A Change of Pace

by Budd, Virginia

  ‘Well, I felt a bit tired actually — having a houseful of people can be rather exhausting.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know, thank God, I leave all that sort of thing to Alfonso, bless him. By the way, what sort of tea did he produce?’ Bet pointed silently to the sumptuous remains laid out on the summerhouse table. Cyn whistled. ‘So that’s the way the wind blows. We can only hope he’s still on form when the Lord Lieutenant comes next week — for all our sakes.’ She gave Bet another sharp look. ‘Now then, my dear, you look as though you could do with a drink and I’m damned sure I could, I’ve had the most ghastly afternoon.’

  ‘Should I clear up a bit?’ Bet gestured timidly towards the tea things, now buzzing happily with flies. ‘Heavens no, that’s Alfonso’s pigeon. If he was stupid enough to bring all this stuff out here, he can jolly well take it back. Come on.’

  Pleased for any diversion, Bet followed her hostess back across the little lawn, where in the middle Eros still danced away on his pedestal. Only today he seemed to be laughing. Had he been there too that summer in the far away thirties, when Simon’s parents made love? He looked as though he’d witnessed a good many strange goings on in his time; the prolonged effect of wind, weather and countless bird droppings had combined to give his face a slightly raffish, slightly lascivious air which Bet was sure the sculptor hadn’t intended.

  As she followed Cyn through the French window into the morning room, she tried not to look at the broken-down sofa on the verandah on which Simon had made love to her; that too seemed to be mocking her, and she didn’t think she could bear it.

  Cyn waved an arm. ‘Sit down — that’s if you can find a space, I’m afraid the place is a bit of a shambles.’ Bet, obeying, became aware of something hard and sharp sticking into her behind that on investigation turned out to be a minute tin racehorse, a brightly-coloured jockey crouching on its back. She held the thing up. ‘I seem to have sat on something.’

  ‘Hurray — another one’s turned up! It’s that wretched Simon, he lost his temper the other night playing Totopoly and threw the whole lot at me — he simply loathes losing, you see. It’s a bloody nuisance, the dice have completely disappeared and we’ve still only managed to find half the horses. I think Alfonso must have hoovered the rest up. Drink all right?’ Bet gulped her gin and tonic, and the strength of the gin made her eyes water. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, stroking the marmalade dog’s ears. Unlike most other people, he seemed to like her, and had placed a tentative paw on her knee. ‘Kick him off if he’s a bore. Oxford’s one of those dogs who find it impossible to believe there are people around who actually don’t think he’s the best thing since sliced bread.’

  ‘Please don’t worry — I love dogs. They always seem so simple and straightforward ... compared with people.’

  ‘Don’t let you down, yes, I know what you mean.’ Cyn took a swig at her drink, and plonking herself down in a green armchair that had seen better days, smiled across at Bet. Bet smiled back, then looked at the floor; she felt like a fourth-former waiting to have a pijaw with the head prefect.

  There followed a long, long silence, broken only by the thump of Oxford’s tail on the carpet and the scrabble of his paws on Bet’s best blue linen skirt. Then, just as the silence seemed to be about to stretch into infinity, Cyn, having topped up her tonic with another gin, said: ‘Look, my dear, I know it’s none of my damned business, but don’t let Si get you down. He’s a most fearful tease, you know, always has been.’ Well, that was one way of putting it. ‘I’m not defending him, but he did have rather a rough time as a child — I don’t know if he’s told you about it, but I sometimes think it affected him a bit. I’m no shrink — heaven forbid — never see anything further than the end of my nose most of the time, but Si’s a good sort underneath, and I think it did.’

  Could she take all this? It was hard enough to cope anyway. Bet said, ‘Actually, he has told me a little. He — ’

  ‘Of course he never knew his father, and he and my Aunt Nance didn’t get on. He simply refused point-blank to live with her, you know, when he was a kid; just kept on buggering back here. Nearly drove poor old Pa round the bend. Pa gave in in the end, hadn’t much choice. Besides, as he said, you couldn’t blame anyone not wanting to live with Aunt Nance, let alone Uncle Toby. Anyway, what all this spiel’s in aid of is ... Si is just, well, Si, and it’s too late to change him.’

  Another silence, while Bet took a gulp of her drink and felt the gin fizzing through her veins and giving her false courage. As she placed her glass carefully down on the little table beside her chair — the table was shaped like an elephant, with a brass tray on its back — out of the corner of her eye she saw the figures of her son, JP and Simon walking across the lawn towards the house. There was no sign of Liza; presumably Simon, in a grotesque effort to keep up appearances, had told the girl to make her own way back. ‘I’ve never wanted to change anybody in my life,’ she said, looking Cyn straight in the eye and knowing even as she said it that it was an empty boast. She was just as much of a fraud as everyone else; she had wanted to change someone. She had, she had, she had ...

  At that moment the morning room door opened to reveal Liza, her skin the colour of ripe apples, her horrible, snaky hair dripping water on to the carpet. ‘I took a shower, it was so ‘ot in the stable ... Alphonse, ‘e show me. Where are Simon and the boys?’

  And then, to crown it all, Pete entered left, waving a broken-stringed tennis racket of antediluvian design, and wearing an even more antediluvian cricket cap on his head. ‘Anyone for tennis?’

  But by now Bet had had enough. She hated the lot of them, including Pete. She closed her eyes, only to find that the room seemed to be spinning round inside her head; somewhere in the distance was the buzzing of a thousand bees. ‘I think I’m going to faint,’ she said in a loud, clear voice, and passed flat out on the carpet.

  *

  ‘Si?’

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘What are you going to do about the Brandon woman?’

  ‘Check. You shouldn’t talk so much while you’re playing, it spoils the concentration, that’s why you always lose.’

  ‘I don’t always lose, and you haven’t answered my question.’ Cyn, with little hope of saving him, moved her king out of harm’s way and waited.

  ‘Checkmate, and I’m not going to do anything about the Brandon woman, as you call her,’ Simon said, not looking at Cyn and getting up to pour himself another drink.

  ‘But you do care for her, don’t you. Come on, admit it.’ ‘Of course I care for her; I always care for them, don’t I?’ ‘You mean you don’t care for her any longer?’

  ‘Look, what the hell’s got into you tonight? It’s not like you to play the agony aunt.’

  ‘Nothing’s got into me. It’s just, well ... That French girl this afternoon ... Hitting a bit below the belt, isn’t it?’ ‘Rather an unfortunate turn of phrase — ’

  ‘Don’t be a bore, Si, you know exactly what I mean.’ ‘Am I being treated to a lecture on morals, darling — a bit late in the day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course you’re not being treated to a lecture on morals, you ass. It’s only that I was just beginning to think it might be on the cards you’d really fallen for the Brandon woman, that’s all. Then you suddenly start argy-bargying about with the French bit. OK, the French bit’s a corker, even I can see that, but you must have met dozens like her, and — ‘

  ‘There’s no need to go all round the houses. What exactly are you driving at?’ Si was beginning to get ratty, Cyn could see the warning signs, but somehow tonight she didn’t care. He hated talking about his love life, especially to her. The trouble was that in their dealings with each other, she and Si were still stuck in the nursery, circa 1947. She wasn’t knocking their relationship, wouldn’t dream of it, it was the most important thing in her life. But — and it came to her with a flash of insight almost unprecedented — it did somehow seem to have got stuck; and perhaps, she wasn’t entirely sure, but
perhaps this wasn’t all that good for either of them.

  ‘Come on then, you can’t start something and not go through with it ... ’ Si’s left foot had begun to tap, and he was making little triangles with some matches he’d tipped out of the big matchbox on the sofa table. Any minute now he’d go into one of his tantrums — a bad one by the look of it, like that time he’d smashed up her dollshouse furniture with a hammer. But it was no good, she had to press on. ‘What I suppose I’m trying to say is, that I thought you might be going to do a “Caroline” over again, and if you were — and I’m not blaming you if you did, you can’t help your black monkey, as Nanny always said — but if you were ... well, it would be rather bad luck on Mrs Brandon.’

  There followed a long silence in which Oxford, poised for a quick getaway, looked ingratiatingly from one to the other. In the event, all that happened was that Simon, having carefully re-packed the matches in their box, stood up rather suddenly, and looking hard at the portrait of Mrs Saltpeter Westover on the opposite wall, and in a voice cold enough to freeze a brass monkey at forty paces, said: ‘If all you can do is talk bloody nonsense, I’m off to bed,’ and banged out of the room, slamming the door as hard as he could behind him.

  ‘Damn and blast!’ If Cyn had been the sort of girl who cried, she would have cried now. As it was she simply sat on the sofa with Oxford cuddled up beside her, drank her drink and wished with all her might that she were dead.

  Driving back to London on a badly congested A 12 the following morning, Simon felt not much better. And the fact that he’d been ordered to London forthwith by his director —who, when Simon informed him over the phone that morning that he was taking a few days well-earned rest, had said that if he wasn’t in the office by mid-day he needn’t bother coming back — was by no means the sole reason for his gloom.

  Most of it was due to Bet.

  How could one feel guilty and furious at the same time, and on top of that, dislike oneself so intensely? Guilty — and guilt had never been one of his things — for having started the affair with Bet in the first place; and furious because although he should never have started it, once he had embarked on it, by his own admittedly abysmal standards he’d behaved rather well, and therefore didn’t see why he should feel guilty. The disliking himself a bit was nothing new; he’d never been much of an admirer of Simon Morris, and not infrequently found himself wondering what on earth it was other people seemed to see in him.

  He also felt rather sad.

  Cyn, as usual, was right. She’d said it would end in tears. And it wasn’t because of the French piece, either, but because Bet just wasn’t the sort of woman you could have a fling with. He’d known that, really, and so had she, but brave, funny girl that she was, she’d had a go and got badly mauled in the process. Christ, what a shit he was! But shit or not, there was a part of him that loved Bet, and he hadn’t loved a woman, really loved a woman, since Caroline.

  Caroline ... Old Cyn had been right about her too, damn her. Funnily enough, he’d seen a photograph of Caroline only the other day in a copy of Country Life at the dentist’s. It had given him quite a turn; it had also made him feel old. The photo showed her looking distinctly matronly — he even detected the hint of a double chin — seated in an extremely posh drawing-room with a pair of supercilious labradors and a rather wet-looking teenage daughter. She had apparently just written a book on the role of the younger son in English nineteenth-century fiction — hardly a subject to set the Thames on fire, one would have thought, but at least she’d completed it, which was more than you could say of his own puny literary efforts. She had also, so the blurb informed anyone interested, recently been made chairwoman of her local Marriage Guidance Council, and regularly opened her garden to the public in aid of War on Want.

  In fact — and the thought came to him just as he was girding up the loins of his elderly Volkswagen in order to overtake the leaky-looking juggernaut in front of him, which had been monopolising the middle lane for the past interminable five minutes — these were exactly the type of busybodying activities that Bet, given half the chance, would be only too happy to get up to herself. And what that proved, he didn’t exactly know, except perhaps that the only two women in the last twenty years for whom he’d cared a tuppeny damn were tarred with the same brush. In other words, they were both self-opinionated, bossy do-gooders who should never have had anything to do with someone like him in the first place.

  This conclusion to his musings, interesting though it was, somehow failed to make Simon feel any better — although the juggernaut driver’s two-fingered salute as the Volkswagen roared past him, did — and he decided to occupy the remainder of the journey thinking about something else. Like whether to jack in Smike McGregor now, before they jacked him in, or go for broke and ask for a rise. The latter course, though drastic, had been known to work. People were so surprised that they gave in before they had time to think what they were doing. And he did need a new car, there was no question but that his present heap was on its last legs, despite Sid Kettle’s ministrations ... On balance, though, he thought perhaps he’d jack it in ...

  Thus Simon, bogged down with his worries and deep in thought, ground on towards London.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For Bet, things were even worse. Already punch-drunk by the events of the previous day’s tea party at the Manor, she’d barely had time to sit up and take notice before she was knocked for six again by two further disasters.

  The first — bad, but not as bad as the second — was the arrival on Monday morning of a reply-paid telegram from the Dupont parents in Antibes. The gist of which was, Would chère Madame Brandon mind hanging on to Liza for another six days? Business affairs of an unexpected nature having delayed Monsieur Dupont in the south, the Paris apartment would remain shut up until next week. Well, what could one say? One could scarcely refuse — not in a telegram, anyway — on the grounds that Liza was in all probability being screwed by chère Madame Brandon’s lover and Madame Brandon didn’t like it. One really had no choice but to say yes with as good a grace as one could muster under the circumstances, and hope without much conviction that the wretched girl would make no more trouble than she’d succeeded in doing already.

  There was one consolation. Apart from Bernie — and even he was showing signs of strain; he’d developed a nervous tic in one eye, and appeared to have lost at least a stone in weight —the rest of the household were as depressed by the news of Liza’s prolonged stay in their midst as Bet herself. Pol said that if it wasn’t for the fête, she’d have cut short Pete’s holiday. Nell made a noise like a peacock in pain and said, ‘Mum, you must be mad.’ JP went pale, and Diz said, ‘Oh God, Mum, must she?’ as though the whole thing were Bet’s fault.

  Liza, when finally tracked down in the vegetable garden where she was doing a spot of topless sunbathing, said it was OK by her, and went on massaging suntan oil into her already perfectly bronzed legs. Bet, bursting with frustration and spoiling for a row, said Well, that was all right then, but she would just like to say this. If Liza was to stay on she, Bet, would be grateful if Liza (a) made her bed each morning, (b) gave an occasional hand with the washing-up, and (c) refrained from filling her bath to the brim each night and thus depriving the rest of the household of hot water.

  Liza, shrugging gracefully, said there would be no necessity for her to assist in the washing-up as from now on she would be eating out. A friend from Paris had just happened to turn up and was staying in Stourwick; it would be convenient for all, would it not, if she spent her time at his place? (A friend from Paris — was this Simon’s idea of a joke?) As to her bed, Liza went on to say, sitting up and starting on her shoulders despite the pointlessness of such an exercise, she would be prepared to make it each morning, if chère Madame Brandon, for her part, agreed to keep her dog shut up, or at least under control. Only yesterday she had caught the creature in her bedroom, pulling things from her rucksack.

  Bet, longing to shove Liza’s
bottle of suntan lotion down her throat, somehow, heaven knew how, kept her temper and her dignity. She had no intention whatever, she said kindly but firmly, of keeping Tib shut up, Liza must simply try to remember to keep her bedroom door closed. And if she were intending to be out for most of her meals, perhaps she would be good enough to inform Bet well in advance when she was eating in, thus making the task of housekeeping so much easier, as she was sure Liza must agree. It would be sad indeed, she went on, warming to her subject, would it not, if she, Bet, were compelled to tell chère Madame Dupont that her darling daughter was being rather less than co-operative.

  Liza responded by sighing heavily, wriggling over on to her stomach — exposing her bottom to anyone who just might be watching, and Bet was pretty sure she saw an upstairs curtain twitch — and sticking her transistor radio earphones into her ears, thus bringing the audience to an end, and causing Bet, baffled but unbeaten, to retire to the kitchen. There was one crumb of comfort, though, she told herself, to calm her exacerbated nerves; if Liza disliked her as much as she appeared to do — Bet disliked Liza, of course, but then who wouldn’t — it must be in part because she was jealous of her, and if that were so, well, at least it was something, wasn’t it?

  That was the first disaster.

  The second occurred a little over twenty-four hours later. This time was spent by Bet in trying to be resigned about Simon, who naturally hadn’t got in touch; in coping as best she could with her guests, her despair, and the frequent calls on her time made by her wretched sister who needed her help in preparing for the fête; and in listening to her tiresome daughter who, with Liza off her back and morning sickness a thing of the past, did nothing but witter on about baby clothes, her own housewifely duties, and any other thing that happened to crop up. The only bright spot in all this was that, true to her word, and apart from gulping down a cup of black coffee when she surfaced on Tuesday morning, Liza was mercifully absent.