As she looked, someone came to the gate. He appeared quite suddenly, his approach hidden by the tall shrubbery, and stood with both hands on the top of the gate, staring in at the car and then – no doubt of it – directly at Barbara. It was a bold stare, as if she, not he, were the outsider. He wore flannels, an open-necked shirt and a dusty black hat which he lifted as he caught her eye. The gesture struck her as mildly impertinent rather than courteous.
Flustered, she opened the door and stepped out.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Do you know,’ he pursed his lips and frowned. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ He was well spoken and his voice was light and quick as a boy’s.
‘Did you want to speak to the Brigadier?’ she asked primly. ‘He is here today.’
‘Is he? Is he really?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about you – just enjoying a pleasant run out into the country?’
He was straight-faced but she knew she was being teased. ‘May I ask who you are?’
‘I’m the Brigadier’s neighbour, Jonathan Eldridge – ah, here he is.’
‘Eldridge?’
Stanley came out of the front door and strode towards the gate, clipping her shoulder without apology as he passed.
He only barely lowered his voice, but she had the impression she was not intended to hear.
‘Eldridge – what do you want?’
‘Afternoon, sir. Nothing whatever, I saw the car and was taking a dekko, in case there were intruders, burglars, what have you, just being a good neighbour.’
‘Well thank you, but everything’s under control. Mr and Mrs Prayle are always here, as you know.’
‘Still, you can’t be too careful.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
There was no doubt in Barbara’s mind that Eldridge had been dismissed – almost rudely, in her opinion – but he made no move to go.
‘Just down for the day? Beautiful weather for it.’ When Stanley didn’t reply, Eldridge leaned slightly to the side and directed his next question to her. ‘What do you think of it round here? Delightful part of the world isn’t it?’
Even shadowed by the hat brim, his eyes were mischievously bright. She realised that she was being invited to collude, in however small a way, with this complete stranger against Stanley.
‘I haven’t seen much of it.’
Stanley tapped the top of the gate. ‘Now if you’ll excuse us.’
‘But of course.’ Eldridge lifted the hat briefly and replaced it rather on the back of his head. His dark hair was lank and untidy, his skin pallid. Apart from the pallor he looked, she thought, like a gypsy. As he moved away, he fished a cigarette packet out of his pocket and raised the hand holding the packet in an airy salute.
‘Glad I saw you. If you’re down this way again come and knock on my door.’
Stanley watched him go – ‘saw him off’ was the phrase that sprung to mind – and returned to her side, breathing noisily like an agitated horse.
‘Not for the first time Barbara, I owe you an apology.’
‘Why?’
‘For seeming rude, to you, and to that fellow.’
‘You don’t like Mr Eldridge.’
‘No, but that’s no excuse. I find him aggravating, he has an insinuating manner but he’s harmless.’
She considered this and was less sure. Stanley was flustered, not something she’d seen before.
‘Why don’t we go and sit in the loggia? It’s nice and cool there.’ She suggested gently.
‘I was going to take you to the golf club for lunch.’
‘It’s not lunchtime yet.’ She went ahead of him, out of the garden door and into the loggia. Before he could argue, she had opened one deck chair and he had little option but to open another.
‘This is nice, such a pretty garden.’ She linked her hands behind her head and they sat in silence for a moment before she asked, ‘So where does Mr Eldridge live?’
‘Down the lane. He’s the tenant at Keeper’s Cottage.’
‘What about the keeper?’
‘These days he has a house on the Barton estate. It’s been many years since a keeper lived down there.’
Barbara could sense him settling and regrouping after the annoyance.
‘And what does Mr Eldridge do there?’
‘Some sort of painter, God knows.’ Stanley settled his shoulders. ‘I have really no idea and even less interest.’
That had put a stop to her questions, but Stanley had one more. He put it to her on the drive home, following a pleasant lunch in the golf club Guests’ Dining Room and a walk up to the Salting Beacon. As they turned inland, away from the shining coast, she said,
‘What a lovely day, thank you so much.’
‘You thought so? You enjoyed yourself, really?’
‘Very much, I can see why your mother gave the house its name.’
He muttered something about that being fanciful and then added gruffly, ‘I didn’t spoil things for you, I hope?’
‘Spoil them, no. How could you?’
‘I mean by jumping the gun.’
‘No, not at all.’ She looked out of the window at the blackberry hedges streaming by, the rounded fields beyond, and thought Please don’t! Please don’t say any more about it – please!
‘I want to say just one more thing, if I may.’
‘Of course.’ Her voice was small.
‘As you know, I go back in a couple of weeks and it could be as much as a year before I’m in England again. I would deem it the most enormous favour if you could, perhaps, give some consideration to my proposal before I leave …?’ She was silent and he glanced at her. ‘Would that be out of the question? Barbara?’
Stanley had never been anything but straight with her. She owed him the courtesy of a straight answer.
‘I shall. I shall give it very serious consideration and I promise to let you know before then.’
‘Thank you.’ The happy relief in his voice jolted Barbara’s heart. ‘And I, in my turn, hereby undertake not to mention the subject again until I hear from you.’
Five
Mutual discretion dictated that no further arrangement was made between her and Stanley until the night before his departure, when they would be having drinks with her parents in London and dinner at the Savoy. The date sat in her diary, a source of quiet but unavoidable dread.
With the Season over, the early autumn days at Ardonleigh trickled gently by, marked by nothing more than walks with the dogs, tennis with friends and the vague idea that she should get some sort of little job now that she was fully ‘out’ and grown-up. When this idea occurred to her, she always set it aside because of the shadow of the Great Decision.
If she said yes, her job would consist in being Mrs Govan, a role she was even less qualified for than anything else. She had told none of her friends about Stanley in so many words – though their antennae were attuned to such things. Quite a few of them were now engaged and making plans, of the others the well-off were hell-bent on further fun, frolics and foreign travel. The less well-to-do girls headed towards brief courses in cordon bleu and Constance Spry in the cheerful expectation that something (or more accurately someone) would come up. Barbara knew that in the eyes of any of these she would be an object of considerable admiration, if not actually envy, but she could not bear to discuss it.
Her father was careful to betray no awareness whatever of the situation, let alone her dilemma. Julia, however, couldn’t contain herself and one morning over weekday breakfast à deux, she gave into temptation.
‘Have you heard from Stanley since your trip to Devon, darling?’
‘No Mummy.’ Barbara was not taken in by her mother’s tone. ‘I haven’t.’
A moment ticked by, during which Julia poured both of them more coffee. ‘He is such a dear.’
Barbara helped herself to milk. The newspaper lay, still folded, at the end of the table; she longed to open and hide behind it, but
Julia was launched now.
‘He thinks the absolute world of you, you know.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘Oh yes. I’m sorry, but I absolutely have to ask …’ Here it comes, thought Barbara, lifting her cup like a shield. ‘… how do you feel about him?’
Barbara closed her eyes, sipped and swallowed. ‘I like him. We get on.’
Julia gave a little hoot of laughter. ‘That’s no answer!’ She cocked her head. ‘I hope …?’
‘Very well, I give in.’ Barbara put her cup down. ‘Stanley asked me to marry him.’
Julia’s long fingers flew to her cheeks. ‘No!’ Her mouth described astonishment, but her eyes were lit with delighted satisfaction. ‘A proposal! Really and truly?’
‘Don’t tell me you’re surprised.’
‘Well, of course—’
‘You and Daddy knew he was going to, when he came down before.’
‘Before? Oh, then. He had mentioned it to your father; he’s an extremely correct man, but as far as we were aware, nothing transpired.’
‘It didn’t. Not on that day. He asked me when we visited his house.’
‘Ah, I see …’
Julia’s face was quite swollen with anticipation; Barbara was suddenly aware of her own power. She was no longer a child, she was the person holding the cards, and the feeling was not invigorating.
‘The house is a bit gloomy inside, but the garden’s lovely and the position is wonderful. You can look down over the cliffs, and the rooftops and the sea.’
‘So, in effect, he was saying “all this can be yours” …?’
‘He asked me if I’d like to share it with him, yes.’
She paused and let the pause extend until Julia was obliged to end it.
‘And would you?’
‘I promised to tell him before he left.’
‘Poor Stanley …!’ There was a laugh in Julia’s voice. ‘Not a situation he’s used to!’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Barbara realised this was true. ‘Do you know—?’
‘No, no – goodness no! Your father says he’s never lost his heart or his head, at least as far as he’s aware.’ Julia leaned forward, all womanly sweetness. ‘You’re the first to have that effect.’
Barbara couldn’t help it – she felt a pulse of pride, followed immediately by one of shame. Confusion and anxiety swept over her and her voice when she answered reflected that.
‘You’re wondering what I’m going to say to him.’
‘Of course that’s none of my business, darling. But I need hardly say, you could do a great deal worse and many would say not a great deal better!’
A few days later, when Barbara turned down Stanley Govan’s proposal of marriage, those words, rather than any feelings of her own, were what influenced her. Her own feelings were unformed and unawakened, she scarcely recognised them. The possibility of doing a great deal worse was uninviting and of not doing much better, uninspiring. If Stanley’s previously intact and self-possessed heart was broken, he didn’t show it. He expressed the keenest disappointment, but also respect for her decision. His cheeks grew a little pink. They finished their dinner quickly and quietly, and he drove her home in a silence that held no shadow of resentment. She had never so fully appreciated his unwavering concern for her own comfort. He saw her to her door and, as they stood at the top of the steps, she spoke.
‘I’m so sorry, Stanley.’
‘My dear, there’s no need.’
‘I hope you understand that …’ She wasn’t entirely sure what it was that she wanted him to understand, or how she would frame it, so it was a relief when he immediately stepped in to the awkward silence.
‘I understand everything. These past few weeks have been a source of the most enormous pleasure to me.’
‘And to me.’
He took her hand in both of his and, for the first time, kissed her. The kiss was placed on her forehead like a blessing.
‘Goodbye Barbara. Please give my regards to your parents, I shan’t come in tonight. I look forward to seeing them on my next leave.’
She noticed, with a pang, that she was not included in this hope. Though her goodbye was small and dry as an autumn leaf, her eyes stung. By the time he reached the bottom of the steps, she had gone into the building and closed the door behind her. Both her parents were discreet, barely raising their eyes when she said goodnight. She went straight to bed, where she cried and cried before falling asleep. When she woke in the morning she felt light and fresh, rinsed through by relief.
Rosemary was among those former school friends with whom she had stayed in touch and the only person of her own age in whom she confided. Neither was engaged, nor employed, nor (for the moment anyway) qualified to be so. As others who had done the season moved on, or away, and became at least nominally grown-up, they reverted to a kind of childhood. Rosemary came to stay and the two of them spent days walking the dogs, patrolling Jiggins round the lanes on his lead rope, eating apples in the chilly hayloft and perfecting dance steps to the gramophone. They wore comfortable clothes and shoes and let their hair go its own way. Julia had swallowed her disappointment and wisely said nothing. After Christmas, things would inevitably change.
Barbara’s revelation was handsomely rewarded. Ros gaped and then shrieked,
‘No! Lawks a mercy!’ They were fooling about playing first-to-fifty in the billiard room. ‘Were you expecting that?’
‘I suspected it might be coming, but sort of hoping it wouldn’t.’
‘I can jolly well imagine!’
‘Please don’t tell anyone.’
‘Hope to die!’
‘No one at all, Ros.’ Barbara felt a pang of remorse and what she realised was tenderness for Stanley. ‘Please. Promise.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Ros replaced her cue in the rack and flopped down in one of the green, leather armchairs, with her legs over the arm. ‘But what a dark horse, Bar – you do at least owe me the story.’
‘There isn’t much of one.’
‘Do your very best.’
When she’d heard what there was, Ros said, ‘Well, you obviously did the honourable thing. In spite of his brilliant war, his many virtues and his palatial house—’
‘It wasn’t palatial.’
‘All right, his gentleman’s residence, what did you say it was called?’
‘Heart’s Ease. His mother named it.’
‘Gosh!’ Ros pulled a friendly smirk. ‘A romantic streak in the family, then.’
‘She certainly had one.’
‘In spite of all that, you turned him down.’
‘I didn’t love him. I couldn’t …’ Barbara leaned down, picking at the pile of the Afghan rug by her feet. She added in a practical sort of voice, ‘And anyway, I could never have coped.’
‘What was that? Coped? Of course you could. If you’d wanted to, you’d have coped and Stanley would have helped his pretty, little wife.’
Barbara could hear the tease, which then became a laugh, plucking at the tension of recent days and weeks until she began to laugh too. When Julia opened the door a moment later she found the two of them rocking, shrieking and snorting like a couple of drunks and was far from sure what to make of it.
Gerry Gorringe was a nice, goofily amusing young man, whiling away time in the city, while waiting to inherit rolling acres in Dorset. His invitation to attend a ‘house party and treasure hunt’ – while his people were in New York – came at just the right moment, when the darkening weeks before Christmas might otherwise have grown tedious. Ros was back at home and suffering from the flu, but Julia positively ushered Barbara out of the house and into the new Sunbeam roadster that was her pride and joy.
‘This is exactly the right thing,’ she declared, zooming injudiciously round corners en route to the station, she was a dashing driver. ‘You need a bit of proper fun after everything.’
Barbara forbore to say that the ‘everything’ referred to had probably
caused her mother more distress than her, but she did point out that she had been having fun, with Ros.
‘Ros is an absolute dear, but that’s hardly the same.’
They both knew that by ‘fun’ Julia meant mixed company and the opportunities it afforded. But she also meant well and Barbara was looking forward to the weekend. On the telephone the night before her father had enjoined her to ‘lark about a bit’. After the school-girlish interlude with Ros, the prospect of jolly, undemanding company and games with others of her own age felt like the natural next stage.
But the next stage of what? She wondered, as she closed the train door and joined her companions – a befurred dowager in a Persian lamb hat and her sweet-faced, paid companion – in the first-class compartment. She and the young woman exchanged a quick, collusive smile. Outside the window, the brown-and-green countryside with pewter-coloured winter woods began to chug past beyond the smoke. Barbara thought, I am lucky, so lucky not to be at the beck and call of a spoiled old woman … lucky to have friends, and invitations … lucky to have time … Lucky (she made herself think this) to have escaped.
Time, yes. That was why she didn’t feel as lucky as she should. After this weekend, time spread out as featureless and heavy as the pale sky outside the window. The pleasant sensation of relief could not, by definition, last long. You were embattled, then relieved, then you regrouped and moved forward. But she wasn’t doing that, was she? She was replaying the past year like one of those songs you got on the brain, that you couldn’t shake off.
The Gorringes’ Georgian manor house was freezing. That night after dinner, they danced in the drawing room, to keep warm as much as anything. Fires lit in marble baronial grates looked cheerful, but seemed only to be warming the spinney of chimneys far above. There were twelve of them, including Gerry and his brisk older sister Marjory who, along with Sugden the farm manager, had ferried those arriving by train the three or four miles from the station. About half of them were familiar to Barbara; Gerry was, of course, with his rush of teeth, chortley laugh, gangly legs and paddle-like hands that he employed to such droll effect on the dance floor. There was also the pale, patrician Lucia, who (with Ros) had made up their triumvirate at St Agatha’s. Julian and Edgar were two young men from London with enough cash and flash to ensure their attendance at any party. Then there was a fashionable, sarcastic, young woman called Molly (christened Molly the Libertine by Lucia) who was scarecrow-thin in her slippery, stylish clothes, with a cap of raspberry-red hair, slanting, kohl-rimmed eyes and a crackling laugh that could be heard across the room. The rest of the group seemed to be old county friends of the Gorringes, comfortably at ease with their host and his icy house.
The Rose in Winter Page 4