A Rather English Marriage (5 page)

Twenty thousand a year and face saved. Thanks for nothing! thought Reginald, the old bitterness welling up again. He'd wanted the sort of respect he'd earned as a pilot. Instead he'd been, to all intents and purposes, retired by the time he was forty.

Then there was the house in Roxburghshire: Finepoint, a pink and grey and many-turreted Victorian Gothic mansion that was built in the days when importing meat from Australia could make a man's fortune. Invest ten years' worth of profits in South American railways, and you could make the fortune of the next three generations as well. Flog the place, young Vivian had said: it would cost thousands to make it comfortable, and
he
didn't want to live there. Reggie was appalled. The trustees had tried to hold things up till Vivian was twenty-five, better still thirty, but the young whippersnapper wouldn't hear of it. The title was his, and he'd finally acquired the authority that went with it. He ignored their protests.

Having sold off the estate and got control of the business, Vivian and his new young wife (pretty in that bold, black-eyed modern fashion) got down to breeding. Two little girls arrived, twins: Celia and Felicity. Poor, childless Mary would have loved to see them running around the empty lawns of The Cedars, but her eager invitations suggesting that Geraldine might bring them down for a weekend were never accepted. Half the time they didn't even have the grace to invent a decent excuse. In 1976, when the girls were twelve, their parents had divorced. Vivian wanted an heir and could hardly be expected to like the idea that the title might pass to some remote Canadian cousin. He'd married, shortly afterwards, a leggily glamorous London model - Susan - but she hadn't produced a son, either.

On other fronts, Vivian had done pretty well for himself. Board of this, chairman of that, and just enough money lobbed in the direction of his uncle to keep him quiet. Reginald and Mary had had to manage on a fixed income and, although still affluent, were not able to live in the style to which they had been accustomed. His father had left him a piddling trust fund, growing ever smaller due to blasted inflation.
Not
what he'd been brought up to expect. But then, nothing was.

Life had been simpler back in those happy fishing days. He had managed on the whole to be a good boy; and he and Nanny and Mother and his teachers and everyone else had taken for granted that he would grow up to be a good man. Reggie wondered if Nanny would think him a good man now, and whether she would speak his name in the respectful voice she'd always used about his father: that scarred, stiff-legged, terrifying figure.

Reginald stared at Mary's worn blue leather address book. People had to be thanked for notes of condolence, flowers, letters with postmarks from abroad. She'd always done all that. He was no good at letters, though he liked to dominate a conversation and hated silences. But since he'd left Oxford abruptly in the summer of 1939 to become one of the RAF's ‘long-haired boys' he had seldom opened a book and even more rarely written anything. He would do scarcely more than add ‘and Reggie' on holiday postcards or Christmas cards, and half the time Mary did this too, filling in the space with her looping schoolgirl hand.

Suddenly, piercingly, he missed the sight of her handwriting. Her fountain pen was put away neatly in its pigeonhole in her desk. He took it out - it was the green mottled Conway-Stewart he'd given her one Christmas - and unscrewed the cap. On the underside of the cardboard box that held their embossed blue writing paper he wrote ‘from Mary and Reggie', in a loose, flowing script that was not like hers but not properly his own, either. The nib of her pen slanted the wrong way, softened by two decades of her hand.

For the first time since her death, Reginald wept genuine
tears in memory of his wife. He felt self-conscious, snivelling away all by himself, and embarrassed at the clumsy, gulping sounds he made. Blubbing. Not allowed. Could do with a drink, he thought. He sniffed loudly to himself, and went through the double doors into the drawing-room. Good crystal glasses stood in glittering ranks on the top shelf of the drinks cupboard; decanters were displayed below. Gin and whisky were arranged on top, with a half-finished bottle of sherry - Mary's. He hated the stuff. Port was in cases up in the attic. His father had sent him a case every year at Christmas till he died. Not a tradition his nephew had followed, stingy blighter. All his muttering about death duties was nothing but an excuse.

Finally he ate a dozen peanuts, some less than crisp Twiglets and, because he still felt hungry, a bowl of cornflakes, accompanied by three stiff gins. Cradling a mug of Nescafé, he returned to the drawing-room and contemplated ringing the bank manager. It was three o'clock. Bit late. Time for a nap. Better to give him a call in the morning, when he was fresh. Make an appointment. Feel better after a zizz.

He climbed the stairs heavily, his right hand clutching the banister rail. There was an open-sided corridor at the top with several rooms leading off it. Just before Mary went into hospital for the last time, she had had a bedroom to herself, so as not to disturb him at night. She often couldn't sleep, and liked to be able to switch the light on and read. He threw back the apple-green satin cover from their double bed, noted with pleasure the clean sheets and eased his feet out of his shoes. He closed the curtains to screen out the sharp afternoon sunlight streaming through the huge windows, lay down on his side of the bed and slept. The empty house resounded to his snores.

Roy Southgate was in the public library, changing his books and returning Grace's last selections. She had liked historical novels: Margaret Irwin, Georgette Heyer, or Daphne du Maurier's tales set along the Cornish coast that they knew from
their caravanning holidays. As he placed the books on the counter, he saw that his favourite librarian was on duty, so he pushed across Grace's library tickets and said, ‘She won't be needing these any more.'

Constance Liddell, senior librarian at Tunbridge Wells Central Library, glanced at his collapsed grey face and said, ‘Oh, Mr Southgate, oh dear. Not bad news, I hope?'

Roy dropped his voice and leaned forward across the counter. ‘My dear wife passed away two weeks ago.'

‘I am so sorry. I am dreadfully sorry. Is there anything I can do? Any help you need? Social Services or anything?'

‘Bearing up, thanks all the same for the offer. She's gone to a better place, that's the main thing. All the pain is over.'

‘I remember now: she hadn't been very well for, oh, months, had she?'

‘Not since Christmas last, not really. They were wonderful up at the hospital; nothing was too much trouble.' He raised his voice again and said brightly, ‘Well, mustn't keep you. There's others waiting.'

‘Just ask if there's
anything
you need. Would you like to keep her tickets, or shall I …?'

‘I'll go and see if I can find something for myself.' He walked away, leaving three dog-eared library tickets on the counter: ‘Mrs G. Southgate, 4 Thomas Street, expires June 1990.'

Reginald woke to the sound of the door bell shrilling and the knocker banging. He looked at his watch. Just gone five. He sat up and rubbed his face. His mouth tasted foul. Lurching upright, he corkscrewed his feet into his shoes. The bell pealed again and he heard the letter-box being lifted as though someone were peering through. He went to the top of the stairs.

‘I'm
coming
!' he shouted. His bladder was full. Had to piss. ‘Wait a minute! Be down in a tick.'

The rattling stopped, and a strange woman's voice called out, ‘No hurry. Take your time. I'll wait.'

Shirt-tails thrust inadequately into his trousers, hair roughly
slicked back, Reginald Conynghame-Jervis did not look like a coping widower, Mandy Hope noted professionally when the door was eventually opened. But the red-rimmed eyes were probably caused by weeping rather than alcohol, so she smiled warmly at him and thrust out a friendly hand.

‘Hello … Mr Conynghame-Jervis? My name's Mandy Hope. I work for Social Services. I hope you got my letter? - I wrote to you last week. Your doctor asked us to visit you.' Reggie stared at her blankly. ‘Didn't you get my note?'

‘No, I didn't. Well, I might have done. Been a lot of letters.' Good-looking girl, he thought; a honey. But what the blazes does old Duncan think he's up to, putting Social Services on to me?

She stood on the top step beneath the portico, unperturbed by his scrutiny. ‘Would you like to see my identification? Or may I come in?'

‘I suppose so,' he said, inwardly thanking his luck. Good thing Elsie had been in today. Place wasn't in too much of a mess. ‘Duncan should have given me a tinkle. Well, now you're here. This way to the drawing-room. Do sit down. Would you care for a drink?'

‘I won't, thanks, Mr Conynghame-Jervis,' she said, pronouncing his name correctly.

She glanced around the plumply furnished, sunlit room, its heavy curtains looped back into hooks on either side of the French windows and soft Devis watercolours arranged in formal groups on the pastel walls. He expected some approving comment - this was surely not her usual territory - but she only said, ‘Now, how've you been getting on?'

Reggie sensed danger, and seized the initiative.

‘Most people address me as Squadron Leader. And what do I need a social worker for? Nothing personal, of course - in fact, my dear, I'm delighted to see you, pretty girl's always welcome - but why should some pen-pusher at the town hall decide I need you?'

‘Well, perhaps you don't. But, as I say, your doctor suggested someone might look in,
Squadron
Leader. I dropped you
a note, asking if this would be a convenient time. I tried to ring you once or twice as well, but kept missing you, so I thought I'd chance it.'

Fine time to pester a chap, he thought mutinously. Pretty little thing, though. Not the sort you'd expect to be a social worker.

‘I believe you're living on your own, now that your wife has died? You must miss her a great deal. It isn't easy to adjust,' Mandy Hope said.

‘Yes. No.' Blunt sort of girl.

‘Perhaps I could just ask you one or two questions. I don't want to intrude.'

‘Fire away.'

‘I assume you have some sort of help, domestic help?'

‘My wife's little woman comes in and does three times a week. Got a part-time gardener. I don't need anyone from the council.'

‘Oh good. That's nice. Does the cleaner cook for you? Do any shopping?'

‘Haven't needed that. Freezer was well stocked up,' said Reginald, thinking. Not for much longer. Blast! Haven't defrosted anything for tonight.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' he asked more civilly. ‘Or a drink?'

‘Tea would be lovely,' she said. ‘Let me come and give you a hand.' They walked down the stone stairs to the basement kitchen.

As the fridge swung open, she observed that it contained eight pints of milk, some bottles of soda and tonic water, and not apparently a great deal else. But there were only a couple of unwashed side-plates and a bowl on the draining board. He must be coping better than his doctor had feared.

‘Forgive me, I know it must sound nosy,' she said, ‘but are you eating properly? It's very important to maintain a balanced diet, you know, Squadron Leader - regular, nourishing food, not just bits and bobs.' Reginald took a Pyrex casserole dish out of the freezer and put it on the kitchen windowsill in
the sun. A label stuck on top of the frost-rimed foil cover said, ‘Shepherd's Pie. 3 Feb 1989. Enough for 3-4,' and his eyes smarted again at the sight of Mary's schoolgirlish writing.

‘There you are. See for yourself.'

‘Who cooked that? You?'

Not stupid, was she? he thought, trying to work out the consequences of saying no.

‘This one's my wife's,' he said cautiously. ‘Did you say sugar? Shall we go back to the drawing-room?'

She sat on the shiny chintz sofa with her knees decorously together and placed some pamphlets on the nest of tables beside her. Reggie learned that he could eat five lunches a week in the community centre for 75p a time; three courses. He could join a bridge club or a bowls club. He could meet in the church hall for socials every second Saturday, and ballroom dancing on Thursday afternoons, tea and a biscuit included for 5op.

‘Are you friendly with the, um, vicar?' she asked. ‘Does he ever drop in?'

Preserve me from the church parade, thought Reginald, but he nodded vaguely. Then there were the voluntary organizations …

‘Help the Aged are very good.'

Who does she think I am? thought Reggie, resentfully. Some poor, lonely old fellow with no friends or relations?

‘There's one and a half acres here, you know. Hence the gardener. Used to be more, but we sold part of it. And I'm not yet a complete cripple,' he finally said, stung to indignation. ‘Furthermore, I'm now going to have a drink. I usually do at about this time. You are welcome to join me, or not, as your professional etiquette dictates, but I shall have a Scotch.'

‘So would my father, at about this time,' she said, and smiled her glorious, disarming smile. ‘I'd like to join you, but I have another appointment at six. I must go. I'm sorry if I have offended you. You seem to be getting on very well. All the same, I'd like to call round again, if I may – say, in a couple of weeks' time, Squadron Leader?'

‘Call me Reginald. You could meet me for a drink tomorrow evening,' he said, feeling his heart jumping and the bad boy fidgeting.

‘Unfortunately that
is
something the guidelines don't allow. But I would like to come and see you again.'

She took a large appointments diary from her handbag and laid it across her lap. He was surprised to see how full it was. ‘How about today fortnight?' she asked. ‘That'll be July fourth. Same time?' He couldn't bring himself to say no. It had been refreshing to see her, and she meant well.