K.? And don’t dress up. An old pair of trousers’ll do. See you. ‘Bye.’
He was gone before Virginia had time to say good-bye. She sat quite still for a few moments, still tracing the mountain, which had gone back to one now. She noticed the handle of the receiver glistened with sweat. She rubbed it on her skirt.
‘Who was that?’ Mrs Fly stood at the top of the stairs in a candlewick dressing-gown. Her hair was flattened by a net, her grey face creased and the whites of her screwed-up eyes the colour of spring rhubarb. She had remembered to wipe off the greasy surface of her lipstick, but the stain beneath remained, an unhealthy purple.
‘Oh, a friend. For me.’
Mrs Fly tightened the belt of her dressing-gown. She began to come down the stairs, slowly, holding the banisters.
‘My poor head,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what came over me. There must have been something in that wine you bought, Ginny. I’ve never been taken like that in my life before. Are you all right?’
‘Absolutely, thank you.’
‘Well, I don’t know. And Rita was in a very poor way last night. I’d better get her a cup of tea. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d like to stay here for the day and recover. I shall go down to the wine merchant myself, later, and ask him. It oughtn’t to be allowed.’ She went into the kitchen. ‘You got your father’s breakfast?’
‘And dinner and tea.’
‘I hope you didn’t let him overdo it, the jam and whatnot.’
Virginia followed her into the kitchen. The small tight line of Mrs Fly’s mouth indicated that she had no intention of thanking her daughter for her help.
‘I’m going to London in an hour,’ said Virginia. ‘I’ll be away to-night and back to-morrow morning.’
Mrs Fly stopped the tap, leaving the kettle half-filled.
‘But it’s almost term-time.’
‘So?’
‘Haven’t you all that preparation to do?’
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s not up to me. You’re over twenty-one. Don’t overdo it, late nights, that’s all I say. It’s only fair to the school to be fit for the term.’ Her hand shook a little on the tea caddy. ‘I think I’ll make a nice bacon and egg pie for Rita’s lunch.’ She knew that was Virginia’s favourite thing. ‘Sure you don’t want to stay?’
‘Sure, thank you.’
‘You’re after more chop-suey, no doubt?’ She gave an understanding smile. Virginia looked infuriated. Sometimes, Mrs Fly thought, she could never get through to the girl. Oh well, better change the subject. ‘What a head,’ she said again.
‘Father said to tell you aspirin mixed with raw egg and milk might help.’
‘Did he just?’ Mrs Fly banged a couple of cups on to the table. The thud made her wince. ‘Wait till something’s poisoned him and see what cure I recommend! Now, where did you hide the sugar?’ She screwed up her eyes again to avoid the hurting sun. Virginia took the sugar bowl from its normal place, wished her mother a quick recovery and a happy day with Mrs Thompson, and left for London.
She took a taxi from Waterloo to the King’s Road. There, she was determined to spend the £15 she had brought with her. The shops were overflowing with brilliant clothes. She trembled in and out of silks and satins and velvets, all quite unlike anything she had ever considered buying before, and came out into the sun again, with nothing, trying to make up her mind. Mrs Thompson’s advice, given unasked for, was loud in her head.
‘Allure, dear, is what you want to think of. All your greys – who wants to be demure? Of course, my age, I’m past fancy dressing. But in the old days I’d slay them with the softness of my clothes, velvets and satins and so on.’ She winked. ‘Make a man feel he wants to stroke you, that’s what you want to do, and you’re half way there.’ Gazing into the distance, she gave a small shudder, then dragged her eyes back to Virginia. ‘With a little know-how, Ginny,’ she said, ‘you could have the boys trailing after you. If I had your figure – even now …’ She allowed herself a small, nostalgic sigh.
Finally, half visualising a queue of men behind her, Virginia settled for a pair of purple velvet trousers, which emphasised the thinness of her legs, and a gypsy-like top, covered with extravagant embroidery, that the assistant said would look better without a bra.
It was nice, walking along with her bags, money all gone, to feel that Ulick’s house was so near. She resisted the temptation to walk down his street.
But there were several hours until she was due. On a sudden inspiration she went to a call box, looked up Caroline’s married name, and rang her. They hadn’t seen each other for six years but she was the only person, apart from the professor, Virginia knew in London.
‘Caroline?’ Virginia found herself peculiarly nervous now the telephone had been answered.
‘Yes? Speaking.’
‘It’s Virginia. Virginia Fly.’
‘Virginia! God, it’s been years.’
‘I was just in London for the day. I hope you don’t mind my ringing…’
‘Of course not,’ Caroline butted in. She sounded busy.
‘I’m going out to-night and I just wondered if I could possibly drop in for a cup of tea and change in your house?’ Virginia paused. ‘It would be so nice to see you again.’
‘Of course, what a heavenly idea. But I’m afraid I’m just on my way out. In fact you were lucky to have caught me.’ She listed all the places she was going to, convincingly. But she sounded quite kind, friendly. ‘But I tell you what, the au pair’s here. Come round when you feel like it, make yourself at home, and I’ll try to get back before you leave.’
‘Are you sure?’ Virginia was really unnerved now, but she had nowhere else to go. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Caroline babbled on. ‘I only wish you’d given me some notice then we could have had lunch or something. There’s so much to catch up on.’ She paused. Then: ‘Just tell me, are you nearly married or anything?’
‘Well,’ said Virginia. ‘Not exactly.’
‘You mean something’s in the air?’
‘You could put it like that.’
‘I should hope so, after all these years.’ Caroline laughed, nicely. ‘You will let me know, won’t you? I must rush. If I miss you, do ring again.’
When she had put the telephone down Virginia took a Biro from her bag. She couldn’t resist trying out the name. On the cover of one of the telephone books she wrote it: Mrs Ulick Brand.
Caroline Summers lived in a small house off the Cromwell Road. The au pair girl let Virginia in, showed her the kitchen, and went out. Virginia was left to explore.
It wasn’t that she felt in any way inquisitive: she simply wanted to know what a house belonging to a young married couple was like, to imagine how it would feel to own it. She started in the kitchen, a pine room still warm with the smell of cooked lunch. The huge fridge was full. It included a large cut-glass bowl of fruit salad elaborately decorated with cream: for visitors to-night, perhaps. Dinner parties. Virginia wondered about married people’s dinner parties in this sort of house. A hired help for the evening, probably. Michael fussing about the drinks, Caroline introducing people with great ease, and getting them to talk. Virginia wondered if she would be able to cope with all that.
On a blackboard on the wall Caroline had scrawled messages to herself: Remember! 12 yogurts, 1 lb. cooking cheese, get M’s lighter mended. The last reminder filled
Virginia with something like jealousy: it would be nice to have someone wanting you to get their lighter mended, someone relying on you for small things as well as large.
She went to the sitting-room. There were signs of Caroline’s hurried departure: newspapers on the floor, a cushion about to slide from the sofa. Automatically Virginia plumped it up. There was a predictable table full of drinks, almost identical to Ulick’s, and a large untidy desk bearing traces of both Michael and Caroline: their things all muddled up together. Virginia read a note, perhaps written last night: Darling, if you get in before me will you start on Lucy’s story as I promised her? All love C.
In the main bedroom she found a pair of braces on Caroline’s dressing-table, and a crowd of framed photographs: Michael and Caroline on their wedding day, as she remembered them, both fatter in the face then, smiling outside a country church near Andover; Caroline with her first child, a christening picture; Michael out of focus on a boat, obviously taken by his wife: a two-year-old boy sitting on a rug with bricks; Caroline at some sort of première with Michael, leaning on his arm, very elegant, but harder and thinner than Virginia recalled.
She sat at the stool, fingered the silver brushes, and made up her mind. If Ulick Brand asked her to marry him, she would say yes.
Some hours later, having used Caroline’s bath, powder and scent, and having brushed her hair with the silver brush (and left it loose), she put on her new clothes, admired herself – almost unrecognisable, wasn’t she? – in a long mirror, left the house and took a taxi to Chelsea. Her hands were shaking.
Ulick opened the door. For a moment he didn’t recognise her. Then:
‘Virginia, you look terrific,’ he said, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘I knew you could.’ Virginia said nothing, but blushed. ‘No need to blush. I mean it.’ He took her hand and led her upstairs. The drawing-room looked pretty in the evening light. It smelt faintly of polish and flowers. In the middle of the room Ulick turned to face Virginia. ‘Is the transformation all for me?’ he asked, laughing.