Sensible Life (5 page)

Vita brushed her teeth with salt; Denys did not like the taste of toothpaste.

“Hurry up,” he called from his bed, and when she joined him, “Take that thing off,” jerking at her nightdress. She would be at a disadvantage; he would not, she knew, take off his pyjamas.

“Look out,” she said, “you’ll tear it.”

“Those bloody boys,” he said, tearing the nightdress. She feared this mood, made herself pliant.

“Just boys,” she said, “young.”

“The fair one was bloody arrogant. I know his kind, but the dark one reminded me of someone, the eyebrows meeting above the nose. Didn’t you notice him?”

She had preferred not to, had deliberately looked elsewhere. “Not particularly.” She unbuttoned his pyjama. (It was only the eyebrows, all else was different.) “Don’t do that,” Denys snapped.

“What about this, then?” she murmured.

Presently Denys whispered, sweating, “Where did you learn to do that?”

“I just did it. It came naturally.”

“You’ve never done it before.”

“I have wanted to.”

“You would have made a wonderful tart,” he said. She knew the mood was over.

Asleep, Denys relaxed his hold. Cautiously, so as not to disturb him, she retrieved the torn nightdress and, a little shaken, got into her own bed to lie wakeful in the cool sheets. The man had played that trick on her; it had been dangerous to use it on Denys. She forced herself to push the memory back where it belonged, buried deep. Usually she managed. Only occasionally, when there were spats as there had been tonight, did the memory surface. Once she had made up her mind that whatever happened Denys came first, she had stopped having nightmares. She swore to herself to get through the next months with the child unscathed. If we had had her adopted, Vita thought, I might have had nightmares about meeting her, wondered what she looked like; as it is, I know what she looks like and mercifully I am not maternal.

M
ILLY LEIGH WAS SELDOM
pleased to meet people, women especially, whom her husband had known in his youth. Angus was a large, confident, handsome man who talked in a large, confident way. He had travelled much, served far afield, made friends wherever he went. When she married him in 1908 at eighteen, she came straight from the schoolroom. Fifteen years older than Milly, Angus had a host of friends, male and female, intelligent, gifted and amusing. Milly felt herself at a disadvantage. She resented Angus’ bachelor years, was inclined to fear his friends, was jealous. Angus paid not the slightest attention. Rather, if he thought about it, he was flattered; Milly’s jealousy boosted his ego. He knew, too, that sooner rather than later she made friends with his friends, forgot she had bristled with fear when introduced and would soon be ganging up with them against him, so that they became as much her friends as his. He adored his wife, thought her by far the prettiest woman he had ever loved and would, if asked to stop and think, have concluded that Milly was the only woman he had loved. There had been lots of other women, of course, but nothing serious; he had never lost sleep.

Cosmo and Mabs watched for their mother’s reaction on meeting what they referred to as Father’s misspent friends. They bristled with her, closed ranks with their mother, glared when strangers were bonhomously introduced.

Cosmo tried to explain this to Blanco as they sauntered through the town after dinner. “We know she has nothing to fear, of course. Father dotes on her but he’s a fool; he expects her to know there was nothing between him and the women. It’s the women who terrify her. Some of them act as though—”

“What?”

“As though they and Father had had an affair. It’s ludicrous.”

“And did they?”

“How would I know? With the men she’s afraid she’ll appear stupid. Father has friends who are much brainier than he is and think women should be good listeners.” (Blanco laughed.) “And Ma isn’t a good listener. She chatters from nerves,” said Cosmo.

“Wish my nerves made me chatter. I go dumb.”

“But tonight,” Cosmo exclaimed, “did you notice? When introduced to the baroness and her five Amazons Ma was ever so jolly, joyfully accepted the invitation to join their table, all of us with all of them. That will be seven of them and six of us, gosh!”

“We shall be thirteen.”

“Are you superstitious?”

“Just simple arithmetic.”

“It’s amazing,” Cosmo marvelled. “She was so spontaneous. It’s not like my mother; it usually takes weeks to reach that stage.”

“The old girl said, Let’s catch up on lost years, let our children get to know each other. D’you think—well, she’s as old as your father or looks it.”

“Even so—”

“She’s fat.”

“That wouldn’t faze my mother. She’d be seeing a slender little Rosa peeking out from the fat.”

“Your father was speaking as though her husband had been the great friend—”

“Wouldn’t fox Ma. No, I think it’s something else, all those daughters and only one son.”

“Plain daughters at that,” Blanco agreed.

“And Mabs is a smasher.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Blanco, surprised.

“Because you haven’t a hope. Mabs is seventeen.”

“And her friend?”

“Same goes for her.”

“Do you think the baron and baroness went on trying: pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, five little girls, then great big pop, she’s done it at last, Felix, a son, hurrah, we can call a halt?” suggested Blanco.

Cosmo and Blanco clung to each other, screaming with laughter.

Recovering, Blanco said, “I think your mother realised that if we join up with the Dutch, it gets us away from that horrible couple at the next table who were bullying their child.”

“Ah yes, I caught some of it. They said she had blackheads. Poor kid. I say, Elizabeth, the eldest Dutch daughter, plays backgammon and they all play tennis. They seem friendly. One of them asked why don’t we dance at the casino. It seems age doesn’t matter, we can all go and dance.”

“Dance?” said Blanco, interested.

“Can you dance?”

“A bit,” said Blanco modestly.

“If you want to get off with Mabs you must dance.”

“Actually, I can dance. See me dance the Charleston.” Blanco began to dance, bobbing and kicking on the pavement, “Come on, Cosmo, dance!”

“Stop it, you’ll attract a crowd. Shut up,” hissed Cosmo, alarmed by his friend’s high spirits.

“Don’t be so English,” sang Blanco, dancing.

Cosmo took to his heels.

Blanco joggled and kicked down onto the beach, where he danced patterns in the sand. As he danced he hummed the tune he had seen Jack Buchanan dance to with Elsie Randolf. Exultantly he danced towards the waves, crunching up the sand. The breeze from the sea stung his eyes and ruffled his hair. He flung out his arms and whirled about in ecstasy.

He stopped at last; he had the beach to himself. He stood watching the lights from the town reflected on the water and considered the colour of the waves in the moonlight. Were they silver or emerald? Was the sea black or bottle green? A cloud passed across the moon. He felt cold and turned to walk back. It was then that he saw Flora.

Flora was wading into the sea with her eyes shut. She was fully dressed. When Blanco caught her, she bit him.

Blanco pinned her arms to her sides and carried her up the beach. She kicked his shins; her heels, drumming on his shinbones, hurt abominably. Blanco held her tightly with his left arm and smacked her. “Keep still.” She bit him again. “Bitch.” He shook her. “Stop it.” He was horrified by her silence. She dodged his raised hand and tried to bite him again. “I know who you are,” he said. “I shall take you to Madame Tarasova.” Still Flora said nothing. “Come on,” Blanco said, putting her down, “walk.” He kept a tight hold. “If you can walk into the sea, you can walk up the hill.”

“I’ve ruined my best trousers,” he said presently to Cosmo.

“Send them to the cleaners. Then what happened?” Cosmo was already undressed and in bed.

“I just said to Madame Tarasova that I had caught her walking into the sea. With her eyes tight shut!”

“God!”

“And not a word said! Look where she bit me. Look at my shins; she’s broken the skin. They are going blue.”

“What did Madame Ta—”

“Said something in Russian, something about hot milk in French. She sort of folded the child up.”

“Enfolded.”

“All right. Enfolded. She said quite a lot more in Russian, then she thanked me in French. She was kissing and cuddling her all the time, sopping wet. She said leave it to her—just look at these trousers!” Blanco wailed.

“Go on.”

“Then her bloody little dog came hurtling down the stairs—we were half in, half out of the house—and tried to bite me. That seemed to wake the child; she started to laugh. The Tarasova waved me away, shut the door in my face and I came on home. D’you think the cleaners will get this water mark out? Look, here, where the salt is drying.”

“Was she sleep-walking, d’you suppose?” Cosmo hugged his knees.

“You don’t bite people in your sleep.” Blanco put his trousers across a chair.

“I think we should tell my mother.”

“Let’s wait and see. See what la Tarasova does. She looked so private, somehow. One wouldn’t want to barge in more than—”

“Perhaps my mother would be more help if we didn’t tell her.”

“Why?” asked Blanco.

But Cosmo did not know why he thought this to be so. He said, “Surely children don’t actually—” Neither he nor Blanco uttered the word suicide. Blanco said he thought he would have a hot bath.

“I THINK I WILL STRETCH
my legs before turning in.” Angus stood with Milly in the vestibule. They had said goodnight to Rosa and her daughters. “I’d like a breath of fresh air before bed. Would you care to keep me company?” he asked Felix.

“Thank you, sir, I would.”

“Goodnight then, darling, don’t be too late.” Milly climbed away from them up the stairs. “Don’t forget the girls are arriving tomorrow. You will need all your strength.”

Angus and Felix stepped out into the street. “I find coming to terms with an adult daughter rather daunting,” said Angus, “though your mother is a fine example of survival in that context.”

Felix laughed. “My parents stopped counting after a while and now three of my sisters are married. My mother only has two at home.”

“What I really want,” said Angus as they walked, “is to get to the casino without my wife knowing.”

Felix said, “Oh,” and wondered how much money he had on him.

“Not what you think,” said Angus. “I have a hunch there may be one of those ticker machines. Waiting for a day-old newspaper is no good; I need to keep in touch with news from home.”

“There is one in the foyer of the casino,” said Felix. “I take it you are concerned about the possibility of a strike?”

“A strike which may lead to a revolution.”

“Surely, sir—” Felix was amused.

“Plenty of young men in Moscow and St. Petersburg said, ‘Surely, sir,’ in identical accents to yours,” said Angus grimly. “I am not saying there will be, but if boys like Cosmo’s friend Wyndeatt-Whyte know enough to sympathise with the miners, think what a lot of sympathy there must be in the country generally.”

“I thought it was a Conservative delusion that your trade unions are influenced by the Communists.”

“It’s a pretty general opinion. Hotheads like Winston Churchill are spoiling for a fight. A man like Simon, who is too clever by half, half believes it. It’s a spreading fungus. It makes good headlines for the press barons. Then there is Birkenhead, one wonders about him, and of course Joynson-Hicks sees Bolsheviks everywhere.”

“Your Home Secretary?”

“Yes. Don’t know any of them personally, I am just a retired soldier. I hate politicians. Don’t trust them an inch. If you ask me the King has more sense than the whole Cabinet. Shut him in a room with A.J. Cook and he’d settle the whole thing in a trice, and fairly at that,” grumbled Angus.

“He represents the miners, this Cook?” Felix’s English was good but hesitant.

“Yes, he does. And the King loves the miners. I love the miners, perfectly splendid fellows.”

“I understand from the newspapers that they want a living wage. What is a living wage?”

“What they are not going to get,” said Angus shortly. “Hence the deadlock in negotiations.”

“So?”

“So there is anti-Bolshevik panic which I find myself joining, with every possibility of a National Strike and ugly scenes. If there is one, I have to be at home to give my services to the Civil Commissioner of my area. Bloody fool he is, too. I served under him at one moment in the war. I don’t want to get embroiled with the minister, but if I’m there I may be able to stop him doing something idiotic. He’s afraid of me. He’s a distant cousin of my wife’s.”

“Oh,” said Felix. “Ah.”

“I don’t want to alarm my wife, but in the event of trouble I shall leave her here and go home on my own. I shall rest easy if she and Mabs are in France.”

“What about your son?” asked Felix. They were reaching the casino.

“Cosmo? He has to go back to school; he’s missed quite enough with that bad knee. Oh! I say, I know those fellows. Hi, Freddy, and is that Ian with you?” Angus hailed two men coming out of the casino. He introduced Felix. Freddy and Ian, it seemed, had come on the same errand as Angus. They stood exchanging news and views, men much of an age, voice and opinion as Angus. Felix watched the group with a mixture of fascination and amusement. It would be impossible to mistake them, he thought, for anything other than English. He tried to pinpoint what was so English. The voice? The way they stood? The clothes? The way they placed their feet? What was it? The group was joined by several more fathers of families Easter-holidaying; they all bore the same invisible stamp.

There was consultation, accord, an agreement reached. The group broke up—“Goodnight,” “Goodnight,”—and went their various ways.

“Sorry about that,” said Angus. “Boring for you. You should have gone in and had a bet or two, there’s still time. Would you like to? Or is it a bit late?”

“A bit late, sir, and not boring at all. I enjoyed watching you. You all looked so English.”