They ate smoked salmon in silence, although it seemed to Emma that they were communicating fully through their eyes. She reached for a bottle of white wine that was standing, in its frozen sleeve, beside a plate of sandwiches. ‘Can I pour you some?’
He nodded, passing her two plastic glasses.
As she poured, she noticed that the plastic sleeve, inflated like the waistcoat of a tiny Michelin man, completely obscured all evidence of the wine’s origins. ‘You must know a bit about wine,’ she said, ‘living on a wine estate.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
She finished pouring. ‘All right. Tell me what this is.’
Frank held up his glass and peered at the contents. The liquid, the colour of straw, refracted the rays of the sun. He lowered the glass to his nose and sniffed at it appreciatively before taking a first sip.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Region, type of grape, or estate?’
‘Could you give me all three?’ asked Emma. ‘Or maybe just two. I’ll settle for region and grape.’
He tasted the wine again. ‘It’s definitely Italian,’ he said. ‘Veneto maybe. Yes, I think I’ll say Veneto and Chardonnay.’
After he had delivered his verdict, he reached for the bottle, and without taking off the sleeve, he poured himself another glass.
‘It’s very nice,’ said Emma. ‘I like it.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Frank. ‘I wouldn’t rate it that highly. But it’s all right for a picnic.’
‘Where did you learn all this?’ asked Emma.
‘At home, mostly. But I’ve been on courses. I blended our last vintage on the estate.’
‘That must be tricky,’ said Emma.
‘You have to know what you’re doing,’ replied Frank. ‘But let’s take a look. Pass me the bottle and I’ll take the sleeve off. All will be revealed. I think I’m right, but we’ll just confirm it.’
Emma reached for the bottle and passed it over the Frank, who began to slip off the sleeve. He stopped halfway and stared at Emma.
‘Is this your idea of a joke?’
Emma had no idea what he was talking about.
‘Come on,’ said Frank. ‘Tell me: is this your idea?’
She was at a complete loss. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He gestured towards the bottle. ‘That’s our wine. You knew it all along and you tried to show me up.’
She snatched the bottle from him and slipped the sleeve off completely. Churchill’s Ground, Western Australian Riesling. She gasped. ‘Is that your …’
‘Of course it’s us,’ snapped Frank. ‘And are you satisfied now? Satisfied that you’ve shown that I can’t even identify my own wine?’
‘I didn’t know,’ hissed Emma; she did not want anybody to hear their argument. ‘I didn’t choose the wine. Mr Firhill does that – or my father. I had no idea.’
She felt dismayed that the picnic should have started with a row with Frank Churchill. This was not what she had intended; in fact, it was the opposite of what she had anticipated. There would be no flirting now.
Frank was not to be placated. Red with embarrassment, he looked at Emma with undisguised hostility. Then, picking up his plate, he rose to his feet and moved to a neighbouring picnic rug. Emma looked about her in horror. Isabella had been watching, and so, she thought, had George. She realised that they would not have misunderstood the situation, and that the looks of admiration or envy that she had expected were now replaced with looks of pity.
Isabella leaned over towards her. ‘Darling, what on earth did you say to Frankie-boy?’
Emma wanted to cry, but was determined not to. This was Frank’s fault; he was the one who had been rude; he was the one who had taken offence over something that she certainly had not planned. She had had nothing to do with the choice of wine for the picnic; and if Frank could not even identify his own wine, then surely he was the one who should be smarting over his pretentious claim of expertise.
‘He tried to identify this wine,’ she said to Isabella. ‘He got it wrong and then he flounced off.’
Isabella commiserated. ‘Men are so fragile,’ she said. ‘It often comes as a surprise to us girls to discover just how sensitive they are. But they are.’
‘I don’t care about him,’ snorted Emma. ‘He’s seriously pleased with himself.’
‘Good-looking men often are,’ said Isabella. ‘It’s because we let them be like that.’ She reached out and touched her sister’s shoulder. ‘Look, don’t worry about that. Don’t let a little tiff spoil your picnic.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Good for you. Now let’s go and check up on the children. Last seen, they were heading for those woods. John was meant to be keeping an eye on them, but he often forgets.’
While the two sisters made their way from the picnic site to the edge of the woods, Mr Woodhouse, James, and Miss Taylor had been joined on their rug by Philip and his new friend, Hazel. Philip seemed to be in a light-hearted mood, and was wearing a wide-brimmed Panama hat at a jaunty angle; nobody who was unaware of his recent difficulties would have been able to guess that this was a man who had stood in court and been stripped of his driving licence. Hazel was dressed in tightly fitting jeans and a low-cut black top. With a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, she took alternative sips and puffs; nobody who was unaware of who Philip was would have imagined that this was the girlfriend of a (non-stipendiary) vicar, let alone a Byzantine historian.
‘Do you know Norfolk, Hazel?’ asked Miss Taylor.
‘Can’t say I do,’ said Hazel. ‘Know where it is – yes, vaguely. It’s here, isn’t it? More than that, no chance. Hardly get out of London most of the time, though now that …’ She glanced at Philip, who smiled at her benignly.
‘I hear you’re a singer,’ said Miss Taylor.
‘Quite well known,’ said Philip. ‘Hazel has sung on television. More than once.’
Miss Taylor raised an eyebrow. ‘On television?’
‘Yes,’ said Hazel. ‘I was on a show called Look at Me!’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t,’ said Miss Taylor.
‘It’s a well-known talent show,’ explained Philip. ‘Hazel was very successful. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.’
‘It’s for a slightly younger age group,’ said Hazel. ‘No offence, of course.’
Miss Taylor glanced at James, who merely closed his eyes, briefly, and then reopened them. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘So what do you sing?’
Hazel shrugged. ‘How long’s a piece of string?’ she replied.
‘I haven’t heard that one,’ said Mr Woodhouse.
Philip smiled. ‘She means that she sings all sorts of things. But she’s best known for …’
Hazel took over. Blowing the smoke from her cigarette up into the air she said, ‘Piff.’
Mr Woodhouse, James, and Miss Taylor all looked puzzled.
‘What?’ asked James.
‘Piff.’
Philip waved his right hand airily. It was the hand in which he was holding his glass; a small amount of wine slopped out. ‘Edith Piaf,’ he explained. ‘You know – the little sparrow.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘It’s very atmospheric,’ said James. ‘When I hear Piaf I can almost smell the Gauloises. Cobbled streets. The prospect of freshly baked bread.’
There was more to be said about Piaf, and Mr Woodhouse was preparing to say it when they were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Goddard, who had come over from one of the other rugs bearing a large open cake tin.
‘This is a nice little party,’ she said. ‘How about a bit of my special cake? I baked it just for today and it’s getting very good reviews over there.’ She nodded in the direction of the rug she had just left, where Miss Bates could be seen holding forth while those seated around her, having finished their cake, looked up at the sky in a somewhat dreamy manner.
They each helped themselves as the cak
e tin was passed round. ‘Very good,’ said Mr Woodhouse, as he bit into his slice. ‘You’re a marvel, Goddy.’
James smiled at the nickname. He had been called Westy when he was at school, but fortunately it had not stuck. He far preferred to be James Weston.
Isabella and Emma found the children just inside the wood. They had stumbled upon a fallen oak that had been hollowed at its base by rot and the action of the weather. Round this upturned oak they had created a small feast of their own, having brought cup cakes and sandwiches over from the main picnic. The adults checked that all was well and then returned to the main body of the gathering.
When they reached the picnic site they found that people had rearranged themselves. George had now joined the group sitting on the same rug as Miss Bates, while Frank was sitting with Jane and her grandmother. Emma sat down next to George, who cleared a space for her.
‘It’s all going very well,’ he said. ‘I know you did a lot of work to arrange this – well done, Emma.’
‘The weather has held,’ said Emma. ‘That was my greatest fear – that it would rain.’
‘Well, it hasn’t rained,’ said George. ‘And look how happy everybody seems.’
Miss Bates had been speaking about music. ‘I’m not sure,’ she continued, ‘what instrument I’d like to play if I played in an orchestra. I think something …’
‘Something loud,’ said Emma. ‘I think you’d be very good, Miss Bates.’
‘Oh, that’s kind of you, Emma. I’m not so sure about that, though. I used to be able to read music quite well, but then I let it slip. I learned rather a lot of music theory – indeed I did Grade Six in music theory many years ago. I never played in an orchestra, even at school, although I once bumped into Benjamin Britten in Aldeburgh. It was when I was very young, just a girl, really, and I was staying with a cousin and we were in the butcher’s shop when Mr Britten came in and asked for a pound of sausages. The butcher gave them to him – just like that – and didn’t make any remark about music or anything of that sort. He just said, “Here you are, Mr Britten.” And Mr Britten said, “Thanks, Tom,” and that was it. I felt quite shaken.’
It was at this point that two people on the rug seemed to doze off at much the same time. One of these was John Knightley and the other was Mr Woodhouse, who had come over from another rug with Mrs Goddard. John had leaned back and rested his head on the sweater that he had been wearing but had taken off as the afternoon got warmer; Mrs Goddard was still seated, but her head dropped forward in somnolence.
‘My brother appears to be asleep,’ said George.
‘And Mrs Goddard too,’ said Miss Bates. ‘It must be the heat.’
‘Or the company,’ muttered Emma.
Her remark was not uttered loudly, but it was heard. Miss Bates, who had been on the point of saying something, was silenced. She stared down at the rug, and brushed at crumbs, real and imaginary. She looked crestfallen. ‘I can perhaps get a bit carried away with a subject,’ she said quietly. ‘I know it is a fault, and I shall try to do something about it. I know that.’
George placed a reassuring hand on Miss Bates’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think Emma was referring to you, Miss Bates,’ he said. ‘It is very clear to me that it was my own failings that she had in mind.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Miss Bates. ‘Nobody would accuse you of being boring, George. How could they? No, I think this was a gentle reminder to me not to talk too much.’
George rose to his feet. ‘I must stretch my legs,’ he said. ‘There is always a danger of cramp.’ He did not look at Emma, and he seemed to give her a wide berth when he moved off the picnic rug. She looked up at him, hoping to catch his eye, but he would not make eye contact.
Emma said nothing. It had occurred to her that something very significant had happened, although she was not sure exactly what it was. She felt ashamed. At her own picnic she had been humiliated by Frank and now she had, in turn, insulted poor Miss Bates. Nothing good could come of this occasion now, she thought, nothing good at all.
She looked about her. There was no sign of Frank, or of Jane. And where were her father and Mrs Goddard? At this rate, she thought, I shall be left here by myself, surrounded by the detritus of the picnic, covered in shame.
19
Isabella and John Knightley stayed on at Hartfield for several days after the picnic. The suggestion that they should prolong their stay came from Mr Woodhouse, who pointed out that a few more days in the country would help the children to clear their lungs after uninterrupted months in London. ‘They might also rediscover the existence of the letter h,’ he muttered, a remark which, fortunately, was not picked up by John Knightley. He had always scoffed at the countyish ways of both his father-in-law and his brother, and had succeeded in assuming the linguistic cover of an accent described as Chelsea Cockney. This had been achieved with the aid of a voice coach, an expert on the mastering of the glottal stop. For hours John had been coached in the proper pronunciation of the word butter, managing at last to pronounce it as bu-er, skilfully eliding the double-t in the middle. His children, he was pleased to note, did not require to be taught to get rid of these otiose t’s, and said bu-er naturally and unselfconsciously.
While his brother and his family were staying at Hartfield, George was invited to have every meal there, with the exception of breakfast. George was particularly good with his nephews and nieces. With that innate ability that children have to detect an adult who treats them as an equal, the young Knightleys were all over their uncle, climbing up his legs, pulling his hair, ambushing him in corridors, and setting traps for him on the garden path. He took all of this in good part and gave them uninterrupted hours of his time, reading them Winnie-the-Pooh and Orlando, the Marmalade Cat without complaint.
The ease with which George fitted into the expanded household at Hartfield could not disguise the fact that between him and Emma there was, after the debacle of the picnic, an atmosphere of tension that came to a head when Emma made a remark at the lunch table in the course of a discussion of islands. This discussion was triggered by a report in that day’s Times of the identification of a hitherto unknown lizard on a remote South Sea Island. This discovery had interested the children, who speculated at length as to whether the lizard could climb trees, eat snakes, and be susceptible to domestication.
Emma had at this point said, ‘It must be strange living on some remote island in the Pacific – Tristan da Cunha, for example – even if you’re not a lizard.’
‘Please pass the bu-er,’ said one of the children.
‘Tristan da Cunha is actually in the Atlantic,’ George pointed out dryly. ‘Or it was, when I last looked at the map.’
Emma shot him a glance, and avoided him for the rest of the day. Nor did they speak to each other over the dinner table, at which they had been joined – at Mr Woodhouse’s invitation – by Mr Perry, who spoke for some time about the properties of echinacea, Philip, who had eyes only for Hazel, and by Mrs Goddard and Harriet Smith. After dinner, though, when everybody was having coffee in the library, George drew Emma out into the corridor.
‘I’m sorry, Emma,’ he said. ‘I spoke rudely at lunch, and I shouldn’t have done so. I didn’t mean to show you up in front of the children.’
She looked away.
In spite of her hostility, he continued, ‘It’s just that Tristan da Cunha is in the Atlantic.’
She turned to face him. ‘Do you think I care about Tristan da Cunha? Do you think I care whether it’s in the Pacific or the Atlantic? It makes absolutely no difference.’
‘But it would,’ protested George. ‘It would make a great deal of difference if you lived there.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous!’ snapped Emma. ‘You’re such a … such a pedant.’
George caught his breath. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You’re always going on about where things are.’
It was an absurd accusation; she knew it and he resented it. ‘You’re th
e one who’s being ridiculous,’ he said. ‘And as far as I’m aware, I don’t always go on about where things are. In fact, I can’t recall a single instance in which we’ve talked about the location of anything at all, let alone an Atlantic island. Can you?’
She looked at her watch. ‘It’s very late. I need to go to bed.’
He caught her wrist. He did it gently, but he held it when she tried to pull away. ‘You can’t run away from things indefinitely, Emma.’
‘Let go of me.’
He let go.
‘I have to talk to you about the picnic,’ he said. ‘I know you don’t want to, but we can’t let the issue sit there, festering.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
‘You know very well,’ he returned. ‘You know very well that you behaved appallingly.’
She stood quite still.
‘Yes, you do know that, don’t you?’ George went on. ‘You know full well that you gratuitously and cruelly humiliated Miss Bates. You didn’t have to do it, you know. You didn’t have to insult a poor, rather vulnerable woman who’s seen her whole world collapse about her ears, who’s got to cope with a mother who’s virtually catatonic, and who depends on benefits to get by each week. And you, with everything that you have – this house, your money, your looks, your coruscating wit – you still think that you have to put that poor woman down. Everyone knows that at times she can bore the pants off all of us, but the point is that she is our neighbour, Emma, our neighbour in more senses than one.’ He paused. Emma was staring at the floor. He lowered his voice. ‘That was badly done, Emma. That was badly done.’
She did not reply. She let him finish what he had to say, and she walked off, not turning back to say goodnight, not wanting her tears to be seen. She had always liked George, even admired him, and now she had offended him, goaded him into this denunciation of her. She had no idea why she had mocked Miss Bates. George was quite right: it had been ungenerous and unkind. Was that the sort of person she was? She had never asked herself that question – that uniquely unsettling question – but now she did: What sort of person am I?
Emma: A Modern Retelling Page 25