by Annie Bullen
Anna pulled her black cotton eyeshades up and pressed the bell for the stewardess. Sleep was impossible and England still four hours away. She asked for Perrier water with some ice. No lemon. The Japanese businessman sitting next to her in the Pan Am jumbo watched with some admiration as she removed her shoes and expertly massaged her feet, working down from the ankle before dealing separately with each toe. She noted his interest.
‘The cabin pressurization plays havoc with the metabolism,’ she remarked casually. ‘Excuse me while I moisturize.’ Reaching into her hand luggage she pulled out a giant-size bottle of Body Shop orchid oil cream. With a large hand mirror propped on the tray in front of her, she used the eyeshades as a makeshift headband to sweep her glossy black hair off her face. Scooping great gouts of cream out of the jar, she slapped and massaged until she was satisfied that her skin could absorb no more. Then she rubbed a generous amount into each brown foot, turning her toes this way and that, admiring the perfectly manicured shocking pink nails which set off her tan. The cream absorbed, she rubbed a little more into her hands, pulled away the headband, combed her hair and settled back into the cramped airline seat.
Sensing the interest from the man on her left she remarked, ‘Dehydration is one of the curses of flying.’
He nodded politely and told her, ‘You have beautiful feet.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied gravely, before opening her novel, which dealt in a sensitive yet perceptive way with the problems of single mothers in Central America.
Anna was flying home to reclaim little Juanita. Remorse and guilt were feelings that she did not easily recognize, although she had been known on occasion to sob with rage. However, since departing en famille (minus the poor Portuguese girl, who was Anna’s current ill-used au pair) for New York, she had felt certain stirrings which she took to be maternal yearning.
‘What is it darling?’ her old friend and confidant Harry Timesley, a very wealthy but decidedly strait-laced young stockbroker, would say tenderly as they lay in his king-sized bed.
‘My baby,’ Anna would sob dramatically. Harry’s obvious wealth, all it seemed at her disposal, made up for lack of excitement right now. Anna, a nightbird, was used to inducing sleep by sessions of late-night partying, or talking deep into the night with groups of sympathetic friends. Even in the depths of rural Dorset where she had lived with Hugh, the level of society which she sought out had recognized the need for a certain sophistication in its entertainment. Therefore she had naively assumed that New York would be popping. But Harry, overjoyed at securing his prize at long last, wanted her all to himself when he came home after a long day on Wall Street.
Philosophically she accepted this, for the time being anyway, until she had plastered the butter on her bread in a far more secure fashion, preferably by marrying him. She knew that there was nothing to be gained from Hugh and, with a certain regret, was cutting every tie. The regret had nothing to do with spiritual or sexual compatibility, but rather with a style that had attracted her in the way they had lived. Hugh, a fairly obscure, definitely impecunious, but well respected composer with an aristocratic background, was thirty years older than Anna. When she met him he had had something of a following, and was enjoying the adulation which followed the successful production of a TV opera and the promise of a big new commission. Colour supplement writers followed them to their quaint rural retreat for a while. (The quaint retreat was loaned to Hugh by a family concerned that he should not disgrace them by too much obvious poverty.) The beautiful and talented Mexican girl married to the slightly debauched and definitely off-beam composer whose first marriage had ended in a messy and much publicized divorce (the exact details of which no one could remember) was a natural for them. Photographers took glamour pictures of them and their babies in the beautiful old rooms furnished with Hugh’s inherited furniture and enormous ferns in huge brass pots.
But the glamour had rubbed away, thinner and thinner as grocers, garages, dress shops and even the au pair girls demanded payment. And at that time it was not fashionable to be poor. The favourite topic of conversation at the dinner parties to which Anna and Hugh were still invited seemed to be head lice. Young mothers took a perverse delight in recounting horror stories involving nit combs and head lotion. But Hugh really shocked the young, upwardly mobile company with his detailed knowledge of supplementary benefit payments and milk tokens. ‘But you have help in the house, Anna,’ they would cry desperately, hoping that he was teasing them. It was quite permissible to confess to infestation but never to poverty.
‘Of course we do,’ he stammered. ‘But you don’t pay au pairs, do you?’
Anna had actually tried very hard at first. Her nature was such that while novelty value existed and she could make a daily drama out of her life, she was quite happy. Hugh, working at home on his opera, was entranced by his young and beautiful wife who darted around the house, bore his children (in whom he took only an avuncular interest) and planted strange herbs in their garden. The spreads in the colour supplements reflected a transitory truth.
But Anna needed an outlet for her own creativity, which was satisfied for only a short while by bearing babies. She began to design knitwear. Using the local pool of knitting experts (and somehow managing to persuade the home workers to knit for money that would have scandalized a wages officer), she attracted the attention of fashion magazines and buyers from some of the more expensive stores with her bright and unusual designs. Her business grew and took her increasingly away from home and from Hugh, whom she began to regard as a liability – and possibly an expensive one at that – in her brilliant career.
In the process of attracting the necessary financial backing to expand her business, accountants had become involved, and she had gone to Harry for advice. He had proved more than eager to act as Anna’s escape route. Now that everything else was becoming settled she decided that there was nothing for it but to fly to England to pick up little Juanita in much the same way as she had left her. It was not Hugh’s reaction that she feared, but Kattie’s censure, and she was thus determined to arrive at Puttnam in the peak of condition, just in case she was called upon to defend her position. She turned to the businessman who was settling down for a snooze.
‘Would you like some of this Perrier water? You must take care not to dehydrate.’
Dorelia, softly humming to herself, was gazing into her bedroom mirror, looking right through the girl who gazed back. She was resting after helping her mother with today’s increasingly frantic preparations, for despite all the lists and the finely thought out planning, Kattie’s organization had gone awry when little Juanita, red-faced and fretting from teething, had loudly demanded attention. Dorelia had obliged first by pushing the baby out in her pram and then by crooning to her in the kitchen whilst little eddies of anxiety stirred the busy air. Then Angela, tired of shifting chairs and moving heaps of cutlery and crockery from one table to another, had taken over, leaving Dorelia to drift upstairs.
She had decided to leave home again later that evening to stay with friends in London. She would tell Kattie later. Nothing too much had been said about her future, or about the Paris plan, but with the departure of Fergus, the further unsettling of Hugh and the acceptance of the baby into the life of the household, she sensed a wind of change blowing. Dorelia loathed fuss, and would rather be out of the way until things were settled.
She doubted now that her father had any plans at all to open a showroom in Paris. She had toyed, briefly it is true, with the idea of staying at home as a sort of nursemaid-of-honour to young Juanita. But that would not do. A great creative urge welled up in her as she focused on her bland face in the old glass. But what to do with it? Write it? Paint it? Sing it? She could do none of those things. She sighed and began to change for the concert.
Hugh was perfectly happy. His ‘bedroom’ having been commandeered for the concert and transformed into a place of splendour by vast bowls of flowers, discreetly placed tables whose impeccable nape
ry bore tribute to the splendid firm of caterers engaged by Kattie at Clem’s expense, and by the addition of one hundred and fifty plush-seated chairs with plump little gilt legs, he had moved his meagre wardrobe into Clem’s dressing room.
The carefully chosen concert music was stored in his memory and on neatly stacked sheets, topped with the handwritten notation of his own new work. Hugh hummed gently to himself as he ran over the recital in his mind, peered at his creased reflection in Clem’s mirror and tucked a dark pink silk handkerchief ‘borrowed’ from Clem’s chest of drawers into the top pocket of his white linenjacket. There were at least two dozen such hankies in the drawer. Clem wouldn’t miss one.
‘Pom, pom POM,’ carolled Hugh, rubbing one very old but rather good leather shoe with Clem’s face towel.
‘Pom, pom, POM,’ he finished with a flourish, throwing the towel to the ground. He opened a bottle of Floris fragrance and smoothed some into the creases of his face. He was just topping off the effect with a little hairdressing lotion from a matching bottle and smoothing back his still thick (thank God) brown hair with a worn tortoiseshell-backed hairbrush whose shape resembled the sort of thing you would groom a horse with, singing ‘Pom, pom – pom, pom – oh pommmm!’, when there was a knock and the door opened.
‘May I come in?’ The request from Kattie was technically unnecessary, as she was halfway across the room before she had finished asking the question. She appeared excited and anxious.
‘They’re just beginning to arrive. Dorelia and Angela are looking after everyone and now I must change quickly and get back. You are all doing a splendid job. Hugh, darling. Are you all right?’ Pretty Kattie anxiously took his enormous hands in a tight sympathetic grip as she peered mistily into his eyes. Slightly ashamed of his lack of sensitivity at this important moment (Hugh loved above all to be the centre of attention), he gave a friendly squeeze and backed away.
‘But of course,’ he stammered. ‘Splendid. May I come down now? I must thank Clem for letting me use his room. Where is the dear boy by the way?’
‘Clem? Oh he should be back at any minute. He telephoned a couple of hours ago as he was leaving town. In fact he should have arrived by now. To tell you the truth I don’t believe that he really had to go up today –just wanted to be out of the way. Oh, I forgot. Marjorie Pelham is downstairs, asking for you. You two are very chummy all of a sudden.’ Kattie sounded ever so slightly peeved. However tiresome her protégé was, she could not countenance him being claimed by another woman. Hugh sensed her anxiety.
‘Oh well, we’ve just renewed our acquaintance,’ he said. ‘Her son – you know, Angela’s old flame, was a one-time friend of mine and I suppose there’s a lot to talk about.’
‘Mmmmmm.’ Kattie sounded dubious. But then her face brightened.
‘Oh, and there’s someone else asking for you. A very distinguished-looking older fellow. Said his name was Charles Something, I think. He said he’d brought something to show you.’
‘Wonderful!’ Hugh stammered, and his delight was evident. ‘Good old Charles. He’s brought me some work. I’m angling for a couple of BBC commissions. Oh, I say, Kattie, I know it’s a lot to ask, but if he needs to stay could we possibly put him up tonight? … I did say.’ Kattie hid her exasperation. She did not want to upset Hugh tonight and this Charles had seemed charming.
‘We’ll find him a corner somewhere if he needs it. Don’t worry. Are you ready now?’
She threaded her arm through his and, pausing to pick up his music, Hugh gravely and courteously escorted her out of the room.
Dorelia stood quite still on the shallow front steps and looked back towards the house. Strands of laughter and threads of speech snapped and rewove themselves in the stillness of the evening as her mother’s guests ate and drank and discussed the first half of the concert. It had passed perfectly. Those who enjoyed music recognized the class of Hugh’s performance and remarked with surprise on the lovely tone of the restored organ. Those who were there simply for the occasion probably enjoyed themselves still more with not even the mental distraction of the music to divert them from their curiosity about the household.
For all her efforts to behave just like any other member of a respectable middle-class community, Kattie, living as she did in the old manor house with an odd assortment of characters (‘D’you see – there’s the jailbird!’ one respectable old lady was heard to whisper to another, pointing at poor Fergus), was a source of some speculation and discussion in the area. Granted she belonged to the local choir, which met for its weekly practice at Puttnam, but they sang downstairs in the drawing room to the accompaniment of music taped by the vicar. The current of excitement, heightened by Hugh’s slightly eccentric but indisputably brilliant performance, made the concert a lively success.
But Dorelia had had enough. She was loading her suitcase into the back of Kattie’s dreadful old Mini Traveller which stood alone in the drive. The guests had parked in the small paddock to the side of the house. Dorelia’s own car was being serviced, and she had left Kattie a note telling her that she would be away for a few days. The Ford would be ready in the morning and Kattie could use that. Dorelia felt she could wait no longer to get away. She was suddenly overcome with an attack of ennui so overwhelming that all she could feel was a dreadful sense of utter futility. The only thing to do was to move on, to look at different scenery, different people, for a few days.
‘Asked to go to London for screen test,’ she wrote on her mother’s note. ‘Use my car, it’s ready tomorrow. Back in a few days.’
She was stowing the suitcase with the few clothes she had packed in the back of the battered old car when she saw a tall man walking in the gates. A latecomer, perhaps. Tim Tyson did not look much like a policeman, and it certainly did not occur to Dorelia that that was his profession. But he had decided to drop in to have a quick word with Hugh. Before he could say anything to her, Dorelia had uncoiled herself from the back of the car and confronted him.
‘You’ve missed the first bit, but it doesn’t matter. Hugh’s piece is on in the second half anyway. If you go inside and up the stairs you’ll find everyone. There’s plenty of chairs at the back when they get going again. You can easily slip in.’
Tim opened his mouth to say that he was not in fact a guest at whatever gathering happened coincidentally to be going on here. But the explanations died, too complicated. He wanted to laugh at this lanky girl who confronted him with so much self-possession and bossiness.
‘Is Mr Hansard here tonight?’ he asked instead.
‘Mr … oh, you mean Hugh.’ Dorelia sounded surprised. ‘Hugh – well of course he is. He’s playing. You have come for the concert, I suppose?’ she asked anxiously, peering forward, one long leg folded back under her in the mucky interior of the car. ‘Dammit,’ she was thinking, ‘I’ll have to take him inside and I won’t be able to get away just yet.’
‘Yes. Yes of course. Look, don’t you worry, I’ll just go on in. Is, er, Fergus Slack here too by any chance?’ He felt that he was pushing his luck, but Dorelia, relieved that she was not, after all, condemned to look after him, was totally incurious about the reason for his visit.
‘Fergus. Yes,’ she said vaguely. ‘He was sitting somewhere near the front I think. Do you know him, too?’
‘After a fashion.’
‘Odd, finding someone except us that knows them both. They don’t sort of go together.’ But her heart was not in the conversation and her eyes flickered back to her suitcase. She noticed that the lid had flipped undone and untidy pieces of clothing were spilling out.
‘Inside and upstairs?’
‘That’s right. Yes.’ For a moment they both stood silently, gazing up at the long windows of the ballroom, now coloured dull yellow with electric light; they listened to the chatter and the laughter threaded through with the clatter of cutlery and the clink of glass on china.
‘If you hurry,’ Dorelia broke the silence. ‘If you go in now, you might just be in time t
o grab some of the goodies – I’ve made a pig of myself.’ And so she had, but that was earlier when the caterers were laying out the food in the kitchen. Dorelia had sampled in a catholic fashion, taking delicacies at random, a little at a time until she had put away a good-sized meal.
Tim nodded pleasantly and disappeared up the steps into the front of the house. Dorelia gazed after him for a moment and, snapping her fingers, suddenly dashed off to one of the outbuildings to fill a plastic container with water. The old car often needed several top-ups during a longish journey. Tim meanwhile was making his way up the rather grand main stairway inside the house to find Hugh and Fergus.
While Tim and Dorelia talked the bats had come out, swooping erratically in tight ovals, homing in blindly and with total accuracy on the insects that were flying too low for the few house martins that still searched the upper skies. The light drained quickly now from the soft air. As Dorelia moved out of the old barn she marvelled at the softening of the outline of the old house against the thickening dark. A white rose, rambling unsteadily up and around the massive porch, glimmered as it threw out its scent with the light it had been feeding on all day. The air was still warm, and heavily fragrant with night-time summer scents: jasmine and phlox, tall tobacco plants which, no longer competing for attention, threw their perfume away on the empty air of evening.
Dorelia gulped it all in one huge sniff as she bounded towards the car. The music had just started again – Hugh’s own piece, surely? She stopped to listen. A clear picture of Hugh, points of light glinting on his spectacles halfway down his nose, flying wings of floppy brown hair, huge sausage fingers and an expression of utter absorption and peace, making his face ageless. Perhaps, thought Dorelia in a rare moment of outward observation, perhaps Hugh has to go through all that personal agony to be allowed to feel so blissfully peaceful when he’s playing. Perhaps it’s only fair.