I found Rupert back in the kitchen, with his head in the fridge. ‘Food?’ he enquired, balefully.
‘Ah, no. Not always.’
‘What’s this? Taramasalata?’ He brought out a bowl of pink goo and sniffed.
‘That’s Penny’s face-pack,’ I said, taking it from him quickly. ‘But we’ve got a few eggs and a bit of cheese. Maybe we could do something with that?’
Well, I couldn’t, naturally, but Rupert created a very fine omelette, and even found an ancient tin of anchovies to criss-cross along the top, something I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing. For one who aspired to a domestic role I was aware of the paucity of my knowledge and how much I had to learn. Right now, though, I was keen to learn more about him, and as we sat side by side on the sunny back step, overlooking a patch of tired London lawn, our plates balanced on our knees, I quizzed him about his life in the Army.
He told me about Northern Ireland where he’d just been for six months. About the frustrations and the bravery of the people who lived there, and about his own frustrations as a soldier. He told me how he regularly stopped terrorists at border patrols but was unable to arrest them even though they were known to be killers. He told me about the booby-trapped cars, the snipers still at large, and about the time he and his men had stumbled upon a barn which had turned out to be wired, full of explosives. How his mouth had dried as he’d wondered if he was being watched, if these were his final moments, and how, when they’d successfully detonated the explosives without any casualties, he’d felt a rush of adrenaline – similar, he realized, to how his father must have felt on marching to liberate Port Stanley. That was the moment, he said, that he’d realized this was important. Something he wanted to do.
I was fascinated and sobered by his tales, which differed dramatically from Philip’s, and also quietly pleased to discover that he was back in London for a long stretch now.
‘So what about you?’ he said eventually, cleaning his eggy plate with the back of his fork. He looked at me quizzically from under his hat. ‘You know all about me, what do you do?’
‘Me?’ I flushed. ‘Oh, I’m just a secretary. I work in an ad agency, in the creative department. But I’m not creative myself,’ I said hurriedly. ‘The people I work for are, though. They write brilliant commercials and things. I just type them.’
He smiled. ‘I’m sure you do more than that. What’s your boss like?’
‘Marcus?’ I shrugged. ‘Nice. I mean, he’s always been kind to me.’
‘Probably fancies you.’
I laughed, pleased that he imagined other men fancying me. ‘I doubt it. Anyway, he’s not remotely my type. Older, Jewish – not that that matters,’ I said quickly. ‘But very dark and thick-set. He’s quite amusing, though.’ I shrugged. ‘Anyway, he’s fine. Doesn’t shout too much when I’m late or accidentally pour coffee over clients. He’s quite important, actually,’ I added quickly, trying to beef my job up a bit. ‘I mean, we’re one of the biggest ad agencies in London.’
‘I know,’ he nodded. ‘You’re in Berkeley Square, a stone’s throw from me now that I’m stuck at St James’s doing tedious ceremonials. Maybe we could meet halfway? In the park?’
My empty plate wobbled precariously on my knees and I judiciously removed it. Cleared the decks, as it were. For surely, if we were to meet halfway, some sort of meeting might have to take place here, first? I think I said as much with my eyes, and certainly I read it in his, because the next thing I knew, he’d taken me in his arms and was kissing me on that sunny back step. His hat tipped off, and tumbled down his back.
Predictably, and rather wonderfully, we spent the rest of the afternoon in bed. In fact, that day pretty much set a precedent for the next few weeks. We spent a lot of time walking around London – through the parks, along the river, exploring great swathes of the city I never knew existed – a fair amount of time with Rupert teaching me to cook, and a great deal of time in bed. Penny was desperately trying to make a go of it with Philip and had more or less moved into his salubrious Chelsea pad, so we pretty much had the flat to ourselves.
I didn’t ask what his father thought about him spending so much time away, and he didn’t volunteer. We popped over to Albany occasionally for Rupert to pick up more clothes and I always wanted to wait outside, sensing his father’s disapproval, but Rupert made me come in. Andrew was civil to me but cold, and privately I thought he thumped the walls in anguish when I’d gone.
My mother, of course, nearly thumped the walls with joy. The first time I took Rupert home, she opened the door to our third-floor flat just off the Finchley Road and yelled, ‘Darling, how marvellous!’
I wasn’t sure whether it was me who was marvellous, or Rupert, but it soon became clear. She gave me a brief kiss, then lunged to shake Rupert’s hand, taking it in both of hers, like a vicar. Her eyes were unnervingly bright, and since it was too early for her to have been at the sherry, I feared the worst. We’d arrived for tea, but instead of the usual tray in the sitting room, Mum had laid a white cloth in the dining room and piled it high with sandwiches, scones and cakes, all on doilies and all on the best china. I regarded the scene in horror. As Dad and Benji slipped obediently into their places at the table, Dad’s mouth twitched. I wanted to scream, ‘But we don’t do this. Honestly!’
Grudgingly though, some of my heart slipped in Mum’s direction. She’d tried so hard to make Rupert welcome, and Andrew had tried so little to do the same for me.
And Rupert was charming. He admired my mother’s collection of Sunday Times colour supplement ornaments on the sideboard behind him, agreed that scones could be dry but these definitely weren’t, and politely ate himself to a standstill. My heart nearly burst with pride. He looked so tall and handsome in our tiny dining room, had had to fold himself up, practically, to sit on the spindly chair, and was now cracking jokes with Benji and telling Dad about Army life.
My mother, at the head of the table, seemed to glow and expand with pleasure, until I thought she’d explode. Every few minutes she’d interrupt to spray crumbs and squeak, ‘Sandhurst!’ or ‘The Life Guards!’ or ‘Your grandfather was a General!’
Dad winked at me at one point, and I tried to see the funny side but when Rupert ran out of material and Mum felt it was her turn, it was hard.
‘You know, Rupert, we haven’t always lived in a flat like this,’ she said, as she bustled back from the kitchen with a fresh pot. ‘We used to have a much larger one, but Gordon rubbed his boss up the wrong way and we had to cut our cloth. I’ve always been the dutiful corporate wife, of course – gave cocktail parties for clients and what have you – but I’m afraid Gordon’s a bit of a maverick.’ She gave a tinkly laugh as she sat down to pour. ‘Anyhow, we manage, and we always put a bit aside so that Henrietta and Benjamin could go to private schools – so important, don’t you think? And of course I’ve always had help in the house. We’ve got a Filipina at the moment, a lovely girl, and nothing’s gone missing yet, although Mrs Greenburg downstairs had one and said hers wasn’t entirely honest so we shall see. Mind you, Bertha Greenburg would notice if the poor girl took an extra biscuit with her coffee, well let’s face it all our neighbours round here would, if you know what I mean. Another flapjack, dear?’
I dug my nails deep into the palm of my hand and glanced at Dad, but he was munching his cake solemnly, silent as usual. Suddenly I felt angry with him. If only he’d take control, rein her in occasionally, cut her off with a curt, ‘That’ll do, Audrey.’ But he never did. She was almost encouraged by his silence. She was becoming more of a loose cannon, and sounding more and more like Alf Garnett by the day.
As I hurried Rupert along, up from the table and across to the door, I noticed Benji, who was then eleven, reach up and whisper something in his ear. Rupert gave a snort of laughter, then covered it as he turned to shake Dad’s hand and say goodbye. I had an awful feeling Mum was going to curtsey as she took his hand – she certainly did something horribly deferential with her head �
�� and said she’d been honoured to meet him.
‘Honoured!’ I hissed at her, when I went back a moment later to recover a scarf I’d left behind.
‘Well, darling, I am. It’s not often we get a visitor like that, and to think you’re going out with him!’
‘Oh, why are you such a terrible old snob?’ I spluttered, my eyes stinging.
‘Snob?’ Her eyes widened. ‘No, no, Henny. I told you, I thought he was delightful.’
‘What did Benji say to you?’ I asked Rupert, when I’d clattered to join him at the bottom of the stairs.
‘He wanted to know if I’d slipped you one yet.’
I stopped in my tracks, shocked. Shook my head and walked on. ‘God, my family,’ I groaned. ‘What must you think of us?’
‘I liked them,’ he grinned.
‘Liar,’ I snarled.
‘Well, they’re more entertaining than mine.’
I grimaced, but actually, he had a point.
Time passed, quickly and blissfully. Over the next few months, Rupert and I, having gone through the heart-fluttering motions of heady new love, settled into a – well, definitely still heady, but steady relationship. He rang me every day and we’d arrange assignations in Green Park, munching sandwiches together on deckchairs, then meeting in wine-bars after work. Occasionally we’d eat in cheap bistros, finances permitting, before repairing to bed. Even my mother, given time, simmered down a bit and managed not to shriek and genuflect in his presence, Dad quietly approved, and Andrew …well, Andrew was just Andrew. I, however, was in heaven. Even though we were well and truly an item now and people would say our names in the same breath, invite us to the same parties and send us joint invitations, I still found myself stopping still occasionally. Just …stopping still. I’d stare out of windows in the flat, pause at my computer at work as my heart gave an exultant kick and I wondered if it was all true.
In no time at all, it seemed, Christmas was upon us. Amazingly, Rupert was to spend it with us, whilst his father went to visit Rupert’s brother, Peter, in Australia. I remember the pair of us marvelling at this turn of events, while carrying a Christmas tree – one of us posted at each end like paper-hangers with a table – up the Finchley Road to my parents’ flat.
‘I thought he’d decided Peter had dropped out?’ I yelled, stationed as I was at the front, or as Rupert would have it, the fairy end. It was beginning to sleet and the ice was stinging my face. I paused to turn my back on it, to wrap my scarf more firmly around my neck.
Rupert, at the roots end, shrugged. ‘He does, but I guess he thinks he has a duty to go. He hasn’t seen him for two years and Peter can’t afford to come back. My father does have a heart somewhere, it just takes a bit of finding.’
I grimaced. ‘Tell me about it.’
We bent our heads and walked on through the sludge.
‘Christmas in the southern hemisphere can’t be bad,’ I remarked at length. ‘I quite fancy a turkey sandwich on a sun-drenched beach for a change. I don’t mind snow, but I can’t be doing with this wretched horizontal ice.’ I ducked down into the collar of my coat.
‘Well, quite. I could certainly hack it. Anyway, I’ll be there myself next year.’ It was said lightly, but his voice was strained.
I stopped. Turned. ‘You’ll be in Australia?’
‘No, but the Far East. Hong Kong. That’s where my Battalion’s being sent in the spring.’
I stared at him, slack-jawed. ‘Your Battalion? You mean – and you’re going with it?’
He looked miserable. ‘Of course, if that’s where we’re sent. For three years, so we’ve been told.’
‘Three years!’ I dropped my end of the tree, so shocked that I couldn’t speak for a moment. We stood there in the icy wind, facing each other.
‘When?’ I said eventually.
‘End of March.’
‘Oh.’
After a minute I picked up the netted bundle of pine again. I turned round and we resumed our trudge. I stared at the ground.
‘But I’ll be back often,’ he said from behind me, trying to be cheerful. ‘And you’ll come and visit.’
‘Of course.’ But I couldn’t keep the misery from my voice. Three years. ‘But …we’ll be apart, Rupert. Nevertheless, we’ll be apart.’ I stopped again and turned to face him. Hating him suddenly. Hating his job, which came before me.
His shoulders drooped miserably. ‘I know.’ Suddenly he looked up from the slushy pavement. ‘Unless we get married.’
I stared. ‘What?’
He glanced away, embarrassed. ‘I just meant …Oh, I don’t know,’ he mumbled.
I looked at him, trying to gauge his seriousness.
‘D’you mean it?’
He gazed back at me. Did a flash of fear cross his eyes? Or did he just square his shoulders?
‘Of course I mean it, otherwise I wouldn’t have said it, would I?’
A foolish grin spread over my face. Over his, too. We dropped the tree in the street and I flew into his arms.
‘If you mean it, I’ll answer you,’ I whispered as I hugged his neck hard. ‘Yes. I will.’
Elated, we lugged the heavy tree back to the flat, full of plans, full of euphoria, full of the notion of being in Hong Kong together, with a place of our own – married quarters. If my voice was slightly louder and shriller than his, I didn’t stop to consider it.
My mother, naturally, nearly cried for joy when I told her, clutching a tea-towel to her breast when I burst into the kitchen, ice still clinging to my hat and scarf, Rupert behind me, grinning sheepishly. Dad was delighted too, everyone was – all the friends and relations Mum instantly got on the phone and rang. Well, why wouldn’t they be? After all, we’d been going out for nearly eight months, we were madly in love – OK, we were both only twenty-one – but what the heck? As my mother said repeatedly, we knew what we wanted, which was to be together for the rest of our lives, and what was the point of going through three years of hell to achieve it? What was the point of a long-distance relationship conducted via letters and phone calls with the occasional precious visit, when I could be with him all the time, setting up home, like I’d always dreamed of?
And so the wedding machine roared into action with my mother firmly at the helm. I wasn’t there when Rupert told his father on his return from Australia, but his congratulations to me when we visited him later in Albany were tight-lipped and restrained.
‘Congratulations, Henrietta. Marvellous news. Couldn’t be more thrilled.’
I swallowed.
The wedding was to be in early March, in the Guards Chapel, with 150 friends and family – mostly Rupert’s, it has to be said – and a reception afterwards in the Officers’ Mess. But suddenly, I got cold feet about the venue and changed it to the church in Hanover Square where I’d been christened. I felt desperate, suddenly, for some associations of my own. And Rupert agreed. Looking back, he agreed with most things I said during those frenetic, slightly blurred three months.
The banns were read, the dress was made, fittings were done for me and Penny, my maid-of-honour, and for some adorable little attendants I’d never seen in my life before and whom my mother had probably plucked off the street, adorable attendants being necessary. My excitement grew.
A hen-party was held, a stag-party for Rupert, and at work, at the agency, a great fuss was made. Champagne corks popped in the boardroom, because of course, I wasn’t just getting married, I was leaving. I remember my boss, Marcus, looking at me fondly – strangely, even – as he gave the speech. Said how much they’d all miss me, and then handed me a present and a funny card – a drawing of me in a Life Guard’s helmet and not much else – whilst I, skippy with excitement, was just dying to be out of there, to be gone. I remember kissing everyone goodbye and thinking how lucky I was. How they’d all still be here next week, on the familiar third floor, whilst I, Mrs Rupert Ferguson, would be flying to Hong Kong to start a new life.
Well, the rest you know. But perhaps for
form’s sake, it should be touched on briefly. Perhaps the painful, streaky little home movie should be re-run one last time.
The day dawned bright and sunny, and everyone went ahead to the church, save my father and I. I remember my mother kissing me goodbye in her bedroom where I’d changed; adjusting my floral head-dress, beaming at me in her pale lilac suit, lipstick on her teeth, whilst Benji, in a ridiculous morning-coat and top hat, pulled a face. Then it was just Dad and me. I was dry-mouthed with excitement, but Dad chatted beautifully, squeezing my hand as we got into the back of the car, not too emotional, keeping calm. I remember driving through London, then up to the church, and being told casually by an usher that Rupert was late.
Thinking no more of it, we drove around the Square. Paused again at the steps, then drove on a bit more. Down Bond Street, past Russell & Bromley where I’d bought some shoes for my honeymoon, before we drew up again at the church. Dad got out to check. A few minutes later he was back, worry etched on his brow. He told the driver to drive on, and we parked a little way down the road this time, a bride and her father, in the back of a huge black car. Dad murmured encouragingly to me the while, but after a bit, he got out. I was alone with the chauffeur for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes. Out of the car window I saw Dad having a whispered discussion with my uncle on the church steps. Then finally – a decision. He came back, sat down beside me, and told me gently. We’d have to go home. Back to the flat. Forty-five minutes had gone by. It was beyond all reasonable hope.
‘I’m so sorry, darling.’
I remember his eyes, full of tears, and my own shocked disbelief. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Despite his gentle protestations, I had to get out. Had to hitch up my skirts and run, veil flying, up that flight of steps to the open door – to see for myself. The congregation had been murmuring avidly but there was a deathly hush as I appeared. All heads turned as I stood in the doorway. I stared past them, horrified, to the spot at the top of the aisle where he should have been. Andrew, expressionless, met my gaze. My mother, her face crumpled, was dabbing at her eyes in her Dickins & Jones suit. She started clumsily towards me. I took one last wild look around – then turned and fled.
Not That Kind of Girl Page 8