Love in a Cold Climate (24 page)

“Where was it from?”

“Seville. That’s in Spain.”

“Did she sound happy?”

“Do people ever sound unhappy on postcards, Fanny? Isn’t it always lovely weather and everything wonderful, on postcards? This one was a picture of a glorious girl called La Macarena, and the funny thing is this La Macarena is the literal image of horrible Polly herself. Do you think Lady Montdore gazed a bit before H. P. was born?”

“You mustn’t say horrible Polly to me when I love her so much.”

“Well, we’ll have to see. We love her in a way, in spite of all, and in a few years, possibly, we might forgive, though I doubt if we can ever forget her deep, base treachery. Has she written to you?”

“Only postcards,” I said. “One from Paris and one from St. Jean de Luz.”

Polly had never been much of a letter writer.

“I wonder if it’s as nice as she thought, being in bed with that old Lecturer.”

“Marriage isn’t only bed,” I said, primly. “There are other things.”

“You go and tell that to Sadie. There’s Fa’s horn, we must dash or he’ll never bring us again if we keep him waiting, and we promised we would the very second he blew. Oh, dear, back to the fields of barley and of rye. You are so lucky to live in this sweet little house in a glamorous town. Good-bye Mrs. Heathery—the cake!”

They were still cramming it into their mouths as they went downstairs.

“Come in and have some tea,” I said to Uncle Matthew, who was at the wheel of his new big Wolseley. When my uncle had a financial crisis he always bought a new motor car.

“No, thank you, Fanny. Very kind of you, but there’s a perfectly good cup of tea waiting for me at home, and you know I never go inside other people’s houses if I can possibly avoid it. Good-bye.”

He put on his green hat, called a bramble, which he always wore, and drove away.

My next caller was Norma Cozens, who came in for a glass of sherry, but her conversation was so dull that I have not the heart to record it. It was a compound of an abscess between the toes of the mother Border Terrier, the things the laundry does to sheets, how it looked to her as if the slut had been at her store cupboard, so she was planning to replace her by an Austrian at 2/- a week cheaper wages, and how lucky I was to have Mrs. Heathery, but I must look out because new brooms sweep clean and Mrs. Heathery was sure not to be nearly as nice as she seemed.

I WAS VERY
much mistaken if I thought that Lady Montdore was now out of my life for good. In less than a week she was back again.
The door of my house was always kept on the latch, like a country-house door, and she never bothered to ring but just stumped upstairs. On this occasion it was five minutes to one and I plainly saw that I would have to share the little bit of salmon I had ordered for myself, as a treat, with her.

“And where is your husband to-day?”

She showed her disapproval of my marriage by always referring to Alfred like this and never by his name. He was still Mr. Thing in her eyes.

“Lunching in college.”

“Ah, yes? Just as well, so he won’t be obliged to endure my unintellectual conversation.”

I was afraid it would all start over again, including the working herself up into a temper, but apparently she had decided to treat my unlucky remark as a great joke.

“I told Merlin,” she said, “that in Oxford circles I am not thought an intellectual, and I only wish you could have seen his face!”

When Mrs. Heathery offered the fish to Lady Montdore she scooped up the whole thing. No tiresome inhibitions caused her to ask what I would eat, and, in fact, I had some potatoes and salad. She was good enough to say that the quality of the food in my house seemed to be improving.

“Oh, yes, I know what I wanted to ask you,” she said. “Who is this Virginia Woolf you mentioned to me? Merlin was talking about her, too, the other day at Maggie Greville’s.”

“She’s a writer,” I said. “A novelist, really.”

“Yes, I see. And as she’s so intellectual, no doubt she writes about nothing but stationmasters.”

“Well, no,” I said, “she doesn’t.”

“I must confess that I prefer books about society people, not being myself a highbrow.”

“She did write a fascinating book about a society person,” I said, “called
Mrs. Dalloway.”

“Perhaps I’ll read it, then. Oh, of course I’d forgotten—I never
read, according to you—don’t know how. Never mind. In case I have a little time this week, Fanny, you might lend it to me, will you? Excellent cheese—don’t tell me you get this in Oxford?”

She was in an unusually good temper that day. I believe the fall of the Spanish throne had cheered her up. She probably foresaw a perfect swarm of Infantas winging its way towards Montdore House, besides, she was greatly enjoying all the details from Madrid. She said that the Duke of Barbarossa (this may not be the name, but it sounded like it) had told her the inside story, in which case he must also have told it to the
Daily Express
, where I had read word for word what she now kindly passed on to me, and several days before. She remembered to ask for
Mrs. Dalloway
before leaving, and went off with the book in her hand, a first edition. I felt sure that I had seen the last of it, but she brought it back the following week, saying that she really must write a book herself, as she knew she could do much better than that.

“Couldn’t read it,” she said. “I did try, but it is too boring. And I never got to that society person you told me of. Now, have you read the Grand Duchess’
Memoirs?
I won’t lend you mine, you must buy them for yourself, Fanny, and that will help the dear Duchess with another guinea. They are wonderful. There is a great deal, nearly a whole chapter, about Montdore and me in India—she stayed with us at Viceroy’s House, you know. She has really captured the spirit of the place quite amazingly. She was only there a week, but one couldn’t have done it better oneself. She describes a garden party I gave, and visits to the Ranees in their harems, and she tells what a lot I was able to do for those poor women of India, and how they worshipped me. Personally, I find memoirs so very much more interesting than any novel because they are true. I may not be an intellectual, but I do like to read the truth about things. Now in a book like the Grand Duchess’ you can see history in the very making, and if you love history as I do (but don’t tell your husband I said so, dear, he would never believe it), if you love history, you must be interested to know the inside story, and it’s only people
like the Grand Duchess who are in a position to tell us that. And this reminds me, Fanny dear, will you put a call through to Downing Street for me, please, and get hold of the P.M. or his secretary? I will speak myself when he is on the line. I’m arranging a little dinner for the Grand Duchess, to give her book a good start. Of course I don’t ask you, dear—it wouldn’t be intellectual enough—just a few politicians and writers, I thought. Here is the number, Fanny.”

I was trying at this time to economize in every direction, having overspent myself on doing up the house, and I had made a rule never to telephone, even to Aunt Emily’s house or Alconleigh, if a letter would do as well, so it was most unwillingly that I did as she asked. There was a long wait on the line before I got the Prime Minister himself, after which Lady Montdore spoke for ages, the pip-pip-pips going at least five times—I could hear them—every pip an agony to me. First of all, she fixed a date for her dinner party; this took a long time, with many pauses while he consulted his secretary, and two pip-pip-pips. Then she asked if there were anything new from Madrid.

“Yes,” she said. “Badly advised, poor man (pip-pip-pip), I fear. I saw Freddy Barbarossa last night (they are being so brave about it, by the way, quite stoical. Yes, at Claridge’s), and he told me …” Here a flood of
Daily Express
news and views. “But Montdore and I are very much worried about our own special Infanta—yes, a close friend of ours—oh, Prime Minister, if you could hear anything I should be so more than grateful. Will you, really? You know, there is a whole chapter on Madrid in the Grand Duchess’ book. It makes it very topical, rather splendid for her. Yes, a near relation. She describes the view (pip-pip-pip) from the Royal Palace—yes, very bleak—I’ve been there, wonderful sunsets, though. I know, poor woman. Oh, she hated them at first, she had special opera glasses with black spots for the cruel moments. Have you heard where they are going? Yes, Barbara Barbarossa told me that too, but I wonder they don’t come here. You ought to try and persuade them. Yes, I see. Well, we’ll talk about all that. Meanwhile, dear
Prime Minister, I won’t keep you any longer (pip-pip-pip), but we’ll see you on the tenth. So do I. I’ll send your secretary a reminder, of course. Good-bye.”

She turned to me, beaming, and said, “I have the most wonderful effect on that man, you know. It’s quite touching how he dotes on me. I really think I could do anything with him, anything at all.”

She never spoke of Polly. At first I supposed that the reason why she liked to see so much of me was that I was associated in her mind with Polly, and that sooner or later she would unburden herself to me, or even try and use me as go-between in a reconciliation. I soon realized, however, that Polly and Boy were dead to her. She had no further use for them, since Boy could never be her lover again, and Polly could never now, it seemed, do her credit in the eyes of the world. She simply dismissed them from her thoughts. Her visits to me were partly the outcome of loneliness and partly due to the fact that I was a convenient halfway house between London and Hampton, and that she could use me as restaurant, cloakroom and telephone booth when in Oxford.

She was horribly lonely, you could see that. She filled Hampton every week end with important people, with smart people, even just with people, but, although so great is the English predilection for country life, she generally managed to get these visits extended from Friday to Tuesday, even so she was left with two empty days in the middle of the week. She went less and less to London. She had always preferred Hampton, where she reigned alone, to London where she faced a certain degree of competition, and life there without Polly to entertain for and without Boy to help her plot the social game, had evidently become meaningless and dull.

I
T WAS NO
doubt the dullness of her life which now deflected her thoughts towards Cedric Hampton, Lord Montdore’s heir. They still knew nothing about him beyond the mere fact of his existence, which had hitherto been regarded as extremely superfluous since but for him the whole of “all this,” including Hampton, would have gone to Polly, and, although the other things she had been going to inherit were worth more money, it was Hampton they all loved so much. I have never made out his exact relationship to Lord Montdore, but I know that when Linda and I used to “look him up” to see if he was the right age for us to marry, it always took ages to find him, breathing heavily over the peerage, pointing, and going back and back.

      
… HAVING HAD ISSUE
,

• HENRY, B. 1875, WHO M. DORA, DAU. OF STANLEY BOOTER ESQ. OF ANNAPOLIS, NOVA SCOTIA, AND D. 1913 LEAVING ISSUE,
  

• CEDRIC, HEIR PRES., B. 1907.
  

Just the right age, but what of Nova Scotia? An atlas, hastily consulted, showed it to be horribly marine. “A transatlantic Isle of Wight,” as Linda put it. “No, thanks.” Sea breezes, in so far as they are good for the complexion, were regarded by us as a means and not an end, for at that time it was our idea to live in capital cities and go to the opera alight with diamonds—“Who is that lovely woman?”—and Nova Scotia was clearly not a suitable venue for such doings. It never seemed to occur to us that Cedric could perhaps have been transplanted from his native heath to Paris, London or Rome. Colonial, we thought, ignorantly. It ruled him out. I believe Lady Montdore knew very little more about him than we did. She had never felt interest or curiosity towards those unsuitable people in Canada. They were one of the unpleasant things of life and she preferred to ignore them. Now, however, left alone with an “all this” which would one day, and one day fairly soon, by the look of Lord Montdore, be Cedric’s, she thought and spoke of him continually, and presently had the idea that it would amuse her to see him.

Of course no sooner had she conceived this idea than she wanted him to be there the very next minute, and was infuriated by the delays that ensued. For Cedric could not be found.

I was kept informed of every stage in the search for him, as Lady Montdore could now think of nothing else.

“That idiotic woman has changed her address,” she told me. “Montdore’s lawyer has had the most terrible time getting in touch with her at all. Now, fancy moving in Canada. You’d think one place there would be exactly the same as another, wouldn’t you? Sheer waste of money, you’d think. Well, they’ve found her at last, and now it seems that Cedric isn’t with her at all, but somewhere in Europe. Very odd of him not to have called on us, in that case. So now, of course, there’ll be more delays. Oh, dear, people are too inconsiderate! It’s nothing but self, self, self, nowadays, nothing …!”