Part of the Furniture

by Mary Wesley

  In the kitchen Ann exclaimed, ‘Here’s Sir! You did not say you were coming.’ A baby lay across her knees; she was changing its nappy. Juno was in the rocking chair by the stove, nursing the other child. She said, ‘Oh, Robert! How lovely. We did not hear you arrive.’ The infant let go of her nipple then reached for it back, clutching her breast with its fist.

  Robert said, ‘I walked from the station. The taxi was busy, he will bring my bag later.’ He returned her smile, amazed by her breasts. ‘I am interrupting,’ he said.

  Juno said, ‘Nonsense, how could you,’ and moved the child to her other breast.

  Ann said, ‘Sit down, you must be tired, I’ll make a pot of tea.’ She pinned the nappy, laid the baby in its basket and went to fill the kettle. The baby made an indeterminate protest then lay quiet.

  Robert said, ‘And how are they?’ He peered curiously into the basket. ‘Which one is this?’

  Juno said, ‘Inigo. They are flourishing.’

  ‘And grown a lot,’ Robert said. ‘I saw you calling the pigs in as I came up the hill.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was too far away to shout. I had a word with Bert,’ he said.

  Juno said, ‘And?’

  ‘He tells me everything is tickety-boo.’

  ‘I bet he didn’t say tickety-boo.’ She grinned.

  ‘No. And I don’t think I have ever said it before, it’s not a word I use.’ (I am ridiculously nervous.)

  ‘That’s a very smart suit.’ Juno appraised Robert’s appearance.

  ‘Evelyn suggested I have it made at the beginning of the war. He was percipient. He said clothes would be rationed and it would help my morale, if the Germans won, to meet them properly dressed, not shabby.’

  ‘And now you only meet me!’

  ‘It rarely gets an airing.’ (Fuck my suit, I want to tell her how beautiful she is and I can’t.)

  Ann said, ‘Strong or weak?’ She had made the tea.

  Robert said, ‘Strong, you should know by now.’

  ‘Thought a trip to the metropolis might have altered your tastes.’ Ann poured tea into cups.

  Robert said, ‘I have something for your sons, Juno,’ and went back into the hall to extract parcels from his overcoat pockets.

  Watching him go, Juno said, ‘But it is a beautiful suit,’ meaning that she had not realized that Robert was so good-looking, and Ann, handing her a cup of tea said, ‘Yes, and he’s had his hair properly cut. They all had those long legs, the Copplestones. Evelyn was the same.’

  Juno changed the baby’s nappy and laid it in the basket beside its brother as Robert, returning from the hall with parcels, put two in her lap. ‘If they have one already, chuck them away,’ he said.

  Juno undid the parcels, two teddy bears. ‘Robert! Thank you. They will be so precious, their very first toys. Thank you.’

  Robert said, ‘Good,’ taking the cup Ann held out to him. ‘I hoped—’ I hoped, he thought, that I would not be so pleased to see her, I hoped that she would have lost her looks, I hoped I would be sane again. ‘I hoped you would be pleased,’ he said.

  Juno said, ‘I am, I am very pleased.’

  They sat drinking their tea and the silence full of the unsaid stretched until Juno broke it. ‘And London? Tell us about London. Did you meet a lot of friends, interesting people?’

  ‘A mixture. There’s my generation, who think they know what’s going on, opinionated bores, amazingly revengeful. Want to bomb Germany to pulp. They anger me. Your father’s lot had the right ideas. There are not many like him, they come thin on the ground. The armchair lot would start a third war in time for those two.’ Robert nodded towards the infants.

  ‘God forbid! Who else?’

  ‘Oh, Evelyn’s generation, too old to be called up but could join up if they tried, but are cossetting their careers: writers, journalists—’

  ‘They might be useless,’ Juno suggested, ‘but didn’t Anthony say Graham Greene is in his Ministry? He would be useful, and there’s Evelyn Waugh. I read something about him—’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me. I make odious comparisons.’ (I would rather like an argument. I’d like to shout, lose my temper, let off steam.)

  ‘… asking where is Sassoon, Robert Graves, Wilfred Owen?’

  ‘You’ve read them?’ He had not somehow imagined her to be a reader.

  ‘I have made use of your library. I hope you don’t mind. I read when I can’t sleep.’

  ‘I am delighted.’

  ‘Who is new?’

  ‘There’s Orwell, we shall hear more of him, Peter Quennell, Cyril Connolly, I suppose, and Henry Moore is making the most amazing drawings of people sleeping in the tube. I spent a lot of time walking about. I felt useless, though, I needed to get back here.’

  ‘Tell me more.’ She drew him out, making him describe what he had seen and who, until he protested, ‘I did not know I had seen so much. You are an inquisitor. Now, tell me about you. What has been going on, apart from Bert’s transformation into geniality?’

  ‘Nothing much. The babies and the farm and oh! Bert allowed me to do the muck-spreading.’ She could not tell him that recently she had woken with no thought of Jonty or Francis, that her days were no longer obsessed, that somehow they had evaporated, as bad dreams do. She was happy. She said, ‘As you see, I am busy and happy, and fancy Bert allowing me to do that!’

  ‘I’ll have to have a word with Bert,’ Robert said, ‘but first this is for you, I thought it might complement the bears,’ and he gave her his present.

  Juno unwrapped the packet. ‘Oh,’ she said in awe, ‘scent! I have never had proper scent. How wonderful, how delicious, now I won’t stink of muck!’

  And Robert, though pleased, thought, muck or Guerlain, it won’t make a blind bit of difference to me.

  FORTY-FOUR

  PRISCILLA LOOKED UP TO see Robert coming up her path. Mosley barked. She stopped weeding and got up from her knees. ‘I am trying to get some sort of order in the garden before the weeds take hold; how are you, old friend?’

  Robert kissed her cheek. ‘Don’t let me interrupt. I have brought you a joint of pork.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful! Black market?’

  ‘No, Priss, legit.’

  ‘Juno will be sad.’

  ‘Juno foresaw its fate, she is philosophical.’

  Priscilla stuck her hand-fork in the earth. ‘I have done enough for the day. Come indoors, it’s been the most wonderful day but not warm enough yet to sit out.’

  Robert said, ‘No,’ as if he had not noticed, and followed Priscilla into the house.

  She said, ‘Tea? Coffee? A drink, perhaps?’

  ‘A drink, if you can spare one. I must not rob you.’

  ‘Anthony and Hugh contrived to find a bottle, I can spare you a swig. Sit down, old friend, and tell me what’s new. How are Juno’s twins?’

  ‘In rude health.’

  ‘How old now? Three months?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Beginning to look human?’

  Robert did not answer.

  Priscilla said, ‘Spring busting out all over quite cheers me up!’

  Robert said, ‘Good,’ his tone glum.

  Priscilla poured him a generous measure and, looking at him closely, handed him the glass. ‘What’s eating you, Robert?’ She stood, bottle in hand. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Matter?’ He took the glass from her.

  ‘This is the fourth time in two weeks you have dropped in on me for no reason.’

  ‘I brought you a joint of pork,’ he protested.

  ‘I am grateful for the excuse. You don’t look yourself, Robert, what is it?’ she persisted.

  ‘I am all right, fine—’

  ‘You have lost weight and you can’t afford to do that.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, you are as bad as Ann.’

  ‘I am stating a fact.’

  Robert swallowed some of his drink. ‘I am not sleeping very well,’ he admitted grudgingly.
>
  ‘It’s the worry of the war.’ Priscilla examined his face. ‘You are mourning Evelyn, for one thing.’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  ‘You did not give yourself time to mourn him properly and now it hits you.’

  ‘Priscilla, be your age. I mourned Evelyn from when he came back, lungs wrecked, in nineteen-eighteen, until he died. Don’t talk rubbish.’ Robert had raised his voice irritably, took a gulp from his glass.

  Priscilla leaned forward and topped up his drink. ‘Then what is the matter?’

  Robert said, ‘Nothing, as I said, nothing.’

  Priscilla said, ‘Oh, but there is, and it must be serious to bring you my way four times in two weeks!’

  Robert burst out laughing. ‘Is it so obvious?’

  ‘So what is keeping you awake?’

  Robert did not answer.

  ‘It is to do with Evelyn, isn’t it?’ Priscilla pried.

  ‘In away.’

  ‘So I am not barking up the wrong tree?’

  ‘It was I who barked up the wrong bloody tree.’ Robert set his glass down and stood up.

  Suddenly enlightened, Priscilla whispered, ‘Oh my God! Damascus! You thought what I thought, what we all thought.’ She leaned forward with the bottle and poured again. ‘What you pretended not to think? Oh, goodness, Robert. Oh my goodness me!’ Reaching for his glass, she took a huge gulp from it. ‘Goodness, I needed that.’

  Soberly Robert said, ‘Priscilla, I feel such a fool. I was jealous of Evelyn.’

  Priscilla, enhanced by her gulp of whisky, said, ‘He wouldn’t half laugh if he knew and could see Juno’s twins!’

  Robert did not reply but stood looking out at Priscilla’s view, lovely spring-touched country, a gentle valley leading seawards.

  Priscilla said, ‘And now? What?’

  Gloomily Robert muttered, ‘Love.’

  ‘Love?’ Priscilla sat down. ‘The real McCoy? Heavens!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful,’ she said.

  ‘It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘So it’s caught up with you after all these years. When did it happen? When did it dawn on you?’

  ‘I saw her footprints in the sand—’

  This meant nothing to Priscilla. She said, ‘And you still don’t know who the father is?’

  ‘That’s immaterial.’

  ‘I suppose it is. What a turn-up for the book.’

  ‘You are enjoying this,’ he said.

  ‘No, I am not. You look too miserable, though why I can’t think.’

  ‘Priscilla, I am fifty-seven next birthday. She is barely eighteen.’

  Robustly Priscilla answered, ‘It’s been known. Old John Morgan, who remarried at eighty, is having his fifth child. His wife is sixty years younger than he is. It works a treat, a very good marriage.’

  ‘Ridiculous.’

  ‘Unusual, I grant you, but have a look in the Old Testament.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Priscilla drank some more. ‘Losing sleep because you are in love, what a hoot!’

  ‘I knew you would laugh—’

  ‘I am not laughing, not really, of course I am not.’ Priscilla put the empty glass on the table. ‘And what does she say? Juno?’ At the mention of Juno by name, Robert span round. ‘For God’s sake! She hasn’t the least idea. That would be—’

  ‘What?’ Priscilla’s mouth hung open.

  ‘A disaster.’

  The two old friends stood face to face. Priscilla said, ‘I take it your cock and balls are in working order?’ knowing she should have left the whisky alone.

  Robert said, ‘Of course they are. How can you be so coarse?’

  Priscilla said, ‘It’s plain English, in the dictionary. Oh, Robert, sorry.’

  Robert said, ‘I feel I have no steering-wheel, no brakes.’ He turned to leave.

  Watching him go, Priscilla called, ‘I won’t even talk to Mosley.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  JUNO HAD SEEN THE envelope and, recognizing her aunt’s writing, put the letter to one side. During a busy day she forgot it, but waking in the night she remembered and the thought of it lying unopened on the hall table nagged. She turned on her side and tried to sleep, but could not. After a while she got out of bed, switched on the light in the bathroom and by its glow put on Evelyn’s dressing-gown and looked keenly into her children’s cradles. Neither Inigo nor Presto stirred. Inigo lay on his back with his arms thrown back, Presto with one fist visible, the other tucked away. Both children slept with their mouths shut, breathing through their noses. Leaning to kiss them, she brushed the tops of their heads and straightened up, the sensation of silk on her lips. Then, leaving her door open, she slipped from the room and went barefoot down the stair.

  In the hall she snatched up Violet’s letter and went into the library, where she switched on a lamp and, crouching by the fire, laid a log and some kindling on the hot ash. Then, because she could put it off no longer, she slit the envelope and began to read.

  Some time later Robert, in his bed at the other end of the house, was woken by the need to pee. He went to his bathroom and without putting on a light eased his need. Pulling back the shutters, he looked out at the valley to see in the moonlight a fox trot across his line of vision. Watching it until it was out of sight he grew thoroughly awake, and all the aggravating thoughts and doubts which plagued him by day crowded back into his mind so that he knew he would not sleep again. Staring out at the now empty view he thought of Priscilla and wished he had not spoken so freely. It had done no good to expose his pain. All she had done was make flippant allusions to the Old Testament which he, forgetting his Bible, had not followed. What the hell was she referring to? Something to do with old age? Some sexual connotation? His lack of recall niggled. Some old woman had conceived and born a child at ninety, was it that? Or the poor old bugger, who the devil was it, who had been circumcised at the same age. Good God, what barbarity! One should look it up. Then, nearer home, she had referred to their neighbour, John Morgan, who had married again in his eightieth year and fathered many children, to the irritation of his first family. Was Priscilla hinting perhaps that his plight was not unusual? Had she not enquired as to his state of virility? It was no concern of hers. It was not Priscilla’s opinion that mattered, Robert thought irritably.

  Back in his room Jessie stood by the door, asking to be let out. Sighing, Robert pulled on a pair of trousers and a sweater and followed the dog down the stairs where, reaching the hall, she did not make for the front door but padded towards the library, whose door stood open. A light showed and Juno sat on the hearthrug staring into the fire.

  Surprised, Robert said, Juno?’ and seeing that she wept, ‘what’s up?’ He came forward and sat in his armchair. ‘Tell me to go away if you want to be alone.’

  Juno said, ‘No.’

  Robert leaned forward to throw wood on the fire. Juno folded the letter she had been reading and stuffed it back in its envelope. Robert said dryly, ‘Somebody has written something hurtful, somebody has felt themselves encumbered to put it in writing.’

  Juno said, ‘My Aunt Violet.’

  ‘And what’s her dire news?’

  ‘She thinks I should know how matters stand.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Juno said, ‘I can’t think why I mind.’

  Robert said nothing.

  Juno said, ‘May I lean against your legs?’ When Robert did not answer she shifted her position so that she sat facing the fire with her back against his knees. She said, ‘She’s a bloody old interfering bitch.’

  Robert murmured, ‘Go on.’

  ‘She writes,’ Juno spoke in a monotone, ‘that after considerable soul-searching, she felt it her duty to write to my mother and apprise her of my twins, and that my mother has written back.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She seems to have done some soul-searching, too.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Having embarked on a new, successful a
nd happy marriage—it appears she has given birth to a beautiful baby girl—well, I knew she’d had the baby—she is very much enjoying her new life and, although she gave me every opportunity of joining her, the twins do rather alter things. They do not fit with her husband Jack Sonntag’s prominent position. She has given the matter a lot of thought, searched her soul; she has arrived at the conclusion that, since I have behaved so irresponsibly, it will be better all round if we go our separate ways. Oh yes, she wishes me well. I rather like that bit, it rounds things off.’

  Robert felt the warmth of her spine as she leaned against his legs and said nothing.

  Juno said, ‘I should not be surprised. It’s interesting, though. My mother never liked me very much although she tried, I think. She never liked my father, either. He was a mistake, I was another, but this time with Mr Sonntag she seems to have got it right. She tried, she was dutiful, and now she has snatched this wonderful opportunity. She is barely forty. I thought that was old, but it isn’t, is it? What it amounts to is that I and my twins are an embarrassment. I knew we would be, that’s why I had put off telling her. She doesn’t want to be burdened with a lot of old clobber like that.’

  Robert listened. He knew from her voice that her throat was sore from crying.

  Juno said, ‘It was nice of her to send me back my clothes and buy me nylons; she had not yet had the dire news, had not had the shock of discovering herself to be a grandmother. I quite see that wasn’t tactful of me.’

  Robert said, ‘No.’

  Juno said, ‘I should not really mind. I suppose I am angry with her as she must be angry with me, but I do rather feel she might have written to me herself, not left it to Aunt Violet.’

  Robert kept quiet.

  Juno pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose. She said, ‘I shall just have to get used to the idea that I am not wanted.’