Michael hovered near the bar.
“How’s it going, Mrs. T.?”
“I’ve put ice in the gin one, Mr. Michael. Ever such a run on it and there’s a tall, dark gentleman keeps coming back and back again. I’m only giving him little ones now. Mind you, he’s a nice gentleman and he’s holding it all right.”
“Good for you, Mrs. T. Listen to the noise,” he put his hands over his ears, letting the sound beat spasmodically through them, like claps of thunder streaked with the shrill lightning of women’s laughter. He thought, suddenly, how senseless this all was, but then he caught sight of his mother, smiling and warm and enjoying herself a great deal, and he forgot the sombre thoughts which had begun to crowd in on him, the restlessness of peace. Everything was all right; he would go and rescue Jane Fergusson from the reviewer.
The occupants of the room seemed to form kaleidoscopic patterns over the floor, clutched into little groups and then breaking away in sharp uneven particles which scattered themselves into corners, only to be drawn abruptly back at the turn of an unseen hand.
Colour and noise and endless talk. . . .
“My dear, don’t tell me he went to America because he was a Pacifist. He panicked at the thought of an air raid.”
“And now he’s back in London—”
“Blown back by the atom bomb—”
“And expecting to be lionized as before—”
Under the chandelier, the woman novelist’s voice became alcoholically penetrating.
“But how very interesting. I never realized you had two hundred birds.”
“Budgerigars, dear lady. You must come and see them some time.”
“But I’d simply love to, Mr. Fellowes.”
“The name is Beddoes.”
“Of course, how silly of me. I know you so well, Mr. Meadows.”
Laura Watson stood alone, thankful to have been lost by the man with the beard. It was so interesting to listen to other people’s conversations. A man on her left had started to tell a funny story to his companion. He’d begun it three times, but each time it neared the climax someone else butted in on their tête-à-tête and he had to begin all over again. His companion’s face began to wear the sort of smile that makes your jaw ache. Laura felt sorry for the man. It was a very old story anyhow; she remembered it going the round of the mess at least three years ago.
The people in front of her were discussing politics and someone behind her was telling an interested group about a dream she’d had in which she was tried as a war criminal for not having been beastly enough to the Germans when they were starving last winter.
An elderly man came up to Laura.
“I say, do you happen to know who the woman in the lace hat is—the one with the reddish hair. We’re betting it’s the fashion editress on Mary Cross’s rag. Are we right?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Oh . . .” the smile left his eyes. “Oh. . . . Well, never mind. Someone will.” He drifted off again.
Laura moved up to the group on her right. Not because she wanted to join in their conversation, but because she didn’t want someone kind to think she needed to be talked to. It was more fun just to listen and watch.
She could see Gyp Townsend and Helen over by the window, and her glance immediately sorted out Brian Gurney and his wife. Had there really ever been anything between Helen and Brian, and if so did Gyp know? Laura supposed it was what you’d call a triangle—only now, with Serena Gurney added, it was a square. If Helen had loved Brian, it was rather cruel of him to bring his wife to this party where he might have known the Townsends would be; Michael Cross was such a friend of theirs. Had Helen noticed Brian’s wife? She was dewy with youth and Helen wasn’t. It could be very hurtful if Helen thought about things like getting old. But then, did she? It was so difficult to tell with Helen. You never had any idea of what she really felt. Any more than you really knew whether Brian and Helen had been lovers. There was just the business of having seen them together in a hotel in Dumfries. But perhaps it hadn’t been Helen—or even Brian—only two figures in khaki.
Laura looked at the Townsends again. There was something different about them nowadays. They looked so self-contained where they were, as though all the other people in the room didn’t exist. What nice clothes Helen wore, pastel shades that somehow were absolutely right for the pallor of her face and hair. Her eyes were her best feature, you could see them quite clearly, even from this distance, huge and grey and very wide set. She had blue shadows beneath them but she looked transparently serene tonight.
Daphne Gurney was still with the tall and dissipated-looking dark man.
“Tell me, which is your wife?” she asked.
“Over there, talking to a chap called Beddoes. He used to be curator of a zoo somewhere.”
“Wearing the red hat?”
“That’s right. She wrote a best seller once, you know.”
“How interesting.”
“Is it? I can think of more interesting things.” The glance he gave her released a nerve inside Daphne. She felt breathless in the overheated atmosphere and she thought quickly of Donald Price in Kirton. He could do that to her too. Her companion said:
“What about joining me for a spot of food after this? My wife’s got a date at the Women’s Press Club.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to take my parents home to the country, worse luck. I’ll have to be collecting them in a moment.”
“Well, have another drink first.” His eyes were a little glazed as he approached the bar. Mrs. Thrush took a familiar glance at him and added another lump of ice to the gin cocktail. ‘Him again,’ she thought, ‘however do he hold it?’
The noise seemed to grow as the guests began to depart. It was as if those left were determined to keep the party stretched to the height of sound and gaiety. Late-comers hastened to have their glasses refilled. This was indeed a party.
“Just like a pre-war party,” a voice shrilled; “why don’t we all give one?”
“First catch your drink.”
“A nice old-fashioned cocktail party where friends can be really friendly.”
“What a feline remark.”
Brian Gurney said to his wife:
“What did you think of Gyp and Helen Townsend, Serena?”
“Oh, very nice, but a bit dim. I shouldn’t think they’re interested in much beyond themselves, would you?” She couldn’t see the numb pain in his heart, because she had no reason to know of such vulnerable places. Instead she smiled back at the hunger in his eyes. He held her by the arm.
“Let’s go, Serena. I don’t know that I approve of you in a crowd; people look at you too much. I want you to myself, darling.”
Angela Worthing shook Peter Gurney by the arm.
“For God’s sake, let’s go, Peter. You’re stinking anyhow.” She felt tired and indefinably bored. Bored with the glares Lady Gurney had cast in her direction, bored with Peter because he was tipsy again and bored with Mary Cross’s obvious pride in her Michael. Michael was a sweet boy, but so were lots of others. Dear God, what wouldn’t she give for a change of faces and a change of environment. Change, change—please let there always be change and movement in life. She wondered what made her feel so defeatist.
The woman novelist had remembered her date at the Women’s Press Club. She teetered on high heels, oblivious of everything but the comforting glow of alcohol.
“Good-bye, Mr. Beddoes—no, I mean Meadows—it’s been lovely meeting you again and I will certainly come and see your kedgerees one day.”
“Budgerigars, dear lady. Good night.”
She found the door.
Mrs. O’Leary put her head round the door.
“Mrs. Thrush, Mrs. Thrush,” she hissed.
Mrs. Thrush squeezed herself out from behind the bar and went over to the door.
“What’s the matter?” She had told Mrs. O’Leary not to poke her head into this room.
“A lady’s fallen d
own.”
“Fallen down?”
“Yes, twice. First time I picked her up, but all she said was ‘I’ve left my bag; where’s my little bag.’ I found it for her on the table but when I turned round, she’d fallen down again. I can’t raise her this time.”
“I’ll get Mr. Michael. Not a word of this to anyone else, Mrs. O’Leary.”
“I have my discretion, Mrs. T.”
Michael heard the tale in loud whispers from Mrs. Thrush.
“I’ll get her husband, Mrs. T.”
“Her husband? Who’s he?”
“The tall, dark man over there.”
“What, him? He’s the one keeps coming up for more. Bet he’s plastered too.” But Michael had gone off to deal with the situation. “Would you believe it?” Mrs. Thrush murmured to herself as she slipped back behind the bar.
Gyp Townsend said:
“Enjoying yourself, Helen?”
“Yes, Gyp. It’s interesting in a way. Can you find me some more potato chips?”
“What, more?”
“Yes, darling, I’m insatiable. A real craving for chips. At least it’s a cheap appetite.”
“I wouldn’t mind if it were oysters. Helen, you’re the loveliest person in this room.”
“Don’t be silly, Gyp. What about Mrs. Brian Gurney?”
“Pretty enough, but she’ll outgrow it.”
“You don’t like them?”
“Darling, I’m not interested in them. Sure you’re not tired?”
“No, but you are. Let’s go.”
Michael Cross, watching them, thought suddenly how fond he’d become of Gyp and Helen. Something had been wrong there when Gyp first came home, but the edges were wearing smooth now. They were the lucky ones.
At last the guests were leaving. Mary Cross had whispered to some of her closest friends that it was time the party ended. One by one they were being winkled out. All were loud in praise of the food and drinks. Soon the room was empty except for the friends who were going on to dine with Mary and her son. She said:
“Now I’m going to have a real drink, Mrs. Thrush. Call Mrs. O’Leary and we’ll celebrate the end of a perfect party.”
Michael said:
“Mother, I’ve asked Jane Fergusson to join us for dinner. She’s powdering her nose at the moment.”
“Lovely. We needed another woman in the party.” Mary wondered which of the girls at the party was Jane Fergusson. In a moment she would know. And was this anything serious? She took a full glass of Manhattan and turned to the remainder of her guests.
“I get so muddled with Michael’s girl friends,” she laughed.
Michael put his arms round her and whispered in her ear:
“Maybe you’ll get to know this one better,” then he grinned at the others. “In any case I’ll have to be patient—she goes back to Berlin next week and her age and service group is 54. That’s what comes of being reserved for three years at the beginning of a world war.”
Jane Fergusson came into the room. Michael moved to her side.
“I was just telling all these soaks about your military career, Jane. I don’t think you’ve really had an opportunity of meeting my mother yet. Mother, this is Jane.”
Mary Cross shook hands with a good-looking brunette—rather like Angela Worthing.
* * * *
I am going to have tea with Laura. She and I have less in common as the months go by, and I am always surprised that we still find anything to talk about. Or rather, it is Laura who finds the topics whilst I act as a traditional chorus. It might be said that our pointless conversations reflect the pattern of our lives, but that would not be true; it is only that we assume in front of each other a stereotyped façade which neither has the curiosity to peep behind.
As I walk through Kirton High Street, round the Cock and Pheasant Arms—Elsie Cobb is hanging Steven’s smalls on the line in the yard—and turn into Pilferer’s Lane where the honeysuckle intrudes over the scythed hawthorn hedges, I am conscious of a deep inner content. It is as if my lethargic body were rooted firmly in this patch of England and I were part of the greenness and blue all around me.
The countryside is sizzling with the sounds of summer and the sun has sucked colour from the hedges. I register that this will no doubt be the last fine spell of the year, and I am not dismayed. I know that I shall be here, walking through the gold of autumn and the brown of winter, filled with the same calm content.
Laura’s father is leaving Vine Cottage as I reach the gates. I am sure he is going to have tea with the vicar. Inside his shrivelled body he has the mind of a dictator—and he is triumphant. I dislike being roused by people who are antipathetic to me and so I ignore the gleam in his watery eye and, instead, I smile at him.
He is old and he is ill. That is his trump card. Through sickness he has conquered the tiny flame of independence which only a world war had succeeded in fanning to life in his daughter. Gyp has been attending Mr. Watson for several months now and although Gyp tells me nothing about his patients, I feel that the old man’s span of life is nearly completed. Laura does not know this—or if she does, she keeps the knowledge to herself. But Mr. Watson is exultant—his ill-health is a weapon he makes full use of. He is a stupid man because eventually his death will give to Laura the freedom he has always denied her.
He is courteous and creeping—he always has been—as he raises his hat to me.
“Have you heard that we are soon to have new neighbours, Mrs. Townsend? Next week the Gurneys are moving into Old Cottage.”
“Yes,” I reply dryly. Because I have always disliked Mr. Watson, his little meannesses catch me unawares. Much later on I shall have thought of the perfect answer to his insinuating comments.
“We shall welcome them to Pilferer’s Lane. They will be good neighbours.”
He says this with malice and I wonder if he realizes how much I despise him.
Laura sees me from the window and I am rescued.
Laura has just finished making new chintz covers for the Watson drawing-room and all around gilt-framed watercolours and china ornaments seem to be busily acknowledging the compliment paid to them. Laura makes me sit in the wing-backed chair facing the window while she goes to bring in tea. I am tired of offering to help, for she has an ineradicable sense of hospitality. I sit and wait and wonder whether I am still the same person who sat here at this time last year—and throughout the fifty odd Fridays since then. Why should Laura be the person to whom I have presented a constant and blank face for all this time? She knows more and less about me than anyone else in Kirton. Perhaps that is the answer.
She comes back with tea and soon we are talking a great deal. Laura is an insatiable talker; nothing is trivial enough for her to spare words over.
“You know, of course, about the Gurneys,” she says. “I feel sorry for Lady Gurney. She came and looked over Old Cottage and you could see from her face as she measured each room that she was hammering a nail in the coffin of the grand piano, the canopied four-poster and the billiard table. It’s sad, isn’t it, Helen?”
“It depends upon whether you like billiard tables and grand pianos,” I say shortly, because I am sorry for Lady Gurney and I don’t like the gleam Laura has in her eye—it is too reminiscent of the one I saw in Mr. Watson’s glance.
“Well, she does,” Laura says, gloatingly. “They’re moving next week. Daphne and Ian are going to spend a night with us. You’ve heard about Daphne, of course?”
“What?” I feel a little sick but the nausea passes. “That man called Price who took the cottage next to the Cross’s. They say he’s in love with Daphne and wants to divorce his wife. Aren’t people strange?” I watch her big, capable hands pouring hot water from a silver kettle into the Queen Anne teapot.
“Haven’t you discovered that yet?”
She looks at me in a disconcerted manner.
“I didn’t mean anything nasty, Helen.”
“Don’t be stupid, Laura.”
&nb
sp; She smiles then and goes on:
“Daphne’s attractive, don’t you think? Not that I like her; I don’t. But there’s something about all the Gurneys. A sort of charm, I suppose.” She looks at me speculatively.
“Why ask me, Laura?” I challenge her and she looks abashed. But the next instant she has given her thoughts away.
“Brian and his wife came down for last week-end; a sort of farewell party at the Manor.”
“I know, we had them over for drinks on Saturday.”
“Oh.” Laura is crestfallen. I am sorry for her because, of course, she does know about Brian and myself, but in my new-found confidence I have sown the seeds of doubt in her mind. I wonder how many times she has speculated on this subject and to whom she may have mentioned it. I am inclined to think she has kept her thoughts to herself, for she has a curious loyalty to those of her friends who were in uniform with her. Poor Laura; living as she does, life must be full of conflicting loyalties.
She helps herself to sugar and says:
“Sir James Gurney has been pottering round Old Cottage garden. I’ve promised him some hollyhock cuttings. He was quite delighted.”
I forbear to point out that Old Cottage garden could well be filled with cuttings and plants from the Manor gardens without their absence being noticed. After all, it will be nicer for the Gurneys if Laura takes an interest in their new garden—however condescendingly.
Wine of Honour Page 21