A Tale of Two Families (18 page)

‘I’ve always thought Mother beautiful.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said George heartily, now thinking it retrospectively. Idiot that he’d been not to have noticed it in well over twenty years.

They drove on through the fresh early morning air.

After a few minutes Hugh said, ‘I see they’re cutting the hay already,’ then added with elaborate casualness, ‘I suppose Corinna didn’t send any message to me last night?’

‘Not by me. She went off in rather a rush – it was a last-minute idea to go with the Harleys.’

Hugh tried to find comfort in that. But it was no use trying to pretend she’d been her normal self recently. He’d simply have to have it out with her as soon as possible.

But when he got back to the flat that evening there was a note saying, ‘Sorry, I have to be out – spending night with Joan (you saw her in “As You”) we’re working on some scenes together. There’s a dish of cold food in the fridge and I’ve made the salad. The coffee’s all ready to perk.’

She had laid the table, put flowers on it and obviously gone to trouble over his supper – there were two kinds of cold meat, set out with more trouble than she was apt to take over their shared meals. Also there was a handsome peach on the table with a note beside it saying ‘Eat me’. He smiled. Darling Corinna,
she was simply busy, obsessed with her work. He relaxed and ate everything she had left him. He wished he could ring her up and thank her but he’d no idea what Joan’s surname was, couldn’t even place her in
As You Like It
…

He went to bed early and slept well. Last night he’d been kept awake by anxiety, plus Penny’s usual bed-hogging.

As soon as he entered the flat on Tuesday evening he knew that Corinna was there. He heard music and could smell something cooking. The television was on in the sitting room but nobody watching. The kitchen, too, was empty. He tapped on Corinna’s door.

She called, ‘With you in a minute, darling. Get yourself a drink.’

He went back into the sitting room, poured drinks for them both and sat watching television. He felt cheerful. She had sounded her usual affectionate self. He’d simply imagined some crisis between them. Now everything would be all right.

But when, after a considerable delay, she joined him he was shocked by her appearance. Her delicate features were puffy, her eyelids swollen and red.

Hastily switching the television off he said, ‘Darling, whatever is it?’

‘Oh, God, my idiotic face! And I’ve been bathing my eyes for ages. No, don’t come near me or I shall start again.’ She seated herself on an isolated chair and averted her eyes.

‘But what
is
it? Something gone wrong with your work? This new part?’

‘There isn’t any new part. That was only an excuse not to talk to you. Well, I’ve to get this said, so listen, please. It’s over, Hugh – I mean, between us. It’s finished.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Hugh. ‘Now tell me what’s wrong, quietly. Is it something I’ve done?’

‘God, no. It’s me, not you. I’m – I’m having an affair with Sir Harry.’

‘Since when?’ said Hugh, mainly conscious of fury.

‘I went to his flat last night. It nearly happened last weekend when I stayed in his country place only I felt I couldn’t there, not with his wife in the house. But I more or less promised to, then. Oh, darling, I’ve fought and fought about it…’

‘Well, one can’t fight against a grand passion, can one?’ said Hugh satirically. ‘Tell me, is it simply in the interest of your career?’

‘No. Oh, Hugh, I’m trying to be honest about it – with myself as well as you. I suppose ambition does come into it but there’s more to it than that. You see, I’m not good like you.’

‘God damn it.’

She sprang up. ‘I’ll have to turn the oven down.’

During the few minutes she was gone his anger abated a little, partly because he was reminded of the night he had moved into the flat, when her mother’s casserole had been in the oven. Since then, her own efforts at cooking had been minimal. He found it both ludicrous and pathetic that she had chosen this night to offer him a good dinner.

Returning, she said, ‘I did mean to break it gradually, after dinner. Are you hungry?’

‘Ravenous, naturally. Oh, darling, don’t be idiotic.’ He found himself laughing.

She was surprised but relieved – and then insulted. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘That you should think I’d want to eat. Now listen. You said that you’re not good, like I am. Has my so-called goodness anything to do with this? That first night in the flat we agreed that if either of us felt the need… Do you remember?’

She did indeed and had often reminded herself of it. But the need would have to come from him – as it had from plenty of other men. Never, never would she tell him this. She simply said, ‘I know. It’s all my fault. Ambition – and finding I wasn’t as hopeless at acting as I thought I was. And then getting carried away… Oh, it’s mainly that I’ve been living in a different world from our world.’

‘I wish you’d told me before it happened, given me a chance to – well, put up some competition.’

‘I almost told you last week, that night you were so taken up with Penny and her troubles, and how you spent the night with Sarah. I was angry about that.’

‘But, good God, you surely didn’t think…’

‘No, no. But I was angry because of what Aunt Mildred thought. It was insulting – to me.’

Hugh looked dazed. ‘But you scarcely seemed to be taking it in.’

‘I was taking it in all right
and
thinking about my own problem. And I suddenly felt I’d have to decide things on my own. But it did make a difference, Hugh; you and Sarah, and Aunt Mildred thinking whatever she did think. She wouldn’t have thought it if you hadn’t fallen asleep in Sarah’s bedroom.’

‘But I couldn’t help falling asleep.’

‘You shouldn’t have given yourself the chance to. You ought to have taken Penny home as soon as she was dry.’

‘But it was pouring with rain.’

‘Anyway, Sarah ought to have wakened you. But of course she’s been after you from the beginning.’

‘That’s a bloody lie,’ said Hugh, furious again.

‘Well,
I
think she has – though I daresay you’ve never realised it. Oh, I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m using it as an excuse. But I
was
angry, especially about Aunt Mildred, and I was muddled. And Harry managed to see me every day last week and he’s, well, he’s so dynamic.’

‘What a delightful thing to be when you’re pushing fifty.’

Corinna flushed. ‘He’s nowhere near fifty. And he’s terribly attractive, whatever you like to think.’

‘I like to think about him as little as possible. Is this…“affair” was, I believe, your description, to be a prolonged one?’

‘I don’t know.’ She was none too sure she’d been a success. ‘Anyway, one’s got to learn not to take these things too seriously.’

‘How right you are. I’m beginning to get the knack of it already.’ He was, indeed, shocked at his lack of sorrow. Would he feel differently when he stopped being angry or was it that she had already become for him a different person? If he grieved it would be for a memory, not for an actual girl.

She said, ‘I didn’t mean that I’m not taking
us
seriously – what I’ve done to you. I suppose you’d laugh if I said I still love you.’

‘Does that by any chance imply that you’d like us to go on as we were – say, after you’ve had a few years on the loose?’

Vaguely, she’d hoped for something very like that but she instantly denied it. ‘Of course not. But I’ll always care for you.’

‘As a cousin, no doubt. Well, at least your mother will be pleased. When shall we give her the glad tidings?’

She gave him a piteous look. ‘Hugh, I can’t bear it, that tone in your voice! It’s not
you
.’

‘Well, you’re not exactly you, my dear,’ said Hugh. ‘Still, I’m sorry that I’m taking it so badly. Don’t start to cry again or your poor eyes will disappear entirely.’

‘I know but…’ She gulped, then fished down the neck of her dress for a handkerchief.

‘Look,’ said Hugh briskly. ‘We’ll eat now, whether we want to or not. And we’ll try to be matter-of-fact. There’s a lot we’ll have to discuss. How much are you going to tell your mother and father?’

‘Need I tell them anything? I was hoping you and I could… sort of slide apart.’

‘They’ll have to know why I’m clearing out of the flat.’

‘But must you? Surely we can go on sharing it? Things needn’t really be any different. After all, it isn’t as if we’ve ever…’ She blushed painfully and went off to the kitchen.

He finished his drink before following her, wondering if he could face staying on at the flat. The alternative would be some boarding house or bed-sitting-room, dreary and almost certainly expensive. It would help her with her parents if he stayed on. And, as she’d said, things needn’t really be any different. Oh God…

He suddenly felt to blame for everything. Of course he ought to have slept with her. ‘And don’t think you held off out of saintly idealism,’ he told himself. ‘You’re not good, you’re just a vegetable. You didn’t want to sleep with her, not until you’re well enough off to have a solid conventional marriage. You’re just a citified little gent wearing a spiritual bowler hat.’

She called from the kitchen. ‘I’ve some hock in the refrigerator, if you’d like to come and open it.’

He called back, ‘Right.’ Dear idiot girl, how could she feel this was an evening for celebration? But no doubt the hock and the special food had been a last loving gesture. She’d intended to feed him before breaking his heart. Not that it showed any sign of breaking. He’d felt anger, he’d felt guilt, but not one flicker of real grief.

When he went into the cheerful kitchen she was laying the table. Looking up brightly she said, ‘How was Penny?’

And he was instantly quite shattered with grief. He said, ‘Tell me something, please. Did you know all this was going to happen when you gave her to me?’

‘No! I swear it.’ But even as she said it, she doubted it. Hadn’t she thought of Penny as a compensation not for Bonnie but for what might lie ahead?

Hugh, with an effort, smiled. ‘Well, at least I’ve got the custody of the dog. Where’s the corkscrew?’

It was, strangely, a relief to feel what he was now feeling. If one could suffer, one wasn’t quite a vegetable.

George, driving home from the station on Wednesday evening, asked himself if ever in his life he had felt as happy as he did now. He decided he hadn’t – not even when he had first fallen in love with May. He had certainly been happy then, but the happiness had been… well, a sort of charming light-heartedness, plus the solid satisfaction of knowing that he and Robert had found two delightful sisters who would make ideal wives and everything was set fair for a shared future. They had almost always gone out as a foursome and had a wonderfully
jolly
time. Robert and June had been more romantic than he and May but that was merely a matter of temperament. George considered himself to be quite as much in love with May as Robert was with June and had never imagined himself capable of any deeper feeling. What was more, he had gone on loving May and had never embarked on an affair without assuring himself that it ‘didn’t count’. Now things were very different.

What he now felt for June certainly ‘counted’ and yet he still loved May and didn’t want to hurt her; nor did he want to hurt Robert. Everything must be done to protect them both – short of giving up loving June. There now, he’d thought the words ‘loving June’. Up to now he’d only admitted to himself that he ‘wanted June’ and had tried to press his feelings into the mould which usually contained them for his affairs. Well, this time it couldn’t be done. He thought, ‘I love June,’ and thought it so loudly that he actually seemed to hear the words shouted. Then he drove extremely fast.

Being, as well as a man in love, an admirable driver, he soon slowed down and then became more than usually conscious of the beauty of the countryside. High wooded slopes, water
meadows; a great estate with a fine house, smooth lawns, swans on the lake…he had admired them countless times before but only with his eyes. Now, in some extraordinary way, he felt at one with them; and when he reached a more intimate countryside, he was equally at one with the fields, farms, cottages and pretty villages. He found everything delightful and, though familiar, astonishing.

He must, he decided, be more romantic than he had ever suspected himself of being and he’d better pull himself together before he reached home. With so much protecting to do he was going to need tact, skill and firmness. He must, as he’d told himself on Sunday, remain in control. And in the interest of remaining it he would now play the Devil’s Advocate about his feelings.

Was he not exaggerating them, mainly because, since coming to live in the country, he had been entirely respectable? (Most unwise, really.) He’d known June over twenty years without feeling anything like this. She was the same woman, he was the same man. How could they change so spectacularly just because dotty old Mildred made an idiotic remark? If she hadn’t, he’d probably have gone on for the rest of his life feeling nothing more than a brother-in-law’s affection for a pleasant sister-in-law. Well, all he could say, then, was ‘Thank God for Mildred’ – which must surely be the first time anyone had said
that
.

It was no use. He stopped arguing with himself, simply looked forward to seeing June. It was the sort of mindless concentration with which a very thirsty man looks forward to a long drink.

Arriving at the Dower House he found May in the hall, picking up fallen rose petals. She asked if he’d had a good trip.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ he said, for the moment unable to remember anything about the trip. Ah, yes, of course. ‘That reminds me, there’s something I want to ask Robert – about a
quotation. My host was surprisingly literary. I’ll just have time before dinner.’

‘Robert’s gone to London – some journalists’ dinner. He won’t be back till late. I said you’d meet him.’

‘Yes, of course. June’s all alone then.’

‘She’s coming to dinner. I asked her to come early.’

‘I’ll call for her,’ said George.

‘Do, and give her a drink.’

George, pleased with his luck, hurried out; but June was already emerging from the lilac grove. He could only go and meet her halfway across the lawn. He looked into her eyes and said ‘Darling June’. She quickly averted her eyes and said ‘Darling George’ in a tone anyone was entitled to hear. Normally he would have kissed her after an absence of three days – or wouldn’t he? He did that sort of thing spontaneously, not according to any decided protocol… strange that he would never again be spontaneous with June – when there was any chance of their being observed.

Fran came from the Long Room with Penny, who greeted George enthusiastically.

‘She much prefers men to women,’ said Fran. ‘Still I shall miss the creature.’

‘You’re leaving us?’ George sounded concerned, as indeed he was; he now saw no chance of being alone with June before dinner.

‘On Monday – and I ought to be gone by now. I’m only staying on because Prudence and Dickon will be home for the weekend.’

‘Yes, of course; it’s their half-term holiday.’ Well, at least he could
look
at June, June in her golden dress. He said, ‘I love you in that dress, June’ – quite unexceptionable as a remark, he assured himself, while taking great pleasure in saying it.

‘May gave it to me.’ June had told herself to wear some unobtrusive frock – and ended by putting on the one she liked
herself in best. And now she felt herself blushing. She stooped and patted Penny.

Fran had seen the blush and was torn between wanting to give George and June a few minutes alone together, and wondering how she could prevent their getting them, now or later. Not that anything she could do would make any difference, really. No, that was being defeatist. Perhaps she ought to talk to June, if only to put her on her guard.

She was to feel that more and more during dinner. Really, it was astounding that two mature people should allow themselves to look so moonstruck – and George the last man one would have expected to be indiscreet. Fran thanked God that, for once, May was minus all three Matsons (owing to something known as the Horticultural Outing) and therefore much occupied in serving the meal; though even so…

There came a moment when Fran caught Baggy’s eye and was instantly sure that he was fully aware of what was going on. Now she would be able to talk to him freely. It might not help but would at least be a relief.

She seized the first opportunity, after dinner. May had turned the television on, saying there was a programme George liked, and he and June had settled down to watch it. Fran said, ‘Baggy, could you spare me a moment? There’s one last little problem about my lease.’

Baggy, knowing that her lease had been settled long ago, was fully aware of what she was up to. He said, ‘Ah, yes,’ portentously and led the way to his room.

The minute they were together there, Fran said, ‘Oh, Baggy, how long have you known?’

‘Only since that night when Mildred dropped her brick. There wasn’t anything
to
know before that.’

‘I was
almost
sure you knocked Mildred’s coffee over deliberately. That was brilliant of you, Baggy.’

‘Much good it’ll have done in the long run,’ said Baggy gloomily. ‘Of course I did it to stop her saying any more, for Robert and May to hear; but they’ll know soon enough now.’

‘Is there anything we can do? If I talk to June, will you talk to George?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that, myself. But I’m afraid it would make no difference; anyway, with George. He’s been hit by something that’s never hit him before. The truth is that he
should
have married June. May’s a good, kind woman and the soul of efficiency but there’s something lacking: a sort of softness, I think. When I lived with June I was far less comfortable than I’ve been here, but I was never lonely. There was… enough warmth to go round.’

Fran said, ‘Whatever May lacks – and I do know what you mean – she’s capable of intense suffering. And she adores George – and June. And Robert adores June and thinks the world of George. They’re all tied up together. Oh, God, it doesn’t bear thinking about. But I don’t believe anything irrevocable’s happened yet and it may never happen. After all, they’re not a couple of kids, or Tristram and Iseult or someone. Anyway, I can’t believe that June…’

Baggy shook his head unhelpfully. ‘George always gets what he wants from women, as you probably know. Does May know it?’

‘She never admits to knowing it, just blames herself for unjustified jealousy. Now listen: if we’re going to put up any kind of fight we’ve got to act quickly. I shall talk to June tonight. Oh, I shan’t admit to taking it seriously. I shall just say they’re being silly and they’ll upset Robert and May. And you talk to George. Even if we can’t persuade them to end the whole thing, at least they can be more discreet.’

Baggy looked shocked. ‘Do you mean they could have a
secret
affair?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be easy in the circumstances, but I suppose… Oh, Baggy, try not to be too upset. These are such permissive days, lots of husbands and wives… Still, it would be dreadful. Anyway, the
first
thing is to get them to be more circumspect, because once May and Robert notice what’s happening, much of the damage will be done, even if things go no further – as they mustn’t, Baggy; let’s concentrate on that. Now come on. I shall ask June to come up to my room.’

‘I don’t guarantee to talk to George. I might make matters worse.’

‘Well, it may be enough if I talk to June. Come on, anyway.’

But they found the Long Room empty. May, coming in from the kitchen, said George and June had gone to see if the nightingale could still be heard.

‘We’ll go too, Baggy,’ said Fran.

‘Yes, do,’ said May. ‘I’ll be up in the sewing-room, if anyone wants me.’

She was, Fran knew, making a dress for Prudence to wear at the weekend. How like May to be occupied at this vital time – and how fortunate that she was.

Baggy, after May had gone, said, ‘We can’t chase after them.’

‘It won’t look like that. It’s perfectly natural that we should want to hear the last of the nightingale; Robert says it’s due to stop singing any day now. Please come, Baggy. Even the sight of us in the distance might… well, act as a bit of a brake.’ She opened the French window. Penny, left behind by George and June, shot out and headed for the lilac grove. ‘Oh, dear. Still, I expect she’ll only go back to the cottage. I wonder if that’s where they’ve really gone.’

Baggy, unwillingly accompanying Fran across the lawn, stopped walking. ‘If they have I’m not going in after them.’

‘Of course not, unless the door’s open and the curtains are undrawn as usual. Then it would seem natural for us to go in. Let’s just see – and then play it by ear.’

‘What?’

‘It’s just an expression. Means act on the inspiration of the moment.’

‘Very unsafe thing to do,’ said Baggy, now most unwillingly going with her into the lilac grove.

Under the interlaced branches it was already dusk, though the sunset had barely begun. Fran, who prided herself on knowing her way about the grove’s maze-like twists, found the dimness confusing and took several wrong turns, but did not admit this to Baggy. They walked in silence, their footsteps making no sound on the grassy paths. Somewhere ahead of them the tag on Penny’s chain collar tinkled.

After a few minutes Fran gratefully saw daylight ahead, then realised, only seconds later, that it came not from beyond the grove but from the sky above the little enclosed garden. They would have to turn back. But simultaneously with deciding this she got a clear view of the garden and stopped dead, as did Baggy.

Standing beside the sundial were George and June, clasped in each other’s arms – looking, Fran thought, for all the world like some long-ago Academy painting. One expected George to be in knee breeches.

As simultaneously as they had stopped, Baggy and Fran started up again, in reverse. Mercifully only a few steps took them round a twist in the path where they could not be seen from the garden – not, Fran thought, that there was any likelihood of their being seen, even had they remained in view. That embrace looked as if
it would be going on a long, long time. Probably it would only break when the participants had to come up for air.

This time Fran took no wrong turnings and had Baggy out of the grove in a couple of minutes. They emerged into the full light of sunset.

Baggy, in a choked voice, said, ‘Oh, Fran!’

‘Wait till we’re indoors,’ said Fran, then noticed that his face was ashen. There were some deckchairs only a few yards away. She urged him towards them. ‘But sit down for a few minutes first.’

He shook his head. ‘No, I’d rather go in.’ Then he walked fairly steadily to the Long Room. ‘I shall be all right if I lie down for a bit.’

There was a Victorian one-ended sofa near the west window. Baggy was fond of it because it reminded him of a horsehair sofa he had known as a child, also the back gave him better support than that of any modern sofa did. He settled there now, after putting a newspaper between his shoes and May’s chintz upholstery.

‘I’ll get you a drink,’ said Fran. ‘Brandy, whisky?’

‘Whisky. I don’t like brandy. I’m all right now. It was just that… It was so shocking.’

Fran hadn’t felt that. It had seemed to her both ludicrous and moving: the absurdly romantic sundial, June’s outspread golden dress, the ecstatic mingling of the two figures… one couldn’t quite be shocked at such rapture. Still…

‘Just a minute,’ she said and went into the hall. She could hear the whirring of May’s sewing machine upstairs. It would be safe to talk.

She went back, got Baggy his drink, and sat down beside him. ‘Try not to worry too much,’ she told him. ‘Even if the worst comes to the worst, May and Robert may never find out.’

‘Of course they’ll find out, and so will the children.’ Baggy’s voice was now angry as well as weak. ‘And I’ll tell you something, Fran. I’ll not stay here and watch it. I’d give my life if I could save them all from what’s coming – truly, I would – but staying here won’t help them. And I can’t face it. I’ll have to go, at once. I suppose I can find some boarding house.’

‘But you’d hate that, Baggy.’

‘I know, but where else can I go?’