First Friends

by Marcia Willett

  ‘I didn’t know that Harriet hated driving.’

  ‘Well, it’s not so much the driving as being on her own. Of course she’d hate it if she thought we knew but I’ve spent a lot of time with her, trying to cheer her along, and she’s let a few things drop. And, apart from that, just the thought of all that time together, just the two of you! Well, she’d think that she’d died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh, come on, darling. If you don’t know that Harriet’s madly in love with you you’re the only one who doesn’t.’

  Through her mirror Cass watched Tom’s reaction with satisfaction.

  ‘Harriet? In love with . . . Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cass, don’t talk rubbish!’

  ‘I assure you, darling, I know what I’m talking about. A woman always knows, especially when her own husband is involved. She’s been in love with you for years. I’m only amazed that you never seemed to notice it. Normally I wouldn’t have said a word, loyalty to one’s sex and all that, but poor Harriet’s a bit low this weekend. Of course I wouldn’t expect you to notice things like that, but your outburst didn’t exactly help, sweetie. I’ve always tried to make this a second home for Harriet and I hate to think of her feeling in the way. She’s such a sensitive girl.’

  ‘Oh, hell,’ said Tom. ‘I just didn’t notice. I’m sorry. But even so, Cass. In love . . . ? Oh, honestly.’

  ‘Well, don’t take my word for it. But you just keep your eyes open for a change. And try to be nice to her. I know you always are and there are times when she’s been here since Ralph died when you’d rather she hadn’t. But make an effort tonight. Life’s not easy for her, all on her own.’

  ‘Oh, hell. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t upset her for the world . . . ’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t, darling, I know that. These things happen. That’s why I thought that the prospect of a few hours with you alone tomorrow would cheer her no end. And you wouldn’t have to catch the beastly train. Or at least, only from Portsmouth.’ Cass paused. ‘I’m sure you’d find somewhere to spend the night, perhaps Harriet would offer her spare room . . . ’ (Let that one sink in, mustn’t push too far.) ‘Anyway, think about it. And cheer up, darling. Can’t we kiss and make up? I hate to face the evening out of sorts.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Grappling with this new idea Tom obediently kissed the raised cheek. ‘I’m sorry, I honestly didn’t mean to upset anyone.’

  ‘Of course not. Let’s forget the whole thing, shall we, and have a lovely, jolly evening? I must go and see to the dinner.’ And Cass left the room exulting at the success of her plan. So far so good.

  WHEN TOM SAW HARRIET enter the drawing room later that evening it was as if he were seeing her for the first time. He had always thought her a very attractive girl but now he really noticed the short dark shining cap of hair, the wide blue-green eyes and the long lovely legs and narrow feet. She wore a Laura Ashley dress in figure-hugging navy blue needle cord with a pattern of dark red flowers scattered across it, sheer navy blue stockings and flat navy leather pumps.

  Cass was playing games at present, keeping well away from Nick, flirting in a purely social way with Alan and keeping up the pretence that Nick had been invited to pair off with Harriet. Since Tom—much to Cass’s delight—was monopolising Harriet and William was trying to charm Jane out of her paralysing shyness, Nick was left with Annabel who, with great amusement, watched the proceedings through a screen of cigarette smoke.

  ‘You’re looking very beautiful, Harriet. Can I get you a drink? Gin and tonic, isn’t it?’ (Cass must have been making it up. She looks so cool and remote.)

  ‘Am I? Thank you. Yes, please. No ice.’ (I sound so stilted. I wish I could be relaxed and natural with him.)

  ‘I want to apologise for earlier, I was an absolute boor . . . Here, take your drink.’ (Her fingers are icy cold. Can she possibly be nervous? Perhaps, after all . . . )

  ‘Oh, thank you. Look, please don’t apologise, honestly . . . ’ (He’s looking at me very oddly. I wonder if he started drinking early. He was very upset.)

  ‘It was unforgivable and I hope that you didn’t think for a minute that I’m not delighted to see you . . . ’ (This is ridiculous, I’ve known her for years, dammit, and we sound like strangers. If only I could touch her.)

  ‘Of course I know, Tom. Please don’t give it another thought.’ (Oh God, how good and kind he is. I wish he’d touch me, I’d probably go up in flames.)

  ‘I was wondering if I could beg a lift from you tomorrow.’ (I didn’t mean to ask that yet. Christ! She looks radiant. As if someone switched a light on. Cass must be right. Christ . . . )

  ‘ . . . and so, you see, it was an absolute disaster, so next year we’re going to try Portugal. What d’you think?’ (And who the bloody hell cares what you think? You are the most boring girl I’ve ever met. Must have another drink.)

  ‘Well, I really don’t know, Mr Hope-Latymer, I’ve never been abroad.’ (Oh God, why did I come? I knew it would be awful. I told Alan that long skirts are out of date now, I feel a right freak. And this awful drink . . . )

  ‘Please call me William, won’t you? Have I told you how charming you look? Delightfully Victorian. Let me fill up your glass. No, no, I insist, I shan’t be a moment.’ (And it gives me a break.) ‘Now stay just where you are, Jane. How well the name Jane suits you, very grave and demure.’ (And boring, boring, boring. Now where are the drinks? I need a good strong one.)

  ‘Yes, all right then, thank you.’ (I don’t want another bloody drink and what he means is that I’m plain and dull. Look at her sitting there all over Alan. And he’s loving it, the way she keeps touching his arm and his knee. God, it makes me sick . . . )

  ‘Come now, Alan. You can’t expect me to believe things like that.’ (This is too easy. He only needs a little encouragement. And Nick is watching. Mustn’t overdo it, though. There’s something fastidious about him . . . )

  ‘No, honestly, Cass, I mean it. You don’t look old enough to be anybody’s mother . . . ’ (Why can’t Jane relax? She looks so out of place. What the hell am I going to do about her? I wish I wasn’t going away tomorrow . . . )

  ‘How very sweet.’ (I wonder what he’s thinking. I’m not going to throw myself at him. Old Tom’s swallowed the bait—hook, line and sinker. Well, it won’t do him any harm and Harriet’s old enough to look after herself.)

  She smiled at Alan and rose to her feet.

  ‘Come along, everybody. Time to eat. Shall we go in?’

  THE EVENING FOR CHARLOTTE was a black dismal failure. Cass had been delighted to find that Mr and Mrs Ankerton were giving a party for their daughter who had just become engaged, and Hugh had invited Charlotte. She was just getting to the age when she felt that she should be included in her parents’ parties and aware of, although not quite understanding, Charlotte’s antagonism towards her, Cass knew that her presence at tonight’s party would throw a damper on her flirting with Nick and was deeply relieved when her daughter told her of her invitation to the Ankertons’ party.

  ‘Have a lovely time, darling,’ she had said, ‘and wear something pretty. You can look so attractive when you try.’

  The remark still rankled as Charlotte sorted through her clothes on Saturday afternoon. She would be herself. She would not dress herself up and mince around trying to attract men like Cass did. Anyway, Hugh liked her the way she was . . .

  Hugh’s heart sank as Charlotte hurried out to meet him and climbed into the car. She wore a long black garment that drooped round her ankles and soft leather laced-up booties. A scarf had been tied inexpertly round her head to hide her hair which was in the process of growing out. She was obviously dreadfully nervous and, once they’d arrived, this took the form of an offhand indifference which made it very difficult for Hugh to introduce her and persuade her to join in.

  It was aggravated by the presence of a very attractive girl of about eighteen, a distant relation, who had just returned from some years
abroad and who was very taken with Hugh. Lucinda, for this was her name, did attempt conversation with Charlotte, whose abrupt answers and refusal to look at her finally made Lucinda raise her eyebrows at Hugh and wander away.

  He was getting desperate. He felt very sorry for Charlotte but, after all, it was a party and Lucinda was rather fun. Presently he went off to get Charlotte some food from the buffet. She watched his progress anxiously. Surely he’d gone quite deliberately to where Lucinda was selecting her supper? Why did he stand so long talking to her instead of just grabbing some food and coming straight back? She watched him laughing at something Lucinda said and the way her fair hair shone and how slim she looked in her elegant flowered dress.

  As despair and jealousy swept over Charlotte she suddenly felt unbearably hot in her heavy clothes and, leaping up, she fled out into the cool spring air.

  When, some time later, Hugh found her they had a terrible row. Hugh, refusing to recede from his position that he was merely being friendly to a guest and relation, nevertheless tried, unsuccessfully, to reassure her. Finally he drove her home where she cried herself to sleep.

  ON SUNDAY MORNING TOM and Harriet left for Hampshire, Tom driving.

  On Sunday afternoon Cass went out for a walk with the dog and the announced intention of checking the cottage she was caretaking for the Mallinsons who were abroad. She had mentioned this publicly at the party and arranged with Nick privately that he would meet her there.

  On Sunday evening Alan Maxwell was picked up by a brother officer and driven down to Plymouth dockyard. They were sailing very early the next morning.

  Charlotte spent the day in bed.

  Twenty-one

  During the night someone had moved Harriet’s bedroom window. Drowsy and relaxed, she was aware that the morning light, flooding in from somewhere at the foot of the bed, should be coming in from her left. She rolled over lazily and saw a rumpled, empty stretch of bed and a blank wall. For a moment she stared, half raised on her elbow. ‘Hell!’ she said as she flopped back on to her own side of the bed.

  The previous day’s journey back to Hampshire had been uneventful. She and Tom were two old friends discussing, amongst other things, Tom’s family and the offer that Harriet had received from Michael Barrett-Thompson, her friend in Tavistock. About this Tom was very enthusiastic and he got so far, during lunch, as to suggest where she might live when she moved down. Later, as they passed through Fare-ham, they stopped to pick up some Chinese take-away before driving into Lee-on-Solent. The sea lapped quietly against the deserted beach and the Isle of Wight floated mistily on the horizon.

  There seem to be no question that Tom would stay anywhere but in Harriet’s semi-detached Victorian house in its peaceful tree-lined street. He drove the car into the garage while Harriet hurried indoors to turn up the central heating and put some wine in the fridge. Suddenly she was nervous. The tranquillity of the day had gone and she felt brittle and shy.

  ‘Which room can I have?’ Tom appeared in the kitchen doorway, calm, unhurried, holding his naval grip.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Flustered, she tried to think clearly. ‘I’m in the little room at the back. I know it sounds odd but I hate big bedrooms and big beds if I’m on my own . . . ’ (God, what was she saying?) ‘The big one at the front. The bed’s not made up.’ She plunged into the fridge, grateful for the blast of icy air on her burning face.

  ‘Right.’ Tom hefted his grip and was gone.

  While he was upstairs Harriet warmed plates, set a match to the fire in the sitting room, stood the gate leg table before it and laid it ready for supper. She dashed off for a quick pee and a tidy-up in the downstairs loo. Still no Tom.

  Back into the kitchen to fetch the cheese, no bread, of course, but plenty of crackers. Where on earth was he? She poured herself a large gin and tonic and, gulping it back, heard Tom’s footsteps on the stairs.

  After that things became hazy. Two gins and tonic and several glasses of wine removed the feeling of tension and she relaxed into her chair, enjoying the Chinese food, revelling in the fact of his presence and knowing that what would follow was inevitable, that she had been waiting for it for years. When, much later, Tom rose to his feet, she rose too, as if pulled by an invisible string.

  ‘Come here, Harriet love,’ he murmured, and she went to him slowly as though wading through water.

  He put an arm about her and helped her up the stairs to his room, murmuring almost inaudibly to her. She stood, dazed and docile, whilst he stripped her jersey from her and unbuttoned her shirt. Then, with a swift movement he pushed her flat on her back on the big double bed. She remembered thinking, as her fingers felt smooth sheets and blankets beneath her, so that was what he was doing, before giving herself up completely to pleasure.

  Now, on Monday morning, she sat up, swung her feet out of bed and came face-to-face with herself in the dressing-table mirror. From its corner hung a large white sheet of paper.

  ‘Harriet, love,’ the sprawling writing was barely legible, ‘have to dash off or I’ll be late in London. Will be back later today. Hope to get a few days off. Love, Tom.’

  She telephoned the office to say that she was unwell and wouldn’t be in for a few days and went into the kitchen. Whilst she made coffee one niggling thought disturbed the surface of her dreaming bliss. Why was she so surprised that Tom had been so good at it, so experienced, so aware of what gave pleasure? After all, he’d been married a good many years, why shouldn’t he be? After a while she realised that it was because he had seemed so relaxed, so easy, in the role of lover. She had always imagined him as being faithful to Cass but there had certainly been nothing in his behaviour last night to indicate that he had felt uneasy at committing adultery. After all, Cass’s reputation was fairly well-known and certainly no one would have criticised Tom for getting his own back a little. It would hardly be surprising if, over seventeen or so years of marriage, he hadn’t strayed a little. And really, there was no reason at all why it should matter. But somehow, it did.

  JANE MET MRS HAMPTON on the steps of the village shop.

  ‘ ’Ow are you then, Jane? I ’ear that ’usband of yours went off again yesterday. What about poppin’ in for a cuppa tea?’

  ‘Yes, yes he has.’ She’d been surprisingly sorry to see him go. He’d been very nice to her after Cass’s party, more like the man he’d been before the promotion. ‘Well. All right then, thanks, but I was just going to get some shopping.’

  ‘Well, you do that an’ I’ll go an’ get the kettle on. No ‘urry.’

  Funny, Jane thought later, how particular these old dears were. Mrs Hampton’s tea service was of the finest bone china, the teapot was silver. A cake stand bearing a feather-light sponge and a plateful of tiny, hot scones stood beside a low table drawn up to the brightly burning fire. Not for her, thought Jane, a mug at the kitchen table with the cake tin open beside it. She had a brief mental vision of Cass and Abby in just that situation, as she’d seen them not long ago. Ah, but they didn’t feel the need to impress, did they? Did Mrs Hampton? She’d picked up her fine ways at the Hall, parlourmaid was it, or tweeny? Anyway, she knew just how the gentry did it.

  Mrs Hampton appeared with the hot water jug and sat down.

  ‘Now then. Milk?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Jane took the cup and saucer and fiddled awkwardly with the silver sugar tongs. Why not just some granulated and a spoon?

  ‘So ‘ow long’s ‘e gone for this time?’

  ‘Not too long.’ The sugar went in with a plop. ‘Only a couple of weeks and then he’s leaving.’

  ‘What! Not leavin’ the Navy?’

  ‘Oh, no. Just the submarine. Seems he’s got a shore job coming up. A nuclear sub in Chatham. It’s in refit.’

  ‘Chatham.’ Mrs Hampton nodded thoughtfully. ‘Nice county, Kent. My Jack was there durin’ the war for a bit. He was Army, mind. Went up an’ stayed with ‘im for a few days’ embarkation leave. What a time that was. Yes, you’ll like it up there—if you’
re goin’, that is!’ She regarded Jane, birdlike, head on one side, eyes bright.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Jane’s cup clattered against the saucer and she put it back on the table.

  ‘Mean?’ Mrs Hampton passed Jane the scones and offered her home-made raspberry jam and clotted cream. ‘ ’Ave one of these.’

  ‘Well.’ Jane regarded the food whilst nausea, her constant companion, made warning signals off. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Feelin’ a bit off, are you? Sick perhaps?’ The bright eyes seemed to bore into her and Jane felt a twinge of fear.

  ‘No. No, of course not.’ She took one, helping herself to jam and cream. ‘They look delicious. Just thinking about my waistline.’ Stupid thing to say as it drew Mrs Hampton’s eyes straight to it.

  ‘No, what I meant, Jane, was that some of these wives don’t go round with their ‘usbands, do they? That may be right when the children start school an’ the marriage is good an’ steady. ‘Tisn’t wise in the early years.’

  ‘Don’t you think so?’ Jane chewed and swallowed valiantly.

  ‘A woman should be with ’er ‘usband, ‘tis only right an’ proper. ‘Usbands tend to stray unless they’m watched. Stands to reason, they won’t come ‘ome so readily if it means a long journey, they’ll find their comforts closer to ‘and. Wives stray too, o’course, don’t they?’

  Jane caught her breath, choked, eyes streaming, and fumbled for her handkerchief.

  ‘ ’Course, you can’t go to sea with ’em, stands to reason,’ Mrs Hampton passed Jane a large linen napkin, ‘but you can be waitin’ on the dock when ‘e gets in. Men ‘re lazy creatures. They don’t generally go botherin’ after other women if they’re ‘appy at ‘ome.’

  Jane mopped her eyes and gulped at her lukewarm tea, fighting rising nausea.

  ‘And what if it’s the other way round?’