Sensible Life

by Mary Wesley

  “Do you read the papers?” Nigel, remembering his manners, turned a benign gaze on Flora. “Do you keep track of what’s going on?”

  Flora said: “We never see the papers at school. We do something called ‘current affairs’, but it’s so dull I never listen.”

  “I suppose you bone up on the news in the holidays?” said Nigel kindly.

  “I spend the holidays at school.”

  Nigel said, “Oh,” nonplussed. “Ah.”

  Flora felt she should apologise for her oddity but Nigel said, “One way to get round that would be to take a newspaper of your own. When I was at Eton I read The Times so that I wouldn’t look silly in the holidays.”

  Flora said: “I feel rather silly now.”

  Nigel said: “Actually, my interest was racing. I say, what’s going on over there?” Flora followed Nigel’s glance to where at the head of the table Angus Leigh had been holding forth to the lady on his right. Now he had turned his attention to Miss Green on his left. Miss Green had, like Flora, hoped to get through dinner without talking much; she was cursed with a stammer, unmarried, but far from stupid. She was a friend of the Wards and was staying with them.

  Introduced to Hubert before dinner, she had said in Flora’s earshot: “F-Freddy s-says I shall have to s-sit next to our host. W-what s-shall I talk about? Can you s-suggest a t-topic? I hate t-talking.”

  “Try the League of Nations and Stanley Baldwin,” said Hubert. “That usually works wonders.”

  Now there was the kind of silence one gets in the middle of a windy night before an increase to gale force. Miss Green, having taken Hubert’s advice, looked up at her host.

  Flora, sensing that nobody would be looking her way, risked looking up. All around fellow diners hushed. Across the table Hubert looked bland. Behind his master’s chair the butler raised his eyes to the ceiling. General Leigh, face flushed red, said, “What?”, glaring at Miss Green, who in an almost inaudible voice was heard to repeat her remark. “D-don’t you think the L-League of N-Nations wonderful, General Leigh? W-what do you think of it vis-a-vis B-Baldwin?”

  “It is a club for Frogs and Wogs,” said Angus loudly. “It bodes nothing but ill, it will bring disaster. That bugger Baldwin pretends to go along with it, but he secretly despises it, as I do openly. The League of so-called Nations is an international mafia of ill repute artfully concocted by political lounge lizards and communists at somebody else’s expense. Who is going to pick up the bill for all their tommy rot and skulduggery, Miss Green? Tell me that.”

  “Angus darling,” said Milly, from her place half-way down the table next to Freddy Ward, “please.”

  “The British taxpayer pays. You and I.” Angus ignored his wife. “I take it you pay taxes, Miss Green?”

  “Certainly,” replied Miss Green.

  “Then vote, Miss Green; denounce as I do these impossible Bolshie foreigners building palaces of peace in Geneva with your money, or never come to my house again.”

  “I shan’t,” said Miss Green quietly.

  “Angus! Apologise,” Milly’s voice cut through the gale. “At once!”

  “I apologise,” said Angus unapologetically.

  “You must know one of the children will have put her up to it. Look at their faces!” cried Milly. “Miss Green is our guest; you have insulted her, this is a tease, darling.”

  Angus glared at his wife. “One of the children? They look pretty grown-up to me. Bolshies, are they? All Bolshies leave the room.”

  Cosmo and Hubert pushed back their chairs and stood up. Mabs, Tashie, Henry, Nigel and Flora stood too. The girl sitting between Cosmo and Hubert looked bewildered. The butler signalled to the parlourmaid to open the door.

  “Have you heard of Adolf Hitler?” Miss Green’s voice was stammerless.

  “No. Does he belong to the League Of Nations?” Angus was still suspicious.

  “No, he doesn’t. He’s German.”

  “Then tell me about this sensible fellow. Oh, come back, all of you, try not to be so ridiculous,” Angus shouted after the departing young, then turned to Miss Green. “You must forgive me, Miss Green.”

  “What a performance,” said the girl sitting between Cosmo and Hubert as they regained their seats.

  Hubert caught Flora’s eye and smiled. Nigel and Henry leaned towards her and said, “And what do you think of the League of Nations, Flora?” But Flora was smiling back at Hubert, remembering the incident in the river.

  “Is this Hitler chap the sort of fellow we will get to hear of?” Angus enquired of Miss Green.

  “Quite possibly,” said Miss Green.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “ARE YOU GETTING THE feel of Coppermalt?” Mabs and Flora lay under a fourposter bed. The young of the party had chosen to play Sardines while their elders played bridge. Mabs wriggled herself into a comfortable position. “Lie between me and the outside world, then if Nigel finds us he can’t—” Her voice was inaudible.

  “What?” Flora whispered.

  “He’s a bit of a fumbler, that’s all. Now come on, tell me what—”

  “This isn’t going to do this dress much good.” Flora had been doubtful of joining Mabs.

  “Never mind the dress. Keep still, hush.”

  Flora lay still as told.

  Another person who it was not possible to see in the dark opened the door, prowled round the room, muttered, “Not in here,” and closed the door. Flora, who had tensed, relaxed.

  “I was asking about your first impressions,” Mabs resumed. “What were they?”

  “Oh, love, kindness, affection, generosity; everyone is so—”

  “Who’s that?” Mabs jumped. Somebody had laughed.

  “Only me; I was behind the curtains. Budge over, Mabsy.” Hubert crawled past her feet to lie beside her. “Who have you got there?” He stretched across Mabs and touched Flora’s head, letting his fingers explore her hair. “I do believe it’s Flora.”

  “Of course it’s Flora. Shut up, Hubert; go on, Flora. Everyone is so—so what? What are we besides loving, kind, affectionate and generous? Go on.”

  “Then your father at dinner—”

  “I thought you might be here.” Cosmo lifted the valance and slid in to join them. “I didn’t go out when I shut the door.”

  “Crafty beast,” said his sister. “That’s cheating.”

  “I might have gone away if you hadn’t started talking. Move over,” said Cosmo. “Let’s get on with your first impressions, Flora. What were you going to say about Father?”

  “Go on,” said Mabs, “tell.”

  Flora said hesitantly. “He seemed so—um—angry about the League of Nations. He sort of exploded.”

  “Hubert, you’ll get stick from Mother,” said Mabs. “She worries about his blood pressure; foreigners are bad for it.”

  “I have already apologised,” said Hubert. “I expressed suitable penitence. Miss Green—who is she, by the way?—looked sceptical.”

  Flora, puzzled, said, “But—”

  “Foreigners,” Cosmo explained, “are people to be fought. Leagues of them don’t tally in Father’s book; he is not kind or loving or affectionate about foreigners.” Cosmo slid his arm under Flora’s neck and pulled her head onto his shoulder. “He is only generous to rare exceptions, and even they have been suspected of blotting their—”

  “I believe she was quite shocked by Father’s rage,” said Mabs quickly. “We Leighs of Coppermalt are not all we appear at first sight, are we, Cosmo?”

  Flora wondered what Cosmo had been going to say, whether he would have mentioned Felix.

  “When you were in France,” she said hesitantly, “your father got on all right with people, didn’t he?”

  “That would be the hotel servants or the waiters or shopkeepers,” said Hubert.

  Beside her Cosmo chuckled.

  “But he was very friendly with the Shovehalfpennies,” Flora protested. “You shared their table.”

  “Titled exceptions to his
rule,” said Hubert.

  Cosmo laughed outright.

  Mabs said, “Honestly, Blanco, must you?” rather crossly.

  The door opened again and a girl came in.

  “Has anyone looked under that bed, Nigel? Mabs had a thing about hiding under beds when she was little.”

  “There’s more to do on top of them.” Nigel followed the girl into the room.

  “Let’s have a look,” said the girl as she lifted the valance. “I’m right, I spy feet. I recognise Mabs’ shoes.”

  “No room, no room,” said Cosmo.

  “Let’s lie on top then, under the eiderdown,” said the girl. “Or will it make you jealous, Mabs?”

  “No,” said Mabs. “Feel free.”

  Nigel and the girl climbed onto the bed, giggling. “Got a chamber pot under there?” asked Nigel. “The Coppermalt jerries are famous. My future father-in-law has a silver one, a collector’s item, did you know?” The girl giggled. “D’you think he would give it to us as a wedding present, darling?”

  Mabs said, “He’s not your father-in-law, yet.”

  “Oho—listen to that.” Nigel bounced on the bed.

  Neither Mabs nor Nigel sounded particularly loving. Cosmo whispered in Flora’s ear, “Abysmal humour.”

  “Come out, come out. You were talking so loud we could hear you in the passage.” Henry opened the door and switched on the light while the rest of the searchers stampeded in behind him.

  “I vote we have one more game,” said Tashie, “only play fair this time, keep separate and keep quiet. I’m glad you are wearing one of Mabs’ dresses, not one of mine,” she said as Flora crawled from under the bed. “Now, everybody, no cheating this time; let’s start from the hall, no going about in twos, and absolute dark.”

  “Tash is a great one for the proprieties,” said Henry.

  “My turn to hide,” said Hubert.

  “Oh, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t,” they said.

  “Yes, it is.” Hubert over-rode them.

  Unused to the house, Flora thought she would stay on the ground floor. She felt her way cautiously round the hall. She thought if she found the stairs, she might cheat and latch onto another player coming up or down, or perhaps just sit on the stairs. Carefully she felt her way past an oak chest. She remembered that there were two and on each an important-looking vase; she must not break them. It was amazingly dark and silent. Tashie had made everyone take off their shoes and promise not to talk or even whisper. Trying to orientate herself, Flora stood still and listened. Against her cheek she felt the occasional whisper of a draught as somebody somewhere opened or closed a door. There was the murmur of voices from the drawing-room, where the older generation played bridge, then close by the clink of glass on glass, the squirt of a syphon and Angus’ voice: “What did you say, darling? I couldn’t hear.”

  “I said, she is pretty. I was expecting fat legs and pimples.”

  Flora, calculating her whereabouts, started moving away along the wall.

  Angus said: “So you had convinced yourself, my love. Want a drink?”

  “No, thanks. Freddy would like a whisky. It was your chum, Rosa, who persuaded me. I do hope Cosmo—”

  “Ordered, more like.” Angus snorted with laughter. “Is Miss Green having anything? Just lemonade? Very well. Good old Rosa. You needn’t issue another invitation, let it drop.”

  “I’ll feel so mean,” said Milly’s voice, quite close now. “Is that for Miss Green? I’ll take it to her. Thank you, darling.”

  “You’ll recover.” Angus sounded rather jolly, Flora thought. She now knew where she was; if she felt along the wall to the right, she would reach the stairs and be able to sit, but she must mind the second oak dresser. Milly’s voice followed her. “After what nearly happened with Felix that time—”

  “That was your imagination.” Angus had moved away. “Nothing came of it.”

  “But I don’t want Cosmo to—”

  At the mention of Felix’s name Flora pricked up her ears and was tempted to move back towards the drawing-room door, but an arm was put round her, someone whispered, “Shh,” she was drawn into the recess of a deep cupboard and, still holding her, her captor shut the door.

  Hubert murmured, “Stand well back. There, just keep still while I rearrange all these—”

  It was inky black, far darker than the hall. Hubert held her with one hand while he rearranged a cluster of coats and mackintoshes between them and the door. “Nobody will find us now.” He leaned back, holding her against him, hands circling her waist.

  “Hubert, Blanco.”

  “Yes?”

  “You made me jump.” Indeed her heart thumped with fright. She wanted to ask what the Leighs were talking about, but did not want him to think she had eavesdropped. Then she forgot the Leighs as Hubert began stroking her back. It was damply stuffy in the cupboard; the coats hanging round them smelled of horse and earth, tobacco, whisky, hair oil, fish and dogs. A Wellington boot leaned against her leg; when she put out a hand to steady herself she felt the mesh of a landing net. Hubert murmured, stroking her back, “I saw you undressing by the river. I wanted to do this then.” He rubbed his chin over the top of her head, holding her close.

  Flora said: “I heard them talking in the drawing-room, something about Felix. Mrs. Leigh seemed—Hubert, what happened?” She was consumed with curiosity.

  “Oh, that’s old stuff. He was invited to stay. Mabs made a dead set at him. You may not remember she and Tashie chased him like crazy that holiday we were all in Dinard.”

  “I remember.”

  “Oh? Yes, perhaps you would. Anyway, the General asked him to stay. Mabs made a dead set, made rather a fool of herself actually and Mrs. Leigh took fright.”

  “Why?”

  “Foreigners again. Better to have the Channel between your daughter and foreigners; no amount of money and nice titles makes up for the Channel.”

  “Oh.”

  “She need not have worried, Felix was not reciprocating and spent almost his whole time fishing with Cosmo and me. I like Felix.”

  “So do I.”

  “Why are we talking about Felix? We are playing Sardines. Squash up, Flora, that’s the point of the game.”

  Flora pulled away. “It’s an awfully silly game. What is it for? Didn’t Felix want to marry her?”

  “Not so that you’d notice. Funny fellow, Felix.” Hubert pulled her back. “Sardines is a game. Somebody hides, then everybody looks for that person and, when they find them, they squash in with them. In a way it’s a better game than Murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “With Murder you all wander about until the murderer takes somebody by the throat. Like this,” Hubert put his hands round Flora’s neck, “then the person screams. Don’t scream now, stupid”—for Flora had gasped—“just keep still. I want to put my thumbs in these hollows, these little salt cellars.” Flora stood still; she was beginning to feel frightened. “Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you.” Hubert let go of her neck and put his hands back round her waist.

  “I’m not afraid.” His hands round her throat had felt huge. Then Hubert did something she did not expect: he pulled up her dress and put his hand down across her bottom, letting his middle finger trace the cleft between her buttocks. “When I saw you by the river I wanted to do this too,” he said, “badly.”

  But Flora was pulling away. “No, no, no, don’t—please don’t—my mother, my mother, my—” Gasping and weeping, she remembered looking down from the top of the cliff in Brittany and seeing her father pull up her mother’s dress at the back; her mother had pulled it over her head and lain down on the sand and opened her legs—

  “You poor little thing. Here, let me mop.” Hubert fumbled for a handkerchief. “The last thing I want to do is make you cry. I thought your mother a disaster. Mabs and Tash were only saying earlier what a cow she is, giving you no clothes.”

  “Oh, she is,” Flora hiccoughed, “she is. I hate h
er. It’s just, oh, Blanco, I can’t explain.”

  “Then don’t try.” Hubert remembered Denys and Vita wrapped up in each other, aloof, unlike the ordinary run of parent. He held Flora gently with one arm and applied his handkerchief with his free hand.

  Flora leaned against him, regretted pulling away. She whispered, “Put it back.”

  “What?”

  She reached for his hand, replaced it round her waist. “It was because I remembered my mother,” she said.

  “And?”

  “And my father. They were, they are so—then at the picnic, when you were all swimming and things and—”

  “Yes?”

  Flora told him, whispering how she had seen her parents from her perch at the top of the cliff. “I thought they’d gone mad,” she said. “They looked so ridiculous. I thought if people saw them they would laugh. What do you suppose they were doing?”

  With his arms round Flora, Hubert shook with laughter. “Oh, Flora! Oh-ho-ho-ho oh ha-ha-ha.” He swallowed his laughter in her hair. “Oh, Flora, oh.”

  “That’s what I thought would happen. You are laughing. That’s what I remembered when you—” She was furious.

  “I wasn’t laughing at your parents, I promise.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Only a little, I swear. I guessed they were a bit randy. I was laughing at their choice of venue, such a chilly locale.” (And I was laughing because I am a bit shocked, he thought. Well, more than a bit, quite a lot.)

  “Doing what? What’s ‘randy’? What’s ‘locale’?”

  “One is a word you shouldn’t use, and locale is, well, this coat cupboard is a locale, our present locale.” Hubert nuzzled Flora’s neck. “You smell delicious, like unsalted butter. What are you doing? Why are you wriggling?”

  “I am easing my knickers up. You pushed them halfway down. They are uncomfortable.” Hubert was laughing again. “And this cupboard stinks,” said Flora huffily, as she readjusted her dress.

  “You’re right, it does. Perhaps we had better get back to the game, rejoin the others.”

  “All right.” Flora felt she had put a foot wrong in some way, got out of touch. “How is your mother?” she asked, groping for conventional ground.