After the Party

by Cressida Connolly

  ‘Heavens,’ said Phyllis, whose mind had been wandering as her sister went on. ‘D’you really think cars will catch on, to that extent?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Nina. ‘It’s just a matter of time. Not only cars, all sorts of things. You can’t imagine what you’ve been missing, while you were away. It’s remarkable, the number of ideas one hears of at meetings and socials. There’s a view on almost everything. You’ll find it all most intriguing.’

  ‘Does Greville do much?’

  ‘Not really. He knows a lot of people, though. He doesn’t get very involved with committees and so on; the everyday, organizing type of stuff. But he does bring like-minded people together, informally. They have people to the house. Dinners, that sort of thing. And of course some of them are what you might call top brass, not that I’m naming any names. His sister practically grew up with Cimmie Curzon, though. The wife who died. They went to school together in Eastbourne. Terrible shame. Don’t think she’s so keen on the current incumbent – the sister doesn’t much like Diana I mean – although Greville seems to get on with her. She’s more of a man’s woman, apparently.’

  ‘Loelia, was that the sister’s name?’

  ‘Loelia, yes, I think you’re right. I daresay you’ll run into her, if you’re staying with Patricia for any length of time. She and her husband are regulars. He’s a bit of a bore, but you’ll like her.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘I believe there’s a boy. I think he’s off at school somewhere. Speaking of children, how’s Antonia?’

  ‘She seems fine. Rather quiet.’

  Nina raised her eyebrows once again, inviting further comment. Phyllis pretended she hadn’t noticed.

  Back at Rose Green, Patricia inquired about the visit. ‘What did you make of the house?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought it was very nice,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘You must admit, though, it is like a public house, with those low ceilings. Poky sort of place. And being right on the road. One half expects someone to step forward with a schooner of sweet sherry on a tray. I mean, they’ve stopped short of actual horse-brasses, but only just.’

  ‘It’s a very nice house,’ Phyllis said again.

  ‘Did she try and get you to go to a meeting with her?’

  Phyllis coloured. ‘I said I would, yes.’

  ‘I loathe meetings. They’re so terribly dull and they go on for so long. One always has to pretend to listen, whoever is talking: pretend one person’s view is as worthwhile as another’s. Some piffling little man, I mean a draper or a taxi-man: as if one cares what they think! Quite frankly, if anyone cared about the opinions of people of that sort, one wouldn’t need leaders. And then where should we be? It’s not so bad when there’s a good speaker down from London. It’s the local branch stuff that’s so tiresome.’

  ‘Nina seems to think I could learn a lot, if I went with her.’

  ‘Yes, well, she would. She would think that. She and Eric eat and drink committees. Don’t forget that’s how she met him in the first place, at some meeting or talk she’d signed herself up for, near the Grange. He was driving the visiting speaker, did you know? She always keeps that detail rather quiet.’

  ‘But do you agree with them, broadly speaking?’ asked Phyllis.

  ‘Oh yes. Lord yes. It’s our best hope, for the future of the country. And for peace. There’s no doubt about that. Greville thinks so too.’

  At Patricia’s dinner party the evening before, Phyllis had taken a liking to one of the wives, Sarita Templeton. There wasn’t anyone else present that Phyllis would have wanted to make friends with. The other women had all seemed to be minutely differing versions of a type: confident, rather brittle, fair-haired women with good figures, all wearing big rings of diamonds and sapphires. They agreed with everybody else about everything and laughed appreciatively at things the men said, none of which struck Phyllis as funny at all. She had forgotten that this was how women flirted in England, by laughing prettily at their neighbour’s every utterance. Continental women tended to cup their chins in their graceful hands so that their bracelets slid seductively down their arms, then stare intently without laughter. Phyllis had lived abroad for so long that she had forgotten, too, that social form demanded general agreement. In Argentina, even in dreary old Belgium, people at parties quite happily disagreed with one another about all sorts of things. Argument was a sport overseas, but here in England it was considered bad manners.

  The man they all called Pea-Brain seemed no dimmer than anyone else. Nevertheless he was treated with a teasing cherishment, as if he were a sort of pet or mascot. He had straight hair which he kept scooping back and thick lips which somehow made him embarrassing to look at, as if there was something shameful in the exposure of such fullness. He teased his friends’ wives in a practised way which was attentive enough to amuse, but not to offend.

  ‘Are you going to introduce me to this heavenly creature, or do I have to stand here like a lemon all night, in a swoon of anticipation?’ he asked Patricia, smiling in the direction of Phyllis.

  ‘You fool! You’ve barely taken off your coat! Of course I was going to introduce you, as soon as you’d got a drink,’ she said, batting him on the upper arm.

  ‘Thank heavens, I think I’m in love already,’ said Pea-Brain.

  ‘She’s my sister, you dafty! She’s a respectable married woman.’

  ‘The next sleeper for Paris is still at the station,’ said Pea-Brain. ‘Let’s elope to Constantinople, straight away.’

  Phyllis reddened. She was not used to this sort of joshing.

  ‘Maybe you can murder him on the Orient Express,’ Sarita whispered.

  Phyllis laughed. ‘Don’t say you read Agatha Christie as well?’

  ‘I adore these books,’ said Sarita. ‘I always get them sent, from Truslove and Hanson, whenever a new one comes out. Have you had Death on the Nile? I think it’s one of her best.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I haven’t had a chance to go to Boots, since we got back.’

  ‘There’s no need to use a library! I can lend them all to you. I will invite you.’

  After pudding the women left the men at the table and followed their hostess upstairs to brush their hair and re-do their faces before repairing to the drawing room for coffee. Sarita was more exotic-looking than the rest, more reserved and yet somehow less forbidding. A pair of tortoiseshell combs held up her hair at either side of her head, framing a face slightly too long to be called oval; she had a long brown neck and slender hands: she looked almost Indian, although she actually came from Brazil. Patricia had told Phyllis about all the guests, beforehand. Fergus Templeton was Sarita’s second husband, apparently; she had a divine-looking little girl from the first husband, who was some sort of millionaire. There was a whiff of scandal, Patricia couldn’t quite recall the details: it was to do with the first husband trying to get custody of the child. There had been some sort of scene at a grand London party, voices raised, people staring. Fergus played polo.

  ‘Why are you saying that with such emphasis?’ Phyllis had laughed. ‘Is playing polo code for something else? Do you mean he’s queer or something?’

  ‘Oh Lord, no, nothing like that. It’s only that it costs a lot to keep polo ponies.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘Well, I mean it helps to marry someone rich, if you want to play polo. That’s all.’

  But when Phyllis saw his wife, she didn’t believe for a second that Templeton would have married her for money. Anyone would have fallen in love with someone so unusual and glamorous.

  While Patricia was pouring out coffee, Phyllis went to sit next to Sarita. It turned out that the daughter was the same age as Frances, Phyllis’s younger daughter: would she like to bring her, one day, to swim in the Templetons’ pool?

  ‘People think we’re crazy, having a pool when we live so close by the sea. But since I like to swim every day, it’s more convenient. The beaches here, it’s not really
sand, there’s nowhere to sit down where you can get comfortable. And we had the little pool house designed by such an interesting mosaicist: you must see it, you’ll love it! The floor is made of pennies. Is very amusing.’

  She said her ‘esses’ softly, so that ‘crazy’ sounded like ‘craissy’ and ‘is’ like ‘iss’.

  ‘I’d like to very much,’ said Phyllis.

  She told Sarita a little about her time in Argentina and how much she missed South America, missed the lovely bright birds that had flitted into their courtyard in the mornings. There had been cobbles, sunlight, bells. They had always intended to go up to visit Brazil, but somehow they never had: the only trip they’d made had been to Uruguay once, for a few days in Montevideo. Now there probably wouldn’t be another chance; it was a pity. Sarita had never been to the Low Countries and asked about it all, the landscape and the weather and the food. She seemed really keen to hear everything Phyllis had to say. Having been the youngest of three, this didn’t happen to her very often and Phyllis felt suddenly rather interesting. As a rule she felt that she was slightly outside of things, that she had always come into every room a fraction too late, after the decisive thing had been talked about, the necessary arrangements made. Phyllis wasn’t someone whom people consulted.

  The following morning, to Patricia’s evident chagrin, Sarita had already telephoned for Phyllis, while she was out for her morning walk. Her older daughter, Julia, was annoyed that the invitation from Mrs Templeton did not include herself, but was only extended to the younger and in her mind less deserving Frances.

  ‘I always get Antonia. She’s such a lump,’ said Julia.

  ‘Don’t be unkind! Antonia is a lovely girl,’ said her mother.

  Patricia, too, was put out not to have been asked. ‘I’ve never been in that house by day,’ she said. ‘Ravishing sort of a place. Whenever we’ve been it’s for an evening party, with lots of other people. You must report. I long to know what they do with themselves over there.’

  The Templetons’ place was twice the size of any of the houses Phyllis knew, L-shaped and Jacobean, with tall grey walls into which windows seemed to have been cut at random. It nestled against the shoulder of the Downs, at the end of a long drive flanked for at least a mile by chestnut trees with low branches which swooped down to the grass. A footman opened the door into a panelled hall flagged with pale stone, where a single huge log smoked desultorily in the grate, despite the summer month. Ragged pennants hung from poles high above their heads. Chairs with ornate legs like bishop’s thrones stood at intervals at the sides of the room. The little girl appeared almost at once. She had dark ringlets and deep blue eyes. The young footman had vanished.

  ‘I don’t know where Mummy is,’ she said. ‘She told me you were coming, but then she disappeared.’

  Phyllis didn’t know what to say. ‘I expect she’s been called to the telephone. She hasn’t actually left the house, has she?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the girl.

  ‘Where is your … where is Mr Templeton?’

  ‘Out. He’s at the yard, with the ponies.’

  ‘Oh. Well, shall we go and wait for her somewhere? Do people wait in the drawing room, usually?’ said Phyllis, trying to be helpful.

  ‘What about the man who let us in? Shall we ask him to look for the Mummy?’ suggested Frances.

  ‘Or we could go and look for her ourselves, if you like?’ said the child.

  ‘Yes!’ said Frances. ‘Then I can see around your house, too.’

  ‘Darling, that’s not very polite,’ said Phyllis, although she too would have liked a look.

  The child smiled for the first time. ‘There’s a room through there with a secret door. A library. The door looks like a bookcase, but if you press it you can get into the morning room,’ she said.

  ‘Why don’t you sit in there on a sofa,’ said Frances, taking charge. ‘While we search.’

  Phyllis rather enjoyed waiting in the strange house. One of the drawbacks of being a guest was that she seldom had any time alone. She always felt as if she was on duty somehow, even though Patricia was her own sister. In Belgium, she had had people to give lessons to Edwin and his sisters and take them on outings: here, the children were always underfoot waiting to be told what they were doing, like gun-dogs moping outside the shooting season. When at length Sarita appeared with the girls, now chattering animatedly together, Phyllis was almost sorry. Sarita was very welcoming, but there was something different about her today. She didn’t seem quite all there; there was a sort of haziness that Phyllis could not identify. She had forgotten all about the pool and their proposed swim, only suggesting that they take tea outside, so the girls could go and explore in the grounds. If she noticed the basket Phyllis was carrying, with their rolled-up towels and bathing things, she gave no sign of it. The children ran off almost at once, leaving the two women together. Sarita sat with a sort of half-smile, barely talking, her tea untouched in its cup. The hour passed awkwardly, but when it was time to go, she clasped Phyllis with what seemed like real affection.

  ‘Please come again, won’t you? Emilia is not in school, it becomes lonely for her here. And I would like to hear more about your travels.’

  Yet Sarita had not addressed a question to Phyllis all afternoon and appeared to have quite forgotten about lending her books. Perhaps she had other things on her mind. Perhaps the child’s father was being difficult: something private. Templeton had not put in an appearance. As the car pulled away, Phyllis looked back. There stood Sarita on the shallow steps to the front of the house, not waving, her arms hanging limply at her sides. There was something forlorn about the way she made no gesture, as if she was a child being left at school for the first time, as if she was sad to be left behind.

  Phyllis, 1979

  They covered the whole thing up, of course. People wouldn’t remember him now, but Fergus Templeton, the husband, was great friends with the fellow who was the Queen Mother’s trainer at the time. No one would have countenanced any bad publicity about someone with those sorts of ties. Things were pretty tight in those days; it was considered very low to speak to journalists. People just didn’t. You wouldn’t believe the kind of things that went on among people of that sort, and the newspapers never heard a word of it. Scandals, shenanigans, goodness knows what. People were good at keeping their mouths shut, then. Or at least that’s what we all thought.

  Templeton was a bit of an oaf, really. Maybe you don’t need to know this, it isn’t entirely relevant to your area of interest, but it’ll give you a sense of what things were like in those days. How people like that went on.

  The Templetons had a dance – this was before we came back to England, before we knew them – and by the small hours several of the men were more than half-cut and in high spirits. The dancing had stopped some time before; the band had packed up and gone. I’m not sure who the others were, but my sister’s friend Pea-Brain was one of them. Well. Fergus had the idea of going down to the farm – which was a fair way off, it was beyond the modern yard where he kept his ponies, not by the original stable-yard to the house – he got it into his head that it would be a caper to go down to the farm and get themselves a pig. History doesn’t relate what they intended to do with a live pig, once they’d got it. They just thought it would be the best possible fun to fetch one up from the farm and bring it into the house. So they got into someone’s car, five or six of them crammed in, and off they bumped down the track. You get frightful ruts in those farm tracks down in Sussex, it’s the chalk. Not that that would have stopped them. They left the car down at the farm with all its doors open.

  It was more sheep country than pigs, but they kept half a dozen sows or so at the farm and apparently there were some porkers down there which were fattened and about ready to be sold on. When Fergus told the story later he said they’d had a devil of a job trying to round one up. Turns out pigs can get up quite a speed and of course they’re as clever as a dog, so they’re not abo
ut to let you capture them, unless there’s something in it for them. Then someone remembered how greedy they are – well, they’re famous for it – so they found some feed pellets and a bucket; and of course as soon as the pigs caught sight of the bucket they followed the men towards the gate. Somehow or another they managed to separate one of them and coax this creature all the way back up to the house, using the pellets as a sort of trail.

  I don’t know why the walk back up from the farm didn’t sober them up enough to make them see how ridiculous the whole thing was. By then it was getting light. They got the pig into the big hall, the entrance to the house, and there was a certain amount of standing about: I gather they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves or the wretched animal, now they’d got it this far. They’d sort of run out of steam at this point. In due course one of them went for another bottle: they were on the brandy by then, I believe. That got them going again.

  They’d run out of pellets for the pig by this time, so the animal was losing interest and snuffling about the place and making a frightful mess everywhere, until Fergus went down to the kitchen and brought up a bin he’d found under the scullery sink, full of peelings and scraps. I don’t know when they decided it would be good sport to get the animal up the stairs, or whether they had any idea, beforehand, of what they might do with it once they got it up there.