Marrying Off Mother (19 page)

She rose from the table with elegance and bowed to the croupier who expressionlessly bowed back. Then she made her way slowly out of the room. I followed her. When she came to the great entrance hall of marble columns she swayed suddenly and put out a hand to cling to one of them. I was luckily close to her and I went forward quickly and took her arm. The flesh, what there was of it, was soft and flabby and I could feel the bone of her arm through it seeming as brittle as a stick of charcoal. A strange smell emanated from her that puzzled me; it was not perfume, but something familiar. I couldn't put a name to it.

Too kind,' she murmured, swaying. Too kind. I fear I must have tripped. So stupid of me.'

‘Sit down a moment,' I said, guiding her to an ornate sofa that stood nearby. She tottered to it and then collapsed like a carelessly dropped puppet. She closed her eyes and then leaned back. The rouge and lipstick and eye-shadow now stood out like neon signs against the milk-white of her wrinkled face. Her monocle had fallen from her eye and lay on her heaving chest. I felt her pulse which, though faint, was steady. I caught a passing waiter.

‘Get a brandy for madame, quickly,' I said.

The waiter took one look at the wrinkled wreckage in its crimson velvet gown and hat and sped away. He returned commendably quickly with the goblet containing a liberal measure of brandy.

‘Drink some of this,' I said, sitting next to the old lady. ‘It will do you good.'

She opened her eyes, groped for her monocle and then, after one or two abortive efforts, managed to wedge it into her eye.

She surveyed the brandy glass and then looked at me.

‘Young man,' she said, drawing herself up indignantly, ‘I
never
drink.'

Again, I got a whiff of the strange smell from her. It was on her breath and suddenly I realized what it was. Methylated spirits. The old lady was a lush as well as a gambler.

‘Normally, madame, I would not insult you by offering you a strong drink,' I said, soothingly, ‘but you seemed a trifle faint — the heat no doubt — and I felt that this, taken purely as a medicine, might do you good.'

She peered at me through her monocle, which had the ludicrous effect of making one eye appear larger than the other, then she examined the goblet of brandy.

‘Well,' she said, ‘if it's medicinal of course that's different. Daddy always used to say that a tot of brandy was better than all Harley Street.'

‘I agree,' I said, warmly.

She took the glass from my hand and gulped it down, then coughed and produced a tiny scrap of lace and wiped her mouth with it.

‘Warming,' she said, closing her eyes and leaning back. ‘Most warming. Daddy was right.'

I let her sit quietly for a moment so that the brandy took hold. Presently she opened her eyes.

‘Young man,' she said, her speech faintly slurred, ‘you are absolutely right. It has made me feel worlds better.'

‘Will you have another?' I asked.

‘Well, I don't know that I should,' she said, judiciously, ‘but perhaps a soupgon.'

I signalled the waiter and he brought another brandy. It disappeared with the miraculous suddenness of the first.

‘Madame,' I said, ‘since you are feeling somewhat fragile, may I have your permission to see you safely home?'

I was dying to know where this extraordinary relic lived during the daytime.

She opened her eyes and glared at me.

‘Do I know you?' she enquired.

‘Alas, no,' I said.

‘Then it's a most improper suggestion,' she said. ‘Most improper!'

‘But not if I introduce myself,' I said, and proceeded to do so.

She inclined her head regally and held out her fragile hand.

‘I am Suzanna Booth-Wycherly,' she said, in the manner of one announcing that she was Cleopatra.

‘I am enchanted,' I said gravely and kissed her hand.

‘At least you have some manners,' she admitted reluctantly. ‘Well, you may see me home, if you please.'

Getting Miss Booth-Wycherly down the long staircase, hall and steps was quite a performance, since the two brandies had now taken firm hold and, while they had a detrimental effect on her legs, they unleashed a stream of reminiscences and for each one she had to pause while she told me the story. Three steps down the stairs she remembered how Daddy had first brought her here when Mummy died in 1904, and she described in great detail the assembled company. Women as multi-coloured as a flock of parakeets in their wonderful gowns, glittering jewels in such quantities that they would blind a pirate, the men so handsome, the women so beautiful; they didn't seem to breed beautiful women any more. Not like they did when she was a gal, when
everybody
seemed beautiful. At the foot of the stairs she remembered a particularly beautiful young man whom she had been enamoured of, who had gambled and lost and gone out and shot himself. So unnecessary, since Daddy would have lent him the money, and so thoughtless since the servants had to clean up the mess. Daddy said that you should always treat the lower classes with consideration, and you should not give your servants unnecessary work to do. She remembered halfway down the hall how King Edward had visited Monte in 1906 and how she'd been presented to him, and how he had been a true gentleman. The flood of remembrances continued down the steps, across the forecourt, and uninterruptedly during the taxi ride to one of the less salubrious parts of Monte Carlo. Here the taxi drew up at an alleyway between two tall ancient buildings with plaster peeling from the walls and faded sun-blistered shutters.

‘Ah, home,' said Miss Booth-Wycherly, screwing her monocle into her eye and viewing the unsavoury alley. ‘I have my apartment on the ground floor, just down there, second door on the left. So convenient.'

I extracted her from the taxi with some difficulty and, telling the driver to wait, I escorted her down the alley which smelt, in the hot night air, of cats, sewage and rotting vegetables in equal quantities. At the front door she placed her monocle in her eye and held out her hand graciously.

‘You have been most kind, young man,' she said, ‘most kind, and I have enjoyed conversing with you. It has been a great pleasure.'

The pleasure, I assure you, was entirely mine,' I said truthfully. ‘May I call tomorrow to make sure you have completely recovered from your fatigue?'

‘I never receive before five,' she said.

Then, if I may, I will come at five,' I suggested.

‘I will be delighted to see you,' she said, inclining her head. She opened the door and manoeuvred her way through it a trifle uncertainly and the door closed behind her. I was loath to leave her for fear she might fall down and hurt herself, but with such an indomitable old lady you could hardly suggest undressing her and putting her to bed.

The next evening at five, bearing a basket of fruit and cheese together with a large bunch of flowers, I made my way to Miss Booth-Wycherly's abode. I knocked on her door and there came a storm of shrill yapping. Presently, the door was cautiously opened and Miss Booth-Wycherly peered out of the crack, her monocle glinting.

‘Good evening, Miss Booth-Wycherly,' I said, ‘I've come as we arranged.'

The door swung open a trifle and I could see she was wearing a fantastic lace nightdress. It was obvious that she had forgotten about me and my visit.

‘Why, young man,' she said, ‘I wasn't expecting you — er — quite so early.'

‘I'm sorry, I thought you said five o'clock,' I said contritely.

‘I did. Is it five already?' she asked. ‘Dear me, how time flies, I was just having my siesta.'

‘I am so sorry to have disturbed you,' I said. ‘Shall I come back later?'

‘No. No,' she said, smiling at me graciously, ‘if you don't mind me entertaining you in my night attire.'

‘Your company would be a privilege in any attire,' I said gallantly.

She opened the door and I went in. The reek of stale methylated spirits was overpowering. Her flat consisted of one very large room which served as a bedroom and a living room and off it a minute kitchen and a tiny bathroom. At the end of the living room was a huge double bed. The weather being hot, there were only sheets upon it, and these were so dirty they seemed almost black. The cause of this was sitting in the middle of the bed — a dachshund, with a huge ox shin-bone, covered with blood and sawdust, lying on the sheets between its paws. When it saw me looking, it growled malevolently at me. The walls on each side and above the bed were almost obliterated under a mass of ancient yellowing photographs in gilt frames. One wall of the room was occupied by two huge oak cupboards and between them a rack, like a large bookcase, on which reposed an extraordinary collection of shoes, each carefully treed. There must have been some thirty or forty pairs, ranging from brogues to sequined dance slippers. Along the other wall, piled almost to the ceiling, was a series of large leather trunks (the sort they used to call steamer trunks in the old days), each shaped like the traditional pirate's treasure chest with a rounded lid and emblazoned with the magic words, BOOTH-WYCHERLY. There was just enough room among all this clutter for a small table and three wicker chairs.

“I thought the fruit and cheese looked so good, I simply had to bring you some,' I said. ‘And, of course, flowers for my hostess.'

She took the bunch of flowers in her fragile arms and to my embarrassment her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

‘It's been a long time since I was given flowers,' she said.

‘That's because you're too much of a recluse,' I pointed out. ‘if you got out and about more, you'd have queues of men outside your door with floral offerings. I wouldn't get a look in then.'

She looked at me for a moment and then she chuckled pleasedly.

‘You're what Daddy would have called a card,' she said. ‘You know how to flatter an old woman.'

‘Nonsense,' I said, briskly. ‘You're not a day over fifty. I refuse to believe anything else.'

She chuckled again.

‘It's a long time since anyone was
gallant
with me,' she said. ‘A very long time. I enjoy it. I think I'm going to like you, young man.'

‘I'm glad,' I answered truthfully, ‘for I know that I like you.'

From that moment on, I became Miss Booth-Wycherly's confidant and friend. She had no relatives and no other friends; those few acquaintances she had either thought her touched, or had not the time or the interest to listen to her fund of anecdotes. But to me it was fascinating to hear her talk so vividly and so poignantly of a bygone age, an age when the British so arrogantly bestrode the earth and when the world maps were predominantly pink to show it. A world unshakeable in its solidarity and its elegance, with an endless supply of good things for those with the wealth; a world where the lower classes knew their place and a good cook was paid thirty pounds a year and had a day off a month. Miss Booth-Wycherly recaptured those far off, apparently perpetually sunlit, days for me and it was as fascinating as talking to a dinosaur. I used to visit her whenever I could, braving the assaults of the dachshund Lulu (who regularly bit me in the ankle), taking her gifts of fruit and cheese and chocolates, of which she was inordinately fond. Gradually I weaned her off methylated spirits on to brandy which I felt — if she must drink — was better for her. It certainly took less brandy to give her the desired effect. She took the brandy, of course, for purely medicinal reasons to begin with, but later she would quite blatantly suggest that we had a tot. The difficulty at first was to get her to accept the brandy, and I found the only way I could do it was to play cards with her, using the bottle as a stake. If she won, she had the bottle; if I won, we opened the bottle to celebrate and I forgot it when I left. It was during the last of these card sessions before I left France that she told me she was a Catholic.

‘A very bad one, I'm afraid,' she confessed. ‘I haven't been to Mass for years and years. You see, I didn't really feel I could, for I'm such a bad woman in so many ways.'

‘Surely not,' I protested. ‘You seem the essence of goodness to me.'

‘No, no,' she said. ‘You don't know all about me, young man. I've done some very wicked things in my time.'

She looked round the room furtively, to make sure we were alone, if you discounted Lulu, who sat on the bed, busily demolishing what appeared to be half a sheep.

‘I was once a married man's mistress,' said Miss Booth-Wycherly unexpectedly, and sat back to see how I would take the news.

‘Bravo!' I said, imperturbably. ‘I bet you made him very happy, lucky devil.'

‘I did!' she said. ‘Oh yes I
did.'

‘Well, there you are then. You gave happiness.'

‘Yes, but immorally,' she pointed out.

‘Happiness is happiness. I don't think it has anything to do with morals,' I said.

‘I became pregnant by him,' she said, and took a hasty sip of brandy to recover her nerve after this revelation.

‘It sometimes unfortunately happens,' I said guardedly.

‘Then I did this terrible thing, a mortal sin,' she whispered. ‘I had an abortion.'

I was not quite sure what to say to this, so I remained silent.

She took my silence to mean that I disapproved of her action.

‘But I
had
to,' she said. ‘Oh, I know people have abortions now like shelling peas, and think nothing of it. And they have illegitimate children like chickens laying eggs and it's no stigma. But when I was a gal, to have an affair with a
married man
was bad enough, but to have an abortion or an illegitimate child was
unthinkable.'

‘But didn't the Church help you?' I asked. ‘I thought in moments of stress like that . . .'

‘No,' interrupted Miss Booth-Wycherly. ‘At the church we used to frequent we had a particularly obnoxious priest. I was very upset and at my wits' end, as you may imagine, and all he did was to compare me to the whore of Babylon.'