Not That Sort of Girl
Read Not That Sort of Girl Online
Authors: Mary Wesley
A Novel
Mary Wesley
For Kate
1
N
ICHOLAS THORNBY PEERED NEEDLE-EYED
into the delicatessen. The narrow shop was full of customers competing for the attention of servers behind the counter; he squinted in, his view partially obscured by his reflection in the glass door. Recognising several people he had no wish to talk to, he decided Emily’s shopping list of smoked cod’s roe, soused herrings, Tiptree cherry jam and truffle chocolates could wait until later. Before moving on, he smoothed a hand over his stomach, congratulating himself on its flatness, comparing his reflection favourably with his contemporaries inside the shop. There was no need, he thought disgustedly, to droop round-shouldered, bulge like pregnant women, lose sight of your feet. Pleased with his ghostly reflection, Nicholas moved on before he could be seen, hailed, buttonholed, bored. He could guess what was being said inside the shop.
But as he entered the wine shop he found Ian Johnson behind him.
‘Morning, Nicholas,’ Ian said, following him in. ‘I’ve only just heard of Ned Peel’s death. Harold Rhys told me. Poor, poor Rose. How ghastly for her.’
‘I dare say he’s left her pretty well off,’ said Nicholas cheerfully. ‘What price the Beaujolais?’ He addressed the lady behind the counter.
‘I might take some round to the old girl to cheer her up. I’ll take six.’
‘It’s hardly a celebration,’ said Ian.
Nicholas laughed, showing no proper feeling. ‘Who told you? I thought you were away,’ he said. ‘I wonder what else we need?’ He looked around the shop.
‘I was. Harold Rhys in the delicatessen.’
‘It’s in
The Times,
if you’d looked. Thanks for reminding me I have to go to the delicatessen. I am getting so forgetful. I’ll get Rose some of her favourite pâté.’
‘You know her well?’ asked Ian. ‘Still?’
‘Since we were children. Yes, please,’ to the girl at the counter, ‘I’ll take six. Can you give me a box, I don’t trust carrier bags? We knew her long before she married Ned.’
‘Poor Rose. What did Ned die of?’
‘The usual. Accumulation of years, that sort of thing. Will you take a cheque?’
‘Of course, Mr Thornby.’
‘Poor, poor Rose. She will be lost,’ repeated Ian. Nicholas did not answer, he was busy writing a cheque. (Nicholas Thornby is so original, he refuses to carry credit cards, pays for everything by cheque.) Nicholas clasped the box of bottles to his chest, left the wine shop and headed for the delicatessen. I’ll buy her some flowers, he thought. This is quite like old times. In imagination he saw himself buying wine, pâté and flowers for Rose in his bright and springy youth before her marriage: it did not matter that in reality this had never happened. What mattered was that he and his sister Emily had known Rose for many, many years. Piling his shopping into the boot of his car Nicholas smiled secretly and mimicked ‘Poor, poor Rose,’ in Ian’s lugubrious accents. He remembered Rose shy but merry, easy to tease. Could she have done better than marry decent, honest, nice-looking, well off, unquestionably dull old Ned who was not even particularly faithful? She had been such a pretty girl. Nicholas Thornby drove the three miles out of the market town to Slepe, Ned and Rose’s house; now, he supposed, their son Christopher’s.
Taking his parcels from the car, Nicholas rang the bell and walked into the hall, calling as he did so, ‘It’s only me, Rose, Nicholas.’
Faintly, Rose answered from the floor above, ‘I’m in the bath.’
‘Can I come up?’
‘Of course.’
Nicholas put his parcels on the hall table, climbed the stairs to Rose’s bedroom and went in, rapping his knuckles on the door as he did so. He walked across the large light room and looked out of the window at Ned’s fat acres. Through the bathroom door he heard Rose splash in the bath: ‘I won’t be long,’ she called.
Nicholas thought, When we were all young Emily and I would sit on the edge of her bath and gossip or she would sit on the edge of ours and gossip with us. In actual fact, Nicholas had not been there on the edge of the bath, but being so close to his sister he had been there in spirit.
‘Do you remember the enormous bath we had at home?’ he called over his shoulder to Rose, still invisible in the bathroom.
‘Of course I do.’ Rose, wrapping herself in a robe, came in from the bathroom. ‘How daring you were; what would your sainted father have said if he’d known about you and Emily?’
Nicholas and Emily’s parent had been the rector of the parish, later to evolve into a minor bishop when his wife, who had the undeserved reputation of holding him back, had died.
Nicholas evaded Rose’s question by asking, ‘Rose, are you not asking for trouble leaving the front door open? What would you do if a burglar took it into his head to walk in while you lie there in the bath?’
‘The dogs would bark.’
‘Oh, Rose …’ Nicholas watched Rose sit suddenly on the edge of her bed and begin to cry.
‘All of them in one week.’ She wiped her tears with the sleeve of her robe. ‘Pass me those tissues.’
Nicholas obliged and watched her blow her nose. (‘That stupid thoughtless Christopher,’ Emily had said. ‘Letting the dogs loose on the main road, he must have been drunk.’)
‘Was Christopher drunk?’ asked Nicholas.
‘No, squabbling with Helen. He has always been cack-handed with dogs, and Helen …’ Rose stopped crying at the thought of her son and daughter-in-law.
‘Are they still here? I didn’t see their car.’ asked Nicholas.
‘Went back to London last night, that’s why I overslept. Christopher has a lot to do in London and Helen was anxious to get back to her job and the children. She has to plan her life.’
‘Ah.’ Nicholas drew out the word. ‘Aaah …’
‘Actually, it’s been rather marvellous to have the house to myself. Will you turn your back, Nicholas, while I dress?’
Nicholas turned to look out at Ned’s acres, watching a slow flock of sheep drift nibbling from right to left. Behind him Rose dressed in faded blue jeans, cotton shirt and striped red and fuschia sweater. At sixty-seven she was still nice-looking, with clear eyes and hair that had once been ash blonde and was now completely ash, with lots of lines round her eyes and rather large mouth. Her hands betrayed her true age.
‘They will be back at the weekend,’ she said to Nicholas’s back, stooped towards the view, his sparse white hair in need of a cut, ‘to take over.’
‘So soon?’ Nicholas span round, shocked.
‘The sooner the better. What is there to keep me here?’ She spread her hands. ‘I can’t wait.’
She was amused, laughing at Nicholas. He does not realise, she thought, watching her childhood friend, that when the dogs were killed I was finally alone, far more so than when Ned died. The dogs were the last strand of the persistent thread which has tied me here.
‘Who arranged the funeral?’
‘Helen, of course …’
‘I thought Harrods …’
‘She orders the best, she does her best, she …’
‘Knows best?’
Rose laughed.
‘Why do you let your son and daughter-in-law treat you as though you were half-witted?’
‘It makes them happy. They feel useful. Besides,’ said Rose, justifying her young, ‘all this is theirs now. Helen might as well begin as she means to go on. She likes to be bossy.’
‘And Christopher?’
‘Christopher is guided by his wife.’ Rose failed to keep the zest of acidity from her voice.
‘What shall you do?’ Nicholas asked. Then, sensing that she was unlikely to tell him: ‘I’ve brought you some pâté and Beaujolais from the town. Ian Johnson was in the wine shop. Harold Rhys …’
‘It’s their wives’ day for the hairdresser.’
‘Harold Rhys had told him about Ned. He kept saying “Poor Rose, poor Rose, what will poor Rose do?” Were they such great friends of Ned’s, still?’ said Nicholas, remembering Ian.
‘Well, friends. Yes, I suppose they were in a way. They all played together, were in the war together and latterly fished together. They are poor old men.’
‘Not so much older than us,’ said Nicholas, smiling.
‘But they know they are old, Nicholas. You and Emily never think of your age.’
‘And you?’
‘Rarely.’
‘Were Ian and Harold …’ Nicholas watched Rose, sitting now at her dressing table, brush her hair ‘your …?’
‘I did not meet either of them until I married Ned. Did you say Beaujolais and pâté?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let us telephone Emily and picnic in the kitchen, if that suits. Unless,’ said Rose, ‘you would like to invite old Harold and Ian?’
‘You know we don’t like them. What’s more, Rose, they do not like each other. It was Ned who held them together.’
Ned’s death, thought Rose, has unleashed more than just me. ‘Then go and ring Emily, and what about Laura, would she like to join us?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had thought of taking you out to that new restaurant on the river, it’s said to be good; but I thought it wouldn’t, so soon after the funeral, be quite
comme-il-faut.’
‘Damn
comme-il-faut.
You sound just like my old father. No, we must eat here because I haven’t time for anything else, I am going away as soon as I have packed my bag.’
‘So soon? Where to?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Use the telephone in the hall, Nicholas. I need to concentrate on what to take.’
Nicholas left the room.
Rose sat on in front of her mirror, her hands in her lap. Looking deep into the glass at the reflections of the room, she murmured, ‘You, I’ll take you.’ She got up and took from the wall a small picture and, after wrapping it in a nightdress she took from a drawer, put it into an overnight bag, padding it protectively with underclothes and jerseys. Then, fetching her washing things from the bathroom and adding them to the bag, she zipped it up and left the room without a backward glance. Running down the stairs she met Nicholas on his way up from the hall. ‘She’s coming,’ said Nicholas, ‘let me take your bag.’ Rose let him take the bag so that he turned to descend the stairs again. She had no wish for inquisitive Nicholas to note the picture’s absence from the wall. ‘Is this all you are taking?’ asked Nicholas. ‘It’s not much.’
‘I shall not be much away.’
‘Where?’
‘Just somewhere quiet. The telephone has hardly stopped. I need to be alone. I thought just for once the solitude of a good hotel …’
‘You could come to us, dear Rose.’
‘But I would not be alone, dear Nicholas. Come now and use your expertise with Ned’s frightful corkscrew while I make toast for the pâté.’
‘Perhaps, since Ned is no longer here, I could use one of the many efficient corkscrews I have given him over the years, or would that be tactless?’
‘It wouldn’t be tactless. But didn’t you know? Ned made a habit of giving your corkscrews, so hintingly given, to friends for Christmas.’
‘The old swine!’
‘No, no. He would not be drawn, that’s all.’
‘He didn’t like me, did he?’
‘He never said so,’ said Rose, cutting bread for toast.
‘Where will you scatter his ashes?’ asked Nicholas spitefully.
