The Playroom

by Frances Fyfield

  ‘Ooooh, you are a beautiful one, aren’t you just? Does my boy look after you then? Look at you, you spoilsport, all closed up for the night . . .’ Then humming, ‘Boys and girls come out to play, the moon doth shine as bright as day . . .’ before bidding the blooms goodnight; ‘. . . Night-night, sleep tight, mind the bugs don’t bite,’ tittering at her own wit.

  Sophie had done all that long before the onset of darkness provoked the desire for company along with the first star in the sky. She played with the radio in the kitchen until she had filled the room with loud music, then sat in the window, ready to incline her head like royalty towards passers-by, disappointed to find a certain lack of young men willing to tug the forelock in her direction. So she telephoned Mary Allendale, not unduly distressed, since there was plenty of time, to receive the dismissal of the answerphone. Later would do, dear, really: the house was hers for most of the night and Jeanetta was bound to wake up soon. The cork lifted out of the sherry bottle as if by magic. ‘What sort of sound was that you made?’ she asked it. ‘A thlunk, I think.’ She giggled a trifle wildly.

  Out in the square, John Mills paused and looked towards the grandeur of the kitchen, arrested by the bright lights and the vision of a porcelain old lady, frothing lace at her pink throat, grinning at him over the rim of her sherry glass, winking roguishly. Despite himself and the twitching of one eye, which had become permanent in the last two weeks, he smiled back because she looked so nicely ridiculous. ‘Silly me,’ Sophie cooed to herself, patting her hair into place, ‘could have been a burglar.’ The thought passed on. There were no burglars near her son’s house; they would never dare intrude on such hallowed ground. And Daddy was dead.

  The champagne had entered Katherine’s bloodstream bypassing the digestive system on a straight route to her head, giving a dangerously emotional glint to her eye. Drink did that; her head was like a sponge. She knew exactly what she looked like: could see it in the eyes of the women, three of whom had kissed her cheek without once remarking she looked nice. Looking nice was important, gave her presence and confidence, was absolutely vital to any pleasure in the whole thing; knowing she was not up to standard was the potential ruin of an evening and she felt a freak. Catching sight of herself in a mirror, she saw the brick-red tube of a frock, clinging jersey above the knees, fitting snugly over the bosom, not quite the right side of modesty. There were suggestive and useless bootlace straps over her bare shoulders: the large earrings worn to distract from the total effect did the opposite, the whole image tarty. I can’t believe I ever chose this dress, but David said I did: I can’t remember when; could I ever have liked myself in this? Common, expensively vulgar, reflecting a predatory glimmer in the eyes of the men. Humiliation, discomfort and a desire to disappear were all being saturated in alcohol, rising heat and the immense puzzlement of why he should do this to her. You bought it, darling; you can’t be so extravagant for nothing, you have to wear it now. Teetering on the brink of confidence, less and less sure of her own mind, tense before any party, she felt all the excitement ebb away in the knowledge of her exposure.

  The American couple had excelled themselves in a feat of planning which had been shrouded in secrecy in order for Mrs Holmes Junior to reward and totally upstage the friends and acquaintances who had offered her hospitality in the past. The assistance of the heatwave had been beyond her capabilities, but she had organized the hire of a huge room at Kenwood House where the guests could spill out to a gracious balcony commanding the sculptured landscape which Mr Holmes Junior considered the finest view in London town; nothing better, with everything in his sight, including every single one of the guests, looking mighty pretty, some of them prettier than others, oh boy, but a fine sight all the same. They could dance inside if they wished, gawp at paintings, grin at the sweating musicians, stroll in the grounds or get drunk at his expense. Some of the invitees, Mr Holmes noticed with the satisfaction of a generous man, were embracing all those options. He did not mind being the only one wearing a tuxedo, but then he was the host. Mrs Holmes was the only one whose skirt reached the ground in a confection resembling a waterfall, but she likewise took hosting seriously. Both of them were very happy indeed.

  So was Monica, passing the reflection of herself in a long mirror, liking what she saw. She was still too big, hardly fat, but busty, a Victorian hourglass figure currently dressed with extravagant expense in a dress with a shot-silk skirt of emerald and black stripes, high black bodice and emerald belt to offset the narrowness of her waist. She had copied Katherine’s devotion to shops without price labels, but added her own passion for high colour. Dressed as she was, she hoped David Allendale would admire her as an extravagant and good-natured peacock in comparison to his own paler, if classier, hen, currently dressed like a street walker. Monica did not even try to kid herself as to whose approval it was she sought. There was an element of revenge in this. If, in the days intervening since their own gathering, Colin Neill had opened his mouth once more in praise of dear Kate’s ethereal appearance, Monica would have screamed. Even two clandestine lunches with the husband of this paragon, assignations with the innocent purpose of discussing the new conservatory, but nevertheless not confessed at home or abroad, had done nothing to relieve the irritation.

  The music waltzed for the people rather than the other way round while the American host, hoping things might loosen up a little round here, went looking for his favourite guests, failing to find at least one. Katherine had gone to the ladies purely in order to cry. Where Jenny found her and blamed the champagne.

  ‘What’s wrong, Katherine, oh don’t cry, please don’t . . . What on earth’s the matter?’ If there was an edge of impatience to her voice, she hid it well, but elements of Monica’s aggressive common sense were uppermost and this was not the way, or the place, where Jenny had wanted to spend any part of her evening. Katherine was a man’s woman, after all, not receptive to comfort from her own sex, and anyhow, in Jenny’s view, when people in tears are asked whatever is the matter, they are rarely able to tell the truth, but tell you something else. It would not really matter what she said in return, so she fussed in Katherine’s handbag for a comb, waited for a reply.

  ‘I hate, loathe and despise this dress,’ Katherine said slowly and finally with so much hesitation that Jenny decided not to believe this was the reason for visible grief, while being irritated that such a superficial explanation should be quoted at all, especially when it was wasting her time and her ready sympathy, and even though she knew how much the wrong dress could kill stone dead any feeling of self-worth.

  ‘You look perfectly wonderful, Katherine, you always do. Here, borrow my mascara and do your eyes. The dress is fine, doesn’t David like it? Is that the problem?’ She was remembering Katherine’s desire to please, hints heard of the autocracy of the household, which she privately began to consider necessary for a wife who had so much to spend but time to weep over a dress. ‘Doesn’t David like it?’ she repeated, noticing with relief the way Katherine had begun to repair the damage to her face, grief dissolving in the tissue paper with which she scraped her cheeks. ‘Yes,’ said Katherine, ‘I mean no, it isn’t the problem. He does like it. He made me wear it. I took something back, you see. If ever I do that I have to put on something he knows I hate. He’s hidden all the rest.’

  Jenny was confused, handed another tissue, impatience growing despite a natural kindness. ‘Made you wear it?’ she laughed. ‘Oh come on, Katherine, you make it sound as if he put the thing over your head.’ ‘He did,’ said Katherine simply. ‘That’s exactly what he did.’ ‘Well,’ Jenny was soothing but completely incredulous, ‘he must have seen what you don’t. Absolute cracker of a dress. Everyone says so and I’m so jealous I could die. Come on now, mirrors tell fibs, but I wouldn’t. I’m your friend, remember?’

  ‘Are you?’ said Katherine, the voice still tremulous. ‘Are you really?’ At the moment, having a friend could make all the difference.

  ‘Course I am,’ sa
id Jenny, embarrassed. ‘Tell me all about it next week.’ The pale face nodded, so transfixed with gratitude Jenny made a mental resolution never again to lunch with Katherine alone. Not even if she supplied a bale of material. There were demands implicit in this gratitude, all of them regrettable. She had no room in her life for anything like that: everything else was far too complicated. The children were sickening, her husband argumentative and the car had failed to start, while on arrival she had sought the comfort of Monica, not for a shoulder to cry upon but one to laugh against, found her mentor dressed like a flamingo feather and hell-bent on some strange distraction of her own. Katherine would never understand such a feeling of rejection: no one could possibly reject Katherine, but Jenny patted her bare arm, spoke with conviction.

  ‘Hey, come on: stay with me, we’ll go and eat. Or not, whatever you like. All men are bastards, just treat them as spoiled babies, I do. Go and flirt like mad; we’ll talk tomorrow, eh?’ Katherine nodded, absurdly comforted but slightly querulous in a way which made Jenny feel even guiltier.

  ‘Flirt?’

  ‘Go on, knock ’em dead.’

  Jenny forgot the guilt as soon as they emerged and Katherine began to bestow smiles like scattered confetti. Katherine forgot too. She could take a morsel of comfort and turn it into a meal.

  Knock ’em dead. Flirting suddenly OK; Jenny had said so. Be a girl, be yourself, be admired. Bother David and to hell with everything. The music was quite suddenly delightful; the cheap, palm-court themes reminiscent of a kind of glamour which had been some stepmother’s hallmark, a woman Katherine had tried to copy for the short while they had spoiled her, and now she wanted to dance. The American host launched forward and seized Katherine by the hand, ready to shuffle round the floor, dancing some indeterminate, unknown step which she followed with ease, laughing loudly in response to the flow of his slow and clumsy compliments, forgetting to look round. When he relinquished her to Colin Neill, Katherine’s smile was as wide as the view from the balcony.

  He had seen the tears, the departure and return, because he had been watching all the time, noticing as well as his own wife’s preening, catching everything with the talent of a gossip. Colin knew he was prone to confuse female signals, always imagined there was a code to them he might one day crack like a difficult phrase of music after several rehearsals. He could see that Katherine was as high now as she had been low thirty minutes before, while the messages relayed by the dress, the inviting glance and the suggestion of abandonment, all conflicted with the hesitation he recognized rather better. More champagne might aid the ambivalence: he fetched another glass when she had drunk his own. They paused in the silent tippling, watching without concern for their spouses who were seen engrossed in conversation. Katherine followed his eyes, listened and nodded when Colin suggested they stroll in the grounds, lightening the hackneyed invitation with a laugh, ‘Very warm . . . Leave the clever ones together and look at the flowers, hmm?’

  Jenny watched, always watching, hurt in her own abandonment. Maybe, in a little while, a word in David’s ear.

  Sophie Allendale’s boredom with the scant attention received from the street set her off on a cruise round her borrowed domain. In the course of her perambulations, creaking from floor to floor, marvelling at the number of locks on doors, she managed to wake Jeanetta accidentally on purpose. Conscience forced her to make a few grandmotherly sounds encouraging the child back to sleep, but these efforts were half-hearted since she really wanted company and was, in any event, no proof against another’s superior willpower. The two of them descended to the kitchen where the door to the garden stood open and the music still blared from the radio. First they picked some precious old-fashioned roses and stuck them in a milk bottle without water. Then they danced a little, both of them chatting throughout between one two three, one two three, turn now, darling, neither making any sense to one another but understanding perfectly all the same. Then Jeanetta dragged Granny to the playroom, where the brand-new door, creating a room out of what had once been an alcove, remained unlocked. Inside the playroom (which Jeanetta displayed with some pride), both of them began to rummage in a large chest, flinging out the contents on to the kitchen floor. Sophie fell on a dress of purple taffeta, one of Katherine’s rejects, so bright it predated any acquaintance with David, but perfectly suited the more flamboyant taste of her mother-in-law. Jeanetta found a shimmering shawl made of black and gold lurex with a long fringe she stuck in her mouth to test before wrapping the cloth round her little fat body, helped by Sophie. They sat back and rocked with mirth. ‘Sweetheart, light of my life, you look gorgeous. Whatever shall we do next?’ Jeanetta had no hesitation. ‘Biscuits?’ she said hopefully. Sophie nodded. ‘Everyone likes biscuits,’ she agreed like a wise old owl. Jeanetta agreed with nods more vehement. ‘But there aren’t many left.’

  They shuffled into the business end of the kitchen, Jeanetta half in, half out of a pair of oversized high heels, teetering dangerously but highly pleased with herself. When an exploration of the fridge yielded no more than raw fish, live yoghurt, skimmed milk and fruit juice, all in copious quantity but nothing fit for addicts of carbohydrate, Sophie borrowed one of the high heels and tried to insert it into a lock on a cupboard which promised food, led by her granddaughter’s eloquent gestures. She hammered first, while Jeanetta kicked at the door. ‘Just like burglars,’ Mrs Allendale giggled, pausing for breath. She gave Jeanetta the last contents of the biscuit barrel as an incentive to further effort, took another swig of sherry while considering if a wire coat-hanger might not be more effective on the door. The whole enterprise was obviously going to take some time.

  Seductions, Colin Neill, concluded, can often take time. The seduction of Katherine Allendale, a fantasy in mind for the whole year or more he had known her, was one he always imagined would occur in the slow lane. He loved the reverberating tone of the very word seduction and in his experience, the whole operation was either fast or slow, with him greatly preferring the latter, even if there was no real end-result at all. Promise was often far better than performance. So the fact that Katherine Allendale was panting slightly in the bushes, allowing him to kiss her and run his hands over the smooth upholstery of her bosom, was unnerving without being particularly pleasant, since he was still enough of a romantic to prefer his conquests to confide. I mean a chap has to know whether she likes you or not. He detached her gently.

  ‘Here, here, my darling Katherine, you like old Colin then, do you? Well, fancy that, lucky old me, here, sit down, it’s dry here, really it is, do sit for a minute . . .’

  ‘Can I have a cigarette?’

  ‘Course, course, anything you like.’

  She took the proffered light and drew on the cigarette with a hungry lack of expertise, similar to a teenager with the first. The bubble had burst. A sense of her own ugliness was back.

  ‘I haven’t upset you, have I?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘No.’ She sounded surprised, as if pawing in the bushes from the husband of a friend was par for the course.

  ‘But you were a bit upset earlier on, I noticed. Tell me all about it.’

  Katherine was behaving like a child, sitting on a lap, confiding. ‘David’s cross with me,’ she mumbled, slurring the words slightly. ‘Very cross.’ She sounded like someone complaining about a teacher. ‘Oh dear,’ said Colin placatingly.

  ‘He won’t let me have Jeremy or my own clothes or any money. I don’t have a single thing of my own and he hates Jeanetta.’

  ‘No,’ said Colin, ‘I’m sure not . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Katherine continued. ‘She’s very bad, you see. She won’t act like he expects and he thinks she isn’t his. She won’t do anything he tells her, you see. Everything has to be his. And under orders. Nothing moves without orders.’ She hiccuped.

  ‘Not his?’ Colin was confused, the near warmth of Katherine and the Dutch courage coursing through his head making him enjoy the conversation less and less. He inserted one hand
easily down the side of the elastic dress, finding that she was quite unmoved by the touch, hardly noticing. The liberty he was being given was almost offensive. ‘What else is not David’s?’ he asked for something to say.

  ‘What?’ She had already lost the thread of the conversation.

  ‘Surely there are things in your house which belong to you? All your lovely things, the ones you choose, they belong to both of you, not just him.’

  ‘Everything belongs to David. Everything pretty. He won’t have anything ugly. He couldn’t stand it otherwise. He had such a horrible time as a child, you see, never allowed to keep anything nice. Just like me; that’s why I loved him so much. We were the same, you see.’ She sounded injured by his failure to see the logic.

  Colin no longer knew what to say. Most of this was nonsense. He wanted talk to centre on themselves and what they were going to do about this mutual attraction, an intimacy à deux to give spice to the other, not an exposé of a crazy-sounding life nor any silly talk of who the hell owned what. Having considered her temperament perfectly OK for a bit on the side, beautiful without complexities, rather like his secretary, he was a trifle out of depth, concentrated on kisses made moister by her passive response, conscious of a sense of danger and the need to return to the music. As his lips met the curve of one round breast rising from the dress, he saw, from beyond the circle of weeping willow which hid them, a pair of dark-clad feet walking away.

  Granny was becoming a little exhausted, while Jeanetta, fortified by five chocolate Olivers and a nap earlier in the day, was feeling sick but still energetic, her movements becoming slower like a clockwork toy winding down. The sherry was finished. ‘I do wish they’d buy the sweet stuff,’ Granny confided. They sat at the kitchen table, drawing on the surface with wax crayons, having been quite unable to supply themselves with paper, despite a foray in the direction of David’s studio, which they had found locked. Jeanetta had been worried about drawing on the table, but Granny brushed the worries aside along with the crumbs. ‘It’ll surely scrub off, darling; Mummy can do that, she’s good at it.’