by Angela Huth
They waltzed on among the collapsing walls, the staggering dancers, the exploding lights. Then they were back at the table, Prue safe at last in her chair. ‘Just one last question,’ she said, making a supreme effort to control her voice, ‘why did you book separate rooms?’
Gerald turned to her. ‘My dear girl, why do you think?’ His look was one of utmost scorn.
‘I don’t know what to think. That’s why I asked. It seems to me if you drive a girl to London, take her to stay in this place, pay all that money, you must want to sleep with her.’
‘How very wrong you are. Think about it. We scarcely know each other. Aunt Ivy told me you don’t have much fun, stuck in the country. I liked the idea of giving you a little innocent amusement. In my book, that doesn’t have to include sex.’ He regarded her, now, pityingly. ‘You go too fast, Prue. You go too fast. You must learn to slow down or you’ll drive away what might be possibilities of some real thing. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I suppose I do, though I’ve never thought of that before. I’ve always reckoned, fuck first, see what follows.’ She saw Gerald flinch and decided, recklessly, on one last chance. ‘If you want to change your mind – well, think of me as one of those fast loose girls who enjoy . . . What I’m trying to say is – I’m willing, even at this last moment.’
‘I know what you’re trying to say, and I’m not willing. I’ll get the bill. Bugger the ice cream.’
Battered by her own foolishness Prue followed Gerald upstairs. She was still unsteady on her feet but now he did not support her. He walked ahead, ignoring her condition. But he did unlock the door, come into the room with her. Prue turned her back to him.
‘Would you mind?’ she said. This was not a final attempt in her dazed mind: this was practicality.
Gerald slowly unzipped the dress. Prue was about to move when she felt a finger travelling down her spine. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to be the first to turn you down. But it wouldn’t work, you and me, not in a thousand years.’
Prue gave a small, snorting laugh. ‘That’s OK. Honestly. Thanks for a nice evening.’
‘I’ve ordered your breakfast for eight. We’ll leave at nine.’
‘Fine.’
‘Here, I’ll undo the necklace.’ All his brusqueness had left him, now the evening was nearly over. ‘I hope you might still like to come out sometimes. We could go to a theatre, a film. Talk about cows, if you like. And Dickens. Not about ourselves.’ He lifted her hair, undid her necklace, handed her the pile of glittery stones which were warm in her hand.
With no plan in mind, but with an invisible movement she tugged at the undone dress. It fell to her waist. She turned to Gerald, breasts bare. He did not look at them, but kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, and left.
Prue, in bed, laughed at herself: a laugh that turned into a howl, then tears, then more laughter. No sleep at all.
Gerald drove her back to Wiltshire very fast: he had another meeting near Salisbury. He dropped her at the Old Rectory. Prue, not wanting to face Ivy’s enquiring look immediately, took her own car back to the cottage. Once again, Johnny was waiting for her at the gate. ‘I’ve got news for you,’ he announced, as soon as she was out of the car. ‘I found a gun.’ He held it up, smiling.
Prue, carrying her case, followed him into the kitchen. On the draining board lay two headless pigeons, their mauve feathers faintly luminescent in the morning light, their claws scrunched up like the hands of aged dowagers. Blood dripped from their necks into the sink, where Johnny had thrown their heads. They had fallen so that they looked at each other in death, beaks almost touching, eyes half shut.
Prue, sickened, turned to the kitchen table. Beside the remains of Johnny’s breakfast lay two rabbits, their stomachs split wide, the red-brown empty caverns showing.
‘Just got to skin them,’ he said. ‘Rabbit casserole tonight, pigeon tomorrow. No more worry about the shortage of food. Isn’t that good news?’
‘I suppose it is, yes,’ said Prue.
Johnny propped the gun in a corner, turned and looked at her. ‘Not a word,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget, not a word about your night. I don’t want to hear. I don’t ever want to hear.’
‘OK, OK. Fine.’ Prue picked up her case and went upstairs to her room.
Chapter 13
‘I heard from Johnny it all went very well,’ Ivy said to Prue, the next day.
‘I think it did. Though I’m not quite sure what to make of Gerald. I wasn’t certain how to interest him.’ She caught Ivy’s fleeting look, but ignored it. After a good night’s sleep she was feeling strong, normal. The night at the Savoy was reduced to a distant bad dream. Her worry now was not Gerald but Johnny.
‘I have to say I’ve always thought of my dear nephew as something of a dark horse. I’m not sure what to make of him either. Never have been. Now, let’s have a cup of coffee. Then perhaps you could run me down to the post office.’
They sat in the sitting room, the tray of coffee things arranged in their usual orderly fashion on the table between them. Ivy asked if the dress had been a success.
‘I loved wearing it,’ said Prue. ‘And again, thank you so much. I’ll never have a dress like that.’
‘Did Gerald notice it?’
‘I expect he did.’
‘Huh. Did he dance well?’
‘Oh, yes. I loved the band.’
There was silence for a while, chipped by the clink of silver spoons against porcelain.
‘Now, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you, Prue.’ Ivy cleared her throat, touched her hair. ‘My will, inheritance matters, if you’ll forgive my speaking about such things. All very easy, with no children. Everything was decided and signed some time ago, as you can imagine. Everything except the contents of my cupboard room. Somehow I wanted them to be left unassigned. I wanted to be free to leave them to someone who might come along and appreciate them. I could well be dead by the time Gerald’s married, if he marries, and who knows if his wife would fancy all that old stuff? But you, Prue, it seemed to me you loved and appreciated it. So strange we’re the same size, and you looked so beautiful in that dress. You’d look beautiful in all of them. So this is my wish. When I die, you must assure Gerald that my clothes go to you, and I’d like to think you’ll have fun in them.’
‘But you can’t! I mean, you can’t just give them all away. I couldn’t possibly accept – we’ve only known each other for a very short time—’
‘Ah, but I felt we were kindred spirits from the start. You were one of those bonuses, sudden from heaven. Now I can’t imagine you not here, lighting my days, reading my books.’
Prue’s eyes were cluttered with tears. Ivy’s were dry. Prue tried again to protest at her generosity but Ivy tossed aside her objections with an imperious wave of her hand. Had it been almost anyone else, Prue thought, she would have hugged them with gratitude and delight. But her employer was not the sort of person who would welcome being hugged, any more than she would agree to being addressed by her Christian name. These things Prue found strange, but supposed it was a matter of age, and she had grown to appreciate the formality. It gave a polite distance to proceedings but in no way deterred warmth, merriment, humour or the exchange of ideas.
‘So that’s it,’ said Ivy, putting down her empty cup. ‘Done. Finished. It’s been on my mind for a few days so I’m glad it’s settled. You must promise me you’ll make sure—’ ‘I promise I will.’
‘Now, off to the post office, shall we? In the car.’
Prue helped Ivy into the low passenger seat of the Sunbeam. Then she revved up the engine, which always brought a squeal of delight, but drove quite slowly through the lanes ablaze with hedgerows of May green. Ivy kept a silent smile. Prue was conscious of a strange longing to say something about the affection she felt for her. If she had dared, she would have told Ivy that she loved her in a funny way – a granddaughterly sort of way. But she said nothing, made herself concentrate on the c
heerless prospect of looking for somewhere of her own to live, finding a job and a husband. But for the time being, as Ivy’s ‘companion’, she could not have been happier.
That summer, the pattern of life with Ivy did not change. Prue went to the Old Rectory every day of the week. There were few new tasks, apart from deadheading the roses. After lunch she would go to the sitting room, or to a chair on the terrace, and continue her way through Dickens. When Ivy came downstairs from her rest, she would urge her not to stop: ‘Take your chance, take your chance – the rest of your life might be too busy,’ she often said. When they were together she would speak of moments in her own life that revealed to Prue unknown and unimagined worlds: she spoke so eloquently, with such humour and twists of language that Prue was enchanted. She spent less and less time at the cottage, and saw little of Johnny.
He was happily engaged in making the stable doors: Ivy declared herself very pleased when they were finished and immediately commissioned a new five-bar gate for one of the fields. When he wasn’t working at his carpentry he was shooting rabbits, pigeons, pheasants. Suddenly fascinated by cooking, he produced suppers made from whatever he had caught, and vegetables from the garden that he had begun to resuscitate. There was no longer time for writing poetry, he said, but this did not seem to trouble him. Prue judged him happy, more as he had been when she had first known him. There was no sign of any vodka, or of his drinking.
No word came from Gerald, no suggestion of another night out. But a postcard arrived from Rudolph, now back in America, sent on by Stella. ‘Thank you for your letter,’ he wrote. ‘This is just to give you my home address, should you ever change your mind. My love, Rudolph.’ The picture was of the azalea avenue leading into Savannah. It was one of those cards that would remain for ever on a shelf, its picture fading as it gathered a bloom of dust – the kind of card that would be taken to a new shelf when there was one. Rudolph seemed a very long time ago, but she did not throw the card away.
In July there was a heatwave. Ivy said that, despite her many years in hot climates, she could never like great heat. It sapped her energy, she said. Her mornings were spent on a chaise-longue on the terrace, in the shade, reading The Times. She wore a straw hat with a ribbon round its crown. When she emerged from under the buddleia tree, which flickered with butterflies, sunlight pierced the loose weave of the brim, scattering gold freckles on her pale skin. After lunch – in celebration of summer, the shortbread was briefly replaced by home-grown peaches – she took a much longer siesta in her room, blinds drawn. Prue noticed that she leant more heavily on her cane, but there seemed to be nothing wrong with her beyond inertia caused by the relentless heat. Prue would make lemonade every day. It seemed to revive Ivy for her daily watch of the light fading from the terrace. She would return to the chaise-longue with a jug and a glass, her blue-tinted spectacles and an anthology of poems.
‘You hurry back to Johnny,’ she would say. ‘Have another nice rabbit casserole.’ This had become a joke between them. ‘Don’t worry for one moment about me. Autumn will soon be here and I’ll be lively as a cricket again.’
One evening Prue, engrossed by a story Ivy was telling about her husband’s big-game hunting, left later than usual. When she arrived at the cottage Johnny was standing at the gate in the same sort of agitation as he had been on the day Prue had first arrived. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for ages,’ he snapped. ‘What happened? Where’ve you been? I was worried.’
Seeing that he was oddly upset, Prue put a hand on his arm.
‘Don’t you touch me,’ he said, and hurried into the kitchen. There, the heat of the day had begun to wane. The room was unusually tidy. There was a jam jar of lavender on the table, and a small box crudely wrapped in tissue paper. ‘Got something for you. Sit down. Sorry. I’m jumpy today. This bloody heat. Here.’ He pushed the box towards Prue, who took the seat opposite him.
‘What’s all this?’
‘Just a little something. Thank-you present for the stable-door job – entirely your doing and old Mrs L paid me very generously. So now I can contribute a bit to everything.’
‘No need,’ said Prue, ‘unless you really want to.’ She took off the paper, opened a small box. It held an embossed silver locket on a silver chain. She took it out, swung it back and forth, laughed with delight, ‘Oh, Johnny. It’s lovely. I’ve always wanted a locket. Thank you.’
‘I found it in Marlborough. Open it.’ Prue did so. The two spaces for photographs were empty. ‘I was hoping,’ Johnny went on, ‘there’d be a picture of you one side, me the other . . .’ He spoke jokingly, so Prue smiled.
‘We’ll get a Box Brownie,’ she said. ‘Take pictures of each other. I’m thrilled with it, I really am.’ She fastened it round her neck. ‘All right? How can I thank you?’
‘You don’t have to. Just glad you like it.’ Johnny got up, went to the tap and filled two glasses of water. ‘I’d do anything in the world for an iced lager now. But I don’t dare.’
‘No. You’ve been so strong.’
Johnny sat down again. ‘I’ve tried,’ he said. He looked at Prue, stretched out a hand and touched the locket with a finger. ‘It looks good. Something I must say, though.’ He withdrew the finger, paused. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to start seriously looking for your own place. I can’t take much more of this landlord business. I’m sorry.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean we can’t go on living like this, under the same roof. It’s agonizing. For me, that is. I thought it would be all right. Just the one brief occasion, a long time ago. I thought I could bury it, but I can’t.’
‘I don’t know what—’
‘I mean you – there, here, every morning, every evening, every weekend – bobbing about, breasts half exposed under some summery little dress, not giving a thought to what you do to me – would do to any man. It’s unbearable. God knows how many times I’ve been close to forcing myself upon you. Don’t worry, of course I’d never do that. Never, ever, I promise you.’
‘Oh cripes. I never realized . . .’ Prue winced internally, alarmed. She cursed herself for having been so blind. The idea of her presence being difficult for Johnny had never occurred to her. She had taken care not to flirt with him for a single instance, and he had given no sign of the frustration he now admitted. ‘I never realized you still fancied me. You never gave a sign.’
‘You don’t look very closely, Prue, sometimes. There’s so much buzzing round in your half-empty head. One of your charms is that you’ve no idea what you do to men – or perhaps you have? I don’t know. Perhaps this whole arrangement was daft in the first place. I’m so sorry I ever suggested it. How can a man and a woman of ordinary desires hope to live together without . . .? And the other thing is, it isn’t just that I want you in my bed. I seem to have fallen in love with you. That never occurred to me. You’re not the sort of girl I’ve ever gone for.’ He finished his glass of water.
There was silence, but for the slow drip of a tap. Prue blinked rapidly. ‘What can I say? This is the most awful surprise. What can I do?’
‘Go,’ said Johnny. ‘Go as soon as possible, if you don’t want to drive me mad.’
‘Blimey. All right.’ Prue nodded, thinking fast. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard to find somewhere . . .’
‘And then, you can imagine what it’s been like for me. Hearing about all your other men. How did you think I felt when you described with such relish the “glorious” fucking with Rudolph? And now this Gerald man. God, how was that, in the Savoy?’
‘Nothing happened. I promise. We had separate rooms. It was all a disaster. Utter failure. It’ll be a funny story one day.’
Johnny looked at her, disbelieving. ‘More fool him, then. My night, imagining you both, was hell.’ He spat the word.
‘I’m so, so sorry. I’ll go as soon as I can.’ Prue touched her locket. Johnny watched her finger trace the pattern on its silver case. His desire for her to be gone seemed to be dwindling.
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‘It’s not that urgent, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Dare say I can put up with the torture for a bit longer. I can’t decide which would be worse – missing you, or having yet not having you here – Anyhow, start looking around and don’t worry about me.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I’ve made roast rabbit with dill and cider.’ Johnny went to the stove.
‘Lovely.’
‘You don’t by any chance love me just a bit? Even in a vague, brotherly sort of way?’ He stayed with his back to her, stirring. The question’s lightness of touch did not deceive.
‘Of course I love you a bit. You’ve been good to me. We’ve shared a lot. But I don’t love you enough, or anyone else, to commit my life in some way.’
‘OK. Thought as much. Dare say I’ll get used to the idea, make myself understand.’
‘Oh, Johnny. Such muddles we all get into.’
‘We do.’
Somehow they managed a peaceful evening: rabbit talk, a game of backgammon. A new moon hung from a thread of cloud in the window. They heard a fox bark nearby.
‘Better just check the chickens,’ said Johnny.
Prue went up to her room when he had gone. Just as a precaution, for the first time, she locked the door.
Cooler weather came with September. Ivy’s old energy returned and she spent less time resting. Eager for more rides in the Sunbeam, which had stopped during the very hot days, she suggested she should accompany Prue on visits to see possible cottages for her to live. There was little on the market and they saw nothing that was remotely suitable. Often Ivy would dismiss the estate agent who was waiting for them. ‘Don’t think we’ll bother to go round, thank you very much,’ she would say, after a cursory glance at the outside. ‘We can see straight away that it’s not what we’re looking for.’ She seemed to know more clearly than Prue what would be the perfect thing, and with one look knew instinctively whether or not it was worth considering.
As the weeks stretched into autumn Prue became anxious about lingering in the cottage with Johnny. But since his outburst urging her to go he seemed to have calmed down. On several occasions he had apologized for berating her, and said his real wish was for her to stay as long as she needed. Her presence was difficult, he said, but her absence would be no less so.