by Mary Wesley
Milly looked at her husband; he’s leaving it all to me, she thought. “I must do the polite thing,” she said, “and write to Flora’s mother. She will be pleased to hear from someone other than the child’s school.”
“I don’t remember liking the woman, or the man. They weren’t interested in the child; I remember them quite absorbed in each other. In consequence she is ignorant as hell, unsophisticated, barely knows who the Prime Minister is. Nice manners, though.”
“She will fit in very well in India.” Milly looked down at her hands.
Angus looked up sharply. “You used not to fuss like this.”
“The children were younger, darling. Now I worry. Since Mabs nearly—well, that’s over. I want the best for them.”
“Life was less complicated when they were small.” Angus stood up. Then, taking his wife’s hand, he bent to kiss her breasts, murmuring, “Ces belles choses.”
“Your moustache prickles and tickles.” Milly stroked his head.
Angus drew the shawl gently across his wife’s chest. “You’re a wonderful wife and a good mother,” he said. “A wife above rubies. Hear that, Bootsie?” He poked the little dog, who growled shrilly.
“Don’t tease her, darling,” said Milly, as she did every morning. “Could you please pass me my writing things? I’ll scratch a few letters before I get up.”
Angus went downstairs whistling.
It was true that Cosmo watched Flora. When he and Hubert had held her between them in the river and he had kissed her, he had wanted to do it again. During those seconds while he kissed her mouth and Hubert her throat she had kicked out to free herself and her feet had pushed hard along his belly and across his genitals in a way that was sexually exciting; the weight of the water turned what might have been a painful kick into something in the nature of a caress, the more interesting because unpremeditated and unconscious.
When they had shouted, “Bags I” and “She’s mine,” it had been a joke, the kind of thing they did to Mabs or Tashie. But after the kiss and the kick he felt differently. He resolved to get Flora to himself, but found it difficult. First playing Sardines his sister was present, and Hubert, so that all he managed was to put an arm round Flora’s neck and her head on his shoulder; she had moved it off. Later something had gone wrong with Hubert to sour the atmosphere and his hopes of cornering her came to nothing. He fumbled about in the dark but could not find her. It was years later that she confessed to cheating and hiding in the hall cupboard.
It was too public to kiss her when they danced; she seemed more relaxed dancing with Nigel or Henry than with himself or Hubert. He suspected Hubert had erred in some way, but did not care to ask. Slightly puzzled, he decided to wait for the perfect opportunity.
So he took to the river with his rod and, as he followed its twists and turns and cast his fly, he visualised Flora in a succession of erotic situations which began with her long eyelashes brushing his cheek and ended with her clasped warmly naked in his arms in a paroxysm of delicious lust. Adept at sexual fantasy, Cosmo was, as were most of his contemporaries, an innocent, given to masturbation which left him frustrated.
Another block was Mabs who, with Tashie, spent much time with Flora, so much indeed that it crossed his mind that Flora was being used as a shield. Should Tashie disappear with Henry on a romantic ramble, rather than follow suit with Nigel Mabs kept Flora by her, so that she was constantly part of a threesome, as intimately inaccessible as though she’d been strung up in a cage like a canary.
When, one afternoon, he rounded a bend in the river and saw Flora sitting staring at the water with her arms hugging her knees, he stopped and watched to make sure she was alone before sitting beside her. She gave him a startled glance. He said, “I’ll go away if you want to be alone.”
She said, “No.”
There was a trout in the pool well known to Cosmo; he had hooked it twice in the past. It had grown old and wily. He wondered whether to point the fish out but thought that if she had seen it this would be a waste of breath, and if she had not she might betray a lack of interest. He sat listening to the sound of the river, the rustle of swallows swooping across the water and distant sounds of harvesting.
Flora said, “It’s very difficult for me.”
Not knowing her train of thought Cosmo asked, without turning his head, still watching the fish, “What’s difficult?”
Flora said: “At school the other girls whine and moan for their parents. They cry for their mothers. They sob. I never know how real it is because, when one starts, the others join in. Sometimes the whole dormitory is in tears. I didn’t tell you this the other day when I made you all laugh. I wonder whether I am odd. I don’t cry. I tried once, I lay in the dark and worked myself up. ‘I want my mother, I want my mother,’ I said to myself, but I didn’t want her. I couldn’t squeeze out a tear. I felt ashamed.”
Cosmo gripped his knees and stared at the trout a foot down in water the colour of beer. Its tail and fins moved as it positioned itself against a rock.
Flora went on: “Of course I’ve always known, but coming here to Coppermalt and seeing how you all love your father and mother and how they love you makes me sure. I dislike my mother and my father; there have been times when I hate them.” Cosmo remembered Hubert’s description of Flora walking into the sea. “And yet,” she said, “you are not all perfectly happy. I can’t make it out.”
Cosmo looked at Flora in surprise. She was right, he thought, but any lack of happiness could not be blamed on his parents.
“I was wondering, when you came along,” Flora said, “whether there is all that difference between love and hate, between doing things to please your parents, as you and Mabs do, or because you must, as I must.”
Cosmo said, “Why did you keep your eyes shut when you walked into the sea at Dinard?” (Was it hate? he wondered.)
“It was because I couldn’t swim. I suppose Blanco told you.”
“You bit and kicked him.”
“He interfered.”
“They would not have minded you dead. It would have done them a favour,” said Cosmo.
“From hate?”
“From whatever.”
“There you are!” She was looking at him now. She did not look like the girl he fantasised about at night—by day, too.
Cosmo said: “If you are really unhappy about going to India when the time comes, don’t. I’ll help you.”
“How?” She looked at him fiercely.
“I’ll think of something.”
Flora laughed. She did not laugh nicely. She sounded older than fifteen. Cosmo was annoyed. He should have said, “I’ll marry you,” or “You must live with me,” or, “I will look after you, save you from the suitable subalterns,” anything rather than, “I’ll think of something,” which in its ineptitude meant nothing. He picked up a pebble and aimed it at the trout; the trout, who had endured worse, did not disturb itself. Flora whispered: “You wouldn’t dare.” Then she said, “Mabs tells me that life at Coppermalt is not all kindness, affection and generosity. I had to be told. Mabs knows. She isn’t happy.”
“Of course she is. She is going to marry Nigel.”
Flora raised her eyebrows, fluttered her eyelashes and said, “True,” pursing her lips.
Remembering various scenes of doubt, hesitation and his parents’ worried faces, Cosmo could gladly have hit Flora, but he said: “It’s all fixed, you know. She’s having a great time shopping. I am to be chief usher and Henry will be best man at the wedding.”
Flora said: “She wanted to marry Felix.”
“How d’you know?” Cosmo was startled, “Felix?”
“Because she told me.” (Because I too love Felix).
“My parents—”
“It wasn’t them. He didn’t, Felix didn’t want to.”
“She told you that?” Cosmo was amazed.
“Yes.”
“Poor old Mabs.” (I must be blind as a bat.)
They sat staring at the river. Flora
said: “Life must be a lot simpler for that big trout half-hidden by that stone.”
Cosmo said: “I’ve hooked him twice. He got off each time, he’s wily.”
“Bully for him.”
“The only sort of person who would help me,” said Flora, “is someone like Alexis Tarasov, if he still exists.” (I do not love Alexis, I never would.)
“Oh, he does,” said Cosmo. “By chance Hubert and I met him in Paris. He’s still driving a taxi; he drove us from the Gare de Lyon to the Gare de l’Est. We recognised him. I’ve got his address somewhere. He’s grown fat and jowly.”
“Give it to me.”
“We had time for a game of backgammon in a café frequented by White Russians. He beat us both. He wouldn’t be of any use to you.”
“I’d still like his address.”
“All right, I’ll find it for you. We should go back, we’ll be late for dinner.” Cosmo stood up and held out his hand. Flora took it and let him pull her up. “I will help you if you ever need it,” he said. “I promise.” Flora did not answer for, with a percipience beyond her years, she knew that he did not want to be tied, that in this sense he was like Felix.
Walking up to the house, Cosmo felt he had been closer to Flora when she was a child and he fifteen, when they sat on the floor in Madame Tarasova’s room above the horse butcher and played backgammon in the shadow of Elizabeth Shovehalfpenny’s breasts. He had tweaked her eyelashes. He had been happy. He said: “Oh hell, we’d better hurry, I’d forgotten; there are people coming to dinner, Miss Green and Joyce. Do you remember Joyce? A very agile girl. She’s arriving to stay.”
“Sticking-out teeth and white eyelashes?”
“That’s the one. The teeth are straight now; she looks like a rather wonderful chestnut horse. She darkens her eyelashes; she’s really rather beautiful. She has the most stunning figure, gorgeous long legs and her breasts are terrific.”
“How nice.”
“We all stay at the place her step-father takes for the grouse shooting. We go next week, I think. It’s near Perth.”
“I thought you did not shoot.”
“I get a bit bored with Father, but Scotland’s different. We go most years. Why are you running?” For Flora had broken into a trot.
“I’m cold.” She ran faster.
Oh damn, thought Cosmo, watching her race ahead, why didn’t I kiss her by the river? When she took my hand and I pulled her up I could have kissed her. We were alone, it was a perfect opportunity. I could have had a go, raped her even. Visualising the imaginary scene Cosmo broke into laughter. Seen from behind Flora looked childish, he thought; she lacked the fluidity of movement which graced Joyce. Looking forward to Joyce he too broke into a trot.
TWENTY-SEVEN
VITA AND DENYS SAT on the Club verandah watching a game of tennis played in the near distance between two girls freshly arrived from England, partnered respectively by a captain in a Gurkha regiment and the Governor’s A.D.C. A dachshund belonging to the Colonel of one of the Sikh regiments romped with Denys’ Airedale bitch Tara on the lawn between the clubhouse and the tennis court. Watching the dogs circling lazily, Denys said: “That obviates the necessity of exercising her; we should be grateful to the Colonel.”
“So long as they don’t destroy the flowerbeds,” said Vita, as the animals doubled away from a bank of Canna lilies. “I rather hate that colour red. It’s evil.”
It was Sunday. Denys and Vita had been to church; they sat waiting for drinks to be brought them. The day was agreeably warm after the cool night of northern India; people sat around in twos and threes, gossiping as they drank their Pimms, pink gins or Martinis, and idly watched the tennis. A few sat apart, reading month-old Tatlers or Country Life. The men looked appreciatively at Vita; their women waved and noted her peach-coloured crêpe-de-chine dress, white cardigan, silk-stockinged legs and co-respondent shoes. Denys complemented his wife’s chic in a pale grey suit, cream silk shirt, old school tie and suede shoes. “I don’t know how she does it,” said a woman to a friend. “How does she keep that incredible complexion in this climate? They never go home. Just look at her hair, it’s as glossy as a child’s. She must be nearly forty. It makes one sick.”
“We all know what they say,” said her friend.
“They look jolly well on it.” Both women shook with laughter.
A pair of kites circling the sky spiralled down to perch on the Club roof and stare with malevolent eyes.
“I ordered stout,” said Denys, pulling up his trousers at the knee and crossing his legs. “The first of the season’s oysters have arrived from Bombay.”
“Delicious,” said Vita.
“Just what we need.”
“We need no spur.” Vita smiled the smile her husband loved. “Did you order brown bread and butter?”
“Of course. That girl plays a good game. Who is she staying with? What’s her name? She’s new.”
“I don’t know yet. She’s the niece of the Colonel of the 1st/11th Sikhs. A bit on the dumpy side, but she’s off on the right foot with the Governor’s A.D.C. No messing about there.” Vita laughed.
“Let’s hope when our turn comes that we can manoeuvre an equally effective launch.”
“Don’t talk about it! We have two years yet.” Vita frowned. Then, looking up as two men went by carrying squash rackets, she said, “Hello. Come and join us after your game.”
“Thanks, we’d love to,” said one of the men.
Vita said, “One of those might do if he hasn’t been snapped up.”
“Early days,” said Denys. “Ah, here are our drinks, and I nearly forgot, a letter for you addressed care of the Club.” Vita took the letter as a servant in Club uniform set oysters, tankards of stout and a plate of bread and butter on the table between them.
“I don’t know this writing.” Vita turned the letter over. “Nice paper. Oysters first.” She put the letter down and impaled an oyster on a toothpick. “Delicious,” she breathed.
Denys watched her swallow; the slight movement in her throat stirred him.
“My word, you two take risks,” said a woman as she passed their table. “Oysters in barrels from Bombay! Smacks of suicide to me!”
“Perfectly fresh,” said Vita sweetly. “We know what we are doing.”
“I should say you risk the trots, if not dysentery,” said the woman.
Vita spiked another oyster, murmured, “Busybody, interfering bitch,” as the woman receded.
Denys grinned; his wife’s relations with other women never failed to delight him. He watched his dog circle crazily round the dachsund. “She’ll give it a heart attack,” he said, helping himself to bread and butter, gulping his stout. “Look at its wretched little legs. Who is the letter from?”
Vita tore open the envelope, spread out the letter and peered at the signature. “Milly Leigh. Who is Milly Leigh? Oh, I remember—Dinard.”
“Married to a retired old buffer General, one son, one daughter. Friends of that Dutch family. What does she want?” The dogs were now lying exhausted, facing each other, tongues lolling. “I think I’d better get her clipped.”
“Who?”
“Tara, darling. Why should Mrs. Leigh write to you?”
Vita was reading the letter. “They seem to have had Flora to stay. How curious. Thought we’d like news of her which does not come from the school. Grown quite pretty—that’s a relief, I suppose. Dances well, tennis, swims, rides. Of course she does, she has two legs. Something about ‘a dry school report’. Do we ever read them?”
“I skim through when I pay the bill; she’s average.”
“Above average would not do out here. It’s a bit of a cheek; is she hinting at something? I wonder why she invited her? Nice of her, I suppose.” Vita read the address. “Coppermalt House, Northumberland.”
On the tennis court the dumpy girl screamed, “Out, it was out!”
“If you say so,” said the Governor’s A.D.C. “Change ends, my serve.”
/> “Silly girl, it was in,” said Denys.
Above their heads the kites moved with a rustle of wings from the Club roof to the branch of a tree.
Vita went back to the letter. “Rather awful handwriting, what sheets. Quite a newsy lady. The son is at Oxford and so is his friend, who I may remember as Blanco. ‘But we now call him Hubert, of course.’ Fancy that.”
“I recollect two rather offensive boys.”
“I don’t. Oh, the girl is getting married and so is her friend, Tashie. Why should we be interested? Ah, wait, there’s more; they were both presented at Court and have done three seasons. Think what that must have cost. Not very fast off the mark, were they, those two? Flora will have to do better than that. I’m not putting up with her hanging around for years. I think Mrs. Leigh rather interfering, Denys. Is she suggesting we should have Flora presented? What an absurd suggestion.”
Denys laughed. “She’s the sort that takes it as a matter of course.”
“Well, it’s not on,” said Vita angrily. “It’s quite unnecessary.”
Denys smiled; he loved seeing his wife get angry about something unimportant. “Did you see a lot of her when I left you in France? Were you friends?”
“Not really. She’s not my type. I was too busy.”
“Doing what?” What had she done all that July, August and September? She had hardly talked about it. He repeated his question, “Busy doing what?”
“I was looking after Flora. Getting a new outfit. I spent hours having fittings, hours. That Russian dressmaker was terribly slow. Only worth it because she was cheap.”
“And what else?”
“I was bored and lonely without you.”
“Were you?”
“And then—”
“And then?” He leaned forward; her nose had sharpened as it did when she told a lie. “And then?” he persisted.
“Denys, you’re not jealous?” Her pale grey eyes were bright, the whites very white.
“I am.”
The kite which had been watching them with clinical interest chose its moment and swooped to snatch the oyster Vita held impaled on a toothpick. Flapping as it reversed upwards with its prize, it struck Vita’s face. She screamed.