Kate's Progress

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  They stood up, and Jocasta caught the pony, pulled down the stirrups, and led it out of the gate, which Kate held open for her and closed behind her. She leaned on the gate while Jocasta checked the girth and mounted. The pony chewed its bit and flirted its ears back and forth, swishing the luxuriant black tail against early flies.

  ‘Thanks for the water,’ the girl said when she was settled. ‘And the tea and everything.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Drop in any time.’

  A heartfelt look of gratitude. ‘Would you like to go riding next week?’ Jocasta asked: her quid pro quo of hospitality, the one thing she had to offer.

  ‘If your mother says it’s all right,’ said Kate.

  ‘Oh, she will. She doesn’t care what I do,’ the child said scornfully.

  Poor kid, Kate thought. ‘Well, I’d love to,’ she said.

  Her reward was a brilliant smile. Jocasta gathered the reins and turned the pony. ‘Great. I’ll see you, then.’

  ‘By the way,’ Kate said on a last thought, ‘your name – quite unusual. Did your mother choose it?’

  Jocasta nodded. ‘She just thought it sounded nice,’ she said indifferently. With a wave of the hand she trotted away, turned on to the dirt track, put the eager pony into a canter, and was soon out of sight.

  Jocasta: the queen of Thebes who notoriously married her own son, Oedipus, after he had killed her husband, his father. Quite some personality to be named after. But it sounded nice.

  Yes, thought Kate, another thing Lady Blackmore ‘didn’t get’.

  Nine

  Kate gave quite some thought to what to wear on Saturday night. It was all very well for Jack to say not to worry, it wouldn’t be very smart, but the words ‘country club’ and ‘dinner dance’ had never been thrown at her wardrobe before, and they were finding no resonance there. It didn’t help that all her clothes bar the working ones were still in boxes.

  It also didn’t help that Kay was in a ferment of excitement about it. ‘Ooh, it’s ever so glamorous! All the nobs belong to the country club. I’ve waitressed there once or twice when they had big do’s and needed extra staff. You’ll have a lovely time, but sooner you than me. It’s so posh I’d be so nervous I’d be knocking my glass over and dropping my fork every two minutes! What’re you going to wear?’

  Ah yes, what? Her little clubbing numbers wouldn’t strike the right note, she felt. Jack had said you didn’t have to wear a long dress, but she doubted that meant you could wear skirts so short that they were a mere pelmet to your thighs. She had longer things, but they weren’t very special.

  ‘I’m sure anything that’s good enough for London will be good enough for sleepy old Liscombe,’ Kay said loyally, with an abrupt reversal that did not fill Kate with confidence.

  Eventually she chose her ‘little black dress’, as Lauren had always jokingly called it, reasoning that you could never go far wrong with black. At least, you couldn’t be criticized for it – could you? It was short, but not ultra-short, the skirt ending just above the knees. It was of a clingy, shiny material that looked like satin but wasn’t, and it was a good thing that a couple of weeks of hard work on the house had worked off any spare fat she had, because there wasn’t room in there for anything but her basic body and a skintight pair of pants. It was sleeveless and low-plunging at the back, so she couldn’t wear a bra with it, making it one of the few occasions she was glad of her lack of boobs. She paired it with glossy sheer black tights and strappy black heels, and relied on having her hair down to provide relief from all that monochrome.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked Kay, who had come over – again – specifically to inspect her outfit.

  ‘You’ll catch the eye in that lot,’ Kay said, which was not entirely reassuring. ‘You got any jewellery? It’s a bit plain, maybe.’

  ‘I’ve got these earrings.’ She got them out. They were shiny, faceted black drops, only plastic, but they looked like jet if you didn’t get too close. And she explained about having her hair down.

  ‘You’ll look lovely!’ Kay said with the sort of emphasis with which you tell a child going to the dentist won’t hurt. ‘And I tell you what, why don’t you come over ours to dress? You can use our bathroom, and I’ve got this posh bath essence Darren bought me for Christmas. And I can help you with your hair. I’ve got these ’lectric curlers that’ll take the frizz out lovely.’

  A bit of comfort, a decent mirror and a bathroom that didn’t have bare floorboards were more temptation than Kate could resist. It took a long soaking and some vigorous work with a scrubbing brush to get rid of all the building dirt, and Kay produced some Norwegian hand cream that Darren used when he worked outside in the winter to induce something like smoothness in the poor abused appendages. She washed her hair and used a special de-frizzing serum afterwards, and Kay proved very adept with the curling iron, and produced smooth, shiny curling tresses that Kate adored. Sitting in front of Kay’s dressing-table mirror she said, ‘Thank God it’s been dry all day. One breath of damp air and it’s back to coconut matting.’

  ‘It’s dry tonight,’ Kay reassured her. ‘You’re lucky having such lovely-coloured hair. It looks great with the black. You hardly need anything else.’

  ‘That was my hope,’ Kate said. ‘Because diamonds have I none.’

  It was strange after all this time getting out her make-up bag and putting on her London warpaint. Kay watched in admiration until Kate stabbed herself in the eye with the mascara brush and said she was making her nervous. ‘Can’t have that,’ said Kay, and disappeared.

  Kate finished the job, hooked the hair back from her face with two sparkly clips, and added the final touch – a black sequin neck band in place of the diamond choker she also didn’t have. She stood up and looked at herself in the wardrobe full-length mirror. She looked taller, slim (won’t be able to eat much tonight, she thought, sucking in her stomach) and dramatic, with her hair, like flames around her shoulders, the only contrast to all the black. She looked – dangerous.

  Very well, she thought. Let the games commence.

  Kay came back in with something in her hand, and stopped on the threshold. ‘Well!’ she said. And then, ‘Well!’

  Kate gave her an uncertain smirk in the mirror. ‘God, I hope so! What do you think – really?’

  ‘You’ll knock their eyes out. Here, I brought you this. Can’t have you being nervous.’ It was a tumbler of clear liquid. Kate looked the question. ‘Vodka,’ Kay explained. ‘Doesn’t smell. It’s left over from Christmas,’ she added warningly, as if it might have gone off. ‘I like a vodka and lime at a party. Darren only drinks beer.’

  Kate sipped cautiously. It was pure spirit, unsullied by tonic, ice, lemon or any other contaminant. She coughed. ‘It’s strong,’ she said. ‘I can’t drink all this.’

  ‘Have a swig, anyway,’ Kay urged. ‘Put you in the mood.’

  Obediently Kate took the smallest swig she thought would satisfy her kind hostess, and passed the glass back. ‘I’ll have the rest,’ Kay said. ‘I’m that nervous, I need it more than you.’ She knocked it back, and went into a paroxysm of coughing, and had to sit on the bed and blow her nose to recover herself.

  ‘Right,’ she croaked when she was herself again. ‘I’ve done my bit. The rest is up to you.’

  ‘Off you go to the ball, Cinderella,’ Kate said with a grin.

  ‘But remember to be back by midnight, or your coach will turn into a pumpkin,’ Kay said, entering into the spirit.

  ‘Or in my case,’ said Kate, ‘be back before it rains, or my hair will turn into a giant orange Brillo pad.’

  Jack was ten minutes late, which was plenty of time for Kate – in her own house and not daring to sit down in case she dirtied her dress or laddered her tights – to become nervous all over again. She heard the car pull up outside, the garden gate squeak (useful noise that – she must remind herself not to oil it) and then came the rap on the door. She opened it to find Jack outside in a navy overcoat with
what looked suspiciously like a black bow-tie peeping out at the neck, his hair artfully tousled, and saw over his shoulder an entirely beautiful dark blue Jaguar XJ parked in front of her garden wall, which took her mind off everything for an instant.

  Jack looked at her and whistled. ‘My God, you look stunning!’ he said, gratifyingly. Kate tried not to smirk like a ten-year-old. ‘I want to eat you up!’ He leaned in towards her and instead of attempting the kiss she was expecting he nibbled her ear and said into it, breathily, ‘I want a Kate sandwich. Kate caviar. God, you’re entirely edible.’ He straightened up. ‘Do we have to go to this damned thing? Let’s stay here and enjoy our own company.’

  Kate laughed. ‘In the first place, do you really think I spent all those agonizing hours getting myself to look like this, not to be seen by anyone?’

  ‘You’ll be seen by me. Anyway, how could it take hours – you’re naturally beautiful.’

  ‘Gallant,’ Kate acknowledged, ‘but I’ve spent the last two days up on the roof and the last two weeks knocking down walls and stripping wallpaper. From that to this, without use of a magic wand, takes hard work.’

  ‘I’m too much of a gentleman to allow any effort was involved. What was your second point?’

  ‘Second point? Oh, yes – stay here? Have you looked around you? The state of it? It’s impossible to enjoy yourself in this house.’

  ‘I’m sure I’d think of a way,’ he said suggestively.

  Kate felt a quick stab in her stomach at the thought, but did not allow it to show. ‘No,’ she said imperiously. ‘Country Club. Now. Once my warpaint’s on, it doesn’t come off again until I’ve killed a paleface. Out!’

  Jack grinned. ‘I love this dominatrix bit. I’m putty in your hands.’

  ‘I should hope so,’ she said, picking up the black pashmina that had to do service as overcoat – it was that or a padded anorak. They went out into the evening, and, closing the door behind her, she dropped the act for a moment and said nervously, ‘Jack, really, do I look all right? I’ve never been to this sort of thing before.’

  ‘You’ll cause a sensation,’ Jack said sincerely. He went before her to open gate and car door, which he held open with a bow. ‘Your carriage awaits, madam.’

  He seemed in a merry mood all the way to Liscombe. She wondered if he’d had a few before picking her up, because he kept smiling to himself, and humming when they were not talking – which was most of the time, because having asked her how the building work was going, he seemed to have no more questions or observations once she’d finished the subject. The drive was through dark country lanes so there wasn’t anything to look at, except the section of road thrown up by the headlights, and the occasional rabbit dashing out of the way (which kept her in a state of nerves, dreading to feel the soft jolt under the wheels if one of them didn’t make it). Now the only thing she could think of to say was, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ She looked at his hands on the wheel – he drove well, a bit fast for her taste, but country people always did on lanes they knew – and glanced at his profile, and had a little shiver. He was very attractive, and definitely all man.

  She wasn’t sure, all of a sudden, what she was getting herself into. A man like him – full grown and full of confidence – would surely expect more than a peck on the cheek at the end of the evening, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Certainly she fancied him, but she had not come to Exmoor to get herself involved in anything – the very opposite! Further, she thought of her chaotic living arrangements and her desperately spartan, unerotic bedroom. Perhaps that, and the fact that he lived with his mum, would keep her safe. Avoiding the occasion of sin, the Church called it: in her case, avoiding any suitable venue for sin.

  As against which, he was very attractive …

  Finally he slowed and said, ‘Here we are,’ and turned in at a gateway (more gateposts – oh, Kate, we are going up in the world!). He drove up a steep, curving drive, and suddenly a brightly-lit building appeared from behind the high-banked foliage. The Country Club was housed in a building called The Grange, a large, long, three-story building that must once have been a country house: nineteenth century, white-painted, with a classical porch, a creeper growing over the face, and many lighted windows. On the wide gravelled area in front of it cars were parked and parking, and people were getting out and walking towards the open, lighted doorway. Kate felt her heart sink. The house looked grand, but what was grander was that all the women she could see were wearing fur coats. Not a pashmina amongst them.

  She turned to Jack, who was concentrating on backing into a parking space. ‘What have you got me into?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Why the fuss?’

  ‘Fur coats,’ she said in a choked voice.

  ‘They won’t be wearing them indoors,’ he pointed out. ‘What’s a fur coat, anyway? You’re not going to go all Animal Lib on me, are you? Mink are thoroughly nasty creatures, and these ones have been dead for decades anyway. Most of those people inherited their furs from their mothers and grandmothers.’

  Kate had to laugh. ‘And that’s what you consider reassurance, is it? Lead on, Macduff. I’m ready for the fray.’

  ‘It’s “lay on, Macduff”, actually,’ Jack corrected her politely.

  ‘But I want you to lead, not lay.’

  ‘Well, one step at a time, I suppose,’ he murmured with a wicked smile.

  Fortunately they hit the entrance hall at a moment of lull, and there were no other guests there as they shed their outer layers at the cloakroom counter, presided over by an elderly woman in a black maid’s uniform, who looked as though she’d been doing it all her life.

  Jack was in dinner suit and black tie. Kate was staring at him, silenced by exasperation, when he said politely, ‘Do you need to use the ladies’ room?’

  ‘What’s the point?’ she said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  He looked hurt. ‘Get it over with? That’s not exactly enthusiastic.’

  ‘You said it wouldn’t be posh. And here you are in black tie.’

  ‘I said it wasn’t as posh as it sounded. And you can’t dance in a lounge suit. It looks silly.’

  ‘Well, the only thing posher than black tie that I can think of is white tie!’

  He laughed. ‘Black tie’s not posh any more. You’ve only got to think of cruises. Come on, Cinderella. You look staggeringly beautiful, and I’m looking forward to making an entrance with you on my arm. Everyone will be staring at us in envy.’

  She was touched by his words, straightened herself, put her hand through his offered elbow, and walked with him towards the door of the main room, from which the sound of muted music and conversation were issuing.

  Well, he was half right. Everyone did stare (at least, it felt like everyone to Kate). The room was full of dinner suited men, most of them middle-aged or older, with well-fed figures, greying or missing hair, and necks that bulged a little over their collars, and women of the same age in long dresses and mid-length cocktail frocks, permed hair, and suspiciously glittery jewellery. Jack squeezed her hand against his ribs (she wondered afterwards if he’d been afraid she’d run away and was keeping a grip on her) and started leading her up to groups – who greeted him by name, obviously knowing him very well – and introducing her. Kate fielded so many long stares, she felt as though she were naked. On the plus side, she noted a great many male stomachs being abruptly sucked in; on the minus, this was so obviously not her milieu that she really passionately wished she had an apron and a tray – she’d have felt happier that way.

  But everyone greeted her kindly, and at one point, between tables as they worked their way down the room, Jack said, ‘Don’t worry about all the wrinkles and mothballs. We won’t be the only under sixties. The younger set always arrives a bit late.’

  ‘I was beginning to wonder,’ Kate said.

  ‘Our table’s down the other end – the young end,’ he said. And it was true, the average age did seem to be com
ing down as they got further from the door: they seemed to be among the thirties and forties now. ‘The older set likes to stay up that end,’ Jack explained. ‘Nearer the loos.’

  He really did seem to know everyone – and to be liked by everyone. People said hello to her kindly, but at once began chatting to Jack on people and topics she knew nothing about, so could add nothing to. Their table was the last but one before the stage, on which the band was playing quiet background music to establish the mood. It was round, and set for eight, but there was only one couple sitting there, late-thirties, very smart, the man lean-faced and prosperous-looking, busy talking into a mobile phone, the woman with enamelled make-up, perfect short blonde hair, wearing layered eau-de-nil chiffon and texting with rapid double-thumb movements.

  ‘Steph, Gil, put those horrible things away,’ Jack said cheerily. ‘Nobody does business on a Saturday night.’

  The man only waved a distracted hand and kept talking, but the woman paused and looked up with hard eyes and said, ‘Rubbish, darling. The world never sleeps. Gil’s talking to Dubai.’

  ‘It’s midnight there,’ Jack said, with – to Kate – frightening knowledge. ‘The markets are closed.’

  ‘But the office isn’t. Hello, Jack, darling. Lovely to see you. Kiss kiss.’ He leaned over her and they air-kissed twice. ‘And who is this?’

  Kate felt herself raked up and down by the all-seeing eyes and bristled inwardly.

  ‘This is Kate Jennings. She ate up London and spat it out, and now she’s recharging her batteries in Bursford before going back into the fray,’ Jack said. ‘Kate, this is Stephanie Holland, and the boor on the telephone is her husband Gil. We went to school together. He never had any manners, even then.’

  Gil smiled and waved a hand – the insults were obviously a part of their usual badinage – and carried on talking, but Stephanie stood up to shake Kate’s hand and said, unexpectedly kindly, ‘Call me Steph, I hate Stephanie. God, I wish I could wear something that tight! You look terrific. Come and sit by me and tell me how Jack met you. I must say you’re wasted on him. Sorry about my husband. He’ll be human again once he’s tied up the sale. Dubai’s talking to New York, you see, and if he doesn’t do the deal, someone else will.’