Parlour Games

by Mavis Cheek

  ‘Don’t call me names,’ moans Celia afresh.

  ‘Oh my darling girl,’ says the masculine voice.

  ‘Tom?’ says Susannah.

  ‘He’s only making up for your calling me fathead,’ says Celia, and then she stops. Why should she help out anyone of the masculine variety after what she’s been put through? ‘He’s very fond of me – aren’t you, Tom?’

  He coughs in a manner that could well be affirmative.

  ‘We’re coming over now,’ says Susie.

  ‘And to think,’ moans Celia softly, ‘that he was to be my Celestial City ...’

  Both Susannah and Tom are ungrounded in Bunyan and they take the reference as something far more dangerous.

  ‘Don’t for God’s sake attempt anything,’ says Susie. ‘Don’t even move.’

  ‘I told you,’ says Celia crossly. ‘I can’t.’

  But the telephone is dead. They are now on their way.

  Celia, mopping at bitter tears, decides to ignore the advice and finally manages the calf motion successfully. She replaces the receiver and congratulates herself for negotiating such a monumental act. She goes into the bathroom where she reconstitutes her face with fresh make-up. Aspects of her are still functioning. It would not do to let Tom see her looking anything less than perfect.

  By the time the two of them enter Celia’s hotel bedroom, Celia has been checked out of the Queen’s Brough. The efficient Susannah has paid her bill, overcoming the confusion of Celia’s maiden name with sterling aplomb by repeating her friend’s room number over and over again until the night receptionist finally rallied and admitted to there being a Miss C. Wilde in that particular room, though still nursing a small grudge since there is a Crossland staying in a completely different set of digits with the initial A. on the floor below and it is not his fault that this creates such annoyance. Susie, ruffled by this exchange, sweeps into Celia’s room and says, ‘You might have told me you weren’t using your married name.’

  And Celia, swaying slightly, replies, ‘I shall never, never use it again,’ and falls into Tom’s outstretched arms.

  Tom, apprised of what is taking place, as much as his wife can apprise him given the rather garbled telephone conversation she has had with Celia, looks at the crumpled figure crushed to his chest and says, ‘I’m going to go and put one on him.’

  At which Celia has two thoughts. The first being, how nice it would be, as an alternative to the lake, to see Alex punched on the nose – the second, more sensibly, being that she doesn’t want her husband hurt. Blessed, indeed, are the peacemakers. She pulls away from Tom’s embrace and says, ‘All I want to do is to get away from here and think. I don’t want Alex to know I know.’ And she adds, with genuine sorrow, ‘Oh, my poor children, my poor children …’

  And while Susie is packing Celia’s things away Tom whispers in slow, dreadful tones, ‘This hasn’t got anything to do with what was in the washing machine, has it?’

  To which Celia, much confused, says, ‘What?’

  But Tom, about to repeat it, is curtailed by Susie’s reappearance from the bathroom with Celia’s make-up bag (the only thing unpacked). So he merely backs off, whistling.

  Celia repeats, ‘What?’

  Tom moves his head fractionally in his wife’s direction and hisses, ‘Nothing,’ but the subtlety of the gesture is lost on Celia.

  Susannah says crisply, ‘Don’t start questioning her till we get home, Tom. Can’t you see she’s had enough? And this is hardly the time to be whistling ...’

  In the lift Celia has a vague recollection regarding the significance of Tom’s whispered remark and says in a surprised voice, ‘I haven’t opened the washing machine. I meant to but I forgot.’

  Tom winces and puts his hand over her mouth under the pretext of soothing her. Susie says, ‘You just forget all about that kind of thing for the time being ...’

  ‘Yes,’ says Tom, keeping his hand where it is. ‘You don’t want to be worrying about all that nonsense now, do you?’

  She manages to shake off his hand and, looking up into his eyes, as much as she can focus, she says firmly, ‘Yes I do. I want to think about it very much indeed – as a matter of fact I—’

  Back goes his hand. It is all she can do to concentrate on breathing. But the thought of that dear little illicit package nestling away in the Hotpoint is about the only good thing on the horizon at the moment.

  ‘I love surprises,’ she says, having ducked Tom’s grasp.

  Susie puts her cool, elegant hand on her friend’s forehead and says, ‘Don’t be bitter darling ... They simply are not worth it. It must have been awful.’

  The illicit package floats out of her consciousness to be replaced by Alex’s face smiling boyishly at that gruesome chiffoned female. Which makes Celia begin sobbing again, loud and hard. She makes no further mention of the washing machine.

  Tom looks at her with mingled relief and desire. Perhaps his moment has come?

  She is still sobbing as they walk through reception but fortunately the desk is unmanned and there is nobody to see. They make their way towards the hotel door, brushing past the plants and negotiating the chairs (Celia is trying very hard to stay upright and doing quite well with the aid of Susannah’s supporting arm; Tom is bringing up the rear and the suitcase) when suddenly, from behind them and from some distance, they hear a voice say, ‘Good Lord. What on earth are you doing here?’

  It is a voice that is full of astonishment and, to a discerning ear, a voice that even as it says the words wishes it had remained silent. Alex’s voice, calling from down near the bar, human in its guileless response to the shock of seeing Tom. Human in its secondary response of wishing it had not acknowledged this. Alex, riveted by Tom’s familiar appearance, has not yet noticed his two female companions who are a little way ahead of him, half hidden by a fronding palm. For a moment the shuffling trio freezes, then, as Tom turns to face his questioner, Susie, quick-thinking Susie, pushes Celia behind the plant and down on to a small settee. Celia bounces into the cushions and remains there, motionless and quiet. Susie and Tom then glide together to provide a human screen.

  Tom, very red in the face, calls, ‘Never mind us. What are you doing here?’ There is a pugilistic quality about the way he sticks out his jaw as he says this.

  Susie, sensing at once that she must act, puts up her delicate hand, half restraining her husband, half saluting Alex, and says, ‘Hi.’

  Alex calls stoutly, ‘Brandreth case.’

  Celia, Pavlovian in her response, shouts, ‘Bugger the Brandreth case,’ so that Susie, diving behind the bushy leaves, says ‘Shut up.’ And then coming out again says sotto voce to Tom, ‘Leave this to me.’ She begins advancing towards Alex for what, later, she will describe to Celia as one of the longest walks of her life. Over her shoulder she says to her husband, ‘Get Celia out of here while I distract him.’

  There is scarcely any need for this since, to put it mildly, Alex seems distracted already. As Susie advances he appears to jump sideways and is half way out of his seat, well away from the female sitting next to him. Susannah stands in front of him, as beautiful and charming as an icicle, and says, smooth as the same commodity, ‘Oh, please don’t get up.’ She taps him lightly on the shoulder so that he sinks unresisting back into his chair. ‘We’re collecting one of our weekenders. We must dash ...’ And turning her gaze upon the pastel-clad woman she says, ‘You must introduce me, Alex.’ She extends her hand. The woman extends hers back.

  ‘Conference for two, is it?’ asks Susie.

  ‘Everybody else is dining out tonight. They’ll be back soon,’ he says defensively.

  ‘Really?’ breathes Susie, staring at him. Susannah has a stare when she chooses.

  ‘This is Miss Lyall,’ says Alex. He is twisting desperately in his seat so that it groans and complains. Susie smiles down at him. ‘Good job Celia isn’t here, Alex.’

  ‘Why?’ His pinkness deepens to a peony hue.

  ‘Be
cause she’d say the same thing she says in the conservatory at home –’ She dwells on the last word and taps the chair, giving him a very straight Susie look. ‘She’d say that you’re breaking it, Alex ...’

  He manages a taut rictus which is supposed to resemble the smile of the clean-conscienced.

  Susannah takes the female’s proffered hand, touches it limply as if it were diseased, and says, ‘How nice.’

  Alex stands up, looking guilty.

  ‘And Celia’s birthday, too,’ says Susannah. ‘Poor Cee ...’

  She gives a quick look over her shoulder. Poor Cee and suitcase-Tom have gone. Only the slight motion of the hotel door indicate where.

  ‘Such a lovely dinner party last night,’ adds Susie. ‘But a pity we didn’t have a chance to see the children.’ To this last she also brings a certain emphasis.

  Alex is certain something is up – Susie has never shown the slightest interest in his offspring – but he cannot tell what. He decides to bluff it out.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘They’re so delightful ...’ Susie gives the pastel-clad lady the benefit of a long, unpleasant stare.

  ‘Have you got children, Miss Lyall?’ She looks away from the expostulating Miss Lyall to her watch, which she scrutinises with devastating seriousness.

  ‘Must go, Alex,’ she says. And turning on her heel she sashays off, leaving Alex to make what he will of the exchange.

  Susie is in no doubt that it has made some kind of mark on the proceedings and she is not wrong. Later, having tiptoed down the corridor into his lover’s room, Alex is not – quite – the rampant lover he initially showed promise of being. Which gives Miss Lyall pause for thought. She is used to her affairs with high-flying professionals lasting at least six months and giving her a good run for her money. She hopes Alex is up to it for although it was his brain that attracted her initially she prefers her intellectuals to have good-sized thrusting coronas as well. What woman doesn’t? Miss Lyall detects a certain abstraction in the grimacing features of the man beneath her. She gyrates harder. One of the reasons she has been kept on the Brandreth team is that she gets the best out of her men. Alex, being ground down into the mattress like a piece of obstinate corn, is discovering that this capacity does not only apply to business law.

  But we, like Celia, must not dwell on such activities. We, hearts, souls, and sympathies, remain firmly in our heroine’s camp, an Elizabethan manor house fourteen miles away, with Celia tucked up, hot Slippery Elm Food in a bowl at her bedside (Susie’s healthy eating cure-all), plotting vengeance and wishing she had never, ever set off on this crazy escapade. She wishes, as she sucks on the spoon, watched by Susannah, what we might all wish at such a time: that she had never broken away from her lovely Bedford Park life. For there, suck, suck, nothing like this ever, ever happens. Suck, suck, suck.

  ‘Well,’ says Susannah. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  Celia, whose drunken vows to maintain Bedford-Park-life-as-she-knows-it seem to have waned a little, tries out the word ‘divorce’, but it does not ripple off the tongue easily.

  Susannah shakes her head. ‘Why?’ she asks.

  ‘Because Alex Is Having An Affair With Another Woman.’

  ‘So you’re going to give everything up because of that?’

  ‘I didn’t realise,’ says Celia, somewhat ashamed, ‘that you took the sanctity of marriage so seriously.’

  Susannah gives an unusually gutsy laugh. ‘Nor do I,’ she says. ‘One of my favourite radio moments was in “Desert Island Discs” when the castaway said that as her inanimate object of no practical use she would like to take her husband ...’

  They both howl with laughter before remembering that this is a serious occasion.

  ‘No,’ says Susie. ‘By everything, I mean home, life-style, comfort – nice things – you know, the stuff that life is really made of, not that tenuous thing called Love, or that even more tenuous thing called sexual fidelity. If those really were the two things that make the world go round then we’d still be grunting at each other in caves ...’ She gives a little shrug. ‘And we’re not – are we?’

  Certainly not, thinks Celia, staring around the panelled room. She touches the heavy tapestries that hang about the bed, looks through the leaded windows to the darkening paddock and pastures beyond, and finally brings her gaze back to the big gilt mirror in which they are both reflected. They look, in their nighties, like portraits in a seventeenth-century painting – or characters from a Webster play.

  ‘You and Tom certainly don’t live in a cave,’ she says. ‘But what would you do if you were me?’ And then she adds hastily, ‘I mean, if you were me and you had this house and the grounds and all the money and everything?’ She knows perfectly well that Susie would feel absolutely no loyalty at all to the house in Bedford Park.

  ‘I’d do what I’m doing already –’ Susie takes the empty bowl and the spoon from Celia, for the sucking is irritating.

  ‘Yes but ...’ Celia says. ‘What would you do if you found out Tom was having an affair?’

  Susie laughs again, if anything more gutsily. ‘He is,’ she says. ‘All the time. He’s like the British Secret Service, with safe houses all over the place.’

  ‘No! Really?’ says Celia, plucking away at the rough weave of the bedspread, not daring to engage her friend’s eye.

  ‘Yup,’ says Susie. ‘He doesn’t know that I know, of course. I just let him get on with it. We don’t have sex together any more, anyway. You’d be surprised how much nicer our marriage is since we gave that old stuff up. We haven’t – you know – for years.’

  ‘But don’t you feel debased?’ Celia looks at Susie’s incredulous eyes and rapidly changes this to, ‘Or at any rate – let down?’

  ‘Not at all,’ says Susie. ‘As long as he doesn’t try to set up a ménage à trois or anything avant garde like that, it’s fine. I earn my keep,’ she adds drily. ‘Anyway – we aren’t supposed to be discussing me and Tom, we’re supposed to be thinking about you and Alex.’

  Celia is still very interested in this revelation about her friend’s relationship.

  ‘I never guessed,’ she says in amazement. ‘Was it all his affairs that made you stop loving him?’ She asks this with a certain vested interest. ‘I mean when did you stop?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Susie, ‘that I ever started.’

  Celia sees herself in the mirror. She is wide-eyed. ‘Then why on earth did you marry him, Susie?’

  It is Susie’s turn to look amazed. ‘Because he was rich, of course.’ She shakes her head at the silliness of the question. ‘And handsome and clever and amusing and – well – he came the closest I’ve ever known anyone to making me use the word Love. It seemed right.’ She looks down at her nails. ‘What I didn’t realise was that he wanted lots and lots of children.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘And that just wasn’t on.’

  ‘You could have had just one. You never know, you might have liked it ...’

  Susannah, pulling at the little diamond chip in her ear lobe, gives Celia a long, hard look. ‘Come on, Celia – do you really think it’s me?’

  Celia gives her a long, hard look back. Remembering the broken nights and the shitty nappies and the dribbling nipples (things she has conveniently forgotten over the years) she shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘But I think it’s unfair on Tom ...’

  Susannah gets off the bed. She smiles and pulls at her other ear lobe.

  ‘Why Tom? He wouldn’t be the one to have to deal with everything. All he’d have to do would be to hoick it around in his arms, throw it up into the air, say, Look everybody at my fine son – or daughter – and then I’d be left with the puke to clear up ...’

  Celia, remembering Henry after their Blessing, feels guilty and agrees. She nods at Susie. ‘You’re quite right. It wouldn’t have been you at all. But how did you stay married to him? God – if I’d disagreed with Alex on something as fundamental as that it would
have been grounds for divorce.’

  ‘You’ve got grounds for divorce anyway, Cee – despite being such an agreeable wife.’

  If this is rather cruel, thinks Celia, it is also accurate.

  ‘Well?’ she says a little tersely. ‘How did you get away with it?’

  ‘I staged a mock miscarriage—’

  Celia is right. They are in a play. Her mouth opens but no words come out.

  ‘No need to look so shocked,’ says Susannah. ‘Surely it’s better than the real thing.’

  Celia tries again but only the faintest of squeals emerges.

  ‘I didn’t find out about Tom’s ideas until our wedding night – and frankly that was bad enough without the prospect of pregnancy and birth – but when he told me that he hoped I got one in the bag straight away, well, I just had to do something.’

  Celia’s voice has returned enough for her to say, ‘Susie! You weren’t still a virgin when you married him?’

  ‘Of course I was. Why not?’

  There was really no answer to that. Except, perhaps, You poor thing, which didn’t really seem to fit at all.

  ‘Go on,’ says Celia.

  ‘Well – a couple of weeks later I said I felt sick. Then a few weeks after that I told Tom I was pregnant. And a few weeks after that he had to fly to London and I stayed behind. And a couple of days later I was found lying at the bottom of the stairs of the apartment. No baby any more.’

  ‘Oh Susie.’ Celia is near to tears.

  ‘It wasn’t true, fathead ...’

  ‘Even so ... But he must have suggested that you try again?’

  Susie goes over to the door, opens it and peers round the dark carved lintel into the passageway. Then she comes back to the bed, puts her finger to her mouth and says, ‘You must never, never say anything of this to anybody – especially not Tom.’

  ‘See this wet,’ says Celia, holding up her finger, and nods.

  ‘Well – I got an actor I knew to come to our apartment and pose as my gynaecologist and he told Tom that I’d damaged both my Fallopian tubes in the fall—’