by Mary Wesley
Hubert said, “Yes.”
In old age they would wonder whether they had really heard the blast of the ship’s siren above the noise of the Marseilles traffic and exchanged a smile as they boarded the bus. The smile, yes, but the siren?
Rattling out of Marseilles Flora fell asleep, letting her head drop against Hubert’s shoulder. Hubert, who had had no sleep since leaving London, began to doze, and dozing was presently aware that Flora was talking.
“I didn’t talk to anyone for the first part of the voyage. I was frightfully seasick and stayed in my cabin. Then when I was better I met them at meals—they seemed quite nice—asked me to dance—shuffled their places at meals so they were all at my table—to be honest, I rather liked it, they paid more attention to me than to other—a bit boring trying to kiss—it wasn’t like Coppermalt, they were different, somehow—or I was? I don’t know. At Gibraltar I went ashore with them; we swam in a cove, that was lovely—one night two of them tried to force their way into my cabin—pretty stupid really. Then when we got to Marseilles I thought it would be all right to go with them to a nightclub. I’d never been to a nightclub, I wanted to see what it’s like—I thought a French nightclub would be—It was not what I expected, no band and no glitter—disappointing, actually—very made-up girls sitting about urging people to order drinks—none of the men spoke French so they looked pretty silly and the girls didn’t speak English—after a lot of boring sitting about we went into another room—I thought we were going to dance but there was no band—I do love dancing—it was a sort of cinema and when the film came on, it was people with nothing on doing—it wasn’t funny, I supposed it was meant—I thought it, well, ugly—then in the middle of this film, the most extraordinary contortions, I remembered when I was very small, I’d practically forgotten but it all came rushing back—going into my parents’ room in India and they were doing—and there was this smell and they yelled at me, scared me to bits—they were hating me, hating—I’ve been puzzling for years why I didn’t want to go to India—the people are wonderful, the country is lovely, there’s this marvellous scent in the air of dust and spice and dung—well, those people on the screen—some of it was comical, I suppose, but nobody—well, it wasn’t like lying in marble arms—I whizzed out of that place, found the taxi and he, of course, the taximan, thought I knew it was a brothel, not a nightclub and that I was a prostitute. Honestly, Blanco, I’ve never felt such a fool in my life. Sorry, Hubert.”
Hubert, who had been holding his breath, let it out in a long sigh.
Flora said, “You must let me know what I owe you for the taxi.”
Hubert said, “What are marble arms?”
Flora said, “Just something.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
“IT IS A WONDERFUL INVITATION, we may never get another chance. We must go, darling. It’s not as though he was one of the minor Maharajahs who ask just anybody.” Vita fingered the letter, feeling the stiff paper with pleasure. “Everyone we know will go green with envy.”
Denys thought, as he so often had before, that animation made her sparkle. “It would do you good,” he said, “to have some fun, a pick-up after all you’ve been through.”
“But what a pity—” Vita drooped.
“What’s a pity?”
“Those new frocks she’s bringing with her. It would have been nice to be able to borrow them for the trip. And to have new shoes and a fresh bottle of scent.”
“You always look lovely; surely you have enough clothes?”
“Not new ones, alas. But we will go?”
“Of course.”
“What about—?”
“Don’t fuss. She can settle in by herself, she’s not a child. She’ll be met and brought up here. She will be all right with the servants. It won’t be for long. I’ll ask one or two people to keep an eye on her. I believe there’s a niece coming out to stay with somebody. I’ll enquire. She can ride if she wants to. I’ll tell the sake.”
“Not Robina?”
“No, no, one of the older ponies. I can’t risk my best polo—”
“Of course not.”
“Well, then,” Vita smiled. “When we get back from our visit I shan’t feel let down by the humdrum. I shall have some new clothes then, won’t I?”
“Speaking as your humdrum husband, I prefer you without,” said Denys. It was good to see her perking up. The injections had taken it out of her; she had been so brave.
“I brought you some magazines, Vita, which arrived today in the mail.” Alec, the Governor’s A.D.C., appeared on the verandah. It was pleasant, he thought, not to be greeted by a snarling Airedale. He bent to kiss Vita’s cheek.
Vita said, “Oh Alec, thank you. How kind and thoughtful.”
Denys said, “Hello, Alec. Sit down, have a drink,” and shouted an order to his bearer. Alec’s hair, he noted, was greying at the temples, which added to his air of distinction.
“When you have finished with the Geographical Magazine may I have it back?” Alec settled in a chair. “I usually pass it on to the missionaries. But please keep the others.”
Vita said, “Those tiresome missionaries, how can you put up with them? I will skip through the geography while you talk to Denys. Tell him about the invitation, darling. It’s so exciting.”
Denys said: “We’ve been invited to stay—here, look at the invitation.” Denys passed the Maharajah’s letter to Alec. “Vita is more concerned about what she will wear than with geography. Geography is not her line.”
“Oh, I say, how grand. My word, he gets his writing paper from Cartier, like my grandmother. I do think you are lucky, hardly anyone gets asked. He must have heard of Vita’s beauty.” Alec accepted a drink brought by the Trevelyans’ bearer borne, he noted, with an inward sneer, on a salver won by Denys at polo in New Delhi. “Gosh,” he said, “I envy you.”
Denys, who had no titled grandmother who bought her writing paper at Cartier, said, keeping his voice bland, “But you’ve been, you must let me pick your brains.”
“In the course of duty, not a proper visit. I attended my master.” Alec invariably referred to the Governor as his master. He sipped his drink as he sat in a chair from which he had a good view of Vita. She is lovely, he thought; lovely and unobtainable. Which suits me fine.
Conscious of being watched, Vita began turning the pages of the magazine as she listened to the men. The Maharajah’s attitude to the British was excellent, said Alec; he had after all been educated at Eton and Oxford—no, not Balliol, Christ Church—and he kept up with English friends. His attitude to Congress? Well, you know how they are, totally aloof and yet and yet—in Europe. Of course, it was Monte Carlo and the Ritz in London for Ascot week. Yes, quite a gambler. Knows about horses, oh yes. And the usual restaurants and nightclubs. Fond of cars, too. Shoots with a couple of dukes, but it’s not all money; he keeps up with school friends, there’s an article there in the magazine Vita’s reading about one of them, an explorer actually. “May I borrow that for a minute?” Alec leaned forward and took the magazine from Vita, flipping through it. “Ah, here we are. This chap. But I remember now, don’t mention him, he blotted his copybook with His Highness, so steer clear—” Alec showed the magazine to Denys.
Denys said, “Never heard of him. Should I have?”
“No. He writes travel books, known in those sort of circles. Not your line really, a bit superficial. He never stays long enough in one place to know it so one doubts the integrity of his writing. It is said that wherever he goes he—er—impregnates some woman and leaves a trail of unexplained infants. But on the other hand—” Alec laughed—“I did hear that the froideur with the Maharajah was over a boy, so Lord knows what’s true, I imagine he is a man who creates legends; people who never stay in one place do.” Alec handed the magazine back to Vita.
Turning the pages, Vita was conscious of Alec’s admiration; he had once, when dancing, muttered in her ear that he worshipped the ground she trod on. He had had a few drinks. Would Alec
, Vita wondered, as she surreptitiously studied the photograph of the explorer, do for Flora? If he married Flora, she would retain a hold. “Bought any rare and lovely rugs lately?” She handed him back the magazine. “Nothing much to interest me in that,” she said, “but thanks a lot.” (The man, if it was the man, was unrecognisable.)
“Rugs.” Alec’s eyes lit up. “Ah, yes. I have my eye on three, but the old devil is asking too much; he knows I collect. You will see some wonderful rugs in the Maharajah’s palace, and many other treasures. Mouth-watering. He has a French chef, by the way. You’ll get excellent food.”
“I shall like that,” said Vita. “I love French food.”
“Tigers?” asked Denys. “Does one go prepared? Nothing is said.”
“Oh, go prepared. It was mooted for my master but you know him, he hated killing things. I suspect His Highness was miffed, expecting him to be like his dukes. Now, my dears, I must go. Many thanks for the drink.” Alec stood up, bent down and kissed Vita’s cheek. “Have a good time.”
“Thank you, Alec.” Vita smiled and waved.
Did Alec by any chance like boys, Denys wondered, walking with him to his car? “Vita’s daughter will be arriving soon,” he said. “You must meet her.”
“Shall look forward to it,” said Alec. Just one more effort to marry me off, he thought, getting into his car. “No doubt all the chaps will swarm like bees,” he said.
Watching the Governor’s A.D.C. drive away, Denys thought, Bees are of the feminine gender. What an old woman. Rejoining his wife, he said, “If you fancy Alec as a son-in-law, darling, I think he is a non-starter.”
Vita laughed. “Alec adores me,” she said. And Alec, driving back to Government house in the dusk, thought of how he loved Vita’s apparent stupidity, her vanity, her passionate and tremendous selfishness, her terrifying sexual grip over Denys, her contempt for the opinion of other women. I utterly adore and admire her, he thought. Thank God for my celibate state.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“TRY TURNING TOWARDS ME,” said Hubert.
Flora felt rather muzzy, not sure how they had got here, in bed in a room at the back of an hotel in Aix-en-Provence overlooking a courtyard. Several floors down, a group of women on wooden chairs sat gossiping in the moonlight, their voices rising and falling, Provençal accents interspersed with claps of merriment filtering agreeably up through a trellis of vines.
She lay with her back to Hubert, as the marble girl in the postcard had done; as she had so often herself, dreamy and cool, in the arms of Felix, Cosmo, or Hubert. The difference was that this time she felt his warmth along her back, across her buttocks, down the backs of her thighs. Her heels rested on his shins just below his knees. The back of her head was against his chin. “Try turning towards me,” he said.
They had laughed at dinner sitting at a table under the plane trees in the Cours Mirabeau. They had remembered together the picnic at Dinard, the singing, the tango, the bonfire and fireworks; spoken slightly of Coppermalt, closer in time, less safe. She had chattered like the women below in the courtyard, told him about school. For some reason he had not been bored. Rather, he was amused when she told him how she had stolen a look in the headmistress’ study at the school reports, that hers variously said, “She watches what goes on with detachment and seldom joins in.” “One gets the impression that to her our curriculum is anathema.” “She is better at weaving private dreams than sewing.” “Has a marked preference for her nose in a book over activity on the hockey field.” And how the other girls, so unlike the girls of Coppermalt, were so obsessed with marriage and class, the majority sneering at the minority whose vowels betrayed them.
“And what had the dreams been about?” Hubert asked, refilling his glass.
“That Easter at Dinard and the visit to Coppermalt,” she had said. Just that really, because apart from those times she knew nothing of Real Life.
“Oh,” said Hubert. “Real Life, yes. But was not the voyage from Tilbury to Marseilles real life?”
And she had said she hoped real life was not being seasick and propositioned by young officers with moustaches. And Hubert had said: “What a lot of long words you know. Shall we eat some figs?”
So they had eaten figs. Before the figs there had been wonderful pongy cheese, and before that green salad, and before the salad cervelles au beurre noir, and before that they had nibbled crisp radishes while they waited for the cervelles and sipped cool white wine. Lying against Hubert, Flora pleasurably reviewed the meal.
When they had finished and sat drinking black and bitter coffee he had said, “Tomorrow I will feed you on wonderful fish with aïoli and, if it is not too late in the season, artichokes and, of course, bouillabaisse, and more delicious figs.” And she, watching the people drift along the pavement of the Cours Mirabeau in the dark, for since it was October the sun had set long ago, had said that he seemed very fond of food. He had said: “Yes, very fond, and very fond—”
And she was happy watching the people stroll along by the light of the moon, the street lights and the lights from bars and cafés; old people with their old dogs, lovers in twos, families in groups, all their voices rising and falling in cadence.
Hubert said again, “Try turning towards me,” and his breath ruffled the hair at the back of her neck.
He had not been prepared for her response, Hubert thought, as she slept beside him. It was really miraculously lucky that things had gone so right. He had been afraid of hurting her. He had heard how easy it was to put girls off, that they got hurt and took against it, especially if they were virgin, as Flora undoubtedly was or had been. Thank God for Joyce, he thought. My word, if it hadn’t been for Joyce, I would have got it all wrong. Amazing girl, Joyce, and jolly unselfish to teach so much, to pass on those tips she had gleaned from her husband (looking at Ernest one would not in one’s wildest dreams imagine he could—) and of course others, for Joyce was nothing if not promiscuous. In the dark, with Flora curled asleep beside him, Hubert supposed that perhaps even at this moment friend Cosmo was gaining enlightenment under Joyce’s able tutelage, and good luck to him, good luck.
But he had not been prepared for what had happened. He had been careful, tried not to be hasty and brutish, tried not to get carried away, but when quiet little, shy little Flora let out that shout of “Whoops, how wonderful!” it had been a surprise.
Had she noticed, Hubert wondered, that three floors below in the courtyard the chattering ladies had hushed and that one of them called out, “Bravo!”
As Hubert shook with laughter he saw by the light of the moon shining through the shutters that Flora had opened an eye, that her lips moved. “What is it?” he whispered.
She said, “We did what I saw my mother and father do, and the people in the film in the brothel; so ugly and ridiculous.”
“It is not ugly or ridiculous if you cannot see yourself doing it,” he said.
Flora said, “I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you for telling me.” And she turned away from him, snuggling her bottom against his crotch.
THIRTY-NINE
IT WAS EARLY, THE air fresh; sun, slanting through the plane trees, dappled the pavement, shone on the tablecloths of the café. Hubert had left Flora asleep on her stomach, her face buried in the pillow. What on earth am I up to? he thought. She is only seventeen.
The waiter brought coffee and set it on the table with crusty rolls and glistening butter. Would Monsieur like a newspaper? Yes, please.
Buttering a roll, Hubert watched stout pigeons hurrying to and fro among the café tables, pattering after crumbs snatched by speedier sparrows. The rage which had swept him from his safe and boring job, spurring him across France to catch up with Flora, had subsided; having acquired her he was unsure what to do with her. She will cling, he thought, as he poured his coffee and gulped it down. I may have made her pregnant; she will expect me to marry her. Oh God, I am hoist by my lust. I need my freedom, there is so much I want to do. Morosely he munched his roll. Th
en, counter to these thoughts, he remembered the night before and his loins pricked with desire. He was filled with immense tenderness.
The waiter, taciturn and observant, brought the newspaper. Let’s see what’s new in the world; what Hitler, Mussolini, and the terrified-of-Communist British look like through the eyes of the French. Hubert shook the paper open. I do not think Ramsay MacDonald is right when he says war will go out of fashion, he thought; bellicosity is ingrained in human nature. He poured himself more coffee.
From the corner of his eye he saw Flora emerge from the hotel, cross the street and disappear into a chemist shop. Was she ill? What was the matter? Was he responsible? Anxiety wrenched his gut. Flora re-appeared and, re-crossing the street, joined him. “Hello,” she said. “Good morning.”
Hubert stood and pulled out a chair for her. “Would you like breakfast? The coffee and rolls are good.”
“Please.” She sat, she smiled. She looked all right.
Hubert ordered coffee and rolls. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I hope you are. I saw you go into the chemist; not ill, I trust?”
“No.” She transferred her smile to the waiter as he set coffee, milk pots and rolls before her. “Perhaps Madame would prefer croissants?”
“No, thank you.” She was happy with rolls. She bit her tongue, amused at being called Madame. Hubert, still wary, watched her eat. Nothing wrong with her appetite.
Forgetting the crumbs the cock pigeons now chased the females, hurrying after them through the maze of tables and chairs. The females rose in negative flutters to avoid their attentions.
Flora drank her coffee and ate her rolls. “Was what we did last night exactly what married people do?” She looked away from him down the street, to where an old lady walked slowly so that her Pomeranian dog could stop, sniff and lift its leg without an indecent hurrying jerk to its lead. It was similar in appearance to Irena Tarasova’s Prince Igor, though a different colour. “D’you remember Madame Tarasova’s Pom,” she said, “long ago?”