When I Was Otherwise (25 page)

The winner had been called Daisy's Lot; when Marsha asked its name he saw no reason to try to hide it from her, although he let her think the horse had been a favourite and said he'd won only six pounds on it. (At that, she wanted to give him one of her own pounds back and when he wouldn't take it seemed disproportionately moved by his generosity; he felt both gratified and ashamed—also irritated.)

“But Daisy's Lot,” she said, after all of this. “It must be meant as a reminder.”

“What of?”

“Oh, how like a man! You ask what of when you know I've been meaning to ring Daisy for months and months and months! But the trouble is—as I also keep telling you!—I've got so bad a conscience now that I just go on putting it off.”

“Yet she could as easily ring you. If she wanted.”

“Yes, she could. And especially, of course, since she hasn't yet seen little Andrew.” She had stopped saying
congratulated us or sent him a small present
. “But the fact remains we did say we'd invite her to spend another weekend with us. And that, believe it or not, was getting on for two whole years ago!” For the moment—as it usually was, indeed—her guilt was uppermost, not her resentment at Daisy's obvious lack of interest in their son.

And the birth announcement she had sent clearly hadn't gone astray. Dan had mentioned he'd met Daisy on Rosslyn Hill the previous autumn and that she'd asked about the baby.

“Nearly two years?” Andrew answered. “Is it really as long ago as that? Well, I get the feeling she isn't much interested in babies; would probably prefer to stop well out of the way while there's a squalling infant in the house.” But, fortunately, since there was a perceptible note of approval in his tone and since he suddenly remembered he'd made a similar comment before—and hadn't she then turned upon him with wholly unprovoked and unexpected sharpness?—Marsha didn't hear.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing,” he murmured.

Her mind had wandered slightly. “I was just thinking I've always regarded the Stormonts as being a very united sort of family.”

“Well, yes, maybe.” He spoke a little drily. “But Daisy's something of an outcast.”

“I don't see why. What has she done?” She added a moment later: “After all—poor thing—she could hardly help old Henry's dying.”

Andrew thought: that's not what your mother tells herself,
I'll
be bound. But he kept this notion secret. He always enjoyed hearing Marsha talk about Daisy and had no wish to introduce red herrings. For the same reason he didn't say: Well, she married him; those are good enough grounds in your mother's eyes to make an outcast of anybody. And he himself smiled a little, at the formulation of two such worthy thoughts for a member of the FRILs Society—though he certainly couldn't share the first of these with Daisy.

“Perhaps I'll write to her,” said Marsha.

“Well, just don't invite her for another weekend.”

“But
why
? I really don't understand that; it's the second time you've said it. I thought we all enjoyed ourselves. I truly did. I believed you'd found somebody to play chess with.”

He shrugged. “It was all right. Yes, then, whatever you think best.”

Heaven knew, it wasn't that he was afraid of taking risks, this reluctance to have Daisy in the house, even though no one could ever quite predict what she might say next. No, it was more that he liked to keep the different areas of his life distinct. It was messy to let them overlap. (For instance, he had thought about it long and hard before finally buying them both a copy of the same book.) And, also, it would be extremely difficult to have to sit here in her company and keep remembering he had met her only twice, and that the first time had been at his own wedding, when, unbelievably, she had made no impression on him at all! Artificial; unnatural; strewn with more hazardous pitfalls than even he liked to contemplate. Besides, he thought rather vaguely—it would hardly be the act of a gentleman.

“Why don't you just have her to tea with you one afternoon?” he said. “During the week, I mean. Or even to lunch, if that would better salve your conscience?” This time, moreover, he would make sure she didn't outstay her welcome; not that she had before, of course, as it had so surprisingly—and happily—turned out!

“Yes, I might do that. Though I suppose she
does
have a job.”

They had both nearly forgotten about this.

Then, suddenly, she giggled; and it occurred to him that recently he hadn't heard such a lot of that effervescent, carefree sound. Perhaps, after all, she
was
growing up a little.

“Or why don't I just let sleeping dogs lie?” she suggested. “The thing is—not counting that weekend—Daisy and I never seemed to get on so awfully well together. And as you say, if she
wanted
to stay in touch, it would be just as easy for her to do it as for me. Easier, really,” she added hazily, thinking that Daisy had no baby to keep her busy all the time.

“Exactly,” he said.

“It's funny, though. At one stage I was frightened she would
always
be knocking on our door. We sometimes don't know people as well as we think we do. Do we? Erica used to say she was a parasite.”

“Then that was exceedingly unkind and exceedingly unfair.”

“Yes, I suppose it was, really.”

Before, he had spoken in a fairly controlled manner. Now he said abruptly:

“Just who the hell does Erica suppose she is?”

Marsha stared at him in astonishment. He was aware of having shouted. He was aware that he was turning red. “After all,” he mumbled, during his swift departure from the room, “you
yourself talk all the time about people who live in glass houses… Isn't that right?”

“But Andrew.” She followed him through the doorway; stood at the foot of the stairs and called up after him. “Erica isn't a parasite.”

“Oh, well, no. Perhaps she isn't. I don't know. But at least Daisy isn't a guest in this country. She isn't foreign. A visitor should never criticize…if you see what I'm trying to say…”

“Well, I don't. No. I thought you liked Erica.”

“Oh, she's all right. She just…shouldn't make judgments, that's all. About her own people if she likes; not about the English.”

He went into the bathroom and remembered to lock the door: His wife was perfectly capable of following him in there, otherwise. He sluiced cold water over his face and wished he hadn't said any of those things.

But when he came down again he apologized. Then everything was all right. Marsha wasn't used to receiving apologies and what largely accounted for this one was the lingering taste of his delightful day and his reluctance to spoil it all by bad behaviour. Marsha was as grateful for this unexpectedly contrite spirit as she'd earlier been for his equally unexpected openhandedness. For the moment she had quite forgotten Daisy.

Yet, later on, she said: “You know, I really don't like losing touch with people. Not with anyone. A Christmas card just isn't enough, is it?”

She turned over then and settled for sleep and Andrew decided that next time he spoke to Daisy he should perhaps repeal his motion—only tentatively proposed at the FRILs inaugural meeting but in fact unanimously carried—that in future it would be far safer if she stayed well away from Marsha.

35

She wasn't wearing her new hat.

“I hate,” she said, “to be a damp squib but I think I'd better go home, dear, if you don't mind.” It was barely eight o'clock. Her plate of cannelloni sat on the table more or less untasted; even the wine in her glass was just as he had poured it.

“But you can't,” he said. “You know how I always look forward to seeing you! These evenings are my lifeline!” He was aware he sounded peevish yet he couldn't help it. He loathed it when people got ill. If you had something planned it was always so…so frustratingly inconvenient. “Are you sure you aren't just hungry? Perhaps if you made yourself swallow a mouthful…”

“…then I should throw it up,” she said, decisively. “All over the floor. And more than just a mouthful.”

Oh well, if she felt determined to adopt that kind of attitude, there was clearly nothing to be done. He couldn't abide vulgarity.

“I'll go and settle up,” he told her, tonelessly. What he really couldn't understand was why if she'd felt well enough to come to meet him in the first place and allow him to order the meal… Then he remembered that, ironically, for the first time ever, he had ordered it before she came since she could always be relied upon to be so punctual—unlike the vast majority of women—and it had seemed an efficient, thoughtful and rather masterful thing to do. And he knew how she enjoyed the cannelloni.

“I'm afraid the lady isn't feeling very well. What do I owe you? We've hardly touched our meal.”

Mr Bertorelli appeared all wide-eyed sympathy and concern; he ran back into the kitchen to tell his wife and she, too, came and fussed. Oh, the poor signora, the poor signora—would she like to lie down, did she need some aspirin, was there anything they could do? Typically, the one thing which they could have done…they didn't. Andrew's opinion of Italians fell. Surely the wine at least could be re-used; almost certainly would be. Even the cannelloni… It might just about serve them right, he thought, if Daisy
did
throw up all over their wretched floor. It might just about serve them right, he thought, if he and Daisy never set foot in there again.

And in fact they never did.

“Are you fit to drive; or should I see if I can find a taxi and take you home in that?”

“I'll try to drive,” said Daisy. A steely look came into her eye. “No, of
course
I can drive.”

He said—while experiencing to some extent a return of his affection—“Well, if we do have to abandon the car halfway, at least it will be that much easier for you to pick it up when you feel better?” He himself had never taken any interest in driving. Tonight, however, he could regard this as a failing. He must make it a priority to learn.

They reached Belsize Park without incident although she gave small groans from time to time, which—at the beginning—seemed to freeze him to the leather of his seat.

He left her now, not only with relief rather than disappointment, but with a renewed admiration for her spirit and a nagging conviction that he himself had maybe acted
less
than admirably, even if he wasn't really sure what else he could have done. But he would ring her tomorrow, he decided, send her flowers through Interflora—he went back to double-check the house number—try to make it up to her, although he very much hoped that if there
was
anything to be made up for she simply wouldn't realize. And probably she wouldn't: she was so incredibly independent and plucky; just as plucky as a man—more so in many cases. (He thought of Johnson.) As he walked home she rose higher in his estimation. All the bad luck which had dogged her! She'd had such a rotten childhood (thinking of her, he forgot that he had, too); she'd had such a rotten marriage (he forgot his own rotten marriage); she struggled so valiantly to earn a livelihood through bringing physical relief to those who suffered; but even then could never fully find the peace she merited, because her only sanctuary was turned into a place of torment by a brutish, bullying landlord. And yet she always came up smiling. She was…

And then it suddenly struck him.

She was…wonderful.

And he realized that he loved her.

Indeed, this was a suspicion he'd harboured many times before but it had never quite developed into certainty as it did now; and the further he walked the more conclusively he saw it. His step became sprightly, joyous. He tapped his umbrella on the pavement in time to a lively tune he was at first only quietly humming but then not so very quietly at all—annoyingly he didn't know its name. When he reached a phone box he suddenly considered ringing her and in fact had even gone inside it and started picking through his coins, grinning with anticipation, before it occurred to him that of course by now she'd most likely be in bed and maybe already asleep—he hoped so, anyway—and that his startling and splendid revelation could wait, impatient though he naturally was, until tomorrow. Tomorrow he would ring her. Tomorrow he would let her know that she was loved, she was important, no longer all alone in the world. No, never again an outcast. That she would be the one he thought of whenever he had to put his arms around Marsha—well, even up to then, she often had been. It wasn't very much, he knew, but it was something. It would be marvellous to realize you were loved, even from a distance, by somebody strong and protective and able to take care of things.

Surely? Yes, it must be.

Marvellous.

And they would have their times together. Somehow he would arrange it: they would have more time together than just the paucity they had now.

“And you need never again feel that you're unwanted!” He even sang it as he left the box, fitting it to the same melody which he'd been humming before. A sign!—that the words and tune so easily coalesced. He only broke off the song because he couldn't think of any second line to equal the beauty of the first. He knew no lyric was a lyric if it didn't rhyme.

Instead he said aloud, almost cried it to the rooftops—since the whole street appeared to be empty—“Ah, you sweet and incredible Daisy!
Mon amour fou
!
Mon amour fou
!”

For French unquestionably seemed the right language and, although he didn't know a lot of it, this was a phrase which had swum into his mind and was therefore presumably correct.

Amour, amour, amour
. Not for nothing was it called the language of romance.
Mon amour fou
! He wondered what
fou
actually meant.