On those rare occasions when Stella felt a pang of unease over her promiscuity she usually wound up by reminding herself as Jamie had reminded her, that she was a romantic at heart. And that if she was, it was all her parents’ fault. The marriage of Andrew and Mary Carlyle was living proof not only that Cupid was a knavish lad, but that given his well-placed dart the most unlikely and unpromising alliances could stand, triumphantly, the test of time.
Arriving at midday at Vayle Place Preparatory School, Upton Magna, its whimsical Gothic towers dwarfing the sixties science block and new hall, Stella could see soccer practice in progress on the front playing field. She had no difficulty in picking out her father on the touchline because he had belatedly embraced the long-defunct fashion for highly coloured shellsuits with all the fervour of a convert and was this morning tricked out in a vehement shade of electric blue with a high shine, and a red baseball cap. She stopped the car and switched off Bob Marley because it amused her to watch.
The boys were being put through their paces by Mr Hanniford, his muscular black arms shown to advantage by a sleeveless fleece. The boys were very small, and at the age when the concept of occupying a strategic space was an alien one. Their instinct – one which Mr Hanniford was battling to combat – was to follow the ball in a herd wherever it went, wearing themselves out and leaving the goals and their diminutive defenders horribly exposed. As she looked on, one rather bigger boy suddenly broke away from the herd and tore down the field unopposed. Only the goalie’s frantic waving and pogo-ing reminded him that he was going in the wrong direction, and he executed a wide U-turn to find himself facing a phalanx of players into the midst of whom he kicked the ball, in a desperate bid perhaps to get them fighting amongst themselves. Mr Hanniford, tooting on his whistle, waded in to sort things out and Stella saw her father clasp his hands theatrically to his head and turn round on the spot in mock despair. A bit rich, she considered, when he himself had no aptitude whatever for sports.
After retrieving the ball and delivering what looked like a colourful team-talk, Hanniford shepherded his charges off the field, and Stella got out of the car and scissored her arms above her head.
‘Dad!’
Spotting her, her father waved his ridiculous hat in reply, put it back on and executed a few purposeful jogging steps in her direction before slowing to a walk and then standing still until she reached him. Andrew Carlyle was sixty-two, young for his age in most of the ways that mattered, but not of a generation or a disposition that set much store by personal fitness. His corporation was still heaving slightly as he clasped her to it, and she could smell the whiff of his medicinal hipflask on his breath.
‘My darling old girl! Mary said, but it’s still absolutely . . . Good God, you’re a skeleton.’
‘No more than last time.’ She pushed him away. ‘And you’re too fat.’
He slapped his belly with a kind of rueful satisfaction. ‘You wouldn’t say that if we were Tongans.’
To this, as to so many of her father’s pronouncements, there was no answer and she didn’t attempt one but asked, as they headed for School House: ‘Any Shearers in the making, then?’
He kissed her cheek once more impulsively. ‘Lovely! Oh, Dennis Hanniford seems to think there are one or two and I’ve no option but to take his word for it. You know me, as a sportsman I make a first-class upholsterer.’
‘He was looking as toothsome as ever.’
‘Now, now, you leave him alone.’
‘Moi?’
‘Anyway he’s going to Japan in the summer so we’ll have to find someone else with the correct brain-muscle ratio. At least Dennis is tolerably cultured unlike most of the public-school brick privvies we get applying for that job.’
The Carlyles’ home, School House, was part of the old Vayle Place, with communicating doors into the main building, which was rumoured to have a suitably colourful history peopled by the weak, the wicked and the generally unsound. ‘So no change there,’ as Andrew was wont to say. But today the hall smelt so sweetly and evocatively of gravy being made in the roasting tin that Stella could almost fancy she heard Desert Island Discs with Roy Plomley . . . Instead, from the drawing-room came the chatter of the computer.
Three boys of about eleven dressed in mufti scrambled to their feet as Andrew put his head round the door.
‘Right, who’s staying, who’s going?’
‘Sir, Mrs Carlyle said we could all stay.’
‘Is she out of her mind?’
‘No, sir.’
Andrew squinted at the screen. ‘Is this Super Mario?’
‘No, sir, it’s—’
‘Turn it off anyway, that’ll do. You know my daughter Stella.’
‘Yes, sir,’ they said.
‘Hallo.’
They mumbled something back, gazing warily at Stella and she at them. What, she wondered, did their parents say about her, and what nasty little opinions had they formed? These were not the self-absorbed babies of the soccer pitch, but senior boys of eleven and twelve, subject to the sniggering kick of hormones. With her own nephew and niece, her godson and the kids of friends, she swept aside any difficulties by shamelessly aligning herself with them, a subversive fugitive from the adult world. But at Vayle Place, with her parents’ position to think of that was not possible.
‘Get yourselves smartened up,’ said her father, ‘and we’ll give you a shout.’
‘Cool tracksuit, sir.’
‘I’m glad you approve.’
The beef was resting on the side, and Mary, sipping a gin and tonic, was turning roast potatoes with a pair of barbecue tongs. She was what men of any age meant by a pretty woman, a man’s woman of the sort that women warmed to, and was as usual a picture of unforced elegance in stone cord trousers and a cream knitted cotton jumper over a white shirt: Stella detected Gap. Her hair, with imaginative assistance, had arrived at that flattering shade between blonde and grey and was soft and feathery. She had made the wise decision not to lose too much weight, and the strategic one to be happy in her lot, with the result that she looked almost her age, which was the same as her husband’s, but beautifully.
‘Mum ...’
‘Hallo, you star, you.’ Mother and daughter kissed. Mary smelt of Penhaligon’s Bluebell, her only big indulgence. ‘We’ve got boys, do you mind?’
‘Of course not, I’m the interloper.’
‘They won’t stay once they’ve got pudding down their necks,’ said Andrew. ‘Hard stuff or wine?’
‘Wine, thanks.’
‘So we’ll be able to talk properly then.’ Mary held out her glass. ‘I’ll have another of those so I can seem suitably abstemious at lunch.’
Conversation around the table turned to films and plays, and which was better.
‘I’d much rather see a good film any day,’ observed Mary. ‘It’s cheaper and the seats are more comfortable.’
Andrew raised his eyebrows for the boys’ benefit. ‘I’m not sure that’s the right criterion by which to arrive at a decision.’
‘My sister took me to see Miss Saigon,’ said a boy. ‘And it was mega-boring.’
‘I bet she liked it,’ suggested Stella.
The boy agreed. ‘That’s why she took me.’ She could see him weighing up his next remark. ‘She liked your show.’
‘Good. Did you go?’
The boy shook his head. ‘I wasn’t allowed.’
‘The other thing about the cinema,’ interjected Mary smoothly, ‘is that it’s actually magical.’
‘What about the magic of live performance?’ asked Andrew. The boys’ eyes were bright, they couldn’t know that this hint of domestic disagreement had been part of their hosts’ double act for decades. ‘That’s far more impressive.’
‘I suppose,’ said Mary. ‘But then in a long run the poor wretched actors are doing the same thing over and over and over again, they must get stale.’
The first boy looked back at Stella. ‘Do you ever find you get tired – I mean
, when you’re on tour and stuff?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But not of the material.’
‘She has to say that,’ said Andrew in a stage whisper. ‘She wrote it.’
This got a laugh with which Stella joined in, relieved to have established her weight and role in the conversation.
Over lemon meringue the garrulous boy returned to his theme. ‘My sister wants to know when you’ll next be in Bristol.’
‘I don’t actually know.’
‘It’s a tour every couple of years, isn’t it?’ enquired Mary, keeping the ball in play.
‘Yes, but we may take more of a break this time. Tell your sister sorry I can’t be more help.’ Something occurred to her. ‘How old is she by the way?’
‘Fern?’ The boy pulled a doing-sums face. ‘Thirty-two.’
‘Right. Nothing personal, just doing market research.’
When the boys had, with permission, put their plates in the dishwasher and withdrawn once more to the computer, Andrew jerked his head in their direction as he refilled the glasses.
‘That’s pretty typical. Father’s been married three times. Fern’s the stepsister by number two, number three’s younger than Fern . . . I think I’ve got that right.’
‘Jesus wept!’
‘Ask him another!’ suggested Mary. ‘It’s his specialist subject, “The ins and outs of the new extended family”.’
Stella spoke from the heart: ‘I am so bloody glad I’m not part of one. I mean that I spawned. In my adult life.’
‘And how is your adult life?’ asked Andrew. They were never less than direct, but never pressed her, either, for more than she was prepared to divulge. Consequently she was reasonably open with them.
‘Mixed,’ she replied. ‘I’ve walked out on Sorority.’
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Mary, reaction as always perfectly tuned and timed. ‘Was that wise?’
‘Time will tell. It was certainly satisfying.’
She described the atmosphere and events of recent weeks and their eventual outcome.
Andrew summed up: ‘So you couldn’t go back even if you wanted to?’
Stella shook her head.‘No. I boat-burned for Britain.’ She grinned. ‘As a matter of fact I was sensational. You’d have been proud of me.’
Mary caught her hand. ‘We always are.’
It was true, and Stella was glad of it, though she refused to feel grateful. Lurking in the wings (though not through their agency) was the sense that she was a cross her parents had to bear.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Andrew. ‘Is everything secure financially?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll have a roof over my head, but the one thing I won’t do is wrangle with them about money. I walked out, they can keep the name, the goodwill, the bookings, the lot. Clean break time.’
‘But they won’t have you,’ Mary reminded her, ‘so those things won’t be worth as much. Even the publicity will follow you – I hope you’re ready for that darling.’
‘Ready and willing.’
‘But they’re bound to feel entitled to some sort of compensation.’
Stella tossed a hand. ‘Then they can have it, within reason. I was right to walk out but I know it carries implications.’
Andrew got his cigarettes out of the kitchen drawer and offered them to Stella before lighting one himself.
‘She’s a businesswoman,’ he said to Mary. ‘We can’t teach her anything about the shark-infested waters of showbusiness. Anyway—’ he coughed ‘—it’s only money. Your mother and I are far more interested in whether you’re going to marry a nice young man.’
This was a perennial joke between them which she was content to join in. ‘Who knows? New chapter, new perspective, penniless and indigent. I might surprise you.’
‘You’d do a good bit more than that, you’d finish us!’
Mary asked, in a less facetious tone: ‘What about that man who joined us for supper after the show last time we came?’
‘Gordon.’
‘He seemed rather more than an admirer . . .’
‘He was a bit wet,’ commented Andrew.
‘That’s what I think,’ agreed Stella. ‘So I’ve given him the bum’s rush.’
Mary bit her lip. ‘I do hope you were kind.’
‘I think so. In the sense that I gave him the time of his life and
then pulled the plug on him. Happy to the end, you know?’
‘Poor man.’
‘His wife will be delighted.’
This sally, though it silenced Mary, Stella did regret. It was true,
but in this context it was an unforgivable error of judgement.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Uncalled for.’
‘No, no,’ said Andrew, stubbing out his cigarette, ‘it’s lamentable but it’s a fact of modern life. And the responsibility must rest squarely with the man.’
She bit down hard on the perverse urge to take issue with this, and instead asked: ‘How are George and the family?’
‘They’re very well,’ said Mary. ‘In fact she may bring the children over this afternoon, Brian’s away on exercise and she’d love to see you.’
‘That’d be nice.’
Stella’s younger sister Georgina and her army officer husband were currently stationed at a sprawling camp fifteen miles away. The mud-encrusted Ford Sierra estate turned up a couple of hours later, and Kirsty and Mark stormed into School House ahead of their mother with the aggressively expectant air of police officers conducting a raid. Stella was the result they’d been looking for, and they fell on her like dogs.
‘Watch out!’ cried George in their wake. ‘Steady on! She doesn’t want to be fought over! Hallo, Mum, hallo, Dad, my God how many people did you have here at lunchtime?’
‘Boys,’ explained Andrew.
‘You poor cow.’ George hauled her children off Stella and bestowed a smacking kiss on her cheek.‘I really would have thought that the one Sunday you had a bona fide daughter of your own coming you could have let the little blighters eat with their own kind.’
‘I only invited myself this morning,’ explained Stella. She turned to Kirsty. ‘If you want the bunce it’s in my rucksack thing in the hall.’
Both children disappeared. George said not very convincingly, ‘You shouldn’t give them cash every time. It’s bribery.’
‘No, it’s not, I don’t ask for anything in return.’
‘The proper term is currying favour,’ said Andrew. ‘Which is still bribery but of a more generalised kind.’
Kirsty appeared in the doorway carrying Stella’s purse. ‘You’ve got a fiver and some quids.’
‘How many quids?’
‘Quite a few.’
‘Count them. You see,’ she told the others, ‘this is all quite educational.’
‘Seven,’ said Kirsty. ‘And some other stuff.’
‘You can have two each.’
‘Cool.’ She disappeared.
‘You’re a damn’ sight more trusting than I would be,’ said George.
‘What the hell?’
Andrew leaned forward in his chair in the manner of someone putting a stop to all this. ‘Shall we take the small fry for a health-giving constitutional, my darling, so these two can talk?’
‘Daddikins!’ George rolled her eyes imploringly.‘Now that would be beyond the call of duty. Are you sure? I mean, we aren’t intending to stay all that long, it’s school tomorrow . . .’
‘Just let them do it, George.’ Stella adopted a mock-confidential tone. ‘Before they change their minds. Another couple of years and they’ll be too infirm to be of any use.’
‘That’s true.’ Mary slapped her knees as she got up.‘Keep moving, that’s the thing.’
Five minutes later they left.
‘ “Forth they went together”,’ intoned George comfortably, ‘ “through the wild wind’s rude lament . . .” Rather them than me. Don’t let me fall asleep before you’ve told me everything.’<
br />
It always struck Stella how exactly like their father George was. She had his stocky physique and broad, humorous features, though what was amiably troll-like in him was transformed in her into the sort of warm domestic sexiness that was only enhanced by ten years’ propitiation of an ambitious career soldier husband and the rearing of his mouthy children. Nor was she anyone’s fool. A good upper second in modem languages (Bristol) had been subsumed in following the regiment, though unlike many of her kind George made a good fist of learning the lingo in overseas postings.
Stella counted herself lucky. To have as a sister anyone remotely like herself would have been complete and absolute hell. And open-mindedness on both sides made virtues of their differences.
‘Can I bum a fag?’ asked George. ‘I’ve given up again but this doesn’t count.’ She leaned to Stella’s match, then back, exhaling extravagantly. ‘Shit! Okay, go on, yours is always better than mine.’
The news about the band was greeted with typical worldly equanimity. ‘Oh, well, I suppose you know what you’re doing. But do take care of yourself. You know where we are if you want us. I know Brian can seem a bit blimpy de temps en temps but he’s always fancied the knickers off you so his Scotch is your Scotch.’
‘Put like that . . .’
‘How about the sex life?’
Stella decided not to disappoint. ‘I ditched one faithful fan, and picked up a total stranger two hours later.’
George cackled with delight. ‘Plucked from among the groundlings, was he, for this honour?’
‘No. Never seen or heard of me before he nearly ran me over outside the theatre, then went and had the gall to go on the offensive, like you do—’
‘Like they do.’
‘Right, so I offered him my body as compensation.’
‘Which he accepted, I hope, with gentlemanly alacrity?’
‘Mm . . .’ Stella narrowed her eyes. ‘With alacrity, anyway.’
The Grass Memorial Page 13