Gracious Living

by Andrea Goldsmith

  Lydia finished the sandwiches and packed them in plastic wrap. She poked at a couple of the salmon patties, softening up but still a long way to go. It couldn’t be helped; she shoved them into a plastic bag and packed them into the smaller car fridge along with the sandwiches, a whole Brie, an Edam and the meat balls. She checked the basket for napkins, plates, condiments, biscuits and called to David that the rest of the food could be taken to the car. She left the kitchen and went upstairs to finish dressing.

  Ten minutes later David called out from the front door; he was ready to leave, was she?

  ‘Just doing my hat, won’t be a moment.’

  And there she was at the top of the stairs, pausing for effect. She knew she looked stunning: a slim-fitting silk dress in a striking abstract design, cut low at the neck and worn with a deep aqua blazer, navy straw hat with aqua trim and navy accessories. For jewellery she had chosen diamonds. She descended the stairs and crossed the hall to join her husband.

  ‘You look beautiful.’ The retentive David was uncharacteristically expressive.

  ‘Glad you approve, darling, because it cost you an arm and a leg.’ David grimaced, vulgarity did not suit his wife. ‘Do you think the hat is all right?’ He nodded. ‘Not too severe?’

  ‘Perfect, darling.’

  Lydia had a final word to the babysitter; the two older children were at the Warbys’, so there were only the twins to worry about.

  ‘Remember to take them to the playground – late afternoon, to tire them out. And don’t forget we go to the corner shop for fish and chips and not the closer one, it’s filthy. And you won’t – ’

  ‘Lydia we’ll miss the first race if you don’t hurry.’

  Lydia got in the car still giving instructions; the twins came outside to wave goodbye, and amid all the talking and waving David drove off.

  Lydia sighed,

  ‘I hope we haven’t forgotten anything.’

  ‘Lydia dear, there’s enough food in this car alone, not to speak of what the Dadswells and Warbys will bring, to feed a few hundred starving marauders.’

  ‘Well, that’s what we usually get on Cup Day,’ Lydia said with a giggle. But David was not amused, Cup Day was a time for friends, and friendship was, as far as he was concerned, a poor target for humour. Lydia rearranged her diamond bracelet and changed the topic, it was far too early in a long day to be aggravated. ‘You’ve remembered to pick up Kate?’

  ‘Of course.’ David paused, and then in an odd taut voice that betrayed both his intense interest and his effort to conceal it he asked about Vivienne. ‘Who’s she going with?’

  ‘No one we know.’ Suddenly Lydia caught her breath: ‘You remembered to pack the champagne opener?’ David nodded. ‘Thank goodness! I’ll never forget the year we left it at home. And you packed both corkscrews?’

  He nodded again and repeated his question about Vivienne.

  ‘She has an overseas guest staying with her. Elizabeth told me they’d be making their own way to the course. Taxi I suppose.’

  David’s infatuation for Vivienne was ancient, inexplicable and rather sweet. David was an ordinary man who, if he’d had less money, or, more accurately, if he had married less well, would not have been noticed at all; whereas Vivienne was unique, even Lydia would have to concede that, critical, principled, frequently captious, but also very kind. Vivienne never hesitated to speak her mind and speak it strongly, but she also made a reliable and understanding friend. Publicly Lydia made a point of pitying Vivienne, what sort of life could it be, she would say, with so much work and so little play? but privately she bore her a grudging admiration. Men, however, tended not to like her. ‘Vivienne refuses to play by the rules,’ Oliver Warby once complained. But not David, he adored her and Vivienne seemed not to mind; David had even gone to the trouble of obtaining Vivienne’s publications, which in 1977 numbered two books and several esoteric papers; Lydia thought he had even read them.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Who is what?’

  ‘Vivienne’s guest, who is it?’

  ‘A colleague, a friend. Really, David, how should I know?’ The problem with her husband was his weakened sense of propriety. He seemed not to realise that love, obsession, or whatever it was he felt for Vivienne was meant to be covert.

  ‘Come on, Lydia, you always know such things.’

  She let out a little snort.

  ‘An old friend and a colleague,’ she said. ‘Scandinavian I think.’

  ‘Speak English?’

  ‘Of course she does! She’s a linguist. Slow down David, it’s the next on the right, then second on the left.’

  They pulled up outside the block of flats where Kate and Walter lived. It was an ugly block, smallish, built in a rush after the war and now sadly dilapidated. Lydia knew its sagging walls and muttering pipes well – Brunswick Street was only a short distance away and she visited often; a cup of coffee and a chat with Kate eased the transition between time with Adrian and a return to David and the children. In the beginning Lydia had told Kate she did voluntary work for the Brotherhood of St Laurence – that was what brought her to the area – and Kate must have been satisfied, for the matter had never been raised again. So, once or twice a week Lydia would knock on the paint-torn door and Kate would peer through the circle of frosted glass and let her in. As she did now.

  ‘Hello Kate, ready to go?’ Lydia stood back and made approving noises. ‘Kate my dear, you look gorgeous.’

  Kate twirled and strutted in a fine imitation of a mannequin on a catwalk. ‘Shirt and jacket from the Brotherhood – I was worried they might have been your cast-offs, Lydia – the skirt’s from the World Vision shop. It’s pure linen, feel it. I can’t decide if World Vision considered it too good or too tacky to ship to wherever the organisation usually sends its clothes.’

  ‘Kate, you’re incorrigible. Now you’ll promise not to mention the source of your outfit to anyone.’

  ‘You’re such a snob, Lydia.’

  ‘I’m not, but everyone else you’ll meet today is.’ Lydia peered into Walter’s room. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I thought I told you. He’s gone to a wonderful place Elizabeth discovered, Ginnie’s gone too. It’s a new idea, they call it short-term respite care – I think of it as long-term parental sanity – a normal house, nothing like an institution, where kids can stay for a few nights to give their parents a rest. Ginnie’s been there before and according to Elizabeth was perfectly happy, and I know Walter will be fine as long as Ginnie’s around; I’m convinced she’s the only person he really likes.’

  Lydia opened the door. ‘Sounds perfect, means you can party all night with us. Now, are you ready?’

  ‘One moment for the final touch.’ She pulled on a sort of turban, olive green. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

  Kate at thirty still should have been plain but was not. And yet the skin was still pasty, the hair still faded, the eyes too deep. But, if anything, her style had been enhanced by the years. For all anyone would know, she could be wearing Chanel originals. Probably was.

  Kate gave a final pat to her appearance, put makeup, comb, handkerchief, keys, silver pen (from Tiffany’s, Lydia noticed) and notebook in her bag.

  ‘Money?’ Lydia asked.

  ‘Not today. I’ve never been to a Cup before, I’m going as an observer.’

  Cup Day that year was brimming with sunshine and a record crowd, so there were many who could have reported on the events, and many did, some gleefully, others incredulously, more than a few maliciously. But of them all, only Kate’s account was accurate. Of course Lydia had a version of events, but as she played one of the leading roles her perspective was more than a little suspect, and while Vivienne was usually a reliable witness, attention to her friend meant her view was only partial. Kate, however, never left the carpark; she watched it all, the comings and goings, the snubs and intrigues; she saw what Adrian and Lydia did.

  At exactly h
alf past ten David Branch guided the Jaguar into the grounds of the racecourse and drove slowly down the long driveway to the members’ carpark. Lydia commented on the glorious rose bushes, hundreds of them flanking the drive, all laden with blooms, three, four, five to a stem.

  ‘I guarantee they pack the roots in ice to delay flowering until the racing season begins,’ Kate said as the car moved through the grounds.

  Lydia was not amused. The perfection of the flowers at the spring racing carnival was legend; one expected the gardens to be magnificent and they were. Always. Unnatural intervention did not come into it.

  Kate laughed. ‘Lydia, don’t be so naive. You can’t possibly believe that every year, despite variations in the weather, the roses are perfect; that it just happens. Come now!’

  ‘All right, it doesn’t just happen. I’m willing to concede a few modern and effective gardening techniques.’

  ‘Like packing the roots in ice?’

  ‘No, not that. I’m thinking of good fertiliser, expert pruning, that sort of thing.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘There are times, Lydia, when I envy your ability to see the world – no, construct the world, exactly how you think it ought to be.’

  ‘Now you’re being patronising.’ But Lydia was not offended, it was a privilege of the wealthy to live the life that suited them, and that included seeing only what they wanted.

  ‘Over there, David, just up on the right.’

  The Dads wells’ silver Mercedes was already in place and David parked the Jaguar alongside. Shortly after, Paulé and Oliver Warby arrived in the Porsche – purchased out of profits from Oliver’s recent foray into pathology laboratories.

  ‘When are you going to buy a real man’s car?’ Adrian said to Oliver as he always did.

  ‘And when will you graduate from a European Ford?’ Oliver slapped the bonnet of the Mercedes.

  ‘Pleased you asked, Ollie old boy, I take delivery of the E-type next week. Now there’s a real man’s car.’

  ‘He’s not really?’ Kate was horrified.

  Elizabeth nodded.

  ‘But what about Ginnie? She’ll never manage the back seat.’

  Elizabeth shrugged: there had been many arguments and she had lost. Nothing more to be said. Elizabeth looked tired. Her skin was a blanched version of the natural straw hat she wore, and her dress, in a pretty pale Liberty print, drained her still further; from a distance she was a figure of mottled chalk. The dress was cut in a V at the neck with a soft ruffle, it was loose to the waist where it was caught with a narrow sash, the skirt was cut on the cross, smooth over the hips with soft floating pleats at the hem. Elizabeth should have been beautiful, a gentle classical beauty, instead she was pale, thin and tired.

  Such a contrast with Paulé Warby, who looked like the star of a Wild West dance hall complete with fringes, cleavage and bare thigh. There were two main garments to her outfit, an inner one consisting of bodice and shorts, the bodice plunging, the shorts fringed, and an outer one comprising a longish coat fitted to the waist and then cut away to reveal the shorts of the undergarment; the coat, too, was lavished with fringes. The entire outfit, including the lampshade hat, was in gold and black.

  ‘She looks like a cross between a cancan dancer and a footballer,’ Kate whispered to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth explained that the Warbys knew the connections of Gold and Black, the horse favoured to win the Cup.

  ‘Surely that’s taking connections a bit far.’

  ‘Apparently Paulé doesn’t think so, and neither, for that matter, do most of the men.’

  Lydia had set out some food while Adrian and David organised drinks and already a dozen guests had gathered to sip and nibble and talk. Paulé stood at the centre of four men.

  ‘Do you know those people?’ Kate indicated the men buzzing around Paulé.

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I suspect they’ve drifted over from one of the other parties. Paulé is, after all, somewhat of a beacon.’

  But not the only one. Each of the parties had its own beacon, whether it be the man a few cars away who had perched himself atop a Rolls Royce to greet passers by, or the woman dressed from neck to ankle in a silver lamé body stocking, or the couple who had arrived in a morning suit – just one between the two of them. Kate was astounded by the display, she could not make notes fast enough.

  ‘And what do you propose to do with those?’

  ‘Vivienne!’ Kate gave her a kiss. ‘And Lottie and Martin too! I didn’t know you were coming.’ Kate gave Martin a kiss and wrapped her arms around Lottie Rosten’s bulk, today adorned in floral silk. ‘Why didn’t you mention it at lunch last week, Lottie?’

  ‘I assumed you knew. I haven’t missed a Cup in years.’

  ‘And I always thought you were without vice. Now, who’ll be eligible to cast the first stone?’ They all laughed. ‘And what’s your excuse Martin?’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘My devotion to Lottie.’

  Lottie gave him a gentle nudge and linked her arm through his. She seemed to dwarf him these days. Martin Rosten was still an attractive man at eighty-two; his hair was whitish-grey, still very thick and his skin was surprisingly smooth. But arthritis had been a problem in recent years and it seemed to be shrinking him, it also restricted exercise. His hearing was not so acute either, so the races were an unlikely place for him to be.

  ‘Lottie insisted on coming despite my arguments to the contrary, so I decided to come too, to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t push herself. You know she’s been sick?’

  Kate nodded.

  But Lottie would have none of it. ‘I’m not sick any more, but there was no convincing Martin. He’d be much happier at home with his book.’

  ‘I brought it with me,’ he said, waving a substantial volume.

  When their laughter subsided, Vivienne introduced her friend Line, a Danish women who spoke perfect English. Soon after, Lottie excused herself: neither reading nor the carpark antics were for her, she’d come to bet; she made sure Martin was comfortable in the shade of some pine trees, and then joined the throng entering the course.

  David Branch appeared with glasses and a bottle of champagne and was introduced to Line. He was asking about her travel plans when Lydia called to Kate to help pass round some savouries. The plate was empty within minutes – apparently no one had eaten breakfast, knowing they would be fed at the course – and as Lydia was in animated discussion with a woman whom Kate knew for a fact she despised, Kate returned to talk with Vivienne and Line. As she approached, it occurred to her that here was another beacon: two tall women dressed in elegant, tailored suits, Vivienne so dark with her full Semitic features, and Line with her blonde hair pulled tightly into a smooth knot. Neither of them wore a hat, neither wore makeup, and yet they were conspicuous. It was not just their height and clothes, it was their bearing, an aloof, almost arrogant mien normally associated with the supremely beautiful, which they were not, the extremely famous, which they were not, and the extremely successful, which they might have been in their own circle, but not here amid all the fun and frippery.

  Vivienne and Line stayed together all day, either taking in the view at the carpark with Martin or watching the horses in the mounting yards. Their choice for the Cup was Happy Union; it started at twenty-five to one and came in eighteenth. Together with the Rostens, they left the course early, about an hour after the last race, another engagement, they said, but a few days later over coffee with Kate and Elizabeth, Vivienne said that if it hadn’t been for her grandparents she wouldn’t have gone at all; she’d never been so bored in all her life and if Cup Day was the acme of human endeavour then the species was in for a sorry future – which as a linguist she had known for years: any group that could discard its language in so careless a manner had abandoned civilisation.

  Lottie Rosten went her own way and when she returned to the carpark at the end of the day having backed several winners she was well pleased. As many were. Gold and Black won ‘be
cause my outfit brought him luck,’ Paulé said. Adrian had had a big win and was intent on inviting everyone back to the car for drinks; the entire carpark was filled with the sounds of frivolity. Elizabeth watched Adrian as he made his way through the crowd, bottle of champagne in one hand a glass in the other, pouring drinks for old friends and new. When he disappeared from view she turned her attention back to Lauren Warneke who had joined her just before the second-last race.

  Elizabeth had not seen Lauren since the mothers’ group disbanded back in 1972. She had worn badly. Her voice scratched with tar and nicotine, skin dragged on her bones, she was sad and drunk. For nearly two hours she had been talking and crying, drinking and smoking, and although Elizabeth, with problems of her own, would have preferred not to be the sump for another’s despair, she had never been able to refuse someone in distress and could not now. Lauren’s slurred and serpentine talk was of Sherrie, the daughter she had given up four years before, and whom she had not seen since. Stewart had pronounced that period of their lives closed – why open old wounds? he said, why visit past mistakes? – and Lauren had tried to comply.

  When Sherrie had first left the family home, she had gone to live at a large institution; two years ago she and four other children had moved from the institution into an ordinary house. Lauren had known all about the move, indeed, her consent had been required for it, but while a day never passed without her daughter playing on her mind, Lauren had stayed away, until a few weeks ago.

  ‘I’ve lived in fear of the day when Sherrie would turn up and accuse me of dumping her. I thought it’d be better if I made the first contact – because it’s true I did dump her. But either she had to go, or I’d lose my marriage and the boys. Stewart was quite clear about that.’ She gulped the last of her champagne and poured some more. ‘No choice at all.’