After the Party

by Cressida Connolly

  Cressida Connolly

  * * *

  AFTER THE PARTY

  Contents

  Phyllis, 1979

  1. Sussex, June 1938

  2. Sussex, June 1938

  Phyllis, 1979

  3. Sussex, July 1938

  4. Sussex, July 1938

  Phyllis, 1979

  5. Sussex and Buckinghamshire, July 1938

  6. Sussex, August 1938

  Phyllis, 1979

  7. Sussex, August 1938

  8. Sussex and Paris, autumn 1938

  Phyllis, 1979

  9. Sussex and Buckinghamshire, November 1938

  10. Sussex, December 1938

  Phyllis, 1979

  11. Sussex, March 1940

  12. Sussex and London, May to June 1940

  Phyllis, 1979

  13. Holloway, September to December 1940

  14. Isle of Man, June 1941

  Phyllis, 1979

  15. Isle of Man, summer and autumn 1941

  16. Sussex, autumn 1943

  Phyllis, 1979

  A Note on Sources

  Follow Penguin

  To my lifelong friend

  Danny Moynihan

  and

  Katrine, Tallulah and

  my godson, Kit

  Yet such things happen … lives are thus ruined, thus tainted and darkened and irrevocably spoilt, wrong turnings are taken and persisted in, and those who make one mistake wreck all the rest …

  Iris Murdoch, A Word Child

  Phyllis, 1979

  When I came out of prison my hair was white. I think it was a shock for them all, but for the children especially.

  I’d had brown hair before but now it was yellowing white, like the mane of an old wooden rocking-horse. They hadn’t set eyes on me for such a time: it must have seemed to them that there had been a horrible substitution, like in Little Red Riding Hood when the wolf is in the lacy bed, where the grandmother should have been. Here was this haggish-looking old person instead of their mother. My clothes must have seemed very drab, too. And then of course prisons smell awful. The lack of fresh air makes everything musty and stale, and the tar-tang of regulation soap sticks to your skin and of course your clothes aren’t laundered. Heaven knows what I must have smelled of, when they came forward to be embraced. It was the first time they’d touched me for I don’t know how long. They were pretty reluctant about it, shuffling when their aunt prodded them to come towards me, not that I really blame them.

  They all thought it was the awfulness of prison that had made me old, like those old wives’ tales where someone sees a ghost and goes white overnight from the shock, but the truth was simply that one couldn’t get one’s hair dyed. Hair dye was not provided, and why should it have been? It was meant to be a punishment, not a hairdressing salon. Some of the women combed shoe-polish into their hair, close to the head around the parting, but since we were only allowed black shoes there was just the regulation black shoe-polish, so that wouldn’t have worked for me.

  Of course I had never been the beauty of the family, but my hair was the one thing people had admired; it was long and abundant, not quite the colour of a conker, although that is how people did describe it. Someone said to me once, when I was young, that my hair was as glossy as the flank of a well-stabled horse, and it is true that it did have a great deal of shine. I don’t think I am being vain in saying so. When we were children our nurse used the tall tin jug which lived in the nursery bathroom to rinse our hair and she would add a few drops of malt vinegar to the water, for extra shine. She had a habit of pressing then sliding her wet palms close against our heads, to be certain all the soap had come out. Our hair squeaked beneath the firmness of her touch. I liked the feeling of her hands pressing against my skull, but the others would complain terribly. I don’t suppose people use a jug to rinse their hair any longer, do they? Now people have those rubber tubes you fit over the bath taps, with nozzles on the end like a watering can. They have the same slightly scorched smell as hot water bottles. I rather like it.

  My mother had gone grey in her late thirties and I was the same. I’d been having my hair dyed for some years before prison. Both my sisters knew this perfectly well, but somehow Patricia allowed the children’s fright to affect her, so that she began to believe herself that it was something that had happened in an instant. I know that is what she used to tell people, as if it was some sort of fable or story. ‘My sister was sent to jail and her hair turned white.’ It was one of those things that snowballed, rather, until everyone in the family believed it had happened from the upset of it all.

  But I wasn’t upset. I did not mind being imprisoned. Well, that is not really true; I did mind very much, of course. Being separated from the children, taken out of one’s home and set down among hostile strangers, kept under lock and key; and the catalogue of daily smells, urine and carbolic and a sticky, fishy smell like wallpaper paste … But the thing was, I thought I deserved it. What I did was terrible. Terrible. The shame of it will never leave me until my dying day. Such a stupid, sordid thing and yet I believed it to have had a terrible consequence.

  Had it not been for my weakness, someone who is now dead could still be alive. That is what I believed and consequently lived with every day in prison.

  1. Sussex, June 1938

  Both her sisters had offered to put them up while they found a house. In some ways Phyllis would have preferred to stay with Nina, even though things would have been more cramped. As it was, Hugh favoured staying with Patricia, whose house would be so much more comfortable; and as ever Hugh prevailed. But what rankled was that Hugh hoped to have business in town over the coming weeks and probably wouldn’t be with them for more than two or three days a week. It was his wife who would be spending all her time with one sister or another, and not himself. When Phyllis ventured this point, he looked blank.

  ‘I can’t see what that has to do with it,’ he said.

  ‘Well, what I meant was, it’s me who’ll have to be beholden. And I don’t like to feel indebted to Patricia.’

  ‘You should be indebted to Nina, if we were her guests. It doesn’t make any difference, surely,’ said Hugh. ‘It won’t be for long, so you need not concern yourself. Patricia will enjoy having you.’

  And there the subject was closed.

  On the train down to Sussex the children had irritated their father by kicking their legs against the heating grille beneath the seats, until he had remonstrated with Phyllis to stop them. Unaccustomed to matters of discipline where the children were concerned – overseas she had always had a girl of some sort, to look after the children – she hesitated before murmuring in their direction. The two girls desisted, but their younger brother did not.

  ‘Couldn’t you tell Edwin a story or something?’ Phyllis asked Julia, conscious of a note of pleading in her voice. The eldest of the three, Julia had her nose in one of her mother’s old detective stories, but something in the bored droop of her shoulders suggested she was not lost in her book.

  ‘What about?’ asked Julia.

  ‘I don’t know, darling. Anything.’

  But the younger girl, Frances, had stepped in with an impromptu tale of elves, talking sparrows and magical shoes. Heaven only knew where she dreamed up such things. Hugh read the newspaper while his wife looked out of the window. She had not been back to England for three years and then only very briefly, for Nina’s wedding. Now the fields seemed almost absurdly green, the colour of new peas still bright in the pod. It made her happy, to see such vividness: from the boat the cliffs at Dover had looked so dingy, like the cut side of a stale loaf of bread, and the earth above the dull chalk had seemed as scant as a smear of Bovril. It was hard to believe that such thin soil could
support the growth even of grass, let alone flowers, or vegetables; still less trees. Looking homeward with eagerness from the deck of the ferry it had felt disappointing, suddenly, to see that sturdy England was built on such thin earth. To the right, towards Broadstairs, the land was like a line drawn with a soft grey pencil, between a sky and sea likewise grey. This was not as Phyllis wanted England to be, not as England was in her memory. Their few days in London afterwards had presented no less dreary a picture, a constant drizzling rain smudging the streets, blurring the outlines of the buildings. But today the sun was shining and the world was bright and full of colour.

  It was early June. Phyllis and Hugh could have stayed on to spend the summer in Belgium, but it had seemed prudent to arrive home in plenty of time to find a house, before Edwin started prep school in the autumn. Julia, who was fourteen, had already been boarding at Coombe Park for a year; her twelve-year-old sister Frances would now join her there. And there would be things for the children to do here in England, to keep them occupied over the summer. In one or two of her letters, Nina had mentioned summer camps which she and Eric were somehow involved in putting on, along the coast at nearby Pagham or Selsey. They were tremendous fun, she said, and the children could join in, making camp-fires and playing games and sea-bathing, or doing handicrafts and PE.

  Phyllis felt rather let down that Patricia did not meet them at the station herself, but sent a driver, a rather elderly man called Hitchens who did the garden and various other outdoor jobs at Rose Green, as well as what Greville called ‘ferrying us about’. Greville was never specific when he could be vague; whether this signalled inability to grasp a point, or only unwillingness, was a question his wife’s sisters had often returned to. He tended to move his arms about a lot when he spoke, as if attempting to fill in the details which were missing in the sketched picture of his conversation.

  The car turned right on to a gravel drive which ran between a dark hedge of holly and hornbeam. Presently one side opened on to pasture enclosed within rails of park fencing, while to the other was a small beechwood. Green light filtered through the trees. As the drive curved leftwards, the front came into view: two storeys faced in pale Portland stone with eight generous windows, four above and four below, and a sturdy two-pillared portico. It was a pretty house, more distinguished than architecturally interesting. Patricia stood waiting for them by the main door, her fair hair waved, a double string of heavy pearls at her throat, a creamy silk blouse tucked into a narrow, belted skirt. At first glance she was beautiful, with perfectly round grey-green eyes like marbles and a small nose with just a little dent in it. But the very symmetry of her features created a sort of blankness in her expression which became either maddening or mesmerizing to people as they grew to know her.

  ‘You’ve cut off your hair!’ said Phyllis. Patricia raised an automatic hand to her neck.

  ‘Have I? I must have done it ages ago. Hello, Julia, Edwin. Frances! You’ve grown!’

  The children hung back, blushed. Hugh leant forward to kiss Patricia’s cheek, although neither spoke any words of greeting. Phyllis, taller than her sister, embraced Patricia, inhaling the particular scent of her which in contrast to her appearance was oddly masculine; a smell like bracken, or moorland.

  ‘Would you like to go up straight away, or come through for some tea?’ Patricia asked, leading them in.

  ‘Go up, just for a minute or two, if you don’t mind,’ said Phyllis.

  Hugh stood with a hand on the round hall table, while the women chattered up the stairs, the three children behind them.

  ‘Antonia is out on her pony,’ Patricia was explaining, ‘but she’s simply longing to see you all. She’ll be back very soon.’

  ‘Where’s Greville?’ asked Phyllis.

  ‘Oh, he’s somewhere,’ said Patricia. ‘You know what he’s like.’

  Patricia led the way. Phyllis was shown into a high-ceilinged room facing the garden, with a duck-egg blue Chinese paper of birds, while the children’s rooms – lower, with high mahogany beds – were along the nursery corridor, near the top of the back stairs.

  ‘Come down to the drawing room, when you’re ready,’ said Patricia.

  Alone for the first time that day, Phyllis sat down at the dressing table which stood between the two windows. She looked not at herself, but out at the garden. Flower beds lined with low box hedges were flanked by gravel paths which lay to either side of an expanse of lawn, with shallow steps down to a stone pond at the far end, where a deep ha-ha gave on to an orchard. The walled kitchen garden, with its fruit nets and long glasshouse, was to the left. To the right was the fenced paddock beside the drive. The light was soft, buttery. Why was the light here so different from Belgium, Phyllis wondered, when the distance between the two places was not so very great? She thought that it must be because Belgium essentially faced north, whereas here in Sussex things inclined south, towards the sun. In Belgium everything seemed harder: shutters instead of curtains and so much spiky wrought-iron work and tall, slender windows glinting an evasive slate colour. Looking now across the summer lawn, her earlier misgivings about staying with Patricia melted away. It was lovely to be back. Phyllis felt, for the first time since their arrival on home shores, a sense of grateful belonging.

  A tea-table had been set up by the drawing-room window, with a cloth of drawn-thread work and a covered muffin dish and a fat silver tea-pot, like a sultan’s headdress, on a silver trivet.

  ‘Tea is always the best thing, in England,’ said Hugh, taking a little sandwich. ‘Tea and breakfast, actually. It’s the luncheons and dinners that let the side down. On the Continent it’s the other way around. Filthy food last night, wasn’t it?’

  ‘We had dinner at the hotel,’ Phyllis explained. ‘Lord knows what it was. Something brown.’

  ‘It was mutton, wasn’t it?’ said Frances.

  ‘Kedgeree! Now there’s a thing,’ said Hugh. ‘One doesn’t see kedgeree, abroad.’

  ‘Should you like it?’ asked Patricia. ‘It’s too late, I think, to arrange it for tomorrow morning; but the day after, I’m sure we could have it, if you’d like. Do say, if there are things you long for.’

  Just then there were footsteps in the hall, and Greville and Antonia appeared, both smiling broadly as if they had very recently shared a joke. Greville’s frame appeared slightly too small to support his features, like an ex-jockey. His daughter, at thirteen, had spread in all directions, her wide knees and general ampleness very evident in her jodhpurs. The tea-cups rattled on their delicate saucers at her approach. Phyllis felt a pang of fellow-feeling for her niece. She had always been called a heffalump as a girl, while both her sisters were svelte. Phyllis had hardly eaten for weeks before her wedding, but with limited success. It was living in South America that had finally seen the end of her chubbiness. To meet her now, no one would have guessed that she had once been otherwise: she was tall and slender and there was a slight forward tilt to her frame; like someone in a play stepping eagerly out of French windows, racket in hand, towards an imaginary game of tennis.

  ‘Ah good, you’ve got everything,’ said Greville, as if he had seen Phyllis and Hugh only minutes, and not years, before.

  ‘Say hello to your cousins, Antonia,’ said her mother.

  The girl went red. ‘Hello,’ she said, not quite looking in their direction.

  ‘Good ride?’ asked Phyllis.

  ‘Not too bad. It was more of a lesson, really,’ said Antonia.

  ‘Would help if she knew one end of the beast from the other, wouldn’t it, Tiddly-wink?’ said Greville.

  ‘Can I see your pony, after tea?’ asked Edwin.

  ‘What a good idea!’ said Patricia. ‘You can take them all out, to see Dingle. They’re probably not used to ponies.’

  Antonia blushed deeper.

  ‘Actually, I had a pony of my own, in Argentina,’ said Julia.

  ‘Journey go all right?’ Greville asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Hugh.
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br />   ‘So nice that you could come,’ said Greville. ‘We’ve got people in to dine tomorrow, but it’s us four, tonight; give you time to settle in. Is that right, darling?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Patricia. ‘We’ve got the Templetons, and Johnny Thredham – who’s just got back, you know – and Pammy and John Nightingale. Oh, and Anita Orde-Windham. She’s coming on her own, because Richard’s still in Kenya. And Pea-Brain will probably look in, after dinner.’

  Phyllis had never heard of any of these people before, but noticed what pleasure the reciting of their names had given her sister. Greville knew a tremendous amount of people – it was one of the things that had made Patricia plump for him.

  ‘What about Nina and Eric?’ asked Phyllis.

  There was silence, for the barest moment.

  ‘We thought it would be more fun for you to go over to them, when you’re settled,’ said Patricia brightly. ‘Perhaps the day after tomorrow? See their new house.’

  ‘Peculiar sort of place,’ said Greville.

  ‘You must show me round the garden,’ said Hugh.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Greville vaguely.

  ‘The garden’s more my department,’ said Patricia.

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Hugh. ‘Well, I’m sure Phyllis would adore to see it all. I should certainly enjoy a tour.’

  It was not until after dinner that night that the sisters found themselves alone together. Leaving the men at the table to their port, the women went into Patricia’s little sitting room, which gave off the hall. It was a pretty room, with a chintz of climbing roses and a walnut desk with a tortoiseshell and silver inkwell and matching letter-opener and stamp-box. Here she wrote her letters and household lists in the mornings, on cards as smooth and stiff as a starched collar, printed with her name and address. Patricia had never looked prettier, her sister thought. Her shorter hair made a golden frame to the picture of her face.

  ‘So, darling, tell all. How has it been, really?’ said Patricia.