A Tale of Two Families

by Dodie Smith

  Fran was wrong. Mildred, after Robert left her to make her own way, spent some little time thinking about them all and feeling disappointed. But apart from her irritation with Fran about Penny, nothing said or done had actually distressed her. She was disappointed simply because nobody had provided any food for her imagination.

  From her childhood, the chief pleasure of her life had been to tell herself stories about people. She had always been secretive about this, partly because she had as a child vaguely equated ‘making things up’ with telling lies, and even more because she was guiltily conscious that the most pleasurable stories were erotic in content. She was possessed of, and by, a powerful imagination of a very freakish kind in as much as it was entirely focused on her own conception of people; she had no interest in what they might be feeling, and therefore no insight into it – hence her complete lack of realisation when she was being annoying. She did not try to please or displease and had no idea that she was an instinctive displeaser or why she was.

  In her youth she, herself, had been the heroine of all her stories. (The heroes had been actors, other celebrities and, quite often, unknown men whose faces, seen on a bus, in the street, in a newspaper, had attracted her. Once she had seen a man driving a four-in-hand and made use of him for weeks.) But for many years now she had found it difficult to imagine about herself, because she liked her heroines to be young, and to think of herself as young not only put a strain on her imagination but also made her conscious that she wasn’t young. So she bowed out of her imaginings and was always on the lookout for attractive and inspiring younger people. Television had provided good material but no longer did. Girls’ skirts were too short, men’s hair too long. Actors and celebrities weren’t what they’d once been. She was also in need of new settings for her stories and had counted on the Dower House to provide them.

  Well, so it might, she told herself, tripping towards the woods. And it was absurd to be disappointed just because the company at lunch hadn’t been inspiring. How could she have expected it to be? She had sometimes thought that June might be used as a romantic heroine (if on the old side) but her perfectly happy marriage to Robert was dull. May wasn’t in the least romantic and had no right to be married to such an attractive man as George – though Mildred admitted that May handled him sensibly and had long ago congratulated her on this, saying how wise it was to accept that some men had to have many women in their lives. George, ah, George! He was a rake – a word Mildred loved. She’d have no hesitation in imagining his rakish adventures if she could lay eyes on some exciting girl.

  Fran and Baggy… would it be interesting to imagine them falling in love with each other? It would not. In the days when Mildred had been her own heroine Fran had often played a part in the same story, a subsidiary part and coming out of things pretty badly. But Fran, now… no, highly unromantic. Baggy had been nicer than Mildred had expected. Would it be possible to imagine a romance between Baggy and herself? The idea startled her so much that she stopped dead, to consider it. But no, it wouldn’t do: that shapeless old man. It was, however, interesting that she had momentarily considered imagining about herself again… rather exciting.

  She reached a small wood which, Robert had told her, contained nightingales. But it was too tangled for easy walking. She went on until she came to a wood where the walking would be easy. And here she would take a rest. But she soon found that this wood didn’t invite sitters. There was no grass beneath these old, heavily leafed trees. It didn’t occur to her to wonder what kind of trees these were; she simply knew they weren’t the kind she wanted. What she did want were lithe, young trees with the sunlight filtering through their rustling leaves. She also wanted something she thought of as a mossy bank.

  For some minutes she continued walking without pleasure. Then she saw sunlight ahead and shortly came, if not to a mossy bank, to a place where the trees were thin and there was grass which invited her to sit on it. She sat, and spread her flowered skirt around her. She must, she felt, surveying her small green shoes, look very like an illustration to a fairy tale. But her imagination no longer functioned in fairyland. She let her thoughts drift where they willed.

  Would they be missing her at her hotel? (Of course it was a hotel, not a boarding house.) Most of them were staying on, in discomfort, during the redecorations. Such dear, devoted people, they all counted on her – but alas, such dear dull people; it was years since any of them had offered food to her imagination. At this time of the afternoon most of them would be taking a nap, as she normally would herself. It would be pleasant to fall asleep in this place – could one describe it as a ‘glade’? A glade was even more romantic than a mossy bank. She lay down, closed her eyes and smiled, imagined her serene face under the afternoon sunlight, imagined how she would look to anyone coming out of the dark wood.

  And then a really valuable memory stirred, a memory of a daydream she had made use of again and again when she was a girl. It had begun when she went for a picnic all by herself in some woods – where? That didn’t matter. She had thought of herself as a nymph, and there had been a creature…a faun, a satyr? Ah, now she remembered, it had been the great god, Pan. She hadn’t used that daydream for years and years – and now it was potent again. And it was about herself, an ageless self just as Pan was ageless. She must on no account open her eyes; that would break the spell. She must lie there waiting.

  Pan would be ruthless. He would tear her clothes off. No, clothes were unsuitable. She mentally removed them, allowing herself only the kind of clothing suitable for a nymph… wisps of chiffon, a few leaves. Then she removed even those. She would lie here naked, under the sun. A hot wind blew from the cool forest, Pan was coming, there was no escape. He was here, above her.

  It was no use. She couldn’t sustain the daydream. She was suddenly conscious of the hard ground and something crawling over her instep. She sat up and felt dizzy, not from bliss but because lying flat on her back always did make her dizzy… something to do with blood pressure but her doctor assured her it was normal for ‘a woman of your age’. The remembered phrase hit her unpleasantly.

  Dizziness passed. She removed the caterpillar from her ankle. It had been a mistake to think about herself as a nymph, to have wasted such a wonderful resurgence of imagination. But perhaps it wouldn’t be wasted. She might revive it if she could think of a suitable nymph. Perhaps when she saw Corinna at the weekend… Up to now, Mildred’s imagination had refused to be interested in Corinna and Hugh; a romance between two innocents was just plain dull. But it would be all right to have an innocent nymph, seeing that Pan would be anything but innocent. Yes, Corinna as a nymph (terrified) was a distinct possibility.

  But it would probably be better to concentrate on George – and she’d want to, once she’d seen him again. He would be wonderful to imagine about, if only she could find him some beautiful woman. Perhaps she’d see someone on television or – yes, this was an idea – he might have a glamorous secretary. Mildred tried to visualise her and tried to visualise George in his city office; it would be an imposing place such as tycoons on television favoured. Soon he would say a few last charming words to the secretary (the romance between them should, as yet, only be budding) and then stride out to a powerful car – Mildred had been told that he almost always made the journey by train but she preferred him in a powerful car, tearing through open country. Dear George! Dear rakish George! She would wear her newest dress for him tonight.

  It would have pleased her to know that he was, at the moment, thinking of her.

  He had left the City early and come to Piccadilly to do some shopping, his first purchase being an expensive box of liqueur chocolates for ‘poor old Mildew’. She was undoubtedly a nuisance but probably not as black as she was painted in family discussions – and he could be as down on her as any of the others. In the mellow mood induced by spending money on her he decided she was merely a slightly dotty old lady, more to be pitied than disliked.

  Wondering if he should
also buy chocolates for Fran it occurred to him that he never thought of her as any kind of old lady, merely as an intelligent and most likeable woman – and Fran was three years older than Mildred and, though she looked young for her age, she didn’t look as young as Mildred did for hers. But there was something freakish about Mildred’s preserved youth, and the word ‘preserved’ described it well. It was a sort of frozen youth. Perhaps she suffered from a new disease, deferred age, and would suddenly crumple and decay. He must tell May that – but on second thoughts, he wouldn’t, as it might not awake May’s tolerance but simply increase her dislike for Mildred, which wouldn’t add to anyone’s comfort. He finally dismissed his wife’s aunt from his mind with a valedictory thought that early and frequent rape might have made a different woman of her – and why she couldn’t have come by it, or a respectable equivalent, he simply couldn’t imagine, seeing that she must have been a beauty. Something odd there. He’d once asked Fran about it but got no change out of her.

  Regretfully, he decided against chocolates for Fran; it would detract from Mildred’s. The same applied to May and June; anyway, the three of them were always thinking about their weight. Personally, he thought May ought to put on a little; her type of prettiness needed to guard against skinniness. June was just right at present. He had only recently realised that she could sometimes look quite voluptuously beautiful. He wished she could have more money to spend on clothes. Now that they lived so close to each other May never bought any clothes for herself without buying the equivalent for June, but they were only wearing simple summer dresses. He would have liked to see June in something rich – and she would conveniently be having a birthday sometime this month. He’d discuss it with May.

  Coming out of Fortnum and Mason’s at the back, he made his way to Piccadilly past the side windows. There was an amber negligée which would look well on June. He’d have liked to buy it but it might not be much use to her in the country. Still, he’d describe it to May. What else should he buy today and for whom? He was in the mood for spending but rather lacking in ideas. He didn’t need anything himself and, anyway, he only got a kick out of spending money on other people. It was his form of gratitude for happiness and he was at present extremely happy. For that matter, he’d been happy ever since they’d moved to the country but the happiness had increased, most noticeably, just lately. Why, exactly? Summer weather?

  Today was delightful, even in London, and would be more so when he got back to the country. Not that he had any particular longing to get out of town. He felt kindly disposed to the jostling crowds in Piccadilly, particularly to all the girls in their preposterously short skirts which made one long to pat their bottoms – merely as a friendly gesture; he was conscious of no sexual drive behind the thought. Indeed, he had been conscious of no extra-marital sexual drive behind any thought for months. Most peculiar, especially considering that he had, at the moment, an enchantingly pretty secretary who, though equipped with a steady boyfriend whom she intended eventually to marry, had managed to indicate that she was capable of driving a tandem. George, while liking her very much, had never felt a flicker of temptation. That kind of thing was out. And not simply on May’s account. When moving to the country he had only sworn to himself that no more goings-on should take place under her nose. He hadn’t sworn that the close season would operate in London.

  Odder still was the fact that his mood today strongly resembled feelings he was apt to have when about to start a new affair. At such times the happiness that was normal for him was increased in a way which never failed to astonish him. Exhilaration and, surprisingly, peacefulness combined to achieve a sense of complete rightness – never did he feel in the least guilty. Not, that is, just before or during the affair. He had felt retrospective guilt – also prospective guilt, for he had always been certain there were other affairs ahead. Now he felt no such certainty and he had no desire to.

  Perhaps he was settling down, getting middle-aged; but if so, he had no sense of loss. He had never felt more contented. Summer, the country to go home to, the two households… what a success it had been, linking up with Robert and June. Yes, everything was right.

  Rightness, for George, was the equivalent of God’s will to the religious. If he felt it about a state of mind, he accepted it unquestioningly. If it applied to a course of action, he was grateful for such guidance. He considered himself a shrewd businessman but he frequently made decisions which had nothing to do with shrewdness. He just saw them as ‘right’, knew he had been given the go-ahead. Later, he had been known to say to himself, ‘My God, I must have been psychic.’ But he didn’t really believe that. It was simply that he had the knack of recognising ‘rightness’.

  The only thing that wasn’t ‘right’ this afternoon was that he had an itch to spend money and didn’t know what to spend it on. Then he sighted Hatchards. Of course! He could take home a present of books for the two households. That wouldn’t detract from the ‘special favour’ of old Mildred’s chocolates. She could share in the books – though, according to Fran, Mildred seldom read a book. ‘You see,’ Fran had explained, ‘books aren’t about her.’

  He spent a happy half-hour in Hatchards, using his flair for knowing which books were likely to interest which members of the family. Then, heavily laden, he took a taxi to Liverpool Street Station. For once he didn’t feel like joining convivial acquaintances in the buffet car (‘rightness’ was better savoured in solitude) so he found a quiet compartment and spent a pleasant hour glancing at the books he’d bought… a pity he didn’t get more time for reading.

  It was warm in the train, even on the non-sunny side. He was glad to get out on to the windy platform. Mysteriously, it was always windy, even when there was scarcely any wind; today, in the station yard, there was only a light breeze. Pleasant to see so many welcoming wives, children and dogs – though he hadn’t any desire to be welcomed himself; he always enjoyed his solitary drive home. Not for the first time, it struck him how remarkable it was to see so many dozens of cars parked outside quite a small country station. Soon the supply of country properties suitable for commuters would run out. He wished they could buy the Dower House instead of renting it. But they’d got it for five years and could probably renew their lease. He drove back to it, with the car windows all down, feeling as benign as the early evening air.

  As he entered the house he saw May corning from the kitchen with a filmy pink dress over her arm. He said, ‘Hello! That looks very fetching.’

  ‘Positively dreamy but don’t imagine it’s mine. I wouldn’t be seen in anything so juvenile. Aunt Mildred will soon be delighting your eyes in it. I managed to get three of her four evening dresses pressed before tea but she particularly wanted this one. Just let me take it up to her and then I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘I’ll get you one.’ He had noticed that she looked both flushed and tired. ‘Shall I take it upstairs?’

  ‘Oh, do. I simply must get some peace before dinner.’

  He got the drinks and carried them up to the bedroom. The evening sun was shining on the windows, which stood wide open. There was enough breeze to stir the flowery chintz curtains and the air was both warm and fresh. He could smell newly cut grass; May had persuaded a retired gardener to come out of retirement for her.

  She came in smiling cheerfully but obviously hot and tired.

  ‘Lie down for a bit,’ he told her, putting her drink on her bedside table.

  ‘Yes, I think I will. I’ve got a couple of Matsons here. They’ll dish up for me.’

  She took off her dress and lay down in her slip, closing her eyes. George got out of his town suit, washed at the fitted basin, and put on a short-sleeved shirt and some thin slacks. He said nothing as he thought she might have fallen asleep, but eventually she opened her eyes and said, ‘What sort of a day?’

  ‘Pretty good. How about yours? Has the old girl been worse than usual?’

  ‘Not really. And we got a nice long rest from her this afternoon.
Then she strolled in saying she was gasping for tea an hour after it was cleared away. Still, that wasn’t much skin off my nose.’

  George looked at her closely. ‘Then what was?’

  ‘I suppose it’s just sheer dread of having her here for a whole fortnight. She’s never actually stayed with us before – one advantage of having no spare room in the flat. Oh, I’m probably being ridiculous but…’

  She left the sentence trailing so long that he prodded her. ‘Well?’

  ‘I feel… a sort of indescribable horror of her. It’s a bit as if she had leprosy or something – except that I’d feel sorry for a leper and I don’t feel one bit sorry for her. I just feel she’s a repulsive kind of menace. Go on, tell me I’m being fantastically silly.’

  ‘Well, of course you are,’ said George, kindly. ‘And you’re also being fantastically unlike yourself.’ So much so that he felt worried about her. May did not go in for vague horrors. ‘Now you take it from me that she’s an annoying old thing but perfectly harmless. Do you know of any real harm she’s ever done anyone?’

  ‘Yes!’ said May instantly, then avoided his eyes. ‘That is, Fran’s told me things.’ Untrue, and most unfair to Fran who rarely said a word against Mildred. What would he feel, May wondered, if she disclosed that her first jealous suspicions of him had been awakened by ‘harmless’ old Mildred, who had thus forever deprived her of peace of mind? ‘Oh, well, sorry to be a bore.’ She sat up and drank her drink.

  George sat down beside her and stroked her neck soothingly. ‘Anyway, don’t bother with Mildred this evening. Don’t talk to her, don’t even listen to her. Leave her to me.’

  ‘You are kind.’

  ‘Good. I feel kind.’

  She was smitten by a tiny anxiety. George was never less than kind; kindness was the keynote of his character. But she had come to realise that he was especially kind when about to embark on an affair. (Not that, even mentally, she used that word. She still, in spite of bloody, bloody Aunt Mildred, thought in such terms as George’s ‘goings-on’, ‘nonsenses’, still hoped that she hoped for the best.) She didn’t believe the extra kindness was an attempt to lull her suspicions. She guessed he was lovingly trying to compensate for any unhappiness he might cause. She accepted the love lovingly – but was apt to become, as it were, alerted. Ought she to be alerted now? She doubted it. He surely couldn’t have the time for nonsense, coming home every night and every weekend and with most days not long enough for all the work he had to do. This was kindness without strings to it, and she very much liked having her neck stroked. But she had to get ready for dinner.