by Denise Emery
'Why — that's marvellous, Ralph. Oh, congratulations!' Margaret hugged him, and kissed his cheek. 'Well done!'
Ralph would never know how pleased she was for him. Pleased, and relieved. It had been niggling away at the back of her mind all these months, how the rupture between herself and Peter because of the way he'd chosen to react to the news that she was Ralph Nickleby's stepdaughter might tip the balance after all, that it might mean Ralph's losing a very lucrative slice of business. But it had not, just as Peter had promised it would not. And at last, Margaret could relax. She could dismiss that worry from her mind just as she had dismissed Peter Benhurst's memory from her heart, and that was very good news indeed.
'Oh, and there's more,' Ralph said suddenly. 'I nearly forgot. We've been invited to a party to celebrate the launching of Benhurst's new company. Not just an ordinary party, mind you. I'll have you know it's to be very swish, the kind of thing that lasts all weekend, a real chance to swan it with the nobs. It's to be held in Richmond. Look, I've got the invitation somewhere…'
Ralph rummaged through the post he'd brought home from the agency, and at last he found it. Ralph Nickleby and Margaret Hamilton were cordially invited to the home of Mrs Evelyn Markham on the third Friday in April, to stay until the Sunday evening. The invitation was handwritten, on Mrs Markham's creamy, crested personal stationery.
The informality was deceptive. There was to be tennis, for which one would be expected to dress appropriately, and on the Saturday evening there was to be a black-tie dinner, with dancing to follow.
'Best bib and tucker required, of course,' Ralph chortled, reading it again over Margaret's shoulder.
'Who's Evelyn Markham?'
'It says there, somewhere near the end. See, there it is, third line from the bottom. She's young Benhurst's grandmother, on his mother's side. Shouldn't be surprised if she's the one with all the readies that financed the whole shooting match to start with.'
Margaret shook her head as she handed the invitation back to him. 'I can't possibly go, Ralph,' she said quietly.
'You've got to be joking!' he answered, looking shocked and mystified all at once. What could possibly keep you away? If it's a new dress or two that's worrying you, don't think of it. You can have as much new—'
'It isn't that.'
'Well, what is it, then? It isn't the argy and the bargy you're worried about, is it? You know which fork to use and that, as well as the next one. And so do I, when I put my mind to it. We're just as good as they are, and we'll hold our own too, don't you worry.'
'It isn't that either, Ralph.'
'Well, what is it then? Why can't you go?'
'I've got a date that weekend,' she answered promptly, searching wildly through her mind for details to invent, anything convincing enough to guarantee that she wouldn't have to go with Ralph to Evelyn Markham's party.
'Someone you haven't met yet,' she went on, marvelling how easy it was to make things up out of whole cloth to fool people, even someone as dear and close to her as Ralph. 'He's wonderful,' she gushed, gathering momentum as she went along. 'He's… a friend of Richard Naylor's, er, a solicitor! A young one! Tall, dark, and handsome. Oh, and such a good dancer, Ralph, really! His name's Frank. Frank Tate,' she added, grateful for the bag of sugar she'd left standing on the shelf above the sink. She very nearly said his name was Frank Tate & Lyle, but managed to catch herself in time.
'It's very early days, Ralph. You can understand that I can't just cancel dates left and right. It might put him off, mightn't it?' She smiled disarmingly and crossed her fingers behind her back, waiting for Ralph's reaction.
'Well,' he said thoughtfully, scratching his head. 'I'm not so sure. On the other hand, perhaps you oughtn't let him see how keen you really are, love. You know, there's a lot to be said for the odd touch of being hard to get—'
Margaret shook her head vigorously. 'Oh no, not this time, really not! I couldn't risk it, honestly!'
'If you're that serious, I guess that's that. You… don't mind if I go by myself, do you?'
'Not at all! Why, I'd be furious with you if you stayed away.'
'That's settled, then. I'll go on my own. Now, what do you say to a posh nosh in a restaurant?'
'Tonight?'
'Yes, tonight. Right now. Unless you're going out with Frank, of course,' he added.
'No, er, not tonight. He's out of town this weekend. On business. But I've already started dinner—'
'Come on, love, we have to celebrate this! Won't it keep until tomorrow, what you're cooking?'
It would, and it did, and off they went. The meal was worth every penny of the extravagant price Ralph paid for it, too, or at least it was for him. He seemed to be having a wonderful time. Margaret did her best, but she learned the bitter truth behind an old saying that evening, the one that goes, 'Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive.' The words sang insanely through her head when Ralph began asking more about Frank Tate, and suggesting he'd like to meet him soon, and generally making all the right fatherly noises about the new boyfriend.
She also decided that she understood how people managed what she'd always thought of as the difficult feat of writing books: they simply sat behind their typewriters and made up people for themselves, until the people on the paper in front of them seemed as real as the next-door neighbours. Before the pudding was brought, Frank Tare had been supplied with parents who lived in Kent, two brothers and a sister, an interest in astrology, and a deep-throated laugh which made him quite the most attractive man Margaret had ever met.
But at least she'd found a way of getting out of having to face Peter and Susanna, of having to go through the motions of pretending she'd never met them before. Even if she could have managed to carry it off successfully, with some measure of dignity, Margaret felt certain that Susanna would have found some way to let everybody know that Peter and Margaret had met before. Susanna would do that in a way that was as embarrassing as possible for Margaret, too. Margaret was sure of it.
As things were, it was bad enough. Susanna would probably manage to drop at least one remark about Margaret, and in Ralph's hearing. Though if Peter heard it, he at least could be relied upon to shut the woman up before she said too much. But Susanna was the sort of woman who wasn't likely to be content with a simple victory. She would have to rub it in and crow over it, and as painfully as possible for her opponent.
'But there's nothing much I can do about that,' Margaret sighed to Linda when they met, several days later. 'The thing is, how can I dispose of Frank Tate? Ralph keeps on wanting to meet him.'
'Simple,' Linda answered. 'You have a quarrel with Frank. You won't want to talk about it, of course, and Ralph will respect that. But, alas, you won't be seeing Frank any more. That has to happen after Ralph comes back from Mrs Markham's party, naturally.'
'Hey — thanks. Why didn't I think of that?'
Linda shrugged. 'That's what friends are for,' she said.
Margaret walked Ralph to his car at seven o'clock on the Friday evening he was due to appear at Mrs Markham's dinner table. 'I still wish you were coming too,' he said wistfully. 'Sure you won't .change your mind?'
Margaret shook her head and smiled at him. Far too late for that. But look, you'd better get moving if you don't want to walk in in the middle of the first course. Me too. Why, I haven't even bathed yet…' A reference to her fictitious date with the nonexistent Frank.
The house seemed to echo with emptiness when Margaret walked back into it. She closed the front door, and walked slowly through into the sitting room. She stood there for a while, gazing listlessly at the familiar furniture as though she was seeing it for the first time, yet not really seeing it at all, wondering why on earth she hadn't made some sort of plans for the evening, and for the Saturday evening to follow. Oh, she could ring around among her friends. Even at such late notice she would probably find someone who was free to share a meal with her, or who would feel like seeing a film or something
.
But it simply wasn't worth the effort. Margaret sighed, and kicked her shoes off. She walked to the television and switched it on. Two middle-aged ladies and a young man were arguing passionately about something or other, interrupting one another constantly. They were seated at a table, and one of the ladies was wearing an elaborate hat. Margaret switched off the set and left them to it, walked through into the kitchen to see what there was to eat.
There was quite a lot, including the contents of the well-stocked freezer that hummed quietly to itself in one corner. Ralph had bought it to make life easier for them, after Dorothy died.
'You're going to be out at work all day, and so am I,' he had said at the time, with down-to-earth practicality. 'So it's to be even shares on the housework and cooking from now on.'
'Why Ralph,' Margaret had teased. 'I never knew you were a champion of Women's Lib!'
'Humpf. Nothing to do with it. It's simple logic, isn't it? Your mother always claimed she didn't want too many gadgets. Said she enjoyed the housewifely role. But things're different now, aren't they? We'll manage between us as fairly as possible, though I'm not much cop at cookery…'
Margaret was, though, and she enjoyed it. So she did most of the cooking. Ralph did other chores, and before long father and daughter had worked things out very comfortably between them, and Ralph had never yet failed to do his fair share.
The freezer was an asset. Margaret kept it stocked by indulging in periodic bouts of bulk cooking; she could produce dinner for twelve at two hours' notice. If she cared to look, she could have found a very appetizing snack meal for one person, too, carefully sealed and labelled. She stared at the freezer for a while, listening to the sound it made. She hummed back at it absent-mindedly as she took down the egg pan and splashed some water into it. Boiled eggs and toast soldiers and the new whodunnit she had bought earlier in the day, that would do nicely.
She brought eggs, toast and paperback book to the table; she would read while she was eating. One can do so when one has opted for an evening of solitude. But several minutes passed before Margaret realized that although she was staring fixedly at the printed words on page one of the book, she wasn't really taking them in. Her eggs were probably stone cold, too; she hadn't touched them. She hadn't really wanted them. She pushed them away.
Unfortunately, there seemed to be a video tape recording in Margaret's head, accompanied by a soundtrack which matched it. It began with the afternoon she had first wandered out into the twisting maze of Chinese streets, to take in the swirls of colour and movement all around her. Next, so real it seemed she might reach out to touch it, she could see the sleeve of the velvet dinner jacket Peter had worn at the party, the sleeve she'd stained with wine. It went on like that with brutal clarity, scene by scene by scene relentlessly, missing nothing out, produced and directed by Margaret, complete with X certificate, right through until the whole glorious dream had come crashing down on her head.
She rose abruptly from the table. It wouldn't do. What else had she expected, though? She knew where Ralph had gone, that he'd be spending the entire weekend in Peter Benhurst's company, as his guest. She should at least have had the common sense to make some plans for herself, anything at all which might have helped to take her mind off the past. It had been seven months, give or take a week, since she and Peter had parted. And yet the whole interlude could bounce along through her memory in full technicolour, as though it had happened yesterday. How much longer was it going to take for her to come to her senses, once and for all?
Margaret was saved from having to answer that for the moment. The telephone rang. It was Tim, enquiring with casual, friendly cheer if she'd care to come out with him for a drink.
'That would be lovely!' she answered promptly. Margaret didn't add that she had never been more grateful for an invitation in her life.
13
'How was it?' Margaret asked brightly, pecking Ralph's cheek with an affectionate kiss.
'Oh, well, you simply won't believe the goings-on, and that's straight! It was exciting, though, no one could deny it.'
'Why? What happened?'
Ralph rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and chuckled to himself. 'Game on, love,' he said finally, remembering she was there, 'let's go through into the kitchen. I'll tell you all about it over a sherry.'
When Ralph had poured their drinks, he sat down at the table with a little sigh of contentment, and loosened his tie.
'It was all to do with young Benhurst's lady friend, you see,' he began. 'Susanna Baker-Leigh, as she called herself. Pretty little thing, I'll give her that. Oh, but hard as nails, Margaret, I could see that from the start. Anyway,' he continued calmly, with maddening slowness, 'I could tell from the raised eyebrows and long silences that Mrs Markham didn't think much of her either—'
Really?' Margaret interrupted evenly. Why, Linda mentioned something just the other day about Mr Benhurst's being engaged to marry someone called Susanna. I should think his family will jolly well have to get used—'
Ralph hooted with laughter, nearly choking on a mouthful of sherry. 'Good God, girl, you don't know what you're saying! There'll be no wedding there, not after what happened Saturday evening!'
'But Linda said—
'Linda wasn't there this weekend, was she?' Ralph asked, exasperated. 'Now, how can I tell you what happened if you will keep interrupting?'
Margaret murmured sorry' in a convincingly apologetic little voice, and smiled across at him sheepishly. She had interrupted deliberately, to make it seem as though her interest in Peter Benhurst's wedding plans was as casual and off-hand as her interest in anything else which might have taken place at that weekend party.
It was a delaying tactic, too, a way of giving herself some time to catch her breath. Ralph's reply to her carefully-rehearsed 'How was it?' was the very last thing she had expected him to say. And her curiosity had been quickened with a jolt so fierce and sudden it astonished her. What was it to her, after all, that there would be no wedding?
Once Ralph had Margaret's undivided attention, he seemed content to take his time over whatever it was he had to tell her. Silently, she willed him to get on with it, but he sat there quite oblivious of her impatience, glad to be home, sipping his drink at leisure.
'First of all,' he said finally, 'you've got to imagine the scene—' He stopped there, to chuckle at the memory, and Margaret stifled a groan. She fought the brief temptation to shake him by the shoulders until he came out with the story, whatever it was. Instead, she merely nodded. He'd tell all, but at his own pace. She'd simply have to wait for it.
There we were, ten of us in all, sitting round a ruddy great table in a dining room that was big enough to accommodate a flaming battleship, with room round the edges. The lot of us were in full evening dress, and we all had three sorts of wine glass in front of us, and at least that many forks, and to serve up the grub they'd got these two young ladies in black dresses. You know, with frilly little hats and white aprons. Very grand. So anyway, just as the waitresses brought us the plates of smoked salmon and brown bread we were meant to be getting on with—' Ralph paused there, perhaps for dramatic effect.
'Yes?' Margaret prompted breathlessly.
He shook his head, and grinned. 'You won't believe it, Margaret. I swear to you, you won't believe it.'
'Well?'
'Just then the butler came into the room, coughing and clearing his throat and hemming and hawing. He went right up to Mrs Markham and stood in front of her for a bit like some sort of stuffed dummy—'
'And then what?'
'Hang about, I'm coming to that. Then he stiffened up as though he'd left a hanger in his jacket, and said, "There's a person to see you, Madam. He claims it's urgent." So Mrs Markham said, "Very good, Clive. Who is it, please?" She was cool as they come. Classy dame, that Evelyn Markham. Then the butler says, "The name is George Baker, and he insists you are expecting him." Well now, Clive looked like he doubted that very much, but Mrs Markham didn't tur
n a hair. Just at that point I happened to glance at this lady friend of Peter's — that's Benhurst's name, by the way — and I tell you, Margaret, she looked as though she was about to faint dead away. Then I looked at Mrs Markham again, and the smile on her face was positively angelic. She looked at the girl—'
'Susanna?' Margaret whispered.
'Susanna, my foot! That turned out to be as phoney as her double-barrelled surname, as it happens. But I'm getting ahead of the story. Where was I? Oh yes. And then the butler left the room, and a few minutes later he came back again, followed by this guy who looked like he was about to sell Mrs Markham a hot watch. You know the type — blue suit with built-up shoulders, light green shirt, shocking-pink tie, and dark glasses. George Baker, see? Susie Baker's husband—'
'Husband? You mean Susanna's?' Margaret's voice was a croak.
'Yep. And there was Mrs Markham, greeting this apparition like an honoured guest. Invited him to explain to the assembled company exactly why he had come, and so forth, which he proceeded to do. It turned out that little Susie performed a vanishing act nearly two years ago, and that George has been trying to find her ever since. Said he'd come to fetch her home to Ealing Broadway where she belongs, as his lawful wedded wife—'
'I don't believe it!'
Ralph looked smug. 'I told you you wouldn't!' he crowed. 'Anyway, little Susie was careful to leave her ever-loving husband more or less broke, taking with her all the very considerable amount he'd just won in a long shot at the betting shop. She turned up in very different circles as Susanna Baker-Leigh, a few months later.'
'But how did he manage to find her? And why just then, in the middle of a formal dinner party?'
'Oh, but it wasn't George who found her, Margaret. It was Evelyn Markham who found George! That was the best part. Susie came back to England when Benhurst did, you see, about six or seven weeks ago. .Ever since, she's been Mrs Markham's houseguest. Mrs M.'s a crafty old doll for all her money and all her class. She made a little speech when George had finished, and she didn't mince her words, either. She told us she'd been suspicious of the girl from the very first, and that she'd become determined not to see Susie married to her grandson. Well, the rest of us had seen enough in one weekend to know why, or near enough. Susie behaved like the Queen of Sheba from the start. And into the bargain she spent Friday evening and all day Saturday flirting with the men and putting the ladies' noses out of joint. Oh, you'd have had to be there to know what I mean…'