The journey to Dorset was difficult. Constance knew that if she had submitted to Gerard’s wish that she travel by train, her leaving the house for a few days would have been very much easier. She would have had only to pack, with her daily woman’s assistance, and to allow Mrs Daly to drive her into Oxford to the station. She felt, in spite of this, that now her arthritis was not too bad, she ought really to make proper use of the little black Morris she had bought as a suitable car for a widow, and this made a good deal of trouble. She thought that the car ought to be serviced before she drove it such a distance, and while it was being serviced Mrs Daly was put to inconvenience because no shopping could be done; and Constance herself found she had not bought all she needed for Combe Chalcot, not even a birthday present for Eleanor. Eleanor would be four on Thursday, and Constance would see exactly how her daughter-in-law organised a children’s party.
The drive to Dorset exhausted Constance, who would have thought nothing of it three years before when she and Hugh had often driven, although they employed a part-time chauffeur. She did feel very independent as she parked in the gateway under the cedar tree and looked at the house with its bare shivering creepers, and the dying crocuses at the sides of the lawn. It was this independence she knew she wanted. She was beginning to think she had been a bad wife and mother.
*
‘Constance!’ said Finola, running into the hall, where Sarah was asking after Constance’s health. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
They brushed cheeks, and parted.
‘I’m really too old to be driving such long distances alone,’ said Constance, smiling. ‘I’m rather dreading driving back, already.’
‘I’m not surprised! Sarah, please will you ask Signora Goldoni to make to some tea for us – tea with a bit of brandy, Constance?’
‘That will be delicious,’ said Constance rather faintly.
‘We’ll have it in your sitting-room, it’s warm in there. I’m so sorry Gerard isn’t back yet, he’s gone up to Dale Wood. They’re digging a new drain or something.’ She led her mother-in-law down the passage, thinking of things to say.
‘Oh,’ said Constance.
‘Yes, and cutting down most of those alders in the middle, Gerard’s going to plant ash.’
‘I suppose he’s been learning all about woods, forestry?’ Hugh had preferred animals to woods.
‘Yes, he has, he loves trees you know.’
‘I hope the pheasants won’t be disturbed.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. I suppose he told you he’s going to let the shooting,’ she added.
‘Let the shooting, you say?’
They were now in the sitting-room, settling themselves into chairs. Finola, believing that she should not have said this and Gerard would be displeased, but that she could cope with that, said: ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Very sensible of him!’ said Constance. Hugh had always said that Gerard was a very bad shot, the worst in the county.
Finola’s tense expression gave way to pleasure, then puzzlement.
‘I see you haven’t changed very much in here,’ said Constance, looking round at the grey and coral room. She had taken away the very pretty china which used to stand on the mantelpiece, but Finola seemed to have added nothing at all of her own.
‘No,’ said Finola. ‘No, not yet. I haven’t got round to that sort of thing, there’s so much to learn – lots to do! And it is so pretty as it is.’
She still did not feel there was a lot to do, for she felt it would be almost rude to compete with Katie Van Leyden, who did all the correct things in the way of local charities, and committees, and walking hound puppies (even though she could not afford to hunt regularly, as Gerard and Finola could have done had they been the right sort) and visiting people in the village in just the right way. As she glanced quickly at her mother-in-law, Finola remembered that, according to Katie, Constance had never been as popular with the village as she had been in the county. ‘Only gave up literally going round with a covered basket just before the war. And you can imagine her inspecting things and all that, too rude.’ Finola had not thought of this possibility before Katie told her, though when she had been told, she did not doubt it.
Constance looked at her, and though she did not show it, she was surprised to learn that such a person as Finola could be busy. ‘Of course one does learn it’s not a life of leisure,’ she said. Constance was sure that Finola’s disposition made any boredom she might happen to feel not a quarter so bad as her own.
‘Yes, one does. I saw how busy you were, during the war.’
They shifted. Finola had spent the first two years of her marriage at Combe Chalcot, living with Constance and Hugh, waiting for the war to end and for her baby to be born. Finola had never allowed herself to believe that Gerard might be killed, and she had felt a little guilty ever since for having acknowledged no serious fear. It might have happened so easily, and she shivered to think of it now.
In 1944, suddenly removed from the Wrens, from towns and queues and bombings, she had thought simply of the perfection of Gerard; and of the meals which divided each day at the Cedar House. She had thought of the food with wonder, and inarticulate gratitude, for Constance had managed to produce excellent dinners with game from the estate and vegetables from the garden, and the help of Mrs Daly who had written recipes for the Ministry of Food. Constance had been very kind to Finola at that time, and had taken far more interest in her pregnancy (which had rather embarrassed Hugh) than Finola had herself. She had supposed it was the growing baby which had made her so sleepy and unsuitably serene.
Finola, firmly stroking one of the dogs as she thought about this, considered that age was improving Constance’s looks. Last year she had looked a stout white-haired sixty and now she looked over seventy, her proper age. She was a good deal thinner than she had been, and so her resemblance to Gerard was no longer obscured by flesh, and it was more obvious than ever that she had once been a beauty. Finola wondered now at the physical revulsion she had imagined she felt for her mother-in-law, who had never had anything wrong with her, after all, but self-willed obstinacy and a moderate plumpness.
‘Yes, I was busy,’ said Constance, smiling a little as she played with the pearls round her neck. ‘Such a pity, one feels now – one was always far too bossy, really, to be awfully popular. With the tenants especially. Of course one always wants to have one’s time over again.’
Finola dropped Trumpy’s ear, and stared. She thought herself responsible for a change in Constance’s character so pleasant, so intelligent, that it would be positively embarrassing. Gerard would be sure to say that good had come out of evil, and his mother had never deserved their dislike.
She heard his voice in the hall, followed by his footsteps, and when he came in she watched him kiss his mother’s broad patient forehead. Then he turned to Finola and asked her something about Eleanor’s party, and when she had replied she left them, though she had not finished her tea. She went up to the nursery to talk to Nanny about sweet coupons for jelly beans, and emergency pos, and paper for pass-the-parcel, knowing that she ought really to wait for Richard. He would soon be home from school, and he would want to show how old he was by slouching into the sitting-room in clothes ready for the jumble sale, with his catapult and chewing gum in his hand. Though Constance was old-fashioned about the presentation of children, she would probably be most indulgent today.
*
Eleanor’s party took place three days later, and Gerard insisted on remaining in the house, though Finola knew the noise would disturb him. She did not want him to hear howls from discontented children, and then to blame her for things going wrong. Eleanor was angry and unhappy because, the day before, she had been taken into Shaftesbury to have her hair cut and she hated the result as much as she hated the new smocked dress which had come from Hayfords’ just in time. Finola agreed with her daughter that the ear-length little-girl cut, ornamented with a bow, did not suit her coarse dark hair an
d vigorous little face, and she said so, but Eleanor seemed to think that, if they wished, Finola and Nanny could restore her shaggy pigtails.
‘Such fun!’ said Constance.
‘Nanny thinks so,’ said Finola. ‘If you ask me, we only do it for the wretched nannies, the children practically never enjoy themselves, I’ve noticed.’
‘Oh really, Finola!’
‘I’m afraid she may be right,’ said Gerard, and she turned for a moment. ‘Well, here’s a car, I’d better absent myself.’
‘You won’t be able to work in the study, with all the noise,’ said Finola.
‘I’ll be all right.’
Gerard left, and Finola and Constance walked out into the hall, each thinking of the mention she would make of this affair in her next letter, to Winston Lowell and to William Warren. In the hall, where the big table was laid for birthday tea with lots of coloured paper, Nanny and Eleanor were already waiting.
‘I hope you won’t find it as bad as you expect, Ellie,’ said Finola, picking up her daughter’s hand and squeezing it.
‘I don’t want to have a party.’
‘Oh, you never know, you might meet Mr Right,’ said Finola, imagining when the words had escaped her, that she was an old woman of fifty with a débutante daughter.
‘Finola,’ said Constance.
‘You are a funny one, Mrs Parnell!’ said Nanny.
Finola was smiling vaguely at one of the pictures, thinking she must tell Winston Lowell of her depressing vision.
‘What’s Mr Right?’ Eleanor asked her, as Sarah opened the door to the first guests: Nanny Foxe-Grayson, who carried a huge suitcase, and her three charges in travelling clothes. The Foxe-Graysons were very rich, very stiff, and very horsey, and though they were close friends of Constance’s, they were not the people whom Finola and Eleanor wanted to see first at the party. ‘What’s Mr Right, Mummy?’
‘I’ll tell you later, darling. Nanny, could you show Nanny Foxe-Grayson and Jennifer and Harriet and Johnnie,’ – she hoped she had remembered the names correctly, but it did not really matter – ‘up to the blue room, isn’t that where they can change?’
‘What is Mr Right?’
Eighteen children between the ages of seven and two came to the party, and there were also four mothers, three nannies in uniform, and two vacant-looking au-pair girls. All arrived so punctually that at first the hall was rather chaotic, and no one noticed for five minutes that Eleanor was sitting under the long table, feeding biscuits to the dog, Amelia. She felt so much better after she had done this that she behaved quite well for the rest of the party, and Finola told Nanny not to tick her off.
‘I wouldn’t dream of doing so, not in front of other children, Mrs Parnell. That’s very bad psychology, in my opinion.’
‘Is it, Nanny?’
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so, I’m sure. This is ever so nice! Ellie is enjoying herself after all, isn’t she?’ Nanny turned. ‘Baby all right, Brigitte? Oh, she is gorgeous, isn’t she?’
The baby was dribbling in the au-pair’s arms. Finola reminded herself that she could scarcely blame Alice for refusing to nurse her as a baby: she herself had never been able to feel love for a child below five or six months in age.
Constance retired from the hall before the children had settled down, having realised that the mild disorder was not Finola’s fault but the fault of the times. Occasionally, when Gerard was a very small boy, she had taken him with his nurse to children’s parties where every child was constantly attended to, and all wore their fancy dress correctly. Today only the Foxe-Grayson children in organdie presented a proper appearance, and ate the bread and butter: many of the others were in plain grey shorts or Liberty print, and they ate only nuts and sweets. One little girl, whose mother talked of progressive education, wore corduroy dungarees.
The noise was quite as bad as Finola had warned her husband it would be. She kept up conversation with the mothers, who were drinking tea and eating digestive biscuits in the corner, while the nannies supervised the table. She thought she would tell Winston that it was rather amusing, because she had never done it before, but that she thought there was a good deal to be said, after all, for her own parents’ haphazard methods. Well, as he said, I am a bohemian by birth, she thought, moving her lips as Carlotta brought in the birthday cake, which the children did not want.
*
Half an hour later, Gerard looked into the drawing-room, where the children were playing musical chairs, and blinked across at his wife, who was running the gramophone.
‘Daddy!’ said Eleanor, who was less shy with her father than Richard sometimes was, and was rather bored with the game.
‘Are you enjoying your party?’ he said in a low voice, clearing his throat.
‘It’s all right.’ She looked back for a moment at the other children.
‘I’m glad.’ He put his hand on her head for a moment.
‘Eleanor, darling,’ called Finola, ‘I’m going to start the music again, and I can’t if you won’t sit down!’
When she had placed the needle on the bouncing record, she went over to Gerard, who was looking at the children with a worried smile.
‘Something wrong, Gerard?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Gerard, who had wanted to see the party for a moment or two. ‘I don’t know if you heard the telephone?’
‘No,’ said Finola.
Gerard looked at his hands as she looked at him. ‘Well, it was William Warren ringing, asking for Mother of course. It seems his wife’s died – died only this morning.’
‘Goodness,’ said Finola. ‘Oh, poor Lady Warren. Is Constance all right?’
‘Yes – yes, but apparently she’s had quite a shock. She says Warren never told her his wife actually had cancer.’
Finola paused. ‘She’s always been in and out of nursing homes.’
‘Yes, I think Mother thought she was very much a creaking gate.’ His lips twitched, and then he looked solemn.
Finola remembered that this was a children’s party, and closed her mouth before she could ask Gerard whether there was any chance of Constance’s marrying Sir William now. ‘I suppose your mother will want to go up to Sedley Warren,’ she said coolly, and returned to the gramophone. Gerard wondered why he had bothered to tell her: he had thought she would be interested. He left the room.
Finola played and stopped the gramophone five more times, rather too quickly to make it fun for the children. She was thinking again of how she had never had a party when she was a child, and of what a silly sort of dutiful party this was, and of all the grown-up parties Constance must have given in this house. Her mind returned with a start of mild, blushing interest to Gerard’s little bit of news, and she wondered if Sir William had ever visited Constance’s present house, which she and Gerard had seen only in a photograph. ‘I do wish,’ she murmured, pleased with her low words as she gazed at the gramophone, ‘this house didn’t still smell of her.’
Finola raised her face, as she suddenly thought that, if Gerard would only consent, she would ask the adulterous Miranda to do up at least a part of the house. She would properly renew her knowledge of her, and then she would be able to talk it all over with Anatole, and to take more interest in Darcy instead of in Gerard and Winston Lowell.
The music stopped and the needle grazed the centre of the record. Finola watched it: she had allowed the music to play for rather a long time, when there was only one chair left.
‘I’ve won!’ called Eleanor, who was very quick and strong and ready to scramble. ‘I’m the winner.’
For a moment, Finola thought this unsuitable: if Eleanor was not able to make herself give way to others, she ought at least not to boast of it.
CHAPTER 14
FINOLA IN LONDON
Finola’s taxi drew up outside a narrow house in Bruton Street. She was impressed by its discretion: through the large window, she could just see Miranda’s quiet showroom, but there was no display behind the glass
, and Miranda Pagett Designs was written only on a small plaque by the door. Finola looked up the front of the building to the second floor, where she supposed was Miranda’s office. She had wanted to come in March, but had had to wait until May, because Miranda had been in France.
Miranda was in the showroom, talking with the manageress. Finola entered very quietly and quickly looked around before she was noticed. It might all be quite all right. Miranda’s materials were unusual, but the designs aimed at a fluid simplicity which could be mixed with expensive furniture of any period, and Finola thought that some of them were beautiful. She was fingering a pale grey chintz with a stylised pattern of port-wine red, and wondering at Miranda’s invention, when Miranda came up to her.
‘Finola! Have you just come in?’ They did not kiss.
‘No, I’ve been looking, I didn’t want to disturb you. How are you, Miranda?’
‘I’m quite well. And you?’
‘Oh, we’re both fine – I’m glad I was able to look round, this material’s awfully good, and that one, too.’
‘Glad you think so,’ said Miranda. ‘That’s actually one of my own.’
‘Aren’t they all?’
‘No, I’ve got a couple of other people who design for me. I haven’t enough ideas to stock an entire shop’. She paused. ‘Let’s go upstairs, I never talk about business down here.’ They had to talk about money and schemes, and so Finola followed Miranda up the narrow stair.
In the office, Finola thought Miranda looked ill, in spite of her being so handsome. Her skin was rather yellow under its powder, there were bags beneath her eyes, and she had become so thin that even her Parisian dress could not make her seem to have a merely youthful figure.
‘Sweet of you to have bothered to write,’ said Miranda, twisting on her finger an old, very large ruby which Finola could tell must be worth quite two thousand pounds. ‘Why didn’t you just drop in? Do you really want me to re-do your whole house, don’t you just want to buy some material?’
A Desirable Husband Page 14