Sensible Life (22 page)

“Let’s hope when our turn comes that we can manoeuvre an equally effective launch.”

“Don’t talk about it! We have two years yet.” Vita frowned. Then, looking up as two men went by carrying squash rackets, she said, “Hello. Come and join us after your game.”

“Thanks, we’d love to,” said one of the men.

Vita said, “One of those might do if he hasn’t been snapped up.”

“Early days,” said Denys. “Ah, here are our drinks, and I nearly forgot, a letter for you addressed care of the Club.” Vita took the letter as a servant in Club uniform set oysters, tankards of stout and a plate of bread and butter on the table between them.

“I don’t know this writing.” Vita turned the letter over. “Nice paper. Oysters first.” She put the letter down and impaled an oyster on a toothpick. “Delicious,” she breathed.

Denys watched her swallow; the slight movement in her throat stirred him.

“My word, you two take risks,” said a woman as she passed their table. “Oysters in barrels from Bombay! Smacks of suicide to me!”

“Perfectly fresh,” said Vita sweetly. “We know what we are doing.”

“I should say you risk the trots, if not dysentery,” said the woman.

Vita spiked another oyster, murmured, “Busybody, interfering bitch,” as the woman receded.

Denys grinned; his wife’s relations with other women never failed to delight him. He watched his dog circle crazily round the dachsund. “She’ll give it a heart attack,” he said, helping himself to bread and butter, gulping his stout. “Look at its wretched little legs. Who is the letter from?”

Vita tore open the envelope, spread out the letter and peered at the signature. “Milly Leigh. Who is Milly Leigh? Oh, I remember—Dinard.”

“Married to a retired old buffer General, one son, one daughter. Friends of that Dutch family. What does she want?” The dogs were now lying exhausted, facing each other, tongues lolling. “I think I’d better get her clipped.”

“Who?”

“Tara, darling. Why should Mrs. Leigh write to you?”

Vita was reading the letter. “They seem to have had Flora to stay. How curious. Thought we’d like news of her which does not come from the school. Grown quite pretty—that’s a relief, I suppose. Dances well, tennis, swims, rides. Of course she does, she has two legs. Something about ‘a dry school report’. Do we ever read them?”

“I skim through when I pay the bill; she’s average.”

“Above average would not do out here. It’s a bit of a cheek; is she hinting at something? I wonder why she invited her? Nice of her, I suppose.” Vita read the address. “Coppermalt House, Northumberland.”

On the tennis court the dumpy girl screamed, “Out, it was
out
!”

“If you say so,” said the Governor’s A.D.C. “Change ends, my serve.”

“Silly girl, it was in,” said Denys.

Above their heads the kites moved with a rustle of wings from the Club roof to the branch of a tree.

Vita went back to the letter. “Rather awful handwriting, what sheets. Quite a newsy lady. The son is at Oxford and so is his friend, who I may remember as Blanco. ‘But we now call him Hubert, of course.’ Fancy that.”

“I recollect two rather offensive boys.”

“I don’t. Oh, the girl is getting married and so is her friend, Tashie. Why should we be interested? Ah, wait, there’s more; they were both presented at Court and have done three seasons. Think what that must have cost. Not very fast off the mark, were they, those two? Flora will have to do better than that. I’m not putting up with her hanging around for years. I think Mrs. Leigh rather interfering, Denys. Is she suggesting we should have Flora presented? What an absurd suggestion.”

Denys laughed. “She’s the sort that takes it as a matter of course.”

“Well, it’s not on,” said Vita angrily. “It’s quite unnecessary.”

Denys smiled; he loved seeing his wife get angry about something unimportant. “Did you see a lot of her when I left you in France? Were you friends?”

“Not really. She’s not my type. I was too busy.”

“Doing what?” What had she done all that July, August and September? She had hardly talked about it. He repeated his question, “Busy doing what?”

“I was looking after Flora. Getting a new outfit. I spent hours having fittings, hours. That Russian dressmaker was terribly slow. Only worth it because she was cheap.”

“And what else?”

“I was bored and lonely without you.”

“Were you?”

“And then—”

“And then?” He leaned forward; her nose had sharpened as it did when she told a lie. “And then?” he persisted.

“Denys, you’re not jealous?” Her pale grey eyes were bright, the whites very white.

“I am.”

The kite which had been watching them with clinical interest chose its moment and swooped to snatch the oyster Vita held impaled on a toothpick. Flapping as it reversed upwards with its prize, it struck Vita’s face. She screamed.

Several people sitting nearby on the verandah laughed as Vita, lashing out at the bird, upset her drink so that brown foam ran down her legs. Denys exclaimed: “It’s scratched your face, you’re bleeding,” in a high anxious voice. “Come home, sweetie, we must get some disinfectant on it; they are scavengers.”

Vita put her hand to her face and brought it away covered in blood. “It might have blinded me.” She began to sob. “Oh, Denys, my face.”

“Come on, let’s get you home.” He put his arms round her. “Here’s my handkerchief.”

Vita held it to her face.

“Wasn’t that bird neat! Do they do that often?” The dumpy girl had finished playing tennis.

“I say, Denys,” a man shouted after Denys as he led Vita to their cars, “the Colonel’s Kraut has got your bitch in a clinch. Is she on heat?”

“Not due yet, but must be. Damn and blast, could somebody bring her back for me? I must get Vita home.”

“You would think he’d have the sense to know when his dog’s on heat,” said the woman who had doubted the oysters.

“With a wife who’s in that state
en permanence?
Not Denys,” said her friend.

“They are stuck together, you won’t pry them apart,” said the dumpy girl. “I know about dogs. The bitch lay down for him.”

“Really! Some people,” said the oyster-doubter.

The Governor’s A.D.C. uttered orders in Urdu and disapproving Club servants brought buckets of water to douse the dogs. “Puts one off one’s lunch,” said a woman who had not spoken before.

Denys bathed Vita’s face. She was crying now from shock. “It’s all right now, darling, don’t cry.” He held her tenderly, stroked her hair.

“Shall I have a scar?”

“No, no, of course you won’t. Keep still while I put this dressing on.”

“I was trying to tell you when that thing hit me that there is no need for you to be jealous. Nothing happened that summer, nothing. I had beastly rows with Flora. She was impossible. I never told you because I felt guilty. I should have done what you wanted and come back to India with you, left her at the school instead of paying attention to what other people said. As it was, I was bored to tears and made to feel guilty by people like that Leigh woman. Look what I’ve done to my dress; it’s ruined.”

“I’ll give it to the servants to give to the dhobi. Let me help you out of it.” Denys lifted the dress over Vita’s head. “Mind your face.”

Vita wrapped herself in a dressing-gown. “There’s someone arriving.”

“Lie down, sweetie, rest for a bit. It will be some kind fellow with Tara. I will see she is shut in the stables.”

“You said we should be grateful to the Colonel.” Vita began to laugh. “Ha-ha-ha. Oh, my God, she will have the most ghastly puppies.” She stopped laughing. “Bang goes her pedigree.”

“They will be drowned,” said Denys. “Now rest.”

Vita lay back on her bed. She could hear Denys being polite, a sharp yelp from Tara, Denys giving orders to have her shut away, men’s voices, then the sound of a tonga driving off. The horse, like so many tonga horses, was lame.

How had that dreadful row with the child started?

“Is he in love with you?” Flora had asked in July 1926 in the flat at Dinard.

She had snapped the child’s head off. “Why on earth should you ask that?”

“He looks at you as Jules looks at Madame Jules, that’s all. Jules is in love. I only wondered.”

She should have made a joke of it, but she had said, “Don’t be idiotic,” and “Who may Jules be?”

The child had said, “He’s a friend. He keeps a café in St. Malo.”

“You cannot be friends with people of that sort.”

Flora had shouted, surprisingly and very loudly, “He
is
my friend. There is nobody left except Tonton.”

Unwisely she saw now, she had said, “And who may he be?”

“A dog,” the child had yelled. “A dog I meet on the beach. I suppose,” she had shouted, “I cannot have a dog friend while you are friends with someone you met on the train from Marseilles when my father had gone away in the ship.”

She had smacked Flora’s face and Flora had yelled, “I wish I had drowned,” her mouth ugly with passion.

She had yelled back, “I wish you had,” with equal passion though, thinking of it now years later, she couldn’t see how the subject of drowning had arisen,

It had jolted her, though. She had sent the young man on his way and nothing whatever that anybody, even Denys, could take exception to had happened. She had not even seen him off on the launch to St. Malo. She had not mentioned meeting this amusing man to Denys in her letters. I can’t even remember what he looked like, she thought, as gingerly she touched her cheek which was throbbing less, thank God.

But that summer! The boredom. The child out all the time supposedly doing her lessons—Italian conversation, maths and Russian—with the dressmaker. Vita remembered long weeks wandering about the town looking at the shops, lying on the sofa reading novels, writing to Denys and counting the days when she could get shot of the child and back to India. She had taken to thinking of Flora as “the awful warning,” which was exactly what Flora was; a reminder of an evening spent with a traveller passing through the hill station en route to the Himalayas, someone she had never seen again. Too much to drink when she was not used to it, heavy petting which went too far, and the discovery some weeks after Denys had joined her for his leave that she was pregnant. There had never been a whisper of gossip. When Flora was born and Denys suggested adoption she had vigorously refused, fearing that if she agreed, as she longed to, Denys would suspect, if not immediately then at some later date. That summer in France she had often wished she had taken the risk. How the days had dragged and the company of the child had sickened her, reminding her of that one slip which she had not even enjoyed. The man had been rough and selfish, not in the least like Denys. Vita called out, “Darling, are you there? I need you.”

Denys came into the room. “What is it, sweetie?”

“Is poor Tara all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Must you drown—”

“The only thing to do; we can’t be lumbered with a pack of mongrels. We’d be a laughing stock. We’d never be rid of them. You are too softhearted.”

“I’m silly, I know. That stupid letter upset me, although I suppose she meant well.”

“To mean well can prove fatal,” said Denys. “It’s not a state of mind I condone.” He sat on the side of the bed and took her hand. “How is the poor face?”

“Miles better.”

“Well enough for a stiff drink and some lunch?”

“I think so.”

“Good. I trust that bloody kite hasn’t put paid to our Sunday siesta.”

“Certainly not,” said Vita, “it would take more than that.”

Alec, the Governor’s A.D.C., and the captain in the Gurkhas who had brought Tara back discussed the girls they had played tennis with as they drove away. “The smaller one played a good game,” said the Gurkha captain.

“I am sure that ball was in,” said Alec.

“So you didn’t find her attractive?”

“Not really, no.”

“Ah.”

“I am handicapped vis-a-vis girls,” said Alec. “I measure them against Vita Trevelyan.”

“Really?” The Gurkha captain expressed intrigue.

“Theirs is a perfect marriage,” said Alec. “She is beautiful; they are inseparable. She never leaves him to go home. They adore each other.”

“Not all that popular with other women, I note.”

“Jealous, I expect. They’d probably like a crack at Denys.”

“You have such high standards,” said the Gurkha captain. “I am not against a spot of separation. I shall ask the cheater to the next Club dance. I like a trace of fallibility.”

T
HE CHILL WHICH STRUCK
Flora with Cosmo by the river and made her run was the realisation that her visit was almost over; she was due back at school in three days. When Cosmo and Hubert were in Perthshire she would be back in the ambience she detested. Still, there were three more days.

“Hi, stop,” said Nigel, who had watched her running towards the house. “Come here a minute, spare me a mo.” He caught her wrist.

Nigel was sitting on the terrace in the evening sun with
The Times
newspaper on his lap, a half-empty glass of whisky on the table beside him. He looked glum. “Sit down.” He pulled her down onto the seat. “I want to show you something.”

“What?” She was impatient to go up to her room and change into evening dress, wallowing first in a hot bath. Too soon this luxury would be lost; she would be forced to share a bath with another girl, have only three a week. She tried to jerk her wrist free. Nigel held on.

“Wait a minute, this is important.” He held her with his left hand, the tumbler of whisky in his right. The smell of whisky mingled with the scent of jasmine growing against the house. “Watched you run,” Nigel said. “Good legs, not knock-kneed like Mabs. Mabs is knock-kneed, have you noticed?”

“No.” She twisted her wrist in his grip.

“Look,” said Nigel. “I’ve got
The Times
newspaper here.”

“So?”

“So I am going to do you a kindness, teach you how to read it. No, don’t run away. This is important, young Flora. If you want to understand what makes people tick, you read this paper.”

“What people?”