One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘I’m sure we can resolve this and all play – work – together,’ my sister soothed Ralph.

  ‘She stole my paint! My rouge!’ Ralph pointed furiously over Laura’s shoulder. ‘I have twenty-two essential colours in my range, mixed exclusively to my own palette and specifications, and what do I find as I stroll through one of her bourgeois little room sets, tripping over yet another hideous chaise longue? My Peruvian Rouge on its arms and legs!’

  Maggie turned her head away, arms folded defiantly, and in that gesture, I knew: knew she was guilty. ‘Did you, Maggie? Did you take his paint?’ I found myself asking, as one would a child.

  ‘As if,’ she spat disingenuously.

  ‘Why can’t you share?’ my sister enquired of Ralph in a motherly fashion. ‘Let her look at your colours, and maybe she’ll show you hers?’

  Ralph’s lip curled. ‘There is nothing of that woman’s I would ever wish to view,’ he said disdainfully.

  ‘And nothing I should ever wish to show him.’

  ‘Thief.’

  ‘Poseur.’

  ‘Voleuse.’

  ‘Bâtard!’

  The two of them glared at one other. Then they tossed their heads and flounced from the room: unfortunately – for no doubt a grand, sweeping exit was what both were after – simultaneously, so that the desired effect was rather marred. They collided in the doorway, jostling furiously to get through, to be first out.

  Laura and I listened to the sound of their ever-decreasing stomping footsteps, which eventually died away as they marched off in opposite directions through the corridors of this great house. Then we sat down heavily together at the kitchen table.

  Laura blinked at the Evian bottle. ‘Sod that for a game of soldiers.’ She threw it in the recycling bin, opened a cupboard, and seized a bottle of gin. I, meanwhile, busied myself getting the glasses, the tonic, the ice and lemon.

  21

  Supper that evening threatened to be a petulant affair. Two taciturn boys whose habitual mode of communication was monosyllabic at the best of times, a brace of warring interior decorators – both of whom, I’m sure, Laura was regretting having asked to stay as long as they liked – Laura and I, both shattered by the upsets of our respective children, and Hugh, blinking a bit as he tried to referee. Sensibly, Laura had plumped for a quick sausage and mash in the kitchen. As she fried the sausages, Ralph cleverly sidled in and installed himself on a stool by the Aga, arming himself with a drink and a clutch of amusing decorating anecdotes. By the time Maggie arrived slightly later, he was making his hostess laugh uproariously, and generally stealing a march on his rival. Maggie, witnessing the hilarity, turned on her heel and stalked into the scullery to sulk.

  ‘Conscious card,’ she muttered as, grasping the situation, I went to find her. She was sitting on the draining board, smoking furiously. I steered her out, in the opposite direction to the kitchen, handing her a glass of wine.

  ‘He’s just trying to be amenable,’ I soothed.

  ‘He’s just trying.’

  ‘Yes, but you know what it’s like when you’re doing up someone’s house. If you’re staying, you have to sing for your supper rather. We know that.’

  ‘He doesn’t sing, he brays.’

  ‘OK, he brays,’ I said wearily. ‘Come on, Maggie, forget about Ralph for the moment. Show me the house. Show me what you’ve done while I’ve been away. I deliberately haven’t looked, because I wanted you to show me.’

  ‘Really?’ She brightened. ‘I thought you’d looked and didn’t like it, because you hadn’t said anything.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’ve been walking round with my hands over my eyes. Come on, I want the grand tour.’

  We started upstairs and worked our way down to the front hall, taking in all the rooms she’d had a hand in, and all those that were Ralph’s too. In actual fact, I decided, what Mr de Granville had achieved in the more formal areas of the house – the drawing room, hall, master bedroom, et cetera – was really rather good. Just as what Maggie had achieved in the informal rooms – the playroom, the sitting room, the children’s bedrooms – was excellent too. Maggie, of course, would beg to differ.

  ‘Look at this!’ she spat as we went into the drawing room. She waved an incredulous hand at the vast lump of rock she objected to by the fire. ‘Hideous! Just downright despicably hideous.’

  I rather liked it. Long and elegant, it was a huge piece of granite, to be sure, but a welcome change from the ubiquitous stool or coffee table, and contrasted well with the marble mantle. He’d set it on a simple cream rug between creamy sofas, punctuated by the odd enormous granite-coloured cushion. I marvelled at its smoothness. Reached out to—

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ she snapped. I snatched back my hand as if I’d burned it. ‘It’s what he wants!’ she hissed. ‘He wants everyone to fondle it, to coo and use words like “tactile”. Useless lump of old rock.’

  Except not useless, because smooth enough to set a tray on, with coffee, as Laura liked to do after supper; to sit around; perch on, even. And OK, perhaps it was a talking piece, which Maggie despised, claiming good pieces should blend in and not be discussed, but the rest of the room blended in rather beautifully around it. He’d hung simple linen drapes at the windows, but unexpectedly, the drapes were heavy with tassels at the top for a traditional, luxurious twist. There was, admittedly, an imposing modern sculpture in the corner by the window, but on closer inspection I realized it was of a philosopher, Descartes. So in fact, Ralph’s style was contemporary but with a twist of the ancient: a nod to the past. Whereas ours, I thought, going slowly back to revisit the sitting room, which Maggie had done with lovely old French chairs but upholstered in red leather – practical with children – was old, but with a nod to the future: a contemporary twist. So two not so very different styles met in the middle.

  ‘Look at this!’ she squealed as she marched me on to the dining room, throwing wide the door.

  I gaped. Almost didn’t recognize Hugh’s heavy old ancestral furniture. The sideboard, cleared of dusty old crystal and silver, had a vast modern canvas hung above it – presumably the ‘streak of dirt’. But it was a red and vibrant streak, and it worked brilliantly, bringing out the russet in the piece of mahogany below, bringing it alive. The dining table was set with enormous pewter plates, going way back before this oak table was made, and wrong-footing one. Ralph hadn’t tried to update it, but taken it back further in time, to when hairy men threw bones over their shoulders to the dogs. The panelling he’d dared to paint a lovely soft grey, just the sort of grey Maggie and I might have used, and the chairs he’d recovered in rough hessian and scattered around the sides of the room. Benches instead, for everyday use, heavy oak ones, ran either side of the table.

  ‘Ooh…’ I said, sitting down. ‘I like it!’

  ‘You don’t!’ she snorted.

  ‘I do,’ I said disloyally, and rather bravely. ‘I think he’s done a great job. And I love these huge plates. Yum.’ I picked one up.

  ‘Platters,’ she told me. ‘We’re not allowed to call them plates. Have to use a stupid bloody pretentious word.’

  I put it down.

  ‘Yes, but you get cross, Maggie, when customers talk about our “sofas and settees”, muttering under your breath, “Bergère”.’

  ‘Only because it grates,’ she said, throwing her head back and scratching it energetically. ‘And it’s incorrect.’

  ‘Well, that’s how he feels,’ I said, getting up. I peered at the painting. ‘Is this the streak of dirt?’

  ‘Streak of piss, more like.’

  ‘Who’s it by? It looks like a Kandinsky.’

  ‘It’s a copy. But not. If you know what I mean. In the style of.’

  ‘Clever!’ I marvelled, swinging round to her, knowing she knew it too. Could tell by her short answers and the way she was chewing her thumbnail. ‘Come on, Maggie, you’ve got to admit, the guy’s got style. And he hasn’t got where he is on reputation alone. We k
now that’s not possible. He’s earned it. You’re only as good as your last commission.’

  She sighed. ‘Yes all right, he’s got something, I admit. But why does he have to be such an arrogant ponce?’

  I shrugged. ‘Who knows? Insecure? Or maybe he was born like that. Have you bothered to find out?’

  ‘Why would I?’ she retorted. ‘And anyway, I’ve been far too busy with my own rooms, actually, to really bother looking at his.’

  ‘Which are fab,’ I assured her. ‘Laura’s thrilled.’

  ‘Is she?’ She looked anxious.

  ‘Absolutely. She told me.’ She had. Had said the two designers had worked brilliantly, better than she’d ever hoped for. And that Hugh was thrilled too. But she’d said it in a quiet, Laura-ish way I didn’t like, which told me she had a lot more on her mind. Luca, probably. I didn’t dwell on that now.

  ‘And it’s taken your mind off Henry?’ I asked tentatively.

  ‘Yes, it has,’ she said in some surprise. ‘I mean, obviously I’ve had my moments. Had to run to the bog occasionally, rent my hair, beat my breast. But coming down here, being out of London, away from his patch… well, it’s helped. And a damn good row with another decorator always takes your mind off things, doesn’t it?’ She grinned. ‘How about you? How’s your love life?’

  For some reason I thought of Hal.

  ‘Oh. Ivan’s… good.’ I walked over to the tall French windows. Gazed out. ‘Lovely.’ For a reason I couldn’t quite fathom, I didn’t want to talk about it. ‘And France was good too. I got some terrific things in Montauroux for the shop, and for here too, come to that. I’ll bring them down next weekend.’

  ‘Good. I tried to ring you but your mobile’s always off. Too busy with Ivan, I expect.’

  ‘Yeah, Ivan and I had a great time.’

  ‘Bonking for Britain.’ She grinned. But as ever with Maggie, I felt some disapproval behind the smile. Just as I had always cautioned her about Henry, so she would put the brakes on me too. We knew where our duty lay. We wanted one another to be happy, but we would never entirely encourage each other’s hopeless relationships. I had other girlfriends who’d say, ‘How exciting, a younger man! Lucky you!’ But I knew that behind the apparent envy lurked a deeper knowledge: that the relationship was doomed and they were all set to view the car-crash with their popcorn. Only Maggie voiced caution, and I considered it the true hand of friendship. But now Henry was gone, would she disapprove even more, I wondered nervously. Now she was in the clear, as it were?

  ‘You didn’t get a peek at his passport, I suppose? Discover just how young our Romeo is?’ Ah yes, she would.

  ‘No.’ I cranked up a smile. ‘And as usual I kept mine firmly in my underpants.’

  ‘Which I suspect is the first place he’d look.’

  I laughed. Then my smile faded. I narrowed my eyes to the view, to the fields beyond: suddenly I wanted her caution. Her hand on the brake.

  ‘It’s all bollocks, though, isn’t it, Maggie?’ I said softly. ‘Me and Ivan? It’s going nowhere.’

  I felt my heart leap with fear. Waited for her to rush in. Agree. Held my breath. She didn’t answer. I looked at her anxiously. As usual she disarmed me.

  ‘Oh God, who knows,’ she sighed eventually. ‘Who’s to say what’s a right or a wrong relationship? What, at the end of the day, can we do, but follow our hearts?’

  She fingered the silk curtains thoughtfully. Dropped them and smiled ruefully. ‘I can’t make your decisions for you, Hatts. They have to be your own. From here.’ She made a fist and thumped her chest.

  I nodded. And then I wondered why I wasn’t telling her about Hal. Under normal circumstances this would be the moment for some You’ll-never-guess-who-I-met chat, but something made me open my mouth, then close it again.

  ‘Is he back?’ She eyed me knowingly.

  ‘Who?’ My heart pumped.

  ‘Ivan.’ She frowned. ‘Who did you think I meant?’

  ‘Oh. Um, I don’t know. Yes, Ivan probably is back by now.’ I could feel myself blushing. ‘But I came home before him, because of all this wretched business with Seffy.’

  ‘I heard. But don’t be too hard on him, Hattie.’ She put a hand on my shoulder.

  I said it before she could, not wanting to hear it. ‘I know, it could be worse.’

  I moved away quickly, crossing to the door.

  By the time we all sat down for sausage and mash, we were pretty well oiled. Laura and I had obviously had a head start with the gin, but Maggie and Ralph had evidently shifted a fair amount too. Seffy and Luca were both on beer, and only Hugh, it seemed, was sober. Ralph, it became increasingly clear, had cast himself as the life and soul of the party, which, because she wasn’t speaking to him, forced Maggie into an unattractive corner, rendering her snappy and brittle. His tales of warring clients, a husband who wanted every room a different shade of yellow and ran from room to room shouting, ‘More sunshine! More sunshine!’ whilst his wife plopped a speck of blue in each to turn them closer to urine, got more outrageous and no doubt more apocryphal. But we all laughed anyway, apart from Maggie, whose mouth tightened disdainfully. He’d obviously got his feet firmly under this particular table, I thought as I toyed with my mash. I wondered how long he’d been here? It wasn’t unusual for a decorator to stay a while in big houses. In fact, with a complete revamp, it often happened. One became part of the family, a retainer, rather like a nanny, both parties finding it hard to let go, and that was obviously what was happening here. The wall-to-wall commissions Ralph had referred to were clearly not as seamless as he’d made out: either that, or the charms of staying in a stately home, complete with full board and lodging, were irresistible.

  Maggie and I had occasionally found ourselves on the receiving end of similar hospitality, together with other country house artisans: picture experts, furniture restorers, who’d been called in to treat woodworm, moth, general decay. We’d all sit around a sea of mahogany of an evening, eyeing each other suspiciously. On one occasion, in a mausoleum in Cheshire, I’d asked the girl beside me, who was painstakingly cataloguing the library, how long she’d been here. ‘Oh, about nine months,’ she’d replied vaguely. So there was nothing unusual in Mr de Granville’s continued presence at my sister’s table. And Hugh and Laura were clearly being treated to a practised charm offensive, but at least he was trying, which I always felt one should, and I was rather annoyed with Maggie for not. I was the sister. The one allowed to Be Myself. She didn’t come into that category. I found myself wondering, rather uncharitably, whether she’d go back to London tomorrow like me and Seffy, or stay on.

  ‘Oh, no, I thought I’d stay a few more days,’ she said airily when we took the plates through to the dishwasher in the scullery next door. ‘Laura said to stay as long as I liked, and Christian’s very happy holding the fort. And, of course, you’ll be there tomorrow, won’t you? Shall I get the salad, Laura?’ she called over her shoulder as she rooted around in my sister’s fridge. Quite familiar. ‘Or shall we go without tonight?’

  ‘Go without, Maggs, I think,’ came back the cry. ‘But there’s some cheese, if you wouldn’t mind bringing it.’

  ‘Sure,’ sang back Maggs.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I muttered.

  ‘No, no, it’s in the kitchen, I got it out earlier.’ And Maggs trotted off to retrieve it from the side, beaming at Laura as she took it to the table, turning her back on Ralph as he got up and tried to help, both falling over themselves to be of service. Which of course was delightful. My best friend and my sister, who historically had regarded each other warily and with some antipathy, getting on like a house on fire. I scraped the plates in the scullery. Splendid.

  But… why was I the one leaving? The one going home? Because stupidly I’d already made it plain I didn’t want Seffy having a lovely time here: playing tennis, helping himself to beers in the fridge, having a holiday, when he should be having a punishment. I wanted him to kick his heels in London, with no fri
ends around to meet on the King’s Road, just his mother for company, or even an empty house when I went to work. Yes, Maggie already knew that. I’d told her as we’d toured the house together: said that a bit of contemplative time was what I felt he needed, and not, I thought, glancing through the open door at him joking with Hugh, who was showing the boys how to decant port through muslin, not to be quite so relaxed.

  As I gazed at my son a myriad of emotions seemed to surge and well up inside me, until I thought I’d explode. I stood very still as the full force of it hit me, then exhaled a shaky sigh to relieve the pressure. Just then, Seffy’s eyes came round and rested on mine. I held them for a moment: gave a little smile. He didn’t return it.

  I found myself the first to look away.

  22

  The days passed quietly and slowly in London; indeed, they seemed to shuffle past in slippers for, of course, not only was Seffy away from the charms of the Abbey in a poky little town house, I was too. And I’d never thought about my house like that before, never. It was my home, my sanctuary, my refuge, and yet somehow, with Seffy in situ at a time when he shouldn’t be, when it wasn’t the holidays, when his friends weren’t horizontal on the floor with him, or playing loud music upstairs so I’d thump the ceiling with a broom roaring, ‘Turn it down!’ it seemed strange. Muted. Especially since, this time, he didn’t seem to listen to music at all, or even watch much television. In fact, he barely troubled technology. He read quite a bit, I noticed, and when I came in from work, I’d find him on the sofa in the bay window, somewhere I often sat because it was light, but not Seffy: a grown-up position, with a view of the street, not the scruffy television and computer end, with a bag of crisps. It was a contemplative place to sigh and reflect. And when I picked up the book he’d been reading from the floor when he went to the loo, I dropped it as if it were hot. Poetry. Poetry! And not only that, but Marvell, and even I knew what he wrote about.

  ‘What are you doing with this?’ I’d said in a brisk, accusatorial tone as he came back, as if I’d discovered him with Tits ’n’ Bums, or Asian Babes Do It Sideways.