Under Gemini (35 page)

“I wouldn't want you to be Rose, either. But for a bit you had me very confused. For years people have been telling me I work too hard, I must get a partner, I'm going to crack up. And I've simply laughed at them. But all at once I began to wonder if I was going out of my mind. First I found you cleaning my kitchen, which was so un-Rose-like and out of character that it was positively unnerving. And then I found myself telling you about Angus McKay, and the next thing I knew I was blurting out the story of my marriage. And that, if you can believe it, was even more out of character than Rose scrubbing the floor. I hadn't talked about Diana in years. I've certainly never told a living soul the things I told you.”

“I'm glad you told me.”

“And then just when I was beginning to think that perhaps Rose wasn't so bad after all, there she was, off on the razzle with Brian Stoddart again. And Dr. Kyle, the lumbering old fool, was left standing there with egg all over his face.”

“No wonder you were so angry.”

From far away came the strains of a waltz. One two three. One two three.

… carry the lad that's born to be king,

Over the sea to Skye.

He said, “If we don't go now, the party's going to be over by the time we get there.”

“Do I have to go on being Rose?”

“I think you have to.” He got off the bed, collected the empty champagne bottle, and stood it, like an ornament, in front of Flora's mirror. “For one more evening. For Antony and for Isobel and to save about sixty people a lot of embarrassment.” He went over to the basin, turned on the hot tap, and wrung Flora's washcloth out under the scalding water. “Now get out of bed,” he told her, “and come and wash your face.”

She was ready, creamed and combed and wearing a minimum of makeup. She had climbed back into the dress and done up most of the buttons, while Hugh had dealt with the tricky ones at the neck. It was still as uncomfortable as ever, but now, emboldened by champagne, Flora decided that it was nothing that could not be endured.
Pour être belle il faut souffrir.
She did up the belt and faced him.

“I don't look blotchy, do I?”

“No.” That was all she expected, but he added, “You look quite enchanting.”

“You look enchanting too. Successful and distinguished. Except that some reckless female has smudged mascara onto your shirt front and knocked your tie crooked into the bargain.”

He glanced into the mirror to check this, and appeared to be astonished. “How long has my tie been like that?”

“For the last ten minutes.”

“Why didn't you put it straight for me?”

“I don't know. It's so corny.”

“Why should it be corny to straighten a man's tie?”

“Oh, you know, those old movies you see on television. The couple are all dressed up, and the woman in love with the man, but he hasn't realized it. And then she tells him that his tie is crooked, and she straightens it for him, and the whole thing becomes terribly meaningful and tender, and they gaze into each other's eyes.”

“What happens then?” asked Hugh, sounding as though he really wanted to know.

“Well, then he usually kisses her, and a heavenly choir starts singing, ‘I'll Be Seeing You,' or something, and they put their arms around each other, and walk away from the camera with
The End
written on their backs.” She ended inconsequently, “I told you it was corny.”

He seemed to be considering the pros and cons of the situation. He said at last, “Well, one thing's certain. I can't go downstairs with my tie standing on its head.”

Flora laughed, and carefully, meticulously, put it straight for him. Without fuss, he stooped and kissed her. It was the most satisfactory sensation. So satisfactory that when it was over, she put her arms up and around his neck, and pulled down his head and kissed him back.

But his response was baffling. She drew back and frowned up at him.

“Don't you like to be kissed?”

“Yes, very much. But perhaps I'm a little out of practice. It hasn't happened to me for such a long time.”

“Oh, Hugh. You can't live without love. You can't go on living without loving somebody.”

“I thought I could.”

“You're not that sort of person. You're not meant to be lonely and self-sufficient. You should have a wife, and children running round that house of yours.”

“You forget, I tried it once and made the most abysmal failure of it.”

“That wasn't your fault. And there are such things as second chances.”

“Flora, do you know how old I am? Thirty-six. I shall be thirty-seven in a couple of months. I'll never make a fortune. I'm a middle-aged country doctor with little ambition to be anything else. I'll probably spend the rest of my days in Tarbole, and end up as set in my ways as my old father. I never seem to have any time to myself, and if I do, then I go fishing. That's a dull future to ask any woman to share.”

“It needn't be dull,” said Flora, stubbornly. “It can never be dull to be needed and to be important to people.”

“It's different for me. It's my life.”

“If somebody loved you, it would be her life, too.”

“You make it sound easy. Almost facile.”

“I don't mean to.”

He said abruptly, “What will you do when all this is over? I mean, this time with the Armstrongs.”

“I'll go away.” It was hard not to be hurt by his sudden change of subject.

“Where?”

Flora shrugged. “To London. To do what I was trying to do when I met Rose. Find a job. Find somewhere to live. Why?”

“I suppose I'm just beginning to realize what a void you're going to leave in all our lives. A darkness. Like a light going out.” He smiled, perhaps at himself. Shying from sentiment, he became practical. “We must go.” He reached out and opened the door. “We must go
now.
”

She saw the long passage stretching ahead; she heard once more the voices and the music. Her courage faltered.

“You won't abandon me?”

“Antony will be there.”

“Will you dance with me?”

“Everyone will want to dance with you.”

“But…” She could not bear to let go of this tenuous thread of friendship which at last lay between them.

“I'll tell you what. We'll have supper together. How would that be?”

“You promise?”

“I promise. Now let's go.”

*   *   *

Afterward, when it was all over and a thing of the past, Flora's memory of Tuppy's party for Antony and Rose was reduced to a number of brief and totally unrelated incidents—blurred impression without order or priority.

It was coming down the stairs into the hall with Hugh beside her, like a couple of deep sea divers descending into a world of light and noise, with a multitude of upturned faces waiting to welcome her. Each way she turned there was someone waiting to introduce herself or himself, perhaps to kiss or congratulate her, or shake her hand. But if she remembered a single name, she was quite incapable of fitting it to a face.

It was a number of large young men in kilts and small old men, similarly attired.

It was being ceremoniously led into the drawing room to be presented to Mrs. Clanwilliam. Mrs. Clanwilliam's hair was either a wig or a bird's net, crowned by a tiara of antique diamonds, and she sat by the fire with her stick by her side and a strong whisky in her hand. She was not in the best of tempers and had been in two minds about coming to Tuppy's party. There wasn't much point, she told Flora, in coming to a party if you couldn't dance, and had to sit by the fire like an old crock. The reason, she added in the hooting voice of a very deaf person, that she was unable to dance was because she had broken her hip falling off a stepladder while attempting to paint her bathroom ceiling. She was, she added as a casual afterthought, eighty-seven next birthday.

It was the Crowthers, dancing together in the middle on an “Eightsome Reel.” Mr. Crowther uttering cries which sounded as if he were calling odds, and Mrs. Crowther whirling the skirts of her tartan silk dress, and disclosing shoes designed for highland dancing, with ties that came up over her ankles.

It was champagne. It was a very old man with a face the color of loganberries telling someone that Tuppy was a splendid little woman, and if he'd had any sense he'd have married her years ago.

It was dancing “Strip the Willow” with Jason, who swung and turned Flora down a long line of partners. The room spun like a top around her. Disembodied arms appeared from nowhere to catch her. Silver cuff buttons dug into her arms. She was held and turned again and delivered back to Jason.

It was Anna Stoddart in a surprisingly becoming dress, sitting on a sofa with Isobel, and looking as pretty as Flora had ever seen her.

It was turning from the bar and finding herself face to face with Brian Stoddart. She instantly searched for evidence of his black eye.

He frowned. “What's that piercing glance for?”

“Anna told me you'd walked into a door.”

“Dr. Kyle should learn to keep his nose out of other people's business and his hands in his pockets.”

“So it
was
Hugh.”

“Don't put on that innocent face, Rose, you know bloody well it was. It's just the sort of thing he'd enjoy boasting about. Interfering sod.” He looked about him morosely. “I'd ask you to come and dance, but jumping up and down isn't my idea of dancing and the band doesn't seem to be able to play anything else.”

“I know,” said Flora sympathetically. “It's tedious, isn't it? The same faces, and the same clothes, and the same conversation.”

He gave her a wary glance. “Rose, do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice?”

“Perhaps. Just a very small one.”

“You used to be able to do much better than that. You're losing your touch.”

“That's no bad thing.”

“You sound like a girl who's been brainwashed.”

“I'm not the same girl you knew, Brian. I never was.”

“Unhappily, I was beginning to suspect that.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “It breaks my heart, Rose, but I fear you've reformed.”

“You could try it yourself.”

He looked at her, his pale eyes hard and bright as a bird's. “Rose, spare me that.”

“Don't you ever think of Anna?”

“Almost all the time.”

“Then why don't you get a glass of champagne and go and sit beside her and tell her she's looking beautiful?”

“Because it wouldn't be true.”

“You could make it true. And,” she added sweetly, “it wouldn't cost you a single penny.”

*   *   *

Antony had been nearby all evening, and she had danced with him, but there had been no opportunity to talk to him. She knew that before the evening was very much older, it was essential that she get him to herself. She found him at last in the dining room, standing at the buffet table, loading a plate with smoked salmon and potato salad.

“Who's that for?”

“Anna Stoddart. She's not going to stay till the end of the party, and Isobel insists that she has something to eat.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“I want to talk to you, too, but there hasn't been a chance.”

“How about now?”

He looked around him. Nobody seemed at that moment to be either needing or demanding his attention. He said, “All right.”

“Where can we go?”

“You know the old pantry, where Mrs. Watty and Isobel clean the silver?”

“Yes.”

“Well, gather up some champagne and a couple of glasses, and try to look as if you're going to the kitchen on urgent business. I'll meet you there.”

“Won't we be missed?”

“Not for ten minutes. And even if we are, everyone will think we're indulging in a little snogging and will politely look the other way. See you.”

He left her, bearing Anna's supper in his hand. Flora collected two glasses and an opened bottle of wine. Looking casual, she headed down the kitchen passage. The pantry led off the passage before one actually reached the kitchen, so nobody saw Flora go in, or even knew she was there.

It was a narrow room, with a window at one end, and long cupboards down each wall. There was just room in the middle of the floor for a small oilclothed table, and it all smelt of polish and scrubbed wood, and the stuff Isobel used to get the tarnish off Tuppy's best forks.

She sat on the table and waited for Antony to join her. When he did, it was with the air of a conspirator. He shut the door gently behind him, and leaned against it, like a beleaguered heroine in a bad film. He grinned at her.

“Alone at last.” They surveyed each other across the room and his grin became rueful. “I'm not sure if I've ever before endured an experience like this evening. I just pray I never have to go through it again.”

“Well, perhaps it'll teach you a lesson. Not to get engaged to girls like Rose.”

“Don't you be so sanctimonious. You're in this up to your neck, just like I am.”

“Antony, I want to know what Tuppy said.”

His smile died. He came forward, reached for the champagne bottle and filled the two glasses which Flora had brought. He picked one up and gave it to her.

“She was very angry.”

“Really angry?”

“Really angry. Tuppy can be quite a formidable person.” He hitched himself up onto the table beside her. “I've never had such a rollicking in my life. You know the sort of thing. Never lied to me in your life, and now just because you think I'm in the last stages of senility, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Is she still angry?”

“No, of course not. Never let the sun go down on a quarrel. Kiss and make friends. I've been forgiven, but I'm still feeling about three inches high.”