Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs (36 page)

‘The English upper classes, I have observed, like to make a display of poverty. They like their food simple, their pleasures rustic, their possessions old, preferably shabby. Luxury and newness are the province of the
nouveau riche
. Fortunately they generally make an exception in favour of their cellars.’

‘How odd! I like wine but I’m quite happy drinking the stuff that comes in boxes from the Co-op.’ Conrad made a face of horror that made me laugh. ‘I’m so
grateful
to you for putting
things right with Sebastian. I was nearly dead with anxiety and now I feel sure I could do thirty-two perfect
fouettés
without thinking about it. That’s what Odile has to do in the black act of
Swan Lake
,’ I explained. ‘Every dancer pretends to despise them as nothing more than acrobatics but even Margot Fonteyn used to dread them.’

‘I see.’ Conrad smiled suddenly. It really was a nice smile and made me feel that Rafe was wrong when he said Conrad would be the husband from hell. ‘As for gratitude, the debt is small enough. I simply used my wits instead of panicking like a helpless chicken cornered by a fox.’

‘It’s all very well for you. You aren’t so frightened of Sebastian that your insides turn to water when he looks at you.’

‘How strange you girls are. No, I am not in the least afraid of him, nor need you be. You have made him a villain when he is merely an egotist.’

‘I expect now he knows I’m not going to dance any more he doesn’t give a damn about me anyway.’

‘I had that impression, certainly.’

Perversely I felt depressed to hear this. Of course it was a relief that Sebastian had given up his spurious claim to my affections, but it also meant that there was now no one in the world to whom my dancing career mattered a jot. I heard a car roar into the courtyard. Its engine note rose to a scream, then was abruptly cut off.

‘That will be Golly,’ said Conrad. ‘She has promised to bring the rough working of the much bruited opera.’

Sebastian had taken Conrad’s advice to heart. He hardly looked in my direction all evening.

The large room that looked over the valley had acquired a magical glitter from the installation of mirrors and candle sconces dripping with lustres. The painting of flowers and birds on the walls was three-quarters finished, and against one wall was a console table with a malachite top, like a slice of emerald. It reminded me of the ballroom scene in
Cinderella
. I would have liked to waltz round it with a besotted prince, but Rafe was not the sort of man to indulge in fantasy. He was often romantic but only in a grown-up way, with flowers and presents and compliments. At the moment disapproval was in the very slope of his shoulder and the tilt of his head. Or perhaps, I thought with sudden compunction, it was merely tiredness.

‘Here I am, my dears.’ Golly came into the drawing room looking as though she had been swimming in ink. Her teeth gleamed white in contrast. ‘Fresh from the agony of composition. Hello, Marigold.’ She kissed me enthusiastically. ‘I’ve been staring at five lines all day until my eyes have crossed so many times I’m almost blind. But I can see
you
, you delicious little creature.’ It was at once clear to me that Conrad had cautioned Golly about the need to appear devoted. She put her arm round my shoulder and gave me a squeeze, beaming into my face. I
wondered if she wasn’t overdoing it. She tweaked my sleeve. ‘That looks picturesque. Who are you?’

‘Chloë, of
Daphnis and Chloë
.’

‘Ravel! Sublime music! But – dare I say it? – not as sublime as what you are about to hear.’ She went to the piano and clapped her hands. ‘Concentrate, everyone. You’ll have to imagine the middle parts because I haven’t quite finished it. And you must overlook the bum notes. I’m not a pianist. I can only strum along. But it’ll give you a rough idea of the work. This is the moment when the king looks into his Book of Fate and reads that his son, a lusty lad of nine, will one day marry a humble peasant girl who’s just been born in a shepherd’s hut. Only I’m thinking of setting the whole opera in Japan. Think temples, kimonos, fans, cherry blossom …’ Golly waved her hand in a gesture intended to sum up an entire culture, then launched herself at the keys like a tiger pouncing on a lamb. ‘
Catastrophe!
Apocalypse!
’ she raved in a nasal, wobbly contralto. ‘
The ruin
of my king … DOM! Let eagles pluck out my EYES and wolves
tea
-
ea-r out MY heart for I would rather die THAN see the
shame THIS lowly wench brings on my HO-USE!
…’

The song did the opposite of what your ear expected. Just when you thought Golly’s voice would drop to a low croon of grief it rose to a shriek and when you expected a blast of rage it lapsed into a dulcet whisper. If there were bum notes, none of us would have known. Except perhaps Conrad, who sat with his head back and his eyes closed, obviously on a higher plane than the rest of us. It was a long aria and I was amused to see Rafe’s jaw become rigid and his nostrils pinched as he swallowed a yawn. Gradually his head twisted slightly in an attempt to read the book that lay open at an angle on the table in front of him.

After the first few bars, Isobel abandoned any pretence of attending. She talked in a low voice to Sebastian who was sitting beside her on one of the divans, his limbs composed with careful elegance. You could tell from the way he pointed his feet and
held his hands, as though cupping a ball, that he had once been a dancer. He looked at Isobel’s breasts quite hard while she was talking. I thought of foxes and chickens again. Isobel’s hands moved restlessly, stroking her bare throat, smoothing her sleeves over her round white arms, tugging the hem of her dress over her knees as though she was not quite comfortable under such scrutiny. Sebastian’s expression became raptorial.

Guiltily I tore my eyes away and returned my attention to Golly. Twentieth-century music is always interesting to dance to, but some of it was extremely demanding. Stockhausen’s
Ziggurat
had been particularly challenging. Having to concentrate on the counting, which was fiendishly complicated, affects the artistry of one’s performance. It was generally a relief to get back to composers like Stravinsky or Prokofiev who had recognizable tunes and beats. Incredibly
The Rite of Spring
had created such a furore at its first performance that Nijinsky had to shout counts and cues to the dancers because they couldn’t hear the music above the hisses and boos from the audience. Now it seemed almost old hat. No doubt, one day, Golly’s new work would make people think of a more elegant and tuneful past, much softened and romanticized by nostalgia. At present there seemed to be nothing for one’s mind or ear to hold onto, just a violent thumping and screeching, not helped by Golly’s frequent pauses during which she swore filthily and scribbled furiously on the score.

‘Supper,
meine lieben!
’ Fritz came in bearing a tray.

We waited politely with rumbling stomachs for another five minutes until Conrad went to the piano and told Golly to stop. When he put his hand on her shoulder she stared at him as though in a trance. It was evident that she had forgotten that we were there, even where she was or what time of day it was.

‘Well?’ she asked him eagerly. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think –’ Conrad hesitated – ‘it may be your masterpiece.’

I had no idea whether he was being transparent or tactful.

A table had been laid near the great window. The valley was
now invisible. Tonight there were no stars, only a yellow glow where clouds had doused the moon to a glimmer. I sat between Golly and Fritz. Isobel, sitting opposite, talked in a low voice exclusively to Sebastian. Rafe did his best to interrupt their tête-à-tête whenever he could. I guessed that, though he disapproved of Conrad as a brother-in-law, his strict sense of honour was affronted by Isobel’s coquettish behaviour. Conrad, however, neither watched her nor seemed to avoid doing so. Sometimes he half-smiled to himself, as though contemplating some delightful secret. The food was superb. We began with
Zweibelkuchen
, which were little patties of puff pastry enclosing onions, bacon and cream with an extra zing which Fritz said was caraway seeds. These were followed by
Bayerischer Sauerbraten
.

‘It is beef cooked a long time vith lemons and beer. In Bavaria we haf much beer. I like it but Conrad hate it. He is a snob.’

‘Certainly I am,’ said Conrad overhearing this, ‘if by snobbish you really mean discriminating. Also I hate leather shorts, cuckoo clocks, schuhplattler, zithers and accordion playing. Yodelling I abominate.’

I was sorry to hear about the cuckoo clocks. Though it would have been a case of carrying vampires to Santorini, I had hoped to persuade Conrad to buy one of Jode’s.

‘I call that thoroughly unpatriotic,’ said Golly. ‘But I agree about the yodelling. Marigold, dear girl, let me help you to more of these wonderful
Kartoffelpuffer
.’

‘No, thanks.’ I looked regretfully at the golden potato pancakes. ‘I’m trying to lose weight.’ I no longer needed to be thin to dance, but my smallness and slenderness seemed to be an important part of my attraction for Rafe and he would no doubt be annoyed to find himself married to Bessie Bunter.

‘But, dear old thing,’ Golly patted my cheek, ‘I never saw such a wonderful figure. Nice firm little breasts … tiny waist … long, long legs. Quite delicious!’

Rafe looked at Golly and drew his brows together.

‘I am not unpatriotic,’ Conrad said, also frowning at Golly.
‘I admire in varying degrees Holbein, Dürer, Cranach, Richard Strauss, Bertold Brecht and of course Wagner – all Bavarians.’

‘For myself I confess I dislike
Semmelknödel
,’ said Fritz.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Zey are round shapes of old bread drowned in milk and afterwards boiled. They lie heavy on ze stomach. Less ewen than
Semmelknödel
I like
Drudenacht
vich is anozzer Bavarian folklore. People go about making loud noises to send avay the vitches on May Night but each year become the jokes vorse. Last time I was in Bavaria on
Drudenacht
I sat down unknowing that some people haf put the brain of a pig on my chair.’

‘Oh, the poor pig!’ I said.

‘The pig feels nothing. But I vas going to dinner and I had no more pair of trouser. I was necessitated to vash them and sit all evening in vet clothes and I caught a bad
Schnupfen
—’

‘Aha!’ cried Golly. ‘I shall have witches in my opera.’ She was in that state of creative fervour when anything and nothing had meaning except in connection with the great work. ‘Three witches will foretell the marriage between the heir and the peasant girl. It will be a hundred times more dramatic than a dreary old Book of Fate. A nod in the direction of
Macbeth
, you know.’

‘It sounds more like straightforward plagiarism to me,’ said Conrad. ‘Do they have witches in Japan?’

‘Of course,’ Golly declared with tremendous conviction. ‘The place is thick with them.’ She grew thoughtful.

‘Do you believe in the supernatural?’ Conrad looked across the table at Rafe. I spotted a gleam in those usually opaque black eyes which alerted me. ‘I do not speak of the major world religions,’ he continued, ‘merely of witchcraft, astrology, consulting with the dead … the occult?’

‘I shall go to fetch the pudding.’ Fritz smiled at me as he rose to gather plates. ‘Boiley, as you Northumbrian peoples name it.’

I did not like to disillusion him. ‘Do let me help.’

He pressed a plump hand upon my shoulder. ‘Thanks but you must remain.’

Then I was sure that something surprising was planned.

‘Do you call religion supernatural?’ Rafe asked Conrad with a shade of disapproval in his voice.

‘In all religions, adherents are required to believe a great many things that defy explanation by natural laws. God himself is a supernatural being and the idea that the Jews are his chosen people is as much wishful thinking as the Resurrection—’

‘Wishful thinking, maybe, but not necessarily untrue,’ Rafe interrupted.

I wondered what Rafe did believe. I had dutifully accompanied him to church and had quite enjoyed it, especially the singing. The Preston family pew was at the front beneath the pulpit. It was bigger than all the others, with higher sides and its own door, as though to keep out peasant smells and germs. In the side aisles were several handsome monuments to former Prestons, including a life-sized marble effigy of the first Sir Ralph Preston in chain mail lying on his tomb. The title had died out sometime in the eighteenth century. This must have annoyed Evelyn.

Rafe had read the lesson in a clear, authoritative voice and I had thought how handsome he looked doing it. Afterwards, as Evelyn, Rafe and I walked down the path to the lych gate, the other churchgoers broke off their conversations to murmur polite good mornings and doff their hats, tributes we acknowledged with smiles to left and right and little waves from Evelyn as though we were royalty. We had driven back to Shottestone for sherry and lunch. None of us had exchanged a word about anything remotely spiritual.

‘Most of the occult, particularly things like table-turning and séances, seems to me actually dangerous,’ said Rafe. ‘Not that I think it’s possible to invoke the devil, but some people are tremendously susceptible to suggestion.’

‘Dangerous … yes, perhaps. Or sometimes merely foolish. I do not think the acolytes of the Order of the Golden Dawn or the Hermetic Kabbalah have done much harm. Less, anyway, than the followers of Judaism and Christianity.’

‘That’s undeniable. But I suppose one must believe in something.’

‘Not ghosts, however?’

Rafe smiled and for a moment seemed to relax. ‘Certainly not.’

‘What if I were to tell you that this house is haunted and that Fritz and I have seen the spectre of Orson Ratcliffe?’

Rafe smiled. ‘I should say – with respect – that you had allowed yourselves to be deceived. Or perhaps were running a temperature.’

‘If you yourself saw something that could not be rationally explained, you would take a liver pill and resolve to go to bed earlier?’

‘I should investigate the room thoroughly for draughts, flapping curtains, tricks of moonlight and shadows.’

‘In Ratcliffe’s diary, he writes that it was his fixed habit to take a turn on the balcony at half-past ten o’clock each night, whatever the weather. It now lacks,’ Conrad consulted his watch, ‘one minute to the half-hour.’

I became excited, wondering what was going to happen.

‘He’s a punctual ghost then?’ Rafe’s smile was derisive.

‘Oh yes. After all, he now has nothing else to do but await the moment of his walk abroad.’

‘Honestly, Conrad, I don’t believe a word of this,’ said Isobel, distracted from flirting with Sebastian for the first time that evening. ‘
I
never heard anyone say that Hindleep was haunted—’

‘Look!’ Golly seized my hand and held on so tightly it hurt.

On the balcony was a white-robed figure, wearing a large hat low over its face and holding a book up to its nose. What made us – that is, Isobel, Golly and me – shriek in unison and a shiver run over my whole body was the indubitable fact that the figure was as transparent as a moonbeam. You could look straight through it and see the balustrade behind it quite clearly. I stared in amazement as it drifted slowly from left to right before our awestruck gaze and then disappeared
as suddenly as though it had been snuffed out like a candle flame.

‘Good God!’ Rafe stood up. ‘Isobel, you’re hysterical.’ He gripped her shoulder as she shrieked again. ‘It’s a trick. It must be. But what on earth? … I’m going out there to see how you did that.’

I felt a violent admiration for such bravery and a corresponding surge of love. Even Sebastian, who I had always assumed was immune to human feelings like doubt and fear, had become pale. I was frightened myself. I only hung onto reason by remembering the look on Conrad’s face when he had begun to talk about Orson Ratcliffe. Also, I had always imagined ghosts to be frail, attenuated beings, but this one had a generous girth.

‘Golly, my hand will be crushed to powder in a minute,’ I said as a matter of urgency.