Sensible Life (34 page)

“I was. I did. Your presence was sadly missed.” Cosmo sauntered round the room and peered out of the window. “Is that the sea down there through the trees? What an idyllic situation; sheltered, secret and remote.” He turned back into the room. “I say, nice books. I see your cousin Thing was quite erudite. Furniture not to be sniffed at, either. Some decent pictures, too; do show me round.”

“I had rather intended to be alone, but as you are here, shut the door, It’s only open to let the smoke out.”

“And not uninvited guests. Do I gather I am not welcome?”

“I have rather a lot to do—I hoped—”

“A solitary gloat is understandable,” said Cosmo amiably, “but since I am here, welcome or not, why don’t we have a drink?” He unscrewed the bottle of whisky. “In those nice rummers on the mantelshelf, or are they sacred? A quick tot to drink your health and wish you luck.”

Hubert reached for the rummers. “I’ll get some water,” he said.

Cosmo watched as Hubert went into the kitchen, noted a pile of groceries; fruit, a bottle of wine, another of whisky on a deal table, a loaf, butter and cheese. Hubert brought water. “Perhaps I need a drink, I’ve had a surprise.”

“Oh? Nasty?”

“Yes.” Hubert watched Cosmo pour the drinks, took his, gulped, looked at his watch and then at Cosmo. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Thanks.”

They sat in armchairs by the fire. Cosmo said, “What was the surprise?”

“My cousin’s—my solicitor hanged himself.”

“Why?”

“What a thing to do! I saw him in London. He gave me the keys, read me my cousin’s will and gave me lunch. The thing is, he said his wife had left him, and that he’d like to kill her. I didn’t expect him to kill himself. It seems all wrong for a solicitor—”

“I suppose they are human.”

“I thought he was a bore. I felt awful. I telephoned from the village when I was doing the shopping to ask him to do various things for me, and his clerk told me.”

“I suppose he has a partner.”

“God, you are callous.”

“He bored you; you didn’t like him. You are not really upset. What’s upsetting you is that you don’t want me here, you want me to leave. You keep looking at your watch.”

“I only looked at it once,” Hubert exclaimed. “I’m upset, I tell you.”

“So will I please leave? Tell you what,” said Cosmo, “show me round first, a lightning tour for old time’s sake. I did bring you a bottle,” he wheedled. “Would it be permitted to see the famous bathroom, for instance? The six baths? Come on, be hospitable. Don’t let your new status affect your manners. One hopes, too, that now you are a man of property it won’t affect your democratic tendencies.” Cosmo sniffed his whisky and drank.

Hubert said, “All right, but it’s got to be quick. These are the stairs—” He led the way.

“So I see,” Cosmo murmured. “The stairs.”

“The landing,” said Hubert. “Bedrooms.” He walked past, opening and shutting doors before Cosmo could see in. “A loft up there full of junk, a lot of it scorched.”

“Scorched?”

“There was a fire; half the house went. Cousin Thing did not rebuild but made a walled garden in the ruined wing. It’s rather effective.” Hubert gulped whisky as he walked. “The bathroom.” He opened a door, gesturing with his glass. “La salle de bain.”

“But only one bath.” Cosmo’s eyes darted about, taking in a large but solitary bath and, on a wooden bathrack, sponges, soap and flannel.

Hubert closed the door. “He took out the extra five. Come down, I’ll show you the kitchen. He dug the extra five into the slope of the garden so that the stream runs through them, a sort of waterfall. I—, I found them all green with moss. You’d never guess they were porcelain pools.”

“Fascinating,” said Cosmo. “I must see them. Goldfish?” He followed Hubert down the stairs.

“Trout. This is the kitchen, w—, I—er—eat in here.”

“Most democratic,” said Cosmo gravely.

“And that’s the lot,” said Hubert briskly. “As you see, there is no electricity, candles and oil lamps, no telephone, spring water. Sorry I can’t offer you lunch. I’m only camping. I leave tomorrow for Germany. It’s been a quick dash, that’s all.” He moved towards the door. “I have these letters—a lot of business—”

Cosmo did not follow him. “Since you came in my car,” he said, helping himself to whisky, “I imagined we could go back to London together.” His tone was amiable, his expression obtuse.

Hubert said, “Oh
no!
I mean, well, it’s not—”

“Where are you hiding her?” asked Cosmo quietly.

“Hiding? Hiding who?”

“Flora.” Cosmo sat in an armchair, stretched his legs towards the fire and set his glass beside him.

“What makes you think she’s here?” Hubert blessed the whisky for the amazement in his voice. “Why should—? What an extraordinary idea.”

Cosmo said, “Since when have you used a pink bath flannel?”

“Joyce—”

“As we both know, Joyce’s bath flannels are always mauve and Joyce has gone to the Canaries with husband Ernest.” Cosmo leaned forward and replenished Hubert’s glass. “Where is Flora?”

“I don’t know what—”

“—I am talking about. Sit down,” said Cosmo. “You are as bad at lying as my father.”

“What has your father got to—” Hubert gulped his drink and sat down.

“I’ll tell you. Flora’s mother, that pestilential woman, wrote to my mother.”

“What would she do that for?”

“It appears Flora knows no one in England except us Coppermalt lot and her school. Mrs. Trevelyan wrote to Mother to ask whether by any chance she had news of Flora. It appears she jumped ship at Marseilles and has not been heard of since. White-slavery is suspected by the gullible, but
I
remembered that you came with Joyce and me to see her off at Tilbury, and that you, curiously enough, have been in France for a couple of months. Two and two seemed to me to make Flora. Where is she?”

Hubert said, “This is ridiculous,” and leaned forward to throw logs on the fire.

“I seem to remember,” said Cosmo, “that we made a pact to go shares.”

“As boys.” Hubert demurred.

“We have not changed gender; we were both in good working order with Joyce.”

“Oh,” said Hubert. “Joyce.”

Cosmo asked, “Have you married Flora?”

“Married? Good Lord, no.” (She had refused, had she not?) “I can’t afford to marry.”

“I have a strong suspicion that my father is in touch with her,” said Cosmo slyly.

Hubert burst into spontaneous laughter. “Your father! How massively comical.”

“Mother does not think it comical,” said Cosmo rather stiffly. “I say, should we not dilute this a bit before we get squiffed?”

Hubert dribbled water with a careful hand. “Tell me how your father comes into things.” He sat back, smiling. “Your honoured Pa, the General.”

Cosmo said, “There has been one hell of a row over Christmas, a fullblown menopausal eruption, starting at breakfast on Christmas morning, carried on through Boxing Day: low-voiced queries, muttered asides, hints, all behind a bright Christmas-spirity front. Mustn’t spoil Christmas. Mabs and I became quite wretched. Oh, do stop grinning. You are as bad as Nigel and Henry.”

“But it is funny,” giggled Hubert. “Your aged Pa, how could—”

“Would you still laugh if I told you there is something in it?”

“There couldn’t be.”

“But there is. Neither Mabs nor I have seen him like it, hangdog, guilty. We’ve seen so many of Mother’s suspicious attacks, but this—”

“But he must be about sixty.”

“Sixty-six.”

“Well—”

“I tell you, when my mother accused him he looked sheepish. It began with Father giving her extra presents, not the son of thing he would choose himself. Then she got Mrs. Trevelyan’s letter and began thinking of Flora, remembering her when she came to Coppermalt.”

“She was only fifteen.”

“She remembered that. When she read the letter she began thinking of Flora’s last evening, when the girls dressed her up as a femme fatale. Mother managed to say, without using the word, that Flora was a tart—disreputable was the word used—and Father left the room pretending he heard the telephone.”

“Oh!”

“During Christmas church—Mabs and Tash brought their infants to counter the carols—Mother was distrait; she whispered at Father and Father’s neck went red. I was in the pew behind them. He said, ‘Milly, be quiet,’ and ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up.’ Jolly unchristmas spirit. But she wouldn’t let well enough alone. She niggled through Christmas Day and he made a mess of his answers. He did not, as he’s always done, laugh at her. She kept coming back to the letter and Flora. ‘Thrust on us by your girl-friend, Rosa.’ ‘I never had any affair with Rosa.’ ‘It’s not Rosa we are discussing,’ and then later worrying like Bootsie at a bone. ‘When I had her to stay that summer I didn’t think she was really that sort of girl, and yet when Mabs and Tashie dressed her up she looked very, very tarty.’ By night she was really needling him. None of us could stop her. Father drank far more than he usually does and punished the whisky decanter after dinner. Then, as we drifted thankfully to bed, we heard her shout: ‘You met her in London. Stop lying, I know you did.’”

“And?” Hubert’s mouth hung open.

“Father said, ‘If you must know, yes I did,’ in tones of ice.”

“And?”

“Slept in his dressing-room. He never does unless one of them is ill. He adores her. Boxing Day was arctic, they were not on speakers. They both looked wretched. And I remember what a hurry you were in when you borrowed my car, not a bit like you, and set off to find you and check up.”

Hubert said, “The silly old man, he made it up,” and helped Cosmo and himself to whisky.

“If he made it up,” said Cosmo, “you must have got Flora hidden somewhere. Where is she? Up in the loft among the scorched junk?”

“No,” said Hubert. “No. She’s gone out, said she wanted to think.” He lay back and closed his eyes.

“You bastard,” said Cosmo. “When will she be back?”

“I don’t know. She’s been gone hours.”

“Why should she want to think? Have you hurt her?”

“Why should I hurt her?” said Hubert violently. “I love her.”

“I love her,” said Cosmo.

“Not that again. What we should be asking is, Who does
she
love?”

T
HE SAND ON THE
tide line was frozen. Flora’s feet imprinted the crust as she walked across the cove to the water. The sea was the colour of pewter and flat.

When Hubert woke he would find her note on the kitchen table. He would go to the village to buy food, carry on to the town, exploring his new neighbourhood, and do his telephoning from there. She had written: “I am going for a walk. Flora.” He would expect her back. She had not said: “I need to think, to work things out, to decide.” But finding herself alone on the beach she had known that that was what she was trying to do.

She watched a flight of herring gulls winging out to sea in the winter dawn and listened to their lonely cry. At the water’s edge she wrapped her coat tightly round her, turned up the collar and let her eye follow a pair of cormorants scurrying close above the water towards a horizon just catching the pink of dawn. It was cold. A ship steamed along the line between sea and sky, heading perhaps to the subcontinent of India. “Where shall I decide to go?” she said out loud. “I cannot stay here.”

Pacing at the water’s edge she reviewed the past days at Pengappah, very different from the heady weeks in France when, listening to Hubert, she had known that their thoughts and emotions blended as at night her body fused with his. Arrived at Pengappah, she had stood aside and watched as Hubert discovered the reality of his inheritance. She had seen him compare the substance with some imaginary dream. Ready for disappointment, he had prowled suspiciously at first, ready to rebuff; grown enthusiastic he had fallen headlong for the place’s charm. Excluded by his concentration, and not unwilling to be so, she had watched him with increasing detachment, a detachment of which he was unaware. They had explored Pengappah minutely, walked the boundaries, talked to the old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis in the village, who had worked for Cousin Thing. “Old Mr. Wyndeatt-Whyte was a proper gentleman,” they said. “A proper gentleman was Mr. Hubert.” They sized Hubert up, visibly wondering whether the new, the young Mr. Wyndeatt-Whyte would do, if not at once, eventually.

Hubert had not been ingratiating and this they appreciated. They agreed to do a bit in the house, light the occasional fire to stave off the damp, keep the garden tidy as they had for Cousin Thing. Cousin Thing, it transpired, had only visited occasionally of late years, preferring to lodge in his club at Bath. “He didn’t like things moved, come in good weather for a change to look at his books, collect the post if there was any, just postcards as a rule and not many of they.”

Hubert, avoiding this conversational lure, had stuck to the point. He told them that he would come when he could. He had to earn his living; his work would take him abroad. The Jarvises had said, “Ah,” and “Yes,” and “That so?” and Hubert had said that he would like his friends to come even when he could not; that they would ask the Jarvises for the key. He did not like to think of the house empty, but giving joy to his friends. His cousin Miss Trevelyan, for instance, would be there a lot. They had nodded, looking Flora over, wondering how much she was part of the package.

Certainly, Flora thought, as she gave an involuntary hop of freedom, Hubert did not wonder. He behaved as though she were the package, taking her for granted as he was beginning to take his property, sure that she would fall in with his plans. He would this morning telephone the solicitor, arrange for money to be paid to the old couple and follow his conversation with a letter of confirmation. He had a strong businesslike streak, Flora thought, as she doubled up with mirth; he was businesslike in the way he made love, when it was the right time, when it suited him. Not that it was not wonderful, of course.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” she shouted up at the sky and broke into a run to reach the rocks at the foot of the cliff. Would Cousin Thing have approved of Hubert? Had Cousin Thing enjoyed the message in Russian? Should Hubert not be ashamed of those silly postcards sent over the years to tease? Above all, should Hubert be so sure she would return from her walk?