by Jane Bailey
I can’t begin to say how devastated I was. I’ve never known grief like it. I shouldn’t say that, I suppose, not with my sister having died and everything. But I tell you, this was something else. I felt as if my body was detached from me, as though everything I did was not quite real. I needed someone to bring me down to earth. And it is very easy, when you have all these unused feelings, like unopened packets of pleasure bursting at the seams, to let someone else open them and release the contents.
Ralph was playing a waiting game. He knew from the first that I had been jilted, and had I been more alert I would have questioned why he never once asked me about the state of my relationship with the boyfriend I was supposed to have. Instead, he nursed the wilting plant, watering it with compliments and affection, waiting patiently for the day it would stand tall and lush and flower in his hands. April passed into May, and he had the whole of the summer to work on me – and the whole of leafy Gloucestershire, puffed out suddenly in the brightest green, as the backdrop for his wooing.
Don’t forget, it had already been agreed that in September I would become his lodger, so he had to play a very careful game. He held back. He took his time. He spent the hours that he might have passed luring me to his bed seducing me instead with words and, without actually spelling it out, images of the life I could live with him if I came to my senses.
‘I have an aunt in Paris who owns a delightful farmhouse in Provence. Why don’t we go there this summer?’
‘Has she invited us?’
‘I’m always invited. She keeps asking me to go. And she’d love you. I know she would. Anyway, she doesn’t live in the farmhouse. It would be ours.’ Seeing the dubious look on my face, he added, ‘There’ll be a crowd of other friends, of course, if you want.’
I protested that I didn’t remember much French from school, but he was adamant that I wouldn’t need any. And the more he painted a picture for me of the vineyards and the almond trees, the markets full of lavender and peaches and honey, the smiling locals in the little cafes, the smell of coffee and freshly baked bread, the more I weakened, until eventually he said that I should be more adventurous, and he knew that little challenge would be all it took, and it was.
One day in July we set off from Victoria station to Dover. We took a morning ferry and, aware that I was afraid of the ocean, Ralph took the trouble to make everything as special for me as possible. He tied a headscarf around me and stood with me on deck to watch the white cliffs of Dover disappear, waving goodbye to England as if it was all new to him. He took me to a lounge bar and gave me champagne, toasting my first trip to the continent. He seemed acutely aware of the memories that being on the sea might provoke in me, and he took my hand at the first sign of a sway and said, ‘Don’t worry, old fruit, the sea’s as calm as glass today. That lurch was a one-off. We’ll be on dry land before you can blink.’ Then he made me hold a blink for five seconds, and when I did he kissed me, and we laughed.
In Calais we took a train to Paris, and he made sure that we caught the Metro straight to the Eiffel Tower so that the city could fulfil all of its cinematic promise for me. He wanted my brief stay to incorporate everything I had seen on the big screen, so that I would associate our time together with film stars and glamour and the good life. I took photographs with his Brownie box camera. I snapped him in several different poses because I have always thought that photographs of views are a waste of time. I took a picture of him with the Eiffel Tower in the background, and as I did so I recalled the Paris photograph of him hanging on the wall in his hallway. It would have made more sense for him to take a photograph of me, but he did not offer. Eventually a middle-aged American couple asked if I would take a picture of them together, and when I did so, they offered to return the favour. I still have that picture. We both look so happy. It’s funny, I still find it strange how we shape things for ourselves. I mean, how, when things seem to be going our way, we so happily and unconsciously sweep the inconvenient facts under the carpet.
We had drinks in a cafe by the Seine and took a taxi down the Champs-Elysées, Ralph and I singing ‘La Vie en Rose’ all the way. Eventually we were dropped in the Avenue Foch, where his aunt had an apartment. I began to feel a little nervous, craning my neck to look up at the buildings. It seemed impossible that anyone could have built such grand and elegant buildings to be so high. ‘Don’t worry, ma chérie, there’s a lift!’
Aunt Beatrice had a very thoroughbred air to her, speaking in an English I had only ever heard on the radio, but she was very friendly and wore a profusion of brightly coloured chiffon scarves around her neck in an arty fashion, suggesting that she, like her nephew, was making a little protest at her aristocratic roots. She joshed with Ralph like a schoolboy and teased him about me relentlessly. I could see he was a favourite nephew. ‘She’s perfectly adorable – you’re perfectly adorable, Dora – and we could do with some Welsh in the family! We could! Enrich that weak and watery blood a bit. The Welsh are so passionate, aren’t they? I do love a bit of passion. Are you passionate, Dora? I expect you’re hungry for life. Are you actually hungry? Because I’ve organized afternoon tea. They call it le goûter here, but it really is a pale imitation of afternoon tea. However, I am rather fond of the patisserie, so we have the best of both worlds.’ Then she said something in what sounded like impeccable French, and an elderly Frenchwoman looked around the door: ‘C’est tout prêt, madame. Je vous sers?’ And to my astonishment, the low table between the chairs we were sitting on rapidly became covered in tea things without Aunt Beatrice having to move an inch. A silver teapot, china cups and saucers and little pastries on tiered plates appeared as if by magic, the old servant scuttling in and out so quickly she was barely noticeable.
‘Bee,’ Ralph said, ‘shall I be mother?’ And he poured us all tea, much to the surprise of the servant, who disappeared behind the door again.
‘Now, Ralphie, mon cher, I hope you’re not going to let me down. I’m banking on you staying at Les Amandiers.’
‘Of course!’
‘And are you staying with him, Dora darling, or just holidaying?’
I felt myself colour, and looked at Ralph for enlightenment. To my surprise, he appeared rattled and fiddled with the cake stand as if he might be able to adjust it. His aunt looked at him too, and he took in a breath, as if a little exasperated. ‘Dora is coming down for a few weeks. D’abord.’
‘Ah, tant mieux! You’ll love it, Dora, and you’ll be able to give it a feminine touch. But you, Ralphie, you’re going to stay, aren’t you? You can’t go back on your word now – I’ve given the tenants their notice.’
I detected an awkwardness in Ralph that I had not witnessed before. It was quite clear that one of us – his aunt or me – was not being told the truth, and I suspected it was me.
‘Bee, stop worrying!’ he rallied quickly. ‘Of course I’ll be staying. I have everything under control!’
21
ARTHUR
After that weekend at Pippa’s, I sent her a postcard thanking her for the very ‘special’ hospitality. She didn’t reply, and within a few days I was feeling foolish again. I began to think more and more about Dora, and by the end of the week I decided I would write her a letter. That was the very least she deserved, after all. Composing it in my head was like grieving. I kept seeing her dear face smiling up at me. I saw her clear blue eyes gazing at mine as she propped herself up on her elbows in the long grass of Leckhampton Hill. We had a place there we called our sunny spot, because it was warm and sheltered. We used to lie there together under our coats, and she would let me touch her. I felt the velvet of her again as I composed that letter; I drifted into the scent of her skin, I heard her soft moans, felt her breath on my neck, and I wanted her back. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. Out of pure lust – for there wasn’t any other motive behind my dalliance with Pippa – I had thrown away my best chance of happiness. And Dora was more than that. We had a history. No, that’s not it either. Lots of people have h
istories. A history isn’t irreplaceable. We had something else, something visceral, born of that voyage in the boat, of the closest possible contact during the most frightening week of our two young lives. Pippa had been in the same boat, of course, but she had been distant. She hadn’t wanted to know me. And as I’ve said, I think Dora – and caring for her – was the reason I survived.
I dreamt of the sea. A towering monster tossing me about like a toy in its paws. I saw Pippa’s pale, inscrutable face in the boat, which became the figurehead at the prow, chin uplifted to the sea, cold and wooden. And I dreamt of Dora’s arms around me, of her nuzzling into me, warm and salty in the icy wind.
I wrote that letter in my head dozens of times, but in the end work was too pressing and I found no time to write it down. And even if I had, there was always the nagging feeling that nothing I said, however well expressed, could possibly excuse what I had done. How could Dora ever forgive me? I remembered the look in her eyes as she closed the door on me. I didn’t blame her, but I knew it was a lost cause. Even so, I felt that I had to try. I resolved instead to go and see her at the first possible opportunity, which was the following weekend. I bought a train ticket to Cheltenham for Saturday morning. She could close the door on me if she liked, but I would see her. Nothing was going to stand in my way.
Or so I thought.
On the Friday evening, while I was packing an overnight bag, the doorbell rang. I considered not answering it, for I had a list of things to do before I was done for the evening, but some pathetic optimism told me it might be Dora, so I went to the door.
‘You’re invited to supper. Mummy wants to meet you!’
Pippa was glowing. I must have looked alarmed, because she reached out and touched my arm and said, ‘Don’t worry, old thing. She’s got the car. She’s waiting for us at the end of the road.’
Her presence startled me. This sudden wish to introduce me to her mother when, it seemed to me, I had not been quite up to the mark before, flattered me. Of course I couldn’t go, and I said as much. I had an important meeting in Cheltenham the next day.
‘Cheltenham? That’s no problem. Stay over tonight and you’ll be on the doorstep.’ Her perfume wafted in with her confidence, and it curled around my resolve, gently detaching it.
‘I’m sorry, Pippa. Why couldn’t you have given me a bit more notice?’
‘Well, I couldn’t. Come on. All you need is a toothbrush. Mummy won’t take no for an answer.’
It seemed to me that it didn’t really matter what time I saw Dora, so long as I stuck to my guns and saw her. The idea that Pippa’s mother was waiting for me in her car struck me as both ludicrous and enticing. I already had my overnight bag. All I had to do was say yes.
Lady Barrington-Hobb was not quite what I’d expected. She was glamorous, certainly, and younger than I’d expected, but she chain-smoked as she was driving and spoke with a gravelly voice, every other word – it seemed to me, anyway – being ‘bloody’ or ‘darling’. I sat next to her, and Pippa sat in the back seat, so most of the time all I could see was the mother’s profile, which was dainty and totally at odds with her voice. Her hands on the wheel were veiny and long-nailed and glittered with rings, including a diamond I couldn’t possibly imagine any man being able to afford. I tried hard not to cough during the journey and was relieved when we reached Ashleycroft Hall, so that I could have some respite from smoke and stilted conversation.
‘Oh Lord,’ she said as we went through the front door, ‘Could you pick up the post for me, darling?’ I think she was addressing Pippa, but I bent down and collected three envelopes from the mat. She took them without a glance at them or at me. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better go and have a chat with your young man, and we can have a little snifter in the kitchen. At least it’s warm in there.’ She leafed through the mail. ‘Here’s one for you, darling.’
As she handed the letter to her daughter, I couldn’t help noticing the writing on the envelope. It would have had no impact on me had it not been for the very familiar loops and the quirky capitals of ‘Barrington-Hobb’, which I had seen so often in my own ‘Fielding’. A chill went through me. I wanted to seize the letter and read it myself. I was jealous of Pippa at that moment, and frightened. I had the feeling that events were out of my control, the waves coming over again, throwing me up and sucking me down.
She tore it open and her expression stiffened. She replaced the single sheet of familiar blue writing paper in its envelope and pushed it into the pocket of her coat. ‘Come on, Arthur. Let me show you to your room.’ So, I had to pretend that I hadn’t been there before, and this sudden demand for deception only served to double my discomfort.
We took off our coats and I followed her upstairs. Once inside my room she sat on the bed and tapped the space beside her. ‘Arthur, I don’t know quite how to put this, but there’s something you need to know.’ She looked suddenly very fragile, and her shoulders drooped as she looked at the carpet.
‘Tell me,’ I said, slipping an arm around her.
‘You must promise not to be cross.’
Now I was nervous. Had she said something to Dora that prompted the letter? I swallowed hard. ‘Go on . . .’
‘Promise?’
‘I don’t know what it is yet. Just say it.’
‘Well . . .’ She continued to look down at the floor and folded her lips together as if willing them to stay shut. ‘Well, something that should have happened . . . hasn’t happened.’
It sounds ridiculous now, but I didn’t cotton on straight away. Did she mean meeting her family? Did she mean I should have proposed to her first before sleeping with her? And then she touched her belly and looked at me with those big green eyes, and I felt dizzy.
It seemed to me that she was twelve years old again, but this time without the confidence. There was something touchingly vulnerable about her hopeful expression that made me want to weep. I had hurt her. I had thought she was in control, but I had hurt her.
It would take me years, of course, to realize that she was utterly in control, of this moment as well as all others.
‘I was using this special method, with dates and everything, and I thought . . . I thought it would be all right. I honestly didn’t think it could happen. Honestly, Arthur, I would never have . . . I just don’t understand it.’
I gave her a squeeze because I didn’t know what else to do. A wave tossed me right upside down, and I didn’t know which way was up. She leant into my shoulder and started to sob gently.
‘Does your mother know?’
‘Yes.’
My heart sank. I felt trapped. All my plans . . . I slowly began to see that there were no options now. The rest of my life was being drawn up by my stupid, selfish actions. Was I going to have to marry her? Was her mother going to approve? Would I spend the rest of my life being not quite good enough? Would I be expected to live here with them? Would I inherit this house? Did I want to be a father yet? Yes, yes, as a matter of fact I did, in a year or two at least, but I had pictured Dora as the mother.
‘What . . . what would you like to do about it?’
She pushed me off. ‘What do you mean, what would I like to do about it? For God’s sake, Arthur! Are you suggesting I get rid of it?’
‘No! No, not at all. I mean . . . I don’t know, you seem so . . . so modern, I just wasn’t sure, that’s all.’
‘Well I’m not “modern”, for your information! Not that modern, anyway.’
‘But you seemed so . . . you seemed to have done it before.’
She slapped me hard across the cheek. ‘How dare you!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you should be. If you’d thought to use some sort of protection, like most men, this wouldn’t have happened.’
I felt too ashamed to pick up on the ‘most men’ reference. It was all my fault. I had to do the manly thing. ‘Surely you don’t want to marry me. I mean, of course I’ll marry you, Pippa, but surely I’m not good enough?’
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br /> She softened slightly. ‘Well, clearly someone with your income would not be my mother’s first choice . . . but then I don’t have a choice, do I?’
This wasn’t the way I had hoped to make someone my wife. I didn’t want any woman to ‘make do’ with me. I wanted her – as I knew Dora would – to be bowled over with delight at the prospect of a future together. I wanted someone loyal and loving and excited by me and all I had to offer. I realized now for certain, and with a somersault in my stomach, that all of this, everything, was with the wrong woman.
‘We’d better go and talk to your mother, then.’ I smiled weakly and kissed her neck so that she couldn’t see the terror in my face.
In the kitchen her mother was waiting for us at the big oak table, cigarette in hand and bottle of cognac open in front of her. I saw for the first time that her face was deeply lined, and her mouth had the drawstring creases of a serious smoker. She looked up at me under heavy lids and said, ‘Well, you’re still alive, then? I expect you’d like a stiff drink.’
It soon became clear that it was Lady Barrington-Hobb who liked a stiff drink or two. She proceeded to quiz me on my income and my property whilst knocking back several glasses. ‘So you’re an engineer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any chance of promotion?’
‘I’ve just been promoted.’
‘But you have a small house.’
‘Yes,’ I said proudly. ‘I have a property of my own.’
‘But a small one. Any chance of owning a larger one?’
I felt foolish. ‘I have a very high chance of further promotion. My area of expertise is in great demand at the moment. I expect to be earning considerably more within the next few years.’
‘Well, I suppose you’ll do, Archie.’