There was no more laughter now, just the low gurgle of water in the pipes, and the ticking of the recovering geyser. Were they dancing together? Kitty herself had danced with a man only once. Her sister had set the whole thing up, introducing her to Frank, who’d worked at the bakery with Lou, at the Drill Hall dance. Kitty remembered the way he’d let his fingers wander from her shoulder to her neck, feeling the hairs that lay there like weeds – that’s how she’d always thought of her hair, like a clump of weeds on a riverbank, thick and straight, fanning out in broken ends, no particular colour. She rinsed it in vinegar every week but it was still the brown-yellow shade of Oxo cubes. All night she’d felt that she was pushing against his steps, because he kept getting them wrong; she hadn’t meant to do that, and told herself to stop, but he would keep standing on her feet when she’d polished her shoes specially, and he wasn’t the lightest of men, so she’d had to try to take his hot hand and correct it. Eventually he’d barked, ‘You’re leading!’ and she’d apologised over and over again but his hand was crushing hers by then; the bones in her fingers crunched together as he said, ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s the matter with you?’ She’d thought of her father looking at the clock and what her mother would have said to him to stop him dead, but she’d carried on dancing until the music stopped. Then she ran from the dance floor and out of the Drill Hall without her coat or hat, and Frank hadn’t come after her.
But not all men would be like that, she thought. Dancing with Arthur, for example, would be different: Arthur left his boots at the door before walking on her kitchen floor; he rinsed out his own cup after tea; his fingers were nimble when they loaded his pipe with tobacco.
But dancing with Arthur would be nothing like dancing with Mr Crane.
She opened her eyes, rolled on to her back and took up the soap. After she’d scrubbed herself everywhere she could – soaping between each toe, along each leg, swishing the water about between her thighs without touching anything for too long, then sliding the bar up her stomach and across her breasts, round the back of her neck and down her arms – she heaved herself out of the bath.
Now was the time to look, before she could think about it too much, before she was cold and shivering and needed to put the dressing gown on.
She stood before the full-length mirror. At first, she looked only at her own face. She was not, she’d decided long ago, pretty: her nose was too wide, her chin too prominent. But if she turned and looked back over her shoulder – like those photos in Film Pictorial – she wasn’t too bad. It was always better to look at her face when it was rosy from the heat, and viewed like this, all cheek and naked shoulder, her hair wet and dark and even a bit wavy, she looked not quite herself. It was strange how like another person she seemed, as she gazed at the length of her body in the mirror; strange how it all connected up, all the parts of herself she’d often thought separate: thighs to bottom, stomach to chest to neck and arms, and her head on top. She tried to take it all in, putting a hand on her hip and smiling. She blushed at herself in the pose, then giggled, leaning forward and putting her hand to her mouth so the tips of her breasts shook; she felt them beneath her arm, swaying. Taking her hand away, she watched her own fingers connect with her breast, and saw her nipple turn brown and wrinkled like a walnut. Was it normal for flesh to move of its own accord like that?
There was a noise from the sitting room: a shrieking laugh. It wouldn’t be long, then, before the other noises began. She turned away from the mirror, pulled her dressing gown tightly around her, and sat on the rim of the bath to watch the water run away.
· · · Eight · · ·
The sunlight, striking through the large French windows, flooded the dining room with warmth. Ellen and Geenie were at George’s sister Laura’s house in the nearby village of Heyshott, waiting for the new girl. They sat together at the wide table, watching petals fall from the vase of bluebells at its centre. Ellen was wearing her best red jacket, the one she’d had made in Paris with the white collar and cuffs, and her red heels. The jacket made her neck itch and she thought about removing it, but she wanted to look respectable for this meeting. She should have put more powder on, too. She could feel that her cheeks were flushed and damp, like Kitty’s always were at mealtimes.
Geenie kept rubbing at a knot in the wood, and Ellen clamped a hand on her daughter’s arm to still her. Diana’s mother, Lillian, was supposed to have dropped Diana in time for lunch. Now it was half past two, and there was no sign of Lillian, or of the girl. Ellen was, she told herself, ready to face the other woman in Crane’s life. She did pride herself on her tolerance of ex-wives. It was, she felt, a necessary part of being a bohemian. After all, Rachel had actually married James while he was living with Ellen, and she’d never run on at him for that. Rachel had been a pathetic creature: lumpy ankles and nails bitten down to the flesh. She’d begged James to marry her, saying all she wanted was the title – Mrs Holt; she’d promised never to bother him again if he granted her this one last chance of respectability. Ellen felt it was the least she could do not to carp about it, seeing as she’d stolen James from under Rachel’s (small) nose in the first place. And, in fact, Rachel had gone quiet after that. Whenever Ellen had thought of this other woman who was out there, legally bound to her lover, she’d always reminded herself that she was the one who had him in the flesh.
But Lillian was different. And not ex, even, not yet. What made it worse was that Crane wouldn’t say a word about her. She’d asked him again, last night, after the usual. Running a finger down his stomach, she’d enquired how he and Lillian had got on in bed. He’d looked at the ceiling and considered. He always considered his replies. Then he’d said, ‘Well enough.’ She’d tried another tack. How had they met? This time she’d propped herself up on one elbow and smiled, pulling the sheets up over her breasts to help him concentrate. ‘Through a friend,’ was the considered reply. Why had they separated, then? At this, he’d winced. ‘It just died,’ he’d said, very quietly, and he turned onto his side and said he’d like to go to sleep.
‘She’s late,’ said Ellen, squinting up at Laura. ‘Just like her husband. Like her estranged husband, I should say.’
Laura was leaning back on the French windows, smoking. In shiny black riding boots and a man’s green cotton over-shirt, dramatically back-lit by the sun, she looked like a film star in a girl’s horse-riding adventure. Her legs, hugged tightly by tan jodhpurs, were long and thin, like Ellen’s own, but, Ellen noted, Laura’s thighs were rounded like risen loaves, and her knees had no hint of knobble. Her black hair, cut in a bob with a severe fringe, was as glossy as her boots. When they’d first met, Ellen had thought Laura exactly the kind of woman she herself would love to be: sophisticated, daring, unpredictable. Glamorous. Gradually, though, it had dawned on her that Laura could only live the life she did because her solid, intellectual and thoroughly tedious husband, Humphrey, was always waiting in their well-appointed parlour for his wife’s return.
Laura narrowed her eyes, slid them sidelong, and drew on her cigarette.
‘I suppose ballet dancers are always late,’ Ellen continued. ‘Artistic temperament and all that. I don’t know why I don’t start being late. It might help my bohemian credentials. What do you think, darling? Would your brother love me more if I were late?’
‘Is she late?’ Laura asked, exhaling a curl of smoke.
‘Over two hours, darling.’
Laura nodded and slowly slid one hand over her rounded belly, first along the top of the little bump, then along the bottom. ‘I don’t have a watch.’
Ellen snorted. ‘How romantic!’
‘Not romantic. Practical. If you don’t have a watch, you’re never late, and you never expect anyone. Stands to reason.’
Ellen let out a hoot. ‘Laura, you are a strange creature.’
Laura brought her cigarette to her mouth in a long sweep and sucked on it.
‘Talking of expecting – when’s this damn baby due, darling?’ asked
Ellen.
Unpeeling herself from the French windows, Laura walked over to the table. She walked slowly, her boots clacking on the polished floor like a swashbuckler’s, the sun flashing behind her. She leant over Geenie so the tip of her bob pricked the girl’s ear, and ground out her cigarette in the ashtray.
‘Autumn, I think.’
‘You’re not sure? Not even of the month?’
‘I told you, Ellen. I don’t have a watch.’ She leant her elbows on the table and blinked at Geenie. ‘Don’t go dragging on that cig end,’ she said, fixing the girl with her bright green eyes. ‘How old are you, anyway?’
‘She’s eleven,’ said Ellen. ‘Twelve in August.’
‘Is that all?’ Laura shook her head. ‘Never mind. A couple of years and it will all be happening for you, with hair like that.’
‘Won’t it just?’ Ellen agreed. ‘She’s like something from a fairy tale, isn’t she, Laura? Men can’t resist helpless blondes.’
Laura smiled. ‘Neither can women.’
Bobbie, Laura’s help, poked her head round the door. ‘Mrs Crane and her daughter are arriving.’
‘Christ, I’m off,’ said Laura. ‘Tell Lillian I’ll see her some other time. I can’t face her prissiness just now. And I promised to meet Humphrey in Petersfield at three. Got to keep the husband happy.’
She scooped up her riding hat and jacket from the top of the dresser. ‘Don’t go snaring any helpless men while I’m gone,’ she said to Geenie.
Ellen watched her stride through the French windows and out into the garden, and – for just a second – wished she could straddle the back of Laura’s horse and ride off over the Downs with her.
Bobbie cleared her throat. ‘She’ll be here most imminently, Mrs Steinberg—’
‘All right, all right.’ Ellen touched her hair, scraped back her chair and straightened her jacket. ‘You stay put, Flossy.’
‘Why can’t I come?’
‘I think I’ll deal with this myself, darling.’
‘I want to come.’
Ellen sighed. She bent down to look her daughter in the face. ‘I’ll bring her through in a minute, then we can all go home together. It’ll only be a minute.’
. . . .
‘This is—’ Ellen stopped and stared.
She’d opened the door to the dining room with Diana in tow, only to find her daughter standing against the French windows, holding Laura’s cig end. Geenie was leaning her head back on the glass and trailing the fingers of one hand across her stomach.
The new girl stepped from behind Ellen. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Diana.’
‘I am a helpless blonde, darling,’ declared Geenie, and she lifted the cig to her mouth and sucked, closing her eyes.
Ellen looked from one girl to the other, then burst out laughing. Diana smiled, showing a gap between her front teeth, and Geenie blew out a big breath.
. . . .
On the way home, Diana was quiet. She was even prettier than Ellen had expected. Her black hair shone like wet stone, and her eyelashes were as thick as a doll’s. Ellen chattered as much as she could, occasionally looking over her shoulder for a response, but the girl just stared out of the car window.
‘You’ll love our cottage, Diana, I’m sure of it. It was a damp heap of ugliness when we first came, wasn’t it, Geenie? Now it’s quite the palace. Albeit a small one. And very modern, too.’
They’d been in the cottage for less than a year, and already Crane and Arthur had dug new flower beds in the garden, knocked kitchen and scullery into one room, installed the chugging electricity generator and built the writing studio. Sometimes she felt all Crane wanted was to demolish the entire cottage and start again. But, she reasoned, it was better to let him get on with it. Let him knock down all the old stuff, if that’s what he wanted. Much better to forget the past. Hadn’t that been what she’d wished for, when they’d moved to Harting after James’s death? She hadn’t let Crane loose on the library, though. That was her place. It was where she worked every day, typing up James’s letters. She’d collected enough now for a whole book. It was important work, and she wanted it finished by the end of the summer.
Ellen glanced over her shoulder again. Diana hooked her dark hair behind one ear and carried on staring out of the window.
Geenie was just as bad. After her little cigarette show, she was now sitting on the other side of the back seat, gazing at her knees.
‘Your daddy’s done wonders,’ Ellen continued. ‘He’s really transformed the place. It’s our country idyll, isn’t it, Geenie? He’s very clever with his hands.’
‘I know,’ Diana said, but still she didn’t look round. For some reason, she reminded Ellen of Josephine Baker: perhaps it was those smooth cheeks and lively eyes. She could see Diana easily controlling a pair of cheetahs whilst dancing an exotic number.
‘My mother says houses are his forte,’ added Diana.
‘And writing, darling, your daddy’s a very clever writer, isn’t he?’
‘But houses are his forte,’ Diana insisted.
‘What’s forte?’ asked Geenie.
‘It’s like a special talent, darling, like you and dressing up.’
‘Or drawing,’ said Geenie. ‘That’s my forte, isn’t it, Ellen?’
She looked up then, hopefully, and Ellen conceded, ‘That too.’
‘My mother’s forte is dancing,’ said Diana. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Mine?’ Ellen asked. The may blossom flashed past as she bit her lip. She couldn’t very well say sex. My forte is fucking your daddy.
‘I should say it’s helping people. Making them happy and comfortable.’
Diana looked confused. ‘Isn’t that what servants are for?’
Ellen turned into a slip road rather too fast and a man on a tractor shook his fist at her. ‘Ellen’s concentrating, darling.’
Of course, Diana’s mother probably had lots of fortes. It had been a short meeting, for which Ellen was glad. Lillian had worn a mint green hat like a miniature meringue, and a green short jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons. Her eyebrows were heavily plucked. But, Ellen had noticed, she looked old for her twenty-eight years. Perhaps all that dancing took it out of you. And Lillian’s legs – the part Ellen had glimpsed beneath her fish-tail calf-length skirt – looked no better than her own. She’d greeted her brightly enough, but had looked at her watch when Ellen suggested tea at Willow Cottage, which she’d done on a whim, really, suddenly interested to see how Crane would react to seeing the two women together.
And now here was this girl, thankfully much more like her father than her mother – big brown eyes, a straight, strong nose, prominent cheekbones – but when she closed her mouth, her lips were Lillian’s: large and slightly bunched together, as if she had plenty to say, but couldn’t quite bring herself to the bother of letting it out.
‘What do you like?’ Geenie asked Diana.
Ellen had almost forgotten Geenie was in the car. It was strange how her daughter did that, seemed to disappear under her cloud of blonde hair. She’d done it since she was small, her chin receding first, her eyes dropping to the ground, then her shoulders sagging forward, until her face was almost entirely covered by hair. It was what had made James call her ‘Flossy’. When she decided to make her presence felt with a scream or a tantrum, it was all the more shocking. Ellen remembered the time she and James had been fighting, and neither of them had known that Geenie was under the table until James threw a dish of hot beans at Ellen, and they’d splashed Geenie’s toes, making her yelp. They’d stopped, then, and spent the afternoon bathing the girl’s feet in a jug of iced water in the garden. That was in the early days, when such an event was still enough to stop them rowing.
She turned into the drive of Willow Cottage.
‘Do you like dancing?’ Geenie asked the other girl.
Diana shifted in her seat. ‘I’m still thinking,’ she said.
‘Thinking?’
‘About what I like.
’
Ellen stopped the car.
‘What do you like?’ Geenie asked again.
‘Come on, then, time to get out.’
‘What do you like?’
‘Reading,’ said Diana.
‘Oh,’ said Geenie.
Ellen got out of the car and opened the door for the girls.
‘And dressing up,’ said Diana. ‘I like dressing up and being in plays.’
. . . .
Diana forked up her luncheon-meat salad with one hand. Unlike Geenie, who scattered crumbs and left mounds of lettuce untouched, Diana ate everything and left the plate clean. Then she went on to tackle Kitty’s apple pie, using her spoon like a knife to cut the pudding into even chunks before slowly chewing each piece.
‘Look at that, Flossy,’ said Ellen. ‘A good appetite, even for Kitty’s food.’
Diana did not return Ellen’s beam, but Ellen pressed on regardless. ‘Good girl, Diana. Geenie picks at her food like I don’t know what. You’d think she ate between meals, but she doesn’t, do you, Flossy? No interest in food, is what I sometimes think. Like her father. Too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice.’
‘I liked Dora’s pies,’ said Geenie.
Ellen ignored this.
‘I like food,’ announced Diana. ‘Pies included.’
‘I dare say your mother’s taught you that.’
Diana looked steadily at Ellen. ‘No,’ she said. ‘My mother eats like a bird. She’s a ballet dancer and they can’t eat much or they get fat and lose their grace.’
‘How miserable for her!’
Diana scooped another piece of pie.
‘George eats a lot, doesn’t he, Ellen?’ Geenie pushed her own plate away and leant towards her mother. ‘He eats like a horse, doesn’t he? That means you’ve got a bird and a horse for parents, Diana.’ She giggled.
‘Maybe,’ said Diana, clicking her nails together.
‘George – your father – is totally indiscriminate when it comes to food. He’ll consume anything that’s edible. Or even inedible.’ Ellen looked down at the remains of Geenie’s luncheon meat. ‘I think I’m going to have to get someone in to teach Kitty a thing or two about cuisine. How to use salt and pepper, that sort of thing.’
The Good Plain Cook Page 6