Invitation to the Married Life

by Angela Huth

  By mid-morning, the roof of the marquee was up. Frances wandered beneath it, looking up at its high, unadorned spine. In her impatience, she thought: how slow is transformation. It then occurred to her she was being unreasonable – the men were working very fast, the marquee had become a reality with astonishing speed. She stood among them, listening to their shorthand instructions, their sarcastic exchanges, their blunt humour. She felt like a producer, a designer, excited by the thought that these skilled men were now executing what had been in her imagination for so long. It then occurred to her that perhaps production of some kind was what she would enjoy as a job. When this party was over, there was an empty autumn ahead – she had been thinking for some time that she would like a regular job. Television, perhaps? The theatre? A wheel of ideas now began to spin. She could feel it gathering pace. . . . Well, she had friends in the kind of world she would like to work in. Next week she would begin to make enquiries. She had no qualifications, of course, but that did not always matter. Ideas were what were needed. And she had ideas. Dozens of ideas. A job! That would be something to look forward to, give cohesion to her life.

  Frances walked out into the garden, possible long-term prospects adding to her excitement. A butterfly flew across her path, weighted by the dull air. Omen, she thought, and frowned at the sallow clouds. She had not let herself think of rain. For months, in her mind’s eye, guests had filtered about the garden on a warm, clear night, cloudless moon shining down upon them. Now, a small note of worry struck within her: the entire plan would be ruined if it were to rain.

  Toby and Fiona were playing croquet on the far lawn. Toby was stooped over the mallet, eye seriously concentrated on a red ball. Frances waited impatiently for the click. It came eventually: the ball shot along the grass, just missing the hoop.

  ‘Blast.’ Toby straightened, rubbing his back.

  ‘It’s not going to rain, is it?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so.’ He didn’t seem much interested in the possibility. ‘Come on, Fi. Take your time lining up the shot.’

  The ungainly Fiona stooped over the mallet in imitation of her father.

  ‘I think it’d be quite funny if it rained and everybody got wet,’ she said, head down so that Frances could not see her face.

  Frances turned and left them. On her way back to the house she was met by a frantic Luigi. His rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed huge biceps and thickly haired arms, always concealed until this moment by his neat striped jacket.

  ‘Madam come quickly please: a lorry has arrived full of trees.’

  The two dozen bay trees, each one carefully selected by Frances at a tree centre, had been ordered to arrive tomorrow morning. But premature bay trees were just the sort of problem Frances needed – anything to take her mind off the inspirational new idea that was making her restless.

  She ran ahead of the panting Luigi. In her speed, further inspiration descended. She knew what she must do – the first, the most sensible move to make in quest of her job, was to ask Ant’s advice. Ant, to date, had been her greatest ally over the party.

  * * *

  I’m going to pieces, thought Thomas, on his drive to the office. If I don’t see Rosie soon, I may finally tip over the edge.

  His hands shook on the steering wheel, sweat made huge melon-shaped slices under the arms of his fresh shirt, and the bones of his temples battered against skin that felt bruised. The physical discomforts of impatience, he had discovered, are as odious as those of jealousy, and he could not bear them any longer. He had been a model of reticence for so many weeks. Friendly postcards were hardly the stuff of bullying – but, no more. He now had a simple choice before him: action or madness.

  Once in the office – coffee and the air-conditioning slightly restored his equilibrium – he did not wait for midday, but dialled Rosie’s number at once. He let the telephone ring for a long time but there was no answer. Right: he’d be on his way. No point hanging about. He was incapable of work in this agitated state of mind.

  The almost empty motorway was soothing. As the mental and physical torments of the morning began to recede, the slow, inward burn of anticipation took their place. Soon after passing Newmarket, Thomas realised he was hungry. He decided to stop at the next decent-looking eating place, have a sandwich and ring Rosie once more.

  He found a pseudo-Tudor hostelry at the edge of a minor roundabout. He parked, was briefly oppressed by the humidity of the air as he crossed to the entrance. With a steady hand he dialled Rosie’s number, but again there was no reply. No matter, he told himself over a gin and tonic and a tuna sandwich: she would definitely be back for tea, when the light had changed. He would surprise her once more, thrust the carefully chosen bottle of claret into her hand, and suggest taking her to dinner in Wells-on-Sea. (Highly recommended restaurant, table already booked.) Happily imagining the scene, he was back in the Mercedes within half-an-hour.

  As Thomas waited at the exit of the carpark to move into the road, he watched a small brown car nosing hesitantly past him. It paused at the entrance to the carpark, then continued jumpily on its way, a van hooting behind it. In the moment that it passed before Thomas’s bonnet, he saw that the driver was an old lady with white hair and vaguely familiar face. The passenger was Rosie.

  Heart thrashing within him, Thomas remained where he was, eyes on the car as it edged its way round the central circle of grass once more. Then it cut rashly across the path of a lorry to enter the carpark. Again, for a moment, Thomas had a clear view of the old lady – the one he’d met on the beach, surely – and Rosie. He looked in his wing mirror, but the car disappeared round the corner. Unable to turn off the ignition, or to make any kind of movement, he sat listening to the familiar idling of the engine. He stared at his useless hands slumped on the sweaty leather of the steering wheel. A driver behind him was blasting his horn, someone was shouting abuse. It did not occur to Thomas he was blocking the exit, or that he was the reason for such far-off, ugly noises. Nothing occurred to him. The shouting and hooting increased. Then a gloved hand thumped on the windscreen. It was an expensive glove of tanned leather, holes punched over the knuckles. Thomas did not move.

  ‘I’ve brought chicken and watercress sandwiches in rye bread,’ said Mary. ‘I know you like rye. And bacon and tomato and a little pot of brown shrimps. Two peaches and apricots, some wild strawberries, a nice ripe Brie and a thermos of coffee. If you see anywhere nice to stop. . . .’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Rosie had been concentrating on the weird dark trees that lined the road, wishing she had brought her sketch book. ‘It’s nearly Newmarket.’

  ‘Quite near lunchtime.’

  ‘I believe I remember rather an agreeable posthouse not far from here. We might come across it, mightn’t we, darling?’

  ‘We might,’ said Mary, patiently, ‘but never mind if we don’t, because I’ve a half bottle of champagne in the cold bag so we’ll have a drink, come what may. I rather like champagne in the open.’

  They puttered along for a while in silence. It had taken a long time to get this far. Mary’s extreme caution forced her to brake every time she saw a car on the horizon, and she would only risk accelerating on the rare occasions the road was absolutely clear.

  ‘I agree I haven’t been this way for a good many years,’ Rosie said at last. ‘Maybe the place I’m thinking of has gone. Still, there’s bound to be somewhere else.’

  Mary pursed her lips. She was determined her picnic was not going to be wasted. In the end, she knew, there would have to be a compromise: but that compromise must include a déjeuner sur l’herbe. She had been looking forward so much to that part of their journey. If Bill had been here, he would have stood no nonsense from Rosie, and she would have conceded to his wishes with an enchanted flutter of her pretty eyes. But Rosie’s ways with her men friends and her women friends had always been different.

  ‘Hope the dresses are all right,’ Rosie said at last, once it was plain Mary was not going to respo
nd to her previous suggestion.

  She swivelled round to look at them lying on the back seat. Pansied satin on top of ruby velvet. Mary, Rosie observed with gratitude, had taken the precaution of putting her own dress underneath, to protect Rosie’s from Trust’s hairs.

  ‘Why shouldn’t they be?’

  Mary sniffed. Rosie was prevaricating now. Maddening. She would just have to be firm.

  ‘We seem to be a little swervy now and then, don’t we? I mean, not your fault, darling. Just avoiding all this awful traffic.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ scoffed Mary, jamming on the brake. A few miles later, she drew up in the gateway of a cornfield. ‘As we haven’t seen your place, we’re stopping here,’ she said. ‘If we find it later on, we’ll stop there too.’

  ‘Anything you like,’ agreed Rosie, who was hungry and battle-weary by now, and longing for champagne.

  They laid out a tartan rug and ate and drank unhurriedly. The suffused sun was just strong enough to keep them warm, skylarks sang above them. Rosie, who had enjoyed herself, despite defeat, was now determined that her part of the compromise should be executed. To her delight, they had not been back in the car for more than a mile – Mary even more cautious after a beaker of champagne – when she saw the roadhouse she had had in mind.

  ‘Tarted up a bit, but definitely the place,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ By now Mary had passed the entrance to its carpark.

  ‘Quite, quite sure. It’s got a lovely bar with a real mahogany counter. Go round again.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Mary hoped Rosie had no idea the trauma the roundabout was causing her – thoughtless cars darting every which way, cutting across her, impatient, threatening. But somehow she managed it, and on the second attempt darted finally into the entrance.

  ‘Look!’ shrieked Rosie, suddenly, dangerously snapping the last threads of Mary’s concentration. ‘Look, there at the exit – a huge great Mercedes just like the one my client comes down in. Mr Arkwright.’

  ‘Really.’ Mary knew it would be fatal to glance anywhere but straight ahead. ‘That means the place’ll be wickedly expensive.’

  ‘But I’m paying,’ said Rosie magnanimously. ‘Of course I’m paying. Mind that tub of geraniums.’

  The car came to a crunching halt on the gravel. With great reluctance, Mary followed Rosie towards the entrance of the pretentious-looking hotel. To sit in a darkened bar – albeit mahogany – on a bright afternoon was the last thing she wanted. But of course she had to stick to her part of the bargain, and she would do her best to look as if she was enjoying herself. If Bill had been here, he would have diverted Rosie from her plan in his usual, tactful way. But Bill, as Mary kept having to remind herself, was not here, and never would be again.

  * * *

  The sky grew darker all day. By evening, thunderous clouds shunted back and forth. Sometimes they crashed silently, then split apart again to show greenish sky above them. A few large, heavy drops of rain began to fall: a storm, and thicker rain, seemed inevitable. At least the air would be cleared, thought Frances. But what would happen to the party?

  She stood in the empty marquee. It was filled with a low, cathedral light. The lining of broken grey and white stripes had been designed to look like moving shadows when the firefly bulbs were lighted. But for the moment, unadorned, the effect was sombre. Pillars that soared into arches, awaiting their flowers and garlands of ivy, were glaringly white, as was the intricately designed woodwork of the partitions that divided the dance floor from the supper tables. The bandstand, undecorated, was a bleak stage at one end of the tent, overlooking the expanse of parquet floor, as yet unpolished. A huge, gloomy space, about to be rain-battered all night. Was there any chance that by this time tomorrow the transformation would be complete?

  In her nervous state, Frances paced the dance floor, arms crossed beneath her breasts. Through the opening at one side of the marquee, she saw that the lawn was menacing green-yellow, and in the silence she could hear the sparse knocking of raindrops on the roof of the tent. Then, unexpectedly, Antony Cellar, whose band was to play tomorrow night, appeared. He carried a small tape recorder.

  Frances had heard Cellar Music on the radio some time ago, thought it the perfect band for the party, and had tracked down its leader. They had met in a meagre Soho office in early spring, and negotiated the contract. Since then, Antony – ‘Call me Ant, everybody does,’ he had insisted at their first meeting – had sent her several tapes and they had talked occasionally on the telephone. These conversations were mostly about music, though on occasions Ant required sympathy for the nefarious activities of his ex-wife. One of the joys about the Farthingoe ball, he had explained to Frances, was that his old mum, as he referred to her, lived not ten miles away. He and the boys in the band would be able to spend whatever was left of the night with her.

  Ant Cellar was in his late twenties. He had a Roman profile and long, thickly curling hair. Apart from his penchant for 1920s and 1930s music (the band owed much to the inspiration of Roy Fox) he had a weakness for fancy dress. At the meeting in Soho he had been dressed like a character from South Pacific. This evening he wore a pink and cream striped cricketing jacket and cream flannels. His handsomeness was faintly ludicrous, but impossible to deny.

  ‘Hello, Frances. Thought I might find you here.’ He strode across the dance floor. It squeaked beneath his cream leather shoes. ‘I just dumped my stuff with my old mum, ready to set up in the morning. How are you?’ He put an arm round her shoulder, kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Ant! What a surprise.’

  ‘Brought you another tape. Few new old numbers we been working on. Like to hear it?’ He snapped the tape into the recorder. Before turning it on, he looked round the marquee in extravagant wonder. ‘I say: this is quite something. Fab-u-lous. Terrific, Frances.’

  ‘It’s nothing like finished. All the flowers -’

  ‘I can imagine. Terrific.’

  ‘I’m terrified it’s going to pour with rain and everything’ll be ruined.’

  ‘It won’t rain, believe you me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do.’ He gave her a look of such profound significance Frances almost laughed. ‘Here, listen to this.’ He switched on the machine. A sweet, nostalgic tune piped forth, so thin Frances could still hear the rain, heavier now, behind it. ‘You can imagine what it’ll be like. Get all the old things crying for their youth.’

  ‘I can, I can.’

  Frances moved away from him with a few little old-fashioned dance steps. Ant stood back, appraising.

  ‘Terrific,’ he said.

  The lawn had lost its dazzling yellow, and turned the sour green of pond weed. Here inside, the tent was husky as a barn. To Frances, dancing faster, Ant appeared like a man under water. His silhouette trembled. He was coming towards her, insubstantial as sea fronds. Frances stood still, dizzy. He put a hand on her arm. The music played on.

  ‘Tell you what: do you think it would be okay for the leader of the band to have a dance with the hostess? At the very end of the shindig, of course. Nothing improper. It’s something I sometimes do.’

  Frances felt herself blushing. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Then Toby came striding into the tent and across the floor, which squeaked more loudly than under Ant’s tread.

  ‘Darling,’ said Frances, ‘this is Ant Cellar, leader of the band.’

  ‘How do you do.’

  Ant switched off the music. The men shook hands.

  ‘I was just bringing along one of our new tapes,’ said Ant.

  Toby’s look scorched up and down him like a blowlamp.

  ‘Good, good,’ he said.

  There was a crash of thunder, rumbles of eerie applause among the clouds.

  ‘It’s going to pour,’ wailed Frances.

  ‘I was just telling your wife, it’ll be all right on the night.’

  ‘Hope you’re right,’ answered Toby.

&nbs
p; ‘Well, I must be toddling. See you guys tomorrow.’ Antony Cellar hurried out of the tent the way he had come, waving.

  Frances looked at Toby and laughed.

  ‘The point is, his music is wonderful,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ said Toby, again. ‘You know I trust your judgement in such matters. Dinner’s been ready for ten minutes.’

  ‘Sorry, Tobes.’

  Frances skittered ahead of him, up the steps of the terrace – all under cover of the tent – and through the French windows of the drawing room.

  Toby followed more slowly. He felt the wrench of normality stripped away: his house, his garden, were unrecognisable. The intrusion was monstrous. He longed to go to the woods. There was another roar of thunder, a slash of flinty rain against the sides of the tent. Bloody party, he thought, and envied the badgers taking cover in their setts.

  * * *

  The thunder, which swept across the country, woke Thomas from a deep sleep in a layby near Newmarket.

  He had slept with his head on his arms, his arms crossed on the steering wheel. He woke to see a moving cloth of rain on the windscreen, and to feel the painful clench of a headache. As the ghastly picture of some hours earlier began to re-enter his mind, he knew that he must somehow get back to London and check in at his club. All he wanted was food, drink, silence in which to take his bearings. Lying to Rachel about cancelled meetings was out of the question. He must sleep alone, he must sleep until a solution came into his dreams. And somehow he had to muster enough energy to put on a good face for the Farthingoes tomorrow night. Bloody party on top of all this, he thought, and switched on the engine with a desolate hand.

  * * *

  The storm had spent itself by midnight. In the morning, grass not covered by the marquee glistened in an opaline light that promised later sun, and drifts of fallen petals made tidemarks on the dark wet earth of the rose beds. Frances’s hopes of a fine night returned.