‘What do you think of this one, Colonel? It’s called Ashes.’
He had looked at the card she had held out in front of him. ‘I’m afraid I’m no expert.’
His cottage walls had been painted throughout with magnolia emulsion. Laura had always chosen colours and materials and chosen extremely well. It was a knack, he knew, that some people had and others, like himself, did not. Joan Dryden would choose the most expensive ones, no doubt, but that was no guarantee of good taste. Sometimes it was the opposite.
‘They say green’s unlucky, don’t they, Colonel? But I’m not superstitious. Are you?’
‘Not generally.’
‘Kenny doesn’t like Ashes, do you, darling?’
‘It’s up to you, sweetie. Choose whatever you want.’
‘On the other hand, we could have wallpaper instead.’ She had indicated the mantraps on the floor. ‘But I think paint would look better in this sort of room, don’t you agree, Colonel?’
He had agreed. The well-proportioned room had seemed unsuited to anything fussy. It spoke for itself.
‘And, of course, we could always have patterned curtains.’ She had tweaked one of the sumptuous lengths draped at a window. ‘What do you think of this one?’
‘Very nice.’
‘You don’t sound sure, Colonel.’
‘As I said, I’m no expert.’
The phone by the fireplace had started ringing again and Kenneth Dryden had snatched it up. A terse and exasperated conversation had followed. The Colonel had taken his cue and his leave. Joan Dryden had accompanied him to the front door.
‘Poor Kenny. When he was making his travel documentaries he was left in peace to do things his own way. Now they’re always on at him with their half-baked ideas. Have you seen his new programme?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘There’s no reason why you should. It’s on in the afternoons. The graveyard time. He talks to over-the-hill celebrities and boring nonentities, and the studio audience is made up of pensioners. It’s been a bit of a shock to his system, not to mention his ego.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, it comes to us all, doesn’t it? The slippery slope downhill.’
He had said gallantly and truthfully, ‘I don’t see much sign of it where you are concerned, Mrs Dryden.’
‘Please call me Joan. You must come and see us again, Colonel. And bring your wife next time.’
‘I’m a widower.’
‘All the better.’ She had held out her hand as regally as before. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you, Colonel.’
He had walked away down the drive and when he reached the gateway he had glanced back to see her still standing in the doorway, watching him. She had waved to him, one arm gracefully uplifted, just like the Queen Mother used to do.
Naomi said, ‘What did you talk about?’
‘Not much. Mrs Dryden asked what I thought of a paint colour for the drawing-room walls.’
‘You must have made a good impression.’
‘Not necessarily. According to her husband, she always has great difficulty in making up her mind.’
‘Well, let’s hope Marjorie will be able to make it up for her.’
‘Even she might have some difficulty with that.’
‘I thought the Colonel was charming, Kenny. Almost an extinct species these days. Do you think there are any more like him in the village?
He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He’s a widower, you know. He’ll be very useful to make up the numbers for dinner when we have people down.’
‘Who’s going to do the cooking for these country dinners?’
Joan herself could barely make a cup of tea.
‘I’ll find someone.’
‘They won’t be up to London catering standards.’
‘We’ll keep things simple.’
‘Let them eat cake, you mean?’
‘What?’
Naturally, the Marie Antoinette allusion had escaped her.
‘And how about cleaning this house?’
‘Well, I won’t be doing it, Kenny.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
After nearly twenty years of marriage, Kenneth Dryden was well aware of most facts about his wife and one of these was that domesticity in any form was not in her make-up. It didn’t worry him.
Or hadn’t done while he had been making his travel documentaries and had been away for weeks, or even months, on end. In the early years she had been busy with her modelling – very successfully too. When he had first met her he had thought her one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She had knocked him for six. He’d regretted leaving his first wife, of course, but when he had set eyes on Joan everything had changed. All other women had paled into insignificance beside her and, in spite of the faults, later discovered, this remained true. He was no longer quite the star-struck lover of those early days but Joan was still in a class of her own and a big asset to him. People remembered her from her heyday. Joan Lowe was still a name to conjure with and it did his career no harm.
He said, ‘Well, I’ll leave all that side of things to you, darling. Just how often are you planning to have people down, as you put it?’
‘Most weekends, I imagine.’
‘There might be something to be said for having a bit of peace and quiet occasionally.’
‘Kenny and Joan? The folks who live on the hill? You must be getting old, darling.’
The trouble was that he was. Next month he would be fifty-eight – nearly ten years older than Joan. The years spent travelling rough to the furthest corners of the earth had taken a toll and his afternoon TV show was taking even more of one, for different reasons. He hated doing it. He hated the pointless format. He hated the idiots who made it. He hated the dumb studio audience and, most of all, he hated the tenth-rate participants. None of this showed, of course. He was ever the genial, smiling host, ready with witty jokes and kindly encouragement. But it was a strain.
He said, ‘It’s bloody tiring doing the show. The batteries need recharging at weekends.’
‘Well, you could always stay in London.’
‘While you come down here?’
‘It wouldn’t worry me, Kenny. We’ve spent plenty of time apart, after all. I’m used to it. So are you.’
This was perfectly true but going away had been a necessary part of his work. He’d done it to earn a crust. Or more like the loaf it took to keep Joan in what she considered the vital necessities of life – a spare-no-expense apartment, designer clothes, must-be-seen-at restaurants and shows, exotic holidays and now the Marie Antoinette bucolic playhouse, apparently to be furnished on a Versailles scale. He had seen the eye-watering prices of the fabric samples lying around. And Clarissa wasn’t cheap to run either, even though she dressed in rags. At the moment, it was driving lessons – an inordinate number of them, it seemed. Soon it would be a car, and not any old car. Only the newest and coolest would do. And new and cool invariably equalled expensive.
He had earned very good money with the documentaries but hardly vast Hollywood sums and the afternoon show did not pay nearly so well. Sometimes – but not often – he admitted to himself that he was in danger of becoming almost as much of a has-been as the forgotten celebrities on his show. If they gave him the chop, he didn’t think he’d care – in fact, it would almost be a relief.
Except for the small matter of Joan. She was high-cost maintenance and he had to keep treading the wheel to provide for it. Somehow.
FOUR
‘I’ve just been speaking on the telephone to Mrs Grimshaw, Roger.’
The Major poked gingerly at his lunch plate. Some kind of stew again, he supposed. Probably another recipe wrenched from a magazine at Marjorie’s hairdresser’s. Whatever kind it was, he couldn’t identify any of the ingredients, though that chunk there might be carrot, or, God forbid, swede.
‘What about?’
‘The Colonel called on the
new people at Hassels – Mr and Mrs Dryden.’
Had he, indeed? He wouldn’t have put the Colonel down as such a fast worker – not at all the type to push himself forward, though there was no denying that he always seemed to make a good impression. Must be something to do with being an old soldier. Old soldiers were respected in society. He’d found that himself, as was only right when you’d served your country faithfully for years and put your life on the line. And, of course, the Colonel had kept his hair and all that sort of thing. He was tall, too. Not that height counted with women. Look at Napoleon, for instance – Josephine couldn’t have cared less that he was on the short side. And Monty had been pretty small too, not that he’d ever been a ladies’ man, by all accounts. Quite the opposite.
He said, ‘I’m told Mrs Dryden was a fashion model once.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Can’t remember. She was quite famous, apparently. Under another name.’
It was definitely swede, not carrot, he decided, testing the watery yellow chunk. Animal feed! He thought wistfully of the curries when they’d been in India and Malaya. By Jove, those chaps knew how to cook! The food actually tasted of something, not like this mush.
‘Well, Naomi Grimshaw says that the Colonel thinks she might do for the Snow Queen.’
‘What Snow Queen?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Roger! The Frog End Players’ Christmas play. We talked about it, remember?’
He did, but not the details. Some silly fairy tale they were doing instead of a proper pantomime. Odd that the Colonel had got himself involved. Not his sort of thing, he’d have thought.
‘Has she agreed?’
‘We haven’t asked her yet.’
He remembered the glimpse he had caught of Mrs Dryden when he’d been driving by in the Escort. Only a glimpse, but it had been enough to put him in the picture. He prided himself on knowing about women – could sum them up with one look.
‘Doubt if she’d be interested.’
‘Nonsense, Roger. The Drydens are new to the village so they’ll be very keen to join in things. To be accepted. Besides, I’m going to call and ask her personally myself. She’s bound to agree.’
He wasn’t a betting man but if he had been, he’d have said that the odds were about even.
In Marjorie Cuthbertson’s opinion, there was no time to lose. As soon as lunch finished, she left Roger to do the washing-up and walked briskly out of Shangri-La and the cul-de-sac in the direction of Hassels. Unlike the cul-de-sac bungalows, huddled cheek by jowl, the Georgian house stood on its own in two acres or more of land. Large but not too large. Far more manageable than Frog End Manor, for instance. She had always admired it. It was exactly the sort of place she would have wished to retire to, and would have done so if only Roger had made more of a success of his army career. Her father had been a Major General, after all, and although Roger had seemed promising enough when she had first met him as a keen young subaltern, it had to be said that he had turned out to be something of a disappointment.
Fortunately, she had had the sense to make the best of a poor situation and had adapted to retirement in a bungalow, deploying her own natural authority and her organizing capabilities in as many village affairs as possible. However, when she approached the front porch of Hassels and lifted the brass knocker, the regrets returned.
Her knock went unanswered. She waited for a few minutes and then used the knocker again, harder this time. It took a third knock, louder and firmer still, before the door was wrenched open by none other than Mr Dryden himself. She recognized him from his travel documentaries which she had occasionally watched when they had been home on leave, though he looked a good deal older in the flesh and smaller, too. Apparently, that was often the case. She thrust out her hand with a confident smile.
‘I’m Marjorie Cuthbertson. Welcome to Frog End.’
He beckoned her inside – rather impatiently, she thought. Not quite what she was used to, but then manners had declined as other things had advanced. She stepped over the threshold. The previous owners had been quite unsociable and she had never actually seen the inside of the house. The hall was just the sort of spacious entrance that she would have liked and a far cry from the cramped passageway at Shangri-La. She could see herself greeting guests graciously here, and in the proper manner.
‘I’m on the phone. Wait here, please.’
He disappeared, leaving her marooned among a sea of packing cases. As she waited, a girl came slouching down the staircase and passed her without a nod, let alone a smile. Really! She might have been completely invisible. Mr Dryden returned.
‘I’m sooo sorry about that. Something I had to deal with rather urgently.’ He was smiling a very charming smile. ‘Would you mind telling me your name again?’
‘Marjorie Cuthbertson.’
‘Of course! It’s kind of you to call, Mrs Cuthbertson. My wife, Joan, is in the drawing room, trying to decide between curtain fabrics. She’d be delighted to meet you.’
Mollified, she followed him into the room, which made the Shangri-La’s sitting room seem even more inadequate than its hall. She noted that the girl who had passed her was now lying full length on a sofa, flicking through the pages of a magazine. She was wearing blue jeans that had frayed holes on both knees. Someone had once explained to her that this was intentional and that clothes manufacturers ripped holes in perfectly good cotton to make wearers look like tramps.
Kenneth Dryden said, ‘This is Mrs Cuthbertson, darling. She’s called to welcome us to Frog End.’
The woman standing over by the window was holding up a length of material at its edge. When she turned round Marjorie Cuthbertson saw that, for once, Roger might have been right about her having been a famous fashion model, and why the Colonel had considered her very possible for the Snow Queen. She had seen photographs of such women in magazines. Very glamorous. Very haughty. And wearing couture clothes that cost quite scandalous amounts of money. Fashion models used to be called mannequins in the old days, if she remembered rightly, and were considered a rather low form of life, whereas nowadays some of them seemed to have acquired exalted celebrity status, for what that was worth. Personally, she found it extraordinary that clothes should be given such importance. Their prime function, after all, was simply to cover you decently and to keep you warm or cool, depending on the weather. She herself had a useful stock of garments left over from the army years spent abroad in hot climates which still came in useful occasionally in England for what passed for summer. Otherwise, she dressed almost invariably in tweed skirts and woollen twin sets or polo neck jumpers, with a quilted gilet on top if necessary.
The woman had put down the length of material and came closer. No doubt about it, she looked and moved the part.
‘How do you do. I’m Joan Dryden.’
The voice was right too. It matched the face. Ice cold and aloof. Better and better, Marjorie Cuthbertson thought to herself. She’ll hardly have to act at all. She can just be herself. I might as well get straight to the point. No time to waste.
She said heartily, ‘We could do with some new blood in the village, Mrs Dryden. Would you be interested in joining the Frog End Players? We’re keen as mustard to get new members.’
‘The Frog End Players?’
‘Our amateur dramatic society. We put on two productions a year: one during the summer and another at Christmas. Although I say it myself, we’re very professional. The local press always gives us a good write-up.’
Kenneth Dryden was smiling. ‘I think you should join, darling. You’d get to know people.’
‘I already know a great many people, thank you, Kenny.’
‘But not in Frog End. Perhaps you’d be interested, too, Clarissa? You’d meet some of the young people round here.’
The girl lying on the sofa rolled her eyes. ‘Spare me, Dad.’ She went on flicking through the magazine pages.
Joan Dryden said, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to disappoint you, Mrs Cuthb
ertson. I’m not interested in amateur dramatics, and nor is my daughter – as you can see. In any case, we’ll be spending the greater part of our time in London.’
Marjorie Cuthbertson played her trump card, as she saw it.
‘That’s a great pity. We’re looking for someone to play the starring role in our production this Christmas and I happen to think it might suit you extremely well.’
‘Really?’
She plunged on regardless. ‘You see, we’re doing The Snow Queen!’
‘The what?’
‘The Snow Queen. The well-known fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen which we’ve adapted for the stage. I think you’d be perfect as our queen.’
The Major was sure he could feel a sore throat coming on. Or perhaps it was flu? Whatever it was, it needed urgent attention. You couldn’t be too careful at his age and that was a fact. He’d just finished reading the day’s obituaries in the paper and there were two names he’d recognized. Chaps he’d known in the distant past.
With any luck, Marjorie wouldn’t be back for a while from calling on the new people. Time enough for him to have a medicinal glass. Something to kill off the bugs before they took hold.
He got up from his armchair and went boldly over to the cocktail cabinet. As he opened the lid ‘Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes’ started up loudly but, with the old girl out of earshot, there was no need to worry. It could play away all it liked and he could take his time.
‘Or leave a kiss within the cup
And I’ll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine
But might I of Jove’s nectar sip,
Bitter Poison Page 4