It was tempting simply to agree with her mother. Parents can be so wrong, Caroline thought—about virtually everything—and it was therefore best just to steer clear of matters of disagreement and concentrate instead on keeping relations uncontroversial and consequently affable.
She gave in to the temptation. “No, you’re right,” she said quietly. “I don’t suppose that …”
She did not finish. “You’re being evasive, Caroline,” said Frances. “Don’t think I can’t tell.”
Caroline sighed. “I’m not. All I’m saying is … Well, what I mean is, why argue?”
Frances laughed. This discussion was taking place in the kitchen, where the two of them were seated at the kitchen table, shelling peas.
“Why argue?” Her mother’s voice rose perceptibly. “I was not aware that we were arguing. I was under the impression that we were having a perfectly reasonable discussion. But if you think that you can’t discuss anything with me, then …”
Caroline put down the pod she had been stripping. She turned away.
“Caroline?”
She said nothing. Her mother, pushing aside the bowl of shelled peas, reached out across the table for her daughter’s hand. “Darling. Darling.”
Caroline looked up. “I’m sorry.” She wiped away a tear. “I’m just …”
“Oh, darling. Of course you are. We all get upset from time to time. The world …” She shrugged. “The world can be so hard, so difficult, can’t it? And things are never quite right, are they? Is it … is it a boy? Is that the trouble?”
Caroline nodded. “Yes.”
Frances fished a tissue out of her pocket and passed it to her daughter. “Well, darling, you can talk to me, you know. It’s obviously not going well but these things can change, can’t they? Tell me about him. Who is he?”
Caroline blew her nose. “My nose runs when I cry,” she said. “Stupid nose.”
“Everybody’s does. But tell me about him, darling. Who is he?” There was an edge to Frances’s question; the sympathetic mother could be the inquisitive mother too—the same mother who had talked about boys being suitable and who had, ever since her daughter had started taking an interest in boys, sought to bring her into contact with the right sort of boy, a nice boy.
“You know him already.”
This answer piqued her mother’s curiosity. “Oh I do, do I? So he’s local …”
Caroline shook her head. “London.”
Frances frowned. “So …”
“It’s James, Mummy. James!”
“Oh, darling!” Frances shook her head. “No, darling, no! We’ve been through that. Surely you see—do I have to spell it out to you? And you said, anyway, that there was nothing between you and him—you said it just a few moments ago.”
“There’s nothing between us at the moment,” said Caroline stubbornly. “But that doesn’t stop me wanting him, does it?” That was precisely the problem; she still yearned for James. She had recently met another boy—one who seemed completely suitable—but it had not worked out. Her feelings had been hurt, and she had thought: James would never have done this to me.
Her mother sighed. “There are bags of people, bags of them, who go through life wanting what they can’t have. And what does it bring them? Nothing. It’s a complete waste of time.”
“That implies that there can never be anything between James and me.”
“Well, that’s the case, isn’t it?”
Caroline looked up. “Why? Why do you say that?”
“Because I don’t think he’s interested. Don’t you see that?”
Caroline shook her head. “No, I don’t. James is just not sure at the moment. He … he may be a little bit that way, but not everybody is one hundred per cent one way or the other. You can be a bit of both. Look at …” She searched for an example. “Shakespeare. Yes, look at Shakespeare.”
Frances picked a handful of pods out of the colander and began to shell them aggressively. “Shakespeare was happily married,” she said.
Caroline remembered the sonnets, which she had studied in one of her university courses. “The twentieth sonnet?” she challenged.
Her mother was unimpressed. “I don’t care what he wrote,” she said. “It’s what he did that counts. And he got married.”
Caroline reached for some peas. “The point is, Mummy, that I think that James and I are perfect for one another. I used to think it wouldn’t work, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m never happier than when I’m in his company. When I’m not with him, I wonder what he’s doing. And when we do meet up, we get on so well. We talk about everything. He bares his soul to me. He’s my friend, Mummy, my best, best friend.”
“Then keep him as a friend, if you must. Not that I think men and women can be real friends, as I’ve just said …”
“No.”
Frances stared at her daughter. “Are you setting out—deliberately—to make yourself unhappy? Do you want to be one of those women who spend their lives hankering after some man they can’t have because he’s gone off with somebody else or never looked at them in the first place? Is that what you want?”
“No. I don’t want that. I want James.”
Frances sighed. “Are you going to see him?”
“Yes. We’re going to meet up next week. We’re going to have dinner.”
“And the approach came from him?”
Caroline hesitated. Her mother was watching her. “Not exactly …”
Her mother smiled. “I thought not.”
Caroline ignored the provocation. “I phoned him. I said that we hadn’t seen one another for a while and did he want to have dinner.”
“And?”
“And he said he’d like that very much. He’s coming to Corduroy Mansions next week. He’s going to cook.”
“What’s he going to cook?”
“Risotto. He makes lovely risotto.”
Frances rolled her eyes. “Oh, darling, can’t you see? A man who goes round cooking risotto … It’s just not going to work.”
12. The Mothers Take Action
“I DESPAIR,” FRANCES said to her husband later that evening. “She sat there, shelling peas, talking about that young man she brought here—remember him?—and completely refusing to accept that she’s barking up the wrong tree. Why do young people do it? Why can’t they see that some boys are possible and others don’t even get close to the starting line?”
Frances was alone with her husband in their drawing room, Caroline having gone out for the evening with a couple of school friends who remained in Cheltenham. Rufus Jarvis was only half listening, being absorbed in watching a game of golf on the television. A player had just sliced a ball into the rough, giving rise to a groan from the Greek chorus of spectators.
“You tell me,” he mumbled.
“Tell you what? Why young women can’t see things that are staring them in the face?”
“Yes. You’re always telling me that men and women are equally competent. Now you’re telling me that women have a problem in sorting out the sheep from the goats, so to speak.”
Frances gave her husband a disparaging look. “In emotional matters it’s different.”
Rufus fiddled with the remote control. “She needs to meet a decent boy,” he said. “Isn’t there anybody?”
“You know what it’s like,” said Frances. “There are so many completely unsuitable young men …” She paused. Her conversation with Caroline had moved on from James to more mundane issues, and Caroline had told her that she was looking for new flatmates to replace two of the girls. That peculiar vitamin girl, Dee, had moved on now that she had sold her business, and the Australian girl had gone too, at least for a few months. So that meant two rooms needed to be filled.
Now it came back to her: Peggy Warden had said that her son Ronald was going off to London to take up a new job in a firm of architects and was looking for somewhere to live. He had made some sort of arrangement with a friend who owned a flat, but the f
riend had fallen behind with his mortgage payments and was having to sell up. “He’s rather worried,” Peggy had said. “He thinks he may have to commute for a few weeks before he finds anywhere. It’s not easy, you know.”
Frances had been unable to give any advice. Caroline had been lucky in finding her room in the Corduroy Mansions flat, but presumably not everybody had such luck. Now, as she remembered the conversation, an idea came to her.
She looked at her husband. “If only she were to get to know some suitable boys a bit better,” she said. “Ronald, for example; Peggy and Tufty’s boy. What do you think of him?”
Rufus was non-committal. “All right. A bit conscious of being bright, I suppose.”
Frances knew what he meant. Ronald was intelligent and probably knew it. And if he made a bit much of it, it might be a reaction to being the son of such dim parents. Peggy, bless her, was not exactly an intellectual; she had once said something which revealed that she thought Stravinsky was a place in Russia. “I’ve never been to Stravinsky,” she said. “But I do hope to go there one day. St. Petersburg too.” Frances had wondered to herself, Should I tell her that Stravinsky’s a writer? but had said nothing; one does not like to embarrass others by revealing their ignorance. Poor Peggy!
“Ronald’s rather nice, I think,” she said. “I wonder whether he might not take an interest in Caroline …”
“Don’t!” whispered Rufus. “Just don’t!”
“Why not? If she’s not going to do anything herself about meeting the right sort of boy, then I don’t see what’s wrong in giving her a bit of a push.”
“She won’t listen to you,” said Rufus.
I won’t ask her to listen to me, thought Frances. I shall do this myself.
She left the room and went up to their bedroom, where there was a phone beside the bed. She paged through her address book and identified the Warden number.
Peggy listened with interest to her proposal.
“It’s a complete coincidence,” Frances began. “Caroline has a room—maybe even two—coming up in her flat in Pimlico. You said that Ronald—”
“Oh, that would be marvellous,” said Peggy. “If Ronald could—”
Frances interrupted her. “I haven’t spoken to Caroline herself. You know how touchy they can be about this sort of thing.”
“Don’t I know it. They’re worried that we’re trying to lead their lives for them.”
“And all we’re doing is trying to provide a bit of help.”
“Exactly.”
“You tell him you’ve heard that Caroline’s looking for a flatmate. Don’t tell him I told you. Make something up. Then get him to phone her—they do know one another vaguely, after all. They were at that dance a couple of years ago in the same party, weren’t they?”
“They were. That was when the Ellis girl got pregnant, wasn’t it?”
“So they say. Anyway, Caroline could hardly refuse to let him at least look at the place.”
Peggy raised the possibility that she might be looking for a female flatmate. “I could understand it if she were …”
“Not at all,” said Frances. “These days they all live together, as friends.”
There was a pause. Both women were thinking the same thing but neither could admit it to the other. And Frances, in addition, was wondering whose lawn would be more suitable for the marquee: theirs or the Wardens’? Theirs was on a bit of a slope, and although the marquee-hire people claimed that they could erect their tents on sloping ground and compensate for it in the setting up of the floor, she was not convinced that this always worked. She had been at a wedding once where the marquee had been so placed and there had been several collisions on the dance floor as dancers, unaware of the subtle slope in the floor, failed to adjust their steps. Bumping into people on the dance floor—metaphorically—was one thing; bumping into them in the physical sense was quite another.
The two mothers finished their conversation and rang off, Frances uttering these parting words to her friend: “Tell him I just happened to mention that Caroline’s flat has a vacant room. Happened to mention. I would prefer for Caroline not to think that I was interfering.”
“Perish the thought,” Peggy said.
Which was reassuring, thought Frances. Peggy might not be unduly bright, but she was not dim; if that was possible. Not bright but not dim—somewhere in between, like one of those lights controlled by a rheostat.
13. A Literary Agent
BARBARA RAGG BEGAN her day, as most people do, with a routine. Hers was to change into her jogging outfit—black Lycra leggings and loose-fitting sports sweater—and run the five blocks that separated her flat in Notting Hill from the corner newsagency where she purchased her morning paper and a pint of semi-skimmed milk. These would be placed in an environmentally sound hemp shopping bag and she would run home, or rather run three blocks and walk the final two. The point at which she changed from running to walking was always the same, and although she realised that it was a superstition—of much the same order as the superstition that keeps children from stepping on the pavement cracks lest they be eaten by bears—she nonetheless observed it scrupulously. She knew it was irrational, but she believed that were she to run for a block more or a block less, then she would be seized by some vaguely imagined impending doom. Such beliefs, she had been told, spring from our inherent understanding that our lives hang by a thread. Things may be going well and we may be successfully negotiating the perilous shoals that beset any human life, but we are acutely aware that at any time, quite without warning, our run of luck can stop. And did stop for many people, suddenly and without warning, as the perusal of any daily newspaper would reveal. That which separates us from the unfortunates who perish in accidents is only the merest of chances. One may cross a busy road without incident; the next person may coincide with a carelessly driven car, or a car driven by someone who at the crucial moment closes his eyes in a sneeze and brings to an end, in that second, a whole cherished life. Or a swimmer enjoying the surf on an Australian beach may emerge from the tumble of waves exhilarated and refreshed, while another, only a short distance down the beach, may find that he shares his wave with a great white shark that just happened to be cruising past that particular place at that particular time. Neither deserves his fate; sharks and other agents of Nemesis pay no attention to the claims of moral desert. A selfless campaigner for social justice tastes much the same to a shark as a ruthless exploiter of others; not especially delicious—in shark terms, we are told—but good enough to eat in the absence of a seal or sea lion pup.
That morning, the feeling that the hand of fate should not in any way be tempted was strong and nothing would have persuaded Barbara to run even half a block more than habit and superstition dictated. This was because she was happy—blissfully so—and did not wish in any way to imperil her happiness. The happiness came from the fact that she would that evening be seeing her fiancé, Hugh, who was travelling down from Scotland to spend several days with her in London. This, then, was double good fortune: to be engaged and to be facing the prospect of dinner with the man who had asked her to marry him. Me! she thought. Me! It was a simple thought, but one that the blessed must often think: that this should happen to me, of all people.
When they had first become engaged, they had planned to live together immediately in a cottage on the farm. In the clear light of day this had seemed to be a rather impetuous decision, and they had opted to take their time. Barbara would return to London and, rather than packing up there and then, would wait a year or so. She knew, of course, that this would cause problems as she had already told her business partner Rupert that she would sell her flat to him more or less straight away. Telling him of the change of plan was going to be awkward.
Hugh had stayed behind in Ardnamurchan. There were two decrepit cottages on the farm that they were doing up, and much of the work was being done by Hugh, who was in the process mastering skills ranging from pointing and plastering to replacing
broken Ballachulish slate on the roofs. There was no alternative, he explained: contractors in that part of Scotland were few and far between, and anyway, the budget did not run to their exorbitant charges. So Hugh, who as a farmer’s son had always been good with his hands, was obliged to become even better.
He sent her photographs of his handiwork, and she emailed back for more. She looked at these photographs with wonder, not because the building work was in itself especially interesting but because it was his work. The slates were grey and uninteresting but had been put there by him. The plaster looked as any plaster looks but was special to her because it was Hugh—her Hugh—who had smoothed it into position. And then, very occasionally, there was a photograph in which, at the edge, she saw his hand, or perhaps the toe-cap of his work-boot. She would look at this with a still deeper sense of wonderment, savouring the thought that this was him, and he was hers. And these photographs in her eyes became almost sacramental in their significance.
Tonight they would eat in. Hugh enjoyed going out for meals, but preferred to have dinner with her in the flat. She was touched by his appreciation of her culinary skills, which had never been exceptional but which she now set out to improve for his sake. She had purchased several volumes of Delia and studied them conscientiously. “If there is one person who will help you keep your man, it’s Delia.” That had been said by a friend of hers, and Barbara had initially thought it was a joke. But then she had reflected on it and realised that it expressed a folksy but nonetheless profound truth.
She reached her flat and went to run her bath. As she did so, she glanced at the front page of the newspaper and saw an item that made her stop in her tracks. Snark Accepts Ministerial Post, the copy line read.
She read the news report, which was fairly lengthy, impervious to the fact that the water was approaching the top of the bath. Oedipus Snark had been Barbara Ragg’s lover. He had not cared for her, and she had eventually freed herself of him. And now here he was, a government minister.
A Conspiracy of Friends Page 5