Sensible Life (23 page)

“The Leighs, stupid, and their ilk. You are not of their ilk so you had better understand them.”

“Are you of their ilk?” she asked on a rising note.

“I am. The ‘ilk’ is financial, dear girl. I am also a bit drunk. Where was I? Oh yes, you had better take this opportunity while it lasts, as they say in the advertisements. Are you ready?”

“If it doesn’t take too long.” She was grudging.

“The rudiments won’t take long, the actual experience takes a lifetime. Right. Don’t run away, promise?”

“I promise.” (Whose dress shall I borrow tonight, Mabs’ green or Tashie’s blue?)

“Right, then.” Nigel released her hand and picked up the paper. “Here we are, pay attention. This is the hatch, match and despatch column. Births, deaths, marriages, right?”

“Right.”

“Imagine you are pleased to read here that, let’s see, Admiral Bowing has died. He may be your uncle, see, and with luck he has left you a packet in his will. Always look at the deaths first, they can cheer you up no end. Got that? Now the births. Some foolish friend has started a family, or added to one. You write and congratulate or condone, must do that, that’s what friends are for. You with me?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, turn over to the Court page, engagements. Miss Mabs Leigh is engaged to, oh dear,” Nigel drained his glass, “Nigel Foukes. And from time to time the engagement is broken off. You keep a weather eye on that little lot otherwise you may drop a social brick and nobody, Flora, forgets a social brick. It hangs around your neck like a—oh dear, no more whisky.” Nigel put his glass carefully onto the table. “Where was I? Yes. Note, here are reports of the weddings which come off, bloody lists of all the people who went to the ceremony. They like to see their names sandwiched between a Lord and a General, for instance. Makes them feel they exist, poor sods.”

“Shall I read about you and Mabs?”

“Who knows? It’s possible.” Nigel squinted into the middle distance. “Who bloody knows?” He sighed gustily. Flora flinched from his whiskied breath. “Sometimes you read the joyful news that a marriage has been dissolved. Well, it’s joyful for some, presumably. Aah—” Nigel sighed again.

“Is that the lot?” She was anxious to get to the lovely steamy water with bath salts.

“No. It—is—not. You must read the leaders here and here; this one, the third, is witty quite often. Then read the letters; they tell you what the current obsession may be. You get a grip on opinion. Now here are the parliamentary reports; once you’ve found out who is who in government, you’ll pick it up as you go. You’ll follow those with glee. Racing page? Interested in racing? You may marry a racing man. Then, for light relief, this page: murder and murder trials. You’ll enjoy those. By now, Flora, you are au fait with what’s going on in the world, however garbled the report may be. You don’t have to believe it, but it looks good if you can pretend to hold an opinion. Look at Hubert, everybody thinks he’s clever and deluded because he talks socialist. He maddens people, makes them talk; they love it. Think you can manage?”

“I’ll have a bash.”

Nigel laughed. “You do that, Flora, and I swear you will begin to understand what makes the Leighs of Coppermalt tick.”

“I’d like that.”

“And again you may not.” Nigel stared at her, then said, “Well, it’s a start. If half the parents of people like yourself persuaded their daughters to read
The Times,
they’d save a lot on school fees, finishing schools in particular.” Nigel belched. “Sorry.” He lurched to his feet. “I must change for dinner. Mustn’t blot my copybook by being late. Need another drink first, though.”

Flora said, “Thank you very much. I shall remember what you say.”

“And act on it?”

“Certainly.”

“You are an intelligent girl. Contrary to general belief, chaps like a girl with brains.”

“Thank you.”

“I might even ask you to marry me.” Nigel had hold of her hand again. “You’ve got jolly decent legs and the rest of you’s a bit of all right; how about it?”

“You are marrying Mabs,” said Flora, laughing.

“That’s what you think.” Nigel shambled away into the house, carrying his empty glass. As he went he pulled a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. If it had been anyone else, Flora would have thought he was crying.

Entering the house through the French windows in the drawing-room, Flora heard voices in the hall.

“Ah, Flora,” said Milly, “here you are. You remember Miss Green? She is here for the night on her way south. And Joyce, you remember Joyce?”

“I remember Flora.” Joyce came forward. “A silent and mysterious child, a watcher.”

Flora said, “Hello.” Joyce with straightened teeth was not at all like a horse; she shook hands with Miss Green who said, “H-how d’you do,” in a quasi-whisper. She looked into Flora’s eyes as she shook hands; she had a small dry hand which clasped Flora’s as though pleased to. Flora returned the smile. Nigel’s hand, clasping her wrist, had been damp.

Milly was speaking. “As Miss Green is motoring south tomorrow, Flora, we thought you would like to go with her. I was worried, thinking of you travelling so far alone in the train. Miss Green lives only twenty miles from your school. Isn’t that a piece of luck? She will be glad of your company.”

“V-v-very glad,” said Miss Green. “F-fortunate coincidence.”

Flora heard herself saying, “How terribly kind, that will be absolutely marvellous,” in a steady voice. Part of her congratulated herself on the response of a lifelong
Times
reader, while the other part felt she had been hit in the solar plexus. “I must change for dinner,” she said, “or I shall be late.”

The visit, which had started as a sort of joyous balloon when the girls had met her at the station, had begun to shrivel while talking to Cosmo by the river, and made a small spurt upwards while sitting with Nigel, was now almost burst. But Joyce was speaking. “Back to school, you poor thing. It would have been such fun if you could have come on to Scotland with us, wouldn’t it, Mrs. Leigh?”

Milly said, “Well—” smiling, and, “Of course, it would have—”

And Miss Green said, “G-g-goodness, is that the time? I must change. And I s-say, w-what apart from the L-League of Nations and p-politics do I avoid at dinner?”

Milly, laughing, said, “The old disgrace—”

“Steer clear of religion,” said Joyce, “and sex.”

“Hush, Joyce,” said Milly. “Really, dear!”

Miss Green murmured, “That doesn’t leave us much,” and set off up the stairs.

“It’s lovely to see you, you naughty thing.” Milly put her arm round Joyce. “You are a breath of fresh air.”

“I shall try not to cause a draught.” Joyce followed Miss Green upstairs.

“Well, then,” Milly turned smiling to Flora. “Isn’t that a happy arrangement? Now, what shall you wear tonight? Make yourself pretty.”

Lying in the bath, Flora looked at her legs, glad that they passed muster. She stretched to manipulate the hot tap with her toe. The baths at Coppermalt were sized generously for tall men; school baths, she thought resentfully, were economically short. She soaped her neck and armpits, scrubbed her back with a loofah and bathed her face. Whenever she bathed her face she heard her mother’s sneer, “Blackheads.” Shaking off the memory, she stood up and soaped her bush.

Tashie shouted outside the door, “Which dress would you like tonight? Joyce has a gorgeous red job; would you like my little blue number or Mabs’ green? You could try the yellow tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Miss Green is giving me a lift back to school.”

“No!”

“Yes.” Flora got out of the bath and wrapped herself in a towel. School towels, she thought, were skimpy beyond belief. Outside the door Tashie called, “Can I come in?” Flora unbolted the door. “Who arranged this lift?”

“Mrs. Leigh.”

“The
cow
.”

“Tashie.”

“Well, she is.”

“Not really, I am sure she—”

“So which dress will you wear? Blue? Green? Yellow?”

“I’d like to wear black,” said Flora.

“D’YOU THINK IT KIND
to send the girl away?” Angus came into Milly’s room from his dressing-room. “Tie my tie.” He stood in front of his wife in dinner jacket and trousers, black tie dangling. “You do it much better than I can.”

“You manage well enough when you are on your own.” She reached up to tie the bow.

“Was it kind?” Their faces were close; she could see the white stubble on his cheeks and smell the soap from his bath. “There are several more days before her term starts,” he said.

“Dearest, it is politic. There.” She had tied the bow. “She has been here long enough. When the chance of a lift with Miss Green came up, it seemed a God-sent opportunity.”

“Personally, I would leave the Almighty out of it.” Angus sat on the edge of his wife’s bed. Although he too slept in the bed, he thought of it as his wife’s; his own single bed was in his dressing-room, seldom used. “I do not think God had a finger in this pie,” he said. He watched Milly, still in her slip, brush her hair. There were white hairs a-plenty, but since she was fair they did not show in artificial light; his formerly brown hair was white, his moustache brindled. He watched her reflection. “Well?”

Milly stood to put on her shoes; she felt more confident in high heels. “I told you, darling, the men are looking at her. It wouldn’t do if Cosmo—I saw her this evening with Nigel on the terrace. He caught hold of her hand. It probably meant nothing, but—” Angus watched his wife move to a cupboard and take out a dress. She had thickened, but her figure was still excellent, he thought, and hoped as he often did that she would not go in for this banting which was so popular. As she put the dress over her head her voice was muffled. “Remember how worried we were about Mabs and Felix?”

“Nothing came of it.”

“Thank God it didn’t.”

“Not so sure about it now; his father was a great friend. I can’t stand Nigel’s father; the fellow’s a Liberal.”

“But Jef
wasn’t
his father.” Milly’s head appeared through the neck of the dress. She shrugged it down. “Do me up, darling. Rosa admitted it.”

Angus left the bed to hook his wife’s dress. “Wish someone would invent something easier than these fiddly things. Stand still. Rosa, you should remember, is an inveterate joker. She was pulling your leg. You should not have asked her whether Jef was the father, it was begging for trouble.”

“But I
did
and she said he
wasn’t
!”

“And it’s drifted across Europe. One wonders how—” Angus hooked hook to eye.

“Not spread by me,” said Milly (too quickly?).

“Probably Rosa herself and Felix, too, I shouldn’t be surprised. Bloody things, these fasteners, stand still.”

“You are tickling my back.”

“I’ve never told you, since you are sensitive about faux pas, but Felix is the spit of Rosa’s brothers. Perhaps I should have. There is both fair and dark on her side, quite pronounced.”

“You mean?”

“Same nose, too. He has his uncle’s nose.”

“Then I have made a fool of myself?”

“Yes, darling. There, all done.” Angus put his hands on Milly’s shoulders and kissed the back of her neck. “And while we are about it, I’d better tell you another rumour. It is said that he likes boys.”

“How appalling.” Milly looked horrified.

“I have a hunch that there isn’t a word of truth in that either, but it’s a wonderful out if you don’t want to get tied. Rosa wants him to marry; he enjoys being a bachelor. What better alibi could he have?” Angus grinned. “Fellow has his mother’s humour.”

“Extremely dangerous.” Milly put on her rings, reached for her pearls. “And stupid.”

“Which brings us back to the Trevelyan girl.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Milly ran a comb through her hair, smoothed her eyebrows.

“Yes, it does. Parents should stand back and not manipulate.”

“Are you suggesting I interfere?”

“Yes, I am. We all do. I don’t wish to labour the point but it would have done no harm to let the girl stay another few days. She has never been anywhere, stuck in a school by her parents all the year round. She is so ignorant of life, she might be a visitor from Mars. What possible harm could she—”

“Oh, Angus, shut up. It’s done now. I’m sorry. Let’s drop the subject. I have written a friendly letter to her mother that should help. Shall we go down and have a drink before dinner?”

“Very well, Millicent.”

Milly looked at her husband with annoyance; he never called her Millicent unless he was angry. She looked round her familiar room, the bedroom of their marriage. Mabs had been born here, Cosmo too. It was redolent with cherished intimacy. The door of the dressing-room was open; Angus’ discarded day clothes lay scattered about, among them socks she had knitted him, as she had countless others of the same pattern all the years of their marriage: wool socks with cable stitch. She had been knitting a similar pair when she sat chatting with Rosa in Dinard. Rosa had said something which shocked her—she forgot the words, remembered the shock. She closed the dressing-room door. The servants would come up and tidy. Angus was waiting. She would put Miss Green on his right at dinner, dear jolly Joyce on his left; this time tomorrow the source of Angus’ annoyance would have left.

F
ELICITY GREEN DID NOT
take long changing for dinner; she washed her face and armpits, put on clean knickers and slip, and shrugged into a rust-coloured dress. The colour did not enhance her complexion, but what the hell, she thought, brushing her bobbed hair, I’ll never improve on God’s off day. She glared at her froglike face in the glass, meeting black intelligent eyes. She applied lipstick, patted on powder, bared her teeth in a snarl to make sure no red had strayed, transferred flapjack, comb and handkerchief to an evening bag and set off. She was anxious to get to the drawing-room before the rest of the house party and have a look round on her own. She was planning a novel; it had struck her on her previous visit that the Coppermalt drawing-room was worth scrutiny. The room was empty except for Nigel, standing irresolute by the drinks tray. He said: “Hello.” He had not yet changed for dinner.