Sensible Life (27 page)

It would be interesting to know, he thought, who the fellow was—one knew fairly well who he wasn’t—although, after so long, the interest was academic. In this country with its interlocking society it was possible, indeed quite likely, that one had been introduced to the man. The idea amused Denys, as he sipped his drink and watched his sleeping wife; it consoled him a little for the loss of his dog, who would normally have been sitting beside him with her jaw pressed on his knee trying to catch his eye. Tara had been jealous of Vita. She had bitten one of the soldiers at the barracks before they caught up with her and shot her, but she had gone for Vita first. Denys sighed, mourning his dog.

In the bed Vita stirred and turned on her side. She had been reading
Vogue
when she fell asleep; her finger still marked a page. He leaned forward to take her hand in his so that when she woke she would be reassured to know that he loved her, would give his love and all he possessed to make her happy.

At the height of his anxiety, when she was bitten, he had written to the girl; he had sent money and a list of luxuries to buck Vita up after this ghastly experience. Denys wondered what she looked like now; dreary school groups were no indication. Would he perhaps see a likeness? Catch a glimpse? Or was all this fruit of his imagination?

Vita opened her eyes. “I was asleep. Have you been back long?” She smiled as he squeezed her hand. “Nice.”

“Not long.” He bent to kiss her. “Like a drink?”

“Not allowed.”

“A—”

“Not allowed!”

“Drink, then. Fruit juice? Tea?”

“Fruit juice.”

“I met your tame A.D.C.,” he said, bringing the drink. “I thought he might do worse than marry your daughter.”

He always said “your daughter.”

Vita smiled. “What a suggestion.”

Denys lit a cigarette. “Many men marry the daughters of mothers they lust after; I could quote you a dozen straight off.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why not? The fellow’s got prospects.”

Vita sat up and propped her back with pillows. “I don’t care for the idea at all.”

“If you are going to discount all the men who want to sleep with you, sweetie, you rather narrow the girl’s field.”

Vita had long since stopped reminding him that Flora had a name. “And you,” she said, “what about you?” She drank her fruit juice, meeting his eye over the rim of the glass.

“What about me?” Denys teased. “Jealous?”

“Of course. You will want to sleep with her if they do. It’s logical,” she teased in turn.

Denys drained his glass. The thought of sleeping with Flora had not occurred to him. “Don’t put ideas into my head,” he said, watching her. They had always voiced their fears and thoughts—or Vita had. That was part of their charm for each other. “Would that not be incest?” He was amused. “I look forward to meeting her,” he said.

“It would be a very cruel thing to do to me, darling,” she said seriously.

Denys said, “Yes, yes, it would. Perhaps after all I won’t, but should I be tempted please remember it was you who planted the idea.”

R
OUNDING THE CORNER OF
the square, Tashie saw that there was someone on her doorstep. Whoever it was had rung the bell and was waiting for the door to be opened. Anxious to get home, kick off shoes which pinched, relax on her sofa and have tea, Tashie slowed her pace; if she kept out of sight her maid would answer the bell and say she was out, and the caller would go away.

To make sure she was not seen Tashie took the right-hand pavement, putting the square garden between herself and the house; she could watch between the square railings.

As expected her maid opened the door, shook her head in answer to the caller, and closed it. The caller, a girl, went down the steps and walked away while Tashie complacently watched. Then she let out a yell and began running after the girl, shouting: “Stop! Wait! I’m here! Wait, blast you, wait!”

The girl did not hear Tashie above the sound of traffic and walked on. In a moment she would round the corner into the busy street and be gone. Tashie kicked off her high-heeled shoes, put on a spurt and caught up as she was stepping onto a bus. “Flora!”

Flora said: “Oh, Tashie—your feet.”

Tashie said: “You were coming to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Then come along, how lovely. What’s the matter?” Something looked very much the matter.

“Do you remember you wished something really sordid would happen to my mother?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, it has.”

“Oh good, what?”

“She’s been bitten by a dog with rabies.”

“How splendid.”

“If you ladies are not getting on the bus, perhaps you’d allow other people to,” said a man who had been queueing.

“Oh do, do get on, oh please get onto the bus.” Tashie drew Flora aside.

“Your feet, Tashie—”

“I left my shoes on the pavement—”

“Wits, more like,” said the man, climbing onto the bus. “I said wits.”

“Very witty,” said Tashie. “Immensely humorous.” She had hold of Flora’s arm. “They pinched like blue murder. Oh, Flora, I haven’t seen you for years. Come along, stockings laddered to shreds, we’ll ask Molly to get us tea.” She led Flora back into the square. “You remember Molly, she was under-housemaid at Coppermalt.”

“Your shoes? Yes, I do.”

“Darling, they were one of those fatal buys, a size too small. Sheer vanity, I’m always doing it. Here we are.” She put her latchkey into the lock. “Safe home. Hello, Molly.”

“Look at your feet,” said Molly. “Whatever happened?”

“I took them off. They are on the pavement across the square. You remember Flora, Molly?”

“Oh,” said Molly, “yes, I thought—my sister takes that size, I’ll just—” Molly scooted down the steps.

Tashie called after her. “Will you get us tea when you come back?”

“Yes’m.”

“Not an utterly wasted buy, after all. She loves my clothes, does Molly. Come upstairs to the drawing-room and tell all. One of the arts of keeping servants is to wear clothes of the same size.”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“With the dog, of course.”

“Oh, the dog. It was my father’s, an Airedale bitch. I believe he was very fond of her.”

“But a dog of taste and discernment even when her wits were affected.” Tashie sat on her sofa and massaged her feet.

“My mother might have died,” said Flora.

“You mean she
hasn’t
? Oh Lord, what a disappointment. I thought from what you—”

“No.”

“The dog?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

Molly brought in tea which she put on a low table beside Tashie. “Exactly my sister’s size,” she said. “She will be pleased. I thought you’d like crumpets.”

“Thank you, Molly. Delicious. Please remind me next time I set off to buy shoes what size I really take.”

“It would be against my nature, ma’am.” Molly left the room.

“Isn’t she killing?” Tashie poured tea. “She’s in love with Jim. D’you remember the butler at Coppermalt? He’s got a job in London now; he takes her to Communist meetings in King’s Cross. He’s joined the Party. Sugar?”

“One, please.”

Flora perched on a chair facing Tashie. Tashie looked smarter, more sophisticated and harder than when last seen; it had been folly to give in to the impulse to visit her. She sipped her tea. “You’ve got a baby,” she said.

“Yes. Upstairs with Nanny. I’ll take you to see him presently. How did you know?”

“I read it in
The Times
. I take it at school.”

“Nigel?”

“Yes.”

“Funny old Nigel. They are very happy, you know.”

“Good.” Flora put her cup aside, it tinkled in the saucer.

Tashie thought, This isn’t a joke, I am at a loss. How long is it since we saw her? What’s been going on? She’s very pretty. Why has she come to me? She said: “Please tell me what’s the matter, Flora.”

Flora flushed. “I don’t want to be a bore.”

“Does this accident to your mother mean that India is off? Is that it?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I sail from Tilbury on Tuesday.”

(Tuesday. Tuesday. We won’t be back from the week in Norfolk for the partridge shooting, thought Tashie.) She said: “By P & O all the way?”

Flora nodded. “I have the clothes my mother told me to get. Madame Tarasova made them.”

“That’s nice. You should have let Mabs and me help you shop.” (Why should she?) “But you are not all that keen on going, is that it?”

“Never was.”

Of course she wasn’t. “But now, do you have to?”

“Yes.” Flora opened her bag. “This may explain better than I can.” She took her father’s letter and handed it to Tashie. “It came by the same post as the letter to the headmistress about my mother.” She handed the letter to Tashie.

Tashie began to read. “‘Twelve pairs of silk stockings, get advice as to colour, two pairs riding gloves (pigskin) size seven, six camiknickers satin or crepe-de-chine white, from White House bust thirty-six, four thin nightdresses, white, box sandalwood soap Floris, two pairs tan shoes size four and a half Rayne, large bottle Mitsuko Fortnum’s and her usual order at Elizabeth Arden.’ Gosh, this isn’t a
letter.
What about dresses and a mink coat, while we’re about it? Are you supposed, oh yes,” she said, reading. “I see you are supposed to bring all these out with you. Do you want me to help you shop, is that it?”

“No. I’ve done the shopping.” How to explain that she just wanted to see, to catch a glimpse, to get some news perhaps, before she left. “My father arranged about paying,” she said. “It’s over the page.”

Tashie looked over the page. “Yes,” she said. “I see.” She handed the letter back. “I remember your parents,” she said soberly.

“He does adore her.” Flora folded the letter and put it back in her bag. “I really ought to go,” she said. “There’s a train at—”

“But you must see my baby and wait until Henry gets in. He’d love to see you.”

“I’d love to see the baby; what’s he called?”

“John. We nearly called him Hubert, but there are too many Huberts and Cosmo, who is a godfather, well, Henry doesn’t like Cosmo, not the person, just the name, so he’s John, you can’t go wrong with John. Come on up to the nursery and see him.” Tashie led the way out of the room.

Flora let John hold her finger; he looked quite an ordinary baby in Tashie’s arms. John’s Nanny shook hands when Tashie introduced her and said, “We’d better wrap up warm this weekend, hadn’t we, Mummy?” And Tashie said:

“Yes, we had, it’s a very cold house.”

Flora felt John’s Nanny was in no way interested in her. She made this clear when she said, “And what time does Mr. March want to leave tomorrow? I hope we start in good time so that baby’s feeds are not interfered with.”

Tashie handed the baby back to the nurse. “She’s a fearful dragon but a wonderful nanny. She thinks I’m a hopeless mother,” she said as they went back to the drawing-room. “The nanny where we are spending the week snobs her. She’s nervous that John will cry if he doesn’t get his feeds on time or if we arrive late and disgrace her.”

“I really should go,” said Flora uneasily.

“Won’t you wait for Henry?”

“My train—”

“Oh.”

“Could I go to the lavatory first?”

“Of course.”

In the lavatory Flora shredded her father’s shopping list and dropped the bits into the bowl. When she pulled the plug a lot were not washed away; she was tempted to retrieve a piece of the envelope with a stamp on it to give to the school gardener for his little boy’s collection, but thinking the retrieval disgusting left matters as they were.

Tashie, who still had not put any shoes on, came with her to the door and kissed her. Flora walked away quickly. She had not asked for news of Mabs or Cosmo or Hubert; she had not even hinted that she remembered Felix. She could quite well have waited to see Henry, there was masses of time. Oh, why did I go? she muttered as she walked along. “There was nothing for me there, nothing.”

Later Henry complained to Tashie that some fool had been putting letters down the lavatory and Tashie burst out crying. Henry took her in his arms and said: “What is it, darling, what’s upset you?”

And Tashie said: “It’s Flora. There was a moment when I thought she was going to talk. I wanted to help but she clammed up. Oh, Henry, we should have done more for her. We should have had her to stay or something. We’ve never bothered.”

“Or Mabs should.”

“But we never
have.
I was dreadfully flippant about her ghastly mother, sorry she hadn’t died and so on. I joked. I should have done something. Oh, God, I feel so bloody inadequate, a selfish tactless fool.”

“I don’t see what you could have done,” said Henry. “We are going away for the week.” A little later he said: “Darling, you can’t go interfering with other people’s lives.”

“Whyever not? It wouldn’t be interfering, it would be helping. We could—”

“She’s under age,” said Henry reasonably. “She’s only seventeen. What she does is her parents’ business, not ours. You really must stop crying; if you don’t you’ll look awful. You seem to forget we have the Meads coming to dinner.”

Tashie said, “Damn the Meads,” but she stopped crying.

In the train Flora thought of all the things she had bought her mother. She had not, as her father asked, taken advice about the colour of the silk stockings, but used her own judgment. She would have to buy another suitcase for the day’s shopping. She had enjoyed the shopping; it had gone to her head. She had fantasised that she was shopping for herself, that she might meet Mabs or Tashie in one of the shops, that they would be glad to see her. This had led to her calling on Tashie. As the train clattered through the suburbs Flora thought Tashie would have helped her if it had been easy and enjoyable, as it had been to lend her clothes on her visit to Coppermalt, when she and Mabs made a game of it. They had got a lot of fun out of it, especially so on the last night when the game got out of hand. Older, married, and mother of a baby, Tashie had lost none of her generosity; look at the way she ceded her shoes to Molly, the maid. Flora thought with disgust of how she had sat tongue-tied and mum in Tashie’s drawing-room. She had not even eaten a delicious buttery crumpet. There will be no crumpets in India, she thought morosely.