A Tale of Two Families (10 page)

It called itself a Boutique – and with justification, Fran considered; it was her idea of what a Boutique ought to be. In the window were two light-weight suits, three summer dresses, some excellent cashmere sweaters, a couple of unusual belts and some original costume jewellery. One didn’t often see such a mixture of pretty things assembled together. Fran had bought no new clothes since her return to England and one of these suits was just her style. She went in.

She bought the suit (leaf-green; she’d had something like it when she was a girl) and arranged for the necessary alteration (it had to be let out, not taken in as most ready-made clothes had to be for her; oh, those Dower House meals!) Then she investigated the costume jewellery and chose brooches for herself, May and June (large stones, barbarically set, wearable at any hour of the day – strange that if they’d been real stones one would only wear them for full-dress occasions; she hardly ever wore her few pieces of real jewellery). Finally, she bought a large, felt frog, green and yellow, very cleverly designed. It reminded her of a felt frog she’d owned in the twenties – though that frog had worn a top hat.

‘It’ll do for one of my granddaughters,’ she said mendaciously, as the frog was put in a carrier bag printed with psychedelic flowers. (And very possibly Corinna and Prue would like it. Mascots were even more popular now than they had been in her youth; only
nowadays they were said to be Freudian. Anyway, Corinna and Prue weren’t going to get the chance to like this frog.)

She paid the bill by cheque (how trusting shopkeepers were) and said, ‘Now I must fly – is that four o’clock striking?’ But even as she said it she knew, with sudden guilt, that it must be five. And she still had the scales to buy. But she was only a few minutes’ walk from the tea-shop. If she could get served with the scales quickly…

She hurried out of the Boutique and into the chemist’s, bought the scales and Baggy’s pine bath oil, also some green, pine-scented soap. Then she ran into a snag: the scales could not be delivered for several days, and she wanted them quickly; having to have that suit let out had been a horrible warning. She would take the scales with her.

There was no carrier bag strong enough to hold them and she wasn’t going to wait while they were made into a parcel – already it was five-fifteen. She grabbed the bag containing the bath oil and the soap, the frog’s psychedelic bag, the little bag of costume jewellery, and her handbag all in her right hand and then got her assistant to put the scales in the crook of her left arm and open the door for her. Now, hurry, hurry!

But nobody else seemed to be hurrying and no sooner had she managed to get beyond one slow mover than she found herself behind another. Besides, her feet now disliked hurrying or even walking at all. Damn it, she couldn’t have aged suddenly! It then dawned on her that the scales were not only a ton weight on her arm but also on her feet, which were now being expected to carry a heavy woman. Really, she was
laden
– and the tea-shop was farther away than she’d realised.

She told herself to stop grizzling. ‘You’ll be there in a minute.’ The scales were slipping. She paused to adjust them – and
someone bumped into her. She then decided she’d have to change arms and stood in a doorway to do so. It meant putting everything down and picking everything up again. And she soon found that it was impossible to nurse the scales in her right arm (why? because one carried babies in one’s left arm?) and she had to stop in another doorway and change everything over again. And the inexorable clock, which no longer held any charm for her, struck again; she was half an hour late. But at last, at last, it was blissfully there, the tea-shop. Now she only had to cross the road.

She stood on the kerb watching a steady stream of cars. (A woman standing beside her said resignedly, ‘Factory going-home time.’) She could see no pedestrian crossing. How
did
one get across? If there was a momentary break in the traffic on her side of the wide street, cars on the far side were sweeping past. She noted that hardy souls got as far as the middle of the street and then waited. She’d simply have to do the same… and very nerve-wracking she found it, standing there unauthorised by any island, expecting cars to crash into her behind. Really, this country High Street was more dangerous than Piccadilly Circus. At last! She could make it now if she was nippy. She started out – and instantly saw that an approaching truck was coming faster than she’d realised. She began to run, or rather, she intended to begin; what actually happened was that she found herself incapable of running. She simply
could not run
– it was like some nightmare in which one had leaden feet. Run, run! But she was still only walking, and the damn truck wasn’t slowing down in the least… Somehow, somehow, she staggered to safety only a couple of seconds before the truck swept past. And then, for no reason at all, her legs gave way and she sank to the pavement, dropping everything she was carrying. The clanging scales sounded like a car smash.

Various people rushed to help her. There was a clamour of voices. Someone asked if she was hurt.
Was
she? Surely that couldn’t be her, screaming? It was not. It was the frog inside its psychedelic bag; one of her elbows was on it. (She hadn’t known it was a squeaker.) She raised her elbow and said, ‘That wasn’t me, it was my frog.’ This only added to the confusion – someone said ‘Her dog’s been run over.’ Fran gasped, ‘Not dog, frog in bag,’ then found herself helped to her feet. She distributed thanks and apologies, as her possessions were restored to her – ‘Such a silly thing to do’ – then saw Baggy coming towards her. Thankfully she accepted his assistance into the café.

‘What happened?’ said Baggy, having settled her at his window table. ‘Did you slip or something?’

‘It was my legs, they just gave way – because a truck was coming. Oh, Baggy,
I couldn’t run
. It must have been because of the scales; they weigh a ton.’ She sorted her purchases. ‘What a miracle your bath oil didn’t break!’ She handed it to him, with the soap.

His thanks were interrupted by the arrival of a waitress.

‘Tea and hot-buttered toast – with jam,’ said Baggy, somehow implying that jam would be a strong pick-me-up. ‘All right for you, Fran?’

Fran nodded gratefully and asked where the Ladies’ Room was; as well as feeling sure her make-up needed repairs she wanted a few minutes on her own to recover herself. Her legs, as she mounted the stairs, were still shaky.

The Ladies’ Room, on the half-landing, was deserted. She sat down at the little dressing table, closed her eyes, felt dizzy and instantly opened them; mustn’t give in to dizziness. Briskly she coped with her appearance… that was better, no more dizziness. Now just forget the whole ludicrous incident.

Coming out of the Ladies’ Room she faced a short flight of stairs at the top of which a door stood open on to a large empty front room which looked as if newly decorated. The pale green walls were the exact shade of the walls in a Bloomsbury bed-sitting-room she’d had as a girl. Would this be an extension of the tea-rooms? She doubted that for she now saw a roll of expensive-looking grey carpet and handsome window curtains. This must be a flat. At once curious, she mounted the few steps and looked in.

Afternoon sunlight was flooding in through the two tall windows, just as it had in her Bloomsbury room. How very like it this room was! Not that she’d had such an expensive carpet or curtains. Her floor had been covered with pale Chinese matting and the curtains had been printed linen, green and white.

She found herself conscious of an extraordinary sensation. She was back in that bed-sitting-room, she saw everything in its rightful place: the divan, her few pieces of furniture – picked up second-hand and painted by herself – the Lovat Fraser rhyme sheets drawing-pinned to the screen which hid what she called ‘the kitchen’. This was more than remembering, she was
there
…

And now she saw the lilac, masses of it in her two Devon pitchers, three jugs she had borrowed from the crone in the basement – and, of all things, a bucket! Masses and masses of long-stemmed white lilac. And now she could smell it – and it didn’t smell at all like the lilac at the Dower House now in full bloom. And in a flash, she knew why. What she was smelling in memory was the scent she had used in those old Bloomsbury days, a scent called
Le Temps de Lilas.
It was that scent which had caused him to
inundate
her with lilac – she had been almost hysterical with pleasure when he arrived positively weighed down with it all. He had put it down on the floor and they had sat amongst it, laughing and kissing. And later… That had been
the first time, so long remembered, so long forgotten – and now suddenly
there
.

But only for a moment, perhaps only for a split second. Then she was back in her seventies, a respectable elderly lady whose legs would no longer run. And she would be very, very glad of a cup of tea.

In the taxi, on their way home, Baggy asked Fran if she would tell May about his projected treat. He rather feared May might try to overrule his wish to have nothing but asparagus and strawberries.

Fran was sure she could sell the idea to May. It might help to say that the French often had asparagus feasts – and they well might, for all Fran knew to the contrary. ‘You leave it to me,’ she told Baggy reassuringly.

He was happy to do so. His liking for her was increasing and he was more and more impressed by what he thought of as her
savoir faire
– the expression seemed to suit her. He had greatly enjoyed their tea together. She had seemed a little distressed when she returned from tidying up – no doubt she was still shaken by her fall. But she had quickly pulled herself together and been most amusing. They had looked out of the window at all the people hurrying home from work and had agreed that the shortness of the girls’ skirts was perhaps a bit much – ‘Though attractive, when the girls have good legs,’ said Fran. ‘It’s funny how much sexier short skirts are than bikinis, if you know what I mean.’

He found that he did – he had seen bikinis on television. Feeling rather daring he said, ‘Well, with bikinis you can see that a girl’s decently covered – well, just. But with mini-skirts one’s never quite sure there’s anything under them.’

‘Exactly,’ Fran agreed, laughing. ‘And I suppose that decency, like justice, must be
seen
to be done.’

He had thought that very good and had taken pleasure in having this sophisticated conversation with Fran – a conversation he would not have dreamt of having with either of his daughters-in-law. He couldn’t even imagine having it with Mabel. But Mabel had been wrong in thinking Fran might be fast. That
word would always have been too crude for her. ‘
Mondaine
’ was the right word. He was pleased with ‘
mondaine
’. She was a real woman of the world.

They had gone on to discuss the behaviour of the modern young and Fran’s tolerance had almost won him over. One of her theories was that drugs were often a substitute for religion – ‘Some of these kids are seeking for something beyond materialism, though they may not know what they’re up to. Perhaps we’re to blame – I mean, most of us. We’ve let religion slide and not found any substitute to hand on. Not, of course, that one can be deliberately religious; that’s sheer hypocrisy.’ He had agreed and later he had agreed that, as one grew older, one got lazy about taking an interest in music and poetry. (He had never taken an interest in either but, while talking to Fran, he felt he might have, if he’d tried.)

One way and another he found the tea-time conversation most stimulating; indeed, he had enjoyed the whole afternoon and was sorry that it was over… though he was a little tired. He leaned back in the taxi and closed his eyes. It might be wise to lie down for half an hour or so before dinner.

While he was resting Fran told May and George about the asparagus feast, She chose a good moment, George having come home in the kind of spirits that lift everyone else’s, and May always feeling at her best when about to serve a dinner she was proud of; and she really was extremely pleased that Baggy had taken so much trouble.

‘And I think it’s most original of him,’ she said warmly. ‘Probably nobody’s had exactly that idea before.’

Fran instantly censored her idea of mentioning the French and substituted, ‘It’d be the kind of meal that they’d like to put in Sunday supplements, with huge coloured photographs.’

‘Not complicated enough,’ said May. ‘They doll everything up so.’ She seldom took any notice of other people’s recipes; when not cooking simple, basic dishes, she liked to do her own creating. ‘Well, I think it’s absolutely sweet of Baggy, don’t you, George?’

George was almost moved to tears, not only by Baggy’s generosity but also by the fact that the old man was celebrating having kept alive for seven years. ‘What can we give
him
?’ he asked May.

‘Oh, I’d leave him on the giving end for once,’ said Fran. Anyway, she was convinced Baggy had no material needs they didn’t supply. What he lacked was their need of him and she wasn’t going to put that burden on their consciences at the present pleasant moment. (And she doubted if it would ever do any good.) Then she added, ‘But there is one small thing might please him. Have you any green towels for his bathroom?’

‘Of course I have.’ May also had pink, blue and yellow towels and some printed with large red roses. ‘But he asked for white.’

‘Still, I’d like to try some green ones – to match the bath oil and soap I bought him.’

‘I’ll find you some after dinner.’

Baggy came in and received a hero’s welcome which obviously both pleased and embarrassed him. And he remained the centre of attention throughout dinner. But soon after he had drunk his coffee he went off to his room.

‘Let me have those towels, May,’ said Fran. ‘I want to see how they look before he goes to bed.’

Carrying them to his room she advised herself to go carefully. He
had
said he thought coloured towels fancy. Mustn’t force them on him. She tapped on his door, remembering her mother’s precept: ‘Never tap on a sitting room door. Always tap on a bedroom door.’ In spite of May’s efforts, Baggy’s room was ninety per cent bedroom.

He called ‘Come in.’ And, on entering, she felt sure he was pleased to see her. Still, she enquired if she was disturbing him.

‘Not doing anything,’ said Baggy, who had been sitting in his armchair staring at nothing whatever.

‘May and I thought you might like some bath towels to go with the bath oil.’

He looked at the towels with interest tinged by suspicion. ‘
Green
towels? Mabel was always worried about the green dye. Something to do with arsenic.’

‘I absolutely guarantee there’s no arsenic in these,’ said Fran. ‘And they’ll make the bathroom more cheerful. Come and see what you think.’

She found the bath oil and soap already set out, the soap already in use. Quickly she made a display with the towels. May had – trust May – included a bath mat.

‘Well, I must say…!’ Baggy’s pleasure was obvious, though he quickly added, ‘Are they really all right for a man?’

‘You’d be surprised, the things men use nowadays – aftershave lotions and toilet water and whatnot. Green towels are positively virile.’ She whisked the white towels and bath mat into the dirty-linen basket. ‘There! Transformation scene!’

Baggy began to chuckle, without explanation.

‘What is it?’ said Fran, a shade nervously.

‘Perhaps I ought to have got my bath toys,’ said Baggy, still chuckling.

‘Your what?’

‘I had a fancy for some the other day, when Prue and Dickon were in here. There used to be some bath toys at Rosehaven.’

She had a flash of intuition. That awful bathroom at Rosehaven, with its toothbrushes and mugs and all sorts of
personal possessions – yes, she remembered the bath toys – for Baggy it had added up to companionship.

He had stifled his chuckles. ‘Sorry, Fran. You must think I’m in my second childhood, talking about bath toys.’

‘If you are, I am, too. I actually bought myself a toy today. I’ll show you.’

She hurried upstairs, got her frog, and came back brandishing it gaily. ‘Look, Baggy!’

‘Well, that is a fine frog. I never saw anything quite like it.’ She handed it to him and he examined it carefully. ‘How beautifully it’s made.’

She was instantly sure that he coveted it. With a faint pang of loss, she said, ‘Will you accept it – as a nonsense present? Of course it isn’t a bath toy. You couldn’t float it.’

‘I didn’t actually
play
with the bath toys,’ said Baggy, with a touch of hauteur. ‘No, of course I can’t accept it. You bought it for yourself!’

‘I only meant to enjoy it until I used it as a present for someone. I really bought it because it’s so well designed – funny and yet pretty.’

‘I’ve liked frogs ever since I was a child,’ said Baggy. ‘Never see them down here, though I walk past several ponds. They say all the spraying has killed them.’

‘We must think of this as the epitome of all frogs. It’s really more a work of art than a toy.’

‘So it is,’ said Baggy respectfully. ‘Well, thank you, Fran. It will remind me of our afternoon together. I did so enjoy it.’

‘So did I – except for my ridiculous fall. By the way, I’m not going to mention that to the others.’

‘Quite right. They fuss if one so much as trips.’

Fran, having suddenly thought of something she wanted to do, said, ‘Now I expect you like to get to bed early. Do you read
in bed? I always look forward to that. I’ve a whole shelf of Agatha Christies – I can read them again and again. Funny how they can be both soothing and exciting at the same time.’

‘Mabel used to like them. We sometimes read them aloud to each other in bed. Not sure I could get interested on my own.’

‘I shall send you some – nice, light paperbacks, easy to hold.’ But he probably wouldn’t read them. He had to be
with
someone to enjoy himself. If only one could teach him the pleasures of independence! What a hope! Still, she’d try… later. She’d had enough of him for today.

‘Goodnight, Baggy, dear,’ she said briskly, and went off on a little private ploy.

She got her rubber boots from the hall cupboard. There was usually a heavy dew and, anyway, she couldn’t accomplish her ploy in high heels (though low heels might be cheating a bit). Quietly, she went out through the front door. Now where could she count on not being observed? The front lawn was no good; Baggy’s curtains were still undrawn against the late twilight. She made for the gate leading into the park.

Once through it, she said to herself, ‘It’s simply not true that you can no longer run. You were tired, heavily laden. It was a moment of panic.
Of course
you can run. Now off with you, full tilt!’

It wasn’t very full tilt but it was… well, a kind of running. Anyway, it wasn’t walking. And was it difficult! She seemed so heavy from the waist downwards. And how jarring it was!

She pulled up after a few yards. Well, one just had to accept it. How sneaky old age was, always springing surprises. She hadn’t had the faintest idea that she was past running.

Perhaps she’d try again in a few minutes. She strolled on through the park and reached the edge of the lilac grove. A faint, sharp scent was wafted towards her. She felt slightly aggrieved
because it wasn’t as richly sweet as
Le Temps de Lilas
scent… She could see the little bottle she’d bought for herself, and the enormous bottle he had given her. His bottle had outlasted the affair; she’d kept just a little of the scent for years and years. She hadn’t been surprised when the affair ended; the miracle was that it had ever begun. Such a well-known man, famous really. How much had that counted with her? Quite a lot. She’d worn the affair like a feather in her cap – which didn’t make the ending any easier; one’s vanity as well as one’s feelings suffered. If he was still living he’d be, good God, nearly a hundred. She’d never moved him on beyond fifty – so she was now old enough to be his mother. Absurd thought…

Rather shattering, that experience in the flat over the tea-shop. Not her line, really; too like nostalgia, which she never encouraged. But if the past did still exist, somewhere… well, it did. And of course one would like to believe it did because, in a way, it implied some kind of everlasting life, which she hadn’t believed in since she was a child.

It was almost dark now, she’d better go back. But first she’d practise running again… After a couple of minutes she slowed down – jarred and panting. Oh, what the hell! With luck – and care – she’d probably never need to run again.

Standing still to regain her breath she heard a bird singing very sweetly. A late blackbird, probably – but surely no blackbird sang quite as late as this, or quite so sweetly? ‘I believe it’s a nightingale,’ she thought delightedly. Where was it? There was a little wood not far beyond the cottage, she remembered. Yes, the trill was coming from that direction.

She listened a moment longer, then hurried to the cottage; she could see its chimneys against the still faintly luminous sky. She must get confirmation that it was a nightingale; she’d never heard
one before. And of course she wanted to share it, and take credit for it. She felt childishly proud to bring news of a nightingale.

The curtains at the cottage were undrawn and she could see that the tiny sitting room was lit only by the television screen, against which two heads were silhouetted. She felt guilty at breaking in on such peace but June and Robert wouldn’t want to miss a nightingale. Ah, the programme had ended; the credit titles were coming up. She hurried through the open front door and into the sitting room.

The creature, from her basket, gave a very feminine bark. June and – it proved to be George – turned from the screen.

‘Quick,’ said Fran. ‘There’s a nightingale – if it is one. Where’s Robert? He’s sure to know.’ Robert was knowledgeable about natural history.

June ran upstairs and appealed to Robert, who said he wasn’t sure one could hear nightingales in May, but he’d look it up.

Fran said, ‘Oh, heavens, while he’s looking it up it’ll go away.’ She hurried out of the cottage, followed by June and George. ‘Now listen!’

Dead silence from the nightingale.

‘It
would
do that,’ said Fran. ‘Wait! There it is.’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think that’s a nightingale,’ said June. ‘Wouldn’t a nightingale sing more sweetly?’

Fran said indignantly, ‘I don’t see how a bird
could
sing more sweetly. Do you expect it to whistle a tune?’

June laughed. ‘I really believe I did. Perhaps it’s because I’ve heard so many songs about nightingales. Yes, of course. That must be one. How lovely!’

Robert came out of the cottage with the information that nightingales could be heard between April 15th and June 15th. ‘So we’re fully entitled to one. Yes, that’s a nightingale all right.’

The now fully accredited nightingale continued to sing non-stop.

‘Let’s see if we can track it,’ said Fran.