Diana let out a loud tut. ‘It won’t hurt you unless you startle it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It’s what my father says.’
‘Does he know about bees?’
‘He’s very knowledgeable on flora and fauna, as it happens.’
Geenie was silent. She wasn’t entirely sure what flora and fauna meant. Another bee whirred past, and she flicked her fingers close to her ear again. A hot, rotten smell wafted over from Arthur’s compost heap, and, in the distance, there was the regular thud of typewriter keys. Geenie knew this sound wasn’t coming from George’s writing studio. This sound was being made by her mother, who was typing in the library, as she did every afternoon until she went for her nap. Lately, Geenie had noticed that the door to George’s writing studio remained closed during her mother’s nap, and the only afternoon sounds that came from upstairs were Ellen’s snores.
Both girls were wearing white cotton camisoles. After lunch they’d decided to dress up as Pierrot clowns, but, finding no pompoms, neck ruffs or pantaloons in Geenie’s dressing-up pile, they’d had to settle for Ellen’s old camisoles and lots of make-up. Diana had inherited some theatrical face paint from her Aunt Laura, who’d once been on the stage, and Geenie’s face felt stiff beneath several layers of white pan-stick. She’d drawn a tear-drop on Diana’s cheek, close to her eye – which had got smudged and now looked like a squashed currant – and a downward mouth around her own lips, which didn’t look as tragic as she’d first imagined, since it had turned out lopsided.
The thump of the typewriter stopped and Geenie sat up. ‘Do you want to know what my mother is writing?’
It took Diana a few moments to respond. ‘Is your mother writing?’
‘She’s typing.’
‘Yes. But that’s different.’
Geenie decided that Diana’s squashed currant now looked more like a flattened fly. ‘Do you want to know or not?’
Diana sighed. ‘All right.’
‘She’s typing Jimmy’s letters.’ Geenie left what she felt was a dramatic pause. ‘For a book.’
Diana gave Geenie a sideways look. ‘What evidence do you have?’
‘I’ve seen it. The front page says: Collected Letters of James Holt, edited by Ellen Steinberg.’
‘Why would anyone want to read that?’
Geenie leaned close to Diana so her blonde hair brushed the other girl’s camisole. ‘Because Jimmy was very clever, and people like reading about clever men.’
Diana rolled her black-rimmed eyes.
‘And,’ Geenie continued, ‘and, there are probably lots of romantic letters in there. Love letters. You know. My darling I cannot live without you, I am dying of this amorous
Diana began to smile. ‘Shall we go and look, then?’
. . . .
They crossed the crisp grass, padded through the kitchen, where Kitty was huffing over the washing-up, and stood outside the library. Geenie listened at the door, pulling Diana in so close behind that she could smell the waxy scent of her make-up. Geenie was sure her mother would be upstairs by now, taking a nap. But, to be certain, she pressed her eye to the keyhole. It was dark in the library, even today, and she had to squint, but she could make out the outline of the empty chair by the desk, which was enough to convince her to turn the door handle.
The door creaked, just like it did in stories where children went places they shouldn’t. Geenie put a finger to her lips and hunched herself up on tiptoes. Diana clutched the top of her friend’s arm. Their camisoles rustled together as they crept across the rug.
‘Where are the letters?’ hissed Diana.
‘Ssh!’
It was a tiny room, not a quarter of the size of Jimmy’s library in their London house. There was no shining globe, no coloured maps on the walls. There were just shelves of books along every wall, the desk and chair, and, in the corner, the stuffed fox in a pair of spectacles and a hunting outfit which had been left in the cottage by the previous owners. Ellen had wanted to burn the fox on the fire, but George had said they should keep it, so it had ended up here, dust covering its red jacket, the bugle in its paw tarnished and bent.
Geenie stopped. Diana froze behind her. ‘What?’
‘I thought I heard something.’ Geenie narrowed her eyes and looked about, but nothing was stirring in the hot afternoon. As her heart slowed, she pictured the scene of her mother bursting in, discovering the two sleuthing girls. She would swoop down on them, label them snoops, send them to their rooms. Then, later, she would feel sorry, call her daughter into the sitting room, sit her on her lap and read aloud from The Last Days of Pompeii, and Geenie would imagine the grey cloud hanging over the Romans’ heads like a terrible speech bubble.
‘That’s horrible.’ Diana was looking at the stuffed fox.
‘It was here when we moved in. Your father wanted to keep it. He said it would remind us that someone lived here before.’
‘Shall we take his glasses off? He’d be better without his glasses.’
‘We’re supposed to be reading the letters.’
Leaving Diana squinting at the fox, Geenie opened the cardboard folder marked ‘personal’ on the desk and took a letter from the top of the pile. The paper was thin and soft, the writing long and slanting. Herbert, she read. Eliot’s latest is, as you say, a masterpiece. What a pity he is such a dullard. She let the letter fall on the desk and reached for another. Emily, Come as soon as you can. More interesting.We are having a party on the fifteenth, and everyone will be here, waiting for you to
‘Do you think they’re in love?’ With the fox’s glasses balanced on the end of her nose, Diana was looking out of the window. Geenie peered over her shoulder. Outside, Arthur was saying something to Kitty. She was studying the ground, and he was looking at her hair. They didn’t look to Geenie like two people in love. There wasn’t any shine about them. Kitty’s cheeks were flushed, but in a blotchy way, like a rash, rather than a glow.
‘Why?’
‘Housemaids are always falling in love with gardeners and errand boys and whatnot, aren’t they? My mother says they’re all flighty, and you have to watch them.’ Diana sat on the rug, pulled the glasses from her nose, and wiped her face, leaving a black streak across her cheek. ‘And it’s so hot.’ She flopped on her back and stretched out her bare legs. ‘Things like that always happen when it’s hot.’
Geenie fished out another letter. After scanning the first few sentences, she began to read aloud. ‘Here’s a good bit. How can I apologise enough for the other night, my darling bird? Sometimes Rachel’s talk does make me light-headed – as you said – but she doesn’t have the hold on me you imagine, my darling, please believe that—’
‘Who’s Rachel?’
‘She was Jimmy’s fiancée before my mother came along. Jimmy married her, but he always loved my mother.’
‘Why did he marry Rachel, then?’
‘It was a formality.’ This was the word Ellen had used when Geenie asked if it was true that Jimmy had married Rachel.
‘What else does it say?’
Geenie skipped the next few lines, then resumed. ‘When the operation is over and done, we’ll make a new start – Paris, Geneva, Rome – wherever you want...'She stopped.
Diana was looking out of the window again. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I don’t think they are in love, you know.’
Geenie sat at the desk and rested her cheek on the typewriter keys. The metal was cool against her skin. She closed her eyes and remembered it: how she’d come home from school and Dora had said, Don’t go up there, and there were voices in the drawing-room, and she’d heard her mother’s low wail. She’d started to shake, and had the sudden urge to go to the lavatory. Then, sitting on the icy seat, shivering, she’d waited for the sound of her mother’s voice; and when it didn’t come, she’d knelt outside the closed drawing-room door, and the doctor had appeared, saying, ‘Little girls who listen at doors will hear things they don’t like.’ She�
��d never understood why he was the one who’d looked angry. For days after, Ellen had said that Jimmy was still in the hospital but was too ill for visitors, but Geenie knew he was dead; her mother’s hands trembled and she hadn’t changed from her blue knitted suit since that afternoon. Then Geenie caught pneumonia and everything was hot and still for a while, and there was only her headache, which seemed to thud in every part of her body, and Dora bringing up bowls of tapioca each evening. When she was better her mother said, ‘We’ve got to be brave and get right away from here, it will be better that way, now Jimmy’s gone.’
‘Are you all right?’
Geenie lifted her head from the keys.
‘Shall we look at some more letters?’ Diana moved from the window and flicked through the pile. ‘They were just starting to get interesting.’
Brushing the other girl’s hand to one side, Geenie stuffed the papers back into the cardboard folder. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to read any more.’
· · · Twenty-one · · ·
Ellen drove into Petersfield carefully. It was early morning, not past nine o’clock, and for most of the way she was stuck behind a cart spilling straw and mud over the road, for which she was glad. It gave her a chance to think, and she’d never enjoyed driving fast. James had thrown the Renault she’d bought him around like a chariot, thinking only of speed, of getting there in time for aperitifs, while she’d hung on to her seat, laughing nervously, her heartbeat shrill in her ears.
Crane had suggested the picnic, saying they should take Kitty and Arthur with them to the beach at Wittering. A summer treat for the whole family. He seemed to be referring to the staff more and more as family lately, but Ellen didn’t much mind; at least it meant he was seeing her and Geenie as family, too, despite their not being married and there being no progress on the divorce from Lillian. But it was Ellen, of course, who had to oversee the whole outing, get Kitty going on the right foods (the girl had looked so crestfallen when Ellen had said no to Scotch eggs that she’d had to change her mind), and order suitable cold meat from Mr Gander; she’d even considered having some foie gras sent from Fortnum’s, but had decided against it because of the expense.
Thinking about it now, this afternoon’s outing would be the perfect time to make her announcement to the girls about her hopes for another child; if Kitty and Arthur heard it, all the better: everyone would know, then, of her seriousness about becoming domesticated. And it was absolutely right to have her hair styled before the event. No matter how it was set – pin curls, bias waves, brush curls – her hair always seemed to go its own way, but the new place in town looked surprisingly good – marble surfaces, a very clean front window, a list written in gold lettering which advertised MacDonald and Vapour Permanent Waving and promised Life Experienced Operators Only, whatever that meant. It was called Marie-Christine in the way of all such places in England; people seemed to think that some girl’s name or other would stamp the place with a certain glamour.
She parked the Lanchester near the market place and walked along the High Street, passing a young man in chalk-stripe flannels and shiny shoes who smiled at her so widely that she almost stopped to ask his name. After he’d passed, she realised that she’d forgotten to wear a hat again. It was better just to put one on, although it was far too hot and she hated the sensation of the thing pressing down on her head, making her scalp sweat. Otherwise, the shop girls just didn’t take you seriously, and you had no chance to convince them of your actual calibre after that first impression was gone.
The hairdressing salon was down a narrow cobbled lane next to a butcher’s shop where whole rabbits and headless deer hung outside, giving the street a slightly ripe aroma which, in this rising heat, reminded her of Naples. She’d never quite become used to the particular scent of this town – it was unlike any other she’d experienced in Europe. In the mornings, it smelled a bit like glue, but also, powerfully, of scorched clothes. Crane had told her it was the rubber factory. She found it vaguely unsettling: it was an intimate smell, a domestic sort of smell, that didn’t seem right out of doors.
She pushed open the glass door of the salon. The floor was green tiles, the walls washed in pale pink, and it was already steamy inside. The girl sitting at the back of the shop was painting her nails; she nodded at Ellen and asked her to sit in a chair next to the window and wait for Robin, who would be out in a minute.
Ellen was surprised when a man of about twenty-five said good morning to her; she’d assumed Robin would be a young girl who would duck her head, laugh at all the wrong moments, and probably fix Ellen’s hair into some tight and rather matronly shape which she’d have to comb out at home. The man was tall and wore a tunic that came high up his throat, like a dentist’s. His own hair was slick and blond, and he wore it long at the front. His nose tapered to a blunt point, as if it had been chopped off at the end, and his cheeks were spattered with tiny scars which must have been caused by acne, but which now gave his face a weathered, worldly-wise look.
Touching the hand of the girl who was painting her nails, he twisted round to survey the appointment book. ‘Mrs Steinberg?’ he said, glancing across to where Ellen was sitting. The girl nodded.
‘Get her washed, then. And don’t take too long about it.’
The girl called Ellen to the back of the shop and the usual business of the water too cold and then too hot began.
Once she was in the chair and the curtains – which were a hideous mustard yellow velveteen – were drawn around her cubicle, Robin pumped her into position. Then he stood behind her, examining her reflection.
‘Can you make it shine?’ she asked. ‘And wave? I’d like it tidy, but not too tidy, if you see what I mean.’
He gathered bunches of her hair in his fists. ‘Strong hair,’ he said. ‘Good condition. Never needs much.’ His voice was hushed, important.
She’d never thought she had strong hair, but now he’d said it, it made perfect sense. ‘That’s probably why it’ll never do a single thing it should,’ she said.
‘Is Madam from America, by any chance?’
‘New York. But I haven’t lived there for many years.’
‘How glamorous! May I suggest a Hollywood wave? With some sculpture curls?’
What was his accent? He didn’t sound like a local. More like one of those London actors who James had occasionally invited round for drinks. Slightly nasal, but with a lot of air in the voice.
‘I don’t want anything permanent.’
‘Quite. A soft Hollywood wave will suit Madam very well. Such an elegant neck should be framed.’
She beamed at this, but he didn’t return her smile. Instead, he reached for the glinting rack of scissors on the shelf below the mirror, and his hands began to fly with the blades, darting in and out, slicing through the air. Fronds of brown went this way and that as he cut Ellen into shape. As his fingers worked, her face seemed to come into focus. A head-on view of herself was always the most flattering: seen from this angle, her nose looked almost a normal size.
He’d nearly finished cutting by the time he spoke again. ‘Going somewhere special today, Madam?’
His hands were so quick and light.
‘Just a picnic. Myself and my – husband. And our daughters.’
‘Really, Madam? You don’t look old enough, if I may say so.’
She laughed at this, but he was silent, easing his fingertips around the top of her scalp to tilt her head to one side.
‘Your husband must be very proud.’
She caught his eye in the mirror. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Robin.’
He’d begun working on the waves, dousing her head in setting lotion and easing ridges of hair around steel curlers.
‘What’s that, Madam?’
‘He isn’t my husband.’
A smile grew on Robin’s lips. ‘Shall we curl it here, so it’s soft on the cheek?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Let’s.’
. . . .
&nbs
p; After half an hour under the drier, Robin reappeared, whisked Ellen’s chair round, and held a hand mirror to her face so she could inspect the back of her head. ‘Better,’ he said.
Her hair was indeed a sculpture of waves and light. Robin turned her this way and that, taking her in from all angles. As he swung the chair around, she noticed that his groin was level with her shoulder. When she looked in the mirror, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright, and he was smiling at her, his tough cheeks wrinkling.
‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘Absolutely delicious.’
‘Would Madam like anything else?’ He fingered the hair around her ears, allowing his thumb to touch her lobe for a second. ‘We offer all sorts of services to help a lady relax. Facials, mud wraps, personal massage. It’s very cool,’ he added, ‘in the back room.’
She could, of course, pretend not to know what he was suggesting; or she could pretend to be shocked, storm out of the place without paying and then collapse with laughter outside. But what would be the point, apart from saving herself a few shillings? She and James had gone to a brothel together in Paris once, and she’d watched as a tiny blonde rode him with an expression of utter boredom on her sour face. For James’s sake, she’d allowed another girl, much larger, with dimpled cheeks and the shiniest teeth, to suck her own breasts while she looked on. Throughout, she’d had the sense of being somewhere else entirely, and had wanted to brush the plump girl from her chest, like an irritating child from her lap.
But there had been no men on offer there. No young men with tough cheeks, airy vowels, and smiles like satisfied iguanas.
‘Maybe some other time,’ she said, liking the way her voice suddenly sounded very New York.
‘As Madam wishes.’
There was a pause.
‘And might I suggest a longer visit – perhaps even a permanent wave – next time?’
‘What a good idea,’ she said, admiring her own head of perfect curls in the mirror.
. . . .
Something was happening in the town when she drove back along the High Street. People were standing in shop doorways and along the edge of the pavement, looking towards the market square. Up ahead, a truck was swinging across the road and there was an awful racket, like children screaming in a playground. Ellen stopped the car and got out. The truck was coming towards her, swerving, its engine crunching as the driver changed gears. The screaming noise became louder. Then she saw something beneath the vehicle, being dragged along the road. Whatever it was was bellowing and kicking. At first she thought it must be a horse: there was brown hair, and hooves; but as the lorry came nearer, she saw the fleshy open mouth, the flared nostrils and the wet, black eyes. It was a cow, caught somehow beneath the wheels of the truck and being hauled along the road, its spindly legs kicking frantically, its hide scraping the asphalt. It must have cut loose at the cattle market, she thought, only to meet the wheels of this truck. Everyone in the street was standing perfectly still, watching the scene with wide eyes, and the driver himself seemed intent only on getting away. She could see his red face behind the windscreen. His lips clenched as he scraped the gears again. There was a hot smell of cow and rubber in the street.
The Good Plain Cook Page 14