The Old Man and Me (17 page)

“No, I love it. I just don’t know much about it.”

Why aren’t Americans very interested in gardening? Because we are barbarians, that’s why. Why couldn’t it be stag-hunting or pig-sticking or bringing back the cat-of-nine-tails that we aren’t very interested in, something faintly reprehensible? But calm, pleasant, harmless, healthy, good-for-you, beauty-loving, cherished-alike-by-peer-and-peasant, British-to-the-backbone gardening—
that’s
what we aren’t very interested in;
that’s
what we don’t know much about, I was thinking grimly.

Lady Daggoner was pursuing the same train of thought. “Americans are so very different from the English I find, don’t you? You know, in spite of our common language I sometimes think we have far more affinity with Europeans while you people strike me as being a lot closer in every way to the present-day Russians. Odd, when you’re such sworn enemies, but I can’t help feeling it all the same,” was the way she put it. “What do you think?”

“You mean rosewise?”

Lady Dag, puzzled, showed no inclination to laugh.

“You know, gardenwise,” I explained, showing no inclination to laugh either. “Like, we don’t dig gardens. That was what you meant?”

“Well, no. I don’t suppose I could know much about that,” she said helplessly, and then, stepping on firmer ground, “actually I was thinking of Cos and his former wife.”

“Splitsville?” I queried sympathetically.

Lady Daggoner looked distinctly uncomfortable. “She is dead, yes, if that’s what you mean.”

“I meant divorced.”

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t— No, what I was going to say was that it was such a madly unhappy business. I don’t suppose they saw eye to eye on one single thing. Now I’m not saying they wouldn’t have been a disaster in any circumstance but I can’t help feeling that her being an American didn’t help. I’m sure she was completely unprepared for what was expected of her as his wife. How she must have hated us all, poor thing, I don’t wonder. I’m afraid people, oh I don’t know, you know how it is, didn’t take much
notice
of her after a while. We warned him. We were all against it. Cos is such a fool, I’m devoted to him, known him all my life, though of course I’m a good deal younger.” She had paused in our walk to take a rose between her fingers and frowned into its startled face. “Where was I? Oh, about warning him. It was the greatest folly really, first of all marrying so late in life, let’s see, he must have been about forty-eight then he’s fifty-six now, goodness, old enough to be your father,
and
for the first time
and
to someone so entirely unsuitable. Well, of course, they had their own reasons. I doubt very much that even at the beginning it was what you’d call a love match, she was rich and a widow and I suppose they were both lonely, both looking for some kind of a change. Perhaps if she could have given him a child...But the main thing is, dear Cos is a great snob, so absurdly ashamed of his origins.
My
theory is he’s devoted most of his life to burying them as deep as he can, poor lamb, as if we cared.”

The bitchiness was something beautiful to behold, nevertheless I felt compelled to inject a bit of dissent at this point if only for its nuisance value. “Wait a minute,” I said, “I’m not with this at all. I must be thinking about two other guys. In the first place, he didn’t seem at all embarrassed when he told
me
about his origins and in the second place I think it’s dreamy. That remote island and the castle. Just because his father was a rat—” but her look of pitying amusement left the rest of my sentence unsaid.

“Oh dear, not still at it, is he? But don’t you see, it’s pure invention from start to finish. You’d think he’d have outgrown it by now. I must say I’d forgotten all about that little fairy-tale though now I think of it my eldest brother who was in the war with him did mention something about him circulating it at the time—how did it go, the whole family conveniently emigrating to Australia or Madagascar or some place like that.”

“Canada.”

“Exactly. No, my dear, I’m very much afraid that if anyone ever gets to the bottom of it they’re going to come across something frightfully respectable. Take my word for it, they’re going to turn up a father who was neither a coal-miner nor an aristocratic bounder but some decent little shop assistant or office clerk. That sort of thing is so much harder to live down, isn’t it? You know, I’m convinced that’s why he put off marrying for as long as he did. On the one hand that awful middle-class fear of marrying outside one’s class and on the other the realization that one’s wife would be quite likely to discover the truth. And so,” she went on triumphantly, “don’t you see, I am sure that’s why he felt he had to marry an American, however much he disapproved of them in general—and he does deeply, I assure you, he’s quite wild on the subject, nothing would induce him to set foot in the country—because an American being presumably classless would have no feelings about it. Well, it’s all ancient history and no concern of ours, as I said, we all adore him and it couldn’t matter less, but what was unfortunate was the choice of that poor wretched little woman. The real trouble with her—now I’m sure you won’t be offended, I’m sure you’ll take this in the spirit it’s meant—but Pauline, well, you’re much more advanced over there I know, you don’t have these silly distinctions but, well, let’s say temperamentally, yes, that’s all I’m talking about really,
temperamentally
, and all her wealth apart, I shouldn’t have been surprised if Pauline’d have been much happier as the wife of an office clerk.” Lady Daggoner had picked up a stick and was prodding the earth around a patch of Crimson Glories or whatever with it. “No, now I am being unfair,” she decided. “Actually she was an attractive little creature to look at, perfect little figure and marvellous red hair and a loyal devoted little character, utterly wrapped up in him, I think she might have been a perfect wife for, say, one of your Corporation Presidents. But oh, so utterly without conversation or interest. Sat around reading financial reports all day long I believe. Dinner there was agony. He bullied and broke her and then glared at her the rest of the time. Very off-putting for anyone. You can imagine what it did to her—not that she wasn’t wildly irritating always limping along one step behind, poor soul, her remarks entirely composed of dreadfully dim questions. ‘What did he say she said?’ and ‘Are you talking about the brother or the son?’ that kind of thing. She wasn’t stupid though. My husband used to have quite sensible talks with her about various business interests of his, said she was quite knowledgeable. Made packets playing the stock market, I understand. But that, as luck would have it, was the thing most calculated to alienate Cos. He’d had a terrible experience in the world of business and he never wanted to think of it again. So there he’d be trying to educate her in the arts and there she’d be talking about dollars. I suppose that is American, isn’t it, for women to know so much about money, I mean I expect they have to, owning most of it, as they do, don’t they? Anyway in the end he absolutely forbade her to mention it. In other words she wasn’t allowed to talk about the one thing she could. I thought she ought to have been encouraged in it, I thought it would have been amusing, given her a certain cachet, well, it would have given her
something
, but poor old bourgeois Cos, he’d decided it was unspeakably vulgar. I suppose it is too humiliating, ‘What’s your wife interested in?’ ‘Money.’ It was true enough. Then she began the sulking
and
the drinking and towards the end my dear she was
insortable
...”

I was getting a bit fidgety. Fidgety? I was beside myself with hatred. How I hate you, I’d been saying to her in my mind all this time. How I hate you all, so smugly so daintily going about your dirty work growing flowers and withering people. If I could only shut her up. But how? My thumb flew up to my front tooth (and flew right back down again the instant I became aware of it). I looked her straight in the face. “Why,” I asked slowly and distinctly, “are you telling me all this?”

To my surprise she began to smile. “How silly of me, you’ll have heard most of this already. I am sorry to be such a bore. It’s that I do find Cos so fascinating and complicated I assume everyone must be as interested in him as I, especially now that he’s so madly rich and eligible, though what most people
don’t
know—” and now her smile was pure mischief, “what most people don’t know is that when he dies the money goes right
back to America
every bit of it and not to his next wife. There’s a small matter of a child, you see, of Pauly’s first husband. She’s off somewhere in school I believe. She’s only about fifteen. But viewed from
that
angle he really isn’t much of a catch for a young girl at all, is he?” And she looked at me quite coldly. She had finished her say. She had been as rude as she could and get away with it. And now she was going to get away from it. “I think the children have returned from church,” she said and hurried off without a backward glance in my direction.

I strolled back slowly and by the time I reached the house I had made up my mind.

“I’m leaving,” I told C. D., “right now. How do I get out of here?”

“What’s been happening? You look like Rachel in
Phèdre.
”

“If I’d been a man I would have punched our dear hostess in the snoot.”

“Oh dear. I was afraid of this somehow. She’s rather possessive about me and terribly used to getting her own way. Was she very rude?”

“Very rude about you, very rude about your wife, very rude about America, and, finally, very rude about me.”

“How you?”

“She accused me of trying to marry you for your money. Warned me against it. Really. Rather an impertinence, don’t you think, since I only met you two weeks ago and never set eyes on her until the day before yesterday?”

We were standing in the library where I had marched off to upon my return. C. D. sank into one of the chairs and covered his head in his hands. “Yes, she can be like that,” he said. “We can all be like that.” Then he rose and sighed. “Come on. I shall do what’s necessary.”

“...not feeling very well so I think it would be better if she returned to London as soon as possible,” I heard C. D. saying to Lady Daggoner while I stood some five feet away.

“You mean right now this minute?”

“Preferably.”

“I see. Well, have you told her maid? Have you told Cranshaw? Don’t tell
me
, tell the staff, they’re the ones who run this place. Oh, never mind. I’ll do it.” She reached for the phone and stopped. “I can never remember if the 1.15 runs on Sunday.”

“I was going to ask if we couldn’t take the Daimler.”

“
We?
”

“But of course I’m going with her.”

“Cos, you’re insane. Not before luncheon. We’re having your special chocolate soufflé. Do be sensible.”

“About the Daimler,” he said implacably. “It’s all right if we take it, isn’t it? I expect Rupert will be needing it in town tomorrow anyway.”

“No he won’t,” she looked stubborn.

“Then we’ll send the chauffeur back with it. Nothing drearier than a Sunday train ride, is there?”

“Then why are you going?” she snapped, suddenly showing her anger.

“Miss Flood is ill,” he reminded her gently. “I do think she ought to be allowed to get back as comfortably as possible.”

“That was beautiful,” I whispered to him as we went upstairs to pack.

He looked at me sadly. “Yes, but it was long overdue,” he said.

“Goodbye,” said Lady Daggoner punctiliously, appearing at the edge of the Daimler as we jumped in. Then her mouth went on moving silently until C. D. rolled down the window.

“—ly furious with you both for leaving,” she was saying emphatically. “You must forgive me, Miss Flood, for having been so tiresome about the motor. To be quite honest I’d hoped to lure you both back into staying. Perhaps Cos has told you—I’m a perfect terror when I don’t get my own way,” she added with utter simplicity.

“I understand,” I replied with even utterer. “I am like that myself.” Then we drove off leaving her standing in the driveway.

“So: Act One,” I said heaving a hefty sigh of relief, looking out upon a car-scape a good deal prettier than the railroad-scape had been.

“Except that now we’ll never know if she’s really having chocolate soufflé for lunch.”

“You mean she’s capable of just saying it?”

“She is capable of anything.”

“So am I,” I declared defiantly but in another moment, defiance evaporated, I slumped back into my corner depressed. The unpleasantness of the last two hours had left its mark.

“Dearest Honey...” He took my hand.
Dearest Mary
...dearest God! I sat up with a start. I hadn’t thought about that Dearest Mary letter once all day, hadn’t given one minute’s thought as to what steps must be taken to counteract his suspicions about my character and desirability.

“Look,” I said, “if you’d like to find out about the soufflé we can turn around and go back. I don’t mind.” As if to prove my sincerity I leaned forward towards the driver.

“No—don’t do that,” C. D. cried out, tugging at my hand so sharply that I almost toppled over, and I found myself looking into a face as naked as a plea. For an instant my astonishment was echoed in his own expression and then his consciousness overcoming his reflexes, he smiled ruefully to himself and gathered me into his arms, Lady Dag’s chauffeur and all. But of course, I thought, what luck. First my martyrdom by Lady D. and then my rescue by Old McKee had automatically turned me into a heroine, installing me neatly on the side of the angels. It was no longer necessary to take any steps. I relaxed against him. Fate was playing my hand for me and for once in my life I knew better than not to go ahead and let it.

Eventually we stopped at a pub. “Now don’t fuss about a proper lunch. Take what you get and be glad for it.” As if I would let anything detract me from the joy of the moment. Not sad Sunday nor the paling sky nor the lack of a proper lunch. Inside: frosted-glass pub lighting and the wet metallic silver-polish smell of beer. Cold fat sausages, cheese sandwiches, a large gin-and-tonic. “Ice, madame?” the barmaid, catching my American accent, had obligingly plopped some in, and I made a great point of crunching it loudly between my teeth for the horror and amusement of C. D.