Of course my mother agreed, and when I protested, she reproved me.
‘Stella doesn’t understand Mr Chesterton,’ I said.
‘She rides very well,’ said my mother, and it was true. But I had seen her force Lochinvar into a gallop along hard, rutted tracks; no wonder he’d gone lame. She never considered his welfare, just his performance.
‘You mustn’t be selfish,’ said my mother.
From the window I watched Stella ride off on Mr Chesterton, who turned his shaggy head to cast a reproachful glance at our house before obediently carrying her away. He and I trusted each other; he would trust Stella too.
I didn’t hear them return. Instead, my father came into my room. He sat on my bed looking grave, not speaking, and I knew something terrible had happened.
‘It’s Mr Chesterton,’ he said at last.
Stella had put him at a stone wall she often jumped on Lochinvar. He’d refused.
‘Quite right too,’ I said. ‘It’s much too high for him.’
But Stella had insisted. She’d put him at it again, and at the third attempt, gallantly, he’d tried it. He couldn’t manage it, of course. He’d hit it hard and fallen, breaking a leg. My father was there when the vet put him down.
Stella was thrown clear. She wasn’t hurt at all.
The Gregsons were very sorry about it. They even bought me another pony, a bigger one, more suited to me now that I was growing, and better bred. I won prizes on him later.
Stella and I never discussed Mr Chesterton.
She was sent away to school, and then abroad. In the holidays there was always a whirl of gaiety at the Manor, with tennis parties and dances. I was often included, and Stella introduced me to everyone as Jane, her oldest friend, who’d never left the village in her life, imagine it. It wasn’t true. Mother took me to London sometimes to stay with her sister, and we went to Cornwall for a fortnight every year.
After we left school our social lives overlapped less and less. Stella spent most of her time in London or abroad. She’d given up riding and had a sports car instead. I went to college, and then began to teach at the village school. I’d learned the flute, and I joined an amateur orchestra in the nearby town. That was where I met Rob. He was gentle and shy, not very tall, and he played the French horn. He worked for the Forestry Commission. He walked me to the bus after our orchestral practices. Sometimes we went to the cinema, holding hands in the dark, and once he took me to a charity dance at the Town Hall, borrowing a friend’s Austin Seven to fetch me. He took me home at 2 a.m., a daring hour for our village in those days, and kissed me in the moonlight.
One night he wasn’t at orchestra practice, but two days later he came to our house and was waiting there when I got back from school.
Mother disappeared tactfully into the garden to dead-head the roses, and Rob told me he had been offered a job in British Columbia. It had great prospects, but a condition was that he must leave almost immediately. He sat looking at me, and both of us were tongue-tied. Then Rob drew a deep breath and was about to speak, when suddenly from outside there came the blast of an expensive car horn and the sound of tyres scrunching on gravel. A moment later Stella erupted into the room. She was tall, slim, and bursting with vitality. Rob’s jaw dropped at the sight of her. Later I realised that my mother, hearing the car, had rushed up the garden in an effort to intercept her, but unsuccessfully. Stella bulldozed her way wherever she wanted to go and it would need a regiment to deflect her.
I introduced her and Rob to one another.
‘That’s your motor-bike outside, I suppose,’ said Stella. ‘I nearly knocked it over.’
Rob said nothing. I realised that his ownership of a mere motor-bike and not a car would disqualify him from inviting Stella’s interest.
‘Rob’s going to Canada,’ I said.
‘What fun,’ said Stella. ‘When?’
‘Almost at once,’ Rob answered.
‘Don’t let me delay you, then,’ said Stella. ‘I expect you want to pack. And I’ve come to talk to Jane. I need her help.’ She sat down firmly. ‘Jane’s my oldest friend,’ she said to Rob. ‘She rescues me when I’m in trouble.’
I sighed. It must be some man this time. When we were younger I’d been roped in to go with her on dates where she wouldn’t have been allowed to go alone. I’d listened to her tales of hearts that she had broken, and I’d half-believed them. I’d lent her money when she’d used up her allowance.
‘Wouldn’t tomorrow do?’ I began desperately, in anguish. Had Rob only come to say goodbye?
‘No. It’s urgent,’ Stella said, and looked at Rob. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked him.
He got up to go. He shook my hand and went away and I never saw him again.
‘Plenty more fish in the sea,’ said Stella airily, when he’d gone. ‘Remind me to find you someone.’ She went on to tell me that she’d quarrelled with her latest admirer and was devastated, but what was worse, she’d borrowed her stepfather’s car without his permission while hers had a puncture mended, and she’d badly dented it. She wanted me to go back with her and spend the evening. My presence would calm the Gregsons down.
‘They think you’re good for me, you’re so dependable,’ she said.
It sounded as if I were already dressed in a mob cap and bombazine.
I went, of course. And the Gregsons forgave her.
Three days later she left the village again, this time for the south of France. But by then Rob had sailed.
Two months later Stella married a French Count with a chateau and his own vineyards, while I stayed at home watching the postman for letters from Canada that never came.
All that was long ago. Since then, Stella’s had three husbands. Her Count didn’t survive the war, and she had a terrible time, caught in Unoccupied France. Later she married an American, but that didn’t last. When it crashed, she sought me out again and spent hours recounting the history of her sufferings. And they were real. That was inescapable. Her time in France during the war had been shattering, and her American marriage was a disaster. But then Geoff came along and everything promised well.
Before her divorce from the American came through Mr Gregson died, and Stella’s mother sold the estate and moved away. My father retired at this time, and my parents moved to a cottage on the fringe of the village. I took time off from helping with the move to go to court with Stella for the hearing of the divorce. Afterwards she remained in London to celebrate and I went home by train.
I didn’t hear from her again until yesterday. I’d decided that at last things must be running smoothly for her; Geoff must have managed to tame her. The years went by, and sometimes I thought of Rob and wondered what would have happened if Stella hadn’t interrupted us that day. Had he intended to say more than simply goodbye? I allowed myself sometimes to daydream and imagine a life in Canada, full of challenge, and a family of tough boys with crew-cut hair and checked shirts.
Then, yesterday afternoon, Stella arrived. Once again she drove up unheralded in a sleek sports car. Her hair was still blonde and her figure was slender. At first sight she hadn’t changed at all. Then I saw the deep lines which no amount of make-up could obliterate, and the crêpey skin of her neck, and all at once the tight, hip-hugging pants and the skimpy sweater looked ridiculous.
‘You do look well,’ she said accusingly, when I’d greeted her with what I hoped sounded like pleasure and not the dismay I felt. ‘You haven’t changed at all.’
‘I am well,’ I replied. I am still sturdy – plump, some would say – and my hair is still mainly brown, though there is plenty of grey in it. But I had changed, as she would discover.
‘I knew you’d be in. The same old Jane,’ she said, and strode past me into the cottage. A small, squirmy dachshund followed her, its nails scrabbling on the floor.
‘I’m afraid you’ve come at rather a bad moment, Stella,’ I said firmly. ‘I have to go out in five minutes.’
‘Oh, you can put it off,’ said
Stella, flinging herself into a chair, still able to throw a long, slim leg over its arm, as she demonstrated. ‘I’ve come for the night. I knew you’d put me up. After all, you’re my oldest friend.’
We’d known each other nearly all our lives, but had there ever been any real friendship between us?
‘I can’t put you up, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘My spare room’s occupied already. If you’d telephoned, I’d have told you so. And I have to go out now, as I’ve said.’
‘Who’ve you got staying? It’s never a man, is it?’ Stella asked, slyly. ‘After all this time? And at your age?’
Our age, I thought grimly.
‘It is, as a matter of fact,’ I said. ‘And he’s very important.’
‘Dear, dear. It’s never too late, I see,’ said Stella. ‘Well, he won’t give up, if he’s keen.’
I’d told myself this about Rob, years ago. But some people are afraid to dare a second time.
‘Why have you come, Stella?’ I asked. ‘Not just to see me, I’m sure. You must want something.’
‘Oh, you are cynical. You’ve got hard, haven’t you?’ Stella said. ‘Hard and bitter. I thought you would. But even so you won’t let down your oldest friend when she needs you.’
‘Why do you need me now?’ I asked, with one eye on the clock. In three minutes I must go.
‘It’s Geoff. He’s left me,’ she said, and suddenly her face crumpled. It was dreadful to witness her distress; the make-up ran down her cheeks as she wept. ‘He’s gone off with some chit of a girl he met when we were in Bermuda. She’s young enough to be his daughter,’ she wailed. ‘I’m all alone.’
That must be true. If she had other friends, why seek me out? We hadn’t met for years.
‘You’ve got plenty of money,’ I said cruelly, for she had. Her mother had died and left her Mr Gregson’s wealth. ‘You’ll soon find someone else. Have a wash, if you like, Stella, and make yourself some tea, but I must go. I don’t know what time I’ll be back.’
She should not do it to me again. My whole life might have been different if she had not come that other time, or if she’d gone away at once, finding me not alone. Or if I’d made her go. The years had taught me the importance of priorities: today was another landmark in my life and I’d promised Bill that no mortal thing should stop me from carrying out our plans.
I left the house without another word, got into my Mini and drove away. I did not go fast, and in the mirror I soon saw Stella’s car behind me.
The village school had changed very little in the years since I had taught there. Now other cars were drawing up outside it, and parents were going in through the old iron gates. Bill was there, waiting. He opened the door of the car for me and kissed me in front of everyone.
‘I knew you wouldn’t be late,’ he said.
I had married during the war, a kind, unexciting man I’d met while helping at a canteen for servicemen. He was killed in the D-Day landings, not long after our daughter was born. She’d married a local doctor and they were both away now for a few days’ snatched holiday. Bill, their unexpected youngest child, was staying with me.
Stella, driving past, saw my ten-year-old grandson escort me into the school grounds for his annual sports.
Always Rather a Prig
‘Primmy has come to live near Whipton,’ said Daphne Blythe when she met Mildred Fisher in Fenwick’s for lunch one day. Both were in town for a day’s shopping, and they met like this two or three times a year.
‘We ought to do something about it.’
‘What?’ enquired Mildred. ‘She must be awfully old.’
‘Eighty next year – that’s all. I used to think she was eighty then,’ said Daphne, and giggled.
Many years ago Mildred and Daphne had been pupils at St Wilhelmina’s, where Miss Primrose ruled as headmistress. Most girls in those days left St Wilhelmina’s equipped with the School Certificate, as it then was, a basic knowledge of the French language that included some ability to speak it, a sound grounding in the Christian religion, and well-mannered. Only a few went on to university, but some, in the brief years before marriage, were capable secretaries and others trained as nurses and therapists of various kinds. St Wilhelmina’s had perished in the reign of Miss Primrose’s third successor, worn down by rising costs and competition.
‘We could have a party for her – give her a good lunch somewhere. We could round up twenty or so old girls, couldn’t we? I can think of several who live fairly near. I’m sure the old thing would enjoy it. We can’t just leave her there, unacknowledged. And what else can we do? I don’t know that Robert—’ Daphne’s voice trailed away.
She had been going to say that Robert, her barrister husband, might not be enthusiastic if Miss Primrose were asked to dine, and Mildred understood this. Her own Gerald would feel exactly the same.
‘A hotel would be better than a hen lunch in one of our houses anyway,’ she said, imagining the scene in her own. If it were to happen, one might, perforce, get involved with other old St Wilheminians – those who lived near enough might take to dropping in, want to use the swimming-pool, and so on. It could lead to endless difficulties. Mildred’s entertaining was mainly the kind that might lead to some sort of advantage.
‘I don’t suppose she gets taken out to lunch very often,’ she added. ‘It’s a good idea, Daphne. Have you got the last school magazine? We could round up some names from that.’
So it was that in the next week, twenty or so women, none of them young, who lived within forty miles of Whipton and who had been at St Wilhelmina’s but had seldom or never met since, agreed to meet at a riverside hotel to feast their former headmistress.
‘Who else is coming?’ asked Naomi Kent.
Daphne read out the list of names.
‘We’ll all pay our own and I’ll pay for Primmy,’ she said. ‘It should be quite fun. Have you kept up with anyone, Naomi?’
Naomi hadn’t. She had been startled when Daphne announced herself on the telephone.
Daphne couldn’t remember Naomi at all, apart from her name, but had discovered that she ran a bookshop in the area. A thin, dark girl, she thought, a few years younger than herself – Mildred had told her that.
‘I could only come if it was a Wednesday,’ Naomi said. ‘I can’t leave my shop very easily otherwise. But my assistant can manage for the last hour that morning.’ By saying this she had expressed willingness to go to the luncheon. She must be quite mad, deliberately setting out to encounter that woman.
Daphne was saying that Wednesday was the best day for her too. Her Mrs Blossom came then.
Yes, and polishes the desk in Robert’s study, hoovers the room where he sleeps with Daphne, cleans out his bath, thought Naomi.
She had never met the adult Daphne. The mental picture she had of her lover’s wife must be inaccurate, surely, after all these years.
None of this was her idea. She didn’t want to stir things up. The fact that Daphne had included her in the scheme must prove that she had no suspicion.
The date was arranged, and on a July day, Morris 1300s, Allegros, Minis, Ford Escorts, a Jaguar, and a Bentley all converged on the riverside hotel chosen by Daphne for the entertainment of Miss Primrose.
To everyone’s surprise, for all her pupils remembered her as tall and of a commanding presence, Miss Primrose was a thin little woman compared with her hostesses. But her white hair was bound round her brow with a snood of black velvet, as all remembered, and her face was quite rosy, for she was healthy and worked daily in her garden despite the torrid heat of that amazing summer.
She gazed round at the assembled women, all well into middle age. Daphne had supplied a list of those attending, which was thoughtful, for some of them Miss Primrose had not found memorable. Daphne, though, she remembered: captain of hockey and captain of tennis, but never head girl. She had once reported a junior girl for smuggling forbidden sweets into school and another time she had led a movement to ostracise a member of the fifth form who h
ad, in Daphne’s opinion, let down the school by forgetting her lines in a performance of The Tempest before the assembled parents.
What a dull, worthy bunch they were, Miss Primrose mused, sipping gin and tonic. The most interesting and successful of her former pupils were not free to entertain her thus, for they were too busy. There was a hospital matron, a senior civil servant, two doctors. The women here today were, most of them, conscientious wives and mothers who now, with their own families grown up, provided meals on wheels for the elderly, were kindly grandmothers, and pillars of Women’s Institutes throughout the land: worthy and good. How bored their husbands must be. Of course, some were widowed, like Ruth Gibbs – brisk and smiling, now a part-time teacher – and Felicity Downes, who looked mournful still, though her husband had died at least ten years ago and he had been rich and stupid, so that her condition now must surely be improved.
Had she wasted her life, Miss Primrose suddenly wondered, eating trout. Had she kindled no spark in a single soul? Was there no woman here today who was witty and wise? Thinking thus, she agreed aloud with Hermione Curtis that her daughter should certainly profit by reading modern languages at the university and thought that perhaps she might grow out of dressing in garments fit only for rummage sales.
It was the daughters of these women who were the active ones, able to progress along paths hewn by the generations preceding them. And these were good women. Miss Primrose looked at their plump faces, all smiling benignly. ‘Do you remember?’ they were asking one another, and talking of daring pranks like dormitory feasts and moonlight swims in the school pool. They were having a lovely time. Some might even meet again after today. It was impossible to imagine any of them in a gym slip and shirt.
One was different: Naomi Kent. For one thing, she had never married. But there had been some trouble. Miss Primrose fished the facts from her mind.
Pieces of Justice Page 3