Dead Romantic (20 page)

The first thing Madeleine did was to close the curtains. The tiny room at once became more intimate. Then she turned her attention to the fireplace, and found that Mrs Rankin, the lady who looked after the cottage between lets, had done her job well. In the wrought-iron basket-grate a fire was laid, balls of newspaper surmounted by kindling and then logs of increasing size. A well-laid fire, all done according to the best girl guide principles. On the oak mantelpiece was a box of matches and a note reading: ‘Logs in cupboard to left of fire.' Madeleine put a match to the newspaper, which immediately flared and set up an efficient crackle amongst the kindling. She opened the adjacent cupboard and found that, true to the note, it was stacked high with neatly symmetrical logs.

Before she went out to unload the car, Madeleine turned off the overhead light and switched on two table-lamps. Their softer glow, mingled with the flicker of the growing fire, was more aesthetically pleasing.

She managed to carry everything in one trip, the cool-box containing the food, her suitcase and her briefcase. She put them down in the living-room and went to investigate the kitchen.

This was again tiny, but well equipped. Mrs Waterstone, when deciding to let out the cottage, had invested in all the hardware that her tenants might expect, electric cooker, fridge, washing-machine, even a dishwasher. Madeleine put the chicken curry in the oven to warm up slowly and loaded the rest of the food into the fridge. Everything in the kitchen, she noted with satisfaction, was spotlessly clean.

Back in the living-room the fire was burning merrily, casting a deep orange glow on the white walls. Madeleine picked up her suitcase and brief-case and went through the white door with a black latch which opened on to the steep stairs.

The upper floor of Winter Jasmine Cottage comprised a small landing, an equally small bathroom and, between them, taking up most of the space, the bedroom, whose window looked out over the front garden. Madeleine drew the curtains, which had on them a design of honeysuckle, and turned her attention to the bed. It was a generously proportioned double-bed with a dark wooden headboard. On either side stood a table with a green-shaded lamp. She switched these on and turned off the overhead light. As it had downstairs, the lower lighting source made the atmosphere more intimate.

She realised that, considering the weather, the room was remarkably warm, and saw that Mrs Rankin had switched on the electric heater under the window. On it was a polite note requesting tenants to turn off the power before they left.

The bed was made up with clean cream-coloured blankets, a beige eiderdown and a fringed brown bedcover. Madeleine noted approvingly how well this colour scheme would go with the Laura Ashley sheets and pillow-cases, as she opened her suitcase and took them out. They were still in their cellophane wrappers. She had not removed her driving gloves since coming in to the cottage and had difficulty in undoing the packaging.

Taking off the gloves, she looked at her hands. To her annoyance, she saw that the eczema (or whatever it was) had got worse. There were more cracks along her knuckles and inside them a sticky redness showed. She resisted the temptation to scratch. It was infuriating. Everything else was so perfect, and she had to get this. However right it felt and however cool she was trying to be about it, the adventure was taking its toll on her. Still, nothing she could do. Have to make the best of it. It was a small thing, after all. She got some of the cream she had bought from the chemist out of her sponge-bag and rubbed it optimistically onto the affected area. Then she returned to the sheets, but, finding her hands too slippery, put the gloves back on and managed to make the bed without difficulty.

She plumped up the pillows in their crisp new cases, folded back the top sheet and surveyed the effect. It was very satisfactory. She felt comforted by her good taste; the sheets couldn't have been more appropriate.

There was something missing, though. After a moment she realised what it was and took the new white nightdress out of her suitcase. She laid it across the right-hand side of the bed. She felt sure that Bernard would want to be on the left. She couldn't explain why; it was just an instinct, one of those things that lovers know about each other without asking.

She looked at her watch. It was nearly half-past eight. He would be arriving soon. She must get changed quickly, so that she was ready to greet him. She shook her hair out of the beret and removed the rest of her disguise, folding the garments neatly and placing them in her suitcase. Then she slipped on her black dress and, surveying herself in the mirror, prepared to tie the braided silver belt. A thought stopped her. Hair first – it wouldn't do to have loose hairs showing on the dress. She took it off again, sat in front of the mirror and started to brush the red-gold hair that was her chief glory. She had washed it that morning, calculating the time-lapse carefully. By evening she knew it would have lost its just-washed fluffiness but retain the gleam imparted by her herbal shampoo.

So it proved, and she brushed the hair into its customary artless abandon with considerable satisfaction. She reached for the silver Celtic clasp, and gathered the red-gold strands behind her nape in readiness. But she changed her mind. The moment for her hair to be released could come at some other point over the weekend. The image of Millais'
The Bridesmaid
came to her. For this evening, the first evening, the important evening, she would wear her hair loose.

She replaced the dress and adjusted the belt to a properly casual knot. She took off the gloves in which she had been driving. Then she drew out of her toilet kit a spray of her distinctive flowery perfume, puffed a little behind her ears and onto her wrists. For a moment the giggly thought of spraying it elsewhere occurred to her, but she put it from her mind.

She pulled on her long forties-heroine gloves and stood back to get as full a picture as the small mirror would allow. Though she said it herself, she had to admit that she looked pretty stunning.

At that moment she heard the hum of an approaching vehicle. She drew back one of the honeysuckle curtains to see headlights swinging through the gap in the laurel hedge.

Perfect timing, she thought, as she went downstairs to welcome her lover. It was symptomatic of how the whole weekend would turn out. Everything was going to be all right.

Ah, but here's one,' said Bernard. ‘Here's one. I bet you don't know this.'

‘Try me,' Madeleine grinned. The curry had been a success. So had the hazelnut meringue. They had just broached the second bottle of cold champagne. The red roses stood in a vase on the dresser. The lovers were playing literary games. Madeleine had everything she could possibly want from life.

‘ “A rose-red city – half as old as Time,” ' Bernard quoted carefully.

‘Well, it's very familiar. . .'

He nodded agreement, waiting for her identification of the source.

‘It refers to Petra, in, um. . she couldn't exactly remember where, ‘in the Middle East.'

‘Yes.'

‘And I would say it's early nineteenth century. . .?'

‘Nineteenth century, anyway.'

‘It sounds sort of reminiscent of Ozymandias', doesn't it?' She took a stab. ‘It isn't Shelley, is it?'

‘You are right,' said Bernard and, as Madeleine smiled, continued, ‘It isn't Shelley.'

A tiny grimace of annoyance tugged at her mouth. ‘Give me a clue.'

‘Hmm. What clue can I give you? I'll tell you this – the author is not famous for anything else except that one line.'

‘Oh, thank you. That's
really
helpful.' Madeleine looked at him hopefully, but Bernard didn't volunteer a second clue. ‘No, I'm sorry. It's just one of those things I don't know. I'm never going to get it. You'd better tell me.'

Bernard smiled with a degree of complacency. ‘The line comes from a poem called “Petra”. . .'

‘I could have guessed that.'

‘It was written by a gentleman who was born in 1813 and died in 1888 . . . He was a clergyman. . .'

‘Oh, do get on with it. I don't know the answer. You can just tell me,' Madeleine's voice was edged with petulance.

He looked up at her, an expression of surprised irritation on his face. It was a moment of conflict, the first snag in an evening that had up to that point been going perfectly.

Madeleine saw the danger and defused it by taking his hand in her gloved one, shaking it gently and saying in a little voice, ‘Please tell me.'

Bernard's good humour was instantly restored. The lines around his brown eyes crinkled as he said. ‘It was the Reverend John William Burgon.'

‘Well, fancy that.' Her tone was ironic.

‘Exactly. Totally unheard of, except for the one line.'

‘Ah well,' said Madeleine casually, ‘that's like:

One crowded hour of glorious life

Is worth an age without a name'

‘Yes,' Bernard agreed, and, to Madeleine's vexation, identified the author: ‘Thomas Osbert Mordaunt.'

For a moment she wondered if the weekend was a good idea. Was Bernard Hopkins really the right man, was he the one in the world who deserved Madeleine Severn? But, as she looked into his melancholy brown eyes, she knew it was right. They were in love, she was going to give herself to him completely, surrender her body to the gentleness of his experience. ‘I'm so glad to be here with you,' she murmured.

His voice was almost inaudible with emotion as he responded, ‘And I with you.'

Madeleine let go of his hand and picked up her champagne glass. She raised it in a toast, ‘To us, Bernard. And to our love.'

The logs on the fire had disintegrated to deep red and the glow winked through the champagne as their glasses clinked together. The brown eyes gazed into the eyes which, so long ago, John Kaczmarek had described as ‘forget-me-not wedded to violet'.

They were dilatory about tidying up the table and stacking the dishwasher. Partly it was because they were both self-consciously relaxing, desperate to show that they were in no hurry. But also in both of them there fluttered a little pulse of fear. Bernard grew more and more silent as time went on and eventually, after she had sponged down the kitchen surfaces sufficiently to meet even Mrs Rankin's high standards, it was Madeleine who asked, too breezily, ‘Well, shall we go upstairs?'

Bernard nodded.

Except for a brief kiss on his arrival and the hand-holding over dinner, they had not touched each other in the course of the evening.

The bedroom seemed very small with the two of them in it. They loomed over the bed, filling all the available space. Madeleine stood irresolute. She wasn't quite sure what should happen next. She was waiting for a lead from Bernard. Would he take her in his arms and undress her, or was she expected to get ready for bed on her own?

Bernard seemed equally irresolute, so, before the silence became embarrassingly extended, Madeleine asked, ‘Shall I use the bathroom first?'

Bernard, who had hardly spoken since the end of the meal, nodded.

She picked up her sponge-bag, her dressing-gown and the new nightdress, and went through the low door into the bathroom. She took off her gloves and wondered for a moment what to do about her lenses. Under normal circumstances she would have taken them out at this stage in the evening, but she wasn't quite sure of the correct procedure on such a special occasion. How much should one be able to
see
when losing one's virginity? She made her decision and took the lenses out. After that she undressed and washed carefully. She had contemplated having a bath to relax her, but she did not want to keep Bernard waiting too long. Anyway, it was only a few hours since she had had one.

She looked at her body in the small mirror and was pleased with what she saw. True, it was no longer a girl's body, but it had retained much of its tension. She couldn't help comparing the tightness of her breasts favourably with the stretched sagging of her sister's. She checked the smoothness of her armpits, though she had only shaved them that afternoon, and pulled the new nightdress over her head. She buttoned the pleated front up to her neck. Then, turning on both taps in the sink to disguise any unromantic sounds, she used the lavatory. Another brisk brushing of the red-gold hair, a couple more puffs of the perfume-spray, dressing-gown draped loosely over her shoulders, and Madeleine Severn was ready to meet her lover.

It was then that she noticed her hands. The cracks seemed to have widened even since before dinner. She put on some more of the cream and rubbed the hands together as if washing them, but they still looked raw and ugly. It was maddening. Otherwise she knew she was looking so good, and yet suddenly she was handicapped by this disfigurement.

There was nothing else for it. She put her long gloves back on again. The effect in the mirror was perhaps eccentric, but not unattractive.

She lifted the latch, bowed beneath the low doorway and went into the bedroom.

Bernard was sitting on the bed. He was turned away from her.

‘Bathroom's free,' she said, once more too breezily.

He rose from the bed, picked up a small overnight case and, still without looking at Madeleine, went through the low door to the bathroom.

Madeleine lay in bed, on the right side, affecting to read, holding the book very close to her unlensed eyes, tensely aware of every creak and gurgle that came from the bathroom. On the table at her side was her crammed brief-case. She had looked at her reading-matter and decided that
The Poems of Emily Dickinson
best fitted the occasion. She flicked through, but, though her eyes followed the familiar lines, her mind kept sliding off them. She had opened the book at the ‘Love' section, usually an unfailing source of pleasure, but the only verse that held her attention was this:

Come slowly, Eden!

Lips unused to thee,