A Change of Pace

by Budd, Virginia

  ‘You bastard, you cowardly, feeble, traitorous bastard!’ ‘Don’t forget your picnic basket, and let me know about the wine, I don’t want you to get into trouble —’

  ‘Bugger the wine!’ Bet snatched the picnic basket and slammed the car door as hard as she could. ‘A bientot.’ Simon, still laughing, gave a quick thumbs-up sign to, the goggling Reg, blew Bet a kiss and roared out of the yard. Seething, she watched him go.

  ‘Come on in out of the rain, dear,’ said Reg from the shelter of the back door, ‘you look worse than I feel ... ’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘We would like to have stayed an extra day, dear, we really would’ — Maureen whisking through the washing-up next morning, her pink rubber gloves a blur in the foaming, fairy liquid — ‘but Reg has this meeting tonight. He must be there, he says; if he isn’t, they might do something he wouldn’t like.’

  So would I if I were them. ‘I do understand, Maureen, I’m only sorry you couldn’t have seen Diz — but perhaps another time.’

  ‘Come along now, girls, no yacking! We must be on the road in half an hour. I want to get away a bit early, I promised I’d pop in at Sid Kettle’s garage on the way and give him that address.’ (Lucky old Sid Kettle).

  To Bet’s surprise Reg had appeared to accept her explanation of the previous day’s change of plan — she’d suddenly felt better, the sun had come out, Simon had appeared unexpectedly — entirely at its face value. ‘Had a picnic, then, did you, you and young what’s-his-name?’

  ‘Simon Morris, actually. Yes, it was so nice and sunny by that time, we thought ... why not?’

  ‘Bloody cold on the beach,’ he’d said, forgetting to pardon the expression. But ‘Picnic, my arse’, he’d confided to Maureen in the privacy of the spare bedroom, ‘that’s not what I’d call it.’

  In fact Bet’s arrival home at the end of that extraordinary afternoon had turned out to be something of an anticlimax. It reminded her of her first weekend at her parents’ house after losing her virginity — she and Miles thrashing about on the lumpy old divan in that bedsitter she had in Chelsea Manor Street; the gas fire had run out halfway through, and Miles, naked, stubbed his toe quite badly in the dark trying to find a sixpence to put in the meter. Proud of her newfound womanhood — amazingly, she had thought like that in those days — she was sure her mother would notice the change in her at once; an extra glow perhaps, a certain languor. Didn’t mums always know? But this mum hadn’t, she’d just carried on as normal, and Bet, although relieved, had also been a little disappointed. And now it was the same. Ludicrous, when one came to think of it — did one ever grow up?

  The Sparsworths left at last, the junior branch having departed for work a couple of hours before. Maureen waved tearfully out of the Volvo window and Reg kissed her goodbye, his moustache tickling her nose and making her want to sneeze. ‘Mind how you go then, girl, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ he whispered, giving her bottom a friendly pinch and looking at her a little too searchingly for comfort. Bet yawned and smiled and yawned again, and prayed for them to hurry up and go, and for the phone to ring. She’d slept little the previous night; really, in fact, she had simply lain in bed waiting for it to be time to get up.

  Perversely, however, the utter silence that followed their departure was almost uncanny; she’d never known the place so quiet. She would have liked the radio, but if she were upstairs sorting out the Sparsworth bedroom — not that there was anything to sort out, Maureen had seen to that, even put her and Reg’s sheets ready for washing in the machine — she might not hear the telephone. She looked at her watch, she’d been looking at it ever since nine o’clock — so what? Eleven-thirty. Surely Simon should have rung by now? Perhaps he’d been unable to get through; perhaps their phone was out of order. It had been on the blink, now she came to think of it, for weeks. She hurried into the hall and picked up the receiver, only to be met with the dialling tone buzzing mockingly in her ear. ‘I’m ready and waiting,’ it seemed to say, ‘if people don’t want to use me that’s their look-out.’

  When it did finally make up its mind to ring, about half an hour later, she only just heard it above the Hoover. She was upstairs, giving Diz’s bedroom a going-over. Quite unnecessary, and he’d be furious if she moved any of his things, but one had to do something. She tore downstairs, mouth dry, heart beating, tripped over Tib who’d placed himself strategically at the bottom for that very purpose, sprinted across the hall minus a shoe, only to discover it wasn’t Simon at all. It wasn’t even Pete, but some dim-witted girl selling double-glazing.

  After that, she knew with the absolute certainty born of despair that Simon wasn’t going to ring. To be honest, he hadn’t actually said he would, indeed he had arranged no further meeting. But what with Reg butting in when they got back yesterday, and all that rain, he never really had a chance to. That was why she had been so sure he would ring this morning. She had been so sure that during the course of her long, sleepless night she had rehearsed — using, she now realised in the cold light of day, every cliché in the book — what she would say to him when he did. How she felt they should go carefully before making any decision about the future, how she had been so unprepared for what happened that she had had no time to assess her feelings, and no doubt he hadn’t either. And so on and so on. Make a decision about the future — was she mad? They were nowhere near that stage yet, quite possibly never would be. Simon, she was sure, was the last person to spend his time making decisions about the future, Simon ...

  Simon is a person who plays games with people.

  Unbidden the words jumped into her head from nowhere — and were immediately repudiated. What did she know of people who played games with people? Mercifully, in her so far protected and uneventful life — and she was beginning to realise just how protected and uneventful her life had been — nothing; she had never encountered such people. Read about them, yes, heard about them, yes. If Miles were to be believed, the Civil Service was absolutely jam-packed with them. But she herself had never known one. To be the object of such people’s games, though, one surely must be involved, quite deeply involved, with them before their games could work? And she wasn’t deeply involved with Simon — well, not yet, not exactly. There was, however, no earthly point in denying that she was most terribly attracted by him, and found him funny, intriguing and good company to boot. And wanted to see him again, wanted that very much indeed. But above all, she wanted some sort of reassurance from him that the step she’d taken yesterday at the Old Minster — for her so great, for him possibly no more than routine — had been the right step; hurting no one, betraying no one, not even Miles.

  And there, of course, was the crunch. Still standing by the telephone, she extracted a cigarette from the packet in her trouser pocket, lit it, and willed herself to think about Miles. She’d tried to think about him last night; bring him back to her, however briefly, in the way she had been able to since within a few weeks of his death; but she had failed miserably. She’d been too tired, too tense, and perhaps she hadn’t really wanted to face up to him anyway. But today was different, today she knew that she must. She shut her eyes and thought about Miles so hard it hurt. What would he feel about Simon? Would he feel betrayed? That she’d cheapened the memory of their marriage by allowing, indeed wanting, another man to make love to her so soon? A man so different to himself, a man who ...

  ‘Darling, for heaven’s sake who d’you think I am? If you’re going to spend the rest of your life racked with guilt every time you look at another man, let’s face it, it’s not going to be much of a life, is it?’ Outside in the garden a pair of magpies hooked worms from a patch of grass under the hall window; Bet watched them through the smoke of her cigarette, a watery smile on her face. Miles’s presence was all round her now; his special brand of common sense, slightly acerbic humour and love washing over her in a warm, comforting stream, revitalising her as it had done so often during their life together.

  He was rig
ht, as always. Of course there was no need for her to feel guilty. And if feeling guilty was making her behave like a jilted teenager, it was high time she stopped feeling guilty. All this rubbish about people playing games with one another — pure paranoia! There were no doubt a hundred perfectly good reasons why Simon hadn’t rung, and if she was so desperate to make contact, why not ring him? She thought about this for a moment and then decided not to. She didn’t, for a start, know Smike McGregor’s number, and Simon probably wouldn’t want her to ring him at work anyway — Miles hated to be rung at work — and besides, what on earth would she say? OK then, she wouldn’t ring him, at least that was settled.

  But it was about the only thing that was settled, and she was still left with this overpowering urge to do something — issue a statement to the Press, publish a poem, make a speech, scream — anything but just fiddle around with the Hoover waiting for the bloody phone to ring. It was then, just as the two magpies flew away in a sudden noisy blur of black and white, to be replaced by a rather tatty sparrow, that the idea came to her.

  She would give a party!

  Why not, and what could be simpler? After all, she did owe several people hospitality, including Cyn Westover. She could ring the Manor, issue a verbal invitation casually including Simon, and voila. Simon would naturally accept — well, if he didn’t at least she would know where she stood — and everything would then be out in the open with no more of this absurd hole-and-corner stuff. What’s more, he and the children would be able to meet properly, and who knew, once they got to know him better they might even come to like him. In fact the possibilities of the whole idea was absolutely boundless ...

  What about trying for next Saturday? It would have to be at a weekend, and the sooner the better. Bernie could organise the drink, Nell would at last have a chance to make those wretched tuna fish vol-au-vents she was always on about, Diz could ... Seething with plans and excitement, she finished the first cigarette, lit a second and decided to ring the Manor there and then, before she lost her nerve.

  “Allo, ‘Opton eight-four-nine?’ Oh God, bloody Alfonso! She’d forgotten about Alfonso. ‘Yo ablo Senorita Westover, por favor?’ She’d gone to evening classes in Spanish one winter at the City Lit’, thinking it would be useful on holiday. Somehow it hadn’t been, no one ever seemed to understand what she was saying. The silence at the other end of the line was deafening. Then a click and a different voice. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh ... Miss Westover, it’s you. Betty Brandon here.’

  ‘And what can I do for you, Mrs Brandon?’ She hated people who said that, there wasn’t really any proper answer one could give; anyway, it made one feel small. ‘Well, actually I was wondering whether you would like to drop in for a drink on Saturday evening, and ... and do of course bring anyone who might be staying.’

  ‘Adore to, my dear, and most kind of you to suggest it, but afraid no can do. I’m off to the States on Thursday for three weeks. Si could probably make it, I’ll ask him. He’s gone back to London, but he’ll be down while I’m away, he’s promised to caretake. He’s taking some time off work — whether off his own bat or Smike McGregor’s one doesn’t enquire. Says he’s going to make a start on his book, but as he’s been going to do that for more years that I like to remember, I have my doubts. Anyway, even if he does actually get down to it, I’m sure he could take a break and come to your party. He did so enjoy taking you to the Old Minster yesterday — splendid spot, isn’t it? Look, my dear, must fly. I’ve a host of things to do before Thursday. ‘Bye.’

  Bet, feeling sick, sat down on an adjacent chair. So Simon had told his precious cousin about their love-making, had he. No doubt they’d enjoyed a good laugh together, discussed the whole thing in detail. Don’t be absurd, Brandon, you’re being paranoid again. Of course they didn’t discuss it in detail, why ever should they. She swallowed, trying, not wholly successfully, to regain her earlier confidence — and Tib, seeing the state she was in, jumped on her knee and licked her face. She kissed the top of his head and sat there fondling his ears, wondering what to do next. Well, if she really intended to give a party — and it seemed she was committed to do just that —she’d better pull herself together and invite a few people. Now, what about Old Monty Cornwall ... ?

  *

  The guest list, when completed, was, to say the least, unimpressive. Desperate, she’d been reduced to asking the vicar and his wife. Yes, he and Angela would be delighted, he’d shouted down the phone and Bet, surprised at his enthusiasm, added the Snatelys’ name to her list. It was only afterwards she wondered if he had thought her someone else. He was known to be rather deaf ...

  And of course Ron and Emmie Stokes. She’d first met Ron Stokes, a tall, elderly, skeletally thin man with a suspect smile, who wore sandals all the year round and never drew breath, when he appeared in the vegetable garden one afternoon with a petition. Developers, he said, were seeking the Council’s permission to build on Church Green and must, at all costs, be prevented. He was sure she would agree; he only had to look at her, he said; to know she was one of us; he knew these things, people had an aura. Bet, in her wellies, mud on her nose, sowing broad beans in the damp, clay soil — like trying to plant currants in uncooked chocolate sponge — had not wanted to talk to anyone, let alone Ron Stokes. Smiling too eagerly because she felt guilty, she said, ‘How awful, of course I’ll sign, Mr — ?’

  ‘Oh, call me Ron, everyone does.’ Much cheery laughter on Ron’s part when a gust of wind blew the petition out of his hand and Tib stood on it. ‘I’m not afraid of a peck of healthy mud, my dear, and I’ll wager you aren’t either.’ His little eyes flickered down the front of her tweed jacket — the ancient one with the tear in the elbow which Diz said made her look like Worzel Gummidge — and rested meditatively on the curve of her breasts. ‘Come to tea, my dear, drop in at any time, my wife Emmie and I keep open house. It must be lonely for you here.’

  Luckily she was saved by the phone. ‘I’ll have to dash, I’m afraid, my sister from London — she’ll talk for hours, she always does ... ’ She wasn’t, however, saved from tea, Emmie Stokes saw to that. She rang the very next morning. ‘My hubby was so delighted to meet a kindred spirit, Mrs Brandon, it quite made his day. He gets a little lonely sometimes, Hopton’s so different to Singapore — that’s where we used to live. Our bungalow is opposite Kettle’s garage — The Haven — you can’t miss it.’

  So Bet had gone, and they’d had sponge cake that melted in the mouth and two sorts of tea, in a room full of fumed oak, Benares brass, bamboo tables and Buddhas. Afterwards Ron had taken her into his inner sanctum, and they had stood pressed uneasily together in a tiny room the size of a broom cupboard, while Ron explained the mysteries of transcendental meditation. By the time he’d finished, Bet felt she was about to pass out, and Ron’s eyes were beginning to glaze over and his breath was coming in short, sharp pants ...

  One good thing about having the Stokes, at least she’d get them over with — she had been brought up strictly on the manners front; one always, no matter what, returned hospitality. God knew what Simon would make of them. She felt like Lizzy Bennett arranging a party for Mr Darcy, with no one to come but Mr Collins, Mrs Bennett and her own frightful sisters. This made her giggle, and she was still giggling when Emmie Stokes came on the line. Emmie Stokes sounded stunned by the invitation. Did no one ever ask them out? Probably not. She added their name to her list.

  *

  ‘Now, Bet, are you having caterers, because if you are — ‘ For Christ’s sake, Pol, who d’you think I am? Of course I’m not having caterers.’

  ‘It was only a thought, there’s no need to be rude. Honestly, I don’t know what’s got into you lately. You ring me to say you’ve invited half the county to a party — I confess that at first I did think the idea a tiny bit on the ambitious side, but fun all the same — then you jump down my throat when I ask about caterers. It was only that Kitty Cornwall told me the people to have are Thrush and Co, they — �
�

  ‘Where you get the idea that I’ve invited half the county I cannot imagine. There are at most a dozen people coming, and I doubt if all of them will turn up. The only food provided will be a few crisps and a packet or two of nuts from the Post Office. Do I make myself clear?’

  Pol dialled Pete’s office. ‘Pete, I simply cannot cope with Bet at all over this party; she’s insisting on inviting all these people and then flatly refusing to give them anything to eat. It makes one wonder what she’ll be offering them to drink — a thimbleful of cooking sherry if her present attitude is anything to go by.’ Pete closed his eyes; he’d only just got back from a meeting with old Bollocks and some turd from the Treasury. It had gone on and on, and quite frankly he couldn’t take much more. ‘Don’t worry, ducky, I’m sure Bet knows what she’s doing. Anyway, from what she told me —’

  ‘I see, she’s already been in touch with you, has she?’

  ‘I rang her this morning to thank her for the invitation, that’s all. And from what I can gather, there’s only going to be a handful of people — that meditation chap from the village, the vicar, Simon Morris — ’

  ‘If you ask me, that’s what the party’s in aid of ... ‘

  *

  Diz, newly returned from his trip to Paris, showed little interest in the forthcoming party. His Easter in France had transformed his way of thinking completely, he told his mother, and he was now a dedicated francophile. Never in his life, he said — for the umpteenth time — had he met such interesting, kind, amusing, civilised people as the Duponts.

  ‘And rich with it.’ Bernie had grown tired of listening to minute descriptions of meals eaten, art galleries visited —whose owners Monsieur Dupont naturally numbered amongst his most intimate friends — and gatherings backstage at the Comedie Francaise. Diz waved his arms about. ‘Can’t you get it into your thick, insular head, it’s not the money —although I admit the Duponts’ place is pretty luxurious — it’s their whole way of life.’ He glanced round the kitchen, seeking inspiration. ‘It’s ... well, it’s not like this.’