A Change of Pace (16 page)

‘But I feel so ill all the time. It’s simply not fair of Bern, I can’t think what’s got into him.’

‘Life isn’t fair, darling, you know that. It wasn’t fair Dad dying, was it?’

‘No, of course it wasn’t. But Dad never behaved like Bern ... I mean, he just couldn’t have.’ Bet shrugged. ‘We can’t know that, can we — after all, he never met Liza.’

Pete was the next to go down; a foregone conclusion this, but if Nell held any hopes that his presence in the house might draw the heat off Bernie, she was doomed to disappointment. Liza was perfectly capable of juggling with any number of suitors, especially when her own feelings were in no way engaged. She privately considered the entire household to be both boring and stupid, and longed to return to Paris. At least the Redford type appeared to be prepared to spend a bit of money, which was more than you could say for the others.

They came together on Friday morning, when Pete found Liza sulking alone on the verandah, lethargically turning the pages of last month’s
Vogue
. Diz and JP had gone to lunch with Don Stewart to look at his collection of Neolithic pottery, and being totally uninterested in such things, Liza had elected to stay behind — then discovered, to her considerable annoyance, that Nell, in a rare fit of decisiveness, had taken Bernie out for the day on a long-promised visit to his parents.

‘Deserted by your menfolk, Liza? We can’t have that now, can we.’ Liza shrugged and squinted up at Pete through a haze of Gauloise smoke. ‘I do not care. Besides, I ‘ave the flu coming on — it is so cold ‘ere.’

‘I can see you need a bit of cheering up. Why not pop into Stourwick with me and have a bite of lunch? I have to go there anyway, to do a bit of shopping for my wife.’ Liza, after a quick glance at the gleaming Aston Martin crouched outside the front door, stubbed out her cigarette and stretched. ‘Why not?’ she said, putting out a heavily ringed brown claw. Pete, his heart beating a little too fast for comfort, took it and pulled her to her feet. ‘That,’ he said, in his excitement reverting to the vernacular of his youth, ‘would be absolutely smashing.’

Bet, delighted to get rid of Liza and enjoying a solitary glass of beer and a cheese sandwich, was rudely interrupted by her sister. Pete’s just rung to say he’s giving that wretched girl lunch at the White Hart — can you beat it? I didn’t even know she’d gone to Stourwick with him.’ Bet took a bite of sandwich. ‘Well, I did tell you, didn’t I — that girl’s dynamite.’

But how dare he. Pete never does things like that. There I am getting our lunch after a gruelling two hours with the tea committee, when he rings as cool as you please to say he and Liza have been delayed, so he’s giving her a quick lunch at the White Hart. Then before I can say anything, he’s rung off.’

Bet, unable to stop herself, snorted. She hadn’t meant to sound derisive, but as usual Pol took it the wrong way. ‘I might have known I’d get no sympathy from you! But just you wait till that harpy claps eyes on that boyfriend of yours. And while I’m here, Bet, may I ask you once again to make sure Tib keeps out of our part of the house; I found dog’s hairs all over the sofa this morning ... ‘

After she’d gone, feeling defiant Bet took another swig of beer and switched on the radio. But somehow she couldn’t concentrate; Pol’s taunt had gone home. But she needn’t worry, surely. Simon wasn’t down, was he, and Liza returned to France on Wednesday. Oh God, Simon ... Suddenly she didn’t feel hungry any more; Tib could have her sandwich.

*

‘Rather a fancy piece, the boy’s sister?’ Don Stewart, sleeves rolled up, was helping Bet clear away Saturday lunch, while the rest of the party hunted for the croquet set. The weather was fine at last, and croquet seemed as good a way as any of keeping the young amused.

‘That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.’ At least there was one male immune to the bloody girl’s charms. ‘In the short time she’s been here she’s already managed to stir up an amazing amount of trouble. Though thank God, I have a feeling Diz is beginning to see the light. Liza doesn’t like dogs, and he caught her throwing stones at Tib.’

‘Thank God for dogs ... Shall I take the tray?’

‘Thanks.’ Bet, comforted, followed him on to the verandah where Pol and Pete were already drinking their coffee.

For a few short minutes all was peace; four middle-aged people sat chatting companionably in the sun, waiting to watch their young at play. But all too soon Diz and JP appeared, bustling with enthusiasm, hurrying across the lawn to place the croquet hoops; lagging behind, not helping, were Bernie, Liza — in a brilliant red shirt and the briefest of brief shorts — and Nell, looking miserable. Nell went and plonked herself down beside her mother.

‘Not playing then, darling?’

‘No, I don’t feel too good, actually. Anyway, only four can play croquet, and I can’t see Bern dropping out, can you?’

‘Perhaps not, but I’m sure Diz wouldn’t mind letting you take his place —’

‘Oh, can it, Mum. I don’t want to play anyway, so please don’t go on.’ Pete winked at Bet, who frowned and shook her head. He was just as bad as Bernie, only more crafty.

The game began at last; Pete and Don lay back in their chairs and prepared for a post-prandial nap, Nell and Pol immersed themselves in the Sunday supplements and Bet, unable to settle and finding herself too hot, decided she needed a hat. Rounding the corner of the house on her way to get one, she was just in time to see Simon’s car turn in at the gate and pull up at the front door. Stopped in her tracks, with a mixture of despair and stomach-churning excitement she watched him emerge from the car, slam the door behind him, and catching sight of her standing under the cedar tree, smile and walk towards her. ‘Hullo, Titania. Hope I’m not interrupting anything; by the number of cars in the back yard I thought there might be another party going on.’

‘Only Don Stewart to lunch. When did you get down?’ ‘Late last night. I’m taking a few days off work, I’ve had just about as much of that place as I can stand.’

‘I expect they’ll manage to soldier on without you. They must be used to it by now, you hardly ever seem to be there.’ Now why did she have to go and say that; why start off on the wrong foot — why? Simon stopped smiling.

‘If you say so. But at least I do occasionally work for my living, which is more than one can say for some.’

‘Meaning I sit about on my arse all day doing nothing, I suppose?’

‘Meaning damn all! And if you’re going to be boring, darling, I’m off. I only looked for a moment anyway, just to see how you were coping with the French.’

It was at this inauspicious moment that Pete just happened to step out from behind a rose bush. ‘Hullo, there, Morris, long time no see.’ Had he been listening? Knowing Pete, yes. ‘Come and join us on the verandah and soak up a bit of sun,’ Pete put an avuncular arm on Simon’s shoulder. ‘Marvellous day, isn’t it. How’s your French, by the way, or more to the point, how’s your croquet? The kids need someone to make up the numbers.’

‘I can just about get by with my French.’ Far from looking annoyed at the interruption, Simon seemed delighted. ‘I once did a spell as a croupier at the casino in Monte Carlo. Not so sure about my croquet — haven’t played in years ... ’ And Bet, blightingly aware that whatever was happening was entirely her own fault, left them to it and went in search of her hat.

Ten minutes later, after hunting all over the house for the hat, a rather becoming broad-brimmed red straw purchased years ago from Oxfam, and found at last rather squashed under a pile of mackintoshes in the downstairs loo. Bet returned to the verandah. Though she said so herself, she looked really rather pretty in the hat; she felt chastened in spirit, and ready to apologise for previous churlishness.

She was too late.

The thing she had dreaded ever since the Duponts’ arrival in Suffolk was well on its way to happening. Liza, after an unsatisfactory game partnered by Bernie — she hated losing — had returned sulkily to the grown-ups in search of further prey and was about to be introduced to Simon. Pol, perfidious Pol, was performing the necessary introductions. ‘Simon, this is Liza Dupont, her English is slightly short of perfect, so I’m sure she’ll be delighted to meet someone who speaks really decent French. The rest of us are rather lacking in that department I’m afraid.’ It was of course a meeting of Titans — Titans in the game of love, that is, not in much else. And when it was over, Bet, watching impotent and miserable from the sidelines, felt the only thing left for her to do was hurl herself and her stupid hat into the nearest litter bin.

‘Will you be my partner, Mister Morris? Bernie, ‘e is no good at this croquet.’ Liza, twisting the silver bangle on her arm, had her head back, and was squinting up at Simon through the longest, most perfectly curling eyelashes this side of the Ural Mountains. Simon, acknowledging her signals, and sending out so many of his own that he resembled nothing so much as an illuminated traffic beacon on a foggy night, was saying Yes, he would be delighted to have a go, but not to count on him as he hadn’t played croquet in years and was probably no better than Bernie. Then they lapsed into fast, idiomatic French which no one else could follow, but which was obviously frightfully funny as he and Liza both fell about laughing.

It was at this point that Simon saw Bet and had the effrontery to wink. ‘I like the hat, Titania, you should wear one more often. I hope you’re going to watch the match and see me give these kids a thrashing?’ But Bet was not to be drawn, such patronising tactics not for her. ‘It’s a pleasure I’m afraid I shall have to forego,’ she said, trying not to look at Liza’s hand on his arm, ‘Don and I are about to get tea.’ Don looking surprised, leapt to his feet, and Simon for one brief, blissful instant looked rather annoyed.

The bastard, the selfish, miserable, callous bastard, Don thought to himself as he hurried after Bet. But to be absolutely honest, he did find it all rather exciting, and despite the slightly dubious morality of the thought, he had to admit that one man’s defection could quite possibly be turned into another man’s opportunity.

‘You see,’ Pol said, ‘I knew this would happen.’ The Redfords and Nell were left alone amidst the empty coffee cups, listening to the renewed laughter from the croquet pitch.

‘In that case, you must be pleased you’ve been proved right.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Pete, I don’t like watching my sister being humiliated, even if you do.’

‘Come off it, ducky, the chap’s only gone to play a game of croquet.’

‘You come off it, Uncle Pete.’ This from Nell, not knowing whether to be pleased or sorry. ‘It’s a bit more than that; I mean, it was absolutely blatant.’

‘I don’t know what you’re worrying about, then, at least it means old Bern is off the hook —’

‘Bernie’s never been on the hook! He was just practising his French, he has this business trip to Brussels next year and —’ ‘Of course Bernie has to practise his French, dear, it’s only common sense when he gets such a marvellous chance.’ Pol gently patted her scowling niece’s arm. ‘And you’re a sweet, good, plucky girl and he doesn’t deserve you.’ Pete snorted. ‘I’m warning you, Pete,’ Pol rounded on her trouble-making spouse, ‘if you say one more word I shan’t be responsible for the consequences.’ Pete, feeling rebellious, snorted again, and then with a shrug immersed himself in the Sunday newspaper.

After that there was silence.

‘Sorry about the phone call the other afternoon, Titania,’ Simon said as, game over — Simon and Liza triumphant winners — they all gathered round for. tea. ‘I understand I was a little drunk. I got dragged off to this party and — ‘

‘Spare me the details,’ Bet said, ‘and as you’re here, perhaps you wouldn’t mind handing round the sandwiches.’

Compulsive sandwich-making had always been one of the things Bet did when in a state of tension, it seemed to have a therapeutic effect on her. However, today’s stint turned out to be the exception that proved the rule. Despite having produced enough sandwiches to furnish a school outing, she felt just as bad as ever.

Pol, not to be outdone, had produced a lemon sponge. ‘Made by a little woman in Peabody Buildings,’ she told the assembled company, ‘a Mrs Jobling. She used to be cook to Lady Lauderdale —
the
Lady Lauderdale — and although she’s over eighty now, she still likes to keep her hand in. She’s incredibly cheap, you just supply the ingredients.’ But nobody took Pol up, and her remarks on Lady Lauderdale’s ex-cook were greeted in damp silence. Despite the delicious food, the tea party just wasn’t working. Liza Dupont looked about her with satisfaction; she thrived on situations such as this, all her life it had been so.

‘Back to work on Monday, more’s the pity.’ Everyone looked at Bernie in surprise, he was not normally given to plunging alone into a conversational vacuum; things really must be desperate. ‘Yes,’ Nell contributed her mite, ‘I expect it’ll be quite a rest for you after all you’ve done. Incidentally, those chores you said were waiting for you to do at home —what exactly were they?’

‘Anyone for a drink?’ Pete was obviously beginning to wilt.

Simon looked up from his contemplation of the little golden hairs on Liza’s legs. ‘I wouldn’t say no.’

‘Nonsense.’ Pol put her foot down, ‘it’s much too early. Would anyone like another cup of tea?’ No one wanted another cup of tea and Nell rose from her chair rather quickly. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘What’s that, pet?’ Bernie hovered, looking pained. ‘For goodness sake go after her, can’t you see she needs you?’ Bernie looked at Pol, surprised. ‘All right, but she usually likes to be alone when she’s being sick.’