by Patrick Gale
In the first interval they stayed put for wine and sandwiches. In the second Mrs Compton led Sophie to the ladies’, though the way she put it was, ‘Perhaps Sophie would keep an old biddy company to powder her nose.’
She bowed and twinkled at several people she knew on the way and, in the queue, introduced Sophie to some friends simply as ‘my young friend, Sophie Cullen’, which had a certain thematic, Sapphic flair.
Sophie noted the old-fashioned way Mr Compton and Lucas rose when they re-entered the box and made way for them to reach the foremost pair of chairs with the best view. Normally she would have offered to swap with Lucas but she could see he was far too happy to want to move.
‘I’m longing for supper,’ Mrs Compton said, as though the opera were a chore. ‘So I can find out all about you both. Now. Act Three. The comic business at the start goes on rather but you’ll find the last ten minutes make the whole thing worthwhile.’ As the lights dimmed, she reached into her bag and brought out a battered pair of army binoculars. ‘My late husband’s,’ she whispered. ‘Not very delicate but most effective.’
They went on to a big hotel for what the Comptons called supper, but for Sophie was the grandest dinner she had eaten in her life. They were evidently familiar faces there because several of the older waiters greeted them like friends and, when Mrs Compton was chatting amiably with one of them as he shook their napkins out in their laps, Sophie was horrified to hear him address her as Lady Droxford.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said as he left them. ‘I’ve been calling you Mrs Compton all evening.’
Lady Droxford twinkled. ‘And I couldn’t bear to put you right,’ she said. ‘Mrs Compton sounds so comfortable, like a favourite chair, whereas the other’s always put me in mind of an Isle of Wight ferry. Julius is Droxford now because he inherited and Antony stays Compton unless Julius dies without getting a son.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Sophie didn’t see at all but found herself rearranging her mental furniture and realizing Charlie’s family wasn’t nearly as grand as she’d thought.
Lady Droxford looked about the glittering room then out at the lights on the river. ‘I love this place,’ she sighed. ‘I associate it with treats. Antony tells me your background is much more interesting.’
‘But I don’t have one.’
Lady Droxford laughed. ‘Maybe that’s what he meant. Families can be a terrible burden. At least with a husband you get some choice in the matter, see what you’re taking on. Do you think you’ll ever try to find out who they were?’
‘I don’t see why. I found out about some people who were going to adopt me then didn’t. I wrote to them.’
‘I bet that startled them!’
‘They never wrote back.’
‘How rude!’
‘Are you close to your mother?’
‘Oh, my dear, she’s long dead. And no. I wasn’t. I think I worried her because I wasn’t pretty. She worked very hard at making me vivacious instead, which was rather cruel. We only found common ground once I’d married and started gardening. Lamb cutlets!’ she exclaimed to her elderly waiter. ‘How lovely! Thank you.’
All evening their conversations seemed to have divided along gender lines, but with the arrival of the main course, as if on cue, mother and son turned their attention in the other direction and Sophie found herself gazed at by Mr Compton. He looked extremely handsome, as if he’d been polished. The severity of his black and white clothes brought out the darkness of his hair and soulfulness of his expression. Less Guy Crouchback, she decided, than Mr Knightley.
‘I’m sorry I could only bring the two of you,’ he said. ‘I know you’re normally a gang of three.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Not as much as we were.’
‘Really?’ He seemed sad.
‘We haven’t fallen out or anything and Lucas and Charlie share a study. It’s just that we’re all on different ladders now.’
‘Of course.’
‘But don’t worry. Charlie will be envious, of course, but, well, he lives up here so he probably gets more treats.’
‘Yes. It’s Hammersmith, isn’t it?’
‘Fulham.’
‘Ah yes. With the widowed mother.’
‘Yes. I stayed there this time last year, in fact.’
‘Is she so very awful?’
‘I didn’t say that …’
He smiled mischievously in a way he never did in school. ‘You didn’t need to. I heard from another source.’
Sophie glanced across at Lucas but he was deep in conversation with Lady Droxford, who was holding out her ring hand so he could examine the antique bracelet she had on. She was saying something about the Holy Roman Emperor.
‘He seems an outlandish friend for the two of you to have.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well … He’s not a high flyer.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘You don’t fool me,’ he murmured flirtatiously. ‘I haven’t forgotten the glint in your eye when you mentioned Jonty Mortimer’s study.’
Lucas glanced over guiltily at the mention of Jonty.
‘Jonty and Lucas were friends,’ Sophie explained and Lucas dived back into conversation.
‘Good lord,’ said Mr Compton, dropping his voice. ‘So Charlie Selbourne Doodad …’
‘Somborne-Abbot.’
‘Yes – so he isn’t an anomaly?’
‘Oh. No. Charlie and Lucas aren’t … I mean, they’re …’ Sophie gulped her wine, blushing. ‘Lucas was very good to Charlie when his father died,’ she explained, recovering.
‘There’s a lot to be said for friendship. And of course having such different interests means they don’t compete.’
‘And Charlie’s very funny,’ she said. ‘He’s a lethal mimic. He does you very well, sir.’
‘Does he, now?’ He raised an eyebrow and ate the last of his meat, closing the subject. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t like the Strauss,’ he added later.
‘But I did,’ she said. ‘Some of the singing was amazing.’
‘But it’s not your thing.’
‘I don’t think I know enough about it to pass judgement,’ she said carefully. ‘But from what I’ve heard, I think I’m happier with earlier operas. I like The Marriage of Figaro and Lucas has a record of Handel arias that … that I like too.’
‘Ah yes. You prefer purity in your music. A clearer line. I should have sent you up to hear Gluck with my brother.’
‘Oh, no. I didn’t mean –’
‘I know,’ he said, silencing her kindly. ‘I was teasing. A bad habit. Now I don’t eat puddings but you both have to or my mother will sulk. The crème brûlée has a good, Handelian honesty to it. Or perhaps you’d find the fruit salad less lush …’
Three crèmes brûlées and a brandy later, Lady Droxford again pretended she needed Sophie’s assistance in finding the ladies’. ‘Sorry to drag you off,’ she said, ‘but the men wouldn’t understand and it’s a joy. It has little armchairs where one could wait for friends, an attentive maid, flower arrangements and a great tray of bottles of delicious scent.’
The facilities were just as she had described. Sophie had no great need but all the mirrors and gilt made her feel under-dressed and waiting in front of the maid made her self-conscious so she shut herself in a cubicle too until she heard Lady Droxford stop whistling and emerge from hers. They washed hands side by side then Lady Droxford reached for a scent bottle.
‘Here,’ she said, squirting some on Sophie’s wrist. ‘Shalimar. Far too old for someone young and pretty like you as it’s pure sex but it will give you wonderful dreams. God, I look a fright!’
Throwing a smile to the maid she pulled a chair closer to one of the looking-glasses and grimly dragged a comb through her no-nonsense, iron grey hair. Then she repaired her lipstick and powdered her nose.
Sophie disliked wearing make-up. She had messed around a few times recently with the testers in Boots with girls from the home, and had dipped into Kimiko
’s secret supply, but always wiped it off again. It felt sticky and made her feel too visible. Watching Lady Droxford use it, though, she saw the purely ritual appeal, just as she could see the appeal of having a chic cigarette lighter to click even though she felt no desire to start smoking.
‘Lucas is a nice boy,’ Lady Droxford told her reflection, wiping lettuce off one of her large teeth with a tissue. ‘Funny. Clever. Socially very able for his age. You’re both, what, sixteen?’
‘Lucas is. I’m sixteen next week.’
Tentatively, because she was not sure she liked the idea of a public hair brush, Sophie took a brush off the table and ran it through her own hair a few times. The various scents left behind on its heavy handle and the Shalimar on her wrist reached her and spoke of bed. She thought of Wilf, then of Lucas, the two interleaving in her mind as they tended to. I could marry one of them next week, she thought, with my mother’s consent.
‘And this other friend of yours, the one Antony was rather catty about.’
‘Charlie. Charlie Somborne-Abbot.’ Declaring Charlie’s full name, complete with overtones of feudal tithes or whatever, seemed suddenly an act of loyalty. There had been disloyalty flickering in the air all evening. This was perfectly all right when she was alone with Lucas, but with adults present it made her uneasy. She made a mental note to let Charlie know Mr Compton was the younger son of a peer. It was the sort of information that would give him pleasure. Since A.D., the Afternoon of Declaration as Lucas spoke of it, Charlie’s stature in their circle had been unexpectedly reduced. Lucas had begun to be far more assertive around him, leaving him out of things, implying small but deadly failings in Charlie’s taste and intellect, just as Charlie had used to do concerning Lucas’s religion and class. It made her fonder and newly protective of their absent friend, brought out the Wilf in him for her.
‘Could I give you a word of warning, my dear?’ Lady Droxford asked.
Sophie was startled, caught day-dreaming. The hotel hairbrush was still in her hand. She felt suddenly weary and wondered if she were drunk.
‘Of course,’ she said and set the brush carefully down again.
‘You need to be wary of getting too close to boys like Lucas and … I’m sorry.’
‘Charlie.’
‘Yes. To, how can I put it? Oh. I’m a hopeless old bat. Let me start again.’ Lady Droxford’s hand shook minutely as she clicked her lipstick back into her bag. ‘Men with a touch of the exotic about them. Men who aren’t just men. They’re very attractive and funny, and they probably make you feel very special. But don’t lose sight of the greater scheme of things. Don’t let them spoil you for … for normality. Especially as you get older, regular contact with normal people can be a great comfort. There are simpler pleasures; it wouldn’t do to go to the opera every night. Sorry. Now I’ve confused you.’
‘No you haven’t,’ Sophie assured her but felt anxious nonetheless.
Lady Droxford stood. ‘You’re a very dear girl, I can tell,’ she said and gave Sophie a quick hug. ‘I shall send you Shalimar for your thirtieth birthday, if I’m not quite dead then. You see …’ She stood back, glancing once more at her big, horsey face. ‘I married a man like that. So I know. I couldn’t believe my luck at the time. And of course there were compensations. There always are with very charming men. That’s how it happens. But don’t let them spoil you. Now. We must get you two and this old carcass home.’ She tipped the maid with another smile and a ‘Thank you, dear.’
Mr Compton and his mother had been doing something in town that afternoon so Lucas and Sophie had ridden up on the train. But Mr Compton was taking his mother back to his house for the night and had assured them he would drive them home. He was driving his mother’s car for the occasion, not the mossy Morris he used about school. It was an old Rover or Wolseley. Sophie only caught a glimpse of the radiator as he drove up from the hotel’s basement garage.
‘Now,’ Lady Droxford said, ‘Lucas can ride up front because he’s a man, and feed Antony humbugs if he starts nodding off. Sophie. Tuck yourself in.’
There was a lovely smell of leather inside and the back seat felt like a big old sofa. Lady Droxford had produced hot water bottles which she filled from a pair of huge Thermoses and handed out because the heating could no longer work without filling the car with dangerous fumes, apparently.
As Mr Compton drove along the Strand, past landmarks Sophie remembered from her previous trip with Charlie, Lady Droxford tucked a couple of blankets about them, lay back humming a phrase from the Strauss, and was soon fast asleep. Full of rich music, richer foods and sound counsel, Sophie was not long in following her. Occasionally she woke, hearing Lucas’s and Mr Compton’s low voices from the front, and stayed awake just long enough to see they were circling an unfamiliar roundabout or crossing an unfamiliar bridge and the Shalimar wafting up from where she was holding the blanket cosily over her shoulders was at once stern reminder and sensuous promise.
LENT TERM
(sixteen exactly)
Birthdays were the one time Sophie continued to feel homesick at Tatham’s. She had always rather hated her own birthdays anyway. Even more than Christmas, they carried an impossible freight of expectation. Margaret and Kieran always made an effort for them. Margaret baked the cake of choice, Kieran always made an improvement to one’s room, like a new bedside lamp or a ceramic doorplate with one’s name on it. But she had seen films, she knew how birthdays were in the real world and no amount of party pudding and games and silly little presents could disguise the fact that she was turning a year older in a fake family made up of people she wasn’t related to and didn’t necessarily like.
Wilf felt the same, she knew. She had noticed how he would often get into big trouble in the days before his birthday as though hoping to sabotage any celebration by being grounded or held back after class or even moved on to the dread place Kieran mentioned on the rare occasions when boys or girls were completely out of control: approved school.
But birthdays were even worse for her because she was convinced nobody actually knew when she was born, any more than they could be sure her right surname was Cullen. She heard stories of how foundlings were often called after the street they were found on or given the surname or birthday of the policeman or dustbin man who had rescued them. A girl desperate enough to dump a baby – and now that she was beginning to notice girls not much older than her with prams, Sophie increasingly thought of her mother as a girl, not a woman – such a girl would be unlikely to go to the trouble of pinning a little, tearstained apology to the baby’s blanket. Her name is Sophie Cullen. I love her but can’t cope. Or whatever. Star sign. Recognition token. The stuff of romance. The turning point of Roman comedies. The reality would be a girl in pain and fear, racing to put distance and oblivion between herself and the shameful thing she had just dragged into the world.
So her birthday was not only a well-meaning torture, a whole day of making sure she looked happy enough to satisfy the happy faces around her, but probably wrongly dated too.
In St Bonnie’s, term-time birthdays were institutionalized by a mention in assembly, the form mistress having everyone sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and the assumption that when anyone in the class had a party, the entire class was invited. In Tatham’s the notice accorded a birthday was left perilously to the pupils. No one could give a party and there was certainly no classroom singing of ‘Happy Birthday’ but there might be the humiliating horror of being given the bumps or worse, for the unpopular – the smelly or strange – the pointed non-marking of a birthday known of but uncelebrated.
For most it was impossible to keep a birthday secret because of the little pile of extra parcels and cards awaiting them on the post table after breakfast. Sophie was a practised deceiver, however, and intercepted her small clutch of offerings – from Wilf, Kieran and Margaret – at the Porters’ Lodge. When anyone asked what star sign she was, she gave a different answer, thus creating a fog of confusion that rapidly became a la
ck of interest. The trick was to show no interest in other people’s birthdays; if you never marked theirs or encouraged them to mark yours, it was surprising how easily friends accepted an amnesty on the topic. Kimiko, Charlie and Lucas were blessed with birthdays that fell in the holidays so the subject rarely arose among them.
But all this left Sophie with a painfully childish, homesickly hunger when the day arrived unremarked. Perhaps, deep down, she wanted pats on the back, silly cards, a little sentimental attention instead of which she had a day like any other, punctuated, at some point, by a surreptitious trip to the library or a bathroom to open the few offerings she had received.
Today, her sixteenth, was the worst of the three boarding school birthdays to date. She had slipped over to the Porters’ Lodge well before breakfast as usual and found nothing there for her. Not even a card from Wilf. Then it seemed to turn into one of those days when she was more than usually invisible. Someone bumped into her and sent her books flying on a muddy path. When she put her hand up with questions or answers, dons seemed to ignore her. When she finally saw friendly faces, running into Kimiko and Lucas as her ancient history class came out before lunch, Lucas was going on and on about the latest Charlie psychodrama.
Fate had cruelly arranged that Charlie did rather well in his first term on the science ladder – Fate, and some kind assistance from his new Phot Soc friend, David Crisp – so he had moved up a notch and started the new year in the div run by Mr Compton. He was thus in a position to drive Lucas wild with daily bulletins of Mr Compton’s attempts to inculcate an interest in Wagner and Nietzsche into his scientists, of the interest Mr Compton was showing in him in particular, of how Mr Compton had nicknamed him Siegfried because he was big and blond and, as he cheerfully admitted, ever so slightly dim. The latest agony, apparently, was that Mr Compton had invited Charlie – just Charlie, not the whole div – on a trip to London to see Götterdämmerung.
‘A whole evening. Just the two of them.’
‘I bet he won’t bring his mother along this time,’ Kimiko murmured. She was revealing a capacity for spite.