Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  What did she know about them anyway, these days? Everything and nothing. What did they know about her? She was chief cook and bottle washer, the fixer. It was her fault, it must be her fault. She should have realized, years and years ago when there were two babies in the house and an attractive young man for a husband, that this present situation would arise, that she would be taking a back seat, that Carl would turn into a busy man in a busy world outside her own and that Bruce and Nancy would grow up, assume other identities, become people. She should have known better, should have farmed the kids out to a woman for daily care, found a top job somewhere, lived a separate life the way Carl did and the way the children were doing. She should have been somebody.

  “I’ll get the dessert,” she said, pushing back her chair, and went into the kitchen, with her son, carrying plates, close on her heels.

  3.

  It was always a delight to get one of those pale blue, tissue-thin airmail communications; you immediately placed yourself in the city it came from, in this case London. There it was, wedged in with the nuisance mail, the flyers and department store circulars and the utility bills. It was from Peggy Thornley, and it started the day off just right.

  Peggy Thornley was a woman Christine and Carl had met on one of their trips abroad; she was now a valued acquaintance. They saw each other infrequently, but had a sporadic correspondence and Peggy’s letters were always a cut above those annual Christmas card things in which you scribbled some stale news and info about the weather in your parts. And this particular letter was pleasing because it offered some diversion for Christine.

  It seemed that Peggy’s son, the older one, would be wending his way to the U.S. for what Peggy termed “a year of American seasoning, Henry James in reverse.” Ventures, and adventures, she asserted, were few and far between in these days of an empireless Britain. “For ‘this scepter’d isle’ substitute sequestered isle.” England was dying, she added elegiacally, and no one felt it more keenly than the young.

  Then she got down to business. “You remember Rodney,” she penned, in her non-American handwriting, all round and firm and positive. “He had quite a crush on you when you visited us at our vacation place in Annecy. He’s twenty-one now, very tall and thin as a walking stick. Quite the grown man, or so he thinks, but in reality a silly young ass. But he’s quite well behaved, I’ve seen to that.”

  He would have to find a flat, Peggy explained, and went on to ask if it would be too much of an imposition for Christine to assist him in this undertaking. And could she possibly book him a room until he was settled?

  It was like a present, like a gift. Christine was elated. Something to do. And of course he would stay with them until he found a place to live during his “year of American seasoning.” She would unearth some cute little nest for Rodney, help him furnish it, make it a small showplace. She remembered the Thornley boys as charming, with beautiful manners. And yes, Rodney had had a bit of a crush on her. Carl had remarked on it. “That boy has eyes for you, Chris.”

  She and Carl had visited Peggy and Tony Thornley in Annecy, France, a lovely little canal city where for that particular summer the Thornleys had rented a villa. It was the first time they had encountered the Thornley children, Rodney and Douglas. They had been teenagers, but British teeners, with the polished manners of British children.

  The younger boy, shy and — well, something like Bruce, soft and brown-eyed — had been very much in his brother’s shadow, as Rodney — hazel of eye and sun-streaked of hair — was like a young prince, almost arrogant, and wonderful to look at. “A bit of a showoff,” Carl had said. “But a fine kid all the same.”

  And Carl was right, Rodney hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her, those large and brilliant gray eyes with secrets behind them, secrets of growing up, of being between boyhood and manhood, God knew what he was thinking when he looked at her like that.

  She wondered what he was like now, at twenty-one. Worriedly, she realized it wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world to find a low-rent apartment in a safe neighborhood. She would have to begin combing the real estate ads right away. But it was a delightful assignment, something to look forward to.

  She dashed off an answering letter. She would meet Rodney’s flight, of course, and they had a spare room for him for as long as he needed it. “It will be such a pleasure,” she effused. “Such an unexpected pleasure and Carl, as you may-imagine, will feel the same way, as will Bruce and Nancy.”

  She sealed the envelope and, dressing, went out and mailed it, then bused down to Bloomingdale’s to see what goodies she could spot for the apartment-to-be of Peggy’s son. Modern, certainly. In all the British films she saw there was a heavy emphasis on what was called industrial modern, with a lot of Beylerian imports and chrome-framed posters. Knock-down furniture — it came cheap and was suited to a short-term “adventure.” Too bad Nancy was only fifteen, otherwise she’d have a hand-picked date. But at twenty-one, Rodney would probably consider her beneath his notice. It was she herself who, in the end, would benefit most from Rodney’s sojourn in this country. It would be an adventure for her too, and the sofa in the study was a daybed, so that he would have all the comforts of home until she got him settled.

  • • •

  They met on the lower level at Kennedy, he with an enormous suitcase plus a rucksack across his back. She had recognized him from the gallery, after dismissing one or two other young men who somehow didn’t look British, though she was a bit tentative in her greeting, not absolutely sure. “Rodney?” she hazarded, walking up to him.

  “Mrs. Jennings?” Then he laughed. “I don’t know why the question mark in my voice, because I knew you right away. Well, here’s the nuisance arrived at your doorstep. I must say you put a good face on it, because that smile looks genuine.”

  “It is, it is! Hello, Rodney dear. It’s lovely to see you …”

  He sighed. “You are a brick.” Then he put his arms around her and hugged her. “So,” he said, when they let each other go. “How are you? I haven’t even asked.”

  “I’m fine, Carl’s fine, everyone’s fine.”

  “Good. I’ll be happy to see Mr. Jennings again too.”

  “Why don’t you call us Carl and Christine? You’re going to be part of the family for a while and there’s no reason to be formal. You’re a big boy now. Come, we’ll find a porter and get your stuff in a cab. You must be tired after your trip. Was it a good flight?”

  “Yes, splendid. It’s really okay if I stay at your house until I’m shored up in a flat? My mother said I was not to be a bother.”

  “We wouldn’t hear of anything else. We have a study that’s scarcely ever used, with a very good sofa sleeper and you’ll have your privacy. A bath to yourself, though for showers you’ll have to share with Bruce. My son. Rodney, you’ve grown so tall!”

  “Douglas is catching up to me.”

  “How is Douglas?”

  “A pain in the you know what, younger brothers always are. No, seriously, he’s okay. A bit full of himself, quite the grand seigneur.”

  Again the laugh, the hand reaching up to toss back the shock of fair hair, the display of excellent white teeth. Christine hid a smile of her own. Saying his brother was full of himself! But she loved his youthful assurance. Why shouldn’t he be egotistic? Youth was the time for that.

  “We’re going to have a marvelous time,” she assured him in the cab. “I’ve all sorts of things planned. Also I’ve started looking in the paper for apartments. So far nothing much, but we’ll find something just right. You won’t mind if I help you fix it up?”

  “You’d do that?”

  “You may regret it. Possibly I’ll get in your hair, be bossy, and … Rodney?”

  “Yes, Mrs. — ” The smile flashed again. “I mean, yes, Christine?”

  “Could you give me some idea of how much rent you had in mind?”

  “No idea at all,” he said cheerfully. “I expect it will take me some time
to think in dollars rather than pounds.”

  “I see.” That wasn’t much help, she thought. It was true the Thornleys had all kinds of money, but still …

  “So this is America,” he remarked, looking out the window.

  “This is America,” she agreed. “I suppose you’re starved. I’ve made a festive dinner for you. It’s cooking away in the range right now, a standing roast. Will you like that?”

  He put two of his fingers to his mouth and kissed them. “La la,” he murmured, then put a hand over hers. Just for a second, but it felt so warming, it made her feel right at home. Though why she should think that when it was she who lived here she had no idea. She supposed it was because Rodney had been, in a way, an X quantity, and it had turned out that he was everything she had hoped for. Nice, friendly, companionable. Not at all ill at ease. He would fit in very well with the rest of them.

  “It’s a big place, this town,” he said a little later.

  “We’re far from “this town,” she told him, smiling. “This is no-man’s land, just a lot of dumps and factories, but before long you’ll catch a glimpse of this wicked city.”

  “It’s wicked?”

  “Just another metropolis with good and bad. Like London or Paris or Rome and so forth. Honey, you’re to be cautious, though, you must learn the no-nos. For example, Central Park. Off limits after five at the latest. My kids will set you straight.”

  “How old are your kids, Mrs. Jennings?” He caught himself up, his smile mischievous. “What did you say your name was?”

  It was like that all the way into town. Bandying back and forth; he was a bit of a tease, this Rodney. She felt as if she had known him all her life. How’s that for triteness, she asked herself.

  “Remember, in Annecy,” he said at one point, “when you couldn’t find a snapshot in a roll of film you’d just had developed? It was one of you, standing in front of the Casino. We were all passing the snaps around and then that one was missing. I filched it. You never could figure out where it disappeared to. I still have it.”

  “Rodney Thornley, you imp! I’m not sure I recall that — well, perhaps vaguely. Anyway, I’m flattered.”

  “I was a prurient little bastard, I expect. Well, then, I thought that would get a rise out of you, Christine.”

  “You sound like a native,” she objected. “Get a rise out of me indeed. You’re supposed to teach my kids the proper way to speak. I’ve sort of been depending on it.”

  “I shall try,” he said solemnly. “Then you can tell my Mum what a lovely boy I am.”

  “You are a lovely boy,” she said warmly. “Rodney, how is your mother?”

  “Very well, thank you. Garden Club, lawn parties, lending a helping hand where a helping hand is needed. You know, small philanthropic enterprises.” He slid down in his seat and chuckled. “Quite the English gentlewoman.”

  “While I vegetate and don’t engage myself in a single worthy cause. No, don’t shake your head, I mean it.”

  “A worthy cause is sitting beside you at this moment,” he reminded her. “That is if you really mean it about giving me aid and assistance in my haphazard peregrinations.”

  “You seem so much older than American kids your age,” she told him, wishing her own offspring had his verbal gifts. “Older and — well, different. A kind of different I very much like. And the way you take things in stride …”

  “Yes, well,” he said slowly, “we English are very good at maintaining a facade. The sky could fall and we’d still have tea at four of an afternoon. Don’t — uh — let it fool you. At the moment — ”

  He cleared his throat. “I wonder if you’ll believe this. I’m scared. It’s true. I want new experiences, but when they come my way I go all bonkers. Right now I feel about twelve years old, and that’s one reason I came, to get out of the bell jar. As you said, I’m a big boy now.”

  “Oh, Rodney,” she said, concerned. “Don’t be scared, don’t go bonkers. Don’t be homesick! I know, we’re just people you met a long time ago. Not so long for us, but practically eons for you. Relax, darling. You’re with friends. Take your time, take it slowly. Remember, you’re with people who love you. I mean that, Rodney. Carl and I have never forgotten you, or those lovely few days we spent in the Haute Savoie with you boys and your parents. It’s a precious memory.”

  “I never forgot you either,” he said, and straightened up in his seat, his face composed again.

  4.

  Rodney, the charmer, made instant inroads with all and sundry. Naturally Nancy made Cleopatra eyes at him, and he told her she was Titania, should wear a jewelled diadem round her hair and that if all American girls were anything like her he would very much enjoy being in this part of the world.

  “That’s a bit thick,” Nancy retorted, though clearly satisfied with his assessment of her. “You must have met dozens and dozens of American girls. I thought only Italians laid on the baloney like that. I thought British men were too busy ad’ miring themselves.”

  “You probably think we all wear bowlers and go to the city every day with furled umbrellas.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Some. The rest of us idle our time away at pubs and clubs and sleep late of a morning.”

  “Then you should mend your ways.”

  With Bruce Rodney was very matey, treating him like someone his own age, very man to man. He asked Bruce question after question about his studies, career aspirations and when informed about the latter turned to Carl with a congratulatory expression.

  “You must be frightfully proud,” he said heartily. “Your son following in your footsteps. It’s just what every father wants. Good for you, Bruce, I think that’s splendid.”

  As for Christine, he kept glancing her way every now and then, with a kind of conspiratorial look, as if they were in this together, he and she, a sort of Hansel and Gretel pair, venturing into the company of others and on their best behavior. She was amused at his proprietary manner toward her: he entertained the others rather like a host putting guests at their ease, but with her there was an air of insouciant camaraderie. She wouldn’t have been one bit surprised if, leaving the dining room after the meal for coffee and liqueurs in the living room, he had slapped her on the back with a pally hand and called her “Ducks.”

  He seemed, in fact, to have adopted her, rather than the other way around.

  They all stayed up rather late that night, discussing conditions abroad, the state of the dollar and fluctuations of all currency in these latter days, talking about employment and unemployment: all the polite things people talked about when they were still relatively strangers. Carl asked Rodney what his own career aspirations were and Rodney said, “Oh, I expect banking, or something beastly like that.”

  Then he slid down in his chair and shrugged. What he would really like to do was write. He thought he might have some aptitude for it. “Of course,” he admitted, “in England it’s not the same as here, an author sort of, you know, just barely gets by. In this country you have all kinds of juicy plums, large advances, big reprint sales, enormous advantages we don’t have. Anyway, I expect it’s something I’ll get over.”

  “Hey, why?” Bruce demanded eagerly. He was a serious reader. “Something creative, that’s the best.”

  “Time will tell,” Rodney surmised, and covered up a burp behind a hand. “Sorry,” he murmured, glancing at Christine. “I ate far too much, I fear, but it was such a splendid meal. We don’t get haute cuisine at home, not like that. Mum’s good at putting up jams and jellies and conserves, but as for anything else it’s quite ordinary.”

  “You have a cook,” Christine reminded him, smiling. “So don’t try to fool me. Furthermore, this may be the only showy meal you’ll have in this house. It’s not one of my pet occupations, chopping and dicing and braising and all that. I’d rather read a book.”

  “Bully for you.”

  “Maybe I’ll be reading one of yours some day.”

  “I shouldn’t c
ount on it.”

  The conversation was petering out. For the first time Rodney looked tired. Young and dewy and sleepy-eyed and, Christine thought probably dying to crawl into bed. It had been a long day for him. It was about five in the morning in the city he had just left, and Christine was abundantly familiar with jet lag.

  She got up. “Come, I’ll show you where things are in your room,” she said, beckoning. He dragged himself up and followed. “Good night to you all,” he called back. “Thanks for everything. Thanks so much, you’re all so kind. Cheerio and God bless.”

  “God bless,” Nancy replied, and the rest of them said simply “Good night, Rodney.”

  “You’ll be comfortable?” Christine asked him, pulling out the sleeper. It was made up, she had done that earlier. “Plenty of extra towels in the bathroom closet. Oh, and the refrigerator is raid-able in case you wake up dying for a snack.”

  “I shall be just fine,” he assured her. “Everything, simply everything is super. I can’t thank you enough. I feel so at home.”

  “That’s the way you’re supposed to feel. We love having you. I love having you.”

  “And now you’ll tuck me in, surely?” He twirled an imaginary mustache.

  “It’s not in the contract,” she said, laughing. “Good night, my dear, and sleep well. Sleep as late as you want. The kids will be off to school, Carl will be at his office, and you won’t have to hang a Do Not Disturb sign on your door. I’ll see to it that the housekeeper knows this room is off limits.”

  “I shall be up at dawn’s early light and ready to go,” he stated. “I have a whole set of plans, places to see, places I’ve heard about all my life. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to sleep for thinking about it.”

  “You’ll sleep, you look half dead already. So good night, and pleasant dreams.”