The Summer House Party

by Caro Fraser

  ‘I am, rather. I had hopes of him.’

  Diana was aware that there had been something of a flirtation between Eve and Dan in London, so it was hardly surprising that Eve was put out to discover she had competition – particularly in the form of Meg. Diana brushed the crumbs from her book and closed it, and contemplated Dan, who was sitting cross-legged in his shirtsleeves, a plate of strawberries on his knees. The sun of the past few days had given his skin a light, golden tan. She had known Dan for over ten years, and she had to admit that from a scrawny, lanky schoolboy he had grown into the most astonishingly attractive man.

  ‘You know, darling, Dan Ranscombe may be desirable,’ she reflected, ‘but he’s quite unsuitable. Apart from what he earns, he’s hardly got a bean. One needs someone who can afford dinner and the theatre and taxis, that kind of thing. And who has prospects, of course. Who wants a husband without money?’

  ‘I’m not looking for a husband. The fact is, I’m absolutely sex-starved, and I hoped this house party might provide some light relief.’ She gave Diana a knowing smile.

  Diana returned the smile. One of the ties that bound her in friendship to Eve was that both of them were rather more worldly than most girls of their age, particularly in matters of sex. Two years ago Diana had been introduced to its pleasures by a charming Italian whom she had met while on a trip to Europe with an elderly aunt – who would have been scandalised if she’d known what Diana was up to in the warm, small hours of the Mediterranean night. Eve herself, now twenty-three, had already had a couple of older lovers, men in their forties, and she and Diana had spent enjoyable hours together comparing notes.

  Diana yawned and swatted away an errant bee. Both women watched as Dan picked a particularly luscious strawberry from the plate, pretended to be about to put it in his mouth, then held it out to Meg, who ate it, laughing.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Eve, ‘I could slap his face for him. After the way we were in London.’

  ‘Let’s give it a minute or two, then go and put a spoke in his wheel,’ said Diana.

  *

  Meg sat alone with Dan, the plate between them empty of strawberries. The maids were clearing away the tea tables, Charles had gone for a walk, and Diana and Eve were talking together on the other side of the lawn. She had Dan all to herself. But now that she was alone with him, Meg could think of nothing to say. She stared at the grass, parting it with her fingers and pretending to scrutinise insects. Dan, lounging on one elbow, regarded her with lazy-eyed pleasure. She really was the least opaque creature he had ever met. No longer able to sustain her interest in beetles, Meg glanced up. She caught his amused expression.

  ‘Why are you smiling like that?’

  ‘Because you’re a funny thing.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You’re adorable,’ murmured Dan. ‘I haven’t been able to think of anything for the past few hours except how much I want to kiss you again.’

  Meg’s inexperienced ear missed the casual yet practised manner in which this was delivered. She heard only the words, and her heart began to beat very hard.

  Dan put out a hand and stroked the back of hers. ‘What do you say we go for a walk somewhere?’ Meg brushed a dark curl from her eyes and nodded. They rose from the grass, and at that moment Diana and Eve came strolling across the lawn.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ said Diana. ‘The oldsters are frowsting indoors with books and newspapers, and everyone else seems to have disappeared. How about a game of croquet?’

  Meg glanced at Dan. He didn’t return her look, simply said, ‘Wonderful. We were boring each other to death, anyway.’

  Meg couldn’t disguise her pique as she followed them to the croquet lawn. It took her a full round of croquet to emerge from her bad mood, and it was only later that night, when she was in bed, that she realised how naïve she had been.

  She lay in bed, her book open and unread, going over it all, and realising that Dan could hardly have behaved otherwise. She blushed to think how easily Diana and Eve must have read her disappointment, and would now no doubt tease her remorselessly for the rest of her stay. She liked Eve well enough, but she could be quite sharp-tongued. Meg’s intuition also told her that Eve had something of a thing for Dan herself, which didn’t help matters.

  The thought of it all made it impossible to concentrate on her book. The room suddenly seemed hot and airless, and she got up to open the window as wide as possible. She leaned out, hoping to drink in some refreshing coolness, but the air outside was heavy and lukewarm. A full moon silvered the silent gardens. She set the window open on its hasp, and as she passed her dressing table on the way back to bed, she saw lying there the spray of roses that Dan had given her after their game of tennis, the moment before he had kissed her. She had dropped it there before lunch, and now the petals and leaves were limp. She broke off one of the blooms, and carried it back to bed. She inspected it for a while, marvelling at the blush-pink silkiness of the petals, then opened her book and placed it between the pages. She switched off her lamp, closing her eyes and trying to conjure up the memory of Dan’s mouth on hers, before falling fast asleep.

  She had no idea whether it was minutes or hours later when she heard a light tapping on her door. Who on earth would come to her room in the middle of the night? Perhaps Avril, having a bad dream? No – she would be far more likely to go to Sonia or Madeleine.

  She swung herself out of bed, groping for the light switch. ‘Just a minute,’ she called.

  Outside in the corridor, Dan winced at how clearly Meg’s voice carried. He would have expected her to be more discreet. Although he hadn’t been able to get her on her own in the interval between dinner and bed, he thought he’d pretty much made it understood that he’d be along to her room later, when everyone had turned in. He had left it until one o’clock to be on the safe side.

  Meg opened the door, wearing nothing but a thin silk nightdress that left nothing to the imagination. It was all Dan could do not to let his eyes linger on the arousing curves of her breasts. With her hair loose about her shoulders, she looked utterly delectable.

  Meg stared at him in astonishment. ‘What is it?’

  Dan swallowed a laugh and gave a quick glance along the corridor. ‘Um – may I come in?’

  Meg hesitated, then stepped back. Dan came inside and closed the door. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t understood and hadn’t been expecting him. He was here now. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her long and hard, his tongue seeking hers. Her response was tentative; beneath it he could feel uncertainty, and even slight fear. He moved his body closer to hers, his hand cupping her buttocks. After a few seconds she pushed him away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I honestly don’t think you should be here at this time of night.’

  He laughed. ‘When else am I supposed to get you alone? At least no one’s likely to come along and suggest a game of croquet.’ But when he tried to kiss her again, she backed away.

  ‘Dan, it isn’t right.’

  ‘But going into the woods with me this afternoon would have been?’

  She stared at him, the colour rising in her face. ‘That was just for a walk. In the daytime.’ She struggled, her voice breaking to a whisper. ‘This afternoon I only wanted… I only wanted to be kissed again.’

  The way in which she said this, her pitiful struggle between shame and dignity, had a peculiar effect on Dan, and regret instantly washed away desire.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be beastly.’ He gazed at her in bemusement. Clearly he wasn’t going to make much headway tonight. ‘I should go.’

  Meg put a hand on his arm and smiled hesitantly. ‘I would like to be kissed again. Nothing else.’ She lifted her face with tender expectancy, as though she were offering something sacred. The gesture seemed to Dan both ridiculous and profound.

  ‘By Jove, yes,’ he murmured, and put his mouth to hers. Without any expectation of the fulfilment of desire behind it, the kiss was str
angely potent. Something seemed to give way within him. He had kissed many women in his time, but never had the experience made him feel so vulnerable.

  When it was over, he held her for a moment, running his hands lightly over the satin softness of her skin.

  ‘I need to go to bed now,’ said Meg.

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead and left the room, aware of some disquieting emotion, which he attributed to unsatisfied lust. He would have to wait till they got back to London, but the signs were all very promising. And it would be a delightful piece of unfinished business to look forward to.

  4

  AS SONIA HAD feared, quails’ eggs were not to be had, but Diana and Meg prepared a list of other delicacies and prevailed upon Cook to stretch her talents to their limits in aid of the picnic. Mrs Goodall was an excellent cook and jealously guarded by Sonia, for good servants were at a premium in the neighbourhood, and often the object of treacherous bribes and seductions. She had provided a magnificent raised pork pie, with delicious pickles of her own bottling by way of accompaniment, some cold roast fowl, a large stone jar of potted Morecambe Bay shrimps, excellent cheeses and fruit, three plum tarts made with plums from the Woodbourne House orchard, and a pot of clotted cream. Bottles of lemonade and beer were packed as well, together with linen and cutlery, plates and glasses.

  ‘And just to keep things lively,’ said Diana with a wink to Eve, ‘a couple of shakers of gin and French. There!’ She closed the lid of the hamper and fastened the leather straps with satisfaction. ‘We’re all set. Let’s find one of those big, strong men to take this to the car.’

  It had been arranged that Sonia, Meg, Diana and Eve should ride in Daphne Davenport’s Daimler, while Henry Haddon would take the Cunliffes, Madeleine and Avril in the big Bentley, and Dan, Paul and Charles would drive to the picnic in Paul’s Wolseley.

  ‘Such a bore, going with the Davenports,’ said Diana, as she lounged on the window seat in the morning room with Eve and Meg, waiting for the arrival of the Daimler.

  ‘Are they so dreadful?’ asked Eve.

  ‘Constance is – or was. When we came down in the holidays as children Paul and I were made to play with her, and she was perfectly useless, always afraid of falling over and getting dirty or spoiling her frock. Do you remember, Meg?’

  ‘Oh, she’s not so bad,’ murmured Meg.

  Henry Haddon, smartly attired in a green linen suit, strode downstairs to the hall with Sonia in his wake. He was not best pleased at having to go on a picnic, regarding such al fresco frivolities as a footling waste of time, and was irritated at the interruption to his new project, the portrait of Madeleine. The portrait itself had, two days ago, been the subject of a row between Haddon and Sonia, one in which Sonia’s attempts to conduct the argument sotto voce had been utterly confounded by Haddon roaring at the top of his voice, so that the household guests, while politely feigning either indifference or deafness, had been able to listen with interest. Sonia’s principal objection lay in the loss of Madeleine’s services. Madeleine might be the daughter of an old friend, temporarily taken into the family as an act of benevolence, but her duties included looking after Avril and keeping her amused, together with sundry little domestic tasks, and Sonia didn’t see that she should dispense with her just so that Henry might use her as an artist’s model. Added to which, while it seemed to Sonia perfectly proper that Henry should undertake a portrait of Elizabeth Cunliffe, or any one of their guests for that matter, why should he choose to paint Madeleine, of all people?

  The fatuity of these arguments met with the great artist’s rage and scorn, and indeed Sonia might have spared herself the trouble of articulating them, for she knew that Haddon would have his way. The result was that poor Madeleine was caught in the middle, and Sonia vented her vexation by finding as many tasks as possible for her to do in the hours free of the studio. Thus Madeleine endured a double penance, for it was no great pleasure to have to sit holding that back-aching pose for long stretches of time, which she beguiled by creating fanciful stories to tell to Avril later – the best way of keeping Avril docile, she had discovered. The part she still looked forward to, however, was the random touch of Haddon’s hands upon her body as he set her in her pose each day.

  Despite these tensions and Haddon’s irascibility, spirits that Thursday were high – the weather was still pleasantly warm, and there was a general childish air of excitement at the prospect of an outing.

  The purring of a heavy engine and the crunch of wheels on the gravel announced the arrival of the Davenports’ Daimler. Diana glanced out and saw Sonia greeting Daphne and Constance as they emerged from the car.

  ‘Oh, my Lord!’ said Diana. ‘Constance is wearing gloves, of all things – and on a picnic! Bad as a hat at a cocktail party.’ She rose from the window seat. ‘Come along, let’s go and meet them.’ Meg picked up her straw hat and followed Diana and Eve.

  It was a distance of some ten miles to the picnic site. With Paul at the wheel of the Wolseley, the men roared along the country roads and arrived well ahead of the rest. They claimed to have found the perfect spot, a pleasant dip in the slopes of the clover field just at the point where it met the fringes of Hadley Wood, and by the time the others arrived they had already established themselves there with a travelling rug, the daily papers and bottles of beer.

  The older members of the party were naturally not expected to lie around on rugs, and Mrs Davenport’s driver produced from the boot of the Daimler a folding table and chairs, which he and the younger men carried to the picnic spot, together with the hamper and more rugs. The girls set out the picnic fare to exclamations of delight, and even Haddon, as he opened and handed round bottles of beer and lemonade, seemed to have decided to enjoy the day after all. Mrs Davenport’s driver, once he had made his final journey across the field with the large basket of cream cakes which were Mrs Davenport’s contribution to the feast, left in the Daimler to take his own lunch in a nearby pub, and the picnic began.

  After three quarters of an hour, little was left of the feast except a few buttery shrimps, chicken bones, the dregs of ginger beer, and the remnants of a cream cake which Avril had rejected, and around which a couple of idle wasps buzzed.

  The party sat or sprawled about, chatting and smoking. Daphne Davenport sat beneath an immense Chinese parasol and busied herself with her knitting, while Sonia and Elizabeth read. Henry Haddon took himself off with his sketchbook to the crest of the hill. Gerald Cunliffe fell asleep beneath his panama with his mouth open. Madeleine and Avril went to scout the field for four-leaf clovers and sufficient daisies to make a gigantic daisy chain.

  Diana lay back and gazed up at the trees. ‘The chestnuts are already beginning to fade,’ she said. ‘Summer will soon be over.’

  ‘They’re always the first to turn,’ observed Sonia. ‘What will you do this autumn, Diana?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Diana stretched her arms above her head. ‘I might go to Italy. The Favershams moved there last year, you know. Edwina Faversham says one can live quite comfortably on three hundred a year. Perhaps I’ll try it.’

  Paul gave a dry laugh. ‘I doubt if that would keep you in underwear, dearest sis.’

  Sonia turned to Constance. ‘What about you, Constance dear?’

  Constance, who was a plump, pretty girl with intelligent, fearful eyes, blushed slightly. ‘I’m going to university,’ she replied, ‘to study medicine. I got my place at the beginning of summer.’

  There was a general murmur of interest from the rest of the party. ‘How splendid,’ said Meg. ‘I wish I were clever enough to do something like that.’

  ‘Really?’ said Paul. ‘I don’t wish to denigrate Constance’s ambitions in the slightest, but one has to ask what ultimate value there is in educating women to such a high degree.’

  Constance, who sat hugging her knees, stared at the rug with downcast eyes and said nothing, though her cheeks burned even brighter.

  Paul went on, ‘Most women end
up marrying and having children, after all, and their careers become defunct.’

  ‘What rot,’ said Eve. ‘Women are just as capable of being good doctors as men. Why do you talk as though women have to be consigned to some sort of domestic dustbin?’

  ‘I don’t regard the duties of child-rearing and home-making in that light at all,’ replied Paul. ‘I believe women should take them very seriously indeed. Look at Sonia, a model wife and mother.’

  ‘Oh, stop being such a pompous ass!’ exclaimed Diana.

  ‘Just because it absorbs one’s energies doesn’t mean it’s sufficient,’ said Sonia, her voice mild, her gaze wistful. ‘I often wish there was more to my life. Women of my generation were mostly brought up to marry well, and that was the end of it. But what kind of life is that? Investing one’s whole being in a husband and a family, sacrificing one’s whole identity – for what?’

  ‘Well, quite evidently, for the good of the next generation,’ said Charles Asher, though it was hard to tell whether he was being ironical or not.

  ‘Wasn’t it George Eliot who said that women have to put up with the lives their husbands make for them, or something like that?’ murmured Dan, lying on the grass with his jacket off, hands clasped behind his head.

  ‘Every woman should be able to make her way in life without depending on some man,’ remarked Eve.

  ‘But the dependency is mutual, surely,’ said Paul. He turned to Sonia. ‘You bemoan your lot, dearest Sonia, but haven’t you given thought to the fact that without you to run his home, and to see his meals are cooked and his clothes washed, Henry would hardly be able to function as the great artist he is?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve given more thought to it than you imagine,’ murmured Sonia.

  ‘I often think you women belittle the contribution you make. Where would every great composer or writer or artist be without some woman in the background, making sure that his domestic life runs smoothly?’

  ‘Perhaps we’d like to be the great composers or writers or artists,’ said Meg.