‘Don’t be late for lunch, Christopher’; she was busy with a tiny lace handkerchief.
Coming out of the gloomy hall, he had to stop for a moment on the top step to accustom his eyes to the brilliance. Being Sunday morning the Square was quiet, and the plane trees sheltering the gardens stood, black-green, majestically against a breathless blue sky.
The warm iron gate creaked as he opened it. The seats were occupied by the usual assortment of navy-blue or grey-hatted nannies, rocking their shiny prams or knitting. He walked on until he found one on which there was only a girl in a pink summer dress and white socks. She was sitting at the very end of the seat. Christopher walked to the other end and sat down.
He knew that he had come to say goodbye, that he would never again in the holidays sit in the garden. Everywhere he looked he saw Grandfather and the pain was too great for him to want to come again. Grandfather with his stick in the autumn crunching round the little paths, the red and yellow tight-rolled leaves like cornflakes crackling underfoot; Grandfather with his muffler and galoshes, stepping carefully in the snow, holding tightly to Christopher’s arm, fearful of slipping, the trees stark against a winter sky; Grandfather, a lighter step for spring, unearthing the first primrose with his stick, glad that the weather was warm enough to sit for a while. Grandfather, a few weeks ago, a red rose in his buttonhole, ashen-faced, sitting slumped upon the seat while Christopher ran frantically for help.
The girl in the summer dress was swinging her legs; Christopher could see the flash of white socks from the corner of his eye.
Now he was the only man in a household of women. His father had died in an air crash when he was nine, and in the holidays Christopher came home to the tall old house in the Square where he lived with his three small sisters, his mother, Aunt Evelyn and, until today, Grandfather who every holiday greeted him with the same words: ‘Thank goodness you’ve come, Christopher. I’m fed up with all these women.’
Every morning after breakfast he would go into the old man’s room and discuss the ailments of the world, or his own particular problems, until Grandfather wanted to get up. When it was time for him to go, Grandfather would let him get as far as the door, then say: ‘Christopher, would you like a piece of chocolate?’ And Christopher would say: ‘Yes please, Grandfather,’ and have to go back all the way across the room to get it. Two squares of the same make of chocolate every day that he had been at home since he was five, and now he was fifteen. It was always two squares only and never offered until he had his hand on the doorknob. Today, against his mother’s wishes, he had gone into the bedroom to say a last goodbye to his grandfather. The nurse, bustling starchily about, looked at him disapprovingly. Grandfather, it was true, was paler than usual, but looked only as if he were sleeping. There seemed nothing, as he had told his grandson, to be afraid of. At the door, Christopher had found himself hesitating and, meeting the nurse’s curious stare, realised that he was waiting, as he had always done, to be called back. ‘Christopher, would you like a piece of chocolate?’ But it was only in his own head. His grandfather lay peacefully silent, and the nurse said: ‘I think you’d better go now.’
He felt something warm and damp on his knees and, looking down, saw to his horror that great teardrops were soaking through his trousers and making dark patches on the grey flannel. He reached for his handkerchief but found nothing except a Victorian half-crown, his talisman, and a piece of string. The feet in the white socks shuffled nearer and soon a fold of pink cotton lay across his knee.
Nothing was said but he had to look up. There was no choice but to accept the proffered handkerchief. Accustomed to the continual baiting of his sisters, he waited for the caustic comment. After all, tears in a fifteen-year-old boy could provide the material for a whole afternoon’s entertainment. There was no comment. Christopher dabbed at his eyes and his trousers and then handed back the little white square. The eyes above the pink cotton were large and black. He felt a strange, drowning sensation and it was a few minutes before he was able to look away.
‘I’ve seen you here lots of times,’ she said.
‘I’ve never seen you.’
‘I know, you were always talking to your grandfather.’
‘I shan’t be any more.’
‘Is that why you were crying?’
Christopher nodded.
‘It’s very sad,’ the girl said, ‘but beautiful. I know because of my granny. He was a nice old man, wasn’t he?’
‘He was my friend,’ Christopher said. ‘I told him everything.’
‘What was that pink newspaper you were always reading?’
‘The Financial Times. Grandfather taught me all about shares and used to ask my advice. Sometimes he even took it.’
‘What else did he teach you?’
Christopher considered. It was a difficult question. They had discussed together everything from Horace’s Odes, Grandfather disagreeing with his pronunciation, to modern youth, which Grandfather, contrary to most of his generation, considered no worse than his own, only different. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. The old man would bury his nose in The Times leaders, and Christopher would think about whatever happened to be on his mind. At times they both just sat, silent. But it was always a restful, amicable silence, a silence of perfect understanding.
On wet days they stayed at home and played Scrabble. Christopher had been ten points in the lead in their fierce contest, which carried on from one holiday to the next, when Grandfather had played his last game. He’d never again find such a keen opponent. He let his mind slip back over the years but could think of not one thing his grandfather had actually taught him.
He only knew that because of Grandfather he would always be tolerant and true to himself. ‘He taught me to be a man,’ Christopher said, and waited for the girl to ask him what he meant. They always did. It was irritating.
She said: ‘You’re going to miss him.’
Christopher sighed. He felt a hand, cool and firm, close over his.
‘It’s always worse at first,’ she said, ‘like when you fall over.’
He thought her awfully sensible for a girl and liked the feel of her hand on his.
They talked. About television, books, their families and finally, at first shyly, themselves. Each laid out for the other to see, what they thought lay before them, sure that in the sunlight of the garden their dreams would not be trodden upon. Several times Christopher glanced quickly at the dainty profile, the gently tilted nose, the inky lashes, the pale soft lips. He liked it best when she turned right round to face him and he was caught in the level stare of her enormous eyes. He was unaware that the morning had passed. When he looked round the garden there was not a nannie or a pram to be seen. The sun was high in the sky. Guiltily, he thought that, for the past little while, Grandfather had been out of his thoughts.
‘I’d better go back for lunch,’ he said.
‘Me too.’ She stood up and shook out the folds of the pink dress. Side by side they walked along the path. At the gate he held it open so that she could go first. She lived at the other side of the Square. ‘I go back to school next week,’ she said.
‘So do I.’
‘I shall probably be in the garden in the mornings until then.’
Christopher remembered his promise to himself never to sit in the Square again. He looked at the girl, almost as tall as himself, graceful, with one foot on the first step, her long hair shading her face, a watercolour, black and pink, except for the face, pale.
‘I shall probably be there myself,’ he said and, turning, walked back across the shimmering, silent Square to the waiting house where the blinds were drawn, but not against the sun.
No Christmas Roses
1958
It started, like a bad play, with the ringing of the telephone.
In the spacious, centrally heated flat, high above the traffic and with a clear view over the park, everything was ready for Christmas. The Georgian furniture, each piece exactly
right, stood elegantly polished; greetings cards and messages from all over the world were piled neatly on a silver salver; the piano had been tuned and the Aubusson rugs shampooed; in the kitchen, quietly, confidently, Maxine and Odile from Jamaica were making the early preparations for the two dinner parties and the one cocktail party that had been arranged.
Fleur herself, satisfied that nothing had been forgotten and that all was going exactly as she had planned it should, was resting with her shoes off and her legs up on the pale gold damask sofa, reading beauty hints for the over-forties in a shiny magazine. Her hair had been done, her nails manicured, and she had already arranged the flowers for the table decorations. Nothing had been left until the last minute, for today was Christmas Eve.
The telephone was by her side and its ringing shattered the excited silence of waiting for Christmas.
It was a Continental call, and Fleur sat up, the magazine sliding to the floor, as she waited to be connected with Paris.
‘Mummy?’ The voice was faint, the line crackling.
‘Noelle! How are you, darling?’
‘I’m fine. Mummy, I’m coming home for Christmas.’
‘Oh, Noelle, that makes everything perfect. I shall keep it as a surprise for Daddy. What time do you arrive? I’ll come to meet you.’
‘There’s no need. I’m at the airport now, waiting for the plane. And Mummy …’
‘Yes, pet?’
‘Mummy, I’m bringing someone …’
‘That’s fine, darling; the spare bed’s made up. What a wonderful Christmas we’ll all have together. Who is it?’
‘Mummy, it’s Graham.’
‘Graham?’
‘It’s Graham I’m bringing home. Graham Gardner. We want to get married.’
Fleur held the telephone receiver away from her a little and stared at it. Then she said, ‘Noelle, darling, what on earth are you talking about?’
‘Graham’s here in Paris. He’s been here ages. He has a wonderful job in Kenya, starting after Christmas. I love him and we want to get married.’
Fleur blinked at the Christmas roses in the silver vase on the mantelpiece and said nothing.
‘Mummy, are you there?’
‘Noelle. Noelle, dear, you must come home at once. We’ll have a talk. I should never have let you go. We can discuss everything with Daddy. Of course you can’t get married, not for ages. Don’t worry, dear. Just come straight home. We’ll sort everything out. It’s so difficult with this crackly phone …’
‘And it’s all right to bring Graham?’
Fleur thought. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think Graham had better come with you.’
When Noelle had rung off, Fleur replaced the receiver and put on her shoes. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
A head appeared. ‘The pineapple au kirsch in the silver or the crystal, madame?’
‘Not now, Odile.’ Fleur waved her hand. ‘The silver … no, the crystal. Anything you like; don’t worry me.’
She dialled the number of the gallery where Simon had an exhibition of his paintings, and waited for what seemed far too long while they tried to find him. When he finally came to the phone, he listened carefully to what she had to say. Then he said, ‘I’ve always rather liked Graham. He’s a good chap.’
‘Simon, do be sensible; she’s talking about marrying him and going to Kenya or some such place. We shall have to be absolutely firm, Simon, without being too unkind. What time will you be home?’
‘Not before eight. I have to see that everything’s properly covered.’
‘Try to be earlier. Noelle always listens to you. And do remember, Simon, she’s only a child.’
‘Of course,’ Simon said, ‘it’s out of the question. Don’t worry, my darling. See you later.’
From across the park, drowning the noise of the traffic, Christmas bells began to ring. Fleur shut the window to keep out the noise so that she could think. Sitting tensely now on the very edge of the sofa, she lit a cigarette and remembered that it had been the week before Christmas that Noelle was born. But then there had been no Aubusson, no gold damask and no Christmas roses.
Noelle had been born in Paris, in a room at the very top of a tall old house on the Left Bank. It was snowing. Large flakes drifted down from an uncompromising sky, covered the Ile de la Cité and settled on the rich apartments of the Avenue Foch and the blank-eyed dwellings of Montparnasse with silent impartiality until everything was white and frozen. There was no escape from the cold. They had an oil stove that did little or nothing to heat the vast, draughty room, which was bedroom, living room, dining room, nursery and studio, and whose rent they could barely afford to pay.
It was the coldest Christmas Fleur had ever known, and her first away from the comfortable home where she had been born. Looking back, she was unable to feel the draught that swept day and night through the shut windows and under the door, or the icy chill of the floorboards beneath her bare feet, as she slipped reluctantly out of a warm bed at the first thin, pathetic wail of her week-old baby. On Christmas Eve, Noelle, born a week early, lay sleeping in her crib. Fleur, in layers of jumpers, with her dressing gown topping the lot, watched from the window, searching the early twilight for Simon. It was Christmas, but there was only ragôut for dinner, and there would be no presents. In Paris, city of dreams, artists were two a penny. Fleur’s parents, unwilling to see their daughter living in one room, had been helpless in the face of Simon’s pride.
When he came, his stiff, cold fingers fumbling with the doorknob, he was smiling and there were parcels in his arms.
‘I sold a picture, Fleur. They want more!’
She kissed him, brushed the snow from his hair and opened the wine he had bought and the babas au rhum which would turn the dinner into Christmas. Little Noelle slept, and they sat huddled together round the stove, stiff with cold but oblivious with happiness.
One parcel was yet unopened and Fleur could still remember the thrill of her first Christmas present from Simon, the cheap red slippers with the silky pompoms to keep her feet warm when she got out to see to the baby in the night. That Christmas Eve had been the first rung of the ladder and they had never looked back. Today everyone had heard of Simon Bellamy, and he often joked that he couldn’t afford to buy his own pictures. After Noelle, there had been no more babies, but Fleur saw to it that she grew up unspoiled. When she’d left school, Fleur had sent her to Paris for a year to learn the language, and next year she planned a big coming-out dance for her before she went up to Cambridge. As for Graham, the son of good friends of theirs, the Gardners, she had nothing against the boy, but the idea of Noelle marrying him, before she had really had a chance to meet anybody else, was quite fantastic. She tried to recollect what he had taken up. Photography or something, she thought, but couldn’t quite remember. Fleur was a great planner and the plans she had made for Noelle were the biggest and best of them all. They did not include marriage for many years to come.
The peace of waiting for Christmas had melted in the heavy, centrally heated atmosphere. Fleur inspected the already tidy flat, told Odile that there would be two extra for dinner, put soap in the guest bathroom. She looked again at her present for Simon – a slim gold pencil with his initials on it – and wondered whether he had remembered about the sapphire pendant from Cartier. She was sure he had.
They always adhered to the same routine. Simon was the most generous husband in the world but, like all men, he hated shopping. A few weeks before Christmas or her birthday was due Fleur would say casually, ‘I saw the most wonderful clips at Asprey’s. They match my ruby set and they’re keeping them for me …’ or ‘My crocodile handbag is absolutely finished and I saw exactly the one I wanted at …’ and she knew that when the time came Simon would solemnly present her with the gift she had chosen herself. There seemed too many hours until Noelle was due to arrive, and she wished Simon were home so that they could agree on what they were to say to her without upsetting her too much.<
br />
Fleur was in the bathroom putting on her mascara when Noelle arrived. She looked even younger than she was, her face flushed with excitement above the fur collar of her coat and her dark hair shining.
When she had hugged her, inhaling the cold air clinging to Noelle, Fleur said, ‘Now tell me all about it, darling.’
Noelle needed no encouragement. Graham was a journalist. He had been offered a wonderful job as a foreign correspondent in Kenya. They were in love. They wanted to get married. It was as simple as that.
‘How long has this been going on?’ Fleur said.
‘About three months. Ever since Graham’s been in Paris.’
‘You never mentioned him in your letters to us.’
‘We thought there was time. We didn’t know this job was going to crop up.’
Noelle sat on the edge of the bath. ‘Mummy,’ she said, and her face was serious. ‘I know what you’re going to say about being too young. But I’m not too young, and although one part of me doesn’t want to leave you and Daddy and go so far away, Graham and I love each other, and that’s all there is to it. I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, but it just couldn’t be helped.’
‘How much does he earn? How will you live?’
‘We’ll manage.’
‘Manage!’ Fleur thought of the life Noelle had led. Her bedroom with everything a girl could want, her wardrobe, expensive schools, riding lessons, violin lessons, dancing lessons, skating lessons.
‘Have you thought,’ Fleur said, carefully outlining her brows with a pencil, ‘that things might not be just as you’ve been used to? The life abroad; the heat …? It may all sound very romantic and adventurous, but I’m older than you, darling, and …’
Noelle stood up and she was no longer smiling. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, Mummy. I love Graham and I don’t care where he goes – I’m going with him. I want you to understand.’
The Man Who Understood Women Page 2