Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories (12 page)

“No, he’s not. If I were to marry someone exactly the right age for me, he’d be over a hundred.”

“How do you work that out?”

“Because the perfect age for a marriage is for the girl to be half the man’s age, plus seven years. So if the man is twenty, he marries a girl of seventeen. And if the girl is sixty-seven, then she would have to marry a man of … um…” Mrs. Lowyer’s arithmetic had never been her strong point. “A hundred and twenty.”

Christabel gazed at her. After a little she said, “But I’m twenty, and Nigel’s only twenty-three. That’s all wrong. I should be marrying somebody of twenty-six.”

“Well, you’d better hurry up, because you’ve only got a week to find him.”

“Do you really think twenty-three is too young for me?”

“No, I don’t think it matters at all. It’s just a stupid sort of joke people make. It doesn’t matter what ages a man and a woman are, provided they are truly fond of each other and want to spend the rest of their lives together.”

“You don’t say love,” said Christabel.

“Darling, I never talk about love at tea-time. And now eat up that cake and drink up that tea, because I’m going upstairs to have a rest before the party. I wonder what time I’m expected?”

“Oh, I should think about eight. Do you want someone to come and fetch you?”

“Of course not. It’s going to be a beautiful, fine evening. I shall walk up the lane. And I shall enjoy seeing the house, all lit up and festive. There’s something very romantic about a house all lit up for a party. Especially a party that’s being given for such a happy reason.”

“Yes,” said Christabel. She did not sound very certain. “Yes, I suppose it is romantic.”

*   *   *

At exactly five to eight, wearing her best sapphire-blue velvet dinner dress and a cashmere shawl over her shoulders, Mrs. Lowyer bid Lucy good night, turned off the lights, and made her way down the garden path and up the lane that led to her old house. There was a half-moon sailing high in the sky, and overhead the branches of the ancient beeches laced their arms together like the flying buttresses of some great cathedral. Ahead of her, lighted windows shone through the dusk, and the air was filled with the scent of dying leaves and moss, and the strains of music.

Already cars were arriving, parking on the gravel in front of the house, and as Mrs. Lowyer went up the stone steps to the open door, she was joined by other guests, the women holding up their long skirts, the men in black ties and dinner jackets.

“Oh, Mrs. Lowyer, how lovely to see you. Doesn’t the house look pretty coming along the road, through the trees…? How does Felicity manage even to arrange that the weather is perfect? It never seems to rain when she has a party.”

“Let’s hope her luck holds for next Saturday.”

The hall was filled with people. Mrs. Lowyer kissed her son and her pretty daughter-in-law and then made her way upstairs to leave her shawl. She laid this on Felicity’s bed and then went to the dressing-table to check that her coiffure was still a credit to Miss Pickering’s hands. Her reflection gazed back at her from the antique triple mirror. It was the mirror that had always stood on that dressing-table—Mrs. Lowyer had inherited it from her own mother-in-law. She remembered reflections of herself as she had been, slender and shingle-headed. Now she saw, beneath the careful make-up, the wrinkles of age, the crêpey neck, the silver hair. Her hands, touching that hair, were the hands of an old lady.
I am a grandmother,
she told herself.
In a year or so, I may be a great-grandmother.
The prospect she found unalarming. If she had learned nothing else, she had learned that every age brings its own rewards.

“I’ve caught you preening!”

Mrs. Lowyer turned from the looking glass and saw Christabel behind her. She was laughing at her grandmother, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“I’m not preening. I’m thinking how glad I am that I’m not young any more, that I don’t have to worry if some man will dance with me. That I don’t have to worry if my husband dances with some other pretty woman.”

“I bet you never had any of those worries. And now you look gorgeous.”

“Oh, darling, you look lovely too. Is that a new dress?”

“Yes.” Christabel straightened up and whirled around to show off her finery. The dress was white, layers of soft, floating lawn. The neck was low, and her hair, released from the plaits of this afternoon, was romantically looped and swathed about her head. Her eyes swam and sparkled.

“Where did you get it?”

“In London. Mother saw it when we were trousseau-shopping and said I had to have it. It’s meant to be part of my trousseau, but I thought I’d wear it tonight.”

Mrs. Lowyer gave her a kiss. “It’s perfect. You look lovely.”

*   *   *

From outside the open door, from the landing, a voice said, “Christabel!” Christabel went to open the door, and Nigel was revealed, standing outside, looking both embarrassed and faintly put out.

“What are you doing?” Christabel demanded. “Lurking around outside the ladies’ room? You’ll get a bad name for yourself.”

He smiled, but not as though he thought the joke particularly funny. “I’ve been looking for you all over. Your mother’s waiting for you. She sent me to find you.”

“Granny and I are having a mutual-admiration session.”

“Hello, Mrs. Lowyer.”

“Nigel. How very nice to see you again.” She went through the open door and planted a light kiss on his cheek. With his dark hair and his formal clothes, he looked, not sophisticated as he should have, but like a young boy dressed up for a party. “And I’m sorry Christabel and I have kept you all waiting. Perhaps now we should all go down and join the others.”

*   *   *

It was not until halfway through the evening, when most of the guests had had supper, and the younger element had already taken themselves off to the disco, that Sam Crichtan appeared. Mrs. Lowyer, trapped in a corner by the fireplace with Colonel Foxton, saw him come into the room through the French windows, which had been left open for air, and she knew a rush of relief that he had kept his word to her.

It was a long time since she had seen him dressed for an evening out, and she decided, with private satisfaction, that his dark formal clothes became him. With his thin brown face and his neatly brushed hair, he looked more than presentable—distinguished, even.

“… it’s a funny thing,” droned Colonel Foxton. “Damn’ funny thing, the way some people can get planning permission. Wanted to renovate my gardener’s cottage. Wasn’t allowed to put a window in the roof. It’s a funny…”

“I wonder, would you excuse me?” Gracefully, charmingly, Mrs. Lowyer got to her feet. “I have an urgent message for Sam, and I must give it to him before he gets swept out of my sight.”

“What? Oh, yes. Sorry, my dear. Didn’t realize how I’d been going on.”

“I loved hearing about your gardener’s cottage. You must tell me the rest of the story another time.”

She made her way across the room. “Sam.”

“Mrs. Lowyer.”

“I am glad you came. Have you eaten?”

“No, I didn’t really have time.”

“I thought not. Then come with me right away, and before you do anything else you must have a drink, and some cold salmon and cold roast beef that is out of this world.”

She led him through to the dining-room and found him a glass of whisky and a plate which she proceeded to heap with food.

“Have you seen Christabel?”

“I’ve only just got here.”

“But you didn’t see her this afternoon?”

“No.”

“She was looking for you. To thank you for the walking-stick.”

“I suppose you thought it was a pretty stupid present?”

“Yes.” said Mrs. Lowyer, who had never believed in mincing words. “But a very special one. Christabel was not only delighted, she was touched. How about a baked potato with butter? Or even two?”

“You didn’t tell her? What we talked about this morning?”

“Of course not. A roll?”

“I wouldn’t want her to know.”

“No,” said Mrs. Lowyer. “Of course not.” Across the room, through the open door, she could see Christabel and Nigel. He had his arm around her shoulder, her amazing hair glinted in the candlelight. “Nigel is a very nice young man. She is a very lucky girl.”

Sam glanced up, saw that she was looking over his shoulder, and turned. Nigel bent and kissed the top of Christabel’s head. Somebody made a remark, and everybody laughed. For a second Sam was still, and then he turned back to the table. He said, “And some of that mayonnaise, too, if I may. I was always very fond of Felicity’s mayonnaise.”

*   *   *

But, later again, taken to inspect the disco by her son, Mrs. Lowyer saw Christabel dancing with Sam. Everybody else on the floor appeared to be dancing by themselves, gyrating to the thumping music, grotesque in the whirling, flashing lights. Only Christabel and Sam seemed a couple. Moving together, their arms around each other, Christabel’s head rested against Sam’s shoulder.

Mrs. Lowyer hoped that her son had not seen. She put a hand on his arm. She said, “The noise is deafening. I’d rather go back to the drawing-room,” and obediently, he led her away. But at the door Mrs. Lowyer looked back. It did not take a second to realize that in that instant, apparently without trace, Sam and Christabel had disappeared.

After that, she went home. Slipped away unnoticed, said good night to nobody. Wrapped in the familiar warmth of her shawl, she made her way down the lane. The sounds of music, the hum of conversation died away behind her, swallowed into the quiet of a country night. September. Her favourite month.

This is all a terrible mistake. She is marrying the wrong man.

Her house, dark and small and quiet, was a sanctuary. She lifted Lucy from her basket, put her out into the garden, got herself a cup of hot milk, let Lucy in again, carried the milk upstairs, slowly undressed, and put herself to bed. Through the open window, she saw the half-moon sickle from the sky. The world outside was filled with small night sounds. She longed for sleep.

*   *   *

It was four o’clock before the rattle of pebbles sounded like rain against her window-pane. At first she thought that she had imagined it, but it came again. And then, “Granny!”

She got out of bed, took up her dressing-gown, wrapped herself in it, tied the sash. She went to the open window. Below in the garden, she saw the blur of white. White as a ghost, a wraith.

“Granny.”

“Christabel, what are you doing?”

“I want to talk to you.”

She went downstairs, switching on lights. She opened the front door, and Christabel came in, shivering with cold, the white dress muddied at its hem.

“What about the party?”

“The party’s nearly over. I wanted to talk to you. Everybody thinks I’ve gone to bed.”

“Where’s Nigel?”

“Having a second supper.”

“And Sam?”

“He went home.”

In silence Mrs. Lowyer looked into her granddaughter’s eyes. They were bright with unshed tears. “Come upstairs,” she said.

*   *   *

They went back to her room, her own pretty, fragrant bedroom. Mrs. Lowyer got into bed, and Christabel slid in beside her, beneath the eiderdown. Mrs. Lowyer could feel the coldness of Christabel’s arms, the bony young rib-cage, the beat of Christabel’s heart.

Christabel said, “I’m afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Everything. Getting married. Being trapped. Doors closing in on me.”

“That’s what being married is all about,” said Mrs. Lowyer. “Being trapped. All that matters is that you’re trapped with the right person.”

“Oh, Granny, why can’t everything be easy?”

“Nothing is ever easy,” said Mrs. Lowyer. Her hand moved against Christabel’s shoulder. “Being born isn’t easy. Growing up isn’t easy. Getting married isn’t easy. Having children can be murder. Growing old is just as bad.”

“I think … I think I don’t want to marry Nigel.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you in love with him?”

“I was. Terribly. Really terribly in love. But … I don’t know. I don’t want to live in London. I don’t like being in a flat. I feel as though I’m going to have to live in a box. And … there’s another thing. I don’t like his friends very much. I don’t feel I have anything in common with them. Does that matter? Does it matter terribly?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lowyer. “Yes, I think it probably does.”

“It’s called wedding nerves, isn’t it?”

“It is, sometimes.”

“Do you think it is this time?”

Mrs. Lowyer answered this with another question. “Where did you go with Sam?”

“Into the garden. We just went and sat on the seat under the beech tree. It was quite harmless.”

“And then you said good night and he went home?”

“Yes.”

“He loves you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I hoped he would say that. But he didn’t say anything.”

“He thinks he has nothing to offer you. He’s very proud.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Oh, Christabel. Use your imagination.”

“I wouldn’t mind being poor. I wouldn’t mind helping him on the farm. I wouldn’t even mind living in that cold little house; I know I could make it bright and comfortable. Nothing would matter provided I was with Sam.”

“You’ll have to convince him.”

“But Granny, the wedding. The marquee and the arrangements and the presents and the invitations. It’s all costing so much, and…”

“It can be put off,” said Mrs. Lowyer. “The last thing that your mother and father would want would be for you to marry a man whom you didn’t truly love. If you want Sam, you’re going to have to go and tell him. You must tell him what you’ve told me—that you don’t mind about his being poor and hard-working and living in that funny little farmhouse. You must tell him that he is the only man in your life that you have ever truly loved.”

“You’ve always known, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I’m old. I’m experienced. I’ve seen it all happen before.”

“When shall I tell him?”

“Now. Go to his house now. You can borrow my car so that you don’t get your feet wet. And I’ll lend you a cardigan to keep you warm. And if he’s asleep, wake him up, get him out of bed. Just tell him. Be truthful to him, but most important of all, be truthful to yourself.”