Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs

by Clayton, Victoria

  ‘I’ll ask Dr Chatterji if he’s got room on his list and let you know. Telephone number, please?’

  ‘The dhoolie-wallah? No thanks. I hear Dr Savage is competent. But I need to meet him first to see if I like him. After all, I might have to take off my clothes in front of him. One doesn’t want just anyone exploring one’s secret places.’

  A current of excited whispering ran round the waiting room.

  I stared up at the black lenses that seemed slowly to revolve. ‘If you’ll wait until the end of – hic – surgery, I’ll ask if he’ll see you before he rows on his grounds.’

  The buzzer sounded like an angry bee trapped by a window pane.

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll go in now.’

  Before the next patient could straighten his arthritic joints she had undulated into Tom’s consulting room and closed the door behind her. I closed my eyes and waited for the explosion. The waiting room seemed to hold its breath. Even the telephone ceased to shrill trilly. Or was it trill shrilly?

  ‘Marigold? Marigold!’ I sat up with a start.

  My father was leaning over the desk shaking my arm. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing … just the heat … if only I could turn off the fire.’

  ‘I think she’s drunk.’ Marcia Dane’s scarlet lips were stretched wide with amusement.

  My father picked up my glass and took an experimental sip of the pips and pith that lay in the bottom. ‘Mm. Lemonade. Heavily laced with vodka. Where did you get it?’

  ‘I found it in the kitchen.’ I stared miserably at a pile of glue-bound paperclips, feeling sick again. Wherever I looked, those red lips hovered in the middle of my vision.

  To my surprise, my father began to laugh. His eyes crinkled, his mouth opened, his face was convulsed with amusement. For the first time I understood why women found him attractive. With us, at home, he was always cold and sarcastic. But when he was in a good humour, he had a vitality that was alluring.

  Marcia Dane tapped on the desk with a long red fingernail to attract my attention. ‘Make me one of your little folders, darling. I’ve decided to sign on.’

  My father took me home after surgery without waiting for Dimpsie.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I said. ‘I never drink spirits so I didn’t recognize the taste. I suppose it’ll be the talk of the village.’

  ‘Oh, for a while.’ He shrugged. ‘Let them. Little minds.’

  We drove the rest of the way in silence apart from the noise of the engine as the gearbox coped with the hills, the squish of tyres on the slushy snow and the sound of my father humming. Despite my abysmal failure as a receptionist, he seemed in an excellent mood. He took the dangerous turn with precision and pulled up beside the front door. ‘Go to bed.’ He handed me a bottle of pills. ‘Take two with water. They might help the hangover.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m awfully sorry,’ I said again as I leaned into the back to get out my crutches.

  ‘I may not be in for supper. Tell your mother to leave something in the bottom oven.’

  He put the car into reverse to turn round. I just had time to draw back my plastered foot before it was crushed by the back wheels.

  12

  The next morning I arrived at the surgery a full hour before the first appointment. With the aid of a crutch I directed the bowl of the heater to reflect its fire into the centre of the waiting room. I sent Dimpsie off to the craft shop to do her accounting, made myself some tea and settled down to sorting the medical notes into alphabetical order. After a good night’s sleep my head had ceased to pound and the whites of my eyes were clear. Filing is easy mechanical work and I quite enjoyed it. By the time the telephone woke up I had already worked my way down to the third drawer.

  ‘Surgery,’ I said briskly.

  ‘Hello, Marigold,’ said a man’s voice, ‘you do sound efficient. It’s Rafe.’

  Surprise sent a shot of adrenalin to my heart.

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’ I may have sounded a little defensive.

  ‘I rang your house just now and got Tom. Why? Is it supposed to be a secret?’

  ‘No. It’s just that yesterday …’ the door opened to admit the first patient of the day. I dropped my voice. ‘I can’t talk now. I’ll ring you later.’

  ‘Why don’t I pick you up from the surgery and take you out to lunch? Nothing grand. I know a nice little pub not far from here. One o’clock be all right?’

  I saw him running athletically from the back of the Centre Court to pulverize a lob shot, driving it into the ground and winning game, set and match for England.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I said primly.

  He rang off just as Dr Chatterji arrived. He was wearing a red ski mask and a Chinese Army hat with the flaps tied under his chin.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Chatterji. Lovely day, isn’t it?’ I said brightly.

  A pair of reproachful brown eyes blinked several times before he went into his consulting room to take up his lonely vigil.

  Excitement was dashing through every vein in my body. I was going to have lunch with the man with whom I had been in love practically all my life – well, anyway, for long periods, if not actually continuously. It was true that I had hardly given Rafe a thought in recent years, but only because it had never occurred to me that I had the remotest chance of seeing him again.

  ‘Excuse me.’ A woman wearing a tweed glengarry addressed me in a tone of belligerence. ‘If I might have your attention, I’d like the next available appointment. If it’s not too much trouble for you.’

  I dragged my thoughts from an inspiring picture of Rafe in a peaked cap, duffel coat and white polo-necked jersey, with binoculars slung round his neck, on the conning tower of a submarine, the surrounding sea pockmarked with exploding shells. ‘Is it an emergency?’

  ‘I cut myself on a rusty tin two days ago. Probably it’s tetanus. I can feel my jaw seizing up as we speak and pain shooting up my arm.’

  Before I could stop her she had pulled off a bandage to reveal a purple finger and a blackened nail oozing something yellow.

  I shaded my eyes with my hand. ‘Dr Chatterji can see you straightaway.’

  ‘No, thanks. I want to see Dr Savage.’

  ‘Dr Savage has already got five patients lined up.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  She took her septic finger to join the other patients. I heard them whispering, then one of them said, ‘Do you think it runs in families?’

  ‘Booze, is it?’ said Glengarry. ‘I thought she was a bit –’ she tapped her temple – ‘you know, a natural.’

  ‘Poor Doctor Savage,’ said another. ‘It’s no wonder he …’ She cupped her hand over her mouth so I couldn’t hear the rest.

  ‘How’re the walking wounded today?’ asked Rafe as the car climbed an almost vertical road.

  Buster was leaning his chin on my shoulder, sighing from time to time as birds flew into his sight. He had a grey coat of stiff fur like wire wool, floppy ears, a square head, a heavy silver moustache and a soppy expression that betokened love for all humans in his golden eyes. Rafe said he was a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon.

  ‘Do you mean the patients or me?’

  ‘You, of course.’

  ‘Disgustingly cheerful, actually.’ I felt safe enough with Rafe driving to take in the wonderful views of banks of snow curling down to the road like giant breaking waves, their perimeters sparkling like foam where the sun melted them. ‘Considering.’

  ‘Considering what?’

  ‘What a sheltered life I’ve led and how thoroughly unappetizing the human body is when it goes wrong.’

  ‘It’s good of you to help your father out.’

  ‘Not really. I’m used to working hard and I’ve been horribly bored. It’ll give Dimpsie a chance to get the craft-shop accounts in order. And to be frank …’ I hesitated for a moment, then, remembering that Rafe had confided in me about his family, I rushed on ‘… I know Tom resents my reappearance under t
he paternal roof. I’m a drain on scant resources. Also he thinks I’m selfish and self-centred. So I thought I’d show willing. It’s mostly filing and answering the telephone … easy compared with trying to perfect a fouetté à l’arabesque when your feet hurt like hell and you’ve already been dancing for six hours. It’s just that I’ve lived in what I suppose is an artificial world devoted to the pursuit of beauty for so long that I’ve become squeamish.’

  ‘Are you longing to get back it? To the artificial world?’

  ‘It seems real when I’m in it. I don’t know anything else, you see. And when the dancing goes well it’s electrifying, like flying. You’re free and at the same time totally in control. It’s a extraordinarily wonderful sensation. Yes, I suppose is the answer to your question.’

  ‘Lucky you. I shouldn’t think many people feel like that about their work.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But of course it’s been at a price. There hasn’t been time to think about other things. Like how lovely this is.’ We had reached the high ground now, moorland without trees or hedges, the vast curves of rock, their featureless simplicity accentuated by the unbroken snow. ‘Isn’t it marvellous! Not a house, not a fence, not a telegraph pole. Even the road’s hidden beneath the slush. We might be in prehistoric times. I wouldn’t be surprised if we came across a man in wolf-skins carrying a mammoth tusk over his shoulder … Oh, look! Can you see in that little dip? There’s someone putting wood on a fire. And there’s a child helping him. They look quite ragged. Perhaps we have slipped back into another time.’

  ‘They’re probably burning the evidence of their last raid.’

  ‘You don’t mean – reivers?’

  Buster woofed gently into my ear in response to his master’s laugh.

  ‘You are a romantic! No, they’re tinkers. I expect they’re getting rid of things they’ve stolen that are too incriminating. The locals are up in arms because the rate of petty theft has shot up since the tinkers came and the police are too afraid to go to the campsite and confront them. There it is.’

  He pointed to the next valley where a row of caravans straggled beside a thin belt of trees – not the round-topped, brightly painted wagons of children’s picture books, but modern trailers. Instead of piebald horses there were cars, untidily parked. A woman came out to peg washing on a line. It blew into her face and she stepped back to wipe her cheek on her sleeve, then crossed her arms to hug her shoulders against the cold.

  ‘In the old days,’ said Rafe, ‘they were known as “muggers”.’

  ‘Because of the stealing?’

  ‘Because they sold pottery mugs to make a living.’

  We rounded a bend and the valley dropped out of sight. I saw a delightful little thatched and whitewashed inn nestling in the fold of a hill.

  ‘That’s the pub.’

  ‘It looks lovely!’

  It was lovely. Inside everything was made of wood, even the ceiling, but it was a marvellous silvery colour and not gloomy. Rafe said it was oak and part of the original sixteenth-century building. There was no one there but us so we had the table nearest the fire. On either side of it were high-backed settles which were awkward to get into because of my leg, but once inside I felt as though I was in the cabin of a man-o’-war – not that I’d ever been in one, of course, but I had seen the Hornblower film with Gregory Peck – because the slightest movement was accompanied by the creaking of ancient timbers. When I said this to Rafe he seemed amused.

  ‘I hoped you’d like it. When I was away I often thought of this place. I used to come here with Isobel when we were both at a loose end. The menu’s a bit limited. White wine all right to drink?’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  Drinking in the middle of the day was a hitherto unknown indulgence. We ordered steak and chips. The steak was the kind you needed your teeth sharpened into points to deal with, but the chips were excellent, really thin and dripping with fat. The tomato was pale pink and hard but I ate Rafe’s as well. Buster, who had been lying across our feet with his head resting on my cast, made short work of the bits of steak that were too tough to cut.

  ‘I thought because of your size – your extreme slenderness – you wouldn’t eat anything,’ he said, transferring a lettuce leaf and the last few chips from his plate on to mine.

  I was so moved by the idea that he had actually thought about me enough to wonder what I might eat that I felt a rush of affection, perhaps alcohol-induced, that made me say, ‘This is such heaven being in this lovely place on such a beautiful day with …’ I almost said ‘you’ but pulled myself back from the brink in time to say ‘… with an old friend.’

  Rafe appeared not to notice this effusion of feeling. ‘Sit, Buster. Quiet, sir!’ He looked sternly in the dog’s melting eyes. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble training him. He doesn’t seem as biddable as a labrador or a spaniel. The people I got him from assured me the breed was intelligent and quick to learn. Anyway, it’s too late to think of taking him back.’

  ‘Oh, no! He’s such a darling! I wish I could have a dog. But it wouldn’t be fair. I’m out all day.’

  ‘Mm. I suppose there’re several men in London, pining for your return? Not that I’ve any right to ask. But as you say,’ he smiled charmingly, ‘I’m an old friend.’

  ‘Oh,’ I tried to sound casual, ‘there isn’t anyone particular.’ Was he just making conversation or did the question betoken a special interest? ‘Dancers are notoriously …’ I had been going to say promiscuous, but then it occurred to me that our careless sexual manners might not find favour outside artistic circles ‘… they don’t have much time for passionate emotional involvements.’

  Then I remembered that I was – possibly – engaged to Sebastian. Since arriving in Northumberland I hardly thought about him at all, and when I did I was unable to persuade myself to take him at all seriously. He had become a creature of fantasy, a von Rothbart or a Kashchei: sinister, malign, but contained within a world of fantasy, as insubstantial as the plywood of Giselle’s cottage.

  I asked Rafe how he was enjoying running the Shottestone estate. Apparently there was a problem with the agent, who had fallen into slipshod ways. Two farms were running at a loss and some of the houses and cottages were in a poor state of repair. Rafe didn’t mention Kingsley, but the omission was like a jagged hole cut out of the picture. He outlined his plans for putting things right. The logs burned themselves into heaps of glowing ash. We had another glass of wine. There was no afternoon rehearsal looming, no impending performance, no criticism to fear, no Sebastian to dread. I had told Rafe that I was eager to return to London, but for the time being I was perfectly content.

  ‘Do you want a pudding?’

  I did but I shook my head. I could feel that my waistband was tighter.

  ‘Isobel was hoping you’d come up to the house for tea. She’s been shopping in Newcastle all day but she’ll be back by four. I expect she wants to show you what she’s bought.’

  ‘That’d be lovely.’

  ‘What shall we do meanwhile? I’d like to show you the old pele tower at Waterbury. I’ve always been fond of the place, though it’s almost a ruin now. But it’s a little way back from the road. I don’t know if you could get there on crutches.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me being slow, I’d like to see it.’ As we walked to the car, Rafe hovered solicitously at my side in case I should slip on the ice. It was a new experience to be taken care of. ‘Lucky Isobel,’ I said. ‘I suppose money’s no object now she’s marrying a bloated capitalist.’

  The remark was intended to be flippant but Rafe’s tone was serious when he said, ‘Is it important to you to marry money? Couldn’t you be happy on a moderate income?’

  ‘Of course I could. I’ve never had even an adequate one. Actually, I enjoy making something out of nothing and finding-things in junk shops. I don’t suppose I’d like being rich at all. I only said that because … because …’ I paused, not wanting to finish what I’d been going to say.

>   ‘Because it seems to mean so much to Isobel,’ he finished for me. He helped me into the car and stowed the crutches.

  ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t marry him if she didn’t like him.’

  Rafe started up the car. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t seem to mind at all that he’s rather ugly. That’s a good sign. Most people – I must admit, including me – put far too much emphasis on looks, which is every bit as superficial as liking money.’

  ‘Is Conrad Lerner ugly?’ Rafe sounded surprised.

  ‘She didn’t say quite that. I just assumed that if he was short, fat, bald and with a big nose and enormous feet that he wasn’t exactly Cary Grant. But then Cary Grant’s appeal wasn’t only looks, was it? Conrad’s probably extremely charming. And Isobel says he’s very clever. That’s attractive.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ said Rafe with a suggestion of savagery. Then he added, more calmly, ‘Let’s hope he’s charming, anyway, because we’re bound to have to see a good deal of him.’

  There was a silence during which I admired the scenery. I had always known that the place where I had been born and brought up was beautiful because everyone said so, but I had never properly appreciated it before. The sky was the most glorious heathery blue near the horizon and, further up, where it merged with layers of cloud, it was a pearly grey shot through with white streaks like brushstrokes. This reminded me of Rafe’s watercolour, which I had pinned to my bedroom wall where I could look at it as I lay in bed.

  ‘I showed Dimpsie the painting you gave me. She thought it was terrifically accomplished. She used to paint, too. She spent two years at the Slade, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know. Or if I did I’d forgotten.’

  ‘She actually won a scholarship and had dreams of going to Paris and throwing herself at Picasso’s feet, but getting pregnant with Kate put paid to that. It’s a shame she’s ended up surrounded by corn dollies, knitted tea cosies, pressed flower cards and mirrors decorated with barbola work.’

  ‘What’s barbola work?’

  ‘I don’t know but Dimpsie says it’s hideous. She only takes it not to upset the woman who does it. Is there anything sadder than talent wasted?’