Sensible Life (39 page)

“Is that what happened?”

“I imagine so.”

So he had stood up to be counted, she thought. But boring? Well, perhaps. He had not, come to think of it, been exactly sparkling company when he took her out from school. Had she been blinded by love when she blamed herself for the flop the day had turned out to be? And more recently in the Fellowes’ bed, what had he been like? A most unexciting lover, she thought bleakly. It would have been so much better to remember him as the marble persona of her childhood. “Felix was a charmer,” she said. “He took me out to lunch when I was at school. It was terrible. I was going down with measles.
He
was bored.”

Cosmo laughed. He would laugh a lot louder of I told him I’d slept with Felix and was unmoved, she thought; if I let him know that in bed with Felix it was
I
who was bored.

Cosmo said, “Poor devil. What hell.” He turned to look out at the fog. He was grown leaner. His large nose made him look hawkish and arrogant; his hair, once so fair, had grown darker than she remembered. He turned back to look at her. “You haven’t changed much in these last ten years,” he said. “If anything, you are lovelier.” Then, startling her with parallel thought, he said, “Cerebral love sticks; it’s impossible to get it out of your system. I do so want,” he muttered in her ear, “to make love to you.”

“Are you suggesting,” she said, “that I am in your system?”

“Yes.”

“And you want me out of it?”

“I did not say that; cerebral and carnal can link very nicely.”

“Oh look,” said Flora, “the sun.”

The several occupants who were still awake looked up as the train moved from one moment to the next into sparkling sunshine. “Let’s shut the window; I am cold,” she said.

Cosmo closed the window. Two fellow occupants got up to struggle along the corridor to the lavatory. “What happened to you? Where did you go,” Cosmo persisted, “when you disappeared?”

“I moved where nobody would look for me. I changed class.”

“What?”

“I became a servant.”

“What kind of servant?” He was disbelieving.

“A housemaid. In Thurloe Square.”

“But that’s five minutes from Mabs’ house.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve often walked through that square. I could have—”

“You wouldn’t have found the person you were looking for.”

“Are you that person?” Cosmo tried to see Flora’s eyes, but she turned away.

“Look,” she said, “Maidenhead, the Thames,” in a bright voice. “That is the river Thames.”

“Please, Flora,” he said, “tell me how you did it.” And, he thought, who you have become.

She said, “Any fool can sweep floors, make beds, polish furniture.”

Cosmo said: “How did you set about it?”

It had taken from Truro in Cornwall to Maidenhead for her to make up her mind, on that flight from Pengappah. She had counted her money at least six times to see how much was there, each time forgetting in her pain the exact sum. Between Maidenhead and Paddington she devised a strategy for survival, and the manic panic which had bunched her insides for six and a half hours subsided to a manageable knot. She found a cheap hotel and set off next morning for Knightsbridge to find Irena Tarasova. In Beauchamp Place she ran into Alexis coming away from Irena’s establishment, recognised him, and he her. Supposing her to be with Hubert—for had not Hubert stopped in Paris on his way to Marseilles for a game of bridge?—Alexis enquired after Hubert in a sly and jocose manner. “I was afraid,” she told Cosmo, “that he would give me away, tell Hubert that he had met me, so I went with him for a cup of coffee and a bun in the Kardomah café in the Brompton Road.”

“Did he make a pass?” asked Cosmo, suspicious.

“Alexis? He was old and fat; at least forty-five.”

Cosmo said: “Sorry to interrupt. Go on.”

Over coffee, Flora said, she had made it clear she wanted none of Hubert or Cosmo, that she was on her way to ask Irena for help; she thought Irena might find her a job. Alexis advised strongly against this; he was returning next day to Paris. His own visit had been fruitless; Irena had refused not only to lend him money but had also, and this was heinous, refused to remarry him so that he could apply for British citizenship. He was sick, he said, of being stateless. He was brazen and unashamed. Irena, he said, grown selfish with success and security, was not in the business of helping anyone but herself. “She will make you clothes and take your money and that’s the lot,” he had said. “And what’s more,” he said, “she will betray you, talk.” Flora had realised later, she told Cosmo, that Alexis, having been refused help by his ex-wife, did not wish her to help anyone else. “You learn about people as you grow older,” she said with amusement.

Cosmo said: “I suppose so,” wishing to learn the new Flora. “What happened then?”

“Actually he came in handy.”

“Oh?”

“He agreed to post a letter to my parents from Paris. I wanted them to think I was in France. I wrote on plain paper, with no address. I gave him money for the stamp. I was trying to behave as decently as I could. I did not want to be with them, but equally I did not want them worrying about me.”

“Did they get the letter?”

“I don’t know.” She turned to face Cosmo, flinching as she brushed his knees with hers. “I thought it was my fault that I did not love them. I suppose I hoped for some vestigial bond. I was haunted by the family love I’d seen between the Shovehalfpennies and you Leighs at Coppermalt; you are so lucky.”

“Did they get in touch?” Cosmo strove to understand.

“I had given no address. But four years later, when I was twenty-one and felt safe, I wrote care of my father’s bank to tell them that I was all right and to congratulate my father. I’d seen his name in the New Year’s Honours.” The train was drawing into Reading. Few people got off, many more squeezed on. There was shuffling and jostling in the corridor; the officers near the door fended off intruders. “Full up in here, I’m afraid, try further along,” closing the door which had been hopefully opened, stretching their legs across the compartment. “Bloody hell, travelling these days.” The guard blew his whistle and the train moved on.

“I got an answer that time,” said Flora, speaking quietly, “via a solicitor.” She stared at the French officer, who was temporarily awake; he closed his eyes.

“What did the solicitor’s letter say?” asked Cosmo, puzzled.

“The letter was to the effect that I am not my father’s child, that I am no concern of his. My mother was not mentioned.” In spite of herself Flora’s voice hit a high note.

Cosmo said: “I call that absolutely splendid, terrific. Wasn’t it a great relief?”

“Yours is a robust view,” said Flora drily. “I agree with you now, but at the time I felt I did not exist, that I was nobody.”

“I think it’s wonderful.”

“I am still my mother’s child.”

“Put her out of your mind, forget her. Now, back to Alexis. Did you go to Irena, after all? Who helped you? Alexis?”

“Actually,” said Flora grinning, “he did make a sort of pass. I—er—fended him off.”

Cosmo felt fury. “What happened?”

“Nothing. He may not have posted my letter, just pocketed the stamp money.” Flora laughed. “I went to Molly.”

“Who is Molly?”

“Molly was your parents’ under-housemaid at Coppermalt; she left to work in London for Tashie. She was in love with your butler, the one who was a closet Communist.”

“Gosh,” said Cosmo. “I never knew that! Gage!”

“They are married now,” said Flora, “and have a tobacconist’s business in Wimbledon. He votes Conservative.”

“But why didn’t you go to Mabs or Tash?” Cosmo was at sea.

“They would have talked. They would not have been able to resist talking. Molly was my bridge.”

“Bridge?”

“From middle-class to working-class, to where it would not occur to anyone to look for me.”

Cosmo took this in rather slowly. “Please go on,” he said respectfully.

She had telephoned Molly, Flora said, when she guessed Tashie would be out, visited, and over cups of tea in the kitchen learned the hows and whys of becoming a servant; servants, she had noticed, got free board and lodging, something she badly needed. Much amused, Molly told her where, apart from
The Times,
to look for advertisements. “In the Thirties,” said Flora, as though talking to an idiot, “there was fearful unemployment, but a shortage of servants. People did not want to be servants,
The Lady
was simply full of pleas.”

“I remember,” said Cosmo. “Constant fuss and worry among one’s aunts. Go on.” She had answered an advertisement for a housemaid in Thurloe Square, a Mrs. Fellowes. “I told Mrs. Fellowes that this would be my first job, which was the truth. I was nervous. I handed her my references; Molly had stressed that I must have references. They said that I was honest, hard-working, clean, tidy and came from a good family, that I had no experience but was willing to learn, and of good character.”

“And?” Cosmo was fascinated.

“Mrs. Fellowes read them. She asked whether I liked dogs. I said I did. Then she said, “Did you write these yourself, these, er, excellent references?” I had pinched a sheet of Tashie’s headed notepaper and, what I thought was rather brilliant, ventured into the Knightsbridge Hotel for a piece. Actually I wrote the references in the hotel lounge. So I said actually yes, I had written them, I was sorry but I’d thought it worth a try, and again that I was sorry and I would go now and not waste her time. She said, “Wait a minute, just tell me who,” and she looked at the references, “is Alexander Butler, Justice of the Peace? And who is Hubert Wyndeatt-Whyte, doctor of divinity?” I said, “I know a butler but he is called Gage, and that Wyndeatt-Whyte was dead, a friend of mine’s cousin.” I was frozen with shame, sitting on the edge of a chair like a dolt. It was awful. Mrs. Fellowes began to laugh. When she stopped, she said, “When can you start?” I’ve been with them ever since, as housemaid up to 1939, and from then on as a Land Girl at their place in the country.”

Cosmo said, “Tell me about it. What is it like being a servant?”

She said, “There isn’t much to tell.” How could she explain to him that as a servant she was distanced from people, that she watched them as though they were characters rehearsing a play, and that this distancing made her secure.

“Did you, for instance, wear a cap and apron over your black dress?” He would lead her as he led witnesses in court.

“In the afternoons I wore black, in the mornings pink, like Molly and the other servants at Coppermalt.”

“What did you do on your days off?”

“I walked my employers’ dogs in the park.”

“And?”

“Sometimes I went to the cinema.”

“And?”

“Museums, galleries. I explored London, rode on buses.”

“Alone?”

“Mostly.”

If only he had known where to find her. “I can’t get over your being just round the corner from Mabs. What did you do for money?”

“I had my wages. Then there were tips. Visitors leave tips on the dressing table when they leave; some are quite generous,” she said.

“What else?”

“When I had enough money I went to the theatre. Once, from the pit, I saw Tashie and Henry. Tashie was wearing a green dress.”

“Oh, darling.”

“Mrs. Fellowes sent me to the Cordon Bleu cookery school. I learned to cook. She is a kind person.” She had been in the company of debutantes sent by their mothers to learn something practical. They had sized her up, tried to place her and failed. “Why all these questions?” she asked.

“I am trying to fill in the ten years during which I lost you.”

“Nothing much happened to me, Cosmo. I like the Fellowes, I like working for them. I was damn lucky to get that job. I fell on my feet. They made me feel safe.”

“Safe?” He considered safety. It was probable, he thought, remembering her parents, that to feel safe would be a novelty. “What else besides safe?”

She said: “I suppose the word would be content.”

“I have not been content; how could I be content without you?”

Flora laughed. “Oh, come on. You were forging ahead with your career.” She mocked him. “I bet that’s what you were doing. Putting Cosmo first.”

Leave my career out of this, thought Cosmo. “So now you are a Land Girl,” he said. “Do you enjoy it? Does it make you content?” He long to wrest her contentment away from her. How dare she be content?

Flora said, “I like the work. I can ignore the war.” I have found a niche, she thought; how can I explain that? “I fit into village life,” she said. “I seem to be accepted.”

“You must be cleverer than I’d imagined,” said Cosmo. “That’s quite a feat.”

“I like the people.”

“And they you?”

“I hope so.”

“And men? Have you lots of boyfriends? Lovers?”

“That’s none of your business.” Flora looked out at the countryside. I have the lovers I have always had, she thought. I have had trouble shaking them off and here is one of them in R.A.F. disguise sitting beside me.

“It is my business. Tell me about them.”

“No.” She would not tell him of the men who wanted her. They had nothing to do with Cosmo, and precious little, she thought, to do with me. “There is nothing,” she said, “to tell.”

Cosmo felt like slapping her but the Royal Marine Major had opened an eye. “Are you happy?” he asked.

Ah, thought Flora, happiness. “I live a very busy sort of life,” she said.

“With cows, geese, and pigs?”

“Dogs, too, lots of dogs, and there are of course cats.” She was making fun of him. “And ferrets.”

“But are you happy? When can you remember heights of happiness?”

“I was happy several times that year in Dinard,” she answered simply.

“And?”

“When I stayed with you at Coppermalt.”

What a meagre ration. “But in Aix-en-Provence with Hubert you were happy?”

“That was different.”

“I’ll say it was. Hubert your lover, your great great love,” said Cosmo bitterly, “rushing off, stealing a march. Damn him getting in first, I can’t
bear
to think my best friend, the sod.”

Flora said, “Don’t be silly.” She turned away from him. Hubert and Aix-en-Provence were long ago, a lovely period of fun, good food, sunshine and loving, but over, as was Felix. She shivered, thinking of Felix.